1 20 46 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. 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, 60 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, Barbara Davis, Matthew Holland, Christian Maguire, Susan Miller, Richard Monsma, Fritz Sharp, Marion Sachs, Joe, 1946- Title A name given to the resource Energeia, Spring 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 Spring 1982. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Energeia Spring 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/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. 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, 58 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, 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/434dd881e88758387fb47297229e1b3a.pdf eb2a0fef027ea742e8542da8f88e6273 PDF Text Text SPECIAL ISSUE 1983 �ENERGEIA: The activity in which anything is fully itself. Ti ••• vou Cover: Kevin Tracy, '83, submitted this watercolor for the Baird Award last y ear. E v ~p yELa c;w . . n. (Aristotle's Metaphysics, 1072b) The contents of this issue of Energeia have been selected by Annapolis Pr ize Committee and produced by the Ene r geia staff . STAFF PRIZE COMMITTEE Printed by the St. John's College Press St. John 's College, Annapolis, Maryland Chai r man : Robert Druecker James Carey Hugh McGrath William Mullen Jonathan Tuck the Editor: Faculty Advisor: Christian Holland Kathy Buckler Ann Burlein Zoe Churchville Martin Marklin Alexandra Mullen Merle Sokolik J oe Sachs Energeia is a non - p r ofit s t udent magazine with an in- house cir culation to the s tudents , faculty , alumni , and staff of St . John ' s Co lleg e, Annapolis and Santa Fe . Ene r geia is published thrice yearly, in the Fall, Winter, and Spring . The Fall issue is reserv ed for the student work of the previous school year which has been selected by the Prize Conunittee fo r public recognition . For the Winter and Spring issues the Energeia staff we lcomes submissions fr om all members of the comrnunity--essays , poems, stories, original math proofs, lab projects, drawings , and . the like. Note: A brief desc r iption of the author accompanies all work not by cur rent St. John's students. Please include some such statement along with your submission . Thank you. �All Work and No Play Makes Jack a Dull Boy: Reflections on Beauty in Plato, Kant, Schiller, and Heidegger Barbara Cooper CONTENTS ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES JACK A DULL BOY: Barbara Cooper REFLECTIONS ON BEAUTY IN PLATO, KANT, SCHILLER, AND HEIDEGGER 1 TRANSLATION OF A GREEK TEXT George McDowell 30 RACINE'S PHAEDRA: REMEMBERING WHO WE ARE Lisa Eckstrom 32 TRANSLATION OF A FRENCH TEXT Geraldine McDowell 52 Leslie Bellisario 54 BECOMING ACQUAINTED WITH A KNOT Ann Burlein 55 BEETHOVEN .. . A COMEDIAN?! Kenneth Martin 71 KYRIE Jerry Spires 74 THE HARMONY OF THE SOLIDS Martin Marklin 79 . ORIGINAL ENGLISH POEM Wisdom, for Plato, seems no t to be a noun synonymous with "knowledge of what is," but a verb indicating how to attain that knowledge. For Plato our experience of beauty is erotic; we desire it and move towards it to possess it. Diotima suggests that love (and poetry as well) comes from a desire to be immortal and to beget what is "one's own." If begetting "one's own" means •coming fully into one's own, then love of beauty results finally in a kind of possession of self, the kind of possession which, in the Phaedrus, one attains by seeing oneself mirrored in one's beloved. In the Phaedrus Socrates says that, of all the imitations of what is (in the fullest sense) that appear in the world for humans, beauty alone comes through vision. Vision is the sharpest of our Introduction If we gather together the various notions that Socrates has about beauty we find that, although in the Republic he holds art at arm's length, he also respects beauty highly: in the Phaedrus and in the Symposium Socrates describes beauty as a sort of catalyst or ladder in the search for the Good. In the Republic we see art as dangerous for three reasons: it is not real; it can induce imitation of ways of being in the world which are not the highest and best ways; and finally because, if a poet can move us powerfully towards what he sees as good and true, can he not with equal power compel us in the opposite direction either deliberately or through poor judgment? It is this third objection , I think, which colors much of Socrates' thought about the poet, for he thinks of the poet as the archetype for the craftsman who founds a state, and the unjust man is "like the clever craftsman. 111 Socrates' reservations about poetry indicate his immense respect for its power. In the Symposium Diotima hints that poetr y is like love of the beautiful, whi ch a cts as a spiritual intermediary between the realm of what is most fully and the realm of human being : spirits "weld both sides together and merge them into one g r eat whole . 112 Diotima characterizes love as "at once desirous and full of wisdom, a lifetime seeker af t er truth, an adept in sorcery, ench antme n t, and seduction." 3 In Plato, love and poetry a re not themselves Truth, but a r e r athe r the means to attain it . senses; for Plato and the Greeks, to have seen is to know and all knowing is in some sense "insight." Therefore beauty is ekphanestaton kai erasmiotaton. 4 Beauty shows itself and shines forth most, and of all things is the most lovely and lovable . By appearing for us in this world Beauty leads us back to that higher world beyond the sensible realm. Socrates seems pri marily to be speaking of human beauty here; however, in the end of the dialogue Socrates makes several suggestions about how a piece of writing must be constructed to be pleasing. It must be constructed "like a living creature" and, like a lover, it must be appropriate to the type of soul which it will move.s Thus Socrates' discussion of how the love of a beautiful individual can lead us Barbara Cooper,'83, is currently studying contemporary African music in Kenya on a grant from The Watson Foundation. She is the founder of Energeia. 1 �to love of the Beautiful and the Good applies equally to the love of beautiful poetry or of art in general. The dialogue itself is an example of the power of beautiful art to lead one to the Good, for this speech is lovingly constructed for Phaedrus so that he will not, by following Lysias, neglect one of the most important aspects of life: love of an individual. Although beauty is not the Good itself, it in some ways resembles the Good. In the Republic Socrates uses the sun as an image of the Good. Beauty likewise shines and brings to light the being of things; however, we can behold beauty without being blinded. In the Republic it is not clear how it is humanly possible to stare directly into the sun, or the Good, in its full radiance. In the Phaedrus we discover that beauty is astraptousan: the brilliance of beauty is fleeting like a flash of lightening or the reflection of sunlight on metal.6 Beauty seems to allow us to experience the Good momentarily and to give us a sense of the direction of its source without blinding us in the meantime. In some sense Beauty is closer and more approachable to us as humans than the Good . Thus although in the Republic Socrates seems to relegate art to a position of minor importance, in the Symposium and Phaedrus he seems to suggest that art and beauty can have the highest possible role in human experience. To accord to art the r ole which he gives it in the Republic, Socrates must believe two things: first, that as imitation of the real, it must be less than the real; and second, that beca\lse it is neither real in this world nor true in the full sense in which ·the Good is True, it can have no truth or reality at all. On the question of beauty, as with so many questions, Plato's dialogues serve as a starting point to which later authors respond. In this pape r I shall offer three subsequent discussions of beauty and I shall examine how they differ from Socratic thought. In doing so I shall gather together some notions which I feel describe some aspect of my own experience of beauty. Although it is in response to ,_ Plato, this paper is not intended as a refutation of Plato, for often he is the deeper and more responsible thinker. As I discuss these va ~ious approaches to beauty in art, I shall keep in mind the problems involved in any discussion of aesthetics. I begin with a discussion of Kant, for whom beauty does not reside somewhere far beyond us, but rather in ourselves. His subjective description of beauty accounts for our sense that in experiencing beauty we are learning about ourselves as humans. I then consider Schiller; while Plato believes that poetry, as ~ appearance, can be a danger to society, Schiller believes that precisely because it is appearance poetry leads us to our full humanity. I conclude my discussion with Heidegger, for whom we not only learn about the true because of beauty and art, but Beauty in art is itself a manifestation of the True. Truth resides in the same realm as we do. I shall close this paper with my own understanding of the role of beauty in our own everyday lives, and with a discussion of the difficulties involved in trying to describe what beautiful art is. I. An alternative to thinking of Beauty as residing in the supersensible realm is to claim that beauty is nothing else than sensation. In "Of the Standard of Taste," Hume points out that a judgment about beauty in art must depend on the condition of the "organs" of the man perceiving the work of art. If a man lacks delicacy, practice, experience in comparison, or impartiality, he will not judge well and we will say that he lacks taste. In order to have good taste a man must have good sense. We praise a man of good taste, and his own good sense becomes our standard of taste. Thus the standard by which we judge a judgment of taste lies not in the object, but in the faculties of the man judging. Taste is a kind of health. our sense of beauty is literally bound up with our faculties of sensation and our reaction to a piece of art is "sentiment." Although I may not be able to judge well about a piece of art myself, someone whose faculties are in better order and 2 more practiced may be able to point out to me what is good or bad in the art work, and I can come to see what he has seen. Hume responds to the question of whether there can be some objective standard of taste that we must trust the judgment of those men whose good sense distinguishes· them. For Kant the consequence of Hume' s notion that beauty is not a quality of things, but rather exists in the mind which contemplates them, is that a judgment of beauty must be universal. Kant follows Hume in presupposing that all men must have the same faculties, and that therefore, if I perceive an object to be beautiful, I will expect others to judge it to be so as well. Whereas Hume's essay addresses a dilemma in aesthetics, Kant's Critique of Judgment addresses the workings of the human mind. The Critique describes the nature of the judging faculty rather than the nature of works of art. For Kant the word "aesthetic" does not initially mean "pertaining to the beautiful" or "the science of the beautiful." It is used according to the ancient distinction of aistheta kai noeta. The "aesthetic" pertains to how we perceive the world and to how living in the world feels to us. However, to feel does not mean, for example, "I perceive that this is red" (as it did in the Critique of Pure Reason), but rather "I sense orfeel within my faculties that this is beautiful." Kant uses the word "subjective" in the Critique of Judgment to describe anything which has to do with the subject's sense of himself and of his feelings. Beauty does not reside in the object. In the Critique of Pure Reason, Kant accounts for how we make judgments about the state of being of objects of perception. We make what he calls "determinant . judgments": we receive perceptions in the medium of space and time and our imagination spontaneously acts on them to synthesize or "determine" them according to the rules set down by the categories. Understanding, as the faculty which contains the law-giving categories, gives the laws to which imagination adheres in giving unity to our perceptions. Productive imagination presents before the mind's eye 1 an object of perception synthesized into a unified thing, or a "presentation." The categories of the understanding are not (as for Aristotle) predicates but are rather functions of the mind by which imagination synthesizes perceptions. In a judgment imagination unifies a particular and places it under a universal (a category), e.g. this vase is red. However in the Critique of Judgmen~we discover that not all ]udgments are determined according to the rules set out in the categories. "Beauty," for example is not a concept or category. This is an astounding notion: we do not think beauty, we feel it. Some of the perceptions we receive cannot be conveniently cate-. gorized according to the rules set out by the categories. In order to unify these perceptions, the mind makes a rule for itself. If my perception isn't unified into a universal of the sort provided by the categories, what sort of universal will account for it? If I must make the rule up anew for each particular instance, there will be only one member of my universal. In synthesizing this particular I make a universal, so that in a judgment of beauty the particular and the universal are the same. I perceive in the object some unity which gives it a universal character . Kant calls this universal character of the artwork an aesthetical idea. An aesthetical idea arises from the presentation of a form which gives occasion to the imagination "to spread itself over a number of kindred representations that arouse more thought than can be expressed in a concept determined by words. "7 For example Jupiter's eagle with the lightning in its claws is an attribute of Jupiter which tells us more about his power and majesty than ordinary words can express. How can I call several different things beautiful if each of them occasions a new aesthetical idea formed by the ~magination according to a self-made law? My judgment that a thing is beautiful accompanies the feeling that I have upon synthesizing the perceptions. If my feeling is one of "free play," I call the object beautiful. If, on the other hand , I 3 �neations _! la grecque , foliage for bo r de rs or wall papers. 11 8 The mystery of the Critique of Judg ment is: how does imagination synthesize formally something whose content is not space or time? That is, how does it syn- . thesize something which cannot be schematized as ordinary perceptions are? The object has some unity beyond that which we synthesize when we synthesize what we have received in space and time . Of course the judgment itself pertains to the harmony of the faculties of the subject when they are in free play. However the activity of the mind is incited by something in the object. F.0r me the mystery behind Kant's terminology redeems it, for it is an admission that beauty is not at bottom analyzable. Some objects have a unity beyond anything we can describe in speech bound by the concepts of the understanding. As Valery comments: The seducer beguiles us with the hope that everything will reduce itself to categorical terms and so achieve completion, tha t everything will culminate in the Word . Bu t we must answe r t he demon with this simple observation: the effect of the Beautiful upon a man is to make him mute. 9 Although we began by supposing that beauty does not dwell in the object, but in the subject, it seems that our feeling is called forth by s omething in the object. Insofar as beauty happens in the subject , it is not an attribute of an object, but a state of mind. Mind in itself is not subject to the formal intuitions, for my awareness of myself has to do only indirectly with space and time . Self awareness arises from my attention to the spontaneity of my imagination. My mind is immediately mine and I cannot help but feel how it is working. The feeling that my mind is at play is called forth by the freedom of objects of nature and art, for while they conform in many ways to conceptual syntheses, they occasion more thought than can be accounted for by the categories. Let us consider two examples of how feel awe, I call the object sublime. Thus aesthetic judgments are not strictly speaking attributable to the thing, but to my own feeling upon perceiving it. Beauty is not a category but a reflection of the mind on its own feeling. Hence aesthetic judgments are reflective rather than determinant . The feeling the mind experiences arises from the interplay of the imag i nation and the understanding. If the understanding along with the imag ination were simply to categorize, they would be "working," as when I make the judgment that the vase is red. But when imagination makes a judgment according to no set law, it makes a law for itself in playful imitation of the categorical laws. The understanding and imagination are "in play . " It might seem that in describing beauty as free play Kant trivializes the importance of beauty in our lives. We play when we find the time, and we are not serious when we play. However Kant's choice of the word play points in another direction as well, for when we work we are under the constraint of necessity. We work because we have to work~ we do not enjoy it and in some sense we are enslaved by it. If our perception of beauty is play, then when we perceive beauty, we are, for a time at least, entirely autono mous. We are ou r own maste rs. In making a judgment of beauty we are acting freely. Although the imagination in free play generates a rule for itse lf, Kant con ceives the synthesis involved in a judgment of beauty to be "formal." Imaginaton's autonomy is not wholly arbi trary and capricious, fo r the understanding sets down the example which imagination will follow . The rule imagination makes for itself will be by analogy to those o f determinant judgments . Determinant judgments synthesize perceptions formed by space and time . Since all my presentations will be of things in space and time (including my "I") which can only be represented by imagination through inner sense (time) as linear, everything represented by imagination must be formal. For Kant, beauty must always lie in the "form" of the thing, and he offers as examples flowe rs, s hells, "deli- 4 We sense that if one part were missing or if something were moved the unity of the painting would be destroyed. We cannot pin down why just this arrangement so pleases us. The mind seems to be able to perceive and enjoy the appropriateness of this particular curve being given to this particular object, where it might not have been found since nothing required it to be there. Free play, then, might be interpreted in several ways. I can sense the appropriateness of this cur ve to this vase; or I can sense the seemingly deliberate near-adherence to law in something which plays ~ith forms so that, for example, they are not quite perfectly geometrical . In both cases imagination obeys no given law. The vase did not have to have that curve simply to be a vase, yet I made that curve an essential part of my experience of the vase . The laws of synthesis of an object do not give me the Cezanne still life as a dynamic unity of objects. Kant calls this recognition of the appropriateness or deliberateness of form "purposiveness." Ordinarily we call the cause of an object, in the sense of formal or final cause, its "purpose." It is the formal end which the object will attain when it is unified and which will be perceived by us as a form. through the concepts. However, beautiful things do no t have purpose in the sense of form through the concepts. Nonetheless, they do seem to have form, and the form looks as if it were prescribed for them in the same way that a formal cause is. We call such objects "purposive." A judgment of beauty then "has nothing at its basis but the form of the purposivenss of an object (or of its mode of representation)." 11 Kant's parenthetical remark reminds us of the question of the l ocat ion of beauty. Does purposiveness arise from the object, or from our perception of it? The wo r k suggests that the object is purposive for me, yet not eve ry object can elicit this feeling. Judgments of beauty arise from my internal sense that the thing has non-conceptual form, and this sense only arises f o r the r elation of my imagination free play might work. If I l ook at Cezanne' s "The Basket of Apples" (plate 48, The Visual Arts as Human Experience) 10 my determinant judgment will give me colors in positions, certain shapes, and these shapes as relatively large and small. But how are these presentations unified for me into one image? For example, I immediately recognize the dish of cookies as just that, but the shape of the dish is not strictly geometric (cf . p . 250). The table edges do not match up, and the bottle is not symmetrical . Nonetheless my imagination immediately and effortlessly offers these elements to my mind's eye as a whole image whose parts . make sense. • To enjoy the real forms in the painting my mind must toy with the image to recognize how it thwarts the laws of perspective . The real beauty of the painting lies not only in the shapes but in the dynamic quality Cezanne achieves by shifting the dish one way and the table another, and by presenting the fruit as both on the tabletop and levitating above it . Perhaps free play comes not simply with form, but also with the activity to which a piece of art invites us through the interplay of its elements. To appreciate this painting we cannot simply imprint the forms upon our retina; we must allow it to set us at play on a teeter- totter of perspective and weight . The upper right-hand corner of the table wants to rise, but is balanced by the sheer bulk of the basket of fruit . An example of free play closer to what Kant has in mind is Claesz' s "Still Life ' (plate 40 , The Visual Arts as Human Experience). Thispainting ~far more conventional and each of the images within it is beautiful in a way that the elements of the Cezanne, taken individually, cannot be since their beauty arises from their balance. In this painting the various · curves of the objects are lovely in thems e lv e s . We e njoy the shape of the glass because it has just this curve, and the ellipse of the chalice lip because it has just that shape. We run our eyes over the forms just as we run our hands over the pleasing curves of a piece of sculpture. The particular arrangement of the elements on the table is also beautiful. 5 �to my understanding . My i maginat ion finds i n the object s omething l i ke a purpos e and reflects on it in compar ison with the s trict formality of the concepts . In orde r to give me the objec t a s an object o f thought my imagination mu s t supply fo r itself some r ule similar to those of the understanding in orde r to captu r e this pur posiveness. My pleasure a r ises f r om t he p l ayful agreement o f my i magination's own law , a n d the laws o f the understanding . If my enjoyment stems from the autonomous imagination's flirtation with the law of the understanding, it depends upon my sense that the understanding is law for everyone. I will be pleased with the play of my f a culties only if, in contrast with the norm, they a r e acting f r eely . What sort of norm is this? It must be the normal activity of mind, not simply my mind but any human mind. Kant claims that a judgment of beauty p r ecedes the fee l ing of pleasur e . Contr a r y to what might have been expected, the judgment of beauty is not uni ve rsa l because it i s universally pleasant; r athe r , it is pleasant fo r everyone because it is universal . "Hence, " c onc l ude s Kant, "it is t he universal capability of communication of the mental s tat e in the given r epr e s entat ion wh ich . . must b e f undamenta l and must have t he ple as ure in the object a s its c onsequent. 11 1 2 Tast e i s t hen "the fac u lty o f j udg i ng a p r iori of t h e conununicab i l ity o f f eelings t h at a r e bound up with a give n r epr e sentat i on. 11 13 This remarkable notion r equires t hat we think b eau ty as firs t and f o r emost something wh i ch p r oduce s the same feeling in e v eryone . We o r dinarily think o f beauty a s s ometh i ng which move s u s pe r sonally and which may take on great e r appe a l when we f ind our judgment reinfo r c e d b y someone el se . I am not sur e tha t Kant's description r ings true fo r me ; it is very important to me that my enjoyment o f be aut y is finally couched in my sense of myself as a human, but I am not at all sur e that communicability is the condition of my enjoyment . Unive r sal communicability can only ari s e in an object if a ll men have t he same faculties in common . Taste , then , i s a k i nd of common s ense which accounts tor our ability to compar e ou r own judgment wi th that of the collective r eason of humanity . It requires unprejudiced , consist ent, and "enlar ged t hought . " We say that a man has enlarged thought i f he "disr e gar ds the subjective private conditions of h i s own judgment , 11 14 and in so doing puts himself in thought in the place of everyone else . We see now why Kant claims that a judgment of beauty must be universal . We will expect everyone to ag r ee with it; for , since we all have the same faculties, we will have the same experience when faced with a painting. The communicability of the feeling to a l l with the same fa cul ties makes the experience universal. How would Hume respond? It seems obviou s that ever yone does not ag r ee about what is beautiful . Hume would say that I cannot e xperience beauty unless my faculties a r e i n order . Someone with good taste has "str ong sense , united to deli cate sentiment, improved by practice, per fected by comparison, and cleared of all p r ejudice . " 15 Furthermore some things wil l appeal to some people because of thei r characte r s ; an old man may love Tacitus and a young man may love Ovid . No blame attaches i tse l f to such preferences , for " it is almost impo ssib l e not t o fee l a predilection f o r t h a t which suits our particu lar t u rn and d isposition . 11 16 Kant i s mo re t e r se in h i s e xplanation o f how judgme nt s may v ary . I sense that h i s explanation ar ises more f r om philos ophi c nece ssity than f r om the tole r ant ob s e r vat i on of a c t ua l human f eel i ng : "eve r yone mu s t admit that a judgment about beauty , i n which the least interest mingles , is ve r y pa r tial and is not a pu r e judgment of taste . 1117 A judgment of beauty must be "disinterested . " It i s he r e, and not so much in his claim that beauty is subjective rather than objective, that Kant's rea l argument with Plato shows itself . A judgment of beaut y is not e r ot i c; I must be speaking very loosely to speak of "love of the beautiful" at all . Kant claims, counter to Plato and our own simplest notions of beauty, that it is not the "object of des ire . " We do not , strictly speaking, even 6 desire to look at beautiful things, although Aristotle claims that we desire to look at and t o know all things . Ordinarily , we think of beauty as a source of motion, as something which, like the beloved in the Phaedrus , draws us with its radi ance . For Dante, to fail to be moved by beauty is sin, and he is scolded by Beatr ice for f o rgetting her divine beauty and following earthly things . Kant, however , wants to claim that I must not be moved by beauty ; my enjoyment of it must be entirely free and unconstrained . In other words, an experience of the beauti ful cannot be an "emotional" experience. It turns out that the consequence of claiming that beauty is no object outside of me is that I have nothing to move to wards . For Plato an experience of beauty is bound to be an important experience , for it will move us towards something . For Kant the experience is merely internal and solely of symbolic interest . One could try to temper the revolu tionary quality of Kant's claim by remarking that my enjoyment of art. must not come from anything private o r peculiar to me, but from those things which I share with all humanity. I must not like the painting because I like fruit, or because it is something I would like to own for its investment value or its c o l or scheme (should it happen to match my living room ) . In other words , I cannot take a simply private interest in the painting, and I cannot use it as a means to some end. Perhaps, then, because my enjoyment f ollows upon a judgment that results from . the universal nature of human faculties, I am permitted to take an interest in the painting because in l ooking at it I am joining in with all humanity to discover something we all share in c ommon . However, Kant does not even allow for this enticing possibility. I personally am at a lo s s to i magine why anyone would devote so much time, energy and t hought t o beautiful art if he is no t to take an interest in it_. Perhaps Kant imagines that we somehow run into beauty and are preoccupied with it f o r a time, as a child is amused when placed in a sandbox. It seems t o me that Plato's account o f our exp erience of beauty is far truer to the experie nce. W do love beautifu l e things, and although we may not desire to po ssess them (I am perfect l y happy to leave my favorite p aintings in museums) we do take an interest in their existence. The world would seem a far p oo rer place if the Louvre were destroyed. We take delight in the thought that such wo nderful things could share the world with us. In other words, we l ove them in much the same way that we love people; we can never pos sess them, we feel a desire to be in their presence, and we feel a deep loss when they disappear . We do no t love them for their usefulness, but simply f o r what they are . Although we may be aware that their presence is beneficial t o us, we do not pursue them for our own benefit: love is never a means to an end. It seems to me that Plato is very wise, in the Pha~drus, when he places a discussio n o f l ove of an individual next to the discussion of a pleasing wo rk of art. Kant, however, has a philosophical rather than an aesthetic reason for de scribing beauty as he d oes. For Kant, the whole power of beauty lies n o t in the beautiful object but in the subject's free response to the object. Art should no t be compelling and the experie nce o f the beautiful in art canno t be pathe tic. Kant is willing t o make such radica l claims because he sees beauty as the symbo l of our own free will. Free play gives testimo ny to the ability of man to make a universal of a particular. If Kant were to allow even an interest in universal humanity to enter into a judgment o f beauty, t he judgment would inclu de a kind o f desire; we would no l onger have in beauty a symbol of morality becau se the mo tive behind the j udgment would no l o nger be the judgment itself, but rather s ome other e nd such as knowledge. The j udgment o f beauty would then be a means rather than an end. As the symbol of morality, the judgment must be entirely autonomou s, a nd must treat beauty never as a mean s but always as an end. Thus f o r Kant t he conse quence o f claiming that a feeli ng o f beauty results from its u n iversal conunu ni c a b ili t y is that we find things beau tifu l because they cal l forth in u s a n awareness o f the freedom of 7 �my own experience of art . Nothing important to my experience of painting and music will be accounted for by describing oscillations and wavelengths, much as I enjoy the Timaeus. Even if my experience could be reduced to mathematics, I would know nothing more about why colors in a Monet strike me; Heidegger will later claim that it is precisely such analyses which make it so difficult for moderns to reach real being and beauty . Kant limit s his n otion becaus e he i s strongly rooted to the idea that because all our experience must be spatial and temporal, it can only be represented (conceptually or through free play) by something linear and mathematical. One might argue with Kant about his point in two ways: one could argue on Kant's own terms, or one could abandon Kant's vocabulary and invent a manner of speaking of one's own . I shall do both. First, if my feeling of beauty belongs essentially to my sense of myself, then it arises in some way akin to the way in which I am conscious of myself. Every presentation which my imagination offers to my mind's eye must also be able to be accompanied by my thought, "I experience this sensation. " In other words, prior to my synthesis of an object I must have a synthesis of the self experiencing that object. I experience the object in time (which was linear) , however I experience myself in my awareness of my own spontaneous synthesis in imagination. This spontaneity occu rs in some sense beyond time, for it subjects i t s elf t o a synthesis of itself in t i me. Con sequently my experience of myself and of my feelings is temporal, yet beyond time. However, to argue without being limited by Kant's vocabulary: the time by which we measure our work may be subject to measurement as if it were a time - line, but the time which we have to ourselves in play seems to stretch or become concen . trated depending on our involvement in what we are doing. Time seems sometimes to be more than one - dimensional. When I become absorbed in something , time seems thicker, or to stand still. At other times, it can perform magical leaps, and can pass by before I have had time to our own faculties. Kant buries the beauty of this notion in his terminology: "the subjective condition of all judgments is the faculty of judgment itself."18 we subject our own faculties to inspection by themselves. The imagination itself subsumes itself under the understanding itself, such that the freedom of the f o rmer harmonizes with the law of the latter . Kant is proposing that in making a judgment of beauty we are in fact playing with our faculties themselves in a self-conscious exercise of our own freedom to conform to law. The ultimate freedom for Kant is the freedom to conform to one's own law. Full freedom means complete self-consistency. In making a judgment of beauty (by making a particular into a universal) I am providing myself and others with an image of moral freedom, in which I act only "in such a way that I can also will that my maxim should become a universal law. 111 9 Then beauty is only meaningful in society and in culture, for it rests on ·communicability and it hints at morality. Beauty, through "common sense," yields the self-conscious sense of oneself as a social being . Kant's suggestive notion of free play accords with certain aspects of my experi ence of art, although it by no means exhaustively describes art. However it seems to me that he l i mits the notion unnecessar ily by thinking of form exclusively in t erms of delineation, rather than thinking of it as the whole form or "look" o f a wo r k o f art. The who l e o f a painting, for e x ample, arises from the interplay of many elements, only one o f which is delineation. What Kant takes to be bare delineation o r outline , I prefer to think of as the shape emerging from the complex interrelations of many parts . Kant hesitates to accept music and the art of color as beautiful rather than merely pleasant sensations. He offers a somewhat obscure argument for why they might be admitted; however, his argument depends upon their being essentially mathematical. If music and color can only be accepted into Kant's account of free play because they are mathematical, I must re ject the notion because it disagrees with 8 grasp its passage. To think of our experience of art in time as merely linear when we experience leaps and bounds in our memories, and stretches and intensif ications when we contemplate, seems entirely too limited. Allow me, then, to offer my own elaboration on Kant's notion of free play so that it can describe more of the depth of my experience of art. Since it is clear to me that a black and white repro duction c annot always capture the essence of a colorful work of art, I will submit that color is just as much an element of beauty as size, position, shape and line. Compare, for example, the color with the black and white reproduction of Albers' "Study for an Early Diary" (plate 52, page 271, The Visual Arts as Human Experience ) . Much Of the exercisewhich this painting invites is lost in black and white, for part of the play consists in the intensity of the blue box fighting with the size and position of the yellow. The shapes themselves become interesting because of their positions as well as because of their forms. or compare Monet's "Rouen Cathedral, Early Morning" (plate 44, Visual Arts) with the black and white reproduction (p. 234). The black and white picture looks like an unfocused photograph taken from an interesting angle . The color picture draws us into a damp, light-bathed atmosphere . We strain our eyes upwards to whe r e the warm colors of the sunlight b a l ance the cool colors engulfing the ground on whi ch we stand . Texture and dens i t y pla y with color to give the effect of morning light. Something happens in the color picture . There is something purposive in the particular yellow-green which Monet uses to balance the purple - blue , but there is nothing strictly law- abiding about his use of the s e colo rs. Similarly a certain melody in a Dvorak string quartet belongs to t he cello at just that moment, although we couldn't s ay why. A jazz trumpet solo would become something altogether different if it were played on the piano. It seems to me that we experience purposiveness in the interplay of many elements in art, and that to consider free play purely f o rmally limits it. Kant's no tion (when expanded) captures the sense o f restful mo tion which some works cause and which we enjoy in the awareness that anyone would enjoy it. In appreciating that work we are j oining in with all of our cultures in an activity which exercises our own spontaneous creation of lawful form. Let us see what else we can learn about beauty from Kant. He chooses to distinguish between the beautiful and t h e sublime, claiming that while beauty "brings with it a feeling of the furtherance of life, 112 0 the sublime is: a mere appendix to the aesthetical judging of purposiveness, because by means of it no particular form is represented in nature, but there is only developed a purposive use which the imaginatio n makes of its representation.21 Beauty results in restful contemplation while the sublime results in an emotional exercise of the imagination. In a judgment of beauty, imagination approximates itself to the understanding by spontaneously making a universal law for a particular. In a judgment of the sublime, imagination stretches itself beyond its limits t o try to encompass in experience the boundlessness of the ideas of reason . In both cases my imagination is active. Although Kant gives precedence to the feeling of beauty, I myself believe that the sublime can be of equal importance in our experience of beaut iful a rt . F ree play may begin to describe my experience of Monet's painting of a cathedral, but it cannot describe my feeling when · I enter the Rouen cathedral. Whereas Kant intends to describe beauty exhaustively with his notion of free play, I think of free play as only a part of beauty, another part of which is the sublime . If we think of beauty as a source of self-discovery for man (both as an individual and as a race ) then, while playful beauty gives man an i mage of his own freed om, the sublime gives him an image of his own reason. Reaso n is the aspect o f the mind which strives to encompass and to know everything, as in Aristotle's claim 9 �self in a search to grasp the idea which one already has within oneself , an idea of an absolute whole. Kant's sublime de scribes for me the feeling that one some times has that the only appropriate response to a work of art is joyful tears. Kant offers as examples of this kind of sublime beauty St. Peter's in Rome and the Pyramids. Because our judgment of the sublime and the beautiful rests upon our sense of ourse lves as rational members of humankind, our judgments are produced only in the context of culture and of our common faculties. Kant claims that the sublime has its roots in human nature, "in that which, alike with common understanding, we can impute to and expect of every one, viz. in the tendency to the feeling for (practical) ideas, i.e. to what is moral."24 We presuppose taste and feeling in any man of culture. Since the moral ideas arise from reason, and the sublime is a sort of image of our reason, we ascribe a feeling for sublime beauty to any moral man. Kant claims that both beauty and the sublime are purposive in reference to moral feeling; the beautiful prepares us to revere something, not for the sake of s ome private end, but for the sake of its form, while the sublime leads us to respect something beyond our own sensible interests . Kant makes the limited claim that an inte r est in the beauty of nature ... i s always a mark of a good soul; and ... when thi s interest is habitual, it at least indicates a frame of mind favorable to the moral feelingJ5 One is startled, however, to discover at the conclusion of the Aesthetic that Kant has made a reversal, for the final sentence of the first part of the Critique of Judgment reads: "the true propaedeutic for the foundation of taste is the development of moral ideas and the culture of the moral feeling .••. "'ii76" ~It seems clear that culture and an appreciation of beauty are bound to one another, but it is not clear whether a taste for beauty leads to morality, or whether morality leads to taste . Kant very sensibly leaves the relationship ambiguous. that all men desire to know. In sublime judgments the imagination reaches out in an attempt to perform the function of reason. Consequently a judgment that something is sublime, like a judgment of beauty, refers not to the object but the judging subject. The judgment refers to the mind's feeling when faced with an object such as the sea or a cathedral: "the mind feels itself raised in its own judgment if •.• it. .. finds the whole power of imagination inadequate to its ideas. 11 22 While a judgment of beauty rests on objective purposiveness, a judgment of the sublime rests on subjective purposiveness . In a judgment of beauty some unity belonging to the object occasions my judgment, while in a judgment of the sublime my own relative smallness occasions my judgment . Consequently the sublime "is not to be sought in the things · of nature, but only in our ideas. 11 23 Kant's discussion of how this feeling works on us characterizes my own feeling in the face of some few very moving works of art. I am torn two ways: I feel torn because the whole of my imagination can never equal the enormity I face and at the same time I feel warmed and excited by the attempt to capture the whole of the work, as if I were reaching for something beyond the everyday . The cathedrals, which were built for the greater glory of God, do succeed both in uplifting us and in giving us a pained sense of our own limitations . A very great symphony can produce the same effect, when we swim in the sounds and can never hope to grasp them all. To come away from a cathedral having simply admired its lines would be never to have faced it at all. Our mind enters into a disturbed conflict in which we are drawn forward by our imagination's attempts to grasp the whole, yet we are discouraged by the futility of our attempt. Nonetheless, in attempting to equal the ideas of reason in imagination we demonstrate to ourselves that we indeed have such ideas. One can conceive of someone entering into a cathedral and remarking only that it is large. To be awed by the cathedral, Kant very plausibly argues, is to involve one - 10 II Schiller, however, borrows Kant's ideas and boldly claims that artistic beauty will be man's means to reach a moral condition. For him the question of how man can attain political freedom and his full humanity is answered by Beauty, "since it is through Beauty that we arrive at Freedom. 11 2 7 Ideal Beauty will lead us to our ideal nature in which the harmony of our faculties renders us free. It is the task of culture to realize this ideal man in all of us. As the title of his book, The Aesthetic Education of Man, indicates, Schiller is concerned to educate mankind aesthetically so that mankind can become moral. One must admire Schiller for the nobility of his interest. Schiller reinterprets Kant's analysis of the faculties (understanding, judgment and reason) so that it can describe the present division of humanity as a whole. Kant's faculties become impulses or drives towards the rational, the sensual, and the beautiful. Just as judgment mediates between the understanding and reason, so for Schiller the impulse towards the beautiful mediates between the sensual and the rational. In the ideal man the impulses towards reason and sensation are balanced. Modern man, however, has become fragmented. The harmony of the ancients has been lost in the name of Progress and Utility. In order to further the technical arts man has specialized. Some neglect reason in favor of the sensual (like the man who works solely with his hands), while others neglect their senses in favor of reason (l ike those who theorize and invent). Schiller is conscious of the dual nature of art: like anything powerful it can be dangerous as well as beneficial. Through the specialization of the arts, Rea'Son and . the Ideal have become removed from sensation and reality: we his readers feel the truth of his claim in our own imbalance between the speculative and the i ntuitive'. Schiller's striking description of modern man anticipates the thought of Hegel and Marx: Eternally chained to only one single little fragment of the 11 whole, Man himself grew to be only a fragment; with the monotonous noise of the wheel he drives everlastingly in his ears, he never develops the harmony o f his being, and instead of imprinting humanity upon his nature he becomes merely the imprint o f his occupation, of his science. 28 In a dialectic process akin to Hegel's, Schiller describes the progress of history as being reso lved by a Higher Act. This Higher Act is Culture; through it the third impulse (the play impulse towards the beautiful } develops. This impulse corresponds to Kant's faculties in free play. For Schiller, Nature and sensation always combine, while the progress of the understanding demands division and separation. The power of reason performs a second synthesis yielding a new whole. This recombining synthesis manifests itself in history. Our new harmony will not simply be a return to the original harmonized state of the ancients, for the Higher Act will unite the simplicity of the ancients with the historical self-consciousness of the moderns.29 The antagonism between the sensual and formal impulses will be instrumental in this move towards Culture; however, as long as the conflict persists we are only on the way towards culture. Culture will be a state in whi ch our rational and sensual impulses are harmonized by ~ur impulse towards the beautiful. For Schiller the conflict of sense and form in humanity as a whole manifests itself in the individual as a conflict between condition and person. The condition corresponds to the changing particular who is bound to the sensual sequence of time; it is the verbal aspect of my being. The person is the enduring "I" which is an unchanging universal ideal outside of and encompassing all time. Man exists both in the immediacy of the sensu al and as an "I" in some way unaltered by time. Schiller sees mode r n man as caught up in the fragmentation of his own duality: particular v ersus universal, sense versus form, finite versus infinite, �reality versus ideality. Cultur e mu s t bring about a harmony between man's dual impulses. Ar t preserves the ideal humanity embodied in the Greeks: "truth lives on in illusion, and from the copy the original will once again be restored." 3 O For Schiller appearance or illusion does not fall short of the real, as for Plato, but rather it opens up towards the i deal. Schiller exalts the power of appearance. The artist, like Orestes, cleanses the present age by using material from his own age and the form from a nobler time, "from beyond all time, [borrowed] from the absolute unchangeable unity of his being . " 3 l The artist must give the world the direction towards the good by surrounding it with "noble, great and ingenious forms . until actuality is overpowered by appearance and Nature by Art . 1132 Art brings · about the Ideal by reconciling the warring impulses of reason and sensation. The sensuality of beauty will soften the restraint of the overly rational man, while a rt's formality will tighten the slack sensual man . The ideal condition will be "sternness with oneself combined with tenderness towards others." 3 3 The inharmonious man is either unsympathetic or self-indulgent. The impulse towards beauty balances the sensual and rational impulses because it makes use of both of them. This play impulse aims at "the extinc tion of time in time," for it attempts to reconcile the rational (atemporal) with the sensual (in time ) . 34 Because the rational is associated with the universal, and the sensual with the particular, the play impulse echoes Kant's moral imperative, whereby one's own particular act must be treated as if it were to become a universal law. Kant simply points to .the similarity between an aesthetic judgment and a moral judgment by calling beauty the symbol of morality . Schiller, however, in a display of his own poetic freedom, equates the synthesis of the material and formal with that of the universal and particular, so that the play impulse results in yet a third synthesis of physical with moral necessity in man's aesthetic freedom . Whereas for Kant freedom means autonomous self- consistency, for Schiller freedom means that we are not bound to a mere physical necessity, but can unite obedience to physical law with obedience to moral law. The freedom exhibited in a judgment of beauty, by uniting the sensual-particular with the rational-universal, makes manifest man's moral freedom . Thus "living shape," the realization of free play, suggests both the vitality of a beautiful form and the moral shape a life will take on if it follows the harmo ny of beauty . The aesthetic art for Schiller becomes the art of living, anc:i the fulfillment of this life is play : "man plays only when he is in the full sense of the word a man, and he is only wholly Man when he is playing . " 3 5 · I am reminded of Aristotle's conviction that to be fully alive and at work is one's ful lest pleasure . We see here the glimmerings of the notion that what it is for man to be is to be at play : to be creatively at work on his life. Play takes on the sense of ergon, a being at work in the sense of fulfilling what is most necessary for man to be a man . For Heidegger as well beauty is a way of being at work in the world . Thus freedom from necessity in Schiller means play, a play involving the whole shape of o ne's life among men. Schiller has learned from Kant that beauty is not simply an attribute of things, but a state of mind as well : it is certainly form, because we contemplate it; but it is a t the same time life, because we feel it. In a word it is at once our state and our act . 36 Schiller founds his notion of "living shape" on several Kantian notions. First, a judgment of beauty is a reflection on the harmony of our faculties. Second, in viewing beauty we must reconcile the uni versal and the particular. Finally, our concept of the ideal of Beauty amounts to an awareness of our own boundless powers of rational thought . Schiller, like me, is inclined to combine Kant's notions of the sublime and the beautiful. Kant would 12 never posit a "rational concept of beauty," for beauty is not a concept but an idea of the imagination, a reflection on the. state of our own faculties. Schiller considers the recognition of beauty to be proof of our ability to pass beyond the finite just as for Kant the imagination's attempts to encompass the sublime are an image of our boundless rationality. For Schiller, free play affords a triumphant proof that passivity by no means excludes activity, any more than matter does form, or limitation infinity that consequently Man's moral freedom is by no means abolished by his necessary physical dependence.37 This union of disparities in our experience of beauty proves the compatibility of the finite with the infinite, and consequently proves that an individual act can become a universal act. It proves the possibility of a sublime ideal humanity. Schiller means far more by "beauty," "living shape," and "culture" than is implied in our fine arts. When he claims that culture will lead us to ideal humanity, I think that he is aware that no mere intellectual revolution, no blood-bath, and no mere conviction in human free will can lead us to the realization of a peaceful, free world and of our ideal humanity. By culture Schiller means something like what the Latin root suggests: man is nurtured and cultivated into the organic whole which is his ideal condition only through the attentions of his culture. He must grow up out of the earth of nature, but he will only grow freely and well if some artificial attention is given to his form. The illusion and artificiality of human custom makes man conscious of his own power over the nature whose sensual law he cannot escape. Art is only beautiful if we are conscious of it as man-made. our imposition of form on our world yields )Ur sense of moral freedom. action, not for the sake of some necessary of self-interested end, but purely for the sake of freedom. Freedom cannot be imposed by revolution, it must grow up out of the fabric of everyday life. Schiller elevates Kant's "disinterestedness" to the stature of the source of our humanity. Schiller's description of fragmented man yearning to become reunited portrays convincingly the modern world and much of modern art. Man's desire to find a home in the universe and to become one with it may be founded on Schiller's distinction of person and condition. We are often painfully conscious of ourselves as fragmented infinitesimals existing in time yet groping to find a way to equal the world we live in. We sense that the whole of what is excedes us in importance and being, and would like to feel one with the whole rather than separate. Baudelaire's poem, "Les Phares," describes the same yearning: Ces mas maledictions, ces blasphemes, ces plaintes, Ces extases, ces eris, ces pleura, ces Te Deum, Sont~n echo redit par mille labyrinthes; C'est pour les coeurs mortels un divin opium! C'est un cri repete par mille sentinelles,. Un ordre renvoye par mille portevoix; C'est un phare allume sur mille citadelles, Un appel de chasseurs perdus dans lee grands bois! Ces c'est vraiment, Seigneur, le meilleur temoignage Que nous puissions donner de notre dignite · Que cet ardent sanglot qui roule d'age Et vient mourir au bord de votre eternite ! 38 Beautiful illusion is the exercise and manifestation of our freedom. Thus the art of living entails making every moment o f one's life a poetic act, a deliberate exercise of In this poem artists from Michelangelo and da Vinci to Goya and Delacroix all join in one cry lamenting 13 �man's loss of classical innocence. It is the cry itself, the yearning to become one with God's eternity, which gives testimony to man's dignity . This cry repeats itself t hroughout different worlds and ages, al ways reaching for the eternal and timeless as waves reach for the shore . The preceding poem ("J'aime le souvenir de ces epoques nus . . ") s ugge~ts that we are no longer all that we could be, because we lost our youthful innocence t o the God of Utility . Baudelaire captures t he ache we have to return to that innocent, unified state. Of ten we do experience beauty as an attempt to escape from the limitations of time, or to capture time in a moment . This sense of being freed from time ac cords with Kant's description of beauty as a concept which is not a schematization of time through the categories . Although our experience of beauty is temporal we are no longer enslaved by time; our experience is the extinction of time in time. We are not limited by the spatial and temporal qua lity of art, for we become immersed in the entire world t he work of art depicts . Each of the painters in "Les Phares" creates a world, yet when I experience tho se worlds I am not subject to their time or space; rather, I sense for a moment those worlds as a whole. Our consciousness that our experience is not , for onc e, subjec t t o time give s us a sense of f reedom and wholene s s which Schiller calls "universal" and "infinite." I think of Soc rate s gaz ing in timele ss contemplation at the beginning of the Symposium , or of myself when I am "lost in thought." Insofar as we have not yet attained to the reintegration of our faculties or impulses, I think that Schiller's description of modern man hits the mark , and, in comparison with Kant's reduction of the significance of beauty to a symbol, I respect his sense that Beauty can be extremely powerful. I also admire his wisdom in recognizing that full humanity and freedom cannot be imposed, but must, just as the word "ethics" implies, come from custom and habituation. Nonetheless his conception of beauty and Culture as the road to morality dis turbs me deeply. Schiller himself admits that one could argue that precisely because taste pays heed only to form and never to content, it finally gives a soul a dangerous tendency to neglect all reality entirely and to sacrifice truth and mortality to an attractive facade . 39 Schiller dismisses this enormous problem, the problem of the Republic, and all the examples that history has to offer of its likelihood , in two paragraphs . He responds by positing a pure rational concept of Beauty , and "by this conception we are to discover whether what experience calls beautiful is entitled to the name. 114 0 This Beauty cannot be discovered through experience; it must be sought along the path of abstraction , and it can be inf erred simply from the possibility of a nature that is both sensuous and rational; in a word, Beauty must be exhibited as a necessary condition of humanity. 41 We must pursue Beauty because "those who do not venture out beyond actuality will never capture Tr uth . 11 42 Beauty is thus an ideal towards which we strive . This argument is, for me, mere poetic rhe tor ic . Why should we strive for an ideal that Schiller cannot prove we even have, and which we do not know to be iden tical with the Good o r truth? At the foundation of this argument lies Schiller's certainty that we, like Socrates, wi ll in some way ass ociate the beautiful with the Good, and the Good with truth . I do believe that art brings out a certain t r uth , but I am not sure that that truth is always moral truth. Schiller perhaps argues from his own conception of what higher art must be and has in mind his own politically oriented writings. However it would be dangerous, to say the least, to assume that the reader will take Schiller and Goethe as his examples rather than some less scrupulous poet. For me, much of Schiller's writing gains its force from its poetic formulation and not from its argumentation. I have frequently resorted to quoting Schiller rather than paraphrasing him, for he is at heart not a philosopher but a poet. He would like to give his arguments the force of necessary reasoning, as if they were logically deduced. However, his arguments often make use of poetic license. Because of their generality and ambiguity (for example, what precisely are Higher Art, Culture, and Beauty?) his letters are a perfect example o f how art can be dangerous . Schiller gives the impression of having logically presented a necessary truth when he has, in fact, employed poetic persuasion. For Schiller's argument to work, art must act on particular men to make them more harmonized. It is not clear how art is to perform its function, since the arts cannot move men: an impassioned fine art is a contradiction in terms; for the inevitable effect of the Beautiful is freedom from passions. No less selfcontradictory is the notion of a fine instructive (didactic) or improving (moral) art, for nothing is more at variance with the concept of Beauty than that it should have a tendentious effect upon the character.43 Beauty, apparently, does not teach us or compel us. How then do we become more moral? ThQ move towards Culture can only happen in individuals, yet it is not clear how the harmonization is to take place unless Culture in Schiller's sense has already been achieved. Once a whole culture becomes involved in beautiful appearance, it might plausibly be argued that anyone growing up under its influence will be moral. But how are we to reach Culture? If the transformation is to take place in individuals through culture (in the sense of fine arts as we think of them) I am tempted to laugh cynically with Alex, the hero-villain of ~ Clockwork Orange: - - Civilized my syphilized yarbles. Music always sort of sharpened me up, O my brothers and made me feel like old Bog himself, ready to make with the old donner and and have blitzen vecks and pti tsas creeching away in my ha ha ha power. 44 For Alex the form and "lawfulness" of art express dominance, seduction and violence. Because Culture in Schiller's sense has not yet been attained, the art around Alex does not mold him towards moral freedom but towards lawless violence. Schiller claims that through art the sensual and rational impulses will be harmonized; however, in Alex the rational impulse imposes itself violently on the sensual and the sensual overwhelms the rational. The artificial world Burgess portrays may be full of illusion, yet it is not an expression of free choice made manifest in free play. The strict conformity to appearanc_e drives Alex to desire to break free from lawful imprisonment to exercise his freedom in lawless violence. His violence, at least, is not illusory. I have serious doubts about Schiller's claim that beauty leads to morality. Hitler and Stalin appointed ministers of culture, but that did not make them Cultured. Art, beauty and culture do not imply humanitarianism. Schiller has not adequately explained how Culture is to come about through the instrument of the conflict of sense and reason, yet his writing persuades us that it will. My fear is that Schiller's Aesthetic Education, for all its optimism and beauty, will distract us from our attention to. morality itself. I would like to believe what Schiller claims but I have not yet seen justification. When Socrates condemns art as imitation in the Republic he fears the political consequences of illusion. Not all art is illusory, for not all that is artfully made aims to deceive. But Socrates is aware that, because beauty is powerful, it can lead us astray. Schiller's description of the sensual and rational impulses in some ways resembles ~OCJ:~•' tripartite soul in the Phaedrus. Schiller seems to ignore Socrates' image and its implications on his own theory. Certainly the sensual element and the rational element must work together when they perceive and pursue Beauty; however, in 14 15 �the Phaedrus one is always conscious of the danger that Beauty will provoke one of the elements to thoughtless and destructive action . The experience of beauty may in fact unbalance us . It would be foolish to avoid beauty al together on that account, but it must be approached with great caution . What I miss in Schiller is a sense of rese r ve in the face of beauty . There are many k i nds of illusion we can be drawn to and cau gh t up in; we must be very sure what we mean by beautiful illusion if we are to pursue it . Having noted that the danger of art disharmonized mankind in the first place, Schiller would have done well to bear this danger more in mind when he sang the praise of "Higher Art . " III Nevertheless there is something deeply true in Schiller's assertion that "we are citizens of an age, as well as of a State . " 45 The needs and tastes of our centur y cannot help but form our sense of the world, and we owe allegiance to our own time ; it would be wrong to ignore its conce r ns whethe r they please us o r not . Schiller's awareness of the historical nature of humanity gives him an understanding of beauty which will account f or the histo r y o f art . Nothing in Kant • s ae sthet i cs can describe why each of the painters in "Les Phares " so emphatical ly c r eat e s a world of his own, governed by the age f r om which he emerges . Only with the a dvent of a sense of histo ry and o f t h e development of human consciousness within it can we account for changes in style, subject and emphasis . Art seems to have the power to draw us into a world or age; we do not simply stand back and observe the form, or even simply feel the play of our faculties . we find ourselves faced with a new way of being in the world . Heidegger, upon being moved by a Van Gogh painting, comments that "in the vicinity of the work we [are] suddenly somewhere else than we usually tend to be." 4 6 Let us consider for a moment several different works of art: Copland ' s "Appalachian Spring," Munch's "The Cr y , " and Homer ' s Iliad . When we encount er each of these works , we experience the world i n wholly different ways , all of which may seem true or real to us . The world of "Appalachian Spr ing" is hopeful, young, decidedly American and highly conscious of the natural world . Munch's "The Cry" (p . 1000, . Key Monuments of the History of Art) calls forth an age-old despair, a sense of alienation from oneself and from the wor ld . In Homer's Il iad a l iving , teeming, colorful picture of the world embraces the unity and blessedness of everything , in spite of the toil and pain without which that unity would not be pos ~ sible . Although each of these worlds becomes real for us, each corresponds to a partic ular time or age , and each comes out of the sense of the world and the concerns that pervaded that age. Copland was an American in a time when the American dream seemed possible; Munch was a product of European malaise brought on by industrialization and the shadow of the world wars . In Homer' s time the gods seemed active in the world, forming and o r dering it . None of this means that I must know the histo r y behind the work to be drawn into a world, but it does determine how those worlds are historical . How i s it po s sible for a work of art to draw us into a world? Heidegger speaks of a r t as d r awing us into a wo r ld, and although he means by "world" something more ontological than I have in mind in this discussion of aesthetics , we can learn much from his thoughts on the mat ter . Heidegger has his own interpretation of Kantian "disinte r estedness . " While fo r Kant disinterestedness allows for a purely free judgment about an object, Heidegger takes it to be the most pathetic experi ence we can have of an object: "precisely by means of the 'devoid of interest' the essential relation to the object itself comes into play."'+ / We see that whi le in Kant the beauty in a work of art happens within the free play of the subject, for Heidegger it occurs in the relationship of the receptive subject ·to the work of art . An experience of beauty requires that I approach the work without imposing any of my own needs, desires or expectations upon it . Only then will it present itself to me fully . Heidegger quite literally intends to say that my manner of approach ing the beings of the world alters their manner of being present in the world for me . The work has an integrity of its own which I must not violate if I wish to ex perience it . For Kant the importance of disinterestedness arises not from a need to experience the work honestly, but from the necessity that our judgment be free . Heidegger emphasizes that disinterestedness is not apathy or indifference, but a bearing towards things . When I face works of art I must take an interest in them for what they are in themselves; I must allow . them to .move me . Heidegger follows Plato in believing that the beautiful is that which shines forth most and which is most lovable . He too believes that beauty can lead the observer to truth as in the Phaedrus; or rathe r, Heidegger believes that beauty, in its shining, is a manifestation of truth and is not simply an appearance : "Beauty is one way in which truth occur s as unconcealedness . 114 8 While for Plato the r ealm of what truly is keeps its distance f rom the realm in which beauty appears in art , Heidegger believes that art tells the truth . Plato is unwilling to claim that beauty can give birth to anything but "wisdom" . Yet when I am faced with a work of art I sometimes want to claim that it te ls a k ind of tru t h abou t the world , even though the char acters may not be r eal . No one ever spoke as Phedre speaks , and few people would eve r be faced with the conflicts she faces , yet there is something t rue abou t how we see the world t h r ough the work . Her raw emotion is t rue to life , whether or not we will ever e x pe rience it in such an undiluted manner . Socrates does not permi t this kind o f interpretation of art, for if a thing is not a real table or an ideal table, it is less than either of them . Heidegger claims that art is not less than reality, but more . Art brings out the reality of real things by telling a kind of truth about them . Philosophy, in the course of its his tory, has obscured the reality of things by imposing various interpretations upon them . Things have been thought of as made up of subject and accident, of the unity of the manifold of sensation, and as mat ter and form. Heidegger claims that none of these ways of speaking about a thing allows it to be what it is in itself . He calls these theories "thing concepts," and points out that our relationship to things may more properly belong to the realm o f feeling than ratiocination: Perhaps however what we call feeling or mood is more reasonable that is, more intelligently perceptive ... because it was more open to Being than all that reason which, having meanwhile become ratio, was misinterpreted as being rational. 49 Because Kant a r ose out of and con tinued the tradition of thinking of things th r ough conceptual machinery rather than allowing them to move us , Kant is in a sense responsible for the rarity of our e xperience of beauty . He i degge r claims that the prevailing thing - concept of informed matter a r ises from our sense that all things either have a u s e for us o r seem to have one . Matter is always formec by the end or telos we find fo r it . Heidegger would claim that all Kant ' s tal} of purposiveness indicates Kant ' s inabili ty to think of things of the world withoui simultaneously refer r ing to t he ir usE (whether actual or apparent) . Even ir admitting to the non - conceptual element ir a judgment of beauty , Kant must resort tc conceptualization : beauty becomes an "indeterminant concept . " Thus we most of t en approach things a~ use - objects o r equipment . To experience < thing as it really is we must p r event our selves from imposing anything £ n i t , w~ must allow what is in the thing to shrn itself . Here is ho;- Heidegger describe: what we perceive when we allow a Van Gog] painting of peasant shoes to "speak" : From the dark opening of the worn insides of the shoes the toilsome tread of the worker stares forth 16 17 �In the shoes vibrates the silent call of the earth, its quiet gift of the ripening grain and its unexplained self refusal in the fallow desolation of the wintry field ... This equipment belongs to the earth and is protected in the world of the peasant woman.so Heidegger's feeling description of an experience of the Van Gogh painting captu r es more of our sense of the wo r ld of the painting than Kant's free play does. The painting makes us more conscious of the life behind the shoes than of the forms involved in their portrayal. The shoes seemed at first to be mere equipment, but, because of their reliable usualness, they give the peasant woman a secure world in which she can reap the mys terious benefits of the earth. Heidegger sees the being of things as a conflict of earth and world rather than of form and matter or sensation and reason. The shoes are part of the peasant woman's world and they bring he r into contact with the earth. The work of art has its quality as a work because in it the conflict of the earth and world is at work . This conflict works on us, the viewers, in our own world. Art is, for Heidegger, "the truth of beings setting itself to work. 11 51 Art does not testify to our freedom or lead us to morality, it sets up a world through the wo r k it performs on us. In depicting a world the work gives birth to a world . Heidegger does not mean that it creat es an atmo s phe re but that it literally creates a new world. The beings of the world take on a new being because of the power of art. In our ordinary transaction with things, we use them and use them up. We use bricks to make a house, leather to make shoes . We live in a world of useful things. However in the creation of a work of art, the material does not disappear in usefulness, but rather becomes more noticeable. When we see a stone sculpture, the stone suddenly becomes remarkable and beautiful, unlike the brick of the house. In a poem words are not simply useful for getting something done; we dwell on them and enjoy them for their sound and new meaning. After reading "Les Phares" a beacon is something new for us. While Schiller claims that "the real artistic secret of the master consists in his annihilating the material by means of the form, 1152 Heidegger insists that in the work of art the material first ceases to be an object to be worked on and becomes something which acts on its own. I think Heidegger is quite right about this; in the tubes, Monet ' s paints are merely red and green; once they are brought into conflict with one another in the painting, they come into their own and come alive. We of ten speak of a lyric melody, as if the very tones could sing, and we a·r e first conscious of the beauty of wood or metal when they have become part of an icon or statue rather than of a table or car. 53 A good artist does not impose anything upon the material but rather works with the material to find the form within it:" As Aristotle or Michelangelo would agree, the sculptor finds the statue in the stone. Art does not allow us to take its subject matter or material for granted. The stone is no longer mere stone, and the form of the man is not simply "some man." Things which seem familiar and ordinary are revealed by art to be extra- ordinary. Heidegger describes our sense that when we look at a work of art we are seeing what it depicts for the very first time. Rodin ' s sculpture of "La Belle Heaulmiere" (p. 146 , The Visual Arts as Human Ex pe r ience) makes us see the degradation and despair of an old woman as if we had never seen it before. Joself Albers' "Study for an Early Diary" (plate 52) gives us the sense that that particular blue is for the first time remarkable and lovely. Things in the world are no longer mere things, but entities with a bein~ that has nothing to do with their usefulness or purpose for us. This sense that the work of art gives us that things have an integrity and being of their own Heidegger calls "selfsubsistence." The unity we find in a work of art arises from the conflict of world Thus our sense and earth enacted in it. 18 of the thing as an entity in itself arises from the conflict of world and earth . In the wo r k of art "that which is as a whole --world and earth in their coun54 terplay-- attains to unconcealedness . " The interplay which for Kant resided in the play of the faculties, fo r Heidegger arise s in our consciousness of the primal conflict of world and earth. When Heidegger speaks of "unconcealedness , " he is thinking of the Gr eek word for truth, aletheia . The etymology of the word (a- lanthano) hints that truth is the un- hidden and un - forgotten . However , just as for Heraclitus Nature likes to hide , so for Heidegger the unhidden truth about things is that they protect their being by hiding it : Trut h is un- truth , insofar as there belong s to it the reservo ir of the not - yet- uncovered ... In unconcealedness, as truth , the r e occur s also the othe r "un- " of a double restraint or r efusal . Truth occurs as such in the oppositio n of clearing and double concealing . 55 We see this opposition of clearing and concealing in the conflict of world and earth, so that Truth happens in the conflict between the r eticent natu r e of things and thei r manner o f appearing in t he world . The hidden character of things in part arises from our habit of imposing use and intellectual constructs upon them; it is not as though we could impose our will and thought on things forever without caus i ng them i n some way to turn their backs on us. The unconcealed characte r of things is the being they have in spite of or because of our approach to them . These two aspects, earth and world, are differ ent, but are never separated and cannot be resolved . Heidegger's account of art and our wo r ld may s ound e soteric, but I think he is describing something common to our experience . I will offer several simple examples of what he means . In the picture of David Smith's three abstract sculptures (p. 697, Janson, History of Art), the conflict of world and earth appe~rs in the stark contrast between the bold, worldly forms in steel, and the secretive , ancient and earthly forms of the branching tree and the mountains in the distance . A sculpture is always influenced by its setting, which is why a traveling exhibition of sculpture is a contradiction in terms : the same sculpture becomes a new sculpture i n every new setting . The setting is par t of the sculpture . In the same way a piece of architecture is altered by the city- scape which grows up around it. When Santa Fe was no more than a settlement , the Sanctuario stood out for miles as a work looming towards heaven . Now it huddles privately amid the buildings towering above it. In some way it is a different building now, for while it once proclaimed man's desire to pray to God, it now re proaches us for our pride and forgetful ness. These examples show how the con flict Heidegger describes can arise in the world into which the work of art enters . However this tension arises within the w·o rk itself as well. Smith's sculptures deny gravity and our expectations . They are nothing like natural forms, or the forms we are used to seeing in useful steel structures . They seem top - heavy and unlikely; they do not look like they should balance . The world the sculpture sets up counters the earthly setting i n which we find it . Smith plays with our expectations of heavy metal and gravity and thus sets ou r world on edge . Buckminster Fuller often plays with th i s tension between the "stuff" he works wi t h and the natural laws to which it must adhere. The metal of his architecture pulls and pushes into a particular conf iguration. The result is a structure which bears itself up because of the conflict. Fuller calls this conflict "tensegri ty , " for the tension brings about the integrity or unity of the form (see p . 486, History of Modern Art) . If we return to Monet's "Raue n Cathedral" we find this tension in the difference between the atmosphere Monet creates with his play on light and color, and what we know to be the solid, touchable "stuff" of the cathedral and paints. In the Rodin the conflict arises between the openly sagging dejection of 19 �By showing a particular thing from any given angle, he, Durer the painter, brings to the fore not only one single isolated view which offers itself to the eye ... Heidegger then elaborates on this thought: By showing any given individual thing as this particular thing, in its singularity, he makes Being itself visible: in a particular hare, the Being of the hare; in a particular animal, the animality. 59 Heidegger quite literally thinks of art as a "drawing" out from nature of the truth of objects . The act of drawing creates exactly the sort of conflict he has in mind between world and earth. The outline of the form along with the shadings which give it depth, fight with the negative space, the blankness of the paper which conceals the being of the thing the artist draws out. The artist captures the essential conflict between the form of a thing in the world and the earth from which it takes its context . The form is defined by everything which it is not (see, for example, Durer's self-portrait, p. 7 4 7, Key Monuments of the History of Art) . T~ drawing-out which the artist performs "does not let the opponents break apart; it brings the opposition of measure and boundary into their common outline ."6 0 Heidegger gives form as much or more emphasis than Kant does, for the look of the thing, its figure, shape, or Gestalt is the manifestation of the strife between world and earth. Because the conflict of world and earth arises both in the work of art and in our perception of it, it is essential to the work of art that we, as viewers, be conscious of it as a work and not as a use - object. When we see the art as art, we are drawn into the world of the w~k. At the same time, our response to the work draws the world depicted into our own world . We no longer see an old woman as an old woman once we have been drawn into the world of "La Belle Heaulmiere." However we do not find the woman extraordinary until we have seen her as extraordinary in a work of art. Part of the woman's world and the smooth, sheltered beauty of the reserved bronze from which she emerges . Although we can sometimes point out the worldly and earthly aspects of the work, the two aspects are not like parts which can be separated and scrutinized one at a time. One arises out of or in the presence of the other . This interplay illuminates everything which the art work touches on : the material, the f orm , the subject of the work, and the things in the world which the work depicts. The work sheds light on the things of the world: "this shining, joined in the work, is the beautiful. 11 56 Like Plato, Heidegger thinks of beauty as a brief illumination of truth. For Plato, beauty is like the sun and the Good except that we receive only brilliant flashes of it in a kind of flashback or insight. Heidegger also thinks of our experience of beauty as a kind of insight except that, f or him, the true is not simply reflected in the beautiful; it actually comes into being and manifests itself in the beautiful. Thus the making of art is "determined and pervaded by the nature of creation." 5 7 The poet's action is called "creative" not by analogy with God's act, but as synonymous with it. Art does not imitate, o r invite free play; it evokes: "to create is to cause something to emerge as a thing that has been brought forth. 11 58 Truth does not exist somewhere removed f r om the conflict o f world and earth; it occurs in that conflict. The appearance of truth is for Heidegger, as for Hegel, histo rical. For Plato, it would make no sense to think of the artist as creative, fqr everything which "is" in the fullest sense has always been, beyond time and human life. Once truth is seen as historical and the being which is most fully being resides in the world of knowing men , human creativity makes sense . In his commentary on Plato's Republic, Heidegger points our that for Plato art stands far removed from truth. Art can only capture a single angle or "look" of a thing. In response Heidegger offers Erasmus' characterization of Albrecht Durer: 20 The viewer creates the work by responding the beauty o f an object of art lies in our appropriately to it so that the world awareness that it is meant to be opened up by the work becomes part of the artificial . Plastic flowers are meant to world of the viewer . The artwork works on deceive us; their purpose is a pleasant the viewer and his world, while the viewer atmosphere. When we discover that they sets the work at work in the world . are plastic, they become repulsive. The distinction between creator, art Japanese silk flowers, on the other hand , work and observer is lost in Heidegger , are even more remarkable and lovely once for all merge in the worlding of the world we discover that they are man-made, for which the art creates. When a work of art they are not meant to trick us but to .comes into the world, it offers the pos delight us with their delicate perfection . sibility of a new and different world. Art transports us from the realm of Because human being is historical, art the ordinary because "the work casts beacts as a sort of prophetic projection or fore itself the eventful fact that the announcement to man of his own possibilwork is as this work." 61 The work of art ities. Man's response to the work creates does not allow us to ignore its being, as a new world which itself draws man into a we usually do with the things in the new state of being, just as the statue world : " ... and what is more commonplace becomes a new work when placed in a new than this, that a being is? In a work, by setting. contrast, this fact, that it is as a work, Art is an arche; it is a source and . . h a t 15 unusua 1 . 1162 . 15 JUSt w beginning of worlds and ways of being in Our response to each work of art will the world. The source of the work of art be different, and the appropriate response is the art already at work in the world; to a work preserves it. For example, for seeing the David Smith statues set against a religious work of art to maintain its the New England hillside may set me to being as religious, I must let it enter work to recreate the world I see when into my devotional life . Heidegger claims David Smith's world conflicts with his that if I cannot pray in a temple, it is earth. Each work evokes a new world, no longer the work of art which it was for which in turn enters into the conflict of the Greeks. Once I impose some other reearth and world to produce a new work, sponse upon the work I am depriving it of from which another world emerges. Art its work-being, for it no longer works on throws man into a new state of being; me in its full integrity . The work transHeidegger sees in art the power to draw a ports us into a world newly opened up to thing forward into its full actuality, us; we are displaced, or transported out somewhat as Aristotle's final or formal of the realm of the ordinary: cause moves the things of the world. Yet To submit to this displacement Heidegger's history seems not to have a means : to transform our final end (as Hegel's does), for every accustomed ties to the world and world consists in a conflict which can earth and henceforth to never be resolved, and which causes a new restrain all usual doing and world. It will always produce new art prizing, knowing and looking, in works, new drawings. We will never be order to stay within the truth trapped, like Kant or Hegel, in a world of that is happening in the work ... our own making: This letting the work be a work Modern subjectivism ... immed ' ately we call the preserving of the interprets creation , taking it as work. 63 the self - sovereign subject's Thus the being of the work as work performance of genius. . . But depends as much upon my preserving it as (poetic projection] never comes it does on the original creation of the from Nothing in that what is work . A Michelangelo tomb is only a tomb projected by it is only the if it has bones in it; a Vermeer ought withheld vocation of the properly to adorn the wall o f a house. 21 �historical being of man itself.64 Although man is creative for Heidegger, it is equally true to say that art itself is creative. Heidegger, like Schiller, recognizes that man both creates and is created by his culture. An artist can only draw upon the world before him to create his art; history consists of his successive responses to the worlds created by art. For Kant, the power of genius is far more mysterious and subjective than Heidegger's creativity , for we do not know its source. The artist tries, by means of imagination, which emulates the play of reason in its quest after a maximum, to go beyond the limits of experience and to present [rational ideas] to sense with a completeness of which there is no example in nature.65 Whereas Kant's genius spontaneously attempts internally to go beyond what the world offers to him, Heidegger's poet man ifests externally, in his work and being, an attempt to join in with the being of what appears through the agency of art . Because Heidegger's poet has a source outside himself, one cannot escape the question: whence comes the eternally gen erative power of this source? Aristotle's answer to this question is " God," the prime mover and eternal nous . Heidegger evades the question by emphasizing the historical nature of the being of things and of art. There will always be things and art to elicit a response in the poet (much as there wil alway s be fathers to generate sons in Aristotle). Yet Heidegge r claims that "language speaks" and that somehow the poet listens to the silence of being. At the risk of sounding Socratic I must ask, if "language" always speaks to the poet throughout the change able ages, must it not be one thing? Heidegger must believe that there is a sense in which the fullest being of things rests in language. Heidegger's poet lis tens to this language in the same way that Plato's demiurge looks to the shining of the forms. Heidegger cannot escape the implication that there exists something divine which calls upon the poet as the prophet who can lead the world towards Being. This thing, Art itself perhaps, brings us full circle, for we are once again claiming with Plato that Being (or Beauty, Truth, Art) is not in the subject but in something towards which the poet looks. Heidegger must presuppose something of a religious inclination in his reader to be convincing. The religious tenor of his writing provokes an objection similar to the one I raised against Schiller. Heidegger has his own peculiar language and style, and the greatest difficulty in writing about him is avoiding falling into his own language . Heidegger wants to avoid using · ordinary speech, for ordinary speech cannot draw us out of the world of use - objects in which we are inunersed. His work cannot be convincing dialectically because to use logic and argumentation would be to rely upon the sort of conceptual framework Heidegger wants us to abandon. Heidegger must let the language he has created persuade us. However Heidegger's position is difficult, for he is not a poet himself, but the prophet pointing to the saving power of poetry . His writing is not poetry, and it cannot be philosophy in the sense of post-Kantian conceptualization. Heidegger's difficult style, which is so self-conscious as to become at times strained and artificial, results from his attempt to write in a language which cannot be treated as mere equipment . It must be reflected upon because it is extraordinary. Consequently Heidegger cannot prove to me that Truth is historical and that reality happens in the art work. He must rely on wordplay, etymologies and apt expressions. If I am convinced by the essay, it is because it "seems right to me" and describes well my sense that art draws me into a world, a notion which Kant neglects . I am not sure whether his claim that the only true mode of speech left to us is poetry is right, but I am sometimes inclined to think that the images in Plato and Aristotle will move me in the world long after I have forgotten the arguments. For me the greatest appeal in Heidegger lies not in a powerful argument but in the 22 finds its context . When I walk in Paris very honest complexity and con fusion in and s8e the towers of Notre Dame set his notion of Art. I imagine that he is against the straight bold lines of aware of the circularity of his argument . Montparnasse, a conflict comes alive for Beauty is not something which can be an me and I see each of the buildings anew . alyzed, conceptua li zed and packed away. The past world is the stuff out of which with beauty, as with life, the questioning modern man is formed. We are as much made is all . Art has some power over the viewof our heritage as we are of flesh and er and the creator which, by its very nabone, and in some ways that past is as ture, cannot be fully understood , but unr espons ive and unyielding as the hills which can create new worlds for us . of New England . Heidegger's thought seems essentially It seems to me that Heidegger does optimistic to me: the truth can be right not take our confrontation with works of before us if we only open ourselves to it. art which are not contemporary seriously It is in someways a return to the stance enough. A work may in fact come into full of pre - Cartesian thinkers, for whom play long after it was created, as with epistemology was not an issue because Bach, Baudelaire, and Heidegger's own fa there was no unbridgeable gap between us vorite poet, Holderlin. If anything is and the thing-in-itself. We can know as peculiarly true of us moderns, it is that much of the truth as we allow ourselves to we cannot appreciate the art of our own perceive . time. Heidegger is far more sensitive to Perhaps it is this observation which the power and mystery of beauty than Kant prompted Heidegger ~s uppose that works is . However, there is at least one of art can become mere art objects . Beglaring problem in Heidegger's account of ·cause the art work consists in conflict, the beauty in art . If we think of art perhaps conflict must enter into our preshistorically as contextual form ( such that ervation of it. To preserve a Vermeer as the being of things depends on their a Vermeer, the middle - class Dutchman lived surroundings) , we are forced to say that with the painting in his house. It was once the surroundings change the art work not a museum piece . Perhaps to preserve a is no longer at work as a piece of art . piece of modern art I must reject it . The Heidegger claims that once the world of a projective power of modern art may lie in work of art has passed we can no longer the sense that I have that it conflicts experience that work; it has become an art with my understanding of the world . Once object . the work of Schonberg or Pollock has beCertainly it is true that the world come merely palatable it is no longer proof the temple is gone. I cannot pray in jecting us beyond what we are. The modern it, I cannot see it as the appearance of aesthete ·who can complacently claim to the gods. Nonetheless I would claim that enjoy and understand the music of his time it is still at work in the world. It may in fact be simply enjoying his culstands against the new·world and works on tural achievement ("broadening one's me in a new way. When I look up at the mind") rather than being provoked by a vault of a cathedral, that experience con radical, extraordinary work which origiflicts with the experience I recall of how nates a new world . the world appears when I look up in the Certainly we o f ten call modern works streets of New York and see skyscrapers "ahead of thei r time," which suggests that re aching for the sky. My experience of we can only enjoy them later, orice they no the cathedral consists in a different conlonger conflict with the world in which we flict of world and earth than that which live. However, for Heidegger, the work medieval man experienced . For him the consists in that conflict, and only pre cathedral stood against the boundless hotentiousness leads us to claim that we rizon and the fields worked by the peasappreciate art which is dead, because the ants. For me it stands as the earth primal conflict in which it consists no against which the world of mode rn activity 23 �longer exists . Part of me agrees that Notre Dame may be lost to a bus load of camera- clicking tourists (me included) , but another part of me knows that the cathedral still shapes the world of Paris for those who live there . Heidegger's concern for conflict ex plains why we have so much difficulty experiencing the art of the recent past . It has been digested and accepted and has lost much of its original sheen. Once it is olde r we c an o nc e again face i t as something venerable and extraordinary . When it was first made, it was startling and remarkable . But ten or twenty years after it was made it stands little chance of exciting much interest . However, none of these observations are universal, for Shakespeare has always been appreciated while Bach was only tepidly received in his own time, and Andy Warhol, I suspect , will go down in art history as a mere nov elty . The question we are now left with is : in what sense was and is the art work "created" if it continues working even after the "original" conflict which the poet drew out has been left behind? The work has s ome powe r not invested in it by its creator. If the cathedral is as much the context for my experience of Paris as the hil ls a r e fo r my e xperience of Smith ' s sculptur es, what s o r t of thing is "earth"? It ha s both a created and an elemental being . Not only c a n we not dis t inguish b e tween the work , a r tist and viewe r , we cannot finally distinguish the c r eated from the natural. Wor l d and earth , al though they are wonderfully apt prelimi na r y distinctions, prove finally to blend somewhat . Art seems to be mo r e complex than even Heidegge r had imagined . fecundity , and an energy quite comparable to that which springs from love; unable , in this new object of his attention, to separate necessity from the arbitrary, contemplation from action, matter from mind-- the philosopher, I say, kept trying to apply his usual methods of reduction by exhaustion and progressive division to this monster of the Fable of Intellect, this sphinx or griffin, siren o r centaur , i n wh i ch s e n sati on, dream, instinct, reflecti0n, rhythm, and excess are as closely intermingled as chemical elements in living bodies; this strange thing which nature sometimes offers us, but as though by chance, and which at other times is formed , at the cost of immense effort s , by man, who puts into it every bit of his mind, time, determination, in short, his life . Paul Valery, "Aesthetics 11 6 6 It seems appropriate to end this paper with the words of the poet Valery re flec t ing on the whole aesthetic question . With bis precisely aimed barbs of humor and irony , be laughs at us for the absurd it y of our effor ts . Kan t, Schiller and Heidegger all a t temp t to describe beauty a s a mons t e r with a dual n at u r e , but Vale r y su gges ts t ha t art is t oo p r o te an and complex for ou r natur al process of int e lle ctual div ision t o conque r. The elemen t s ent e r ing into our experience of beau t y a r e many and are int angible: they j oin together int o compl ex c r ys t alline struc t ures which dissolve or recombine t he moment we scrutinize them . Although our whole inve stigation is somewhat ludicrous, neve r theless it did bear some fruit . Beauty seems to teach us something about ourselves as humans. No other animals indulge in free play, none discover t heir own f r eedom fr om necessit y o r the boundless character of their thought. None grope beyond t h ei r individuality to find a sense of themselves in the universal whole of things . Certainly none create a world for themselves. If some of the details of our studies have jangled, if some have conflicted and cancelled , we Conclusion Thus, in the presence of that mysterious pleasure of which I am speaking, the philosopher, justly concerned with giving it a categorical place, a universal meaning, and intelligible function; fascinated by, yet curious about the combination here of sensuality, 24 must not dismi ss our search as useless but acknowledge the complexity of ou r subject . For Valery sug gests , a r t is probably more or ganic than we would like to admit . We would like to pin ar t and beauty down , to me asu r e them and move on to other things, but like t he electron , ou r own words, and l i fe itself it eludes us . Valery claims that man puts every bit of himself into art; we might recall Schi ller's conviction that the greatest piece of art is the art of living. For Kant as well, beauty, as the symbol of morality, seems instrumental in the very living of life. Certainly, if art and our sense of life are intimately bound , man ought to take an interest in aesthe t ics. Why should the very seed of life elude us? Heidegger, Valery and Kant all suggest that art is essentially poetic , since t hey place poetry and language above t he other arts. Art seems in some way linked to language, or at least to our attempts t o symbolize , communicate and t ransform our internal p r ivate sense of being into something more external and public, so that we and our fellow men can examine and enjoy it more re a dily . Yet t he language we ordinarily use (the language of grammar and dialectic) proves ironically to be a clumsy instrument for describing what beauty is. Is it a noun , removed and far away from us , or is it a verb depic t ing our own subjective activity? Perhaps it is an adjective, but to what shall we attach it? To my faculties, or to some object outside of me , or to the relationship of subject to object? Or is it an adverb describing the nature of the motion of my faculties? Does the adverb perhaps describe the work of the object on me, or of me on the object? The answer to these questions is probably that all have some truth. Poetry does not demand logical exclusion, for as Valery points ·out, "when poets repair to the enchanted forest of Language it is with the express purpose of getting lost. 11 6 7 I am reminded of the Baudelaire poem "Correspondances:" La Nature est un temple ou de vivants piliers Laissent parf ois sortir de confuses paroles; L'homme y passee a travers des forets de symboles Qui l'observent avec des regards familiers. 68 The poetic is so difficult to analyse or describe precisely because what art itself attempts to capture is so complex: the very forest of life and nature it s elf. If we have had trouble defining artistic beauty, neither can we define life: " s ome men have tried to define life; their efforts have always been rather futile, but life is there just the same. 1169 Each artist attempts in his way to re-evoke the world as it seems to him; art does not talk about things, it presents them before us as experience . To talk about art is in some way beside the point. Art does not happen in analysis, but in experience, in feeling and sensation. Most artists would rather let their works speak for themselves, as if the works had a kind of vitality separate from that of their authors, and a language of their own . we humans live in a historical world that changes constantly; the artist finds new aspects of life to respond to, or he responds to those which have troubled or inspired man as a human for centuries. There will always be love poems, but only in our own century can an artist address the insanity of a rac e to selfannihilation. The word "life" takes on a new meaning at every moment, and yet the faculties with which we feel it we share with all humankind . In general , art seems to have the character that we as moderns can look back to appreciate and experience the art of our predecessors, but one cannot imagine Homer appreciating Camus ~· Art is as alive and changing as the human co nditio n. Being alive means feeling, and as Wallace Stevens comments, "it is quite possible to have a feeling about the world which creates a need that no thing satisfies except poetry. 117 0 Stevens is not alone in this sentiment; Valery too fe l t that some things we experience ask to be depicted in art. Art d o es n o t simply express, for ordinary wo rds can express things. It is a way o f making sense of 25 �living . The artist does not always begin a work with a clear end in view, a message to be expressed . Often the very making of the thing is a way of coming to an understanding of the world, or at least of sensing the world more fully. The poet's concern may be to communicate with himself. If it happens that we, his human audience , can experience in his art something of what he felt in making it, so much the better . Rilke advises the young poet to search within himself , with i n hi s own feelings, memories and desires. The test of the worth of a poet's verse must be his own experience of life, not the opinion of others. In the Republic, Plato says that the Good is the source of all things right and beautiful, universally for all beings . 71 Many things can be measured, analyzed and discussed , but at least part of the Good in the life of all beings is not simply orthos . This other part may not always be perfect, correct or right, but it is beautiful . Ordinary speech cannot describe this aspect of life , for it does not belong to the realm of the philosopher, but to that of the poet . To ignore the kalon would be to be only half alive. To claim that what the poet depicts in his beautiful art has its source in the good may s eem perverse . Baudelaire's poems are flowers arising from evil . Munch 's "The Cry" wr enches us with the agony of isolation. How can these beauti f ul depictions be children of the Good? Perhaps what art depicts is not the Good it self , but t h e route to the Good. The wo r ld Munch depicts is not beautiful, but his art is; when we feel that ugly world vividly through the ?ainting, we pronounce the artwork to be beautiful. The beauty in the painting arises from its ability to make us feel . Baudelaire attempts to shock his audience out of the "ennui" which gnaws at life and dulls its b r illiance. Munch ' s painting prevents us from becoming numb to the world and from ceasing to live because we can no longer feel. The alienation we sense in "The Cry" seems an expression of the despair Munch feels in a world where humans turn their backs on one another's feeling . If we turn our backs on feeling , if we deny our sensual nature, we are not fully human. Sensuality may lead to ex cess, ugliness and pain, but it also brings with it wonder, delight and pleasure . The good beauty can lead us to seems to be an enlivened sense of being, a more alert perception of the world and a greater sensitivity to the feeling of those who surround us . The heavens pro claim the glory of God; each moment of e xis t e nc e must b e savor ed even in its ug liness, for unless we feel this world we are not fully alive . The poet might re spond to Socrates, you are blasphemous, for you belittle the grace that God gave you in simply letting you live in this world in this form, whatever its limi tations . It seems to me that the task of the modern artist is enormous. We have so alienated ourselves from our world that we doubt our very kinship with it . The knower (with whom we most identify ourselves) can no longer reach the sensual wor ld ; our souls are not made of the same stuff as the cosmos . How can we feel at home? Where is our place? Is my soul , like Baudelair e ' s, a tomb? : --Mon ame est un tombeau que, mauvais cenobite ; Depuis l ' eternite je parcours et j 'habite ; Rien n' embellit les murs de ce clo itre odieux. 72 Are we trapped in a mausoleum of life , no longer able t o live and feel? I f feeling me ans f eeli ng t he agony of Cezanne , Van Gogh , Munch , do we want this feeling? They were more vulnerable to life than most of us ; i t is the burden of the genius to have his senses heightened at the expense of his protective skin. I often think that in this , at least, Heidegger was right: without conflict, s t ruggle , and pr ob ably pain, t h e r e wou ld be no ar t , no beauty, and no truth about life in this wo r ld . Row can we b e ar t o be in such a world? But how can we dare t o claim that it should be otherwise? Life is what we are given. We may choose to try to change its quality, to annihilate what is ugly or evil in it, or simply to 26 come to terms with it, but there will always remain the astounding fact that it is ours for no other reason than that we should live. It seems to me that beautiful art moves us because it struggles with the irrational fact that we exist, which fact is not a mere object of knowledge but life itself. We do not know life, we live it; art helps us work through this mystery, play with it, delight, despair and puzzle over it. Art is above all else an invitation to live and make an art of living. Although beauty may overwhelm us, daze us with its genius or estrange us with its power, it will always awaken in us a sense that, at least for the moment we experienced it, we were facing life. Beautiful art enhances our sense of life. Life turns out not to be subjective or objective, rational or irrational, beautiful or ugly, but all of these things in a kaleidoscope of forms of which we are only a member. Seeing the beauty in life arise out of its contradictory and confusing nature is the end of art. .Auden's tribute to Yeats ends with a summons to the poet: Follow, poet, follow right To the bottom of the night, With your unconstraining voice Still persuade us to rejoice; With Make Sing In a Stop this You shall You shall eyes You shall You shall the farming of a verse a vineyard of a curse, of human unsu ccess rapture of distress; In the deserts o f the heart Let the hea l ing fountain start, In the prison o f his days . 73 Teach the free man how to praise. Each poet inhabits a different world, yet we all share the world in common. The poet must teach us how to praise life, and the source of life, even in the face of its incomprehensibility. Like Adam and Eve exiled from the Garden we must sweat over the soil of evil to reap the fruit of suffering. Only the free man can praise, the man who has risen above the inclination to numb his pain, who rather works upon it so that, by freely embracing and cultivating it, he is no longer imprisoned in life, but living. No animal other than man can remark upon his being in the world and rej o ice in it. Art, like man's very being in the world, is extraordinary. It is essential to art that we know it to be gratuitous, because life itself is a gift o f grace. Art jolts us from our complacency and ennui and gives us a sense that if art can be a conscious blending of chance and necessity, whim and choice, so also can life be. The po et invite s us to make our lives into a poem, or at least t o j oin into life, like a Greek cho rus which is conscious of the play as -a play, yet which jo ins in and reflects on its action. However, I may be drawing upon myself my own criticism of Schiller and Heidegger. Allow me t o let a poet speak as a poet: day and night with me and you shall po ssess the o rigin o f all po ems, there are mil l ions o f s u ns left, possess the good of the earth an d sun • . . no longer take things at second or third hand . . . no r l ook through the o f the dead . . . nor feed o n the spectre s i n b ooks, no t look through my eyes either, nor take thing s from me, 74 listen to all sides and filter them fr om you rself. 27 �Footnotes 1. Bloom 360e . Plato, Republic , (New York: Basic trans . Books, by A. 1968), 2. This and all quotations from the Symposium and Phaedrus are taken from Plato: The Collected Dialogues, ed. by E. Hamilton (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1973). The passage cited is 202e. See also 205c. 3. Symposium, 203d. 4. Phaedrus, 250d. 5. See Phaedrus, 264c and 271b. 6. Ibid., 254b. 7.Kant, Immanuel, Critique of Judgment, trans. by J . H. Bernard (New York: Macmillan, 1951), p.158. 8 . Ibid . , p . 66 . 9 . Valery, Paul, "Aesthetics," trans. by R.Manheim in Aesthetics, ed. by R. Manheim (New York: Random House, 1956), p.58 . 10. Weismann, Donald, The Visual Arts as Human Experience, (Englewood Cliffs, Prentice- Hall, 1975). 11. Judgment, p . 56. 12. Ibid. , p. 51 13 . Ibid., p.138. 14. Ibid., p.137. 15. Hume, David, " Of the Standard of Taste," in Of the Standard ~Taste, ed. by J . Lenz, (Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill, 1980), p.17. 16. Ibid., p.20. 17. Judgment. p.39. 18. Ibid., p.1 29 . 19 . Kant, Immanuel, Groundwork of the --Metaphysics of Morals, trans. by H.J . Paton (New York: Harper and Row, 1964) , p. 70. 20. Judgment, p.83. 21. Ibid., p.85. 22. Ibid., p.95. 23. Ibid. , p.88. 24. Ib1d., p.105. 25. Ibid. , p.141 . 26. Ibid., p.202. 27. Schiller, Friedrich, On the Aestetic Education of Man, trans. by R. Snell (New York: Frederick Ungar, 1980), p.27. 28. Ibid., p.40 . 29 . I learned this from Gisela Bern's essay "Schiller's Drama--Fulfillment of History and Philosophy in Poetry," in The St. John's Review, Summer 1982. See p.23. 30. Aesthetic Education, p.52. I have altered Snell's translation to read "in illusion" since Schiller uses " Tauschung" consistently to mean "illusion or appearance." 31. Ibid., pp.51-52. 32. Ibid., p.55. 33. Ibid ., p.71 . 34. Ibid., p.74. 35. Ibid., p.80 . 36 . Ibid., p . 122 . 37. Ibid. 38. Baudelaire, Charles, Les Fleurs du Mal et Autres Poems (Paris: Garnier - Fl~mmarion, 1964), p.42. 39. Aesthetic Education, p.57. 40. Ibid., p.59. 41. Ibid., p . 60. 42. Ibid. 43. Ibid., pp.106- 107 . 44. Burgess, Anthony, A Clockwork Orange (New York: Random House, 1981), p . 45 . 45. Aesthetic Education, p.25. 46. Heidegge r, Martin, "The Or gin of the Work of Art," in Poetry, · Language, Thought, trans. by A. Hofstadter (New York : Harper and Row, 1971), p.35 . 47 . Heidegger , Martin, Nietzsche (Volume I: The Will to Power as Art), trans. D. F . Krell (San Francisco:- Harper and Row, 1979), p.110. 48. " Origin ," p . 56. 49 . Ibid., p.25. 50. Ibid., pp.33-34. 51. Ibid., p.36. 52. °AeSthetic Education, p.106. 53. I would, howeve r , claim t hat the wood can come to life in a lovingly crafted table which is so well made that it not only functions, but draws attention to its being a table because it so perfectly performs as a table. 54. "Origin," p.56. SS. Ibid., p.60. 28 56. 57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63. 65 . 66. 67 . 68. 69. 70 . Stevens, Wallace, Poems E.Y_ Wallace Stevens, sele cted by S.F. Morse, (New York: Rand om House, 1959), pp.v-vi. 71. Republic, 517c. 72. Les Fleurs du Mal, p. 44. 73. Auden, W.H.-,-Selected Poetry of W .R. Auden (New York: Random House, 1971) , p.54. 74. Whitman, Walt, Leaves E_f Grass, ed . by M. Cowley (New York: Viking Press, 1969), p .26 . Ibid., p.56. Ibid., p.60. Ibid. Nietzsche, pp.186-187 "Origin," p. 63 . Ibid., p.65. Ibid. Ibid., p.76. Ibid., p.158. "Aesthetics," p.48. Ibid . Les Fleurs du Mal, p.39. "Aesthetics," p.6 0 . Bibliography Auden, W.R. Selected Poetry .£.!.. }i_.!!_. Auden New York: Random House, 1971. Baudelaire, Charles. Les Fleurs du Mal~ Autre Poems. Paris: Garnier-Flammarion, 1964. Berns, Gisela. "Schiller's Drama--Fulf illment of History and Philosophy in Poetry." The St. John's Review, Summer 1982. Heidegger, Martin. Nietzsche. Volume I: The Will to Power As Art . Translated by D~Krell. San Francisco: Harper and Row, 1979 . -----Poetry, Language, Thought. Translated by A. Hofstadter. New York: Harper and Row,· 1971. Hume David. Of the Standard .£.!..Taste. 'Edited by--:f. Lenz. Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill, 1980. Ka~t, Immanuel . Critique .£.!..Judgment. Translated by J.H. Bernard. New York: Macmillan, 1951. -----Groundwork of the Metaphysics .£.!.. Morals. Translated by H.J. Paton. New York: Harper and Row, 1964. Plato. Phaedrus . Translated by R. Hackforth in The Collected Dialogues of Plato. Edited by E. Hamilton and - Cairns. p rinc eton·· Princeton · · H. University Press, 1973. -----Republic. Translated by A. Bloom. New York: Basic Books, 1968. -----Symposium. Translated by M. Joyce in The Collected Dialogues ~Plato. Edited by E. Hamilton and H. Cairns. Princeton : Princeton University Press, 1973. . Schiller, Friedrich . On the Aesthetic Education of Man. Translated by R. Snell. NeW-York: Frederich Ungar Publishing Co ., 1980. Stevens, Wallace. Poems E_y Wallace Stevens. Selected by S.F. Morse . New York: Random House, 1959. Va 1 ery, p au 1 · "Aesthetics." Translated d . by R. Manheim in Aesthetics. Edite by R. Manheim. New York: Random House, Inc., 1964. Whitman, Walt. Leaves ~Grass .. ~dit ed by M. Cowley. New York: Viking Press , 1969. Art Publications Englewood Cliffs : Prentice-Hall Arnason, R.H. History .£.!..Modern Art. New Inc., an d Harry N. Abrams, Inc., York: Harry N. Abrams, Inc-.-,-1974. 1962. Janson, H.W. History .£.!..Art. Englewo od . DL The Visual Arts as Human We1smann, · · -- Cliffs: Prentice-Hall Inc. and Harry Experience.--"E°nglewood Cliffs: N. Abrams, Inc., 1977. Prentice-Hall Inc., 1979 . -----Key Monuments .£.!.. the History ~Art. Many thanks to Miss Brann, Mr. Mr. Zeiderman and Richard. 29 0 ' Grady, �-------------- From Plato's Phaedrus Translation George McDowell In our present state there is no splendor in the likenesses of justice and moderation and whatever else to souls is precious, although by means of imperfect organs and with difficulty, a few are able to discern in these likenesses some semblance of the originals. Beauty however, was radiant to behold when, in company· with that fortunate choir, we followed Zeus and others followed other gods, and looked on a blessed sight and spectacle, and were initiated into that which is properly called the most divine of the mysteries. Fulfilled, we celebrated unaffected by the evils that awaited us in later days, and witnessed in brilliant light perfect, innocent, peaceful and sacred visions. We were as yet undefiled: free of the bodies in which we are now confined as are oysters in their shells. Let these things then serve as a tribute to memory, on account of which I have spoken overlong in yearning for a distant past. Beauty, as we observed, did indeed shine brightly amidst those visions, and coming hither, we were again able to perceive her glistening splendor through the most distinct of our senses. But even though sight is the keenest of the body's senses, from it wisdom remains hidden; for how powerful would be the love inspired in us for wisdom, as well as for those other equally lovely ideas, if we but had clear images of them within our view. As it is, however, to beauty alone falls the ordination to be both the most v isible and the most beloved . George McDowell attended St. John's in Annapolis for three years. He is now a first year law student at The University of Maryland in Baltimore. 30 31 �Racine's Phaedra: Remembering Who We Are Lisa Eckstrom 109 2 Examinez ma vie, et s ongez qui je suis. le sang fa tale and ignore the story of Helios our grandsire; we refuse to admit both as co-existent. We must not forget Misfortune in Racine's Phaedra that there are true stories as well as comes not from inability to know who we false even though the true stories may are, but from inability to be who we are. tell us conflicting things. The stories Phaedra is a play full of myths and may be of things within us, true things genealogies. We are told the stories of which are in conf lie t. Phaedra remind~ our fore~athers, and apprehend our coming Hippolytus: de~truction, all the while clinging to the 598 Dans le fond de mon coeur vous ne maJesty of our history, for we are pouviez pas lire. descended from the Gods. we are the Hipp~l~tus, the lover of Purity, does not Children of the Earth, and we are the recognize Phaedra as a daughter of Purity. Children of the Sun, the Children of Light It is the other story that he remembers and Purity. 1151 Phedre est d'un sang, Seigneur,' We depend on our stories to know vous le savez trap bien, who we are, and to know what it is to be a De toutes ces horreurs plus rempli If we are told false man .or a woman. que le mien. stories, we will see the world as it is The story of Phaedra is not complete not, .and we may become lost. The glorious unless the story of ~ sang fatale is told stories of the exploits of his father as.a part of her lineage from the Sun. convince Hippolytus that he lives in a This paper will trace the stories of the world in which men ki'll monsters· tw~ major families in the play, the Hippoly~us is destroyed. Oenone, the Children of the Sun, and the Children of woma~ who has raised Phaedra, offers her the Earth. Since a Honste is portrayed stories of the gods: as a member of one of these families, and 1304 Les Dieux meme, les Dieux de ' since Monsters play significant roles in 1 , Olympe habitants, t~eit histories, Monsters will be Qui d'un bruit si terrible discussed as well · It will be necessary epouvantent les crimes J ~ to ex~lor: the relationship of Oenone (and Ont brule quelquefois de feux of Theramene briefly) to those whom they illegitimes. serve as false interpreters · Rac1ne ' s · Oenone's interpretation is clear: Mortal, account of who men and women a re will be submit to a mortal fate. Oenone's role as found not only in the stories he has the story-teller will not end here: she will characters tell, but in their tell Theseus the deceptive stories that interpretations as well. lead to Hippolytus' death. All stories need not be deceptive, though stories that come from within are ****** CHILDREN OF THE SUN complex. In order to achieve a n on-c on tr adict ory account of who we are, We first view Phaedra when she has we of ten te ll one sto ry and ignore rallied her strength in order to see and another. We c oncen trate on the story o f show herself before t he Sun her A 32 grandfather for the last time. The unrelenting brightness of the Sun, a symbol of life and purity, is exceedingly difficult to bear. As a child of the light, she has been instilled with a remarkable sense of innocence and guilt. She sees unhesitatingly: There is only black and white. Crime is crime; innocence is innocence. There are no ambiguities in her distinctions. Just as the light of the day allows nothing within i ts reach to remain hidden, so too the inherited light within Phaedra exposes the darkness of her incestuous love. She may have fallen; there may be no turning back; but she remembers the difference between innocence and sin. She sees no consolation in the fact that she. has sinned in her heart only, and not in deed. She has. sinned. She has blackened what once was all of light. She must exercise the only control she has: she must die. Her first words 153 N'allons point plus avant . Demeurons, chere Oenone: Je ne me soutiens plus, ma force m'abandonne. Mes yeux sont eblouis du jour que je revoi, Et mes genoux tremblant s se derobent sous moi . Helas ! re- echo Theramene's desc r iption of Phaedra as a woman searching fo r dea t h. Phaedra seeks r est . She seeks to be r eleased from her torment, yet she places herself before the Sun . Why would Racine choose to introduce Phaedr a imp l or i ng He l i os r a t he r than Death? The precedent of addressing Helios is set neither by Euripides, nor by Seneca . Placing herself before the Sun is the final act of exposure for Phaedra. By d.o ing so, she acknowledges all that was once pure and majestic within he r . She does sC> for the last time. She can no longe r cla im pur i t y a nd majes t y . The journey is difficult, for Phaedra will not be able to rest under the Sun's gaze as she would be able to rest in the oblivion of death. The Sun's rays compel her to acknowledge that she has betrayed the nobility that she claimed as a descendant of the Sun. Hence, before the Sun, the trappings of earthly nobility seem especially ludicrous: . Que ces vains o r nements, que ces voiles me pesent! Quelle importune main, en formant tous ces noeuds, 160 A pris soir sur mon f r ont d'assembler mes cheveux? Tout m'afflige et me nuit , et conspire a me nuire . The cares taken for her app e a rance are meager provisions against the horror t ha t t he Sun exposes. Oenone mistakes her reaction : 165 Vous- meme, rappelant votre force premiere; Vous vouli~z vous montrer et revoir la lumiere; Vous la voyez , Madame; et prete a vous cacher , Vous haissez le jour que vous veniez chercher? Phaedra does not hate t he day; she hates the blackness which the light of the Sun exposes. The horror of constant l y haying to confront herself as s.inner, o f 1'.ever having some small clause or condition with which to excuse and hide herself , ravages and tortures a soul whose ances.try has imbued it with a signal sense of purity . She calls out: Noble et brillant auteur d'une triste famille , 170 Toi, dont ma me r e osait se ~an ter d'et r e fille ; Qui peut- etre r ougis du t r ouble ou t u me v o is , Soleil , je te viens voir pour la derniere fois. Racine thus reminds us of Phaedr a's glorious ancestry. He int r oduces us to Phaedra, not as the child of Pasiphae , the woman who lusted after the bull, but as the child of Helios. As the Child of Helios , Pha edr a i s noble and b rilliant , · possessing dignity and purity . The stress is Racine's: Euripides does not mention Helios in this context, and Seneca does so only briefly. In Seneca's Hippolytus, Oenone mentions Helios as Phaedra's grandfather while trying to dissuade Phaedra from her love for Hippolytus.l 33 �From Phaedra's first words, Racine reminds us that we are descendend from purity and that we have it within us. "Soleil, je te viens voir pour la derniere fois" is taken from a line in Euripides' Hippolytus. Aphrodite reveals that today is the last day that Hippolytus will see the Sun. By attributing the line to Phaedra, Racine shifts the focus from Hippolytus to Phaedra. There is something eerie in a mortal's knowing it is her last day. It is as if all that Aphrodite knew in the ancient play is now contained within the characters. Though Phaedra gathered her strength to show herself before the Sun, the humiliation is too great. She needs to hide, and cannot hide behind any outward trappings. It is her own imagination that provides the release; escape comes from within. 176 Dieux! Que ne suis-je assise a l'ombre des forets! Quand pourrai-je au travers d'une noble poussiere Suivre de l'oeil un char fuyant dans la carriere? From despair her imagination has taken her to a place beyond the Sun's reach, where the distinctions she cannot avoid would disappear. She cannot see clearly; the image is only murky; fine details are obscured by the dust and shade. The power of Phaedra's imagination is that it can carry her beyond the desire to be out of the Sun's glare and in the comforting shade of the forest associated with Hippolytus, to a definite, though conjured, time. "Quand pourrai-je .•. " places Phaedra in a future world where she will be able to gaze at Hippolytus unashamed. The reality of such a world may now compete with the demands of the real world (of the Sun's gaze) placed on her. There can be no such world: Light, when it enters darkness, does not lose itself in the darkness, but illumines the darkness. Though Phaedra may at times free herself from the strictness with which she judges herself, she will always return to it; she carries it within her and cannot ignore it. Phaedra's imagination implants the seed of a false and therefore cruel hope that there may be such a time of oblivion , a time in which she need not regard her incestuous and adulterous love with horror. She catches hold of herself almost immediately; but it is already too late: Insensee au suis -je ? et qu'ai 180 ]e dit? Ou laisse-je egarer mes voeux, et mon esprit? She struggles to place herself before the sun again , to leave the realm of the imaginary shade. Esprit, properly functioning, must be a quality of the day, of clarity and distinctions. Once she places herself in the world of the. imagination, it can no longer be relied on; its power is cut short: 181 Je l'ai perdu: Les Dieux m'en ont ravi l'usage . The boundaries of Phaedra's shame are expanding. Even earthly dignity is becoming impossible. Oenone, la rougeur me couvre le visage, Je te laispe trop vois mes honteuses douleurs, 185 Et mes yeux, malgre moi, se remplissent de pleurs. Though Oenone urges her to cling to life, Reparez promptement votre force abattue, 215 Tandis que de VOS jours prets a se consumer La flambeau dure encore, et peut se rallumer. Phaedra's path must be to death. When she sees clearly, she knows that there can be no repair. She has made a journey to say goodbye to the Sun, to acknowledge the purity she could once claim as her own, and she realizes that if she were to continue to live, she would have to compromise her sense of purity and impurity: 217 J'en ai trap prolonge la coupable duree Oenone does break Phaedra's silence; she will not spare her. When Oenone assumed the position of the suppliant, Phaedra had to choose between two forms of piety. It would be impious for Phaedra to turn away Oenone, and it would be impious for Phaedra to break her silence. Phaedra has been presented with an escape: she has been presented with a pious means of telling her secret . She takes it. As Phaedra considers where to begin the story she must tell Oenone, her other history comes to mind. She reminds Oenone of her other ancestors, her mother Pasiphae (and thus indirectly her halfbrother the Minotaur) and her sister Ariadne. As a member of such a family, Phaedra knows the horror of the impending disaster, not from prior experience, but from her genealogical history . Racine reminds us in this recitation of ancestors that Phaedra has a unique viewpoint. Not only has she inherited a sense of purity from Helios , but she has inhereited something else which is just as essential, le sang fatale. As her resolve (to keep her shame concealed) cn1mbles, she recalls this other knowledge that her bizarre genealogy gives her. She recalls the mother and sister who were destroyed. She knows passion, though she was never before its prey. She knows the disaster of its false oblivion: O haine de Venus! 0 fatale colere! 250 Dans quels egarements l'amour j eta ma mere! 253 Ariane, ma soeur! De quel amour blessee, Vous mourutes aux bards OU vous f\ites laissee ! 257 Puisque Venus le veut, de ce sang deplorable Je peris la derniere, et la plus miserable. ........... Graces au Ciel, mes mains ne sont point criminelles: Plut aux Dieux que mon coeur fut innocent comme elles! Phaedra's attention has turned from the Sun to the blood she shares with her mother and sister. They too became lost. It must be remembered that they shared Phaedra's royal descent from the sun, that they too were once of purity and light. Phaedra has no illusions that the grasp of eras on her is anything other than fatale . She knows that if she lives, she is lost . She does not have the strength to turn back. She has tried. She has banished Hippolytus; she has offered sacrifices to Venus. She knows that she has lost her ability to see her world clearly, unobscured by imagination, and thus knows that she has lost mastery of herself. Phaedra then begins her story for Oenone. She no longer lists her ancestors, but tells her own history . Having remembered Helios' purity and ability to expose impurity, and having remembered the sufferings of her mother and sister, Phaedra recognizes her condition and the horror of it: 305 Ce n'est plus une ardeur dans mes veines cachee; C'est Venus toute entiere a sa proie attachee: J'ai concu pour mon crime une juste terreur. J'ai pris la vie en haine, et ma flamme en horreur. Je voulais en mourant prendre soin de ma gloire, Et derober au jour une flamme ~ si noire. She resolves to die, She understands her helplessness. "C' est Venus toute e t. e r e a sa proie attachee." Phaedra sees: she is small and she will never overcome her predato.r. Every moment she lives is only a brief postponement of her inevitable destruction and a prolongation of her torture and terror. She has been caught. Venus has her within her grasp. Phaedra will be destroyed . Under such conditions, one desires that the destruction be swift and therefore merciful. As before, however, her resolve to die cannot be sustained. A messenger interrupts her thoughts and brings news of Theseus' death. Phaedra says nothing. It is Oenone who paints a picture as deadly Je t'en ai dit assez. Epargne-moi le reste. Je meurs, pour ne point faire un aveu si funeste . 34 35 �as that of any imagination: 350 Vivez, vous n'avez plus de reproche a vous faire. Votre f lamme devient une f lamme ordinaire. Thesee en expirant vient de rompre les noeuds, Qui f aisaient tout le crime et l'horreur de vos feux. Knowing her ancestry, how could love ever become ordinaire? Within her family love has never been ordinary. It has been monstrous and destructive. Moreover, Oenone's words are false legally and morally. 2 The world Oenone presents is a false world, but it is a world in which Venus' curse no longer exists, a world in which Phaedra could live. She releases herself into a false world which may only be imagined. With the stories told and the. ancestry delineated, Racine properly begins his play. We will learn more of Phaedra's ancestry as the play develops, but we may not begin until properly instructed in the myths that run concurrent throughout the play. At almost every turning point, there is a history that will guide Phaedra or will explain her behavior. Phaedra the grand-daughter of the Sun has postponed dying, though to live she must make moral ly compromising decisions. As the descen dant of Helios, such decisions will go against her nature. We are reminded of our Christian ancestry in Adam and Eve . Through Adam we are the fallen descendants of God. Remembering Phaedra's ancestry, we see ourselves as descended from purity (God) that has fallen (Adam) . We see ourselves as the unwilling and helpless prey of sin. We have moments of clarity, in which we see sin as sin and innocence as innocence; yet we constantly lose our way. We believe we may hide behind extenuating circumstances. But in reality we learn that nothing is hidden from the All-Seeing Sun, though we sometimes take flight in our imagination from the Sun within. This Christian perspective will be discussed further later, but sho~ld be noted here. Part of the power of the play is that it tells us . not only who we are as Christians, but where we are hiding as Christians as well, and exposes the lies that encourage us. Like the strong undertow that pulls Hippolytus further and further from himself, so Hippolytus' presence draws out all that Phaedra would wish hidden. She cannot restrain herself from seeing him. She reasons that she must plead for her child . She then loses her way in his presence. The conflict had become intolerable for Phaedra; her strength was not sufficient to keep her feelings hidden, though she demanded of herself that she do so. Caught between opposing desires, Phaedra's imagination gave release. In Act One, Phaedra's imagination created a future; in Act Two, it creates a past that never was. Phaedra struggles to retain clarity and is unable. A longing to disclose her love· finds its way into her speech: 598 Dans le fond de mon coeur vous ne pouviez pas lire. 615 Ah, Seigneur! que le Ciel, j'ose ici l'attester, De cette loi commune a voulu m'excepter! Qu'un soin bien different me trouble, et me devore! 629 •... Je m'egare, Seigneur, ma folle ardeur malgre moi se declare. In these lines, Phaedra catches herself before she discloses too much to be misunderstood. As Phaedra begins to paint the picture of Theseus, and to imagine his past exploits, she becomes hopelessly lost in an unreal world and thus becomes unaware of Hippolytus' presence before her, though indeed it is that which made this flight of the imagination necessary. The artist is free to change particulars, and in this flight she does so. Her imagination becomes overtly creative: 640 Tel qu'on depeint nos Dieux, ou tel que je vous voi. Her imagination then moves beyond the picture to a story, rearranging details in 36 such a way that Phaedra lives in a past where it is honorable and even virtuous to love Hippolytus. In this imaginary past, she is his rescuer, his heroine, and his lover . She begins: 645 Que faisiez - vous alors: Pourquoi sans Hippolyte Des heros de la Grece assembla-ti l l'elite? Pourquoi, trop jeune encore, ne putes-vous alors Entrer dans le vaisseau qui le mit sur nos bords? "If only things had been different" is Phaedra's tone in this quat rain. The tone then changes. Phaedra begins to alter the details of Theseus' famous descent into the labyrinthe. Her description is strikingly sexual. The descent into the labyrinth will be discussed in depth in the section of this essay on Monsters. It is significant here that it is Phaedra's imagination which betrays her, not Oenone and not Phaedra herself -- that is, not Phaedra as the descendant of Purity. Phaedra's imagination mediates between the desires inf lamed by the curse which Venus has put on her family, and the purity that Phaedra demands of herself as a Child of the Sun, and which, to the degree that she is a Child of the Sun, Phaedra possesses. The power of this imagination is such that when Phaedra discloses all, she is blind to the shocked Hippolytus before her. Her question : 665 Et sur quoi ju~ez-vous que j'en perds la memoire, Prince? Aurais-je perdu tout le soin de ma gloire? is genuine . It is only after a moment has elapsed in which she collects l).erself that Phaedra realizes what she has done. She knows that Hippolytus has understood her meaning, "Ah, cruel, tu m'as trop entendue." Her shame has greatly expanded; she must now prepare to die. Preparing for death, Phaedra again recalls her ancestors and the history of their destruction: 677 Objet infortune des vengeances· celestes, Je m'abhorre encor plus que tune me detestes. Les Dieux m'en sont temoins, ces Dieux qui dans mon f lanc Ont allume le f eu fatal a tout mon sang, Ces Dieux qui se sont f ait une gloire cruelle De seduire le coeur d'une faible mortelle. Remembering her ancestors, Phaedra is able to understand what has happened. She understands what she has done. She understaf1.ds the horror of it; and she knows herself as helpless and guilty at the same time. She begs Hippolytus to kill her, and when he hesitates, she grabs his sword to kill herself. It is then that Oenone takes the role of Phaedra's baser inclination to live at all cost. Human beings cling stubbornly to life; self-destruction eludes Phaedra again and again. "Faibles proj ets d' un coeur trop plein de ce qu'il aime!" Mortals cannot bear extended exposure of self-examination, which are kinds of deaths or humiliations. Phaedra could not have continued demeaning herself-674 J'aime . Ne pense pas qu'au moment que . j e t' aime , Innocente a mes yeux je m'approuve moi-meme, Ni que du fol amour qui trouble ma raison Ma lache complaisance ait nourri le poison. --without her imagination or Oenone has tening to offer some escape. Having exposed an unrequited and shameful love, Phaedra desires to be hidden as Act Three begins. 740 Cache moi bien plutot, je n'ai que trop parle Mes fureurs au dehors ont ose se repandre. J'ai dit ce que jamais on ne devait entendre. And Oenone does try to hide Phaedra from herself as well as others. Pascal's ideas of diversion immediately come to mind. Oenone acts as Phaedra's imagination, 37 �~roposing deliverance . Remembering the last line of the labyrinth speech, it is as if Phaedra now wishes that she and Hippolytus would be lost forever: 0 t oi . qui vois la honte ou je .' . suis descendue, Implacable Venus, suis-je assez conf ondue? Tu ne s~urais plus loin pousser ta cruaute. Ton :riomphe est parfait, taus tes traits ont porte. Cruelle, si tu veux une gloire nouvelle, Attaque un ennemi qui te soit plus rebelle. Hippolyte te fuit, et bravant ton courroux, Jamais a tes autels n'a flechi 820 les genoux. . ~haedra has begun a descent which is gaining speed; she has lost control. She has lost her ability to act as a Child of the Sun with the advent of all the worlds her imagination has imposed: she no ~onger sees clearly, knowing innocence as innocence and sin as sin. She has entered the murky worlds of her imagination in which s?e must depend on her . own blurred perceptions and the perceptions of her nurse to guide her . She has entered into the oblivion of eros. The restraints with which the play began can call to her only faintly. She has no rest · Her sin h as . grown. Oenone's advice under such conditions 11 faut d'un vain amour etouffer 825 la pensee, Madame. Rappelez votre vertu passee. seems wildly optimistic. It is as if Phaedra had abandoned herself to the tid that Hippolytus mentioned earlier. could no longer reach the shore, the undertow being too great' so she allowed herself to be swept out to sea • N~, f ~ f rom shore; Oenone does not understand that there is no returning to it. Phaedra hears that Theseus is al. Sh . 1 ive. e again rea izes that she must die. The story of the world in which Theseus was d~ad, and in which she and Hippolytus might have come to love each other has diversions to prevent Phaedra rom dwelling on the shame and horror of her condition. Oenone proposed that Phaedra involve herself in the govern i ng of Ath ens, since Phaedra is a descendant of Minos. Minos, however, does not play a determining role in what kind f h bei Ph d . o uman . ng ae ra is. We know Phaedra primarily as the daughter of Helios. The descendant of Helios cannot replace lost Virtue by embracing worldly Honor. She answers Oenone , no t as the daughter of a great King, but as the descendant of purity and clarity: 760 Moi, regner! Moi, ranger un Etat sous ma loi! Quand ma f aible raison ne regne plus sur moi, Lorsque j'ai de mes sens abandonne l'empire, Quand sous un joug honteux a peine j e respire, Quand je me meurs. Oenone cannot let Phaedra die. She easily discards one diversion for the next' and advises a more desparate action "F " Phaedra cannot. ' uyez. Phaedra has crossed a boundary, which, once crossed cannot be re-crossed. There is no turning back nor escaping. She can move only if she moves forward, into the madness: Enf in, tous tes conseils ne sont 791 plus de saison. Sers ma fureur, Oenone, et non point ma raison. Phaedra's character is such that it . does not admit of a middle course; her passion takes on the proportio~ of greatness that her purity possesses. Her command renders Phaedra as the grand-daughter of Helios passive. As she concluded the labyrinth speech, Phaedra imagined that she could find herself again in love. S a 1va t• th h ion roug love is no longer .bl possi e; Phaedra acquiesces in despair and then begins to imagine a different Hippolytus.(781) Three times Phaedra has prepared to die' and three times she has lost her resolve. Alone, without hope of delivering herself from Venus, she abandons herself to Venus, hoping for another kind of s~: Act Four begins after Oenone's been shown false. She sees clearly: lies to Theseus have been successful. 853 Je connais mes fureurs, je les Hippolytus has been banished. Yfuile begrappelle toutes. ging Theseus to spare his son, Phaedra 857 Mourons. Setant d'horreurs qu'un learns of Hippolytus' love for Aricie. trepas me delivre. Suddenly, a second story has proved false. Est-ce un malheur si grand que de Hippolytus is not unable to love. Perhaps cesser de vivre? he feels reserve for Phaedra alone of all Phaedra's only fear is for her children. women: As the daughter of an infamous mother, 1203 Hippolyte est sensible et ne sent Phaedra realizes the shame that they will rien pour moi! carry with them. Phaedra must acknowledge a real Oenone grows bold: Hippolytus. She can no longer freely 885 Pourquoi done lui ceder une imagine a time when she will be the woman victoire entiere? to break his cold reserve. Vous le craignez . Osez l'accuser Though her own imagination has la premiere deceived her, Phaedra attributes the deDu crime dont il peut vous charger ception first to Hipploytus and Aricie: aujourd'hui. 1231 Ils s'aiment! Par quel charme Qui vous dementira? Tout parle ont-ils trompe mes yeux contre lui. Comment se sont-ils vus? Depuis Yet Phaedra still clings to her respect quand? Dans quel lieux? for light and purity: She then ascribes the deception to Oenone: 893 Moi , que j'ose opprimer et noircir 1233 Tu le savais. Pourquoi me l'innocence! lassais-tu seduire? Oenone refuses to be dissuaded. The esDe leur furtive ardeur ne cape from death involves the substitution pouvais-tu m'instruire? of one world for another as before. The Les a-t-on vu souvent se parler, world of the Sun, where Virtue alone is se chercher? important, is replaced by the world of Dans le fond des f orets Earth, in which Honor is important. allaient'ils se cacher? Phaedra will neve r regain Virtue, but she Phaedra has known only what it is to may retain Honor, if she will only sacrilove guiltily; she tries to imagine what fice the standards with which Virtue has it is to love innocently: imbued her. Oneone assures her: 1237 Helas! Ils se voyaient avec pleine 907 ... pour sauver notre Honneur licence. combattu, Le ciel de leurs soupirs 11 faut immoler tout, et meme la approuvait l'innocence . Vertu. Ils suivaient sans remords leur Phaedra again relinquishes control, as she penchant amoureux. did before to Venus (815). She believes Though Hippolytus and Aricie have been she may release herself into another's together on stage only briefly, we realize hands, so that her own may no longer be that such is not their love. Phaedra has held accountable; it is a substitute for once again imagined falsely, She then the death for which she has been searchcompares her own plight in a world without ing, a relinquishment of self, to a woman illusions to the plight of the lovers in whose only desire is to keep her alive~ this false world of her own making: blindly disregarding all else: 1241 Et moi, trist rebut de la Nature 911 Fais ce que tu voudras, je entiere, m'abandonne a toi. Je me cachais au jour, je fuyais Dans le trouble ou je suis je ne la lumiere. puis rien pour moi. La Mort est le seul Dieu que Phaedra cannot escape so easily. Such a j'osais implorer. death is not a real one. 39 38 �J'attendais le moment ou j'allais expirer. Phaedra is filled with an enormous jealousy and hatred, the magnitude of which she is conscious of only later: 1271 Mes homicides mains promptes a me venger Dans le sang innocent brulent de se plonger. The false world angers her and she sees herself as victim only . At line 1264, Phaedra sees who she has become. It startles her: 1264 Que f ais-je? Ou ma raison se va-t-elle egarer? Moi jalouse! At one time, she relinquished herself to Oenone, but she realizes now that she can never escape herself. "Je respire a la fois l'inceste et l'imposture." (1270) She will meet herself everywhere in the of those who know her: eyes 1273 Miserable! Et je vis? Et je soutiens la vue . De ce sacre Soleil dont je suis descendue? J'ai pour aieul le Pere et le Maitre des Dieux: Le Ciel; tout l'U.nivers est plein de mes aieux. Ou me cacher? Fuyons dans la nuit infernale. Mais que dis-je? Mon pere y tient l'urne fatale. ........ Que diras-tu, mon pere , a ce spectacle horrible? Remembering the harshness of the sun's gaze, Phaedra longs again for darkn f " ess, or escape. Let us fly into the night of Hell." The lines express a 4esperation that is necessarily Phaedra's. There is no escape. In Hell she will be judged by her father, as the sun judges her on earth. There is no forgetfulness offered in death. What she had imagined before was false. There is no such escape for Racine's Phaedra, though there was for the Phaedra of Euripides. Oenone once again attempts to calm 40 her. Phaedra, however, strong with the remembrance of her ancestors, will not be calmed: 1310 Au jour que je fuyais c'est toi qui m'as rendue. Tes prieres m'ont fait oublier mon devoir. The day has come when Phaedra's hands can no longer be considered innocent: she has spo~en to Hippolytus who alone prevented their love from being consummated. Her hands long to become yet guiltier. She longs to plunge them into the innocent blood of Aricie. She knows that her lies are responsible for Hippolytus' departure . and will soon discover that she has caused his death. When Phaedra speaks in Act Five, she has already taken the poison that Medea, another grand-daughter of Helios brought to Athens. Phaedra no longer desires anything hidden: 1633 Le fer aurait deja tranche ma destinee Mais je laissais gemir la Vertu thought it advantageous tc have Aricie descended from the Earth, may be related to both these functions. As a love interest, the symmetrical contrast to Phaedra is perfect. Phaedr2 is the grand-daughter of the Sun, AriciE is the grand-daughter of the Earth . Phaedra is not a virgin, she is a mother ; Aricie is a virgin . Phaedra is in power! Aricie is not . Though Aricie is nowhen near as magnificent and developed a~ Phaedra, she does possess qualities whicl are easily contrasted with those of Phaedra. The political struggle seems contrived, perhaps because it is not stressec in Euripides' Hippolytus . One wonders wh; Racine developed it. This section wilJ offer no solution6, but can only point ir the general directions where the solution~ may lie. a THE Ch~LDREN OF THE EARTH I. 421 soup~onnee J'ai voulu, devant vous exposant mes remords, Par un chemin plus lent descendre chez les morts. Slowly, and paradoxically, a greatness returns to Phaedra in this speech. It is the old paradox of the gospels, "Everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, but he who humbles himself will be exalted. 11 As Phaedra exposes her crimes before her husband, we see a woman humbling herself and we the audience exalt her. She take~ on moral dignity. Part of the distate when Phaedra savagely blames Oenone is that we wish to see Phaedra continue to humble herself. We cannot exalt her for the way she treats Oenone . Phaedra turns on a woman who has been faithful to her. Oenone has served and loved Phaedra. We do not wan: people to be treated in this way. It is only in the context of reviling herself through Oenone that such treatment of her nurse can be made palatable to us With the death of Oenone and Phaedra come~ Why Racine the death of the imagination which deceives. Dying, Phaedra again turns to the Sun: 1641 Deja je ne vois plus qu'a travers un nuage Et le ciel, et l'epoux que ma presence CJUtrage; Et la mort mes yeux derobant la clarte Rend au jour, qu'ils souillaient toute sa purete. There is a strange diurnal motion talking plice at the close of the play. As Phaedra dies and renders herself to the darkness of death, her last word is purete. The Sun has been rendered its purity, its full brightness. The confusion between day and night in which the play began ha~ been overcome. The Rightful Heirs Aricie is the rightful heir to thE throne of Athens according to youn1 Hippolytus. Aegeus and his son Thesern have placed themselves in the successi01 to the throne by adoption and murder . Though Hippolytus is genuine in his belieJ that Aricie deserves the throne, are we tc take his belief as that of Racine? Hippolytus displays an amazing amoun· of innocence and ignorance t o the ways o: court when he is astonished that Phaedr wins the confidence of the chiefs o Athens to rule. He objects: 728 ••••• Dieux , qui la connaissez, Est-ce done sa vertu que vous recompensez? Perhaps his acknowle'1gement of Aricie a : the rightful ruler stems from the sam4 innocence. He does not realize that botl possession of power and a rightful clai1 to the throne are necessary to establisl oneself as ruler. Or perhaps his acknow· ledgement of Aricie as the rightful rule 1 stems from the love he has for her. If Hippolytus is correct, and AriciE is the rightful ruler of Athens, wha1 could this signify for Racine? Athens if set apart from other Greek cities by itf belief that its people sprang from th~ Reste du sang d'un Roi, noble fils de la Terre, Je suis seule echappee aux fureurs de la guerre, J'ai perdu dans la fleur de leur jeune saison Six freres quel espoir d'une illustre maison! Le fer moissonna tout, et la Terre humectee But a regret le sang des neveux d'Erechtee 494 Je VOUS cede, OU plutot je VOUS rends une place, Un sceptre que jadis vos aieux ont recu De ce f ameux mortel que la Terre a conc;.u. From the Preface, we know that Racine claims that Aricie "n' est point un personnage de mon invention," and he cites references in Virgil. Aricie's genealogy is however Racine's invention. Racine has made her a descendant of the Pallantides, not history or mythology. Aricie' s two principal functions in the play are as a love-interest for Hipploytus, and as a further complication in the political struggle between Hippolytus and Phaedra. 41 �local Attic soil. This myth was often used to promote its democracy, for if everyone had the common ancestor, the Earth, everyone was a prince or princess. The very multiplicity of the Pallantides (of ten portrayed as being fifty brothers) suggests that the proper power to rule is not located in a single individual. II. The French King Those in the audience would have been struck by the similarity of Phaedra's claim of the Sun as an ancestor, and the French Monarch's claim to be a direct descendant of the Sun. They may have recognized Theramene and Oenone as the servile ministers of the King. Racine's intentions now become unclear: One reading of Aricie's lineage would suggest that Racine is endorsing the rule of the children of the Earth, and is making some c~iticism, however weak, of the existing monarch. Yet one assumes that Aricie' s desire to tyrannically master Hippolytus is some criticism of her ability to rule as well. III. Theseus The impressions left by the political maneuverings in the play suggest that one 's political fate has nothing to do with one's virtue or worthiness. Racine is unusual in his treatment of Theseus. Theseus is represented, not as the tremendous hero of other myths, but as one who tampers with the natural order of things in his treatment of Aricie and her brothers. He murders the Pallantides and forces their mother Earth to unwillingly drink their blood. He is an adventurer. In a play where adultery is held up in horror, Theseus' descent into hell is anything but glorious. What was he doing trying to help his friend steal another man's wife? Theseus' friend seems to merit being thrown to the monster. The act of feeding the King to his own monster is presented in such a way as would ·rob all greatness from it. Theseus' treatment of Hippolytus, and Racine's with-holding of the final reconciliation scene between father and son, render Theseus singularly unworthy of our sympathy in this play. The mighty King has been exposed for what he is now, apart from what he may have been in the past: he is blind when it is most necessary to see; he is away when his wife and son need him most; and though he accepts Aricie at the close of the play, he is still unchanged. He honors Hippolytus' request only to appease his ghost. Theseus has not regained the sight needed to re-establish himself as a hero. Some of Phaedra's speeches suggest that Theseus was once like Hippolytus-young and innocent. Hippolytus, the bastard son of Theseus, is ungainly, inept at the ways of court, and lacking in proper manners. Honor and honesty give him dignity. He is killed by a father who cannot see Hippolytus as anything other than a projection of himself. Thus Theseus believes that Hippolytus is cunning, though Hippolytus is never cunning in this play. Theseus is cunning. The play suggests that Hippolytus' lack of such cunning is a consequence of the time spent in the forest, away from the corrupting influence of the court. IV. Oenone and Theramene Oenone and Theramene· are the only characters in the play not descended from nobility. Yet they cannot be made to represent the common people. Oenone and Theramene are members of the court, as ministers and courtiers are. There are no common people in this play; we see no alternative society proposed to that of the court. MONSTERS Hippolytus sees a monst~r : 700 Digne fils du heros qu~ ~·~ donne le jour, Delivre l'univers d'un Monstre qui t'irrite. La veuve de Thesee ose aimer Hippolyte? Crois-moi, Fe Monstre affreux ne doit point t'echapper. Phaedra sees a monster: 882 Mais ne me trompez point, vous last words: 1641 Deja je ne vois plus qu'a travers un nuage Et le ciel et l'epoux que ma presence out rage; Et la mort, a mes yeux derobant la clarte Rend au jour, qu'ils souillaient toute sa purete. Phaedra's eyes sullied the day. It is a strange image. The monstrous in some sense comes out of one 's self, and affixes itself to that which one sees. est-il cher encore? De quel oeil voyez-vouz ce Prince audacieux? Je le vois com.me. un Monstre ef froyable a mes yeux . Theseus sees a monster: Perfide, oses-tu bien te montrer devant moi? Monstre, qu'a trop longtemps epargne le tonnerre, Reste impur des Brigands dont j'ai purge la terre. One wonders at the vast number of monsters found in Phaedra. They are everywhere in the play. As the play begins, Theramene and Hippolytus are recalling Hippolytus' youth and the stories he was told about the exploits of Theseus, the great monster-slayer . As the play p r oceeds, we realize that there are not only mythological monsters, but moral ones as well. We see the two kinds of - monsters blended in the Minotaur: the monstrous love gives birth to a mythological monster. The two principal scenes in the play, the scene in which Phaedra declares her love for Hippolytus, and the scene in which we are given a description of Hippolytus' death, both involve monsters. To know who we are in Racine's Phaedra, we must explore our kinship with these strange creations who live in our stories and in our sight. II . Sexuality and Monsters What then are mythological monsters? The monster in the labyrinth and the monster which rises out of the sea in the fifth act both ' fit Aristotle's definition of what is monstrous. They are the unnatural combination of natural parts. What do the half-man/half-bull and the bull-serpent represent? We know them in the play through the stories told about them. They are used primarily to tell stories of conflicts between foes who wish to destroy each other . In Monsters we meet that which in reality exists within us. By creating Monsters outside ourselves, we separate ourselves from the desires or inclinations which they represent. (To understand this separation, we remember the relationship between Oenone and· Phaedra. Oenone is an embodiment of the baser motives of Phaedra. Through the creation of Oenone, we become aware that the true Phaedra exists ou tside these inclinations, that Phaedra as a descendant of Helios interacts with these desires but has an exis tence .a part from them. So too with our monsters.) We confront our monsters. We fight mythical battles in our stories, and sometimes we win and sometimes we lose. In doing so, we have a clearer account of the struggle within and the forces which guide us. Monsters represent all that WP. fear or hate within ourselves . The Minotaur represents a blina sexuality, sexuality without human vision. The monster does not have human sight: He is a man whose head has been replaced by a bull's . I. Eyes and Monsters The monstrous is contained within our sight. It is from something within, something emanated from our eyes, that beings who exist outside ourse lves are transfigured into monsters. The identification of something as monstrous is always dependent on the one who sees. We remember Oenone' s question and Phaedra's reply: Mais ne me trompez point, vous 882 est-il cher encore? De quel oeil voyez ce Prince audacieux? Je le vois com.me un Monstre ef froyable a mes yeux. We also must remind ourselves of Phaedra's 42 43 �Racine's description of the descent into the labyrinth beginning at line 649 is clearly sexual. Phaedra offers to guide the virgin Hippolytus through the many detours of the vast retreat of the monster: 659 Campagne du peril qu'il vous fallait chercher, Moi- meme devant vous j'aurais voulu marcher, Et Phedre au Labyrinthe avec vous descendue, Se serait avec vous retrouvee, ou perdue. As Phaedra guides Hippolytus, they will meet the Monster, a monster molded out of the sexuality within Phaedra. The last line, "Se serait avec vous retrouvee, ou perdue." suggests that through the confrontation with sexuality she will either find herself again, though in some sense annhilated in the sexual encounter, or will become simply lost, for ever annhilated. The line contains a self-absorbtion which is particularly striking considering · the sexual initiation of the youth. .That Hippolytus may find himself or be lost for ever is not considered. The world in which she leads him is made dangerous by Racine: Hippolytus is totally dependent on Phaedra as guide, and may be destroyed at any moment. The suspicion that Phaedra is confronting a monster which lies within her is confirmed a few lines later: 700 Digne fils du heros qui t'a donne le j our, Delivre l' univers d' un M onstre qui t 'irrite. La veuve de Thesee ose aimer Hippolyte? Crois - moi, ce Monstre affreux ne doit point t'-echapper . Things become confused; the monster does es c ape . Phaedra takes Hippolytus' sword and he is un-manned. Before Phaedra can thrust the sword into her own breast, she is interrupted by Oenone. Phaedra and Hippolytus have become lost within the labyrinth without fully conf rooting the monster; they are neither found nor lost . By addressing Hippolytus as the "digne fils du heros," we are reminded, and so is he , of the sto r ies which Theramene told him about his father killing monsters. Hippolytus has been raised on a tradition that human beings can conquer and vanquish monsters. It is Theramene, the teller of tales about Theseus, who de.scribes the bull-serpent in Act V. The bull of the labyrinth has reappeared. Hippolytus, firmly believing in the legends that human beings kill monsters, believes himself c a pable of k i lling t he monster: 1530 Hippolyte lui seul digne fils d'un· heros, Arrete ses coursiers, saisit ses javelots, Pousse au Monster et d'un dard lance d'une main sure Il lui f ait dans le flanc une large blessure . Hippolytus, however, has been lied to. Monsters, when struck with human lances do not die, they grow angrier: 1531 De rage et de douleur le Monstre bondissant Vient aux pieds des chevaux tomber en mugissant, Se roule, et leur presente une gueule enflammee, Quiles co~vre de feu, de sang, . et de fumee. Hippolytus cannot slay the monster . Nor does the Mons t er directly slay Hippolytus. The reins with which Hippolytus curbs and cont r ols his ho r ses become tangled, and they drag him to his death . The horses, associated with Hippolytus' masculinit y t h r oughout t he p l ay , become so frightened that he can no longer · master them-- they flee in horror. Theramene's deception, i.e. that human beings may kill monsters, has pushed Hippolytus into a situation in which, deceived about what is real, he must battle something real. In this regard, Theramene's role take s on similariti e s to that of Oenone. Theramene has told the boy Hippolytus s t ories which inspire a mortal greatness which is false, and which leave him vulnerable, with no true account of the world. Oenone has told Phaedra stories which would release her from the greatness which she would impose on her- 44 self . Such stories, if believed, would render Phaedra vulnerable, thinking she was safe when she was not . ' III . Sin and Monsters The role of the reappearing Monster is the role of Sin. Theramene has lied to Hippolytus about the nature of Sin and its destructiveness . He has taught that sin could be overcome by mortals · without any divine intervention. When we ask who we are, we answer with stories that tell us that monsters are originally foreign to us, and separate from us, and at the same time, stories that tell us that we will always have to fight with our monsters, since they come from within. Racine's comparison of sin and sexuality is not based on a prudish way of seeing the world. Rather, he bases the analogy on the anarchy they produce within the body of the lover or the sinner: "We know that the law is spiritual; but I am not : I am unspiritual, the purchased slave of sin . I do not even acknowledge my own actions as mine, for what I do is not what I want to do, but what I detest." (Romans, 7.14 - 15) Within the play, both love and sin are described as things against which we struggle unsuccessfully; and which, though coming from ·within ourselves as things we inherit whether it be le sang fatale or our fallen natures, are portrayed as separate from our very selves. Lust is separate in Phaedra's nature, something added on as a curse to that natur.e which cannot shake it off, We are the prey of Venus as well as Sin. By separating out our f allen-ness (sin) and putting it into a monster, we are ourselves pure, hopelessly battling against that which must conque r u s . Two lessons are explicit: As human beings we are the descendants both of Purity and of fallen Purity. Our pure nature, however, battles our fallen- ness, which though in our bloodline, is extrinsic to us . Secondly, we realize that human beings unless some special di- vine intervention occurs cannot conquer the monster sin. Both such precepts would agree with the Jansenists views Racine was espousing. Jansenists refused to accept a lax morality for men: men as descendants of God, should be held accountable fo r their sins. They further objected to the idea that men could conquer sin without divine grace. Such views are propounded in t h e Fifth Provincial Letter especiall y : Go and see some of these worthy fathers, I beseech you, and I am confident that you will soon discover, in the laxity of their moral system, the explanation of their doctrine about grace. You will then see the Christian virtues exhibited in such a strange aspect, so completely stripped of the charity which is the life and soul of them--you will see so many crimes palliated and irregularities tolerated, that you will no longer be surprised a t thei r maintaining that 'all men have always enough of grace' to lead a pious life, in the sense in which they understand piety. Their morality being entirely Pagan, natu re is quite competent to its observance. (Pascal , Pr ov i ncial Letters Modern Library edition, 376 . ) --P:- OEN ONE Oenone is the confidante to Phaedra, a familiar dramatic device that rescues a play from having too many s _ liloquies . o Yet this role is complicated in Phaedra in that, as Racine tells us, Oenone is also the embodiment of Phaedra's baser intentions. Throughout the play, she is that within Phaedra which would keep Phaedra alive at all cost. Therefore, she of ten functions like the imagination. She provides interpretations which ameliorate intolerable situations by manipulating the 45 �particulars of certain stories· She creates new worlds in which we may live more comfortably. This further complicates Oenone's role: Creating morally comfortable worlds is a J esuit function (according to Jansenists .) Oenone appears to be so much of a Jesui t at times that her speeches and Phaed ra's accusations against her seem to be taken directly out of Pascal's Pr ovinci~l Letter. Oenone, like the J esuits, will deceive us as t o who we are and what is expected of us . As Phaedra first seeks purif i cation before the Sun, t he Sun's rays become unbearable, and her imagination paints. a picture of shade, of forest, and of a time when all will be well. Oenone will als o off er escapes for Phaedra. She will paint reality in such a way that what properly should drive Phaedra to suicide does not. Her only concern is t o keep P~aedra alive: 229 Quoiqu'il vous reste a peine une faible lumiere, Mon ame chez l es morts descendra la premiere. When Panope gives the news that Theseus is dead, Phaedra is silent. It is Oenone who interprets the news; in t h e news, she sees a world in which Phaedra need not kill herself: 349 Vivez, vous n'avez plus de reproche a vous faire. Votre flamme devient une f lannne ordinaire. The ever-pragmatic Oenone prop oses tha t Phaedra suggest an alliance with Hippolytus against Aricie. In Act II, when Phaedra grabs Hippolytus' sword a fter giving herself away b ef ore_ him, Oenone rushes in and stops her: 712 Que faites-vous, Madame? Justes Dieux! Mais on vient . Evitez des temoins odieux, Venez, rentrez, fuyez une honte certa·i ne. After that disaster, Oenone must propose another diversion. She proposes power: 753 Ainsi, dans vos malheurs ne songeant qu'a vous plaindre , Vous nourrissez un feu, qu'il vous faudrait eteindre. Ne vaudrait-il pas mieux, digne sang de Minos, Dans de plus nobles soins chercher votre rep os , Contre un ingrat qui plait recourir a la fuite, Regner, et de l ' Etat embasser la conduite? When Phaedra objec ts that she cannot possibly rule, Oenone, undaunted comes up · When with another alternative: "F uyez . " Phaedra objects : Je ne le puis quitter Oenone replies Vous l'osates bannir, nous n'osez l'eviter. Oenone will not despair. Despair is the appropriate response. Phaedra accuses Oenone of planting false hope in Phaedra's heart. Oenone s~es no shame in planting hope , whether it be false or true: Helas! de vos malheurs innocent ou coupable, De quoi pour vous sauver n'etais-je point capable? Mais si jamais l'offense irrita vos esprits, Pouv ez-vous d'un superbe oubl ier les mepris? Avec quels yeux cruels sa rigueur obs tinee Vous laissait a ses pieds peu s'en faut prosternee! Que son f arouche o rgueil le rendai t odieux! 780 Qu e PhedTe en ce moment n'avait-elle mes yeux! Oenone 1 s eyes filter out all that would render Phaedra dishonorable or unworthy of life. She will see no shame in being a mor ta l subject to nature. When Hippoly tus begins to seem too danger ous fo r her mistress' happiness, Oenone tries to dissuade Phaedra from seeing Hippolytus as someone who could ever return her love. Oenone is quick t o recognize that Hippolytus is now the enemy and poses a threat to Phaedra. Thus she reasons: 787 Songez qu'une barbare en son sein 46 l' a forme . e'en est fait .• Pourquoi done lui ceder une victoire entiere? Vous le craignez . Osez l'accuser la premiere Du crime dont il peut vous charger auj ourd 'hui. Qui vous dementira? Tout parle contre lui. She is quite willing to sacrifice Virtue . Virtue, if kept alive, would cause an earthly death. Virtue must be sacrificed to Honor, which keeps one alive on the earth: pour sauver notre 907 Honneur combattu, 11 faut immoler tout, et meme la Vertu. Phaedra submits to the force which keeps her alive: In the face of destruction, she yields to Oenone. She cannot face annihilation without trying to escape. No human being in the play can. It is part of what Racine considers hidden within us. Oenone then tells the false story .to Theseus. Phaedra discovers in turn that Theseus has implored Neptune to kill Hippolytus, and that Hippolytus loved Aricie. Phaedra, after a considerable struggle with herself, realizes that she has sinned. Yet, instead of urging confession or some other means of purification, Oenone who would continue Phaedra's earthly existence at all costs , puts Phaedra's Christian soul in jeopardy: 1295 He! repoussez, Madame, une injuste terreur . Regardez d'un autre oeil u.ie excusable erreur. One must not make repentance into nothing; one must not excuse sins as simply errors. Pascal complained of the Jesuits: But, father, do you suppose that a man is worthy of receiving absolution, when he will submit to nothing painful to expiate his offences? And, in these circumstances, ought you not to retain rather than remit their sins?,, Are you not aware of t~~ extent of your ministry, ·and that you have 873 885 and 789 11 a pour tout le sexe une haine fatale. Phaedra then issues the famous command in response: 790 Enfin, tous tes conseils ne sent plus de saison. Sers ma fureur, Oenone, et non point ma raison. Oenone has been working under the illusion that she could protect Phaedra in Act One by convincing her that her love was only ordinaire. She believes there is something safe in being "only human". Rather than combat that which comes from within, Oenone proposes that we submit and not think about the horror of our condition. Yet we see in the play that once abandoned, Virtue can never again be recovered. In abandoning Virtue, we abandon who we are as descendants of th~ Sun. Oenone claims that we may rest in some murky middle ground where distinctions are not altogether forgotten, but are put so sufficiently far from mind that we need no longer feel guilty. I f i t is proper to submit to a mortal fate, we need no abso lution: all we do is in harmony with our natures. Racine claims there is no middle ground: Once we move out of the Sun's realm, our motion gathers impetus and we move far beyond the reach of the Sun's distinctions. We cannot move in and out of the two regions with ease : we cannot recall lost Virtue. With the advent o f Theseus, Oenone advises: 826 Madame. Rappelez votre vertu passee . How does one go about recalling Virtue after trying to seduce one's stepson? If one sees the crime with the horror with which Phaedra sees it no such recalling is possible . She knows her~elf as a sinner. There is not getting around it. Phaedra knows she must die. Oenone's response "Vous mourez?" is an expression of surprise. Oenone cannot imagine a situation which would merit Phaedra's death. Oenone refuses to regret or to.repent the past: 47 �t he powe r o f bind ing and l oosing? Do y ou imagine t hat you are a t l i berty t o give a b s o lut ion ind ifferent ly to all who ask it , and without a scertai n i.ng b eforehand if J esus Chr i st loo ses in h eaven tho se whom y ou loo se in earth ? (Prov inc ial Letters, p. 45 3) Oenone then exp l ains why n o painful expia tion i s necess a ry: 1297 Vou s aimez. On ne peut v ainc re sa des t inee. Par un charme fata l v ous futes entrain ee. Est-ce done un prodige i nou i parmi nous? L 'amou n' a-t-il enco re triomphe que d e vous ? La f aible s se aux humains n 'es t que trop n atu r e lle. M rte lle, s ub issez l e sort d 'un e a mortelle. Vous vous pla i gne z d' un joug impose de s l on gt emps. Les Dieux meme, l es Dieux de l ' Ol ymp e h a b itants, Qui d 'un " r ui t si terrible b e p ouvantent l es crimes, Ont brule quelquefois de f eux i lleg itimes. To those fami l iar with the Jansenist, accusations against the Jesuits, Oenone s arfamiliar as well. The are guments 1 Jesui t s, as portrayed in the Pr ovincia Letters, are ready t o conclu de f r em the weakness of men , that morality must be loosened in o rder that it migh t be:ome more comfortab l e for men. Th e J ansenists regarded this as highest heresy. The weakness of humanity must n o t be catered t o . We serve each other b e s t by reminding each other t o be virtuou s . The Jesuits like Oenone believe t h at mor ality mu st accomodate itself to human weakness: "You know," h e said, "that t he rul ing p ass ion of p ersons in t ha t rank of life is ' t h e po i nt of hono r, ' wh i ch is p erp etually dr iving t hem into acts of violenc e appare ntly quite at v ar iance wit h Christian piety; so that in fact, they would be almost a l l o f them exclud ed fr om our confession al s, had not our fathers relaxed a litt l e from the strictness of re l igion, to accomodate themse l ves to t h e weakness of humanity. Anxious t o k eep on goo d terms b oth with the Gospel , by d o ing their duty to God , and with the men o f t h e wor l d, by showing ch arit y to their neighbo r,they n eed e d a l l the wisdom they po ssessed t o devise expedie nts f or so nicely ad j usting ma tters as t o permit these gent l emen t o adopt the methods usual ly re so rted t o fo r vindi c ating t hei r h on or, without wound i ng their con s ciences, and t h us re concile two t h i ng s s o opp os ite t o e~ch o ther as piety and t h e point o f honor. Bu t sire, in prop ortion t o t h e ut i lity o f the design, was the d if f iculty of the execution .•• (The Provincial Letters, P· 40 2. The underlining is my own. ) They forget that we are the descendants of God and Purity; they would have us forget that s i n i s some thing outs ' de ot ourselves with which we must battle. J esuits were in p ower in France. They l ed the Sorbonne and held sway at c ontra l d h were c ourt. Jansenists bel ieve t ey mislead ing nations; henc e Phaed ra accu s es Oenone: 1319 Puis se le juste Cie l dignement te payer; Et pui sse t on supp l ice a j amais e ff rayer Tous ceux qui, comme t oi, p ar de laches a d res ses , De s Princes ma lhe u reux nourris s en t les fa i blesses, Les poussent au p enchant ou l e u r coeur est enclin, Et leur osent du crime aplanir le chemin; Detestables flatteurs, present le plus funeste Qui puisse faire aux Rois la colere celeste. The role rif advisors at Court is thus exposed: flattery and deception are seen as necessarily accompanying that life. The Jansenists remind us that as the des c end a n t s of Adam we have a penchant for sin. Excusing our sin before proper expiation is made will be disastrous. We will not repent properly and we will be damned. It was Helios, le t us recall, who shed his light in the skies, dispersing the cloud which hid Venus and Mars as they were love-making . Indeed, it was this very action which had led Venus in retaliation to curse all Helios' descendants ..• (Bettina L. Knapp, Jean Racine - Mythos and Renewal in Modern Theatre, p . 171) Helios' descendants will always see through the clouds that imagination creates to obscure the horror of t heir actions. And the descendants of Helios will always have actions that excite their horror; they will not be able to e scape Venus. We are the fallen mixture of purity and godliness and all the desires which Racine labels base. We are the noble children of gods, and we are monsters . Our stories explain ourselves to ourselves in those terms. We are born with the at tributes of Helios and with the curse of Venus locked within us . Dest r uction will come from within and is inevitable. It is not within our power to save ourselves . As children of t he Sun, we are engendered with an ability to judge according to spiritual lawt- a s well as earthly laws. .We know the difference b etween Virtue and Honor . Lines 907 and 221 depend on our ability to make that distinction . For all our know edge of spiritual laws, however, we a re s till unable to prevent ourselves from sinning . We remember Romans 7 . 14- 25: We know that the law is spiritual; but I am not: I am unspiritual, the purchased slave of sin . I do not even acknowledge my own a ct ions as mine, for what I do is not what I want to do, but what I detest. But i f what I do is agains t my will, it means that I agree with the law and hold it to be admirable. But as things are, it is no longer I who CONCLUSION 598 Dans le fond de mon coeur vous ne pouviez pas lire If only one character could have know the depths of another's heart , if only the i s olat ion t hat surrounds each character we r e not so horrible, if only Racine had c reated another wo r ld in t he play, perhaps for g iv ene ss and expiation could have been possible between men and women, and especially between fathe r s and sons . Ye t t her e is none . There are no human confessors to absolve the characters of the i r crimes . Unlike Euripides, Racine offe r s no reconciliation between father and son. The r e is absolut e ly no consolation in this wor ld. We are fallen. Perhaps on ce we mi ght h av e s e en into the depths of one another's h e a r ts , but such is not the world in which we n ow live. We a r e cursed, as all the d e scendants of Helios were cursed, and as all t he descendants of Adam were expelled from the Garden . We cannot rely on ear thly forgiveness. Caught between the intolerable conflicts within us , our i maginat_ons of ten provide temporary but i unt rustworthy escapes. Yet , as the descendants of Helios and God , a part of our nature will always see through deception. In the ancient myth, it was the ability to see through a cloud tha t r esulted in the curse: 49 48 �does not. Whether this is because the play is set in pagan times, or whether Racine meant something more, we do not know. Racine insists however, that we must never abandon that knowledge of ourselves as descendants of God. We must never stop attempting to purify ourselves, we must never abandon the distinctions between sin and innocence. We must not let the Jesuits mislead us. Pascal warns us: .... they conceal their carnal and worldly policy under the garb of divine and Christian prudence as if the faith, and tradition, its ally, were not always one and the same at all times and in all places, as if it were the part of the rule to bend in conformity to the subject which it was meant to regulate; and as if souls, to be purified from their pollutions, had only to corrupt the law of the Lord, in place of the 'the law of the Lord, which is clean and pure, converting the soul which lieth in sin' and . bringing it into conformity with its salutary lessons! (The Provincial Letters, p. 376) perform the action, but sin that lodges in me. For I know that nothing good lodges within me in my unspiritual nature I mean -- for though the will to do good · is there, the deed is not. The good which I want to do, I fail to do: but what I do is the wrong which is against my will and i f what I do is against my will, clearly it is no longer I who am the agent, but sin that has its lodgings in me. I discover this principle then: that when I want to do the right, only the wrong is within my reach. In my inmost self I delight in the law of God, but I perceive that there is in my bodily members a different law, fighting against the law that my reason approves and making me a prisoner under the law of sin. Miserable creature that I am, who is there to rescue me out of this body doomed to death? God alone, through Jesus Christ our Lord! Thanks be to God! In a word then, I myself, subject to God's law as a rational being am yet, in my unspiritual nature, a slave to the law of sin. (The New English Bible. The underlining is my own.) F<'otnotes 1. Racine may also have been tempted to stress the lineage from th S f h e un, apart rom t fe mythological significances , as a mea~s o commenting on the French royalty. It is us~ful to note here that Phaedra and French Kings share the same ancestry. 2. R. C. Knight, in his notes on Phedre gives three examples: 1) the Ch . i , Canon L . rist an aw· I Corinthians 5 1 ( "I actually hear reports of sexuai i~orality among you, immorality such as even pagans do not tolerate: the union of a man with As Phaedra dies, her last word is purity. She herself is not yet pure. The day i s pure . Bo t h t h e l ov e of puri ty and the curse are her inheritance. In dying, she pays final homage to purity . She remembers who she really is. She achieves a moral dignity within our eyes once again. In such a dignity, she may rest. One of the important differences between this passage and Racine's Phaedra is that Paul offers a God who intercedes. Racine 50 51 his father's wife.") 2) the list prohibited degrees in the 1662 Book Commop , Prayer and 3) French Law o o Note: When I use the t " erm Jesuit" withi· the body of this no th. b paper, I am claimin ing a out the Society of Jesus toda or about the arguments of the Jesuit y Racine's d s o. ~y, apart from how they hav1 b een explicated by the J i i 1 ansen sts espec a ly by Pascal in The p i . . Letters. -rov ncia . �Translation A Poem by Francis Jammes Geraldine McDowell I IL VA NEIGER ••• THE TIME HAS COME FOR SNOW ... A Leopold Bauby To Leopold Bauby Il va neiger dans quelques jours. Je me souviens De l'an dernier. Je me souviens de mes tristesses Au coin du feu. Si l'on m'avait demande: qu'est-ce? J'aurais dit: laissez-moi tranquille . Ce n'est rien. The time has come for snow. I harken back to last year's snow. Back to my sadnesses by fire's glow. If I'd been asked, "What is't?" I would have said, "Leave me in peace. 'Tis naught . " J'ai bien refl echi , l'annee avant, dans ma chambre, Pendant que la neige lourde tombait dehors. J'ai reflechi pour rien. A present connne alors Je fume une pipe en bois avec un bout d'ambre. I've contemplated in my room ere now, while outside snow fell heavy covering all. My contemplation's vain. For now, as then, I sit beside the hearth and smoke my pipe. Ma vieille connnode en chene sent toujours bon. Mais moi j'etais bete parce que ces choses Ne pouvaient pas changer et que c'est une pose De vouloir chasser les choses que nous savons. And still my oaken chest of drawers smells rich. Such foolishness to think these things could change! They never change. It is pretentiousness to want to chase the things already known. Pourquoi done pensons-nous et parlons-nous? C'est drole; Nos larmes et nos b&isers, eux, ne parlent pas Et cependant nous les comprenons, et les pas D'un ami sont plus doux que de douces paroles. For Our are our On a baptise les etoiles sans penser Qu'elles n'avaient pas besoin de nom, et les nombres Qui prouvent que les belles cometes dans l ' omb r e Passeront, ne les forceront pas a passer. We've christened stars which have no need of names . And ratios foretelling comets' flights are not their moving force. Now then, where are my sadnesses of old? I faint recall. Et De Je Si maintenant meme, OU sont mes vieilles tristesses l'an dernier? A peine si je m'en souviens. dirais: laissez-moi tranquille, ce n'est rien, dans ma chambre on venait me demander: qu'est-ce? why then do we think and speak? Odd thing; tears and kisses, speechless though they be understood no less, and sweet steps which friends do make are sweeter than sweet words. ~nd I would say, "Leave me in peace. 'Tis naught," if I were asked while in my room, "What is't?" 1888. 1888. De l'Angelus de l'Aube a l'Angelus du Soir From the Prayer of the Morning to the Prayer of the Evening Geraldine McDowell attended St. John's in Annapolis for three years. She is now a junior at Goucher College . 52 53 I �Becoming· Acquainted with a Knot Ann Burlein . Sometimes my mo t h er , s ey e s were green a s g r a ss. How grey t hey gr ow . Un de r the t rees of autumn , red an d blue Paint p or t raits of my r ace . When I r oll over , and b r u s h as i d e t he l e aves The gras s i s s til l green. Burr owing close I see my mo t her ' s eye s ag ain. (I s your soul dus t y , mama , too? Look fo r me , she s ays , I canno t r e a ch t o se e . ) Red is f o r bu r n i ng and Au t umn mus t end . Now tha t t h e win t e r' s come I 'm sure My mo t he r' s e ye s a r e unde rneath t h e s n ow A mi l e d eep and mo r e . They are t he r e t o be fo und And a wi sh i s a s p ade win ter must give way t o spring. And e v e n t he wh iteness Of Leslie S . Bellisario Nov emb er 7 t h , 19 82 Leslie Bel lisario , ' 8 3, · s c u rrently wr iting f i ct i on in London . Seeking to uncover the nature of t he soul, Aristotle learns the range of his inquiry by investigating the doc t rines of previous philosophers. From these he gleans a statement of the attributes which we think belong to the soul because of its na t ure : ·1 ) the ability to discriminate (which is the work of thought and sensation) , and 2) the ability to move from place to place (which results from t he previous ability , since the cause of locomotion desire cannot occur unless the animal imagines something 1 ) • 2 In describing both thought and sensation as methods of discrimination (to krinein) , Ari stotle r ecognizes a shar ing of activity between the thinking and sentient soul - an activity which results in gnosis . 3 result of this sharing, As a Ar istotle separates these faculties more in terms of their objects than in terms of t h e i r activities . Since, for Aristotle , to apprehend means to become like the ob ject of apprehension (a lthough in a unique way) , these objects determine the nature of both the activity of app r ehension and the knowledge which the soul becomes as a r e sult o f this activity . So before we can under stand the soul as the faculty by which man comes to know , we need to under stand, first the things which the soul k nows, and then the nature of that knowl edge . 4 Knowledge and sensation may be so marked off as to correspond to things •.. the knowing and sentient powers of the soul are potentially these things .. . and they must either be these things themselves or their forms . Certainly they cannot be the things themselves; for it is not the stone itself that is in the soul but the form of the stone . 5 Both the sensing and the thinking sou l apprehend forms , by virtue of which we say one faculty senses flesh, and the other knows the essence of flesh . 6 But what i s a form and how do these two forms diffe r from one another? Aristotle pref aces his investigation into the parts of the soul by placing form in the genus of things we call substance . But the science which enquires most fully into substance is first philosophy, for to first philosophy alone belongs the investigation of being qua being . We use the term 'being ' in many senses: something 'is' if it is 1) one, 2) true, 3) either potentially or ac t ually as we say it to be, or 4) one of the categories . Despite this multiplicity , these senses are not equivocal , 7 because "all of these (senses) are related to something which is one and a single nature" . 8 In our investiga t ion of being, t hen, we mus t first examine this central nature, fo r we cannot know any of the othe r senses unt i l we know the one upon which they depend . But after we l ook at the a ious senses of 'being' Aristotle claim s to. encompass , analogous predication seems impossible . Do these diverse senses really point to one nature, as do t he different things we call 'healthy' because they signify either a sign of health or a cause of health? Perhaps the senses which mean ' t o be true' and 'to be one' do . For while ' being' and 'unity 1 do not mean the same thing, they follow one another , since t o be one means to be nothing other than one of the categories . 9 Indeed, what is one is not distinct from what is a being. 1 O Further, we speak truly when we speak of something which is, but falsely when we speak 1) of something which is not as if l. 55 54 �but rather , if anything, it is that which walks or that which sits that is a being . These latter appear to be beings in a higher degree, because there is something definite in each of them , namely, the underlying subject; and this is the substance and the individual. 1 7 Aristotle separat es whatness f rom the other categories because of 'definiteness ' -- that on account of which things appear to be to a higher degree . Translated as 'definite', literally, horismos means 'having been marked off by boundaries' . Elsewhere, Aristotle calls this notion of having been set apart and made distinct p eculiarity (to idion) . In the Topics, Aristotle names the types of things we predicate . One of these, to idion , consists of two par ts : 1 ) properties, whatever belongs to a thing and can be predicated conve r tibly of it ; and 2 ) essence o r whatness. 18 Thi s de r i vation reveals that the idea of peculiar ity underlies and determines our notion of whatness . The d ominant meaning of idios is uniquenes s ; it s i gnifi e s something t hat pe rt ains to one person alone . Often in d icat i ng s ometh i ng t hat b y its v e r y n atu r e i s p ri vate o r p ersonal , i t opposes koinos and d e mosios . Homer uses the word in ex actly this s e nse : Telemachos , when spe ak ing to Nesto r a t Py lo s wh ere he has t rav e lled seek i n g news of his f ather , says : "This is a p r ivate matter, not public business I tell you (prex is d ' he d ' idie ou demois) . I follow the fame of my fa ther , on the chance of hearing of the great Odysseus ... " l 9 A young man's quest to learn about himself in seeking word of his father is an idion, something that by its n a t u r e b e l ong s to him a lone. Ta idia are o ne's private interests, one's own p r operty ; an idiotes is a private person who , due to a preoccupation with his own affairs, does not participate in those of the city . Thus idi o s has its roots in the idea of s omething that, because of its . it is , o r 2) of some t hing which is as i f it is not . 11 Howeve r, a category -- esp ecially 'whatness' -seems neither to point towa r ds nor to be an activity . To ask "What is it?" seems ve r y differen t from asking "What does it do?" . Ye t Ar istotle , in identifying ousia as the sens e o f ' to be ' which signifies tha t which is firs t among all things , merges· wha t n e ss and ac t uality . In Book 7 , he selects whatness as the p r imary sense nf being 12 in 9, he asserts actuality as the being of a thing . 13 But how can we rec o ncile these two senses, which appear so diverse, into one idea of being? Why is to be at work to be definite? And can we describe all sub stances to exactly the same degree by these two ways? A discussion of the categories , the fourth sense of ' to be', begins Book 6. Immediately, Aristotle o pposes the category signifying whatness to those re maining, for "it is evident that of these (i.e . , the categories) the primar y sense is whatness, and used in this sense it signifies a substance" 1 4 • He identifies being and whatness naturally and with as surance - - phaneron. For whenever some thing exists, it exists as itself -- some one, de f inite thing . (Only in thought can the fact that a thing is be separate f r om what it is and even then tha t s epar a tion se r ves only as a momentary p r elude, insures that the proceeding i nv est i gation i nto whatness does not rea lly i n q u i r e i n t o n o th i ng . 15) Unl i k e Plat o , Ar i sto t le does not find t he nature of being in being itself, but r ather in whatness . 16 So certain o f this connection between whatness and being, Ar istotle can even envision someone asking whether affections e x ist at all : Because of this (the primacy of whatness), one might even raise the problem whether walking, being heal thy, sitting and the others of this kind are beings or not beings; f o r by nature each o f these d o es not exist by itself and canno t be separated from a substance , 56 p r ivate natu re, s et s its el f apa rt f r om things we share . Such a thing become s separate a nd d isti n ct s i mpl y b ec a u se it conce r ns t h e owner a lo n e . Ye t thi s eso te ri c s epar ation does n o t result in c o n ce a lment ; rat her, we c al l a t hing pe cul iar i f its wh a t nes s makes it come for th to e xhibit i tse l f. 2 0Be caus e of t h ) s t he ' separ at ion th a t b e longs to pecul iar i t y cause s a thi n g to b e come d e fini te . Peculiarit y the n , as the Topics indic ates, p r ovides t h e key t o t he puz zle o f ousia . This ch a r ac teri s t ic alone do we as cr ibe with c erta in ty t o subs t anc e, fo r by 'a thing's substance' we me a n t h at whic h i s peculiar to it. But as with al l kn owl edge that is mo re kn own to the individual, confusion and generality mark our n o tion of peculiarity; rather than know ing explicitly the type of peculiarity which belongs to substance, we have only a vague notion of a many-faceted whole. First philosophy attempts to unpack this whole, to isolate the parts compounded within and set each out distinctly so that our confused awareness can become definite, complete, and articulable knowledge.21 Aristotle begins 'unpacking' by explaining why whatness --when it signifies subs t ance is primary among the categories . His reasons parallel the theory of pros hen predication which he states in Book 3: "In every case a science is concerned mainly with that which is first, both 1) that on which the others depend, and 2) as that through which the others are named".22 A substance is 1) prior in time because it can exist independently, requiring nothing else in order to be. It is also pri o r 2 ) in logos (for we can't define any o f the other categories wit ho ut referring to sub stance ) , and 3) in knowle d ge (fo r only when we und erstand a th i ng's subs t anc e do we unde rs t a nd t h e t h i n g ) . Chapter One su gge s ts t h at comp os . ite s ap p e ar t o be to a higher degree be caus e of the p r esenc e in each o f an unde r lyin g subjec t. I n Chap ter Three, by ex~mining the n o t ion o f ' und e rlyin g sub •J ect', Arist o tle r efines t he id e a of sepa~ate wh ich led us to consi der an under l v i n g subj e ct as a sub stance . He describes substance as that o f whic h we pre d i c ate I 57 o t h er t h i n g s , bu t which it self we nev e r pred icate o f o t h er th ings.2 3 He su g gests t h is f o r mu l at ion because it seems to indicate a t y pe of se lf - sufficient separation -- t h e kind which b e lo ng s to ind ividuals (a t oma kai hen arithmo i ) . 24 Bu t t he f o r e m .ost d i stinction o f an y u nde r lvin g subj e c t is ~ot sepa r a te n e ss bu t t he- a b i l ity ti re c eive s ome t h ing . Ye t by 'subs tance' wi do n o t primarily me a n such a p o tent i al , a : t he c ase of matter t he · . · primar u n derly i ng sub J ·ec t -- s hows . Whi"l e ma tt e 1 · has a . t ype o f ultima te s eparabil it y i i t ha t it alone can e x i st afte r we r emov t a ll e ls e, matter i n t h i s state is n o 1 defin ite (b ut wou ld a ppear as n o thing25 ) : therefore it can 't be a subst a nce. j substance is n o t th a t whic h is separabl E ~t t h e expense of all else, but that whi c l is b o th separable and a this.26 SeparatE because of its definiteness, a sub s tancE is peculiar. After concluding with the suggestion that form seems to be substance ir the highest degree (since it lacks thE indefiniteness present in composites duE to their material parts), Aristotle re~reats, asserting this to be most perple x ing · 2 7 F or h ow can a form be separable and a this, and also be a part of a com. ? posite · We can always point to tode ti, but we can never point to a form without po~nting to something else as well. ThuE A:isto~le starts again, this time be gin ning with something more famil i a r to u s His reliance upon what we al r eady kno~ shapes Chapter Four, which stresses sp eP c} -- how we say things are. Such ar emphasis highlights the new element of separability he investigates the ability t o be a l one in staterr.ent ( or in the wo rds o f Ch a p ter One, pr io rity in · · knowl e dg e ) . Fou r exa mi n es es s ence, Ch ap ter what we say a t hing t o be in vi rtue of it se lf . By e xplo r ing t his noti on of ' sep arate in virtue of one's self', Aristotle re fi ne s fu rt h er. our n ot i on o f pe c uliarit y . He beg i n s by ex cluding two ins t ances of ' i n vir t ue of itself ' p r ed i ca1) when a pr o perty b elo ngs ess e n . t~on : .~i a lly ; and 2 ) when we predi c ate o f an 'acciden ta l c omp o s i te it s u nd er l ying sub - �ject (for example, when we predicate the definition of 'man' of the composite 'white man'). These disqualifications reveal that substance kath'auta is that which we can utter alone; to be separable means to be said alone. Essence does not belong to something in such a way as to require the statement of its underlying subject in its definition; rather, to b~ the essence is to be the thing. Essence corresponds to the thing in a way in which 28 accidents and properties do no t . Aristotle now returns to sensible composites, asking whether a white man (a composite plus an accident, which is the only type of composite we ever find since all sensible substances, because of their matter, have attributes) is an instance of an essence at all. Aristotle concludes he is not, strictly speaking: But an essence is just a this, whereas if something is said of something else we do not have just a this, eg. a white man is not just a this, if a this belongs only to substances. 29 The type . of separation that belongs to peculiarity belongs also to things which are primary . Something is primary if, in its logos, we do not predicate anything at all. Essence is the only thing we can state in this way: Essence, then, will belong to nothing which is not a species of a genus, but only to a species of a genus; for it is these that are thought to be stated neither according to participation, nor with an attribute, nor with an accident. 30 But a genus does not participate in its differentiae 3 l, nor does a composite re quire its accidents in order to be. Also, if essence belongs to something , · n what way is it primary? Clearly, we don't think about an individual without also considering different things about him; I can't think about Socrates without also considering attributes such as snub-nosed or philosopher. If I were to omit such things, I would be thinking, not of Socrates, but of 'man• . so while separate spatially fr~m the rest of the world, 32 an individual.is . . not separate from attributes whose being differs from his. Because these attributes can change, every individual is somehow indeterminate -there is something of the infinite about each of us. We can separate in thought, howevgenus from its differentiae. I can er, a 'animal' without also thinking think 'bird' and all the remaining 'dog' , or even without thinking dif ferentiae -a genus is However, any at a 11 . indeterminate because these dif ferentiae vary greatly. So while we can separate a genus in thought, in order to speak definitely, we connect the genus with one of its differentiae. Since both an individual and a genus involve potential, and we ~nderstand potential only by reference to .its :orresponding actuality 33 , neither primar~. A species too involves potential, for it includes the intelligible matter of the genus to which it belongs . Yet .both ~n individual and a genus contain, in addition to intelligible matter, still other potentialities which render them even more indefinite. Thus Aristotle chooses species as essence because a species is both separate in thought and a this. Essence, which is prior in knowledge, expresses the thing most fully since it corresponds to ~he thing. But unlike the individual to which it corresponds, such essence is never c omplete y separ ate because it must ~lways act in matter. But how can something we separate in thought not also be separate :s simply? In Chapters Four and Five, Aristotle speaks of essence as belonging. 34 While not denying this relation, Chapter Six asserts that essence is the same as each particular thing. How can. essen:e have this dual relation -- especially ~f an essence is a species? What does it mean to be the same as that whi~h makes one separate because of what it is. . Aristotle provides a syllogism: We judg~ (dokoumen) each thing to be nothing other than its own substance. We say (legomen) that the substance of each thing 58 is the essence . Therefore, he implies, .each thing is the same as its essence. 3 5 Strictly speaking, the conclusion is that we judge or say each thing to be the same as its essence. Thus he says: "From these arguments it is clear that each thing and its essence are one and the same, but not by accident, and that to know each thing is to know its essence." 3"'0The sameness of essence and thing is sameness in knowledge or in speech; essence signifies the thing. 37 To signify (semainein) means to indicate by signs, to declare and also to interpret or explain. Essence declares a thing; the sameness between essence and its composite arises from the manner in which essence accomplishes this declaration. But since essence is substance, sameness in thought would seem to separate a thing's substance from the thing -- to claim that while in a sense each thing is its substance, the two really only become identical by an act of intellect. But Ar istotle rejects this view . 38 The 'to be' of each thing and the thing, then, must be one and the same, not only in the soul , but in the world external to the soul as well . Clearly though, they can't be identical in all re spec t s : Chapters Three and Four assert essence to be a this, but not i t s compos ites . So by 'one and the same' Aristotle must mean 1) that essence and its composite are together in one place and 2) to the extent that they exist together, some one thing exists which both are. This one th i ng , the form of the individual compos ite, functions as the means by which essence declares the thing. Aristotle investigates this (and thereby investigates the extent to which essence can be both a species and be primary) by studying generation. All destructible things are generat ed by something (a form identical in kind with that of the thing generated), into something (which we signify by a form), and out of something (which, because it is a privation, has in a sense the same form as the other two). Throughout the entire process, matter is present, since every change requires the potential to be and not to be. It is matter that becomes something, changing from a 'that' to being 'that- en'.39 This manner of speaking makes it clear that matter is not an active cause of the such-this it becomes, for matter functions as the under lying subject upon which something else acts . Forro plays the dynamic role . An example of generation by art clarifies the nature of form. "Things generated by art are those whose form is in the soul. 1140 Such a generation con sists of two parts, with noes is first. Thinking begins from the principle or form: Now the healthy is generated when a man thinks as follows: since health is so-and-so, if the subject is to be healthy it is to have such-and-such, let us say uniformity, and if uniformity, then warmth; ahd he always thinks in this manner until he arrives at something final which he himself can produce.41 This fin al stage must be potentially in the body, needing only something to make it actual. The second part of generation, poiesis, refers to the motion from this instant onward from the end of thinking, through stages until the form in the soul - health - becomes present in the body. This example presents form at work; it reveals from to be an active whatness . The form in the s ou l -- the essence -- determines both the thinking and the production by organizing them towards itself. Essence oversees the process and imposes its requirements at every stage. In 4, Aristotle recognizes a sense of dynarnis which means " ... the principle of change or of motion which exists in another thing or in the same thing qua other". 4 2 In this sense, essence has a dynamic nature. Thus essence, by existing in the composite, is one and the same as the composite not simply, but in so far as it orders the nature of the thing. Yet why does Aristotle mention stages? 4 3 Even in the case of an animal's acquisition of its soul he speaks of a ·gradual development: 59 �essence, but that each thing is its es ... it is not the fact that sence. Now, 'We judge A to be A's x' is when an animal is f o rmed, at unde rstandable when only essence and matthat same moment a human ter compose A, and matter in itself is being , o r a ho rse, o r any unknowable . 48 But how can a thing, not be othe r particular sort of thought in terms o f s ometh ing that belongs animal is f o r med , because to it, but be that some t hing? A is A, not the end or completio n is the A's x -- espec ially when x excludes n ot last of all, and that which only matter, but t he individual a ttribute s is peculiar to a thing is by which I distinguish A as an individual . the end of its process of When concluding his study of genformation . 44 eration , Aristotle re cognizes this : The significance o f the stages ... in some cases the essence appe ars two -fo ld. The form in a composite of a thing and the thing are is n o t immediately perfect (hence the two the same, as in first sub stages of actuality hexis and stances; ... (By 'f i rst sub entelecheia) nor entirely simp le (present stance' I mean one which is without c ombinat i on with another type o f not stated as being in being4 5) . The stage s account f o r varia something else or in an tion and individuality . Not a mere direct underly ing subject as in actualization of one p o tential, generation matter). But things which is a gradual process during which matter's exist as matter, or which diverse potentialities become actual include matter, are not the 46 and actual to different degrees. With same as their essence ... 49 animate things, these variations continue Because only a first substance is both throughout the creature's lifetime . This separate from matter and separate in continual change however, does not indithought, it alone 'is' in the fullest cate a ceaseless flux -- that we must at sense. However, the substances we find in any ~iven instant give the composite a the world, because they need to act in different name and definition because its matter, can't be separate in every way, 'to be' has always just changed . The form and therefo re can't be totally (both, 1) the stages i.e. , the 47 self-sufficient. Hence. we do not refer composite' s properties and perfections all other beings to substances such as and 2) the attributes we receive these, fo r the one and central nature must through s ens ation) does determine the be simple in all respec ts. composite -- and all the constituents of Chapters Thirteen through Fifteen the form do not remain constant; but the d "sclose another falling short of essence essence, which does rema · n constant, when it is not simple. Thi rteen begins by determines the form. While attributes can r ejecting universals as substances. Each add or take away from the sensible form, of the numerous arguments he presents in so far as they cannot alter the hinges upon a fundamental claim which composite's determining principle arises fr om his notion of sameness. He essence, they can't alter the composite. says that when present in a thing, subThus essence -- not sensible form stance i s present as something pec u liar to -- de clares the co~posite, becau se essence that thing. 5 0 A universal, as the one is the s ource o f the composite' s nature . within the many, is peculiar to no hing Most clearly, then, samenes s in knowledge and s o cannot be substance, because t hings differs from complete sameness, for eswhose substance is one have one essence sence is neither the composite's material and ~re themselves one . 51 But how can we c onstituent, nor simply all the actuidentify essence with substance, then, if alities that comprise its form. Yet the an essence is a species? c onclus i on o f the syllogism that began In a sense, when essence acts in Chapter Six omits the dokoumen and legomen matter, it fragments~ found here and found of the premisses, and asserts, not that we there, essence in each instance makes its judge each thing to be the same as its matter peculiar. Such substances possess 60 oneness in kind, not numerical unity. This differs from the unity of a genus in terms of self-sufficiency, since a species, once generated, does not require its instances in order to be, as does a genus. In the case of first substances, however, nothing inhibits the type of sameness they possess; because they do not require matter, essence and substance here are one, simply. Before unravelling some further difficu lties which arise from essence's fragmentation, Aristotle closes his arguments against universals by repeating his central theme. This time, however, he states it in a new way: the actuality of each thing makes it separate.52 Actuality implies separateness; substance sets each thing apart because of what it is. Separateness provides the first link between whatness and actuality. Chapter Fifteen intensifies the problems which arise from the reduplication of essence in matter . Answering the question "Of what is definition possible?", Aristotle concludes that we can only define things which are both common in some way (not indivisible in place as are individuals) and eternal. If ess~nce exists 'in' each thing, and we cannot define these composites because they do not remain, neither can we define essence. But we define substance most of a1153 and think substance most of all to be p~rma­ nent and unchanging. 54 Clearly, essence possesses a type of permanence, since it preserves oneness in kind from one generation to the next. Permanence without qualification belongs only to first substances . But when we view essence solely as whatness, we cannot account for this permanence . Thinking of essence as that which sets each thing apart because of what it is leads Aristotle to focus upon : the 'setting apart' , thereby unpacking the i notion of. actuality. Chapter Sixteen ; illustrates this progression. In Sixteen, Aristotle identifies the fallacy in two wide-spread notions of substance. " •.. most of what are regarded as substances are potentialities. n5~ The parts of animals, whether we consider them as parts (in which case they are not sepa- rate), or not as parts (but as matter), cannot be substances. For in either case they are ·potential and therefore not primary. " ... for none of them is one, but they exist like a heap until they are . transformed and a uni Y is pro d uced out of "t · t~em." 56 One cannot understand a heap without considering its many elements; one can understand a unity, a heap transfo:med, . by ~onsidering only the type of un~ty. it is by considering its principle or cause. Which is to say, one needs to understand the unity itself, simply. . Neither are universals primary, since we must always ref er them to that of which they are the principle.57 Therefore Aristotle claims that they, too, cannot be substances. In the case of both the universal and material elements of a thing, then, to be potential is not to be one for potentiality is alwayi indeterminat~. To be one, as Chapter Thirteen state~, is to be actual. Aristotle's vision of substance as primary verges on actuality, for ~ctuality implies oneness, and thus also implies separation in virtue of what one is. At this point, Aristotle chooses to " ... continue the discussion from another starting point, so to say, 11 58 by asserting substance to be a principle and a cause . We seek the causes of sensible t~ings in two ways, for we can inquire either 1) Why is. A A? or 2) Why does B belong to A? Only the latter expresses t~e investigation properly, because the f 1:st either i~tends the second (although f ~ils to sr,ec1fy the belonging) , or the first asks Why is a thing its wb.atness?". But when we ask why something is itself, we ask, not whether there exists a cause of its being itself (for the thing's exis tence makes this clear), but what that cause is . Yet as Chap ter One makes clear there exists no other, more fundamentai cause for Aristotle than the . 'what' that the thing is; a thing is because it is its essence. Because of the presence of essence in matter then, when we ask why a thing is, we need to ask why something belongs to something else. For when we seek the 61 �c ause of existence or unity in a comp o site, we seek the unity itself -- we seek t he essence which belongs to the composite. This cause is the final cause and in cases of generation the efficient cause. Compounds which a re one in totalit y the n, consist of material elements and t h e c aus e which makes t he se elements one defini te thing. This las t i s n ot an element , bu t " ... t h e subs tanc e of e ach t hing; for this is the first cause of the thing's existence". This leads Aristotle to identify essence with nature; since " ... those (objects) that are substances are formed according to nature or by nature, the sub stance of these would appear to be this nature which is not an element bu t a principle." 59 The Physics asserts nature to be the principle of movement or rest in a thing.60 Is substance really such a principle? Throughout 6, Aristotle depicted substance as that which, because of what it was, made a thing peculiar. We knew essence as 'the what the thing was and is and always will be' ; any 'making' which resulted from this whatness took place somewhat secondarily. Now however, the 'making' has become identical with the whatness: essence is what we say the t hing to be in virtue of itself . Before , Aristo t l e -emphasized 'selfness' ; now he emphas ize s the at emporal 'to be ' . This shift began in Chapter Seven, which describes whatness as a cause in so f ar as essence acts dyn ami cally . But why should whatness aut omatically give rise t o movement? Can we really combine these two ways of seeing substance, as Aristotle 61 does in his description of essence? By his very method of presentation, Aristotle seems t o say that whatness and actuality are by nature intertwined, and their as similation inevitable. Yet they app ear to conflict. Essence is a this. But when substance acts in matter and determines the nature of the r esultant composite, it no longer seems a this (as Seventeen's insistence upon predRather, it acts as a ication indicates). quality : But the f orm signifies a such and this is not a this and a definite thing; and what the artist makes and the man begets is a such from a this, and what is generated is a such-this . 6 3 No whatness except first substance is ever separate from matter. Yet whenever we speak about essence at work in matter, we also speak about suchness, for forms can f unction as the d i fferences between things . 63 However, we distinguish two types of differences those between individuals and those between species ~ A composite becomes a man because essence sets matter apart and makes it definite . Yet since essence acts in this way mo r e than once, thi s 'setting apart' also groups composites. Hence, essence in itself does not set matter directly apar t, for it unit es individuals in kind . Of the differences between indi viduals , those attributes which ma n if est an individual's p r ogress towards its es sence -- proper ties -- s et the individual apart in the greatest degree . Snubness does not distinguish only Soc rates; the way in which Socrates was what every man is said to be does set Socrates apart from all others . So we call a thing 'such' in vir tue of its essence, but we call a thi ng a ' this ' in virtue of certain particularitie s of its sensible form . Yet the very properties we select to distin gui s h an indiv idual r e f ec t · t s e ssence. Indeed, becau se essence acts as a potency, directing all that occurs towards itself, it both causes the cornposite's properties and alters its accidents (and these two together comprise sensible form ) . Theref o re essence not the properties makes the thing a this. And e ven though essence, due to its fragmentation, acts as a such when it determines basic characteristics, the act of essence itself is still a this. 64 The thisness o f essence appears as suchness then, solely because o f its pres""" ence in matter. But all substances except first substances act in matter. Therefore only first substances are peculiar in the fullest sense for only they bo th act and 62 are a this without qualification. But can an act ever be a this? What does it mean to be in act? In place of a definition, Aristotle opposes actuality to ' potentialities and then to motion. "Energeia is the existence of a thing, not in the way that we say something exists potentially." 65 The examples he cites fall into three classes: 1) the exercise of an ability, which he contrasts with the ability; 2) something we separate from its matter, which he opposes to the matter; and 3) the finished product, to the raw material. In a sense, all three perform the same act -- the act of being what we sa~ each to be. When seeing, the eye is doing what an .eye is said to do; when separated, the line segment is being . i~self rather than a part of some large line . They also if we speak ~nalogically -- share whatness, for each is the accomplishment of an intention Energeia then, is both an act and an end. Derived from erg on , energeia, points t~ entelecheia. This same set of relations creates the opposition between energeia and kines is. While a motion has limit (toperas), a motion is not an end (telos); rather, it e xit s for the sake of something other than itself . Hence, we call a motion incomplete (ateleia). An actualit~, while not finished in the way of a motion (for an actuality can continue ~ndefinitely), nevertheless completes itself at any time because it is its own end· Due to its completeness, energeia points to entelecheia. . But can we identify actuality, as Aristotle describes it, with substance? When we viewed substance as whatness, peculiarity characterized substance most of all. The peculiarity of actuality its ' t h. ' isness ' , becomes manifest as completeness. In Book 6, Aristotle unpacked the separateness compounded within peculiarity by examining the three ways in which whatness is prior. Actuality is prior in the same three ways. It is prior in formula: "that .which is primarily capable is capable by view of the fact that it may be an actuality". 66 Secondly, only a thing in actuality can bring a potential into act.67 This moving cause can either resemble the po tential, in which case the priority arises from time (for example, a seed becomes actual because of its parent), or it can differ, in which case the priority arises because the substance of the cause is eternal simply, while the substance of the thing caused is permanent only in a qualified way. Priority in substance precedes temporal priority because, in order to become actual, every potential relies ultimately upon necessary and indestructible things -- upon eternally active substances. In either case, however, actuality is both self-sufficient and the efficient cause of destructible things. · Finally, we said essence was prior in knowledge, because we understand a thing in the highest degree when we under stand its essence. Essence declares a thing, as Chapter Seven shows, because it acts as a·final cause. An actuality, as complete, is also a final cause. Thus it, too, declares a thing. These three priorities reveal that definiteness does belong to an actuality . We call a thing peculiar when it sets itself apart in virtue of what it is; we say a thing is in act when it sets itself apart in virtue of what it is doing . Aristotle's two visions of substance need not contradict. If something has, in itself and because of itself, a tendency for change, we call that thing 'natural' .68 Since essence ·acts as a final cause, it is a principle of movement which initiates and governs the progress of the composite in its actuality and towards itself. (For · example, if the essence of an animal is to partake in the divine by the preservation of its species, an animal -- because of • desire -- will feed itself and reproduce.) In such a principle resides the nature of each composite. Yet essence does not abandon peculiarity when it acts as · a nature, for an act can be a this. Thus in Aristotle's vision of a substance as nature, whatness and actuality merge clearly. But if we view essences 63 �in this way we must also regard only first substances and souls as genuine substances as things which are substances not merely by an analogy. This merging of whatness and actuality then, transforms the investigation of De Anima into an investigation of substance, as substance appears due to its fragmentation in matter. Just as the Metaphysics progresses towards the Prime Mover as 'substance' in the fullest sense, so De Anima focusses upon one particular principle of movement as the most complete expression of substance when present in destructible things. Fo r De Anima investigates man's last differentia, his ability to know. This ability rests upon a meeting or encounter between the soul and its object. As a result of this meeting, the soul becomes a likeness (to homoion) of this object and exists iila way like that object (homoiotai).69 Hence the object upon which the soul focusses determines the nature of both the activity of meeting and the knowledge in which this meeting results. Now the soul encounters two types of objects -- sensible and intelligible. As the soul comes t o know them, it becomes all things. 7 0 What then, are these objects, which t ogether contain all our world? What does the soul really·come to know by means of this meeting in which the soul preserves itself by progressing towards its own actuality? The division between sensible and intelligible objects coincides with the .division in the Metaphysics between sensible form and essence: Since there is a difference between magnitude and the es se nce of magnitude, flesh and the essence of flesh ... and since fl esh exists not without matter but as this snubness in this nose, it is by the sentient power that the soul discriminates the hot and the cold and the thing s whose formula is flesh; but by the intellect that the soul discriminates the essence of flesh. 71 Therefore when sensing, the soul encounters sensible form -- the form of a composite in so far as the form is sensible; when thinking, the soul encounters essence -what we say the composite to be in virtue of itself. This distinction first appeared in the Metaphysics when Aristotle spoke about generation in 6,7 (pg. 9-11). For in his example of generation by art, he distinguished the essence of health from the various stages in which the doctor produces that form in the body. The stages seem to express the individuality and diversity which mark every composite simply because 1) essence acts as a first actuality and 2) essence is present in matter, which has diverse potentials. Yet although these stages involve individuality, they still progress towards heal th, their cause. Likewise, although the soul re ceives the perceptible attributes in all their individuality, these attributes still point towards essence, their source. Yet even though essence causes this showing forth of itself -- i.e., causes the attributes, while we sense the attributes, we d o not sense essence itself (j ust as the form of heal th regulates the stages which lead to it without becoming identical· with them). We, too, acknowle dge a difference between sensible form and essence: for while we sense water (sensible f o rm) , we wou ld not say that we know water -- but we do know what water is (e ssence ) . And while we drink water, we would not claim to drink what water is. Therefore even our manner of speech suggestS a tension between these two methods of knowing. The s ource of this tensi on lies in the work within the composite that each object perf orms. For essence, as a first actuality whic.h directs the composite onward and towards itself, strains against the present actualities o f the sensible form. This strain constructs a conflict between what the composite appears at this moment to be and what the composi te strives to be. Since both o f these in some sense are the composite (although neither is simply identic al with it ) , it 64 1 seems as if we can know some one composite in two respects -- for we can encounter essence or sensible form (essence as it manifests itself ~hen in matter). But before we know anything in either of these two ways, the soul attends to its object; a 'meeting' occurs. The meeting from which sensation arises appears to be a sort of mediated touching -we come to know each composite through 'touching' its perceptible qualities.72 When I see a robin, it 'touches' me by its color and shape; when I hear it, it 't ouc hes' me by its sound . Sensible form functions as a mediator whose activity enables us to know an individual compos ite . We recognize this immediate connection between attributes and their composite in our speech while I can say "I see a color" or "I hear a sound" without mentioning the subject in which they must be present, when I am actually sensing I would be far more likely to say "I see a bird" than "I see the color of a bird", or "I hear a bird" than "I hear the sound of a bird". While we can separate an attribute from its composite --because they do in fact differ whenever the soul encounters the world we r ecognize their connection : sensible form is essence as essence reveals itself when in combination with potentiality, with indeterminacy. The process in which sensible form becomes known manifests even further the indirect nature of sensation. For we always receive sensible form through an intervening medium which is of a physical nature, such as ai r or flesh. 7 3 Yet despite the involvement of a physical medium, and the related fact that the p r oper sensibles have a close connection with the proximate matter of their composite, we never 'touch' matter. When I 'touch' a composite -- matter that a form has made actual, such as any one of the four elements or their combinations -I 'touch', not its matter, but the actuality in the matter . Since matter, when not in combination with a form, is nothing but potentiality, a type of non-being, 74 a soul can never encounter it. Whenever the soul a~prehends an object, it meets a being. In the case of the meeting we call thought, the soul requires neither a medi · um nor an organ. For an essence is not , being in so far as being shows i tselj through secondary categories associate~ with proximate matter; rather, it is c being simply. Therefore whenever the sou ~ contacts essence, it contacts being di rectly by an indivisible act in ar indivisible time. 75 (Aristotle use~ thigein in place of haphe -- his usuaJ word for touch -- to describe this rare meeting.) As a result of this direct contact, the intellect comes to know ar essence in a way in which such being~ never exist actually outside the soul -as separate. Yet despite its separation fron sensible matter, such essence is still not primary in the fullest sense. Rather, since the actuality that is an essence makes definite one potential of its genus, essence becomes part of an intelligible composite. 76 As a result of the action of essence in the intelligible matter of its genus, the soul can define essence - unlike first substances - because it can analyze essence into its constituents.77 But when the soul meets these two different objects -- sensible form and es sence -- in these two different ways, what does it know? What sort of thing is an aisthema or a noema? What do they reveal to us? In Book 2 of De Anima, Aristotle says: That which acts in producing actual sensation is external to the thing which senses it, and this is the visible thing or the audible thing (to horaton kai .!.£_ akouston~r any of the other sensible objects; and the cause of this is the fact that sensation, when actual is of an individual object. Knowledge, on the other hand, is of things universally taken, and these exist in the soul in a certain manner.78 Because sensible form arises from the activity of essence in matter, sensation car only result in knowledge of individuaJ 65 �expresses that end. Therefore when I hear facts or in groupings of these facts. a whisper behind me, and then a scream, I Thus sensation tells me that this fire is discriminate between the two on the basis hot, or that this round, sweet, red thing of their purpose, which I discover from which I find on a certain tree each year differences in their qualities. But in autumn is an apple. Since, as we sense knowledge of the function for which a qualities, we become aware of the form thing appears to be shaped merely points these qualities somehow express, even our to whatness; the soul has not yet reached most basic sensations are not simple; a clear understanding of the one orde ring rather, they connect a quality or qualfunction which causes all the rest. ities with the composite, which underlies However, as we describe sensation them . For when seeing, I see a particular and thought in relation to what each rebird, as its color and shape reveal it to veals about whatness, the strength of the be. Sensation acquaints us with what is difference between the two dwindles. Why at any given moment, for it tells us how then does Aristotle insist so strongly things appear. By making known the upon the importance of isolating the . one phainomena, sensation enables us to take ordering function? Aristotle states this effective practical action. difference most strongly when he contrasts Therefore when we sense, we the relation each holds to wonder. ('Won'touch' certain differentiae of an indider', to thaumazo comes from theaomai vidual composite 79 ; when we think, we conwhich means to gaze at or behold , and tact a composite's last differentia hence also, to contemplate). (Teleuta diaphona) -- the principle which Knowledge of a phenomenon fails to sets the composite apart because of its satisfy wonder -- indeed, it is the source peculiarity. 8 0 This knowledge of the which sparks our amazement. And while whatness of thing explains the combinarepeated sensations can dull or stifle tions sensation makes known by revealing wonder, they cannot bring us to the contheir cause. trary state -- knowledge of the cause can. But to know the precise contents For example, once a geometrician knows the of such an explanation seems a difficult cause of the incommensurability between a thing. A proton noema is not a definition diagonal and the side of its square, nothbecause when we define something we dis ing would make him wonder more than if he tinguish between its materi al and actual found a diagonal which was commensurable parts yet we contact essence by an with its side. We feel wonder whenever we indivisible act in an indivisible time. can't give an account of something because Indeed, such knowledge precedes it contradicts our expectations definition. But if we don't _really know whenever we are perplexed (aporoumen) and what a thing is until we define it, how lack a way (aporos). 81 Once we know a · can we claim, merely by contac i g thing's cause, however, we can account for essence, to know whatness? it; at this point, conviction (pistis) A similar ~roblem surfaces in the replaces wonder. cas~ of sensation, since the knowledge in Aristotle calls this knowledge which sensation results connects with which satisfies wonder 'wisdom' , and aswhatness, while it also precedes def in iserts it to be the highest of all the scit ion. For when we 't ouch' qualities such ences. He calls 'experience' the most as sound or color, we become aware of the advanced knowledge which the soul becomes essence which causes them, and therefore as a result of sensation. If the strain say that we sense the composite substance between essence and sensible form in which we find them. But in this 'awarbetween thinking and sensing is more eness' we neither contact essence nor dethan just ostensible, it should find its fine it; rather, we gain a sense of the highest e~pression in a conflict between composite's purpose. Because a composexperience and wisdom. ite' s final cause -- its essence -- orders When Aristotle explains the varithe entire composite towards the attainment of itself, sensible form 66 ous ways in which the soul encounters the world, he constructs a hierarchy, all the levels of which arise originally from the soul's ability to encounter sensible form. ... out of many sensations memory comes to be, and out of many memories of the same thing experience comes to be. Out of experience, or out of the universal which has come to rest in the soul, and which, being the one alongside the many, is the same in all of them a . . principle of art or ' of science (comes to be).82 Because the diverse memorie~ which combine to create experience concern sensible form, the soul responsible f or experience is the sentient soul. But A~i~totle also describes experience as similar homoios to wisdom83 , and s pea k s o f . . . it with a universal, for experience is the logos. of ~any memories. Although these me~ories differ in content, because each points to one common thing, they together form ~ system or unit of obse rvations. In ex~erience, the soul recognizes the exist~nce of a cause and effect relationship, for it applies the past to the p:esent but the reason for the success of this ~pplication remains unknown. when a certain set of events occurs (for instance, a child has a fever, sore throat, and lethargy) , experience tells us what to do. to remedy the situation (to give the child medicine since he has strep throat). However, experience can not reveal that t~is medicine cures the child because it kills the particular strain of bacteria responsible for strep throat. 84 Thus wh~le it provides an account of the memories which act as its material, experience cannot account for itself Rather, either science or art provides t~e account we desire . Now wisdom is the highest of all the sciences, for it studies the causes and principles upon which all beings depend. Therefore, as a result of following the method which seeks the one function that orders all the remaining activities we come to know an essence which cannot b~ known by sensation because it doesn't reside in matter. Such a science is not a productive science: . .. for it was when almost all the necessities of life were supplied, both for comfort and activity, that such thinking began to be sought. Clearly then, we do not seek this science for any other need; but just as a man is said to be free if he exists for his own sake and not for the sake of somebody else, so this alone of all the sciences is free for only this science exist~ for its own sake Does t?e tension then, between experience and w~sdom, sensing and thinking, find voice in this self-sufficiency? Has Aristotle cemented the division between sensible form and essence in the estrangement of first philosophy from all other knowledge? . But Aristotle envisions these differe~t ways of encountering the world as form~n~ a hierarchy. Thus, rather than straining against each other, experience leads to wisdom, just as sensib\e form leads to and is ordered by essence. · ~lisdo~, while it does not require the ot.her sciences, regulates them -- practical and speculative alike -- because all th th' o er ings depend upon and strive to resemble the primary object of its investigation.BG Because all other substances stand as u~derlying subjects in relation to this fi~st .p rinciple, whoever knows this first princi~le u~~erstands potentially all other things. Therefore, in order to po~sess the deepest under~tanding of the t~ings and actions around us, we require wi~dom. Yet we do not by nature desire ~his understanding because of the benefits it . renders with respect to these other obJects; rather, we desire it for its own sake. But when a man possesses wisdom he knows not merely the first principles' . but also that which follows from them. 8B To contact essence is not sufficient in o~der ~o be wise; we need to reflect ~iscursively as well. So, then, what do we 67 �know by the act in which we contact an essence? would not the nature of this knowledge be similar to that which the first philosopher possesses of the primary principle? But· what would such knowledge be? Aristotle says : Those who wish to succeed in arriving at answers will find it profitable to go over the difficulties; for answers successfully arrived at are solutions to dif fi - cul ties previously dis cussed , and one cannot untie a knot if he is ignorant of it . 89 Before we can understand the es sence of man -- the essence of ourselves - - we need to understand l ) the object of the soul's activity being (both sensible form and essence ) , and 2)the result of this activity (aisthema and noerna). Clearly then, our difficult knot remains still tied, awaiting a f urthe r attempt. 68 Footnotes 37.Topics, 103b~l. 38.Metaphysics, l033b26-30. and On Interpretations, 16a4-9. 39.Metaphysics, 1033a18-22. 40.Ibid., 1032bl. While there seems to be an inconsistency in naming both essence (the form in th~ soul which determines generation) and the properties and accidents by 'form' ,this is really only another expression of analogous predication. While the two do differ, both are actualities although to different degrees. 41.Ibid., 1032b5-10. 42.Ibid., 1019a15-21. 43.Ibid., 1032b26-28. 44.Generation of Animals, 736a35-bll.45 .Metaphysics, 1037b15~17. 46.Physics, 193b13-19. 47.Properties and perfections are closely related-perhaps even identical. For a property is something that belongs to its composite because of its essence, for example, the ability to learn grammar is a property of man. Thus, properties are essence, improperly understood. Perfections are similar: "For neither the habits of the body nor those of the soul are alterations. For of the habits, some are virtues and others vices ... a virtue is a kind of perfection (for when each thing acquires its virtue it is said to be perfect; for a thing exists in the highest degree according to nature when, to use an example, like a perfect circle, it has become a circle in the highest sense and the best circle), while a vice is a destruction or departure from that perfection." Physics, 246a10-17. 48.Metaphysics, 1036a9-10. 1.De Anima, 433a31-32; 433b29-31. 2.Ibid., 432al5-17. 3.Ibid., 432a30-32. 4.Ibid., 415al5-23. 5.Ibid., 43lb24-a3. 6.Ibid., 429bl3-18. 7.Metaphysics, 1017a9- b9 . 8.Ibid., 1003a33-34. 9.Ibid., 1054a13-19. 10.Ibid., 1003b23-24. 11.Ibid., 1011b25-28. 12.Ibid., 1028a15. 13.Ibid., 1048a32. 14.Ibid., 1028a14-15. 15.Ibid., 1041b4-5; and Posterior Analytics, 89b36-a15. 6.Ibid., 1054a10-13; 1053b16-23. 17.Ibid., 1028a20-31. 18.Topics, 101b19-24. 19.0dyssey, Book III, line 82-84. 20.Metaphysics, 1003a10. A substance is a this and can be exhibited 21.Physics, 184a16-b14. 22.Metaphysics, 1003b16-18. 23.Ibid., 1024a8-9. 24.Categories, 3b10. 25.Metaphysics, 1029a27. Matter would appear as nothing because, in o rder for it to be absolutely separate, we must remove the attributes which bound matter (length, width, and depth) and also those which make matter's presence known to us (colo r ), because the being of these attributes is not the same as that o f matter (which is solely potential) 26.Ibid., 1029a26. 27.Ibid., 1029a33. 28.Ibid., 1007a29-b16. 29 . Ibid . , 1030a3 - 5. 30.Ibid., 1030a12-14. 31 . Ibid., 1037b17-21. 32.Ibid., 1052a23-29. 33.Ibid., 1050a9-10. 34.Ibid., 1030a30. 35.Ibid., 1031a15-18. 36.Metaphysics, 1030b19-21. 69 �F or the form, which is a this and sepa rable in formula (only) • • • II Ibid .' 104228-29. 65.Ibid . , 1048a32- 33. 66 .Ibid ., 1049b13- 14. 67 .Ibid., 1029b32- a28 . 68.Physics, 192bl6-21. 69 . De Anima, 418a6-7. 70.Ibid.,43lb20-23. 71 . Ibid ., 429bl0-18. 72.Ibid., 41Ra?4-~h . . 7 3 .Ibid . , 423b12-17. 74 .Metaphysics, 1089a26- 31 . 75 . De Anima, 430bl4-16. 76 . Just as we call both the sensible c ompo site and its essence ' substance' (because the first points to the second) , so we call both the intelligible c omposite of species plus genus and also just the part of the composite that is actual 'ess ence' . 77.Metaphysics, 1045-34-35. 78.De Anima, 417b20-23. 79.Metaphysics, 1042b32-35. These diff e r entiae are members of the secondary categories. SO . Ibid ., 1038al6-30. 81 .Ibid., 982bl7 . 82 .Posterior Analytics , 100a3-9 . 83 . Metaphysics, 98la2 - 3. 84 .Ibid., 98la4-12. 85.Ibid., 982bl2 -2 8 . 86 . Ibid., 1072bl4; and Nichomachean Ethics,114lb23- 24, and 1145al0- ll. 87.Metaphysics, 982a21- 23 , and 992b3 -4. 88 . Nichomachean Ethics , 114la16-20. 89 . Metaphysics , 995a28- 30 . 49.Ibid;, 1037h1 -R~ SO.Ibid., 1038b24. 51.Ibid., 103Bb14-15. 52.Ibid., 1039a8. 53.Ibid., 1034a20. 54.A substance, because it is prior in time, is that upon which all other beings depend. If no substances were to exist, nothing would exist. Therefore it seems as if substances are eternal. Metaphysics, 107lb5 - 8. 55.Ibid., 1048b5- 6. 56.Ibid., 1040b9-10. 57.Categories, 8a31- b2. 58.Metaphysics, 1041a7-8. 59.Ibid . , 104lb27 -32. 60.Physics, 192b22-23. 61.Metaphysics, 1029b14-15. 62.Ibid., 1033b23-25. 63.Categories, lOall-13 : A fourth genus of qualities is the shape or the form of each thing, and we may add to these straightness and curvature and other like them . For a thing, in virtue of each of these, is said to be such and such ." Topics, 144a20 -22: " ... the differentia alway s signifies a quali ty." three 64 . When speaking of the kinds of substance Aristotle says: " ... another is nature, which is a this, and it is that to which something changes , and a possession ... In some cases, that which is a this does not exist apart from a composite substance." Metaphysics, 107 0all-16. or again: " ... in another sense it (substance) is the formula 70 Beethoven ... A Comedian?! Kenneth Martin At the time that Beethoven wrote the Third Symphony, there was a certain form for the composer to follow when he wrote a symphony. This form dictated the number of movements and a certain order in which. they were to be placed. Since the movements were entitled according to the tempo at which it was to be played, this order also dictated the tempo of each movement . For instance the first movement of the Third Symphony is entitled "Allegro con brio". This means merry, with spirit. Beethoven breaks from this tradition when he writes the second and third movements. Traditionally the second movement was slow--Beethoven keeps that, but he entitles the movement "Marcia funebre" which means funeral march. He seems to want to place an image in the listeners mind . To make sure that the image gets there, he gives the movement a title which will place it there. The image is that of a funeral--thus one of grief. The third movement he entitles "Scherzo" which means joke. The traditional third movement of a symphony was a minuet. This is a dance in 3/4 time which was played quickly. Why does Beethoven bring a joke into his symphony and why is it a joke? Before we approach the techni cal question of "how is it a joke?", we shall put forth a hypothesis about why he chooses a scherzo. As we mentioned before, Beethoven breaks tradition at first with the second movement--the funeral march. This is an extremely slow movement designed to convey a feeling of grief to the listener. At the conclusion of this movement the listener is immersed in a cloud of grief. This cloud is thick, making it difficult to breathe or move. The listener is in danger of suffocating or drowning because he is so saturated with grief. For Beethoven to leave the listener in that cloud of grief is to stab him in the heart and let him bleed. Since he immersed us into that cloud, he now has to reach out to us and help us back into the clear air. He does this by telling us a joke. Beethoven realizes that although . grief is an important thing for humans to express, it should not overwhelm us and become part of us. If grief does ove rwhelm us, it is bad because grieving is basically a selfish emotion. When someone dies, the mourning is not for the person who died, but for the lives that have to go on living without him. After all, if we believe in life after death, we should rejoice for the person who died, for he' has moved to someplace better. Thus it can be seen that grief is a selfish thing and when a person lets it overwhelm him, he is being selfish. Beethoven seems to think that the best way to move a person from grief is to make him laugh. Let us see how he attempts this difficult task. The third movement is a masterpiece whose main purpose is to keep the audience off balance. Throughout the piece, al though the tempo never changes, it is difficult to keep in time with the music. It keeps running away from the listener, who is trying to catch it and make it part of him. Beethoven never lets . the l~stener catch up, because if he does, he will become wrapped in his own inner world . He lets this happen in the second movement. Now he wants us to become part of society again. This means we have to strive to catch what we want--as in the third movement. To make clearer what I mean by keeping someone off balance, to let him laugh, let us glance at how a comedian 71 �r works. A comedian's job is a difficult one, because his audience's purpose is to be made to laugh. Since they expect this it makes the comedian's job tougher, because that is the easiest way to make people laugh--to give them the unexpected. But it has to be unexpected in an uncertain way. For instance, a comedian who came out and read a tragic poem probably would not get laughed at, for tragedy is simply the opposite of comedy. The comedian has to move in a completely different motion than the audience would ever expect. A good stand up comedian never lets his audience rest once he has got them laughing. He tells a joke and when it is over he immediately tells another. If the audience does not laugh, he can sometimes salvage it by buffoonery. If the audience does laugh, as soon as they have quieted enough to hear him speak, he begins another joke. This way the audience does not have time to get its expectations straight. Thus they laugh more easily. Beethoven does much the same thing. The movement opens in 3/4 time with three beats to a measure. He states the theme of the ·movement in the first fifteen measures of the piece. By the end of the seventh measure the listener's sense of time is already confused. If he has a score, he knows it is 3/4 time, otherwise he is in limbo. In the first place the music is moving so fast that it is impossible to count each beat in the measure, so the listener is left to tapping his foot to the first beat of every measure . The problem with this is that the listener has to trust his ear to tell him which beat is the first beat of the measure. Usually, since it is the strongest beat in the measure and composers use it as such, it is easily found. However Beethoven fools everyone because he starts on the last beat of a measure and uses a one, two count to fool the listener into 2/ 4 time. This is accomplished by emphasizing every other beat, thus the person counts 2/4. But at measure nine he slips in an extra unaccented beat--meaning that we are in 3/4 time. The listener starts tapping every one of the one, two, three count. Then at measure sixteen he jumps back into the 2/4 time of the first seven measures . The listener is off balance again. At measure twenty-two, he moves back into 3/4 emphasizing the first beat of each measure again. Then at thirty he reenters 2/4 time.. This lasts until measure forty-two where 3/4 time asserts itself again. We stay in 3/4 time until measure fifty-eight where 2/4 comes in again. This is a confused section where it is tough to get any sort of rhythym at all. This confusion lasts to measure seventy where 3/4 is emphasized strongly by the violas and contra bass playing the same note (D) eleven times through three and two-thirds measures (70 - 73) then moving to another note (Bb) on the first beat of bar seventy-four and playing it eleven times through another three and two-thirds measures (74 -7 7) . Then at the last beat of bar seventy-seven we move back to the one, two punch of 2/4 time. This back and forth motion lasts until bar one hundred and sixteen. we have been in 2/4 since bar one hundred and eleven. Then we get three successive sets of quarter notes moving to half notes. These throw our timing off completely. The nearest thing we can grasp is 3/4, but it is difficult because the strong beat comes on two of the measure, instead of one where we need it to get the sense of 3/4 time. As soon as these three bars (116 -119 ) are finished we get a solid statement of 3/4 time with two bars (122-3) which state one chor d on each beat in the first bar then another chord on all three beats of the second. Then in bar one hundred twenty four we get that confused quarter note to half note step again. After this set (124 -7 ) we get another set in a 3/4 time as before. This lasts until bar one hundred and forty four where 3/4 reasserts itself by playing the melody notes only on the first beat of the measure. This moves us all the way to the repeat o f bar one hundred and sixty four in 3/ 4 time. It is evident then, that Beethoven strives to keep us off balance and does so in the first section of the movement. 72 The trio which begins at measure again, gi~ing us our sure 3/4 time. This one hundred and sixty seven and ends at lasts until bar four hundred and twenty measure two hundred and sixty, may be the only place where we have a chance to catch 1 two wher~ he gives us an authentic cadence on th~ first beat of a measure. This octhe music. Al though the tempo stays the curs in bars four hundred twenty one to same, the fact that the same note is being four hundred twenty two. This gives a held over a longer period of time tends to sure sense of 3/4 time. make us think of a slower tempo. From bar . H~ m~ves into the coda in a 2/ 4 one hundred and sixty seven to bar two time· This is seen in bar four hundred hundred and six he uses the last beat of a measure to emphasize the first beat o.f the . and twenty three in the timpani giving us a. one, two count. Then the violins and next measure. This gives the liste-~~r a viola com~ in emphasizing the 2/4. Oversteady sense of 3/4 time which lasts for a top of this .2/4 time in the bass, he puts time. This enables the listener to catch the melody in 3/ 4 with the clarinet and his breath and get some stable ground for foggotto playing two dotted quarter notes a.moment. A moment later he plunges the back to back followed by a quarter note on listener into a trio of flute, clarinet, the first beat of the measure (425 -27 ) . and bassoon (Fogotto) at bar two hundred The flute joins with the melody in bar and six. Our sense of 3/4 time lasts for four hundred and twenty nine.to four huna measure before he starts emphasizing dred and thirty one . Then we get a solid every other beat again. The listener f al2/ 4 from bars four hundred thirty one to ters, striving to get in time with the f~ur hundred and thirty nine with the enmelody. This lasts from bar two hundred tire orchestra moving at one two, one two. and six to ?ar two hundred and twenty five T~en at four hundred and thirty nine he w~ere a trio of horns comes in with the gives us a cadence on one, then two rests. first melody of the trio to bring us back Bar four hundred and forty and four hunto 3/4 time. Again Beethoven just lets dred and forty one do the same. This the listener get the feel of the rhythm pushes us again to 3/4 time and ends the before he changes it again. we last in piece . 3/4 until the repeat at bar two hundred It becomes evident that Beethoven and sixty. ha~ masterfully designed this movQment to At two hundred and twenty five of bring the listener out of his own inner th~ 7econd ending he brings us back to the world of grief and self pity. He strives or i?in~l theme of the movement, starting ~o mo.ve us to a shared outer world full of again in 2/4 time. This part is almost an ~oy in that sharing. If hE: gives us a e~act ~eplica of the beginning. The cruJoyf~l sounding piece in which we are able cial difference occurs in measures three to f i~d our timing, he offers us a way hundred and eighty one to three hundred back into that inner world whicL is so and eighty five. This is the spot where lonely. By constantly shifting tfi.-, rhythm we are used to a quarter note to half note ~rom 2/4 to 3/4 he refuses the way to that t~ quarter note half note cadence~ we inner world. Before we can get there we finally have come to terms with the back have to be able to become as one with the and forth motion from 2/4 to 3/4. Then m~sic ~ This can only happen if we are here he moves to 2/2 time. Our timing is wit~ it rhythmically. Thus in chasing the thrown into outer space. This is the climusic to become one with it we forget ourmax of the joke and "the joke is on us". selves and think of the music, or even From there he move back into a 2/4 at mea better, of someone else . Thus, the third sure three hundred and eighty five uritil movement is not a joke so much as an end arou~d four hundred and one . Here he emto g!:i;_eving. phasizes the first beat of every measure 73 �Kyrie Jerry Spires / ~ \ ,, I I ~ I a ~- ,, .. ' e · u· 5°"'. 1 .. I': I ... / -e t\ .. ... "' - & ~ • . - .._,- - ... . .. ,,. \ -" ~- ,.~. ~- ~,, ~ , a.- ... ~ . II ' .... ~Ill.I ~ - --... . --:) . I I I .. - . _. t.5-· ~ ·- ~ ~ I I . .I "" - .. .. - .. ., • I Loi;• r r.-.. r' I . --. I.I. . I I I - I • - I - I I I r I ~~. Jt.. !I J. 1 i,.. ,,.., - I - I - I sb ... fI• - ..'- - ..,, . .. ... I c ..i. . . . . - I ..... -. I ./ I ... I 'T ·1 .. r "". ~· I ,_ I "" g ,.-. I• . . I I I I .. I -, I ..,. I - . I I • c; • I • I I T I ....____....., ~ - , ,.. ~ I I I ! P"' T I I ...... :i / - r r- ~ ·~ - IT ci; ', I 1 S~N. \- - ..r • ,.. I t ef " t ~ ..... ti: .... - \ . . •· I I I r l' I I I ..i I I ' .. J I I I I I I ,.t1'1 E.· - I ,.,, " I r " l I ,,,,. I I --- I I r kLl I I I l'1 • I I r-,...,,, - I r I I . .. - l' I .. l T .: r ~ c• I I I ., "'P I 1· I I e. I I . ... . r E- I T I I I I I I I - I a • s~ .' ... , - Nlf'=" Ill I I I I .._____...'"' u• - ~ ~o~ . T T I -.- L::; II ,_, I I .. I \.J LZ' - I":', ,. I I 11 ./) . ~j ,!M ~ r I ~ 'Sot4 . - 1T 0 . I l ,_ , _, · I - I ~ Lli - rr I ~- I.El- I I ~ Q.~ I I a I I I E• "'r.- I " • - e.- n I I I I J I I • ..- r •e - I ,_ I • l"'\l I ~ • 5QN. - r I I E I - -i 1 !.!;· I I 91 I '- . ' 'I I I -,,., r I I I ' -' - r- ~ I'</ _,, - I I - • rll I - I 75 74 -• r r ! l I - l ~ I ... l... ' J ~Otl \ I ,,./' I I I k..'/" I"" 1..f- I ·- (J ~ 1'.'I • ~ ,, I ' V.,.' / • P..I J il· ) Jerry Spires attended st. John's in Annapolis for two years. He is now studying liberal arts at Lewis and Clark College in Portland, Oregon. The Xyrie here printed is part of his Mass entitled "The Solemn Joy". I ~~ ~~ ~ j _/ e.- ...--... -.... / r." - I I - ~ I i'.'I· ~-~ - r if - ~ . I •IOM. - ·- •,. ..J ~ t"'\ . : S"r{ - ' - I I lt-.p - ' I I l I - r (\,J I l£· - - I I I I I - I I I . I / I - ~ 1t.S.ti·~ I I ~ ~ - ... ' r,-. I I "" II • I~. / I I -i '- I LJUYL..l ,I I I I I I I i ~ ~· ~\-~ ~. ...... . /.\ I -~ I I > I &J I l.f • l _, - f I I ~ 'T • nlJ I ~ · - - r I ~ ,_ . I CV. I I . r I -i I • !- -. . r r ·1 ,.._ r'i " ~ - I I ' -T I ~ - I e.- - "" -· . r.. I I .- ,, 11.a ..' I t:ll· J ~) I ,, I ,. M I I I ' - I I ~~·'-\"I! ~ ~ -- - r , ,.. • A 11 n ~ r1 ~ ' - Lj II r I I .~ ,.... I �~ , / -• ... I ~ , , \. I I I I ~ C/111.\ • , I ~ / I •. '\ \.~ ".: - I I I I - ,_ J ~ I \ ' l " J .. ' . I - ' I e~, II' - J .. -- l t ~ 'II ; - \ I I I - 11 LI· - ' T I - ~ .... I I Clll. •• I -m I I . u ,. \I" I .. I - "" I "'---"' I - I I ~ • 30f'l • -· J. i.- I• . ,. • I I I"" r- I I . .- - - ~ · .. l l) ' t \ l I I I I I I"' I I I E· ....... [ I ! - - Lf; - I I ,- I I I I ' I I I ' J_ I· .... ..,, I l.4 ··I l JoM _ ,_ i..- ~ S•N I ~- ., I r' I I I I l I I I I I I I I ' ' ...,1 c· t· - I I I 1 I 1..E; - -. I I .. ' r-. ~~ I I I ' I ......... I (,")/ "1....._ n _.j(_] Sotl.- ~ I· ,... ,_J I I i • I• - ~ .. I -I !"" I I . r - ... .. J :L. I - I .....____... I ... f ~ ~ I I - 1 cat&l· -\'Te - - I"' I I I l" I I I I I -· - ew-«.1- Jllil. T ,_ Ii..il· . • S• l'l I I '• r I I Le• I 77 76 - i I ~ r • ~"!'" n~ S..~J. - I ' I I I I ~ I I I I I _. ! I I 'I 'l I - .......-1 ~ I .. --,. I I - I I I I .. r I .... I, _ "'" . ~!~ ..... ,. - 1· - c.iic.1- • '$0"4 r... I .,. '-" 1\ _Ji tlc..,. - !:>' 1 1.•· - Jott . .5.,,i l" ,,..---.....,. I E· ' ' •.lff ,.. ' -. . .. - I I I i I I ~ LI• I I -m C:1U.1• - ,... LI a ~ I ·I· - !"" I I . ,,.. I I !.- t - I I I I I -,. "" I I I I .. ~ } I I I I I I I I A I .,.. I I I . ,. I I - I I I ... .. I ~ ... I E· ·si"i I I •-, I li - .. r- I E'· I LJ - - I - .I!! l I -.J ...._ .-,, I .- ~- I I . ,, J....V I .. U• ,.. ' 50"', \ ,J --.. - . - - I ' I ' I 1 II (.M. I • -,.. l I ) I ' ... CM I ' l . ~ -~ . , E· I I I I - I I I i. - I I " - ., .. -· ... -,, ' ~ .. ,, , _ .., l .. ~- ~ .----..... . ~ .... 6 I -1 • SllN, l ..,, "' I I - - \ I Tl I ,,,,,...-..., - - ..... I .,~ lf. . ~I - I _,. ~~ -- . .. ~- I .J+r ,. ft I . .... ' I I r;;1' r-i . 1 I I J I l ,J. ..- I 1' - I I ,,, I ~ I .. . -r I ~ - IS· I e•~1· .J &· I • I . r u LI '\.. ... I r1 11 .A - / - 11 I h I ) c~- "" " .. . - "' ·31'£ ' L I r,o... I I \ I I I ! I . ~. ./1 I ' I I I I QI . I• d C.~1- .. -. ' ' -,,,;[ l - Li- I I I I I I , ~-V -~ -do ~ ,, ... \ ' I " ) ~ ~ I I ~I ! I II I I - . . . .... I I • ) - ",. I _ l �The Harmony of the Solids Martin Marklin . A ~reject ~-o.r . the .~ab_ora~ory Mr. Curtis Wilson, Advisor Preface: -SO' . I sense I have today witnessed something great! It is my intention to show in this little paper something remarkable which I happened upon not totally by accident, namely this: there is indeed audible harmony among the five regular solids. These solids, celebrated since the days of Pythagoras and Plato, have more harmony and design than I suspect has been known until today. But before I begin to give my account, permit me, kind reader, to recount the occasion of such a blessed finding and to explain why I undertook this endeavor. It was some months ago that I first was introduced to the study of acoustics, and undoubtedly the most fascinating phenomenon of this science was the Harmonic Overtone Series of a vibrating string. While I was perusing those small whole number ratios, I recollected seeing them before in my geometrical studies. For I had discovered in Euclid's Thirteenth Book that, for at least three of the five regular solids, the edges were related in square to the diameter by small whole number ratios. What a beautiful coincidence! Lest I lose someone before I even begin, allow me to recall here the ratios of the five regular solids and those of · the Harmonic Overtone Series: Octahedron: The square on the diameter of the comprehending sphere is double the square on the side of the octahedron. (side of octahedron) 2 : (diameter) 2 ::1:2 Cube: The square on the diameter of the comprehending sphere is triple the square on the side of the cube. (side of cube ) 2 : (diameter ) 2 ::1:3 Icosahedron: The side of the icosahedron is the irrational straight line called minor. Dodecahedron: The side of the dodecahedron is the · irrational straight line called apotome . I The Harmonic Overtone Series 1 2 3 4 5 2 3 4 5 6 Octave Fifth Fourth Major Third Minor Third Now what was innnediately obvious to me was that the octave and the octahedron have the same ratio, namely 1: 2. Moreover, the octave and the octahedron embody the same number eight: eight notes in the *The symbol ()~ is not algebraic. It is a short way of expressing "The square constructed on ..• " It would be inconsistent to think here that one should multiply the length of the side by itself. 78 Tetrahedron: The square on the diameter of the comprehending sphere is one and a half times the square on the side of the pyramid. (side of tetrahedron) 2 *: (diameter)2::2:3 79 I �former and eight faces in the latter. Now this similarity could hardly be accounted a simple coincidence! And so I set out upon my search for perfection, to see where blessed nature left fingerprints of her perfection. I looked to geometry and music, for my presumption was that music is in a sense "sensed mathematics". The five regular solids were not new models of perfection, harmony, and creation. They go as far back as Pythagoras and Plato; and perhaps the best lighting for the solids appears in Plato's Timaeus, in which Timaeus tells his "likely story" of creation. But his account is not a creation account--and by creation I mean strictly "creation from nothing"--for the demiurge fashions the world after archtypes eternal and perfect. Timaeus links the solids to the four elements: For bodies to be bodies they must be both tangible and visible which are the results of earth and fire, respectively. Earth is represented by the cube and fire by the tetrahedron . Now between any two solid bodies there need to be two proportionals. Hence, water (icosahedron) and air (octahedron) serve to bind these two elements together. The fifth solid, the dodecahedron, serves as the container for the other elements. But even better than this, I had for my guide Master Johannes Kepler, who said that God the creator was a playful, geometricizing God. By this Kepler meant that God created the world out of love and for de light . Fur thermore, God used the two tools of the geome ter, the straight-edge and the compass. Even though the phrase "Harmony of the Spheres" - -to describe celestial mechanics-preceeds Kepler by many centuries (it goes back to Pythagoras, who claimed that he and a few other select persons in history were capable of training themselves to audibly hear the .musical harmony of the planetary heavens) , Kepler used this as his foundation for his Harmonice Mundi (Harmonics of the World). (intelligible, not audible) with dissonant tunings, like certain syncopations or cadences (wherewith men imitate these natural dissonances), Hence it · is no longer a surprise that man, the ape of his Creator, should finally have discovered the art of singing polyphonically · (per concentum) , which was unknown to the ancients, namely in order that he might play the everlastingness of all created time in some short part of an hour by rneana· of an artistic concord of mau1y ·· voices and that he might to some extent taste the satisfaction of God the Workman with His own works, in that very sweet sense of delight elicited from this music which imitates God. --Harmonice, Book v, Chapter 7 Now the phrase "not audible" befuddled me, and I resolved to try to make audible harmonies by means of the five regular solids, in light of the coincident ratios with the harmonic overtone series. First Beginnings : My first i nclination was to construct out of wire the regular solids, given the correct d i me ns i ons so that they would be comprehended withi n the same sphere . My thinking was this : since the edges of the solids were in harmonic ratios, why not make them as one tunes a string? In this manner the notes produced by the plucked strings would give the harmonic intervals of the octave, the fifth, the fourth, and so on. What signi f icance this would h ave l We now str etch strings over several feet within a piano. Wouldn't it be beautiful to have those very same ratios given within the confines of one sphere, determined by the five regular solids--the most perfect of all rectilineal bodies. For the mystery of the five regular solids . Accordingly the movements of the heavens are nothing except a certain everlasting polyphony 80 lies in the fact that there are precisely five and no more . Moreover, the regular solids are the most a. rectilineal body can approach the sphere, the perfectly curved. My enthusiasm was not enough, however, to surmount the obstacle of "conunensurable only in square". For no sooner had I begun my calculations than I realized that those small .whole number ratios applied only to the squares constructed on the sides of the solids. To a geometer these squares mean area, not the algebraic notion of taking a length times itself . It became increasingly clearer to me that my polyphonic model would not be so easy to construe~. I had already begun, whether I had realized at the time or not, my war on incommensurability. One day, however, I learned that while string-lengths exhibit a one dimensional vibration mode, drums require two- dimensional membranes to sound their natural resonances. What a joy and what new hope this news brought to me! Once again I had the hope of somehow circumventing "commensurable only in square". And why not drums? For the five regular solids are three-dimensional bodies; they are polyhedra and not polygons . Why should their natural resonance be limited by a one-dimensional string length? It would be far more appropriate to construct the solids as drums, thus letting the whole body sound its own natural resonance. And so I undertook to study drums and the wave equations appropriate to drum-heads . The first bit of infor mati on was shocking: drums, like bells, do not exhibit a harmonic overtone series like a vibrating string or a column of air. For drums and bells, their partials above the fundamental are inharmonic and their resonance not linear. Two of the most important contributing factors to the pitch of a drum are the volume of enclosed air and the size of the vibrating membrane. The trapped air will reinforce certain partials and cancel others; if this were not the case, one would simply get a "thud" and no musical pitch . Also important to the pitch is the thickness and tension of the membrane. Now each of the five regular solids had its own particular volume, surface area, and lateral face area. I thought to myself: "If I could keep my drum-head of constant thickness and tension- - then perhaps I might be able to bypass 'commensurable only in square'" . Just perhaps in combining the specific volume with the specific aperture of each of the solids, I might arrive at notes harmonically related. For by this time it was clear that what I was hoping was that the natural resonances of the five solids as drums would be in small whole number ratios. Constructing the Solids: The construction of each solid begins by taking a segment equal to the diameter of the given sphere, the sphere within which the regular solid will be comprehended. The diameter is divided into a specific ratio, and a perpendicular is set out from the point of division to the circumference. Lines connecting the ends of the diameter to the point on the circumference give three right and similar triangles. The following two theorems are vitally important for Euclid's proofs in Book Thirteen: A B AB . : AD : : AD : AC (sim . tri.) AC dup . AB : AD (AB) .2 : (AD) .2 dup. AB AD (VI. 20) 1) AB : AC : : (AB) .2 : (AD) .2 AB : AB 2) 81 AB AC . . (AB) BC . . (AB) .2 (AD) .2 .2 (DB) .2 �_.,.;-- - Octahedron Now let us consider more closely the specific construction of the octahedron, the tetrahedron, and the cube. What was noted before about the octave and the octahedron also holds for the diapente (fifth) and the pyramid. But where does the cube lead us? It alone gives us the interval of the twelfth, a fifth above the range of the octave. It would complete things, it appears at first glance, if the ratio of the cube were 3:4, the same as the diatesseron ( fourth). But in fact, the ratio of the cube, namely 1:3, does not appear in any of the octave's intervals. Consider the diagram below. Circle ABFE is the circumference of the sphere circumscribing the five regular solids, and AB is its diameter. BE is the side of octahedron, AF the tetrahedron, and BF the cube. Let us assign 6 units to the square constructed on the diameter. ( It is important to remember that the numerical unit 6 refers to the square constructed on the side AB, not to the specific length of AB). ·~ already know the ratios of the octah~ ~ron* (1 :2 ), the tetrahedron ( 2: 3) , and the cube ( 1 : 3) • Consequently, the square on length AF will be 4, and the square on length BF will be 2. B AD:AB .. 1 : 2 AD : AB . . (AC) :z (AB ) 2 2 (AC ) :z : ( AB ) : : 1 : 2 A Tetrahedron AD: AB:: 2 : 3 AD : AB : : (AC ) 2 (AC) 2 : (AB ) :2 •• (AB) :z 2 : 3 A Cube BD : AB : : 1 : 3 (AB ) :z BD : AB : : (CB ) :z (DB ) :z : (AB) :z : : 1 : 3 *For the sake of clarity and brevity, I will introduce the term "rati o of the (octahedron) (BE) 2 (tetrahedron) (AF) 2 (cube) (BF) (octahedron ) (BE) 2 2 .. 3 : 4 3 : 4 (diatessaron) .. .. .. 2 : 3 2 : 3 (diapente) (cube) (BF) (tetrahedron ) 2 (AF) .2 .. .. 2 : 4 2 : 4 (octave) We can immediately deduce·, from looking only at the tetrahedron and the octahedron, that the square on the side of the octahedron has to the square on the side of the tetrahedron the ratio of 3:4. This ratio, the diatessaron, is the complementary ratio that when compounded with the dipente gives the octave. Arithmetically, we see that 2:3 compounded with 3:4 gives 1:2. Hence, the fifth and the fourth, the two major consonances within the octave, are unequal but complementar y parts that together make a complete and ordered whole, a harmonious whole, the octave. This is precisely what we mean by harmony . Just as the Pythagoreans needed only the octave and the fifth to generate the entire musical scale, so too the octahedron and the tetrahedron will gene rate the other intervals. We saw that the ratio of the octahedron together with the ratio of the tetrahedron gave us the fourth. Alter nately, we get the fifth from the ratios o f the octahedron and the cube. Since the ratio of the octahedron appears in both equations, we can see how closely the cube and the tetrahedron are related-...;.not as regards the ratios of their sides to the diameter, but with respect to the octahedron itself, the octave. Perhaps the most striking proof that the pyramid and the cube are indeed complementary is this : the square on the side of the pyramid has to the square on the side of the cube the ratio 1 : 2 or the octave. A beautiful illustration of all this is seen in compounding ratios. Since triangle AFB is right, we know that the square on the side of the cube when added to the square on the side of the tetrahedron is equal to in area the square on the side of the diameter. (Euclid I . 47). In other words, (BF) 2 + (AF) 2 2 • (AB) Moreover, the square on the diameter is twice as large (2 : 1) as the square on the side of the octahedron. When the ratio 2 : 3 is compounded with the ration 3: 4, the number 3 is used as the middle term. In · the same manner we can use length BE as the middle term: (BF) 2 I (BE) 3 :2 comp . comp. (BE) 3 2 : (AF) 4 2:: •• .. (BF) 2: (AF) 4 2 2 1 2 (octave) proceeded this way: So the groundwork was laid and I begah to experiment . I first constr ucted models of the solids, given a compre hending sphere whose diameter is 20 centimeters. I made the faces out o f ~ inch plexi- glass, and during the assemblage I left one face out. Thi s was to be the opening for my drum. To assure the same tension and thickness in the membrane, I used the same drum- head for all the solids . It was constructed out of 0 . 003 inch mylar stretched between a 10 inch embroidery hoop. - I placed the taut membrane over the open-faced solid, whicb was supported by its edges (to avoid any dampening of the solid) . The over-hang of membrane was dampened by ~ inch foam, upor which was placed 260 grams, evenly dis persed. I repeated this very same procedure for each of the solids. Upon the exposed membrane · I placed poppy seeds, weighed out to 0 .1 gram. l held a four-inch speaker to one face of octahedron" to mean "the ratio of the square constructed on the side of the octahedron to the square constructed on the diameter of the comprehending sphere". Hence, the "ratio of the octahedron" is 1:2; "of the tetrahedron", 2:3; and "of the cube", 1:3. 83 82 2 : �the solid by means of a rubb er band (again, I placed spacers between the rubber band and the edges to avoid any unnecessary dampening). The speaker was hooked up to a frequency generator. My hypothesis was this: I would excite the air inside the solid at different frequenc ies and notice when the membrane would resonate. The advantage of this set-up was that it took into account at the same time both the volume of the solid as well as the size, thickness, and tautness of the membrane. The frequencies at which resonance would occur, I could be sure, would be the natural. resonance of the collective body. The poppy seeds were on the membrane to indicate when there was resonance as well as the mode of oscillation. Since my frequency generator did not have enough power, it was unable to detect the resonance of the unaided membrane. Moreover, the poppy seeds would move when they sat on points of oscillation, seeking nodal points (points of inactivity). Since the drum head could have an infinite number of modes of oscillation, and since four of my membranes were neither circular nor rectangular, I had no way of reasonably foretelling the pattern of oscillation. The poppy seeds would trace such a pattern. Now even before I began my experimentation I knew that there would be inaccuracy. For one thing, my models were constructed with a bevel on each face . When I removed one face, I was left with an extruding bevel which gave a lateral surf ace area greater in proportion to the inner volume of the solid (the thickness, as you recall was~ inch). Furthermore, I did not know how accurately callibrated my frequency generator was, p~rticularly since it was incremented at 20 cycles per second. Given all this, I searched not for precise experimental data, but rather for large pattern s. And patterns I did receive. The following graphs record at what frequency and to what intensity the particu lar s o lid resonates. I had no way o f measuring the intensity o f the resonance other than to watch the activity of the poppy seeds and listen with my ear. Thus, the recordings A, B, C, D are subject to my own limitations. D The _ Findings: c I took the strongest lowest frequency of each of the solids as its fundamental. In all cases I was able to reach a strong second partial, many times with greater intensity than the fundamental. The closest that I came to harmonics was with the cube, where the fundamental was around 350 cps and the second partial (harmonic?) was at 73 0 cps, nearly a 1:2 ratio. This would seem to make sense, f o r the cube in many respects is the most "regular" of the solids, by virtue of its parallelism and perpendicularity. But even more astonishing than this was the pattern and sequence to the fundamentals. First of all, they all fell within the same octave, which happened to be the middle register on the piano, with the dodecahedron being very nearly middle C ( 270 cps ) . And except for the icosahedron and dodecahedron, this pattern holds: as the solids increase in volume or in the number of faces, the frequency decreases. This also is what one wqu.ld B A >- !::: (/) z w 1- z I 300 I I 4 00 5 00 6 00 700 I 800 9 00 1000 1100 1200 1300 I I 1500 14 00 1600 I 1700 18 00 1 9 00 2 000 FREQ UENCY (CPS ) TETRAHEDRON VIEW SHOW ING CONSTRUCTION OF EDG E Natural Resonances for the Five Regular Solids Pitch Solid Frequeng Tetrahedron F 46 0 2 850 - 950 A# Cube F 340 -360 2 73 0 F# Octahedron Icosahedron Dodecahedron &4 ON E OF FOUR FACES TETRAHEDRON fT>:.o.s• F 325 2 1125 D# F 27 0 2 64 0 3 87 5 ~ E F 310,320 2 800 3 1100 I NSCRIBED WITH IN A . SPKER E c TETRAHEDRON DIHEDRAL LENGTH EDGE SLANT HEIGHT A POTH EM 0 .81649658 0. 70710678 0 . 23570226 RADIUS 0.47140452 AREA FACE 0 .2886751 SURFACE 1.1547005 VI EW SHOWING ALTITUDE OF ZONE VI EW SHOW ING DIHEDRAL ANGLE 85 VOLUME 0.06415003 ANGLE FACE SOLID DIHEDRAL 60° 180° 70.53° �D D c c B B A A > >- I- !::: v; (/) z z w 1- z I I 300 <4 00 600 !SOO 700 800 900 1000 1100 I I I I I I I I 1200 1300 1400 1500 1600 1700 1800 1900 2000 I z 300 I I 400 500 600 FREQUENCY FREQ U ENC Y (C PS) CUBE I w 1- 700 I 800 900 1000 I 1100 1200 I 1300 I I I I 1400 1500 1600 1700 1800 1900 2000 (CPS) OCTAHEDRON VIEW SHOWING VIEW SHOWING CONSTRUCTION CONSTRUCTION OF EDGE d=1 d=1 ONE OF SIX FACES ON E OF EIGHT FACES CUBE OCTAHEDRON I NSCRIBEO WITH IN A SPHERE INSCRIBED WIT+llN A SPHERE CUBE LENGTH EDGE SLANT HEIGHT APOTHEM RADIUS OCTAHEDRON 0.57735027 0.57735027 0.28867514 0.40824829 ACE UR FACE VI EW SHOWING ALTITUDE OF ZONE o.3 VOLUME 0.1924501 VIEW SHOWING DIHEDRAL ANGLE 86 2.0 ANG LE FACE SOLID DIHEDRAL 90° 270° 90 LENGTH EDGE S LANT HEIGHT APOTHEM RADIUS ''°'~ ~ VI EW SHOWING A!-TITUDE OF ZONE V=6 87 E=l2 0.70710678 0.61237244 0.20412415 0.40824829 AREA FACE SURFACE VIEW SHOWING DIHEDRAL ANGLE F=8 0.2165064 1 7320508 VOLUME 1.6 ANG!,.t; FACE SOLID DIHEDRAL 60° 240° 109.5° �D D c c B B A A >- >- 1- t: z c;; w z I (/) z 1- ,..---, I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I 300 4 00 500 600 700 800 900 1000 1100 1200 1300 1400 1500 1600 1700 1800 1900 2000 FREQUENCY UJ 1- I I I I I 300 z 400 500 600 700 FREQUENCY (CP S ) DODECAHEDRON I 800 I 900 1000 I 1100 1200 I 1300 I 1500 1400 I 1600 1700 1800 1900 2000 (CPS) ICOSAHEDRON VIEW SHOWING VI EW SHOWING CONSTRUCTION CONSTRUCTION OF EDGE OF EDGE ONE ONE OF TWELVE OF TWENTY FACES FACES lCOSAHEDRON DODECAHEDRON INSCRIBED WITHI~ A SPHERE IN SCR I BED WITHIN A SPHERE DODECAHEDRON LENGTH EDGE SLANT HEIGHT A POTH EM RADIUS V=20 F=l2 VI EW SHOWING DIHEDRAL ANGLE 88 ICOSAHEDRON LENGTH EDGE SLANT HEIGHT APOTHEM 0.1585094 1.902113 VOLUME 0.2519204 ANGLE FACE SOLID CIH ECRAL 0.5257311 0.4552965 Q1517655 RArn~ 0.35682209 0.54909274 0.24556174 0.303531 AREA FACE SURFACE VI E W SHOWING ALTITUDE OF ZONE E=JO Q~35~ ~A~R~E~A_______ 108° 324° 116.5° VIEW SHOWING ALTITUDE OF ZONE VIEW SHOWING DIHEDRAL ANGLE 89 _AN_G_L_E...__ ____, 0.1196817 FACE 60° 2.3936353 SOLID 300° 10 _V_O_L_U_M_E--..,,.0....,.3,....,1=7..,,0...,.18"'"84"'""" DIHEDRAL 138• FACE SURFACE �expect. A larger volume would produce a lower pitch, hence a lower frequency. I hesitate to draw any more conclusions, given the known inaccuracies of the instruments and models . But the results that I have received thus far, however imprecise, lead me to suspect that more awaits to be discovered. Yes, I am guilty of suspecting that there is harmonic perfection in the five regular solids, but even more than that . I should t h i nk t h at one would be able to sense s uch harmony with one's ears, that is to say audibly. Acknowledgements : Allow me he r e to acknowledge those persons who generously gave of t heir time and advice and talents to this endeavor. First of all, I wish to thank Mrs . Allanbrook, my music tutor, fo r her patience despite my ple t hora of questions . Mr. Herbert Neustadt de serves my gratitude for his obliging and professional advice. I am grateful to Mr . Nicholas Maistrellis and Mr . Roy Ar mstrong for providing me with working space and technical assistance. My very special admiration and thanks goes to Mr. Curtis Wilson, a modest and humble adviser. 90 �Non -Profit O rg . BUL~ RATE U. S. POSTAGE St. John's College Annapolis, Maryland 21404 PAI D PERMIT No. 120 ANNAPOLIS, M D. � 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, 90 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 Holland, Christian (Editor) Title A name given to the resource Energeia, Special Issue 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 Special Issue of the Energeia, published in 1983. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Energeia Special Issue 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/293e527f408585b7be2082db2f41a166.pdf 153374adbf415021ad197748f56df046 PDF Text Text WINTER, 1984 I i �ENERGEIA: The activity in which anything is fully itself. n... voO £v( py£La ' w~ ... (Aristotle's Metaphysics, 1 0 72b ) COVER: Self-Portrait by Kaethe Kollwirz (1867-1945). 1924, Charcoal. STAFF INSIDE PRINT: La Disputa Del Sacramento by Raphael (1483-1520). 1509-1510, Frescoe. Edito r: Photo courtesy of Vatican Museum, Vatican City, Italy. Faculty Adviso r: Christian Ho lland Kathy Buckle r Ann Burlein Zoe Churchv i lle Frank Durgin Martin Marklin Alexandra Mullen Merle Soko lik J oe Sachs Energeia is a n on-profit student magazine with an in-house circulation to the students, faculty, alumni, and staff of St. J ohn's College, Annapolis and Santa Fe. Energeia is published thrice yearly, in the Fall, Winter, and Spring. The Fall issue is reserved for the student work of the previous school year which has been selected by the Prize Conunittee for public recognition. Fo r the Winter and Spring issues the Energeia otaff welcomes submissions from all members of the conununity--essays, poems, sto ries, o riginal math proo fs, lab projects, drawings, and the like. Note: A brief descriptio n of the autho r accompanies all work not by current St. John's students. Please include some such statement along with your submission. Thank you. ___ __.,....,...._ - �After The First Death There Is· No Other Caroline Allen The harm that went before I I took, and it was great" Agamemnon opens with an agreed - upon sign and then a kind of silence . The watchman waits on the roof for a beacon that has been ten years in showing-- the sign of Tr oy's capture . When it finally appears, he sends word to Clytemnestra, and r ejoices fo r a moment, but says, "an ox stands upon my tongue . " This gives us a better sense of the strength of his feeling than anything else could have done . Clytemnest r a , too , when she receives the news, will be silent for a long time. The old men of the chorus arrive, and, the beacon reminding them of the past t hat gives it its content, they remember the cause and beginning of the Trojan Wa r. I t is a song with that par ticular sadness of reminiscence . Their first metaphor is one of revenge for lost children (49 - 54), one which will become peculiarly appropriate . Before the mystery of indiscriminate death for both good and evil people, and of misery for everyone caused by so few, they can only conclude : "It goes as it goes/ now . The end will be destiny" (67- 8). Aged man is "a dream that falters in daylight" (82). Clytemnestra is apparently busy among the altars; the old men turn to her, hoping for comfort: " . .. speak . Be healer to this perplexity" (97 - 99) . The "perplexity" they feel is primarily over the meaning of the beacon, but also, and not less importantly, it is the perplexity they suffer as they try to understand the past. She gives them no answer; they return to the past: there was a portent of Agamemnon and Menelaus, two "kings of birds" which tore open and ate a pregnant hare. The birds which in the previous song avenged their own offspring, now destroy another's. The seer interprets this to mean that Troy will indeed fall to the Greeks, but now he is afraid that Artemis is angered at the manner in which the sign was given. The portent will be taken not simply as sign, but as a cause in itself. What it will be cause of we do not yet know, but the congenital terror of the Atreidae seems to gather itself up once more, remembering "the child who will be avenged" (155). The old men, before they can bring themselves to go on with the story, call on Zeus for some understanding which they never receive. As if somehow to justify what is so inexplicable, they say that understanding comes through suffering. Even grace from the daimones is violent to men (180). Now they tell of how the ships were becalmed at Aulis, the armies angered . According to the seer, the only way to placate Artemis, so that the ships can leave, was for Agamemnon to kill his daughter Iphigeneia, for the eagle himself to kill his own offspring . For the sake of the revenge of Troy, Agamemnon agrees, though he agonizes over the choice. Once it is made, however, he changes horribly (anagnos, anieros), becoming an Atreid quite in line with the family's violent tradition. He orders his men to hold Iphigeneia silent, so that she cannot utter any curse against him. But she is trying to utter another kind of speech, her love's persuasion , not h a t e. In total silence the action takes place. Even the old men cannot CONTENTS AFTER THE FIRST DEATH THERE IS NO OTHER Caroline Allen THE POWER OF THE LIKELY STORY Peter Kalkavage 18 SOLITUDE IN THE CONFESSIONS Anne-Marie Kamensky 26 THE BIBLE AND THE HUMAN HEART William O'Grady 28 SONNET Stephen Morse 34 THE ACTUALITY OF SYMBOLISM IN RAPHAEL'S DISPUTA Pedro Martinez-Fraga 35 SELF-LOVE, DIVERSION, AND THE SEARCH FOR A TRUE IDENTITY Zoe Churchville 44 TIME James Mensch 47 Lenore Brown 58 Christian Holland 64 : EMMA'S RECONCILIATION OF I MANNERS AND HONESTY EDGAR'S GROWTH IN KING LEAR (903 - 4) 1 Caroline Allen graduated from the Annapolis campus in '79. She currently lives in Mendocino, California. All quotes in her paper are from Richard Lattimore's translation of Aeschylus' Oresteia. \I 1 �bring themselves to speak of it. Once more, to convince themselves and us, they say, "those only learn to suffer" (250) as if in some way this all had to be. It is clear they have not really faced Iphigeneia's death, that they cannot. Clytemnestra has heard all this, and to some extent, the chorus is probably speaking her thoughts. She too will be remembering all the events at the beginning of the war that has now ended. Whatever her thoughts about Iphigeneia's story, she too hopes that from this night a blessing day will be born (264-5 ). She tells the old men about . the capture of Troy, but they are doubtful. To convince them she recreates the beacon's transmission from Mount Ida to Argos, as if she were watching it. Still watching, as it were, she sees the destruction of Troy, the chaos, the murders, the violation of the temples. She knows her man, and what she is imagining is indeed happening. Her cry "o let there be no fresh wrong done!" (374) is not hypocritical, though she herself plans a wrong; she is momentarily caught by the horror and inevitability of the last ten years and their culmination. The chorus joins in her prayer , but clear ly do not think , as she does , of how Agamemnon might be acting . The just man will be upheld, the unjust brought low. But then they begin to think of the people's misery, and are afraid that . Agamemnon may have to suffer, not for anything he did to the Trojan people, but for what he inflicted on his own people. To this mood of apprehension, the Herald enters . He announces Agamemnon's return and the defilement of the altars of Troy almost in the same breath. The Herald is boasting of this . The old men hint at something wrong in the house, presumably Aegisthus's presence, and the Herald. admits that his tidings are not of unmixed joy . The war was terrible, but at least they have the glory, and can forget now. Clytemnestra now speaks in a series of incredible ironies, where every word can be interpreted to be true, but in an opposite sense to the expected one : her joy at Agamemnon's homecoming, of her faithfulness. It was she who understood the meaning of the beacons, only she who trusted her understanding . Now she dismisses the Herald--she does not need to hear the story, she'll hear it from Agamemnon--though she knows she will never hear it, for she will kill him first . But we have seen how much she knows already. She leaves . Though the Herald is r eluctant to speak of bad things, and thereby b r ing evil into this happy day (636- 7), he admits some more bad news --Menelaus is lost . How • could one woman be the instrument of so much evil? the old men sing. Agamemnon enters with Cassandra in tow. The old men greet him rather ambivalently at fi rs t -- they are careful not to give undue praise . They admit that at first they were angry at Agamemnon for warring with Troy merely for Helen's sake-but now that they actually see him, they forget their anger and remember their love for him. Agamemnon seems to hear none of their uneasiness. First he thanks the gods for their cooperation with him ( ! ), and boasts of how he has ruine d Troy. He s ounds almost petulant as he complains about his comrades - at- arms. Clytemnestra greets him in a curious and strongly- felt speech. First she talks about how difficult it is for a wife to live at home with her husband at war, hearing every rumor about him, a prey to the worst kind of uncertainty. Here as in the speech about the beacons the vividness of her imagination is amazingly compelling, and so her speech moves us in spite of our knowledge of the murder she is about to commit. In addition, it is not unreasonable to think that this was how she really felt before Iphigeneia was killed. Then she explains that Orestes is not present because of these very fears she suffered. For me: the running springs that were my tears have dried utterly up, nor left one drop within. I keep the pain upon my eyes where late at night I wept over the beacons long ago set for your sake, untended left forever. In the midst of dreams the whisper that a gnat's thin wings could winnow broke 2 J I f I my sleep apart. I thought I saw you suffer wounds more than the time that slep t wi~h me could ever hold. (887-94 ) It is c onson ant with Clytemnestra's character that , even when s he has to lie, s he tells the truth i n some sense . If her tears have dried, it is because she no longer loves Agamemnon and misses him, instead hates him , and has even ceased to cry for Iphigeneia. If she dreamed of Agamemnon's death, it was more as a plan than as a fear. Now her "suffering is past ," she can act. She orders her maidens to spread out a rich purple car pet for Agamemnon to walk on . It is, for Clytemnestra , the symbol of his blood guilt, and shows the path by which Justice leads him to his death. Agamemnon is weak: though at first he is afraid of out raging the gods (rather a hypocritical piety after his sacrileges in Troy ) , he does not withstand Clytemnestra. She insists that he act like what he is, a king; in effect, she is demanding that he be responsible for himself. He boasts in speech--how different is that from stepping on the carpet? It is when she appeals to his sense of superiority, however, that he yields. Clytemnestra answers · his fears with defiance ( 958-9) commenting that in the days when she wanted to bring him home alive, she would have done more than this to accomplish it. Agamemnon is capable of speaking only in platitudes, in echoes of proverbs. Clytemnestra counters this with her knowledge of the present, her experience. Again, her concrete imagination triumphs over other characters' abstraction. Agamemnon passes into the house, the center of his bloodcurse. We never see him again. The Chorus sing of their fear of past horror. What they are most afraid of is the very thing they do not understand: the past's acting in the present . The fear they cannot identify is of the curse. They hope that if a man be well-intentioned, he will never be ruined utterly, but then they remember the finality of death, before which even Zeus is powerless, and then they are sure of nothing. Clytemnestra orders Cassandra into the house, but Cassandra ignores her . The Queen recognizes that Cassandra is los t in "her own wild t hought" --the Queen too is lost in her own. Perhaps it is at this moment that Clytemnestra determines to kill Cassandra as well as Agamemnon . She goes into the house. Now Cassandra speaks--screams rather. She is lost in a prophetic vision: she sees the furies of the house, and Clytemnestra's mur de r. Her prophecies a re not understood , so she explains the first: she has seen the furies of an ancient blood-guilt hanging ove r the house of Atr eus . This the old men understand, and they wonder at her . She tells then how Apollo made her his prophetess because of his love for her, and how , because she broke her word to him, she was never believed again. Just as the old men assure her that they do believe her, she is caught up in ano ther vision, this time of Thyestes's children murdered, and again of Clytemnestra. Once more, the old men understand her vision of the past, but not of the future . Cassandra describes her own approaching death; again, they do not understand. Speech has failed. One effect o f this long delay between Agamemnon's disappearance and his murder is that most of our sympathy is for Cassandra. This is strengthened by her last exchange with the Chorus : they praise her c ou rage and say it is noble to die so bravely; she counters with "Alas for you, father and for your lordly sons" (1 3 0 5 ) . In her reply we are reminded, not only of the transgressions of Paris and Agamemnon, but of the entirely inexplicable necessity of death and the heroism of man before it. Cassandra asks one thing before she dies, that Agamemnon's avengers will remember her as well. The pathos of her death is thereby unalloyed, for no one, not even Apollo, will remember her in the action to come . The old men are singing of man's unquenchable thirst for glory when Agamemnon is struck down . The men of the Chorus dissolve in confusion, are incapable of acting. Before they can decide on anything, Clytemnestra appears ove r the bodies. -What follows is a kind of trial, in which Clytemnestra answers the old men's every charge, not so much with self- justi ficat ion , although there is that, as with 3 �utter defiance. I will have more to say later about this episode; for the moment, I will point out that Clytemnestra shows the pointlessness of the Chorus' threats of exile or death. She goes on to counter their lamentations for Agamemnon with a very bitter dirge for Iphigeneia. Now the old men perceive the Atreus curse in opera tion: they see the line of bargain with the household Fury; we must wonder if she can really appease the Fury, put the curse to sleep, or if she has really become part of it herself. Aegisthus enters and for the first time we hear the entire story of the curse of the Atreides: Atreus, to revenge himself on his brother Thyestes, killed and served up Thyestes's children to their father, who ate them . When Thyestes discovered the truth, he cursed Atreus and fled, with the one surviving child, Aegisthus. It is this curse which the characters generally feel to be operating on them. Aegisthus, with his boasting and lying, his cruel threats, seems completely despicable, the more so as we compare his defensive hot temper with Clytemnestra's coolness. Just as Aegisthus and the old men are coming to blows, Clytemnestra intervenes. Reminding Aegisthus that what they hope for is no more bloodshed, she shows herself sincere in this hope. Though the old men are spared, and Clytemnestra plans to bring order to the house, Aegisthus's threats reinforce the ominous ending. Blood will cry out for more blood, the Fury will never depart. Who acts, shall endure (313) The second play, The Libation Bearers, opens at Agamemnon's tomb. Orestes has returned with his friend Pylades to Argos; he leaves a lock of hair as a token of himself at the grave. While there, he sees a group of women, the Chorus of Libation Bearers, approaching the tomb, and recognizes his sister Electra among them. He hides. Electra has come at her mother's order, to make propitiating libations on Agamemnon's grave. This libation is absolutely key; for instead of propitiating and quieting Agamemnon's ghost, Electra and Orestes will use the occasion to call upon the ghost as an avenging spirit. Electra does not know how to make the offering, because she and Clytemnestra mean such entirely different things by it. Clytemnestra has avenged once; now she is suffering from the perversion of life that her murder entailed. Electra has never yet acted in this way; hers is a call to action, not to rest. The women advise her to ·pray for herself and Orestes , and for the coming of some avenger. There is some question for Electra as to whether this is right--the first sign of the hesitancy preponderating throughout the play. She makes the prayer, not to the gods, but to her father, asking . him for the return of Orestes, in a sense the return of himself . As the women are also praying for an avenger, Electra finds Orestes' lock of hair, and recognizes it. Then she finds his footprints, recognizes these too. Euripides was to ridicule this scene as completely far-fetched in his Electra, but the point is to express the power of the blood-kinship. There would not be the power there is in this family if blood did not speak to blood in this way. Electra recreated Orestes, in a way, parallel to the way Agamemnon's spirit is called back to power. Orestes reveals himself to her. Together they pray to Zeus: their prayer is for the salvation of the line, in them. Orestes tells us that Apollo is on his side, in fact has even ordered Orestes to kill Aegisthus and Clytemnestra. In a rather ambiguous passage, he says that Apollo told him that if he does not kill Aegis thus and Clytemnestra, his father's furies will punish him, Orestes. The question cannot help but come up: if we believe in furies "brought to fulfillment from (the) father's blood" (284), why then have these furies not attacked Clytemnestra? It seems there is some question in Orestes' mind as well (297), but he sets 4 it · aside; regardless of any compulsion from Apollo, "here is work that must be done." Not the least· of this is the need to en.ct his exile, to become a true member of the house, and a king. Electra, Orestes and the Libation Bearers turn once again to the father, in pru.yer and lamentation. This is a summoning, a calling up of subterranean powers. One reason Orestes is hunted by furies when Clytemnestra is not is because Clytemnestr6 asked no help in the murder, called on no gods before it was done. Orestes and F:lectra waken the furies in this prayer, waken them to avenge Agamemnon, but because they are Atreidae and cursed, the furies will turn against them as well. The feeling mounts; Orestes commits himself completely (438) . As the ten sion builds and finds E::~xvression in lhe stichornythia, Orestes is aware o f the moral ambiguity of the situation: "Ares ( 1 warstren<Jth' is Lattimore 's translation ) shall collide with Ares, right with right" (881) . l '. . ncl .in the chorus's lyricism we hear the supernatura l forces gathering: "The da,y of doom has waited long. I They call for it. It may come." (464 -5 ) The women t('1.l urestes of the dream Clytemnestra has had: slte gave birth to a sndke, nursed it, and it drew blood from her breast. Though this dream is prophetic, it is also a vision of Clytemnestra's present state. She has murdered, struck against her children, through the man who was their fa th er, and her fertility, motherhood, is now perverted. She is the snake - mother, a snake herself. The dream is a true sign of Clytemnestrd'S realization that the deal with the Atreid fury has not bee11 successful, and that by acting as party to the curse, she has succumbed to it herself. Orestes interprets the prophecy: "I turn . sna)(e to kill her." 'l'his interpretation is st.riking because Clyterm1estra is so often identified as a snake . Orestes' s dream divinaticm begins a change in him . In many ways he becomes very like his mother, with her strength of r~solution. This identification with the mother will be crucial in the conflict between them. When she killed Agamemnon, Clytemnestra had no sense that she was destroying herself. Orestes' suffering even as he kills hi s mother is based on his sense of kinship, the union of their selves. There follows the planning of the murder, a kin<l of false rehearsal. Orestes does not anticipate meeting Clytemnestra first., and speaks only of killing Aegis thus, though it is Clytemnestra who is the actual murderer. He does not confront her death, does not prepare himself for it, as he does for Aegisthus's. The murder to come he dedicates to the Atreides' fury, "never starved for blood." He and Electra leave for the palace. The chorus of women sing of fearsome things bred in the P.arth, and of "the female force, the desperate love" (599-6 00) . 'l'hey recount stories of women who murdered their sons, th~ir fathers and their husbands. But "Destiny harruners out the sword" (647) of vengence, a child. Orestes and Py lades are received at the palace . Ore st es asks to speak to Aegisthus; instead, Clytemnestra comes out. What we never find out is whether or not she recognizes Orestes . Either alternative is plausible. She sends word to Aegisthus to go with his men to meet Orestes (769), ar.c th~s might indicate that she recognizes Orestes, but does not want the household to know. On the other hand, she has presumably not seen Orestes for fifteen yearb, ·so it would not be surprising if she did not recognize him. I think the ambiguity is probably intentional. At any rate, Clytenmestra seems not to recognize Orest:es, who invents- - apparently on the spur of the moment--a story: he has come to inform the parents that Orestes is dead . He asks again to see Aegisthus. Clytemnestra bursts into laments. · Once again the curse has struck the house of Atreus. She leaves. The chorus of women wonder how to help Orestes, when Cilissa, his old nurse, comes out lamenting his death, and the constant misfortune of her household. She is going to summon Aegisthus and his followers. The women tell her to bring Aegisthus alone; then they intimate to her that Orestes is actually not dead. They pray to 5 �Zeus : "let the old murder breed no more"; to Apollo and Hermes, they pray for Orestes ' success, another invocation of the gathering powe r s. Aegisthus enters , oddly un- delighted by the "death" of Orestes . He is also not sur e the repor t is true, ironically enough . He goes back to question the messenger/ Or estes , and a few moments later we hear his dying cry . The women withdraw in terror . One of Aegisthus' followers emerges, trying to reach Clytemnestra . "I tell you, he is alive and killing the dead" (886) . She immediately understands , and whatever remorse she may have felt about a dead Orestes, it is quenched at the thought of an avenging Orestes . To the last she will try to defend herself -- "so far gone a r e we in this wretched fight" (891) . Orestes faces her , tells her Aegisthus is dead . Clytemnestra confronts Orestes directly with the fact of her motherhood, and succeeds so far in giving him pause that Pylades must remind him of Apollo's command . Against the gathering of gods and furies invoked behind Orestes, Clytemnestr a opposes only herself, her birth- giving and her mortality . Only fighting in this way could possibly succeed , opposing death with life , and it has always been Clytemnestr a's way to oppose as directly as possible , but when she now presents herself as mothe r , as life - giver, she lays claim to something t hat is no longer he r s, and the attempt must fail . Su r ely Clytemnestra even knows this --her own dreams have told he r so . She does not give up, howeve r, f i r st pleading, then th r eatening. So strong she that the face - off degenerates into an e x change of arguments and blame . The verbal opposition between mother and s on becomes more and more r emoved f r om the situation . As if to f o r ce it , Clytemnes t r a r eminds Or estes of hi s intention : "I think, child , that you mean to kill you mother" (92 2 ) . Orestes' response, "It will be you who kill you r self , it wil l not be I" , encomp asse s ma ny levels of meaning : She kills he r self by fo r cing the issue ; she destroye d her s elf wh e n she killed Agamemnon; she , as t he bear er of her own- murderer, is herself responsible for he r death; Orestes has become her in order to kill her . Now all is truly decided . Cl ytemne stra , who has f aced death be f ore , se e ms mo r e sad t han fea rful . She r eminding Or estes of who he really is, he r eminding her of her crime against him, they enter the house . Clytemnestr a is silent when she dies . Now that the vengeance i s a ccomplished, the women , the liba tion bear ers , are moved enough to pity the dead couple . But they are happy that the "chain of bloodlettings" is ended . Here, and in their entire song , we know them to be deceived, just as Clytemnestra was deceived . The r e is no peace yet . I will discuss the scene that follows in greater detail later on . Orestes r eveals the bodies, and the r obe that Clytemnestr a used to kill Agamemnon . He p r oclaims his deed , just as his mother did hers, but then begins to wonder about his right . He begins to realize what lies ahead for him . At this moment, the Furies appear , to him alone . The women of the chorus think he is going mad . In agony : " You c a n no t see t hem, but I s e e t h em . I am d ri v e n I from this place . I can stay here no longer" (1061- 2) . Orestes leaves the stage. Now even the chorus knows nothing is over, that the "chain of bloodlettings" cannot be broken . The two murders in the first two plays of the Oresteia are murders of revenge. Both take place in the character of the avenger--alastor, in fact, both avengers are furies . It is necessary to examine the condition of the avenger which makes this act possible. The first and most accessible consideration is the avenger's name for himself --alastor--the unforgetting one . Both Clytemnestra and Orestes are moved first of all by the memory of a death. The strength of this memory is seen in the way they can recreate in speech events at which they were not present : several times, as if obsessed by the details; Clytemnestra, who does not often speak what is in her heart, is spoken for by the old men at the . beginning of the Agamemnon, and her bitter comment: It must be Iphigeneia his child, who else, shall greet her father by the whirling stream and the ferry of tears t o cl o se h i m i n her a rms and kiss h im. ( 1555-9) attests to the vividness with which she remembers Iph igeneia's death. Bo th c h aracters' speeches after they commit t heir murders relate e n tirely t o the earlier murders . That Clytemnestra and Orestes sh ould be s o caught up with deaths some years distant only heightens our sense of them as characters i rrevocably bound to what is past, t o memory. The preeminen ce o f the ala~t o r in t h e two plays finds a dramatic embodiment in the murd e rs hidd en behind t h e doo rs, murders which affect us not by being seen but by bei ng spoken, like the murders in the past which are not seen but nevertheless are somehow pre s ent. This kind of identificat i on of the self as a fury g r ows from the experi e nce of death as a direct and compelling l o ss. A death canno t be f o rgotten when ev~rything in your o wn life reminds you of i t--whe n t he de a t h depri v es y ou. As the irrevo cable loss, death is therefo re the most unaccep t ab le kind o f l o ss, since it is mo st painful and therefo re most compelling t o acti on , and at the same time, all acti o n against it is futile. The person confront ing t he de ath is r obbed o f a ' final cause in any kind of action. The on ly case in wh ich there seems to be a possibility of acting a g ai n st t h e death is wh en a murde r has been commi tted. Here, dea th itse lf is embodied in the mu rderer, its c a use, and a murde r f o r r evenge assuage s the avenger's l o ss by at l east ·c ombatting it. The need to take rev e nge is no t a need to " s e e justice don e ," no matter how the avenger may defe nd h is acti on in t his ma nner. No one would tak e re venge f o r some o ne they did n't kno w, f o r whom they have no int ense f ee li ngs . The charac ter of the act, premeditated a nd yet recognizably an act " o f passio n," p re c l ude s t h is. Th e r e f o re, it can not be considered that t he act is in any way separa t e, t o r t he a ve nger, fr om the people i nvolved. I n this same l ine o f thou ght, it is c l ear that the identity of the perso n who i s avenged is mo re impor t a nt t h an tha t o f the person f o r whom vengeance i s take n. If rev enge can be see n t o be f ou nded on a n exp erie n ce o f death a s loss, what must the relation be b etween the ave nger and the o ne who s e de a th i s a ve nged ? The answer to this reveals o ne o f the r ev enge mur de r's mos t c ommon cha r ac ter istic s: revenge is a f amily a ff a ir. It is whe n t he a v enger a nd the one ave nge d are re l ated by b l ood, prefe rab ly in t h e same f ami ly nuc l e us , t h a t t h ere e xis t s t he r equired inte n sity o f feeling t o corrunit a re ve nge mu r de r. (Avenging a fr iend is ave ng i ng a second self.) When the avenger and the one avenged are related by blood, two things can c o ntribute t o this i ntensity: t h e pro x imi t y of peopl e in the s ame f amily me ans that their i n terrela t i o ns go o n at t he d e e pes t leve l in thei r s ou ls, a nd c an mo st affect their reas on, a nd even where this p r o ximi t y does not exist (as is the case with Agamemno n and Or e stes ) , a blow at you r blood r e lat i on i s a b l ow at y o urself, becau se the knowl edge o f s h ared bl ood g i ve s a sense of unity which d o es no t o t h erwise exist. It is clear t hat b oth Clyt emnestra and Ores t es feel that they hav e been struck at personally by the murd ers o f Iph igenei a a nd Ag ame mnon : Clytemnestra calls her child, "my pain grown into love" (Ag. 1417 ) ; Orestes and Electra are most moved in their prayers by the tho ught of t h e mse l ves as the i r f a t he r's childre n and at his life b eyond death. There is a kind o f co nfusion of se l ves i n the family: ind ividual rights c o nflict with one ano ther, and just where the par ent e nd s a nd the child b e g ins is no t a l way s easy t o determine . So it is with i n t h e f ami l y t ha t d eath wi ll be the mo st dire ct l o ss. I n the "pu rest" revenge, t h a t i s, t he one mos t int en s e l y a nd compell ing l y fe l t, b o t h the o ne avenged and the one on whom venge a n c e is taken are· b l ood r elations , f o r 6 7 is Swung to the red act drives the fury within your brain .. . (Ag. 1427) �- I -- ~I in this case the power of the avenger's original love for the one he kills gives strength to the need to kill him, and also strengthens the feeling of love for and loss of the one being avenged. The love it is not hard to imagine Clytemnestra once feeling for Agamemnon translates into a most powerful hatred wher: he kills their child, the more so since Iphigeneia's murder strikes not only against Clytemnestra, but against her love as well. For Orestes , the exceptional horroL of Agamemnon's death is that his mother could kill the father of her own son. As we become aware of the peculiarly family-oriented nature of revenge, it is easier to take in another aspect of it: the avenger feels compelled to do what he does. The real patron spirit of revenge is ananke, not dike. When you are struck at you must defend yourself. When the self is threatened, and the source of the threat is someone you can act against, you must act in order to live with yourself. In Clytemnestra's murder of Agamemnon, this necessity has the shape of the family fury dancing on the roof, the Atreides curse which she took on by marrying an Atreid and bearing Atreidea children; for Orestes, compulsion comes in the shape of Apollu, who threatens him with the furies' devastation. Clytemnestra and Orestes think the necessity ·is outside them; it is not, it is part of their ancestry. The necessity is felt, rather than completely recognized; it is in the blood, not the mind. So it is also the unspeakableness of death that can lead you to take revenge. Language is a vehicle, and what can be put into words can somehow be sent, put away,· from yourself, and so you can be free of it. But it seems impossible to contain and dispell death like this, when you face it in the way described above. Moreover, you are entirely alone in this confusion of selves, an impingement of the dead person's self-hood on your own, but whatever confusion you suffer between yourself, the living, and the dead, you face death with no others but the dead for company. Unable to speak, to free yourself, you act. When a reachable cause for death can be seen you act against that cause, in an attempt to end the confrontation. We see revenge implicating the family: a confrontation so profound as to bring about a revenge murder can happen only when the feeling between the avenger and the one avenged is this deep to begin with. And the need for revenge is entirely compelling when the murderer, the original cause of the death, is also family, also a part of yourself, because this expresses the knowledge that, after the confrontation, death is in you somehow, that is, acknowledged, felt, granted reality, and the blow struck against death is now self-destructive as well as self-defensive. If what is suffered cannot become what is learned, it is incarnated in action. But the confronting death cannot be "learned," cannot be worked into any kind of an account; instead you recreate it. There seems to be no adequate language for death, no vehicle of expression with which to encompass it. Clytemnestra and Orestes face something unspeakable, unknowable, when they imagine the deaths of Iphigeneia and Agamemnon, and they face it alone . Clytemnestra is silent or dissembling before she takes revenge--we can imagine ten years of wordless brooding, imagining, reliving, nightmares. Orestes says: "Father, o my dread father, what thing can I say, can I accomplish ... to mark and reach you there in your chamber with light that will match your dark? (L .B. 315-9) And when he first sees the Furies, the incarnation of the revenge murder, he is incapable of communicating to the chorus o f women the horror o f what he sees. You are appropriately speechless when truly confronted for the first time with death. (This is especially true for Aeschylus, who seldom makes death more fathomable by giving it a personality, calling it a god or a daimon.} This kind of confrontation happens seldom, if at all, and, if it ever happens more than once, it is never with the same force as it had the first time. This "true confrontation" is what happens when you have nowhere else to look but at death, when the death is so I I, I close to you that you f.eel the existence and inevitability of your own death , when the deat h creates such a loss that you feel part of you really to have died. The death shatters the world, liter ally , into what makes you feel alive and what reminds you of d e ath . It cuts you off from the past , irrevocably, a past which you must then p r ot e ct in memory (you become an alastor), and it leaves you suspended in an unimaginable future . Truly confronting death, you look into the soul of darkness, the inexplicabl8, the unspeakable. Bc th Clytemnestra and Orestes suffer this confrontation , and this can be seen in the two "trial" scenes of the first two plays . Both Clytemnestra and Orestes exult ove r the bodies, and completely reject any pity for the ones they have slain . Both are far removed from anything anyone around them can say; they are quite unaffected . Lost in their very evocative, "pc,etic" speech, they are never so far away, so alone and so lyi. ica 1 as when they recour.t their murders, and remember those they have avenged. There are some important differences . Clytemnestra is silent about Iphigeneia before the murder of Agamemnon; Orestes tries to speak of Agamemnon's death. Clytemnestra is "tried" by others; Orestes must justify his act to himself. Orestes suffers from seeing his mother dead, as Clytemnestra did not suffer from Agame~on's death -- this is the course of the eloquence and the note of sadness in Orestes' s~eeches . In a way, he has to now take vengeance on himself, as he suffers ane~, looking on Clyterrmestra dead, the confrontation with death. Clytemnestra does not re - confront death when she looks on Agamemnon--she has faced it completely before, in imagination. Last and not least, Orestes goes through a moment of hesitation, of re - consideration, t.hat Clytemnestra presumably did not. This moment of decision brings in a possibility of choice that was not evident in the first play, and that we hardly would expect here, since Orestes acts also under Apollo's compulsion. The compulsion towards revenge is then brought into a clearer light by this juxta~ position with the choosing of revenge. 1 ... signed clear in the splash of/ blood over your eyes (Ag_. 1429) It seems that to take revenge resolves a situation for the avenger, relieves him of the burden death has laid on him. But the act of revenge throws you into the heart of a terrible paradox : by striking a blow against death, you only give it more credellce . You have to strike back at the death that is a blow against yourself, but to strike back only acknowledges the death's power over you. This ~aradox is the phenomenal flesh of an opposition of contradictories which stretches before you in the confroritation with death. The contradiction lies essential 1 y in this : It is one 1 s own death one faces, and is required to take in , in imagination; it is the interruption, the c~asing, of yourself as you now exist for yourself ; this imagining is demanded by the confrontation, and yet is impossi ble . ~escartes found the assuranct> of existence in self- consciousness: ~ pense (that is, I am aware of myself thinking), done~ suis. We (and Aeschylus) could find it in this way: I know t am alive, because when I imagine myself dead, the world does not appear on the same terms as it does right now . This is not really a conclusive argument. It cannot be . Your aliveness and your death together are like a transcendental illusion; your mind goes back and forth from one side to the other and cannot stop sh if ting, can only become aware of each side's equal power and contradictoriness . If you were never to see death, you might never know it existe d, and often when you are aware of it, it is not a complete awareness; it is a limited one which permits you to ignore it. Only such a confrontation as an avenger suffers is vivid enough, powerful enough, to precipitate you into this contradiction. Lying on top of it, closer to the surface, as it were, is a parallel contra diction, one bound to the first one. You almost always have the sense of yourself as being freely self-determined. No matter how often you tell yourself that, not only is everything in the hands of fate, the moira, but you yourself are not even 8 9 �-I free of your own past, the hope wells up continually that it is your own self that determines your phenomenal future, that every decision is determinant. It is doom that one has to speak of, convince oneself of. Freedom is the more deeply-rooted belief. The belief in your freedom is more likely to lead you i11to self-deception, than the belief in your fatedness (as with Oedipus) . The chorus of old men in the Agamemnon give a fine example of this. No sooner do they mourn necessity than they say, in effect: yet I cannot believe that right action is meaningless. They turn from the inexplicable doom of the Trojan war to the meaning of the beacon. The pathos of this lies in the fact that the hope of self-determination is so continually battered in the course of the play--we see that curse everywhere. The fundamental challenge to your belief in your freedom comes from the awareness of death. You thought you controlled your destiny--someone can cut you down like an animal, and never even know how alive you really were. (Orestes agonizes over the dehumanizing nature of the trap his mother set for Agamemnon . ) In addition, after the confrontation with death, the attempt to protect the lost past results, as we have seen, in an abrogation of freedom. You thought you were free-now, challenged by death, your imagination presents you with a new picture: of every step, every seeming choice in your life taking you a step closer to you~ death; of your every struggle only weaving you more tightly into the net. This is different from reminding yourself that there is much acting in the world that is outside you; this is a real picture, a reality of the imagination. The avenger decides to accept death, believe in it, and act against it. He decides to accept compulsion, and be compelled (to take revenge). He has to react towards the contradiction in some way, because he suffers so much from it, and besides, "to act is to endure." Yet, with a contradiction of this order, a transcendental illusion, deciding for one side or the other is not a real solution. Before the avenger decides, both death and life, compulsion and freedom, exist equally for him. Now all is death, all is compulsion, those are the realities, even though the heart knows they are false. Saddest of all, the mind and heart cannot surrender totally to the decision. The very presence of the one contrary suggests the other. Thought turns itself, over and over again, from the one into the other, and though the avenger's life is not committed to one side of the contradiction, it never really goes away. You acted in order to suffer no longer from the contradiction; now you discover that even after acting you suff~r. This is the opposition we find in the Agamemnon and the Libation Bearers; more shaded, harder to penetrate, more ambiguously drawn in the former; in full light, high relief, in the latter. Bearing this (the contradiction) in mind, it is clear why the sympathy for Agamemnon expressed by the old men after his death is so overpowered by the vividness and · clarity of Clytemnestra's speech. She faced no contradiction after this death, this was no confrontation for her--that came when Iphigeneia was killed. Before, she did not (could not) speak of Iphigeneia's death; now she is powerfully eloquent. (I feel that one could almost rest the entire case for Clytemnestra on the extraordinary power of lines 1552-9, holding love, hatred, bitterness, exaltation and the most incredible determination not to regret, all in so brief a space.) It is not until the Libation Bearers, when we see what Orestes suffers when he thinks of his father's death, that sympathy or sadness for Agamemnon becomes at all prominent in the trilogy's mechanism. In the Agamemnon, the poetry is much more involved with the curse and with Clytemnestra 's criminality. Clytemnestra and Orestes decide to take revenge, suffering from death's contradiction as they do. It is their imagination that makes them suffer, and makes them endure tq suffer. When they defend their acts of revenge, it is always by re~erring to the former aliveness of the one they avenged. Iphigeneia and Agamemnon were alive in the past, are alive in memory, yet now they are, forever, dead. It is the power of their imagination that makes it plausible to conceive of Clytemnestra and Orestes as facing death in this way--it is imagination which keeps the death real 10 .. JI and con s tantly before them . In this context, Orestes' similarity to Clytemnestra important . As remarked earlier, they both haye the power t o describe, with great clarity, events at which they were not present. For Orestes, this is surely an inheritance from Clytemnestra . It makes his murder of her even more awesome, that he must kill her who is the source of so much of his power and at the same time the efficient and material cause of his suffering (material cause because she gives him the wherewithal to suffer). And so the Libation Bearers ends with the pending appearance of the Furies, the embodiment of death and necessity. Nothing is resolved; we are as if hung in a net of perplexity. We can at least breathe at the end of Agamemnon; at the end of the Libation Bearers it seems that nothing is possible. The curse will go on and on, from curse to act to curse to act, · forever. In the characters of Clytemnestra and Orestes we have experienced death twice, more crucially and stupefyingly each time: we can never be the same again. the power and the terror of our music (309) The Eumenides opens in Delphi, at the oracle of Apollo, where Pythia enters the god's chamber and finds Orestes, suppliant, and the Furies asleep there. The Furies are horrible in appearance, and blast whatever they come near. Pythia calls on Apollo. Apollo enters, and reassures Orestes that he will continue to give him protection, but tells the suppliant that he must go to Pallas Athene's temple, where he will be judged by ones "whose words have magic in their figures," that is, the power Apollo does not have, to free Orestes from the Furies (and the curse). Apollo and Orestes depart for Athens. The ghost of Clytemnestra appears, driving the sleeping Furies to waken and chase Orestes . Finally they do, and discover that Orestes has escaped. Enraged, they cry out against Apollo, and warn that the "cursed suppliant ... shall feel against his head / another murderer rising out of the same seed." ( 1 76 - 7) . The murderer "from the same seed" makes it clear that the curse referred to is Thyestes' curse, and that it still is operative . It is the Furies now who suffer from Clytemnestra's death as did Orestes from Agamemnon's. The first argument between the Furies and Apollo does not accomplish much more than abuse. Both sides state their case; the Furies claim their right, and duty even, to avenge Clytemnestra; Apollo rejects them completely as not even belonging any more among the new, Olympian gods. The Furies leave to hunt down Orestes, Apollo to accompany him. The scene changes to Athene's temple in Athens, where Orestes asks Athene for a trial. He is now purified of the murder- blood, but not yet free of the Atreides curse. The Furies are hard on his tracks; he calls on Athene for her protection. The Furies sing a binding song, a song of holding "the memory of evil" (384). They are agents of Destiny, goddesses which even Zeus may disdain but cannot overrule . They have chosen overthrow of houses, where the Battlegod grown within strikes near and dear down. (353 - 9, 366 - 8) They are the goddesses pertaining to family curse, the murder perpetuated via blood-kinship. Athene enters, in response to Orestes' prayer. She insists on hearing both sides of the dispute, and not only must she hear both sides, but both sides must speak to hear each other, question and answer each other, so that each claim can be weighed, not just alone, but in respect to the other. Otherwise, there is only half lI 11 �- I the argument (428) . The Furies agree to grant her the power to choose between claims. What Athene chooses is not to choose at all, but to convene a tribunal to give the dilemma more consideration . The Furies warn that much will be lost if they are overthrown: they are a terror to some, but to many, the victims, they are a comfort. Moreover, "the r e are times when fear is good" (517) . It keeps men from going to extremes . The trial begins. The Furies present their case first . For them, all that is required is to establish the fact the Orestes did kill Clytemnestra; their vengeance will fall on Orestes just as effect follows upon cause . Apollo is able to show that this kind of thinking leads to a confusion of conflicting right, and to the perpet uation, not resolution, of the blood- guilt, but he is unable to counter the Furies' arguments completely. The Furies force him to admit that, since even Zeus cannot restore life, murder, even for revenge, is criminal . He is forced to employ an argument which I think is meant to make us uncomfortable: he claims that the mother does not share real blood- kinship with her child . He points to Athene as "proof" (?) of this, but he himself had earlier claimed that the Furies could not use gods as examples, since gods are not the same as men . The Furies' case is frightening; Apollo's is specious . Athene announces that should there be a tie vote, she will break it in Orestes' favor. She admits that she usually supports the man rather than the woman, but unlike Apollo, she does not try to ground this in natural fact . She admits it to be her own partiality. The votes are even; Orestes "has escaped the charge of blood" (752). He thanks Athene, promises friend s hip between Argos and Athens, and goes home, no longer an exile. The Furies must be placated; they threaten to destroy the land and its inhabitants. In their grief at their overthrow, they hear nothing, they repeat themselves. Athene comforts them: they have not been beaten or dishonored, for the trial was a free choice, not a rejection of the Furies. She acknowledges a need her city has of them: they are older than she, and have therefore a wisdom she does not; they have a power, the power to make men afraid, that would be good to have in the city. Calling on Persuasion, she asks them to stay in the city, where they will be honored as patronesses . Finally they hear her and are persuaded . Together they pray, the Furies for . birth and peaceful life, Athene for fear and respect of the law. A new chorus forms, with women from the city, and a procession in purple robes escorts the Furies/Eumenides to their new home underground. "Zeus the all - seeing met with destiny to confirm" this new peace (1045 - 6) . Home , home, o high, o aspiring I Daughters of Night ... (Eu . 1033) Revenge has failed as a means of resolving the contradiction presented by death . What other means are there to deal with an unavoidable dilemma? If the two contradictories can somehow be seen together as mutually necessary, albeit contradictory, the contradiction will not be dissolved, but it can be lived with. Death will not be any less real; you can never be the person you were before the confrontation, but you will not have to decide for one side or lose the other. The question of who is most guilty in the Oresteia, Agamemnon, Clytemnestra or Orestes, is one we will cease to ask, since it has been made clear that the various judgments as to culpability have only brought death to the principals . To see past "cause and effect" like this, to unite death and life, is obviously going to require language . It is in this context that the new language of the Eumenides, that of persuasion, will be important. But first, let us consider the dramatic movement of the Eumenides, to see if this notion of union is justified. The easy thing, reading the Oresteia, is to 12 notice either the brute force of the inexplicable, constantly acting on people, or the great "triumph of reason" at the end. II) the first case, one fails to notice that, through the trial's agency, Orestes is really made free of the past, and the curse is no longer internal to him; in the second case, one fails to see that the triumph for Athene is not Orestes' acquittal, but succeeding at persuading the Furies, as Eumenides to stay in her ci ty--now there is a much greater force for prosperity than the law by itself could be. Clearly the great transition is not simply from blind dike to godlike mercy. There is no grace here. There is no forgiveness, only acquittal. There is not even that for Clytemnestra, yet Orestes is perhaps as culpable as she. How have things changed? The Eumenides' final prayer must be considered together with Athene's. They are not praying just for life, but for ordered life, one in which a proper balance is attained. The Eumenides pray for the fields to be fertile: we know that the ground is made fertile by the dead matter in it, that life must die before new life comes. The Eumenides pray for no death "before its time." While they pray for the land, its fertility, and t..hat there be no civil war, no self- destruction, Athene is reminding us that there will be evil people to be punished, and that the Furies/ Eumenides are not simply "kindly ones" but also judges, and "difficult to soften". In the weight of the poetry ~e find both death and life . The "transformation" of the Furies is not a complete change fr om one state to another. It is not said that they change their horrible looks; they do not change from blind animal forces into embodiments of reason. They go underground; it is their relation to us that has changed. Like Clytemnestra, they are the snakemother, giving birth to death, perpetuating it in the world; now their birth-giving nature is not changed but turned towards life as well. Again, if the F~ries speak for the past, and Apollo for the future, what we have here is not so much a choice between them, but a choice to be free of them both. The choice is Athene's gift, for she is concerned with the here-and-no w, and she alone is not bound up with time, being ageless, having sprung full-grown from the brain of Zeus. She alone is not conditioned by either past or future. When all we had was revenge, we were compelled by the past. Now we are free of it, but we do not forget. If memory necessitates actions, we now give up that memory to law, which has itself the capacity to cause, and so we have possibility, where before we had only the contradiction of will and freedom. 'l'he jury gives a tie vote: Apollo and the Furies are both still with us . Somehow we must have both, memo ry and prophecy, in the city. So we must be aware that Aeschylus sees salvation, whether for Orestes, Clytemnestra or Cassandra, only in the union of dark and light, the profound and the immediate. It is not a compromise, nor is it simply an acceptance of good and evil as linked, hard to distinguish, in human life. An inadequate way of putting it is to say that you can't see light without dark, nor dark without light. This is inadequate because it puts the basis for the union in human perception, and I suspect Aeschylus has in mind a union extending further than the human mind. The union, in which Aeschylus strives to include us, by means of the drama, is ineffable. The question of how this union can be communicated will help us understand why the Oresteia had to be a drama in poetry. This problem of the unspeakable leads us back to an earlier point: the confrontation with death was, in the Agamemnon and the Libation Bearers, of surpassing force, because there was no language with which to give it distance. The imagination continued to present you with a terrible awareness, whic h could not be spoken and thereby controlled. To strike against that which thus forced itself on you became a compelling consideration. If, somehow, a language could be found to express the death and the confrontation with it, the memory would cease to be a cause. That somehow this happens in the Eumenides is clear. The Furies are tormented by memory. Their very function, avenging, is not-forgetting. As long as death 13 �cannot be spoken, it cannot in any way be forgotten. The law is enough to save Orestes, to help us live with the contradiction of death, but by itself it cannot free us f r om the goad of compulsion wielded by our loss . For the Furies a loss has been ~ade good: in r~turn for not being able to avenge Clytemnestra, i~ return for her life, they a r e given a new life , that of Athens . But this is not what will always happen with us. The loss remains, the memory remains, but the power of memory to compel will compel us differently: towards a reaffirmation of life, rather than a despairing acceptance of death . The Eumenides underground get their power from their dark (and by this I mean un- rational) nature, just as Clytemnestra gets hers from her powerful imagination; now the forcefulness of feeling is turned towards the living . It is as if the powe r of unspeakable death is used in the cause of unfathomable life; instead of trying to put death into words we counter it by evoking life, in our language . If we could be - speak death, we ~ould send it away ~rom us . I~st~ad we b r ing life closer to us, by be - speaking life . The death stays i n u s, but i t is underg r ound : g iving us its power wi thou t p erp etuati ng it. singing follow all our footsteps have see~ the r esolution taking place in the Eumenides to depend on accomtwo things : unifying a contradiction and expr essing something unspeakable . It remains to consider how this can happen . I will try to show that in the Ores~eia , it is by means of two special capacities o f langua ge : f o r be~ng meta phorical, and for being persuasive . Metaphor in the poet r y of Aeschylus (and , I thi nk, in poetry in gener al, but let ~~at pass) has more power than its existence as a par t of speech would suggest . Its name, from metaphero, to carry along, makes it sound a lot like language in general : a vehicle for a content in thought . But a metaphor is really a vehicle for two cont ents ; the i mmediate cont ent--the one suggested by the words themselves --and the metaphorical content-- the content that is somehow carried along by the immediate one · The metaphorical content is one which is e xpressed without ever bein- directly g spoken . One tends to think ~hat the second content , the metaphorical one, is simply grasped by . the understand1n9 by means of analogy . I think this is not the case, at leas t not ~ n Aeschylean metaphor , par tly for the simple reason that the analogies in t he Oresteia gene r a l ly degener a t e into a confusion of mingled causes and misrep r e sentations, whe r eas the me t aphors themselves , no matter how often used and radi c a lly re - u sed , always give c l ear , vivid images , that speak ve r y succinctly . I am going to be r adical and claim that what happens is a v ery special kind of r e~ognition, not a Kantian comparison of a representation with a concept that yields a ?udgment ~out . tha~ representation, but a recognitio n tied who lly t o the imag ination . Imagination is a part of the soul which is immediate to both the external wor ld and the mind, acting on both . That which is grasped by the imagination is a lso t.hereby g r asped by the mind , but not necess arily acco r ding to the mind's m~chanis~ . I~ could be a " grasping" on the level of a sensor y perception , witb that kind of :mmediacy . . The metaphor , too , would be causal language , in a way: instead of deducing from it the metaphorical content , it {the metaphor) would "inform" you of the metaphorical content, causing that content to arise in the imagination . To the objection that metap hor s , as symbols , simply cannot be causal not even ~n Aes.chylus, I can only ask: what about portents? which are clearly s~olic and JUSt as clearly , in the Or esteia , tied causally to the events they portend . The metaphor , which carries a meaning without ever speaking it, can enable us to speak the unspeakable . However it succeeds in conveying the unspoken sense we have all had the.e~per~ence that it often does . I suspect it is a slightly divi~e thing, metaphor, divine in the same manner as Delphic prophecies, and that it is the use of metaphor that gives poetry its powers of enlightenment and delusion . Be that as it . W~ (Eu . 1047) plish1n~ 14 may, metaphor's blessing is that it can be used to give language access to regions where it heretofore had no possibility of penetrating, to provide a middle ground between the immediate and the abstract; its danger turns out to be that it acts (or can act) causally. I will try to show this by an examination of three extraordinary metaphors in the first two plays. The first is the one which, one way or another, causes Iphi geneia's death: that of the eagles devouring the hare. Acco rding to the seer, its metapho r i cal sense is that Agamemnon and Menelaus will capture Troy. But the metapho r docs n o t c onvey its message and then get f o rgotten--it angers Artemis. I reiterate : the incredible thing, the ultimately d isastrous t h ing, is that it is not t h e metapho r's meaning , but the metapho r itself, its immediate content, that a ngers Artemis (we are g o ing on Calchas' word here, j u st as Agamemnon does--it's al l we h ave ) , and s o is eventu ally part of the mechanism resulting in I phi geneia's death. The seco nd example of a metaphor's acting causally is the whole episode o f the carpet. Here t o o, tho ugh t h e meaning o f the carpet is, f o r Clytemn estr a s ymbo lic, though she does n ot kill Agamemno n because h e stepped o n t h e carpet, h e, and we, the audience, react t o the metapho r's first c o ntent, its i mme di ate c o ntent. In fact, Agamemno n is unaware of the metapho rica l c onte n t (except, perhaps, f o r a vague feeling that there is mo re here than meets the eye) . Tho ugh the carp et says for Clytemnestra what she canno t say a l o ud, namely, that Agamemnon's p ath is a bloo dy one, and though its greatest impo rtance is therefo re as a metapho r, still, it participates by i ts elf in t h e ac t ion , as t he b ath o f Agamemno n's doom . From the eagle portent (said t o be se nt by Ze u s ) to that o f Clytemnestra's carpet, we have a movement t owa rds the ab st ract. The last metap h o r t o be c o nsidered , Clytemnestra's dream, i s even mo re s o , a nd h as a mor e abstra ct p owe r over its perceivers. The dream reveals somet hing abo ut Clytemne s tra b ut it is taken by the characters t o be prophetic. This alone rais e the q uestion o f causali t y- prophecies often s e e m t o be causal, as in the case o f Oedipus. And the dream has caused Clytemnestra t o send the libation bearers t o Agamemno n's g rave. But it also acts on Orestes through his imaginatio n: as has been remarked, h e b e g ins a c hange. His reaction t o the dream is, "I turn snake to kill her," and this i s what happ ens. Here the entire action of the episode--dream, recou nting o f it, and reaction--has taken place s o lely in the regions of thought, ye t t he p ower o f t h e d ream-portent is n o less than that of the eagles, o r the carpet. Let me give two mo re pieces of evidence that wo rds are felt by t h e characters of the Oresteia, and, I think, by Aeschylus himself, to h ave the p ower o f acting as causes. When Iphi geneia is about to be killed, she is gagged s o that she may not speak a curse against her murderers. Whe n the Herald arrives, he is mo st reluc tant to speak of the storm that scattered the Argive sh i ps, because "it is no t well to stain the blessing o f this day with speech o f evil weight." In a play, (as opposed to mime ) where language is really what gives the possibility of action, all language will have the p ower o f invocation/evocatio n, but in the Oresteia, certain characters' lang uage is mor e p owerful than o t h ers' . The chorus is at times empowered t o call up a n actio n for the p u rpo s e o f narratio n, but it is always o nly a narrative p ower. Cassandra's s p e ech has a n o bvious p ower, but it is no t clear whether it is really hers, o r Apo llo 's. Agamemnon seems capable o f speaking o nly in platitudes, "by the b ook," that is, i n c onc epts. I t is Clytemnestra and Orestes, the avengers, who are able t o make even ts l ive a g ain in their speech, and for whom events are never entirely past as l o ng as t h ey are c a ught in their imaginations. So it is the same faculty which makes t h em s u ff e r mo st from the dea t hs they must a v e n ge t hat makes them most deadly . The powe r of wo rds t o be c a us al is als o derived from the imagi nation . Let me now t urn t o t he o the r capa c i ty o f langua ge , t hat fo r pe r suas i on . The persuasion we see in the Oreste ia i s f ound onl y i n t he Eume nid e s, a nd it is only Athe ne who uses it. Pe rsuasion o fte n has a n e l eme nt of coe rcion, but in t h e Eumenides t h is is c arefully abjur ed . At hen e g oe s so fa r as t o mention t hat she can 15 �use Zeus' thunderbolts, but she refrains from dwelling upon this, instead converting the Furies' lamentation with a picture of what their position will be if they will not curse Athens. It is by re-iterating their power to choose, by acknowledging their importance, and the control they, not she, have over their future, that Athene convinces the Furies to become "kindly" ones . There is nothing in the first two plays like this; even the exchange in which Clytemnestra is trying to dissuade Orestes from killing her is really no more than each antagonist stating his right and cause. The persuasion in the Eumenides, then, relies fundamentally on the notion of choice. If there were no choice, there would be no persuasion. Further, the persuasion itself contains, as part of its appeal, an iteration of the existence of choice: "I will try to persuade you because I will not (may not) compel you ." We have to say then, odd though it may seem, that the language of persuasion is not causal. Its whole premise lies in the fact that between compulsion and freedom there is action which is neither compelled nor gratuitous , illuminated by reason and speech. The existence of persuasion indicates the existence of possibility. ~And the existence of possibility indicates the capacity for change. Here again is something new. We can def le ct compulsion; we can placate the Furies, thereby changing destiny, for the Furies are the agents of destiny. But this change is only made possible by acknowledging that the Furies do have power, and that we cannot make their power cease, even if we can oppose it (with thunderbolts). It is by re cognizing and not denying the Furies ' power to cause death that Athene is effective in changing them . The existence of possibility, indicated by the use of persuasion, is a new resolution of the contradiction of freedom and compulsion, fitting the description given earlier. The resolution of the contradiction of life and death is contained in the particular choice Athene presents the Furies: not between life and death, but between being spirits of death and being spirits of life and death. The Furies/ Eumenides who will continue to have their power of doom (a double - edged doom, of both good and bad), become the power behind the law, the union in the face of death that binds up a community. That thing in the community that speaks in the language of persuasion is law, which has the power to compel, and yet in order to be law, does not compel, but leaves the subject free. We find, in the Oresteia, a form for the reaction to the confrontation with death; Thyestes' curse. At every death, the curse is invoked . The characters who avenge feel themselves to be compelled--the curse is the center of the compulsion. The curse in turn takes the form of the Furies, and it is their transformation that finally negates the curse. The curse is the memory of the past, it is the blow struck against death, which nevertheless perpetuates it. It perpetuates the will of the one who spoke it past his death--but by so enduring, it obviates the will of his descendents, his future selves and by enduring past the speaker's death, it ceases to be a power belonging to his will, to his self -determination , and it destroys, curses the speaker himself . The curse is revenge itself. After Thyestes uttered the curse on the Atreidae, he took no other revenge . This is crucial: something which belongs to action, which essentially is an action, has been turned into language. It is the unperformed action which enabled the curse to be pronounced, and it is the fact that the curse does not belong in language which gives it its power to cause, for it turns itself back into an action, over and over again, and after every new revenge murder, it is re-invoked, re-spoken by the avenger. It is they who perpetuate the curse. The curse then is language acting causally, and acting to perpetuate the contradiction of death and life, freedom and will. It is a perversion of metaphor, acting causally without in any way really relieving one of death, and a perversion of persuasion, acting through the avengers' own imagination, compelling the willingness 16 to be compelled. It cannot be opp~sed, for to oppose it makes it stronger. It must be transformed. Persuasion trans.forms it and metaphor makes of the power t o curse a power to bless. The Furies' binding-song turns into a prayer; it is still poetry, but now a song of deliverance. The Furies' power to destroy becomes the power that "gives content to" lawfulness, the power that unites life and death, freedom and compulsioL, · into a community. Th8 Oresteia puts the unspeakable into language. It suffers us to view death, and saves us from it,- because it confronts us in poetry, in metaphor, and in this way, the death that is never seen except in speech, yet is made real to us, can be carried away by the same vehicle that brought it so terrifyingly near. This could only happen in poetry. The Oreste ia persuades us that in a community, other people are metaphors for ourselves and so we can affect each other without acting as causes. This could only happen in drama. The Oresteia joins death to life--the distant, inpenetrable and threatening, to the immediate, inpenetrable and sustain ing. It joins life to death--the unspeakable, the mouseios, to the source of law and therefore of continuity. Deep with the first dead lies London's daughter Robed in the long friend, The grains beyond age, the dark veins of her mother, Secret by the unmourning water Of the riding Thames. After the first death, there is no other. (A Refusal to Mourn the Death , by Fire, of a Child in London, Dylan Thomas) 17 �The Power of the Likely Story Peter Kalkavage I would like to speak with you this evening about Plato's Timaeus as a whole. I will not go into any great depth about anything. I will simply talk to you about what things the dialogue invites us to consider. I hope this lecture will serve as an introduction to your reading of this altogether strange book. T~e Timaeus is the Platonic story of return . It is about a homecoming of a very special and complex nature. In the Republic, you recall, Socrates attempts to found ~ ju.st city in speech. As the conversation goes on, Socrates' task of praising Justice becomes transformed into his praise of philosophy. Socrates exhorts Glaucon--and us indirectly--to lift our gaze away from sensed beauties to intellected beauties, away from becoming and towards the precise realm of being (Rep . VI, 518c 4-~2). In t~e ~imaeus, Plato takes us back to the world of becoming, to everything this world implies--our bodies and all their actions and sufferings, the visible heaven and its motions, the structure of the four elements and their transmutations, also the realm of political action and political history. The theme of the Timaeus is t~e s.o-called ".real world." The theme is also our inevitable membership in and fascination for this world. Strangely enough, this "real world" with which we think we are so familiar is presented in an extraordinary way. It is presented through the power of :tyths or stories. As readers of the Timaeus, we are faced with several great questions. These are (1) What is the structure and purpose of the world of becoming? (2) What in particular is our place within this world? and (3) What can we learn from the myths of the Timaeus about these pressing questions? The high- point of the dialogue is the famous likely story of Timaeus, the eikos mythes· This myth portrays and imitates the work it took to bring a cosmos into being. It is a story that mixes the nature of artful production with the nature of begetting. Like Socrates' effort in the Republic, the likely story tells of how a regime is founded. But the Timaeus does not begin with the question of the cosmos. It begins with the que s tion of the best political order. The likely story does not stand alone. A dramatic prologue, concerned for the most part with political q~estions, precedes the likely story and gives it its place. Before taking up the likely story, then, we must look briefly at this prologue. A casual glance at the men who meet Soc r ates at the start of the dialogue shows us that the Timaeus is about worldliness. It is a cosmopolitan dialogue. Critias is the Athenian aristocrat who studied with the sophists, wrote his own poetry, and became one of the thirty tyrants. Herrnocrates is the famous Sicilian statesman and orator we meet in Thucydides' history. As f o r Timaeus, here is what Socrates says ~bo~t hi~: "Timaeus here, being from Locri, the best- regulated city in Italy, who is inferior to nobody in these parts in substance and class, has managed the greatest offices and honors in his city; moreover, he has in my opinion come to the peak of all philosophy." In deed and in thought, Timaeus is a man of the world(Tim. 20al-5). He combines the study of natural order--especially the order of the heavens--with the ·Mr. Kalkavage is a tutor in Annapolis. He delivered this lecture, intended to be an introduction to the Timaeus, to the January Freshmen in the summer of '83. 18 political life . The central image . that governs the Timaeus is the feasting of Socrates . Yesterday Socrates played the host to Timaeus, Critias, ·Hermocrates, and some unnamed fourth. These men had asked Socrates what his views were about the best political order, and Socrates gratified them . Today the tables are turned. The former guests become hosts who must now, in the interests of justice, pay Socrates back with a feast of logos . They must give Socrates his rightful guest - gift. This provocative image of feasting Socrates goes along with an extremely important fact about the dialogue --Socrates does not cross - question anybody or inquire into anything. Instead he remains silent while his hosts entertain him with long speeches. The Timaeus presents us with a most uncharacteristic Socrates, a dressed-up Socrates who minds his own business and silently listens . If the task in most of -the other dialogues is to penetrate Socrates' ironic questioning, the task here is to understand his silent receptivity . What is it, one wonders, that fills Socrates' silence? But Socrates is not completely silent. He provides a disturbingly incomplete summary of the Republic and then announces the task he has imposed on his hosts . Socrates states this task in a two - fold way- - in the form of a desire and of an image. Like someone who beholds beautiful animals somewhere and desires to see them move and strive with one another, Socrates beholds the city he has founded and desires to see it engaged in what he calls a fitting war, a polemos prepon(l9b3-20c3). Socrates' desire is the reason why the action of the Timaeus takes place. This desire is not easy to understand and raises a number of difficult questions . Why is it right to compare the just city of the Republic to a beautiful animal? Even if it is true that the vision of a beautiful living thing begets in us the desire to see that thing move, why must the motion take the form of warfare? What in us, exactly, is gratified by such a vision, such a war- movie? Although it is difficult to understand the true basis of Socrates' desire, this desire introduces a central theme for the dialogue as a whole. It points to the desire to go beyond order simply to an actual living order, to go beyond mere speech to the world of deeds. Socrates' desire is the invitation to think together orderliness, life, and war. Cri tias has just the story to gratify Socrates, a story about an Athens grown young and beautiful . This Athens, according to Critias, is Socrates' own just city brought to life. Once upon a time, this young Athens fought and defeated the insolent Atlanteans when they tried to enslave the world. Critias says his account is no mere myth--like Socrates' speech the day before--but is "true in every way" (20d7 - 31, 26c7d3 ) . Critias' story about Solon's trip to Egypt is about far more than Athens' heroic past. It is also about the cosmic cycle of birth and death, the circle of time which governs all men and cities. Not altogether unlike Timaeus' story of circular motion, the story of Critias tells about the periodic births and deaths of great civilizations , about how what a civilization calls progress is in fact recol ect'on , recovery from the last destruction. Critias' story thus is an account of the eternal look, the eidos, of cosmic history. There are two things I want . to mention about Critias' story. The first is that the Egyptians are important for the stories of both Critias and Timaeus. When we first meet Solon in the story, he is showing off his memory. He tells the priests stories about what he considers to be the oldest things . He even tries to count the number of years ago all these things happened. But Solon is corrected by an extremely old priest. "Solon, Solon," the priest says, "you Greeks are always children . . . you are young in soul, every one of you"(22b4-8). The priest proceeds to show Solon how old everything is in the Egyptian city , how everything has been frozen in time, kept changeless through long-standing customs. Egypt is the land of conscientiousness. It is a land where the rulers are priests, scientists and historians all rolled into one. In its political structure, the Egyptian city is a bad likeness of the just city in the Republic. It is something of a joke. The 19 �l oud - mouth Thersites knew within hi s heart many wo rds but not according to a kosmos . He is ou kata kosmon, that is, indecent(Iliad II,214) . Kosmos, then, means a great deal more than the order of the physical universe. It points to the fact that human beings are in love with ornament and display . At the same time, kosmos implies the virtues connected with orde r liness and decency . In its dramatic form, the Timaeus imitates the various meanings of this rich word kosmos. Plato gives our imaginations a sort of parody of this fondness in us for what is showy and beautifully arranged . The gue~t - gi ft Socrates is supposed t o receive certainly seems to be "just right . " His hosts are perfectly suited (so we are told) to play the part of philosopher- statesmen. Cri tias' story is just the thing for Soc r ates' desire and for the current Athenian holiday as well . Timaeus is just the man to give a speech about the cosmos . Socrates has even dressed up for the occasion. He refers to himself as kekosmemenos(Tim . 20c2) . Of course, the absence of the fourth host is a haunting omission from the dialogue's own kosmos . It is curious that Plato's most formal, most artificial dialogue should also contain this emphatic absence , that the Timaeus should begin with an embarrassment . The sense of the phrase "likely story" is related to what I have been saying about the word kosmos. Timaeus gives two reason s why an account of becoming must take the form of a likely s tory . The first is that the cosmos itself has a likely mode of being. It is an image . But Timaeus gives a second reason. He addresses Socrates by name and reminds him that we have a human nature . It is fitting for us, says Timaeus , to accept the likely story and not to search beyond it . As Timaeus reminds us , the likely st6ry.belongs not to the region of Socratic inquiry but to the region of trust, pistis. Timaeus makes his point with the language of proportionality . Being, he says, is to becoming as truth is to trust(Tim . 29c3) . The likely story is geared to our humanness and receptivity. It is addressed not so much to our inquisitive selves but moreso to our very human selves who must at some point stop searching and take a stand . The likely story is addressed to our· spiritedness and not to a detached intellect . It furnishes us with a kind of shield of moving images in which we may safely place our trust. The story is largely about scientific matters --matters of physics, astronomy, and physiology . But it does not intend to speak to that Egyptian part of the soul that craves objectivity and factual accounts . If we take the likely story on its own terms, we come to see that "likely" does not mean "merely probable," that "story" does not mean "merely a myth." In its very strangeness, the likely story has a peculiar form of power . Timaeus reminds us at one point that we must guard this power, this dynamis(48dl - 4) . What does this power consist in? One of the great feats of the likely story is its ability to give us an image of things in their wholeness. Nothing in Timaeus' story is cut off , abstracted from the life of the whole - not even death or disease. Everything has place and therefore meaning. Even body, in its structure and motion , is permeated with the meaningful constructions of arithmetic and geometry . Another power lies in the way Timaeus presents the various sciences. All the sciences, especially music and astronomy, are closely connected by Timaeus with the good of the cosmos and the good of man . These sciences are shown to be moral as well as intellectual disciplines. But the greatest power of the likely story lies in its overall presentation of orderliness . A world- order is not something we can take for granted if we are at all moved by Timaeus' speech. The wo~ld is the result of an extraordinary effort. The demiurge must at one point force Same and Other together in order to make the music of the heavens. And the star- gods must wrestle with the great problem of joining the best in us to the worst if we are to have birth at all. It is true that Timaeus wishes to construct the best possible world in speech. But he fulfills this goal through the meeting and overcoming of obstacles, obstacles which exist not just because the gods are not smart enough or powerful enough but because of the nature of things. The greatest power of the likely story consists in this ability to show us Egyptian archives are loaded with stories about the past, stories of great deeds and cosmic annihilations. But the Egyptian city itself experiences no real change and has no history . This city seems to be that part ~f the cosmos that possesses stability, order, memory, and scientific accuracy--all these things without life and passion . The Egyptian city is a dead soul writ large. The second thing I want to mention about Critias' story has to do with the history of cities, especially Athens' history, and the circle of time. Cri tias tells us about the Atlanteans' fall from their once god- like condition. But he does not point out how deeply relevant this lesson is for his present-day Athens. The insolent campaign of the Atlanteans surely reminds us of Athens' campaign in Sicily. We have Herrnocrates in the dialogue to remind us of that event and its outcome. Closely related to the end of the war with Sparta is the overthrow of the democracy in Athens. Cri tias played a very large role in this violent event. In the Timaeus, Critias reaches back in memory for Athens' first and best condition. As I read his story, I think of men's attempts to reach back in time in deeds as well as in memory . I think of the historical Critias' attempt to revive the rule of the few. There is a great deal in the Timaeus to remind us of the fate of Athens. Perhaps no other dialogue (with the possible exception of the Menexenus) points more beyond and outside of its own mythos to the living deeds and speeches of history. If we say, then, that the Timaeus is about the cosmos, we must be careful that we refer to the entire realm of becoming. That means the realm of history as well as the order of nature. History and nature are put together in this dialogue. They constitute the two dimensions of what we mean by time . Timaeus' likely story, like the story of the Egyptian priest tells Solon, is about the cosmic order which gives life and death to all things within it . It is about the temporal space in which men, gods, and cities have thei r b eing . Cri tias gives Timaeus a place in the feasting of Socrates. Since Timaeu s i s the most astronomical of all of them, he must generate the cosmos down to the b i..rth of human nature. At this point, Cri tias will take over and give human na ;: u r e its political stamp (27a2 - b6) . But Timaeus may have designs of his own quite a~art from Critias' attempt to glorify young Athens . To see what these designs migh t b ep we must look at the likely story in its own terms . Timaeus' story is about the founding of the cosmic regime. Timaeus reaches back, much farther back than the memories of either Critias or the Egyptian priest can go, to the truly first and oldest things, to the true archai. A divine craftsman or demiurge is the hero of this story. The world comes to be out of this god's intelligent and generous nature . The god is not a grudging god. He wants all things to be like himself as far as this is possible. But the work of making a cosmos is also the gratification of a desire . Timaeus' story gratifies the desire Socrates had-- and which we ourselves might have -- to see a beautiful non - moving structure brought to ife . The dem ' urge gazes upon t his intelligible structure, this eidos of the world, and crafts a living image of it. The cosmic order also has a medicinal or curing function . It corrects and tunes a previous condition of disorder and noise . In its being as Timaeus says "not at peace," the pre - existing chaos resembles a city plagued by faction, a city out of tune with itself. For this reason, Socrates seems to be right when he c a lls the likely story a nomos, that is, a law and a song(Tim . 29d4-6). There are two matters of terminology I would like to address before I attempt to lead you through Timaeus' speech . The first matter has to do with the word kosmos. The second is about that all-important phrase, eikos mythos, "likely story." To get a sense of the word kosmos, we must remember this word's association with beautiful arrangements of all kinds and with moral splendor. If a man is kosmios, he acts and speaks in a fitting way on all occasions. Aristotle speaks of great - souledness, megalapsychia, as a kind of kosmos of the moral virtues. (Nie. Eth. IV,iii,1124al - 2). And Homer tells us in the second book of the Iliad that the 20 I\ 21 �c o-worker with i nt elligence i n the making of a world . Cosmos, says Tima e us , was in fact g e n er ated out of the systasis --the standing - together and conflict --o f i nt e lligence a nd necessity(4 7e5 - 48a 2 ) . Wha t is i t, then , that is finally responsible for the production of a cosmos? Wh a t h o l d s togethe r the purpose ful cause of intelligence and the non - purposeful cause of necessity? Timaeus' answe r is one that fits an account in the region of trust . It is an answer that also fits a statesman's view of the world . The bond between inte lligence and necessity is none other than persuasion . Intelligence is said to h a ve persuade d necessity to b a guided, for the most part, by the i ntellect's good intentions(4 8 a2 - 5) . Necessity, we see, is not entirely mindless . Like t he middle part of the soul Socrates speaks of in the Republic, necessity can be made to heed rea s on even t hough it does not possess reason . Ti maeus t akes on a great number of very difficult questions in his long story of nece s s ity . One such question is "wha t is a body?" But the greatest question in this pa r t of the story, and the most prov ocative and difficult for the whole likely story is this --What is the natur e o f space? What is that in which and out of which the wo r ld of body and change makes~ appearance? What is that fluid and e x citing su r face which causes the eidos of fire, for example , to be reflected? Timaeus calls t his principle of apparency the receptacle, the hypodoche . It is, he says, the mother and wet - nurse of becoming(49a4 - 6) . The word hypodoche comes from the verb hypodechornai . Two senses of this word are of s pecial importance for the Timaeus . The first is the sense of entertaining, being r ece ptive to, strangers . The receptacle takes on form the way Socrates accepts his guest - gift and the way we are asked by Timaeus to accept the likely story . The second sense of hypodechomai is "to conceive or become pregnant . " The receptacle is the place- giver of all things that come to be. It is their host . But it is also their life- giver . Space is not a void for Timaeus . Nor is it a merely passive medium . It is the original womb that gives appea r ance, motion, and life to the eide on which the demiurge gazes . Timaeus tells us a story about how god schematized space "by means of forms and numbers" (53a7-b5). He constructs the regular Platonic solids as the a r chetypes o r perfect models of the four elements, fire, air, earth and water . But he reminds us that these geometrical objects have their home in a living order . He tells us that the pyramid for example is not only the element but also the seed of fire(56b3 - 6) . It is wrong, th e n, to speak of a god who forced his will on chaos . The receptacle is not merely the absence of order . It is rather the potential for form . The receptacle , prior to the god's ordering, is filled with the traces of the four elements (53bl - 5) . These embryonic elements belong in their own regions of space but are constantly fighting for power in each other's territory . The receptacle is the place of this battle, this ambitious and turbulent change of place . The mother of becoming is endowed with a shaking or vibrating motion. As the elements wander and lose their place, she attempts through this shaking motion to send them back home . As the receptacle jostles the elements, she herself is jostled . Timaeus' account of the elements' interaction is filled with the language of cities at war . In the elemental strife, there are winners and losers, friends and enemies . The same thing is true about our bodily substances . At one point Timaeus tells us about the bad effects of bile on the whole body. If the body gets the upper hand, he says, bile will then be thrown out of the body ''like fugitives out of a city in revolt" (85e2 - 86a2) . Throughout the likely story, there are similar efforts to g r a t ify Soc r ates' desire for a "fitting war." The war of elements is made fitt i ng by Timaeus' enlistment of· mathematics. In Timaeus' story of the receptacle, place and change of place are inseparable. The regions or topoi of space are fixed . But one does not occupy a given place forever . Moreover, one cannot have place without holding on to one's place . In order to maintain our bodily health, for example, Timaeus says we must constantly be what we are up against whenever we speak and act within the world of becoming. If the story offers us a shield, a form of human safety, it seeks no less to expose us to the difficulties and risks within this world. Let us return now to the · story itself. The cosmos comes into being in this way--the demiurge decides that his product: will be the best and most beautiful only if it possesses intelligence, nous. But since intelligence cannot be placed directly in the body, god puts intelligence in the sotll and the soul in the body(Tim.30 bl-cl). When Timaeus goes on to build the soul of all things, what he constructs is the life of the intellect. The soul is rnan~fested in the circuitry of the heavenly motions. These outwardly appearing motions Timaeus identifies with the inner acts of thinking. They are the circles of Sarne and Other. The heavens, then, provide human beings with a magnificent and trusty image of the innermost self. Since our truest and intelligent selves for Timaeus originate in the stars, we may say that thinking--especially astronomical thinking--is the human soul's homecoming . Cosmos is a being in whom we see an image of ourselves. Like us the cosmos has body, soul, and intellect. But unlike us, it is a whole and not a part. As the whole of all partial beings such as ourselves and the cosmos is not in need of anything. It is a rotating sphere. It needs no hands or feet. It suffers neither disease nor old age. It is its own best friend. The soul of the cosmos i .s furthermore eternally active, always touching the whole of being and becoming and always engaged in giving accounts. It is fitting that Timaeus would call such a being a "happy god" (Tirn.34b8). With such a life as the cosmos enjoys, it is no wonder that our human good should consist in imitating this god. One point of great importance is the fact that the cosmos eternally gives accounts of itself to itself. Logos in this way becomes a life-giving feature of the whole, and our reflective activity is given its higher purpose. Men can give accounts because account-giving goes on eternally though in silence. When a human being gives an account, he taps and retrieves this silent eternal logos. He gives it voice. The fact that human beings think and speak is not a matter of indifference to the nature of things. Timaeus urges us to accept, to trust in a world which is fulfilled in its being only in the act of its being known and spoken about. The cosmic logos has its fruition in the human logos. Unless some human beings inquire into nature's secrets, the cosmos will not be a "happy god." Looked at as a whole, the likely story is downward in direction. It takes us on a journey from a changeless paradigm to a living cosmos. Once we are within this cosmos, we travel from the star-gods to man and from man to the various kinds of beasts. These beasts, like the sexual distinction, come into being because the "first men" were either cowardly, unjust, or stupid. Education is the return to our first ~nd best star-like condition. But within the likely story's downward journey, there is a radical break. Timaeus tells us that he left out the c a use that most physicists are constantly talking about. He left out the work of ananke, necessity, the work of mindless bodily interaction. To remedy this lack, he says he must begin all over again . Timaeus' second beginning is the most dramatic moment for the likely story. Earlier in his speech, Timaeus had been victimized by necessity, by what he calls "the form, the eidos, of the wandering cause." He constructed the body before the soul~ thus perv~rting the natural orae~r of first and second. He apologized by te17ing us that Just as men's deeds are subject to what is chancy and random, so are their words (34bl0-35al). What Timaeus now uncovers is that it is wrong to speak ill of.necessit~. For although it wanders and produces irregular untrustworthy effects, this cause is necessary for the construction of the whole. The gods make our eyes primarily so that we might gaze at the heavens and learn decency from them. But they cannot make the eyes without giving them the actual power of seeing. Contrary to its being simply identical with chance and chaos, necessity must be enlisted as a 22 I\ 23 �on the move. We must set up internal vibrations in order to withstand the attacks of the external, alien.world that seeks to destroy us. We must, he says, imitate the 'receptacle(88c7 - 89al). The entire life of becoming depends on circulation, and this circulation in turn depends on the warring elements. Without the perceptual instability of the receptacle and her contents, there could be no li fe in the cosmos. It is a great mistake to think that the life of human beings or cities can ever pave the permanence of a Socratic eidos. As Socrates reminds us in the Republic, even if the best city came into being, it would necessarily degenerate on account of unlucky marriages(546al-547a5). The story Solon brought back from Egypt stresses this truth, the truth that the cosmos is the divine shaker of all civilizations. In the likely story, all things change place, souls as well as bodies. If a man lives a good life and imitates the motions of the heavens, he returns to his first and best condition as a star~ If he fails to live such a life, he is reincarnated as a beast. All the animals, says Timaeus, keep passing into one another with the loss or gain of intelligence(Tim.92cl-3). Whenever anything in the world loses its place, the receptacle makes the necessary adjustments. Because of the receptacle, human life is ruled by the mysterious power of place . It is important to our happiness that we have place. Also it is important that we sometimes give up a place, that we change place. Ambition is the desire for a high place in the world. In the Antigone Creon curses the man who holds anything dear in place of his fatherland . He says such a man is nowhere, oudamou (Antigone 182 - 3) . Cri tias displays this political attachment to place by transforming the best city into Athens, by making much of his own family, and by referring to the festival at which the young become full-fledged members of the city. Timaeus' receptacle, along with its elemental powers, does more than furnish the demiurge with building material and tools. It is the power that constantly settles and unsettles human life. After Timaeus tries to clarify the difficult and obscure eidos of space, he tells a story about the mathematical structures that space was persuaded to take on . He constructs four of the five regular solids (all but the dodecahedron) and assigns them to the four primary bodies--earth, air, fire, and water. Timaeus' mythical physics, his putting together Empedocles and Pythagoras, is stunningly imaginative and gratifying. It is the counterpart to the construction of the soul out of the musical ratios. Timaeus' story of body and change is only secondarily an attempt to account for the actual phenomena. Its primary goal is to transform the bodily into the non-bodily, into the intelligible. It seeks to persuade us that the world of body could be imagined as a world of mathematical objects in motion. The story gives the human intellect a home within the otherwise unfriendly region of body. In the concluding portions of the likely story, Timaeus shows us how we were put together by the gods . There are three things I want to say about this part of the story. First, Timaeus builds us in such a way that our nature imitates the nature of the who e to which we belong . Second , our bodies are re-interpreted for us as the outward show of inner invisible truths about us. And third, our nature comes to be defined as the tension between intelligence and necessity I spoke about earlier . This tension now takes on a specific form. It is the tension between loving the intellect and loving life for its own sake. Timaeus will attempt to do justice to both these loves. The section about our bodies is filled with stories that are both tragic and comic. One such story concerns the neck. The neck was invented because the gods had to join the best in us to the worst in the best possible way. They have to j0in the head's divine circuits to the mortal parts o f the soul housed in our torso. The purpose of the neck is to join and to separate the god and the beast in us (Tim . 69d6-e3). The mouth too is defined by the cosmic dualism. It was made for the sake of the best and most beautiful stream of speech that flows out and the stream of nutrition that flows·in(Tim.75d5-e5). The story of hair is another memorable moment . If the gods did not in some way protect the head, our lives would be in great danger. But if they covered up the h ead with a great dea l of flesh, we would become stupid and insensiti~e(Tim~75e5-76d3). Hair is the compromise between long life and intelligence. As--mich, like the mouth and th~ neck, it is a reminder of the riddle that makes us who we are. All the physiological stories Timaeus tells us are designed to show how the soul comes to be revealed through the nature of the body . Timaeus shows us how immensely difficult it is to make a whole human being . This story of divine making in turn shows how difficult i~to be a whole human being. I have spoken very generally and very inconclusively about this amazing book . There is much that remains to be considered. The most important part of what remai~s does not have to do with the likely story's intricate puzzles . What we must wonder about finally is the likely story's silent listener . Has Socrates been gratified by the likely story? There is much in the story to indicate that he would be pleased with it . After all, Timaeus' speech does seem to gratify a desire Socrates had in his youth and which he speaks of in the Phaedo(Phaedo97b8 - 99d3) . I mean the desire that the good be invoked as a cause of becoming . Before we can understand Socrates' desire and possible gratification , we must beware of thinking that the likely story is the ultimate story for Plato . There are other stories in the dialogues, each one speaking in its own way about the cosmos and huma n place. I am thinking especially of the stories about the soul's topoi in the Phaedo and the Phaedrus . To a very great extent, Timaeus' story is about the virtues of lawfulness and moderation projected into the nature of the cosmos . It is about that necessary part of human and cosmic life that has to do with keeping one's place, with being just . The likely story is the sort of high- minded yet realistic speech one would expect from a man who was an astronomer and a great statesman . But let us remember. The recipient of the story is the erotic Socrates, a Socrates who asked to hear speeches because of his desirous nature, his love of gazing. In o ~ e r dialogues, Socrates is feisty . He is a troublemaker . In the Timaeus, he ~ is suspiciously well - behaved and kosmios . Socrates' desire, the true center of the Timaeus, confronts us with an important question --whether the likely story, for all its virtues and powers, is finally just to the nature of human desire, to the whole of human nature . I said at the beginning of this lecture that the Timaeus was the Platonic story of return. Is it a true and complete return to ourselves , a true homecoming? We have the silence of Socrates to remind us of this question. 24 25 �Solitude In The Confessions Ann-Marie Kamensky Augustine thinks and prays, hopes and weeps, in soli t ude . It washes him in dank black and miraculous light; it is his prison and pla c e of retreat ; in it , he loathes himself and eventually, loves himself . It is in solitude that he writes his Con fessions and sees the violent flow of hi s li f e ; a nd , like a crys t al p ri s m, we can hold his solitude up to the sun , and gaze at the harshness, the beauty, and the de spair of the Confessions through this single though varied ray . What is solitude? It isn't weak , pitiable loneliness, nor is it simply a stag nant reflection on oneself . In the Confessions , solitude is active, for it is when Augustine despairs of communicating with the outer world that he turns inward and questions most piercingly . Unable to e xpress himself to a deaf world , he questions and speaks to a silent , hidden God--but because of that very silence Augustin e must attempt _his own answe r s ... hence , his solitude becomes an action of thought , ques tioning and answering . As a young man , Augustine fought s olitude , searching instead for the security he found in loving women , the companionship of a group of friends . Although.he was in love with the very idea of love , he understood it solely as an e x change between peo ple -- solitude can be fearful abyss for the very young, void of a mother's or lover's careless caress, hence, Augustine embraced people wi thout reserve . However , per haps after he was led to theft, or disappointment from some relationship , Augustine began to twist away from people and turned towards the ideas of men . Love of changeable people became a passion for incorruptible truth . Reading Cicero, teaching the art of rhetoric and living as a Manichee, Augustine experienced a growing sensitivity of self . In spite of the cold ring one .might ac cuse a love of truth as having , no such callousing of emotions emerged in Augustine as he slowly d r ew away from the oute r world in sea r ch of wisdom . Often , he ran in g r eat washes of unutterable feeling , the black self - loathing swept by the rich red fo r ce of life , sometimes replaced by r are moments of e x trao r dinary grace . Because those feelings could not be spoken , Augustine began to tap the deep wells of his be ing and found his own soul; he rejected the material e xplanations of good and evil t he M aniche e s o ff e r ed a nd bega n t o exa mine his very capacity to wonder. In turning to explore the mind of man, he saw the act of wonder as the greatness of the mystery that is man . Though Augustine may have seen fleeting images of the mind working as a whole, he could only speak of its parts . One part flowed so naturally throughout his writing he was suddenly struck by its presence : memory . Calling it the force of life, he seemed to regard memory as a self within the self, a powerful observer of the "now" to whom we listen as it speaks . Because the memo r y is limited to past experiences, it may seem strange to conclude , "This is t he great f o r ce o f life in living man , mortal though he is!" , as Augustine does . But as he asks "What, then, am I, my God? What is my nature?", he sees knowledge, images of material things, emotions , and freedom to move from one to the other all contained in memory . The force of memory is not in escaping from the present into the past, but in recalling one's life and answering "What, then, am I, my God?" Augustine is haunted by some memories, as by the grief of death, and in turn must struggle to recall others , as in the memories of his childhood . As he 26 confesses, he examin es hi s memories and judges them as t hough thr ough the eyes of God . Pe r h aps this h e lp s to exp l a i n the teni;;e , c l imb i ng t one o f the book , f o r as Augus ti n e re- lives his memor ies a nd his f ully human err o r s he s imul t aneou s ly jud ge s because so t h em. Perh a p s t h e "fo r ce " o f memory becomes clea r e r in this contex t : much is r eve aled t h r ou gh rec a lling p ast actions and at the same time pronouncing p r e se nt judgements on them, one can har dly avoid answering at least in part , "What am I?' • Anothe r par t of the mind which Augustine explores is the part which l e arns ... knowledge . His beliefs on the acquisition of knowledge seem contradictory but become clear e r if one allows him two types of reference , that is, knowledge gained from the i nner source of solitude and knowledge gained from such outer sou r ces a s science, rhetoric and drama . Although he prays fevently fo r some glimmer of truth , he harshly condemns the Platonists , Manichees and finally, his own students in t heir pursuit for knowledge, or "it is better for them to find you and leave the q u es t i o n un a nswere d t han t o f ind the answer without finding you" , and refers to the Book of Wisdom, chapter 1 3: Ex cus e them , then , we may not; if their thoughts could reach far enough to form a judgement on the world about them, how is it , they found, on the way, no trace of Him who is Master of it? But what does Augustine point towards to replace there outer sour ces? What kind of knowledge i s gained f r om the s ou r ce of active solitude , the prism we a r e look ing through to unde r stand the Confessions? More than once, Augustine refers to Job , who helps e xplain the reason for taking the mystical path of solitude towards knowledge rather than any other path . In a speech on "God's unfathomable wisdom" Job says : 9 Man sets his hand to the granite rock and lays bare the roots of the mountains; he cuts galleries in the rocks . and gems of eve r y kind meet his eye ; he dams up the sou r ces of the streams and brings the hidden riches of the earth to light. But where can wisdom be found? And where is the source of understanding? No man knows the way to it; it is not found in the land of living men . 2 3 But God understands the way to it, he al0J1e knows its source; for he can see to th ends of the earth and he surveys everything under heaven . 28 An d h e s aid t o ma n : The fear of the Lord is wisdom, and to turn from evil is understanding . (Job 28) Thus , as Augustine queries the · stars, the mountains and the depths of the ocean -- "I asked the whole mass of the universe about my God, and it replied, 'I am not God, God is He who made me,'" -- he discovers that he must turn inwards . Rather than attain ing wisdom by fearing the violence of Nature, or the immense distance of terrible stars, the deepest fear of the Lo ~ d co~es from the attempt to know one's own thoughts and r eali z ing no man knows fully the spirit within him . Taught by no teache r , found in no riches of the earth, solitude is the source of the fear of the Lord . 27 �The Bible And The Human Heart William O'Grady "Create in me a pure heart" we hear in Psalm 51, traditionally associated with David after the prophet Nathan came to him because he had been with Bathsheba. I wish to talk about what these words addressed to God might mean, and about some of what the Bible teaches about the human heart. My reflections are organized into four parts : i ndica t i ons r ega rding the heart in Psalms 19, 51 and 73; ci r cumcision of the heart as the heart of the Law; the suffering servant and the healing of the heart in Deutero - Isaiah; and the relation between time and the purgation of the heart in Dante's Purgatorio . I. To c ome i n t o t ou c h with God ' s c re ation r equires , the Psalmist s eems t o tell us , t h a t we ours e l ves submit to being cr e a t ed -- not merely to having been created , but to be being cre ate d r ight now . Thus "create' in me a pure heart" seems to mean mo re than "clean se or pur ge my h eart . " It seems to mean : continue to create my hea r t , c re ate it in pu r ity , shape it and reshape it until it is as you would have it be . Thus to offer.the sacri f ice of a broken and contrite heart does not mean merely that, in quid pro quo fashion, however generously from God's side, his response to my sincere contrition is forgiveness and loving- kindness; but rather that in offering God my broken and contrite hear t, in saying yes to the brokenness and tornness of my own heart I am saying yes to his creating of my 'heart, of me, his creating of me right now . It seems that it is not a matter of earning a pure heart as a reward by b e aring one's pain in fortitude and g e ntleness; rather, to say yes to the creation in oneself of a heart whose whispe r ings are not vile and which can e x perience all that God gives as good -- as what it truly is -- is to say yes to the brokenness and contrition of the heart in process of creation : that is simply how hearts a r e created . Why this should be so I do not understand . Perhaps we can learn something -- not in the way of dispelling mystery but in the way of learning to face it mo r e sensitively and discerningly -- but turning first to a few passages from Deuteronomy and then to certain words from Isaiah . II . Psalm 51 both asks God to create in me a pure heart and offers to God my own broken and contrite heart in confidence that He will find the offering an acceptable sacrifice . Why should one so greatly wish to have a pure heart, and why does the offering to God of one ' s own pain avail in the creation of such a heart? To the first of these questions, the Psalms give two answers which particularly impress me. In Psalm 19, which begins "The heavens declare the glory of God" and passes without seam into praise of the sweetness of God's Law -- "sweeter than honey dripping from the comb " (as though nothing could be further from the Psalmist's mind than to distinguish between a natural creation and a human moral spiritual creation) -- the final petition addressed to God is that "the words of my mouth may always find favor in your presence, and the whisperings of my heart . " . One reason, I think, why one would wish greatly to have a pure heart, and even be willing to undergo suffering for the sake of having one , is that inescapably one must hear the whisperings of one's own heart, and no one could wish to listen all his days to vile whisperings -whisperings of jealousy , resentment , anger , revenge, whether or not these issue forth into overt actions . ' The beginning of Psalm 73 gives a second answer, compatible with the first . We hear : "The Lord is good to Israel; God gives good things to the pure in heart . " As the Psalm urifolds we realize that these words do not mean what we might at first supIt is not t hat Israel i s pure in h ear a n d t h a God there f ore gives her good p o se. things; nor that some portion of Israel is pure in heart and to that portion God gives good things. In general it is not as if God has two kinds of things to give, good things and bad things, and gives the one to one kind of human being and the other to another kind . Rather, God gives good things and nothing but good things to all human beings . But it is only the pure in heart who can experience ti 1e good things God gives to all human beings as good things, only the pure in heart who can experience the world as it truly is, only they who know whai is happeninq . To become pure in heart, to submit to the purification of one's hea r t , i s to c ome 'n t o touch with God's creation and with his always present ever contemporary action of creating. For what I a m trying to think about, the crucial passage in Deuteronomy is the one that ~peaks of circumcision o f the heart . Since our current habit is to pass easily f r om law to legalism , any connection between law and our hearts seems strange to us . The matter becomes str anger still when we read (Deuteronomy 10 : 15) that it is because God himself has a heart and set his heart on our fathers, that there is such a thing as the Law . I t hink these words from Martin Buber about the meaning of the wo r d i 1 Torah , " not r ightly t r anslated , he thinks, as "Law," will help us to make a beginning . " In the Hebrew Bible, Torah does not mean law, but direction, instruction, information . Moreh me ans not lawgiver but teacher . God is repeatedly called this i n Old Testament te x ts . 'Who is a teacher like him?' Job is asked, and Isaiah promises the future people of Zion : 'Thine eyes shall see thy Teacher' The Torah of God is unde r stood as God ' s instr uction in his way , and therefore not as a separate obj e ct . It includes laws , and indeed laws are its most vigorous objectivizations , but the Torah itsel f is essentially not the law . A vestige of the actual speaking always adheres to the conunanding word , the directing voice is always present or at least its sound is heard fading away . " Let us now hear about the circumcision of the heart : "Circumcise your heart then and be obstinate no longer, for the Lord your God is God of gods and Lord of lo r d s, the great god , t r iumphant and terrible , never partial , never to be bribed . It. i s he who sees justice done fo r the o r phan and the widow, who loves the stranger , and gives him food and clothing . Love t~e stranger then, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt . II ' , , To begin to understand what the. circumcision of the heart might be , let us consider the three verses preceding the words I just read : "And now Israel, what does the Lord your God ask of you? . Only this, to fear the Lord your God, to follow all his ways, to love him , to serve the Lord your God with . your whole heart and your whole soul." I wish to propose four things about this passage : that the order of the verbs -fear, follow, love, serve -- is seriously meant; that fear of the Lord means, to begin with, a proper mistrust of the human heart -- that is, of my heart; that the Mr. O'Grady is a tutor in Annapolis . He delivered this lecture to the community in Annapolis on Good Friday of '83 . Another lecture by Mr . O'Grady, Negation, Willing and the Places of the Soul, can be found in the Fall issue, '82. passage from fear to love depends considerably on the right kind of use of and experience with our own power of imagination; and that one does not have a whole 29 28 �heart or whole soul with which to love anything until one has set out on this way which God has made available to use . one must begin by fearing God -- whatever exactly this As to my first claim : phrase may mean, at any rate it is not supposed that one should or could begin by loving Him . Then, out of fear or something like that , one a t tempts to follow his ways . And then, in the course of that attempt , one makes certain discoveries about what is possible in the world, about what is possible for oneself in relation to one's fellows. In reflecting on those discoveries -- and no amazing intellectual gifts are required for this reflection to lead where it ought -- one comes to see .what the world i? like, and becomes eager to love the maker of such a world; comes to .see what one's own way of discovery is like, and becomes eager to love the maker of such a way of discovery. Following His ways from fear becomes serving Him from love, and in that passage one discovers what it is to have a whole heart and a whole soul . I proposed earlier that an essential constituent of what is meant by "fear of the Lord" is a proper mistrust of the human heart . Let me read you another passage from Martin Buber, in which what I mean is said wonderfully : "The doctrine can best be described as that of granting direction to the human heart . The heart of man -- this unformulated insight is at the basis of the doctrine -- is by nature without direction, its impulses whirl it around in all directions, and no direction which the individual gathers from his world stands firm , each one finally is only able to intensify the whirl of his heart ; only in trust in God is there persistence: there is no true d irection except to God . But the heart cannot receive this direction from the human s pirit, but only from a life lived in the will of God . Hence the Torah has assigned to man actions agreeable to God, in the doing of which he learns to direct his heart to Him. According to this purpose of the Torah the decisive significance and value does not lie in the bulk of these actions in themselves but in the direction of the heart in them and through them . " I suggested that of decisive importance for the transition from fear to love is a certain kind of experience with imagination . To illustrate what I mean, let me cite this passage from Deuteronomy. "If you are making your fellow a loan on pledge, you are not to go into his house and seize the pledge, whatever it may be. You must stay outside and the man to whom you are making the loan shall bring the pledge out to you. And if the man is poor, you are not to go to bed with his pledge in your possession; you must return it to him at sunset so that he can sleep in his cloak and bless you; and it will be a good action on your part in the sight of the Lord your God. You are not to exploit the hired servant who is poor and destitute, whether he is one of your brothers or a stranger who lives in your towns . You must pay him his wage each day, not allowing the sun to set before you do, for he is poor and is anxious for it; . otherwise he may appeal to the Lord against you, .and it would be a sin for you." Such laws as these seem to rest on the recognition that our making each other's lives miserable only infrequently stems from sheer malice or greed or vindictiveness. So often the injury we cause our fellows sterns from inattention, from failure of imagination, unwillingness to bother to see. The "Law" gives us, among other things, practice in bothering to see, in paying attention, using our imagination, giving thought to what cannot immediately be seen. And once we have encountered our fellows in a truly attentive way, on whatever occasions, we cannot so easily cannot without knowing what we are doing, without knowing our right hand from our left -act maliciously, greedily, or vindictively toward our fellows; since now they are for us real people, like ourselves . Let me add one thought about the impo rtance of a directed sequence for the attempt to obey the Law. I shall speak for a moment of the New L~w, as the Gospel of Matthew presents it, that presentatio n beginning with Jesus' words: "Do not think that I have come to" abo lish the Law and the prophets-. I have come not to abolish them, but to complete them." These words come at the beginning of the so-called Sermo n o n the 30 ,, Mount , culminating, we are inclined to say, in the injunction to "turn the other cheek.'' Almost always we use this phrase with tongue in cheek, speaking knowingly of its impossibility, as if we knew that from experience. Let us try for a moment to be more cii;-cumspect, or at least slower. Several points seem to me remarkable in Jesus' teaching in this place. First, "turn the other cheek" goes beyond "resist not evil." What is enjoined is not passivity, non-doing, but an action, an offer: offer now, at this moment, the o ther cheek as well. Second, a very specific reason is given: so that you will become children of your father who is in heaven, who makes his sun to shine upon the good and the bad, his rain to fall upon the honest and the dishonest. I think this means: Everything that is in being, including every human being, God wishes to be. (One offers the second cheek, after all, not to evil in general but to some human being.) As I offer my other cheek to the man or woman who struck me, I am saying and meaning to him or her not "won't you be ashamed of yourself and change your ways?"; not "I am so self- possessed as to be superior to this situation, hence unprovokable-.i-;-but rather "as my father in heaven wants you to be, so do I -- who am and want to be his child - - want you to be; and that wanting you to be goes deeper in me than my not wanting to be struck by you as to which I make no calculation or guess about your response." But what I most want to say about this passage I can say more clearly and simply with regard to the passage that immediately follows it: "Love your enemy and pray for those who persecute you." The love one can have for one's enemy after praying for him -- that is, talking to God about him, on his behalf, for him; imagining his good, imagining him, and asking God for his good - - would be, it seems to me, vastly different, deeper, richer, more tender, more imaginative, more real, than the duty enjoined love which precedes and somehow originally motivates our praying for him. III. In the book of Deutero- Isaiah there seems to be announced a new way in God's deal ing with man. In chapter 42 we hear of a servant of God "who does not cry out or shout aloud, or make his voice heard in the streets. He does not break the crushed reed nor quench the wavering flame." It seems that there will be a new inconspicuousness, gentleness, patience in God's dealing with man~ In chapters 52 and 53 it is powerfully impressed upon us that the servant is above all a suffering servant, and we hear the awesome words "in his wounds we are healed." I wish to make a suggestion about how we might begin to understand these words . I am not concerned to identify the suffering servant with Jesus of Nazareth, or with another individual human being who is still to come, or with Israel as a people . Rather, I am concerned to try to understand the suffering servant as an illuminating symbol of an ultimate human possibility, a symbol just as comprehensively pertinent as, say, the philosopher-king or the pagan hero. That is, I wish to ask: what would it'be like for us to understand the deepest part of our own experience with ultimate reference to one of whom it is said "in his wounds we are healed 11 I should also make d1ear that I have n o theological theory ~f atonement to pre sent. I find it disconcerting that these are usually couched in mechanical language -- a balance must be restored -- or in commercial metaphors -- a debt has been incurred and must be paid by someone especially qualified. I think that in those theories God is thought of as being mastered by necessities over which surely in truth he himself is master. In any case the text of Isaiah makes clear that we must look on as the one who is wounded suffers for us and that he must be willing that our healing should come through his being wounded. It is some human int~lligibility rather than cosmic or theoloqica~ intelligibility that we must hope to find. _Above all, it seems important to try to understand what in us is most in need of being healed. l\ 31 �Let me offer what I can by making this simple beginning. About 2000 years ago the rabbi Hillel spoke these words : "If I am not for myself, who will be for me? And if not now, when? And if I am only for myself, what am I?" The first two questions by themselves would seem to be merely rhetorical in a hard and cynical way: no one, as any fool knows, will be for me if I am not for myself. But when we hear the third question -- and if I am only for myself, what am I? -- we realize that the first questions, however shyly and mistrustfully, are genuine, even desperately hopeful questions. The questioner knows that everything would be different -- all sorts of extraordinary possibilities would have to be considered and maybe even tried out -if only I could know that there is someone in the world who is for me, who cares about my being as deeply and strongly as I care about my being. In the 13th century Duns Scotus, the follower of Aristotle and still more of St. Francis, wrote in his discussion of the human faculty of willing: Amo: Volo ut sis. I love you: I want you to be. And what if, loving you, wanting you to~aS-fully as you can be , I come to understand that what prevents you from being fully and freely is that you are so anxious for yourself, so fearful that unless you are forever busy being for yourself, not only will you . incur all sorts of particular practical disadvantages, but finally you will not be at all, since there is no one else with such care for your being as would sustain and nourish it and thereby hqld it in being. Then would not the response of love be: I will be for you. I will be for you in a way that is unambiguously visible to you. I will be less, so that you can be more, not of course because we are competitors, you and I, for some limited amount of being, but precisely because the one thing that prevents you from coming fully into your own, from being all that you can be, is your fear that only your own self-assertion maintains and upholds you in being. It is that desperate preoccupation from which, above all, you need to be healed. And when you have been healed from that by beholding the willingness with which I accept my own diminution, my own being made, f9r your sake, less -- less free and easy, less graceful, less powerful, less joyful -- then you will begin to see that you can be for me too, that we were made for each other, that the center is neither in you nor in me but between us, among us all, and that deeper than the sorrow of crucifixion -- and I am thinking especially of its daily undramatic forms -- there is the joy of overcoming the two most shameful and finally deadly things for human beings, which are aloneness and unfruitfulness: "Unless a grain of wheat falls to the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies it brings forth much fruit." IV . I would like to say something finally about how hearts might become pure -- most especially, might become beautiful; an~ in what way purgation works -- especially : what is the relationship between the soul that has been purged and the times of its life. In the 12th Canto of Dante's Purgatorio, the penitants receive a blessing from the angel of the terrace of the purgation of pride, the first and greatest of the sins to be purged. Hear Dante's description of the angel: "Towards us came the fair creature, clothed in white, and in his face he seemed like a trembling star at dawn." It is, I think, for a middle-aged man such as Dante was when he wrote this passage, the deepest of sadnesses to be aware of how beautiful a creature of G o~ =an be -- is meant to be -- and that you are not beautiful, because you have made yourself not-beautiful. That one is nevertheless found acceptable by God is a very great thing, and in a way it is enough. But in a way it is not enough. One had wanted to be beautiful, to seem to someone else "in one's face like a trembling star at dawn." And one still ~an~~ that, if only there were a way. 32 Dante seems to say that there is a way, and that is because hearts are full of time and times . If tha t were not so, purgation would perhaps have to be thought of as being like scu lpting, so that my heart through my actions and willings has come to have a certain shape, a certain look, on which the action of purgation must go to work as with a hammer and chisel, destroying and removing as much of what I have made myself into as necessary to reach a presentable shape, so that the great fear of the one purged is not so much the painfulness of the chiseling as it is that so little of me will be left that I won't any longer know what I mean when I say "I" -- even and precisely when I say "I love" or "I praise." But on the very terrace of the purgation of pride Dante presents an al together different image of how a beautiful heart -- now, a beautiful life -- can contain everything that I have in my life made my own . Dante speaks of an incomparable divine art able to produce " an image which was not silent" or "visible speech . " Thus we read (Canto 10) of Mary: "The angel who came to earth with the decree of the many - years - wept -for peace that opened heaven from its long interdict appeared be fore us so truly graven there in a gracious attitude that it did not seem a silent image. One would have sworn he heard 'Ave -- hail,' for she was imaged there who turned the key to open the supreme love, and in her bearing she had the word imprinted 'Ecce ancilla Dei' -- Behold the handmaid of the Lord." And then the Emperor Trajan: "Depicted there was the glorious deed of the Roman prince whose worth moved Gregory to his great victory -- I mean the emperor Trajan; and a poor widow was at his bridle in a posture of grief and in tears. The place about him seemed trampled and thronged with Knights and the eagles in gold above them moved visibly in the wind. The poor woman among all these seemed to say 'Lord, avenge me for my son that is dead, for whom I am stricken' and he to answer her 'Wait now till I return' and she 'My Lord' like one whose grief is urgent 'if thou return not?' and he 'He that is in my place will do it for thee' and she 'What shall another's goodness avail thee if thou art forgetful of thine own?'; he therefore 'Now take comfort, for I must fulfill my duty to you before I go . Justice requires it, and compassion bids me stay.' Dante concludes : "He [God] for whose sight nothing is ever new wrought this visible speech, new to us because it is not found here . " Now, I find two things in this passage very remarkable . The first is the notion of "visible speech" itself, of "an image that is not silent." For what God's art has accomplished is to bring together a visual image which as such gives wholeness and permanence, and speech as what is essentially temporal and transient. As St. Augustine tells us wonderfully: unless each syllable passes away to make room for the next, we would never hear the whole statement. And in Dante's imagination God has not merely fused the permanent and the transient, that which is whole all at once and that whose completeness requires sequence and hence passing away; but rather He, our Creator , has made us see that the whole and permanent image on which we can gaze without motion contains all of motion and time that was important. Nothing has been merely chiseled away, removed, destroyed to reach the final image. The second remarkable thing , is that although there is a very special beauty in the immediate, wholehearted and apparently uncomplicated response of Mary to her calling "Hail Behold the handmaid of the Lord" Trajan's recalcitrance, wrongheadedness and confusion seem to make an indispensable contribution to the loveliness of his own action of humility in finally dismounting -- getting off his high horse -- to do his simple duty. Surely, more humility was required of Trajan in the end than would have been required of him had he not collaborated with the widow in "creating a scene." In any event, although Mary's unfaltering humility is lovely indeed, it seems that Trajan in looking upon the image of his own action -- his own life -- could not simply regr~t his own recalcitrance and wrongheadedness. And could ·he not have seen 1n the image of himself -- the image of his heart as . it finall contained his life -- something a little like "a trerpbling star at dawn"? y 33 �.. Let me close with another reflection about Trajan, who seems to be a very important figure for Dante, being encountered on the first terrace of the mount of purgation and again in the 20th Canto of Paradise. There, deep in the indescribable beauty and joy of Paradise, Dante is still troubled over the destiny of the virtuous pagans. He asks about them in the heaven of justice. He receives a dogmatic theological answer, but then is permitted to see the presence in paradise of two pagans: the Trojan Ripheus; an obscure figure from the Aeneid, said there to have been the most just of the Trojans; and the pagan emperor Trajan, who was (according to a legend in which surely Dante did not believe literally) brought back to life on account of the prayers of Pope Gregory who was moved by the story of his life. After returning to earth he was baptized and thereby made capable of redemption. I think the real point of the story lies· elsewhere for Dante, and that it has much to do with how Dante understands pride. For it must be that Trajan accepted his salvation not as granted to him as a being apa r t, in isolation from others , "considered in his own right" as we say, but rather as a link in a chain, a member in a sequence of human persons moving and being moved. For consider: there is the widow moved by love of her lost son, then Trajan moved by a mother's love; then an eyewitness moved by Trajan's humility and telling the story of that; then a chronicler being moved by the story to write it down; then Gregory being moved by what he read to pray for Trajan; and finally God being moved by Gregory's prayers. In this sequence it is difficult to find praiseworthy initiatives; what seems praiseworthy, rather, is that each member be unwilling to allow a motion of love which began outside of himself or herself to end in himself or herself. Not to interrupt the motion of love through the world -- this seems to Dante to be the ~ighest action of which the human heart is capable. And to me too. Sonnet Stephen Morse What wonder man, a many mirrored task From hands, star-crafting, sparrow-shaping small. A middle art, with mind of size to ask Stars questions, sparrow's answers take with allEmbracing reason. He does not· only see, But sees beyond; mind breaks Earth's rope And grasps grand God-reflect'd philosophy. A seeming God, a veritable hope. But well, real, self reflecting flaw Distorts, bends, twists, corrupts, and smears Tru~ virtue; mixes earth and mind, a raw Wound festering on pride-yields-lust to tears. For brittle glass, God, canvass in me place, And paint with faith my heart in oils of grace. 34 II The Actuality Of Symbolism In Raphael's Disputa :r'"edro Martinez-Fraga Buried in a lengthy essay by Leon Battista, an Italian scholar, we find the fol lowing observation: Raphael's search for perfect form is in effect a quest for absolute value, for him form does not have a representative nature, but rather a value of its essentials a full and total representation of reality . Under the assumption that beauty itself already exists in nature, the artist can reveal it merely by choosing what is perfect and by composing with his choice of particular beauties the universal beauty which ancient and modern, outside time . and experience. I wish to take this general observation on the works of Raphael and examine how it may be applicable to the particular case of the "Disputa" . "Universal beauty" would be irrunediately obvious to anyone willing to admire it, producing in all a favorable aesthetic impression . There is a parallel between the universal intelligibility of beauty and that of the scriptures . In the "Disputa" Raphael studies the manner in which the scriptures are revealed to all , and by way of form he displays a beauty, an aesthetic experience, that would lack all value if it were not equally representative for everyone . Art and theology are collapsed into one . By relying on his technique, together with geometrical constructions and many of the principles in Alberti's Della Pittur a , Raphael uses art to universally unfold as an irrunediately obvious t ru th , the intimacy between light and darkness, revealed truth and human insufficiencies. The whole of the "Disputa" is both heavenly and terrestrial, miracle and history, thus stressing the unity between dogma and human wisdom . Raphael invite s u s to discover this two - fold nature in his fresco by placing special attention on "composition" (the design of painting which the parts harmoniously fit together as a whole) which guides the eye through the istoria . I shall divide my analysis of the painting into three parts . First, I shall trace the path which Raphael has constructed for the eye to follow by identifying the pattern of movements and the directions that are emphasized in the work ; secondly, I shall discuss the istoria and attempt to reconcile it with the title "Disputa"; and lastly,I shall discuss how perspective and geometry are the underlying principles of beauty and theology in this fresco . I. The body is said to have l'if e when it has certain voluntary movements . It is said to be dead when the members no longer are able to carry on the function of life, that is, movement and feeling. Therefore the painter, wishing to express life in things, will make every part in motion- but in motion he will keep loveliness and grace . 35 I I �Such is the case with the members of this fres co , particularly in the terrestrial realm. The figures at both ends of the painting are leaning forward (towar d the viewer ) and turning toward the center o f the bottom half . I believe that the most eloquent example is found with the figure on the bottom left hand side of the fresco, on the right hand side of the viewer. His gestures place our eye on the path that is to be followed. The eye is moved to the right of the painting where the r e is an unidentified character pointing at Sixthus IV, who is dres sed in a golden papal tiara and is looking in the general direction of the al tar whe re the host sits on the monstrance. Hence it is the indiv idual gestures that Alberti conside rs essential to the life of the paint ing which act as a whole to guide our attention to the monstrance. "A turned body, a thrust of the arm and the di re ction of a glance" are the sources of movement i n this particular example. The vanishing point, located slightly below the host , lends cohesion and a sense of culmination to the earthly realm. Having arrived at the vanishing point , we find that Raphael uses what Alberti def in es as the "most geometrical movements; " namely , those "which move upward into the air," to begin the transition from terrestrial to heavenly . In the "Disputa" an unidentified man stands on the left of the altar pointing to the heavens. · The re is an ascending movement that begins with the gesture of this figure from which the eye travels along the vertical line that symmetrically divides the f r esco . In this upward pull the heavenly figures that are the closest to the realm of human understanding are f our putti, two on either side o f the holy spirit , each holding one of the four gospels. From left to right we can read the first page of the gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. Sitting on a cloud suspended in midai r above the four putti are Mary, Je sus and John the bapti st. Jesus , the central figure in the fresco, sits slightly higher than the other two . Perhaps it would be useful to pause here and examine the resources that Raphael uses in showing Jesus as the central figure. What the host is to t he bottom part , so is Chr ist to the whole of the painting . The figu r e of Christ displaying hi s wounds is seated in the center of a golden circle that is in turn framed by winged put ti . Raphael uses the luminosity both of the golden rays of the circle emanating from Jesus and of the color white to distinguish Jesus from God the Father who is situated above and behind Christ. Consequently it becomes clear how Raphael uses spatial arrangement and the reception of light to single Christ out from the three figures closest to him. What I interpret as being the three most important gestures of the fresco are also pointing toward Jesus . First, the unidentified figure to the left of the altar, followed by John the baptist, and lastly the third angel on the far left hand side of the heavens . The receding figures, angels and putti, surrounding Christ also emphasize his greatness. By combining light and dark shaded colors in the composition of the cloudbanks, Raphael constructs a sense of depth and consequently produces a semi - circular movement that echoes the pattern of movement of the figures below, making the Ghange in zones more fluid and tangible. Resorti ng to this blending o f lights and shades to create the illusion of depth is yet another example of how the reception of light is used just as prescribed by Alberti in Book Two of Della Pittura . Hence Raphael can reproduce the movement while preserving the individual identities of both realms. In the heavens the truth is evident and known to all . In this higher domain the excitement generated by human curiosity and its manifestation through gestures would seem out of place . Raphael's use of colors is always symbolically and technically in conte xt. For example, hierarchy and divinity are represented by the use of gold . In '·· ~ 1::: l ower part the papal tiara, the altar and the monstrance are all colored with gold . In the upper sphere the rays of the holy spirit and its background are painted in gold , as are the rays emanating from Christ, and the sphere behind God the Father that is filled with putti "dantesquely disappearing into the heavens." Technically it is interesting how a color is neve r isolated, with the exception of white. Flanking Jesus are the colors red and blue on the robes of John the Baptist and Mary 36 l r 11 respectively . Raphael lends context to t he colors by repeating them symmet ric ally . Thus the red on John the baptist's robe is repeated on the third angel on his side of the fresco, and on Paul , who is the first fi~ure from right to left on the opposite side of the fresco. The theme of red and blue is also found on the putti that outline the golden circle behind Jesus. In this general outline of the pictoral movement we are able to recognize two prominent characteristics of Raphael's style; the counterposi ti on of figures with violent and passive movements (particularly in the terrestrial realm) , and the realization of space . Vasari explains how Raphael sought to realize. space by emulating Bramante . "Lines become the development of restful curves, volumes alternate with open spaces in the same fashion that Bramante alternates solids with voids." Vasari's interpretation of the pictoral scheme relative to Bramante coincides in a clearly demonstrable way with the experience of the viewer . How are we to understand the interpretation which lead Vasari to call this fresco the "Disputa?" Let us examine the istoria in detail, and then proceed to draw a distinction between the message that the painting evokes, and the point of view that the artist suggests . To understand the istoria we must first meet its members. On the lower left side of the painting are Sts . Ambrose and Augustine, both sitting and dressed as bishops . At the feet of St. Augustine is his book with the title City of God written prominently on its side. Standing behind him is St . Thomas Aquinas, Pope Innocent the third, and St . Bonaventura with the red hat and garment of a cardinal. Following St. Bonaventure stands Pope Sixtus the fourth, (the tallest figure in the painting together with a personage that could possibly be Francesco Maria de Rovre, balancing the figure of Sixtus on the opposite side? , the uncle of Pope Julius the second . Dante's profile is seen behind Sixtus preceding Savanarola's. Raphael places Dante's profile , the symbol of light, behind Savanarola's which embodi~s both the darkness of his personal history, and that of his mystical theological interpretations . Dante shines and elucidates, Savanarola darkens and obscures . On the side of the al tar with his hands horizontally stretched toward the monstrance is St . Jerome . At his feet are two volumes. One volume contains the epistles, probably alluding to Paul's letter to the Corinthians in which he reiterates and interprets the last supper, adding the phrase "do this in memory of me . " It is from this epistle and not the gospels that the priest reads when, in celebrating mass, he blesses the bread and the wine so that they become the body and the blood of Christ through the mystery of transubstantiation . The other volume is the Bible which St . Jerome translated . Sitting close to him in a papal tiara is St . Gregory with the facial features of Pope Julius the second but without his beard. The figure can be identified as St . Gregory because of his halo, and because the book which he wrote entitled On Morals rests in front of the papal sandles. Standing in back of him is a self- portrait . To the extreme right hand side of the fresco is a fi gure that may be Fra Angelico, the great painter of the previous century . Yet because of the aged features of his face some scholars, including Vasari, believe it can not be Fra Angelico, who died at the age of fifty. Instead, they believe the figure to be St . Anthony . Fin'a lly, on the railing with his body leaning forward and his head turned in the direction of the al tar, is the unmistakable port.rai t of .Bramante, Raphael's friend and paesano. Hence in this lower realm we find the four doctors of the church (Gregory, Jerome, Ambrose, and Augustine) with the unique expressions of enlightenment and inspiration. In the remaining members of the clergy we discover raised eyebrows, and expressions of inquiry . The clergy and doctors of the church are surrounded by common people who project an air of enthusiasm and humility. In their faces and gesticulation they reveal a thirst for understanding which can only be quenched by those who have been blessed by the holy spirit . Perhaps they too are blessed souls called by curiosity but not chosen by God to understand the mysteries of faith . 37 �Alberti explains how "the soul is delighted by all copiousness and variety. For this reason copiousness and variety delight in painting. I say that an istoria is most copious in which their places are mixed old, young, maidens, women, youths, young boys • • • buildings, landscapes, and all similar things." In just half of this painting alone we can discover Raphael's fulfillment of Alberti's suggestions. II. Just as the lower realm is filled with contemporary and historical figures, so is the celestial part composed of Old and New Testament figures. Moving from the right to the left part of the fresco is St. Peter, Adam, John the evangelist, David, St. Stephen, Jeremiah, Judas Maccabeus, St. Lawrence, Moses, Matthew (or James the elder) , Abraham, and Paul. Each of the personages is painted with gestures and expressions that reflect his history. The expression of Mary, for example, is one of love and tenderness toward Jesus. Her face reflects the intensity of maternal love and concern. Abraham, who is portrayed holding a knife in his hand, has a look of agony and pain, as opposed to his counterpart on the opposite side, Adam, who is shown sitting in a very simple and carefree position. His facial expression is that of a simple man, naive and primary. Although each of the figures projects his individuality, we can generalize and say that the apostles are portrayed with an air of simplicity, the fathers of the church with grandeur, and the martyrs of the church with faith. Yet what are these figures doing? What can be the message of an istoria so richly populated that it is "a beauty that is simultaneously ancient and modern, outside time and experience?" There are no signs of debate, confrontation or dispute in the painting. On the contrary, it seems to be an exaltation of theology, a reaffirmation of the mystery of transubstantiation. This seems to be indicated not only by the gestures and expressions of the figures who are pointing toward the altar and listening with enthusiasm to the clergy members, but also by the division and perspective in the painting. On the lower extreme ends of the painting the symmetry is enlivened by having a natural setting on a small hill where the construction of the church is taking place; on the opposite end it is counter-balanced by the foundation of a great cathedral that was to be built by Bramante under the auspices of Julius the second. Thus even the symmetrical juxtaposition of nature and human craft (verdure and building blocks) is an extension of the very theme of praise and worship. The darkest mysteries of the Christian faith (particularly concerning Catholic dogma) can only be elucidated and understood by human wisdom when reason passively yields to the enlightenment of the Holy Spirit. Hence the vertical which divides the painting equally can be traced from the bottom of the fresco. It symmetrically divides the monstrance, the Holy Spirit, the body of Jesus, and finally God the Father and the rhombus painted in back of his head. The most interesting aspect of this division is that Christ's head is slightly bent to his right. Jesus who is the link between heaven and earth, the embodiment of the Creator's love for man, can not be subjected to the rationalization of human understanding. The fresco seems to suggest, both by tilting Jesus' head beyond the vertical and by placing the vanishing point beneath the host, that as the trinity is to Jes~s so is the mystery of transubstantiation to the eucharist. Both are divine embodiments and not mere symbolism. · Jesus does not represent the Father and the Holy Spirit; their being is contained essentially in him. The sacrament of holy communion is founded on the belief that the ~ost becomes the body of Christ in that very moment when the priest invokes Paul's letter recounting the events of the last supper. Augustine writes: "The visible sacrifice is the sacrament, that is, the sacred sign of the invisible sacrament." It is no coincidence that Dominicans are well represented in the fresco, as is Thomas Aquinas whose theological writings concerning the sacraments they propagated as the official Catholic stance. In question six ty - five of the third part of the Summa Theologica , we find the following interpretation: Absolutely speaking, the sacrament of the Eucharist is the greatest of all the sacraments, and this may be shown in three ways. First from what is contained in the sacrament, for in the sacrament of the Eucharist Christ himself is contained substantially, whereas the other sacraments contain a certain instrumental power which is a share of Christ's power ... Now that which is essentially such is always of more account than that which is such by participation. After having read this passage, which even through the present date expounds the official interpretation of the Catholic church, we can see a greater similitude between the istoria and Raphael's style. Just as the symbolism of the eucharist is unique in that it is a symbol and at the same time essentially that which it represents, so too is Raphael's quest for a universal beauty, as we previously stated, founded on the notion that form should not have a representative value . Symbols should only represent themselves . The unity of form and essence in the religious symbols of the istoria, together with aesthetic unity that seeks to reveal a universal beauty by simultaneously bringing together the past and the present, heaven and earth beyond the realm of experience, seems to support the interpretation that there is harmony and not dispute in the istoria. That is to say, a general feeling of cohesion and agreement as is usually the case in an environment of praise and inquiry rather than debate and scepticism. In this way we can reconcile the istoria with its name if we take "disputa" in the medieval sense which the scholastics used meaning "inquiry" or "investigation" rather than dispute. Although the painting is very eloquent in revealing the said interpretation, I believe that Raphael suggests more . A detail of the altar shows the name of Julius the second inscribed twice on the mantle . Vasari concludes his interpretation of the "Disputa " in the following way: "Salvo che i quattro Dot tori della chiesa, che, illuminati dallo Spirito Santo, snodano, e risolvano con le scriture sacre tutti le cose degle Evangeli che sostengo quei putti, che gli hanno in mano volando pef 1' aria • . . res to (concludes Vasari) il papa di questa opera mol to soddisfato . " Vasari too seems to draw a subtle distinction between the message of the istoria and that of the artist . The "Disputa" exalts theology in its istoria and construction . The use of perspective lends cohesion to the terrestrial realm and also explains the mystery of the eucharist as being beyond the grasp of reason. Raphael's use of the vertical demonstrates how Jesus, the mystery of the Trinity and God's presence in time , cannot be subjected to the laws of r eason . Yet Raphael goes out o f his way to imply that the prevalent belief which he is attempting to represent through art in the form of universal beauty, is the point of view of his patron. The dogmatic currents that run through the church originate in the minds of men that have a particular name . Vasari tells us how the Pope was very pleased with an istoria that shows how man's interpretation of scripture is the product of divine inspiration. Raphael does something different by discreetly writing the pontiff's name twice on the mantle. Perhaps the difficulty of revealing two istorie, an artistic one described by the patron, and that of the artist himself, is analogous to the problem which Alberti's science of perspective faces . In perspective, one admires an istoria with utmost clarity but only from one point of view. When we change our position relative to the painting then the rigidity of that perfectly geometrical world collapses, and we are no longer staring out a window, but admiring the stillness of a contrived reality . The painting seems true and beautiful from a particular point of view; such is the nature of perspective. Raphael is telling us that the mystery of 38 39 �transubstantiation and divine revelation seems true and beautiful when seen through the eyes o f the pontiff; such is the nature of men . III. We have traveled through the analysis of this fresco trying to make sense of Battista's general observation concerning the works of Raphael in the context of the particular example of the "Disputa". Our movement has also been from general to specific, from what is more apparent and obvious to our eyes, to conjectures and principles that are less apparent. In these last few lines I shal 1 try to present the underlying principles of the beauty we see in matter by way of geometry. It is through geometry that the painter can be seen as sculptor . If form is the boundaries of matter, then Raphael has created a work of art whose harmony and beauty are founded on having the boundaries of matter coinciding with those of geometry. (See black and white reproduction, pg. 8.) The fresco is first divided in two by a vertical that transverses the main figure and is suggested by a vertical ray drawn at the top, as well as by the symmetrical distribution of masses on either side of this vertical, then in four by a horizontal line parallel to the steps leading to the alter, and drawn at the height suggested by the tip of the main ray that emanates from the Holy Spirit. This horizontal cut separates the divine from the earthly by resting beyond any of the verdure found in the terrestrial realm . This division shows how the masses in each of the four quadrilaterals is symmetrically divided : none outweighs the other. Three triangles dominate the painting . The first is suggested by the rhombus (which I believe to be "the geometrical model" of the painting) behind the head of God the Father, which encompasses Him together with Jesus, Mary, and John the baptist. The base of the triangle is found to be a t the height of the hands of Sts. Stephen and Lawrence; this height allows the base to be directly under the feet of John and Mary. The second triangle begins at the top of the ray which originally suggested the height of the main horizontal coinciding with it at one point . The angle is determined by the width of the altar and its base coincides with the base of the altar . The trilogy of triangles is completed by following the main ray of the Holy Spirit up to the chest of the dove . From here lines are drawn to the eyes of Pope Gregory and St . Ambrose, who are both gazing at the dove . By connecting these tw9 lines the base of the triangle is constructed. Returning to the principle triangle, the circle behind Jesus is continued and a diameter parallel to the principle horizontal is drawn. The sides of the triangle are elongated to point slightly below the feet of David and Moses on each of the r espective sides. A line is drawn under the feet of five figures on each side of the fresco, and the line parallel to it is drawn on top of the heads of the figures . The endpoints are connected by constructing a line parallel to the sides of the triangle. Hence the five figures on either side are inscribed by rectangles . Rectangles can also be inscribed around the angels on either side of the painting . Finally a fifth rectangle seems appropriate circumscribed around the four putti holding the gospels. It is constructed by using part of the main vertical and extending the tangent of the circle in which the dove is inscribed, parallel to the main horizontal, and by e re cting parallel lines perpendicular to this horizontal which are just extensions the outer edges of the gospels . The division of space is crucial to the success of a fresco. In the "Disputa" it becomes clear that Raphael took the architecture which frames the fresco into account before tracing the lines that would group the masses of the istoria into a cohesive whole. Testimony to this consideration is the distance between the heads of the two figures on either extreme of the cloud bank (Peter and Paul) and the circular design of 40 .I o f the wall directly above the lunar frame of the fresco. F r om these two points I have drawn two lines which a r e connected at .the bottom of the fresco with the main v e r tical . These lines form two sides of a rhombus that inscribes the altar and the principle figures of the fresco . I t is as if the rhombus painted behind God the Father had been enlarged . Besides producing a symmetry in the division of masses whose delicate distribution is rooted on geometr ical principles, these lines and their various intersections can be construed into seven "golden sections." (See Appendix) · Perhaps it is in this presence of geometry that Raphael discovers a unive::rsal beauty that js not representative, but meaningful in itself. Geometrical figures are the supreme symbols that represent nothing other than themselves. Appendix Golden Sections : 1 . From bottom of rhombus, to the first intersection of triangle inscribing altar to the beginning of rectangle inscribing figures on the cloud bank . 2. The line from eyes of Gregory to Ambrose and the lin e from either intersection with the triangle. figun~ to first 3. From Ambrose's eyes to the dove, but by horizontal . 4. The base of the main triangle cut by the circle drawn around Christ . 5. The hor izon but by both sides of the rhombus and the distance between the ~;id e of the rhombus and the point where the horizontal intersects the triangle . 6. Right side of the top of rhombus from the tangent point to Christ's circle and the whole side of rhombus. 7 . Sarne as above, but on the left hand side of the circle . 41 ��Pascal asserts that the nature of the human self is to think of and love only itself. This misplaced object of its love is the result of the faculty of imagina tion's almost complete control over us : "this arrogant force ... has established a second nature in man . " Imagination deceives us and leads us astray . Imagination is far more powerful than reason and was responsible for our fall from grace, when it persuaded us to make ourselves rather than God the object of our thoughts, desires, and love. As fall en creatures we are worked upon now more than ever by our imaginations, which have gone so far as to make us forget (or regard as 'unreasonable', as though the imagination cared at all about conforming our thoughts to reason alone) our fatal connection with the original sin of Adam and Eve . And yet only when we are mindful of the fallen nature that we have inherited can we begin to understand that state of grace into which we were originally created, and for which Christ has come to redeem us: "it is, however, an astounding thing that the mystery furthest from our ken, that of the transmission of sin, should be something without which we can have no knowledge of ourselves . " (Pensee 131, pg . 65.) Unfortunately, our nature is so degraded that it is impossible for us to remember what our original nature was and who our true love is, without the effectual workings of God's grace within us. And divine grace will not begin to transform us, by revealing our Hope, without first of all revealing ourselves to us. We have to see over and over again the composition of our self - love, and why the self, even when it is thoroughly sick of the bondage of self - love, is terrified of losing itself and turning inward to God . The nature of self-love, in turn, can be seen in our endless concern for our reputation, which is an imaginary self that we have constructed and continually refine in order to make ourselves out to be real and vivid - that is, central - to the minds of others, and especially so in our own minds . Although we ourselves are the object of our self - love, the fact remains that we realize that our selves cannot withstand scrutiny . Self - love still retains one trace of true love in its ability, albeit feeble and occurring only at odd moments, to discern the true from the false regarding the qualities it sees in the se lf . Self-love sees, with varying degrees of acknowledgement, the flaws and weaknesses of the self . These are insights which both disgust and enrage us, for we see nothing but a mass of ugly, essentially aimless, qualities . we may even see how much our "good" qualitie s hav e been tainted and deformed by our motives for doing certain things and for refraining from others . The alternative to looking beyond the self that 1s represented by qualities is far more unpleasant . Such an attempt provides the self with its first dreadful glimpse into the possibility that it may not have a self at all. This is not to say that the person doubts that he or she exists on a biological level; this is to say something much more frightening, namely, that the self suddenly and instinctively grasps that not only is there no definitive self which might give us a spiritual life, but there never will be such a self to be had . There can be no such thing as integrity for this particular person, there is no possibility of satisfying his desires, or of finding any kind of lasting purpose or peace of mind . The person will BE, but he will be nothing per SE, nothing defined. He will be a mere restless, yearning thing, and he will know that he is nothing . Once the self - if we can still call it that has suspected that there may be no real self , ~t is so shaken that it does everything in its power to avoid that thought . This is especially true if the person has not only begun to doubt the reality of the self, but has perceived, however dimly, that the salvation of the self rests in receiving God's grace and yet he cannot feel any of the effects of that redemption . Such a state of mind produces a feeling of frenzied despair, which is not simply a feeling of wretchedness . This is the condition of the mind that measures God's mercy and, though it believes that His mercy is more than sufficient to release others from their sins, it does not believe that God can heal its own particular soul . A person of this disposition may seek diversions with a hideous, incredible passion, but this is only because the person knows full well that he is avoiding introspection, which he fears will reveal more and more clearly to him his eternal exclusion from God's presence. He knows that truth and peace lie in the contemplation of the self in its relation to God, but he also is possessed by the superstitious feeling that there is no way for him to enjoy the good fruits of this contemplative life. At the same time he realizes that he has reached a stage where he can no longer lose himself in his various diversions . He may pursue the objects of his 'passions' with fervour, but this is only an attempt to divert himself from the sinking suspicion that he will never be redeemed and he will never be truly diverted. The majority of people, however, can actually be somewhat diverted from the feeling that the pursuit of self-knowledge, prayer and contemplation are absolutely c ri tical to their lives. Before the self looks down deep within itself and is stricken by the thought that there may be no self, it can easily engage itself in one or more of its passions. Self- love may be at its strongest and therefore at its blindest point , but the self still perceives that it cannot examine its love object too closely . Instead , the self spends a lot of time imagining qualities and circumstances which might satisfy its desire for self-knowledge (for example, it may imagine that it is introspective, truth- seeking, converted, etc). It builds a reputation to show to itself and to others, and does everything it can to prove that it is indeed such and such a person . This kind of protection of the self, which is actually a protection of the self from itself, always requires the acquisition of external things : that is, either we need money, possessions, another person, or we need to achieve certain goals for our self- improvement . Self- love's passion for the truth, which is usually never wholly obscured, is somewhat satisfied by its ability to maintain the self's reputation, no matter how many lies and contradictions this involves . The self is almost completely absorbed with itself, yet it finds that it cannot satisfy its desire to be thoroughly absorbed, to be the center of all of its thoughts and desires, e xcept through the acquisition of more and more things and qualities . Such an unenlightened pursuit of passion may continue for a long time . A great confrontation or loss, or the more mysterious workings o f God ' s grace may eventually lead the person to discover that the preservation of his reputation is not enough to keep his mind at ease. In fact, he may have the uncanny desire to ruin his reputation in order to find out who he is. At that time he may look into himself and upon seeing nothing but his own wretchedness and his real inability to be interested in the truth, he will need to pursue diversions rather than passions . He will see that he is really profoundly bored, restless, and anxious (Pensee 24, pg. 36), and he will flee from this vision with all his might. Because he has no idea what it is that he is ulti~ately seeking to divert himself from, he will think of his diversions as ends in themselves and it is entirely possible that he will spend his whole life in their thrall . In this case self - love may not manifest itself as self- love at all. The person will not appear to be obsessed with himself, but only with external objects or activities. Self - love is there, nevertheless, in its insistence on concealing the whole truth about itself from itself, and in its inability to achieve any kind of intimacy with other people. It may demand an inordinate amount of love 44 45 Self-Love, Diversion, And The Search For A True Identity Zoe Churchville �and attention from others in order to assure itself of the worth of its existence, or it may try to lose every disturbing thought of itself by loving another person with too much zeal. Self - love, then, does not seem to know much about love . It is obsessed with its object (which may not manifest itself as an obsession with the self at all ) , but only insofar as the object , which is the self, can be seen in external terms. Self- love is interested in the self only as a thing to be possessed, a thing with highly visible qualities for itself and for everyone else to see. Self-love can only permit the self to participate in the search for truth on an exte rnal, goal-oriented, fundamentally self-directed basis . The se lf insists upon knowing where it is going and what it has achieved. Whe n it realizes that love and truth do not reside in it, and moreover , that they only revea l unpleasant aspects of the self, the self either cannot admit that there is such truth, or it will not admit that truth is anything other than certain ideals of the self 's own making . Clearly there a re different levels of diversions for the self in its flight from itself . Unfortunately, precisely those diversions which seem to be most worthwhile, and therefore do not seem to be diversions, are the ones which MAY be turning us aside more than the basest, most unnecessary passion. These diversions may include intellectual pursuits and certain modes of submerging the self in religion . God will not let us make any external advances until we have turned inward beyond the self and the lack of self to Christ. (Th is means that God does expect us to bear t h e fruit of a definitive, though not to be comprehended spiritua l life. ) The self is expected to give up its desire and need for the security of doing certain things and acquiring certain things in order to define itself . I t is supposed to hate this quasi -self, or this kind of life, in order to find itself and the true life that can only be achieved through the grace of Jesus Chr ist . Then the self will receive the identity that God has willed for it, and will give to it through Christ. The incessant call t o such a search for Christ explain s the reality of ou r fear o f not having a self. The book o f Revelations promises us that there is a stone in heaven with our name written on it . But this is not the name that we now have ; it is a name that will truly identify us and that is now known only to God. If we endure until the end time, we will discover our name and understand what it has to do with our communion with Christ. In the meantime, we must trust in the necessity of having to lose ourselves in o rder to gain ourselves, and in the joy that is involved in Paul's claim that he himself no longer lives, but Christ lives in him.Paul says that we have the promise that t he sufferings of this present time - which are of ten due to anxieties f o r a self that we must deny, or a lack of self that we must approach and go beyond are not to be reckoned with the fut~re glory that is to be revealed. Time James Mensch I. There is one thing we can say with certainty about time . We all feel that we understand what it is until we are asked to explain it. Since this explanation is pre cisely the attempt of my lecture, I am going to begin by making a slight detour . I shall begin by considering a problem from Plato's Parmenides . From this, I hope to find an entrance point which shall lead us to our explanation of the nature of time. Let us begin with a little fragment of the dialogue, the Parmenides . 1 Socrates has just said that the ideas are "paradymes in nature and other things are like them and resemble them." He , then , defines "the participation of things in their ideas as itself nothing more than their having been made like their ideas ." Parmenides, the ever subtle dialectician, seizes on this point . He asks : "If the thing is like the idea, must not the idea be like the thing which has been made like it, at least with regard to the point of resemblance"? Since this statement is almost a tautalogy , Socrates cannot but assent . Parmenides then draws the dialectical net tighter . "But isn't it necessary," he asks , "for the two things which are alike to participate in one and the same thing?" "Necessarily," says Socrates . Whereupon Parmenides asks : "And that which the two participate in and are alike through such participation, . won't this itself be an idea?" Once again Socrates agrees and finds, to his surprise, that he has fallen into an infinite regress. Let me spell out the difficulty that Parmenides has drawn the young Socrates into ~· Its first premise is that when things are alike, we say they are such through their participating in some idea . Thus , chairs are similar by virtue of thei r participating in the idea of "chairness." Now, we come to this idea through ou r perceptions of individual chairs. Arising from this basis, the idea cannot be dissimilar from them. So our second premise is that the idea is like the individual participating in it. ·With this, we return to our first premise~Likeness arises whenever two things participate in one and the same idea. Thus, "chairness" and individual chairs must be similar by virtue of a new idea common to them both . And this third thing, if simi l ar to the first two , will demand f o r ~ts similarity a new idea . This last , if similar to the first three will demand yet another idea and so on indefinitely . What is the point that Plato is making here? It concerns, we can say, the being of the idea and the relation of this being to that of a thing . Is the idea of large objects, itself a large object? Is the idea of smallness itself small? Is the idea of a piece of black cloth , itself black and made out of cloth? As our negative answers to these questions indicate, we cannot predicate of the idea what we predicate of the thing participating in the idea . This distinction of predication Mr . Mensch graduated from the Annapolis campus in '67. He delivered this lecture in the spring of '79 to 47 46 the community in Santa Fe. �points to a distinction in being . The thing is an individual, material ent i t y. It has the predicates appropriate to this state of being . The . idea, however , is defined as being one thing present in many . Its being one - in- many rules out any notion that it is a material entity. Thus, as Parmenides notes, one thing can be present in many either as a whole or part by part . 2 A material thing can e xis t as a whole in many things only by being multiplied. At that point, however, it is many and not one . Similarly, it can exist part by part in many things only by being divided . What would a material part of an idea, for example, the idea of smallness, mean? •rhe sillyness of such a notion is apparent when Parmenides invites us to conceive of something getting smaller and smaller as material portions of the idea of the small are progressively added to it. If the idea is not a material thing, then we can say that the predicates appropri ate to such things, predicates such as large, small, black, made of cloth and so forth, are not appropriate to it. This conclusion allows to assert that the idea is not like the thing. Insofar as we can affirm this, we avoid the infinite regress of ideas we just described . This, however, leaves us with a worst difficulty. Our knowledge begins with the things about us . How are we to ascend to a knowledge of the ideas when we say that they are not like the things? Isn't the case, as Parmenides says, that the ideas "must remain unknown to us" -- since, in fact, they are not like any of the individual things which we sensibly know? 3 The dilemma which the Parmenides presents us with is, I think, not directly soluble . Something else must be added if we are to move away from the sterile dialectic of things being either like o r unlike the ideas which they participate in. What we need, in fact, is a medium between the things and the ideas . The medium must possess the qualities of both the . things and ideas and must, in fact, allow us the ascent from one to the othe r. 1 II . Let us now talk about time . It was Augustine that first suggested that time could be such a medium . In Book XI of the Confessions, he writes that " even when we learn from created things, which a re subject to change, we are led to the truth which does not change . "4 This truth is the "Word" of God . The Word is eternal and contains in 5 its eternity, as he elsewhere writes, all of what Plato called "ideas ." How is the ascent to the Word and, thus, to the ideas possible? The answer that can be drawn from Augustine is that time itself makes this possibl~ . Time is a medium which links the changing thing to the eternity in which "all is present . " The linking point, as we shall see, is the now . Augustine writes : "Time . . . is never all present at once . The past is always driven on by the future, the f utu re always follows on the heels of the past, and both the past and the future have their beginning and their end in the eternal present . If only men ' s minds could be seized and held still! They would see how eternity, in which there is neither past nor future, determines both past and future time." To bring us to the point of holding our minds still, Augustine begins with the following, rather startling fact . It is that the futur e does not yet exist and the past has ceased to exist. This fact is so simple and so close to us that like a pair o f glasses, it usually escapes our notice . Personal loss and the consequent longing f o r what is past as well as acute expectation and' the tedium of waiting for what will be does, at times, give us a sense of this fact . out of this sense comes a notion of being . Being means presence, or, to put this in Greek, ousia means parousia. Now, that which is present is at the present, that is, it shares with us a now . If 48 neither the past nor the future are, if only the present really is, then this last, in fact, is the place of being . What sort of being is this? If being is presence in t h e now, then it would seem to be , like the moment that occupies t h e now, t he most f leet ing type of being. The present moment is but for a moment and slips into the past, that is, into what is not . As Augustine says: "If, therefore, the present i s time only by reason of the fact that it moves on to become the past, how can we say that even the present is, when the reason why it is is that it is not to be? In other words, we cannot right l y say that time is , except by reason of i ts intending state o f non - being . " Augustine's po~nt here is that the moment of the now is constant l y present by virtue of being constantly new . Time is a process invo lving continual change . Thi s means that the moment of the now, regarded as part of this process, is only insofar as it changes into what is not -- i. e ., the past. This a nnihilation of the moment, does not , however, mean that t he process stops . A new moment appears, moving, as it were, from the future to the present . Here we can say two things. The first is that the very being of the present moment demands both the past and the future . The present momen t would not be in time, that is, would not be at a ll , if, as Augustine says, it did not "move on to become the past." Similar l y, it could not have come to be, if it had not, as part of the future, rep laced the present moment . What we have here is something worthy of our wonder. Granting that time is a pro cess of constant change, of moment rep l acing momen t in the ongoing now , none of time's moments can exist as an independe nt being. To give a moment such a being is to think of it apart from what precedes and follows it . But this is to place it outside of time . Since, however , the moment only exists as part of time, t his is not to think it at all . The conclusion here is that the moments of time can only be conceived and can only exist by virtue of the moment s that surround them . They are all dependent memb ers of a whole. We can also say that, like the points on a line , they exist, not as discrete (or separate ) entities, but as elements of a continuum . The sec ond thing we can say about time is that the now, with its constant appearing and van ishing of moments, is a pure e x ample of what we mean by becoming . It is, we can say , a pure form of the world of sensible things . This is a world which, to quote Plato, is ever anew "created, always in motion, becoming in place and vanishing again out of place." 6 How can we say, as we earlier did, that within the thought of the now there is the thought of a link between change and eterni ty-- in particular , the eternity of the ideas ? To quote Plato again, the being of an idea is "always the same, uncreated and indestructible . " It is a being "never receiving anything into itself from withou t nor itself going out to any other." 7 How can the present now, which continues to ex ist by receiving the moments of the future and, in the same process, yielding these moment s to the past , qualify as a link to the eternal being of the ideas? That there must be something more inherent in the concept of the now is indicated by the fact that our present conception does not allow us to speak of time as dur ation , that is , as long or short stretches of time . As Augustine writes, "We speak of a 'long' time and a 'sho rt' time, though only when we mean the past or the future . . . . But how can anything which does not exist be either long or short? For the past is no mo r e and the future is not yet . " In other words, if being is presence in the now and if a stretch of time includes by definition more moments than the one that occupies the present, then such a stretch is not yet thinkable. He re we can state a paradox-- a paradox out of whi ch a proper conception of the now can be drawn . As we h ave stated, the moment o f the now is not independent . As a mo ment of time , it exists only by virtue of the pastness into which it will flow and the futurity which will replace it . Since, however , both the past and the future are not, it is , in its own being, dependent on what is not . With this, we can be said to come to the parting of the philosophical ways . Holding fast to the notion of being as presence, we can say, on the one hand, that being as presence depends upon 49 �road of is not present . Here, we enter upon the absence -- i . e . , on What . b d b · ng is what upholds firm that absence --or what is eyon ei -neo - platonism . We af · f this school of is the most famous modern representative .? being . Heidegger embrace Augustine's solution . We can assert thought.8 On the other hand, we can . Thus for the present, dependent moment that being can only be dependent on being~· h 't 'depends must also be. Being means to be' bo:-h the past aTnh~ the .fut~~=t o:o~ lt~e ~ast and the fut~must be co - present presence in the now. is means in the now. can be understood on two levels . In both of these, time a~ This solution . h ·n amon the things "outside" of us --but, in pears --not as an obJect, or. as .~ t .1 g. "g This does not mean that it is merely Augustine's words' as something sub] ecti ve. t d . th a notion of a subject which subjective. on the contrary, we . are prese.n e . "'!1 transforms our ordinar¥ understandin~ of s~bJe~~~v~t{~ments of the solution which we To begin to see this, we must first gifve h t and the future " it is only by / t d When Augustine asserts o t e pas just sugges e . " e have three components of presence : "a being present that they are, he means that: thins and a present of future things . " present o f past things~ a pres~nt of P,;esen n~ exists as "direct perception" and The .first' he says' exists as memo.ry.' ~he seco. these three e x ist "only in t he the third as "expectation" or anticipation. Since . . red and has its mind'" it is in the mind, according to Augustine, t~at tifme is meatu the time of a · · th t I measure elapsed time, or examp e, proper being. This means a . . . or the moments of its sounding. note that has sound~d, by re:a1n1ng in ~y ~~m / a short one and then a long one , Similarly, if I hear in succession two s~un s, ilrs sound "retain the sound of the Augustine wri te.s that I must, while he~~gtw~eforont~e purp~se of measurement." Thi s short one in order that I may compare t · d pth we do not · th going now gives the now a cer ain e · retention o f moments in e on ~ sion always involves a retained apprehend it as an isolated instant. Its appre en 1 . . th regard to the d d A ustine makes the same c aim wi stretch of time that prece ~ . ug 11 - resent in the now and are apprehended in future. Future moment s ~f time are a co p t ting from the present moment of the the attitude of expectation . Thus, we can, s ar. . . ant . i·ew the future as definite stretches h of h i cipated time. now, v lls the "faculties" of expectation Augustine illustrates the workings of w at e ca . ' ing a P salm one knows . He writes: and memory by the example of reci t' "Before I begin, my faculty of expectation is engaged by the whole of it . But once I have begun , as .much of the psalm as I have removed from the province of expectation and relegated to the past now engages my memory, and the scope of the action which. I am performing is divided be t ween the t~o f acu t es of memory and expectation, the one looking back to "?-he part which r have already recited,. the othe~ looking f o rward to the part which I have still to recite . But my faculty of attention is present all the while, and through it passes what was the future in t~e process of becoming the past. As the process continues, the province of memory is extended i~ proportion as that of expectation is reduced, until the whole of my expectation is absorbed. This happens when. I have finished my recitation and it has all passed. into the province of memory . " 50 Edmund Husserl, a German philosopher, has provided us with a diagram which we can adapt so as to spatially represent this process :.9 p PAST FUTURE The horizontal line represents successively given time. Reading from left to right, each of the points of the line represent later moments. The 0 point represents the present now. Thus, to its left, OP stands for the past, while to its right, OF stands for the future. Now the reason why the line PF is drawn dotted is that neither the past nor the future exists except as present. As present, the past and the future are given by P'O and OF' respectively. In other words, the vertical line passing through the O point of the now gives us in its bottom half, the "province of . memory," whose content is the retained past moments. In its top half, it gives us the province of expectation which consists of the anticipated future moments. The diagonal lines pointing away from the vertical towards the horizontal indicate the t emporal references of what we retain or anticipate . Thus, the retained stretch of time P'A' has a reference to PA, a successively experienced stretch of past time. Similarly, the anticipated stretch, F'U', refers to FU, a duration in the future we shall experience. As the arrows indicate, the reference of what we retain is to greater and greater pastness as we descent along the vertical. P' is a retention of an earlier moment than A'. The same thing holds in a reverse fashion when we ascend the vertical. F' is the anticipation of a later moment than that anticipated by U'. To make this diagram represent what happens when we recite a psalm, we must imagine the diagonal lines as remaining fixed while the vertical line · s displaced , parallel to itself, from left to right. Since the intersection of the vertical and the horizontal line continues to designate the present now, this motion represents the advance of this now into successively later moments. Let us note that F', U', A', P' are determined as points of intersection between moving vertical and the fixed diagonal lines. Therefore, as the vertical is displaced to the right, the points of intersection will be seen to move downward. This means that the anticipated duration, represented by F'U', will sink on the vertical, gradually passing through the O point, the point representing the moment of the present. As it does so, the arrows denoting the temporal reference of F'U' will be reversed. When they pointed to future moments to the right of the vertical, they were directed to the right . and downward. Pointing to the same moments that the moving vertical has placed to the left of the 0 point, the arrows will point upward and to the left. The reverse of the direction of the temporal reference means that the temporal stretch that was anticipated is now retained. The present of future things, F'U', has now become the 51 �present · of past things , P ' A' . We, thus, have achieved a r epresentation of a proc e ss in which, as Augustine says, "the province of memory is e x tended in proportion as that of expectation is reduced . " Here we may observe that insofar as the past and future exist only as present, our diagram could have been reduced to the single vertical line with it o point . The movement of the . line downward through the O point would, then, represent what is anticipated successively becoming a c tual and then passing into the retained past. As we said, Augustine's solution is capable of being interpreted on two different levels. It can be looked upon as making time merely subjective . So understood, it reduces the reality of time to the memory and expectation of an individual subject . That this is not Augustine's meaning can be gathered from what he writes immediately following his description of the reciting of the psalm. He states : "What is true of the whole psalm is also true of all its parts and of each syllable . It is true of any longer action in which I may be engaged and of which the recitation of the psalm may only be a small pa r t. It is t r ue of a man's whole lif e , o f which a ll his act ions are parts . It is true of the whole history of mankind, of which each man's life is a part." The claim that Augustine is making here is that memory and e xpectation pass far beyond the faculties of an individual subject . The vertical line which represents the two must, in fact, be drawn as infinite . This claim should not surprise us once we recall the dependence of the moments of time . The being- in- time of the present moment demands, in its dependence, the being of the past and the futu r e . This implies that we cannot grant time's existence without also granting its indefinite continuance . Indefinite cont i nuance must be assumed since the temporal being of the present moment demands the e x istence of the mo~ent that replaces it as it slips into pastness. In other wo r ds, the p r esent , in its dependence, is never without its anticipated future . This means that the vertical line, which represents on its upper half the series of anticipated moments , must be taken as indefinitely extended . Only by so conceiving it, can we make it represent the inexhaustibility of time . Since, by what we have just said, it follows that time can have no temporal beginning, we must also make the bottom half of the vertical indefinitely long . From that which has no beginning, an indefinite amount of time can be safely assumed to have elapsed. Let us, for a moment, focus on the conception of time that we have reached. We have asserted that the indefinite continuance of time springs from the fact that every moment, in order to be in time, requires the being of the moments that surround it. It is easy to see that any finite stretch of time is also in the same condition of dependence . Its first and last moments, as existing in time , demand respectively the being of what precedes and what follows this finite stretch of time . Granting this, the dependence manifested by the moments and the finite extents of time is ultimately on nothing less than the whole of time . If this dependence is to be real, if it is to be anchored in being, then we h a ve to say 't h at t h e whole o f time h as an independent being . Otherwise put: If we grant the existence of the present moment, the moment at the o point of our diagram, then the chain of dependencies that links this with the whole of time demands that this whole be given an independent being . What precisely is this temporally independent being which we are pointing to? Its thought is the thought of its not being dependent on another time in order to be. It is, thus, by def ini ti on, thethought of the whole of time -- i . e . , time as the abiding totality of its moments . That such a whole (or totality) does not itself move in time , i . e . , p r og r e ss l i ke a n individual thing that has a beginning and end - follows from the way we have defined it. There is no "time," i . e . , a time outside of the wholeness of time -- into which it could be said to progress . There is, we may observe, a name for this type of whole. It can be designated as a unique singular . Such a singular is defined as that which necessarily exists simply as one, and not as one among many individual singulars, each having the same nature. Given the dependence of the moment on the wholeness of time, we have to say that if time exists -- that is, e x ists as . a present, actual moment -- then it must also have the being of a unique singular . It must, in other words'· have the quality of wholeness that excludes any time beyond itself . All this has a reference to Augustine's argument that it was not in time that God created time . Time as a unique singular must be created all at once . It must, for any moment of it to appear, be entirely present as an inexhaustible whole . Our representation of this whole is the indefinitely extended vertical line . The fact that this line is drawn vertically signifies the co-presence of every instant of time with the present now . Here, of course, we simply follow the necessity that has guided us before . This is that if being means presence in the now, both the future and the past, in order to be, must be present in the now. The line, then, represents the co - presence in the now of every moment of time; it represents the now in which "all is present." This last is Augustine's definition of eternity. With this, the now appears with an aspect opposite to that which we began with. Before, the now appeared as a pure example of the notion of becoming . Here, the now appears under the aspect of eternity. Eternity is usually regarded as an unthinkable concept. Upon hearing the word, the mind generally stops and declares that the concept is beyond all experience. This, however, is not the case with Augustine's concept of eternity, which signifies the co-presence of distinct moments. Fragments of eternity are experienced by us at every instant of our lives. They are experienced every time we apprehend something in motion. A motion, for example, the falling of a pencil, is a temporally extended event. To apprehend it as such, I must grasp its moments as successive, i.e. , ·as occupying distinct temporal positions. The successively grasped moments cannot, however, disappear from my consciousness the instant after their apprehension. To grasp as a whole the falling of a pencil, I must retain such moments in the present, that is, in the present of my act of apprehension. In other words, they must, as distinct moments, be co-present with my ongoing now. Thus, admitting that such co- presence is the characteristic of eternity, it is by virtue of a little fragment of eternity that I grasp my pencil's falling. That the now actually embraces more than this fragment, that, in fact, it must embrace the co-presence of the totality of time's moments, follows from what we said above: Given the dependence of the moments of time, no part of time can exist separately. In other words, time must exist as a whole or not at all. We have reached a point where we can begin to understand the assertions of Augustine that we first quoted. He writes that "both the past and the future have their beginning and their end in the eternal present." He also claims that "eternity ... determines both past and future time." This eternity is the co-presence with the now of all the moments of time. It is by virtue of this co-presence that the individual moment can exist as present. The moment, as dependent, can only exist-- i.e., be present at the 0 point--by virtue of the co- presenc e o f t e whole of time, the whole upon which it ultimately depends. Now, the relation of the future and the past to the present moment can be looked upon in two ways. We can think of them as standing outside of the present moment. Here, time appears as the horizontal line of our diagram .. The 0 point, indicating the present, is both the beginning of the segment representing the future and the end of the segment representing the past. This beginning and end of the future and the past is, however, not just the present regarded as a single moment. Through it is drawn the vertical which represents the eternal present-- i . e . , the co-presence in the now of all that it depends upon. It is this eternal present which is, thus, always the beginning of the future and the end of the past when the latter are horizontally represented. To see this eternal present as determining both past and future time, we have to change our point of view and say that the past and the future do not exist outside of the present moment. In Augustine's words, "it is · only by being present that they are." If we do this, we are left with what is signified by the vertical line of0ur diagram. The line 52 53 �signifies eternity. The downward movement of the segments of the line represent the passage from anticipated to retained time . It also signifies eternity's determination of future and past time. The essential point illustrated by this spatial representation is simply this: If, in fact, past and future can be only as present, then this determination must be in terms of such presence. The co-presence of the past and future moments of time is, however, precisely what Augustine means by eternity. With these thoughts, we can catch a glimpse of et~rnity's relation to existence. Let us make a distinction between being and existence. Being, we shall say, is co-presence in the now. It is the co-presence that is shared by the anticipated fu ture, the actual present, and the retained past. Existence, according to its etymology, means standing out. Accordingly, we shall define it as the outstanding or exemplary condition of being present. It shall signify being at the 0 point of the now. With these definitions, eternity can be said to determine existence. For its determination of the passage of time is also a determination of the moments of time successively occupying the O point or actual present. It is a determination of the welling up of moments that successively take their place at the 0 point of the now . Each of these present moments is also supported by eternity. This follows insofar as each is dependent on the whole of time, on the co - presence of moments which we have called eternity. From these reflections, two thoughts can arise . The first is that God, through . his eternal word, i.e. , through his eternity, both grants existence and supports existence from moment to moment. It is, we can say, through his "grace" that a thing exists and continues to exist. God is, in the eternal co -p resence of moments, the being which supports the existing thing. This thought will be refined by us later, when we come to speak of the eternal ideas . The second thought which arises is that the notion of time as something subjective leads us, through the notion of eternity, to posit God as the ultimate subject. Put rather simply, it only is in God that the notions of anticipated and retained time can be indefinitely extended. It is only in him that they can be extended-- as they must-- to embrace the necessary wholeness of time. III. Let us now return to the problem from Parmenides which we discussed at the beginning of this lecture. As we recall the elements of this problem are two necessary, but apparently ,incompatible demands: On the one hand, the idea must be like the thing . This follows insofar as it is from our perceptions of the thing that we rise to the thought of its idea. On the other hand, if we are to avoid an infinite regress, the idea must not be like the thing. In particular, it cannot, as the thing is, be a material , spatial- temporal object . A material thing cannot have the being that defines the idea. As we saw, a material entity cannot be one thing and also be present in many. How, then can the idea both be like and unlike the thing? Our answer involves first of all our defining the idea in terms of our discussion of time. The idea is, we affirm, the shining through of eternity in each of the present, fleeting moments. It is, in terms of our diagram, the result of the vertical line passing through the ongoing now point. This definition does not make the idea into something material, i.e., a spatial-temporal entity. It does, however, allow us to say that the idea is the very presence of a thing. In fact, insofar as being and presence continue to be the same for us, the definition allows us to say that the idea is the very being of a thing. At first our definition may seem mysterious. It is, however, composed of common notions. Thus, when we say that the idea is the very presence or being of a thing, we are affirming that we grasp the thing as there, as present before us in the very 54 same process by which we grasp its idea. The idea is one thing in many . Thus, our claim is that it is through our recognition of fdentical elements in a multipliciiy t hat we grasp both a thing and its idea. Where are we to locate this multiplicity? Let us recall our assertion that it i~ from the perceptions of a thing that we rise to the thought of its idea . It is also from these same perceptions that we apprehend the thing as present , as being there before our eyes. Now, if we take the multiplicity in question to refer to our perceptions of some object, we can begin to see the type of entity required to solve the Parmenidean problem. 10 Let us consider, in abstraction, an individual perception. We say "in abstraction" because, like the moment that contains it, such a perception is never actua lly discrete or separable from those that preceded and follow it . When we do consider the individual percept ion, it shows us a remarkable characteristic . It is both like and unlike t he thing perceived . It is like it insofar as the content of the perception becomes for us the content of the thing perceived . Thus , the redness I see can, under certain conditions, become for me the redness of an obj ect present to me . We shall mention these conditions later ~ First, howeve r, let us observe how unlike this perception is to its object . The perception, as contained in a moment of time , does not endure. It exists, in t he "outstanding" sense of the term, existen ce, only for an ins tant. The object, however , continues to e x ist, and hence to endure moment after moment as it affords us continually new perceptions . The object, moreover, is a spatial thing. We can measure it and predicate of it , in relation to ourselves , largeness or sma llness . None of this is possible with regard to an individual perception. Let us say that I see a tower in the distance . Can I tell from my single perception if the tower is large or small? Can I put a tape measure to my mind and measure my perception as so many inches or feet across? The obvious answer is that I cannot. In fact, as a slight reflection will show, it is only through the temporal ordering and arrangement of my perceptions that I have any notion of the size of the tower . I predicate largeness of the tower because, as I approach it, my perception of it takes up more and more of my visual field . Similarly, I take the tower to be a three - dimensional spatial object because, as I walk around it, my perceptions arrange themselves as a series of perspectual views . All of this is , of course, very elementary . It does, however, show us that it is not through a single perception that we arrive at the predicates appropriate to spatial - temporal, material things. Let us repeat the qu est ion we raised: Where are we to locate the multiplicity through which we perceive both the thing and its idea? Taking the multiplicity as referring to our perceptions, the answer is obvious . All of our perceptions, along with the moments which contain them, are retained in the ongoing now . Their proper place is in that eternity which is the co - presence of the totality of retained and anticipated moments . Now, when we regard what we have called the shining through of this eternity, we see the conditions that allow us to grasp an object . We opserve first of all, that although the retained perceptions are distinct in their temporal references, showing themselves as more or less past, this does not mean that we apprehend them one by one . On th~ contrary, we view them all together. This follows from the non - independence of the moments that contain them . This non - independence means that we cannot think of something as past without also thinking of the moments and contents that follow this in time . What we retain is, therefore, apprehended as a unified perceptual e x perience . It is not apprehended as discrete moments and discrete perceptions. What is the result of our apprehending our retained perceptions " all together"? Such perceptions, when viewed as a whole, are placed for us in a unity of coincidence. By this, I mean that they have a presence that is analogous to that of a series of overlapping transparencies. Now, in this coincidence, contents that are identical and, to a lesser extent, contents that are similar in quality, act to reinforce the presence of their qualities . The result of this, I believe, is the shining through of a one in many that allows us to grasp both 55 �the thing and its idea. Let me illustrate this by an example. I take my pencil and continually turn it in my hand. As I do so, the contents that I perceptually experience constantly enter into the retention of my memory. The pencil has only a finite number of features and, thus, the contents that I do retain, as I constantly view it from one side and then another, will recur. In the unity of coincidence in which all these contents are placed, the recurrent contents will reinforce one another. They will, as we put, "shine through." This shining through has, we say, two specific effects. In the first place, it allows me to affirm that my present, momentary perception is not an isolated experience, but is rather a perception of some object. The content of this perception is re-enforced by the identical, recurring contents that I have previously experienced. It, thus, attains a reference to what I have previously experienced. It becomes a perception of a feature of an enduring, object. With this I pass from a judgment of perception, for example, the judgment that I see yellowness, to a judgment of experience. The latter consists in the affirmation that there is something there, enduring before me, of which I am presently having perceptions . It is a claim concerning being. The second effect of this shining through is the apprehension, in a primitive form, of the idea of the object. The similar elements which recur and which allow me to unify my perceptions as perceptions of definite features of one and the same object, also allow me to predicate definite qualities ·of the object. They give me the definite qualities which form the elements of the idea of the object, for example, the yellowness, length, and shape of a pencil. Several things can be said about this solution. The first is that the idea that arises in this process is both like and unlike the object. Its likeness consists in the fact that its content is identical to that of the object. Its unlikeness consists in the fact that it itself is not a spatial-temporal object. A spatial-temporal object appears perspectively. It changes its appearance from moment to moment as we view it from different sides. What we retain, however, is fixed in eternity. We cannot take a remembered perceptual experience and examine it like a physical object, turning it around so as to view it from a side which we have not yet seen. Because of this, the idea which results from the shining through of what we retain is not like and can never be like the thing in the sense of itself being something spatial- temporal. The second point is that the process, which we described as giving us the ide~ of a single object, can be repeated again and again to give us the idea of a number of objects. Thus, I can view in succession a number of pencils . The same process of retention, unification and reinforcement of similar contents will occur. Here, however, the resultant idea will apply not to one but to many pencils. When we ask how far we can continue this process, two alternative answers appear . We may take our description as purely psychological in the modern sense. It will then be taken as applying only to the individual subject with his limited abilities. Al t e r na:tely, we may t a ke i t as applying to the one subject who is adequate to the necessary wholeness of time. Here, anticipation and retention extend to the totality of moments and possible contents contained in these moments. The shining through that occurs through the coincidence of these contents will then be a shining through of ideas that are truly eternal. In this case, the "place" of the ideas will be in that eternity which Augustine calls the Word of God. We mentioned earlier that God, in the eternal co-presence of moments, is the being which supports the existing thing. We may now refine this thought by saying that the ideas that have their place in this co-presence support not just the existence but also the definite qualities of the thing. Why should we, in fact, follow Augustine into this second interpretation? The answer, I believe, is contained in the notion of time. Time, as we said, is a unique singular. If it does exist, it must exist as a whole that has no beyond. The same can be said for the idea. Each idea, if it does exist, exists as an all embracing whole. _ hus, the idea of man properly einbraces all men. ·rt is not added to by the T ~ultiplicatio~ of e x amples falling under in the same sense as ti . ~ its copcept . It is' thus' a unique . d. . me is . It is one thing and has singular in i v~dual~ of a similar type . Grantin thi no beyond in terms of to arise , it must do so th r ough the g s, we have to say that if such an idea is insofar as its notion invol v es the : f the wholeness of time . This follows an example of its notion Does such 'd o ~11 that has been and all that will be 't · · an i ea exist? G' th i exists as certainly as the wholeness f t ' ·. iven e above, we can say that the moment, we can also say that it exist~ a ime ex~sts . Adm~tting the dependence of Let me end this lecture with a uest' s certai~ly as this present moment does . been preserved in bei'ng by you ? q ion. Has this moment really ended , or has it . p:::::c:ce Footnotes : 1· 2. 3. 4. Parm . ' 132 d - 3,· trans . my own . See Ibid ., 131 a ff . See Ibid . , 133 b ff . All dir.ect quotation s from Augustine Augus t ine - -Confessions, trans . R. S are taken from "Book XI ' " Sain t . . London, 1964 . ' . Pine - Coffine, Penguin Classics, LIII4, 5. See Au~ustine, "Concerning Eighty Three Essential August' t Different Questions, Question 46," The 6 T' ine, rans . Vernon J . Bourke New k ' Yor ' 1964, p . 62 . imaeus, 52 a, trans . Jowett 7. Ibid . . 8. See M. Heidegger "W · ' as ist Metaphysik " Weg k 6, pp. 16- 17 . , mar en, Frankfurt am Main, 1967, p. 9. Fo~ the original diagram, see E . Husserl z . . Zeitbewusstseins ed R B h ' ur Phaenomenologie des inneren --;:;:;:;-----::-::--~=-=-::::.::::~, • • oe m, Haag 1966 28 10 . The Platcfoic word for "ide " . ·a' ' p. . a is ei os It is de . d f second aorist of eido h' h --·-· rive rom eidon the . - - w ic means "to perceive " O . , is, thus, an attempt to get at th . . ur analysis of perception e root meaning of eidos. 56 57 �Emma's Reconciliation Of Manners· And Honesty Lenore Brown party in Mrs. Elton and Mr. Knightley are discussing the strawberry picking Chapter 42 of Emma. Mrs. Elton says: Nothing can be more simple, you see .... There is to be no form or parade--a sort of gypsy party. We are to walk about your gardens, and gather the strawberries ourselves, and sit under trees; - -and whatever else you may like to provide, it is all to be out of do?rs--a table spread in the shade, you know. Everything as natural and simple as possible . Is not that your idea? Mr. Knightley replies: Not quite. My idea of the simple and the natural will be to have the table spread in the dining - room. The nature and the simplicity of ladies and gentlemen, with their servants and furniture, I think is best observed by meals within doors. . Mr. Knightley firmly believes that form and regularity are necessary for ladies and gentlemen. By contrast , gypsies, no matter how gay. Mrs. El~on may i~~gine th~ir formless wandering live without any regulations in their behavior or actions, which Harriet unfortunat,ely discovers when they attack her. The ~ypsies' lack of . f~rm threatens her mental and physical well-being. All the contrivances of the din~ng room, on the other hand, are expressly for the mental and physical comfort .of its occupants. Drafts are stopped and polite conversa~ion is served so that ladies and gentlemen can continue being ladies and gentlemen wi:h th: least amount of effort. The dining room is the paradigm of manners in Highbury society. "Rational society"--so called because it is considering or considerate, not necessarily logical--holds forth in contrived settings such as dining rooms or balls, with manners equally contrived. In Hartfield with Mr. KnightleX E~a may speak as candidly as she chooses, but in the Weston's drawing room, even . with the pe~p e she is familiar with she must listen politely to Mr. Elton as he monopolizes her attention, thoug~ she would rather hear about the expected arrival of Frank Churchill. Such sacrifices make for others' comfort in Highbury . Although some of these manners may seem insincere to us (instead of buying . a screen to keep the drafts away from Mr. Woodhouse, we. wou.ld ~robably rather ask him to stay home), they are necessary in making everyday life in High~ury more agreeable, just as not bumping into one another when dancing makes dancing more agreeable. Since the dance in the small room (Chapter 29) must continue, the fewer toes stepped on, the better. The reason for providing one another with the comfort of manners is comfort itself. Another element necessary for polite society, besides the ameniti~s of the din~ng room, is mannerly language. Indeed, it is one of the most useful vehicles for making others comfortable. While talking to Miss Bates, Emma hears of another letter from Jane Fairfax, and though she detests hearing the contents of it, she replies, "Have you heard f r om Miss . Fairfax so lately? I am extremely happy . I hope she is well?"(19) On the other hand , it is only when she is in the completely artless environment of the Box Hill party that she asks Miss Bates to limit herself to uttering no more than three dull things at one time--a clever, yet viciously honest request . She asks this afte r the group has split up and w,pndered formlessly, like gypsies. When she is severely chastized by Mr. Knightley, we realize that language in Highbury must be as artificial as its manners. It must be conscious of and caring for its listeners . Yet good language is described as being more than mannerly in Emma. Austen praises Mr . Knightley for speaking in "plain, unaffected, gentleman- like En glish" (51) . The language of society should· be plain and unaffected in addition to polite and caring. But how can gentlemanly language be plain and unaffected when gentlemanly manners are not - -that is, when the way to make other people feel comfortable is to be artificially concerned or to hide some of the truth? The book answers this question while creating a new one. The manners of Highbury, though gentlemanly, are supposed to be plain and unaffected also, so that whatever permits two seemingly contradictory qualities in Highbury's manners also makes those qualities possible in its language . A man should have "truth and principle ... in every transaction of his life," Emma says(46) . Mr. Knightley also tells Emma to value "the beauty of truth and sincerity in all our dealings with each other" (51). Have we seen truth and sincerity in the dining room? Is Emma plain and unaffected when she tells Miss Bates that she is very happy about the news of Jane's letter? Does her caring for Miss Bates mitigate the insincerity of her speech and manners? Honesty is the norm between Enuna and Mr. Knightley, but can it be so easily maintained throughout Highbury? Mr . Knightley actually upbraids Enuna for speaking with too much truth at the Box Hill party . Surely the principle he praises does not consist of applying truth and sincerity to others only when it is flattering to do so . That is no principle. A. similar paradox arises when Mrs. Weston, in planning her Box Hill party, wants to have it in some "quiet, unpretending, elegant way, infinitely superior to the bustle and preparation, the regular eating and drinking, and pic - nic parade of the Eltons and the Sucklings" (46). "Unpretending and elegant" echoes "unaffected and gentleman- like," and will help to explain the paradox. Mrs . Weston wants an elegant party, not a picnic, which is not only a way of eating but is any carefree experience, like the carefree strolling of Mrs. Elton . She wants form, not a spontaneous, carefree, and careless troup of gypsies. Elegance for her is not synonymous with Mrs . Elton's pearl- studded dress; her notion of an elegant party is a well - chosen or well - selected one, like an elegant proof. She has thought everything through carefully. (In contrast, Mrs Elton presents her ideas for a strawberry party in a sloppy, inelegant way . ) The connection between elegant and gentleman- like is n ow c l e a r. Well- chosen, well - thought- out elegance is appropriate for a caring, considerate lady or gentleman . All the pains and contrivances of Highbury manners are thought out and well- chosen for the comfort of all. With that explanation society's manners lose some of their stain of unnaturalness in our eyes, and the paradox of "unaffected and elegant" weakens. Emma is not pretending when she diplomatically tries to divert her father from the controversy over Mr . Perry versus Mr . Wingfield; she is considering the feelings of the others, and elegantly choosing a way to avoid more pain when she asks Mr. John Knightley "about your friend Mr. Grahm' s intending to have a bailiff from Scotland" (12) . An elegant proof is not insincere, even though it is made with thought, care, and no guesswork, just as politeness is not insincere, even though it arises from thought, care and nothing left to chance. Sincerity has nothing to do with spontaneity. One may at first be tempted to laugh at Miss Bates but it is not pretense that one wants her to have some dignity. • 59 58 �Often, however, among Highbury's well- bred we see truth and elegance forgotten, and forgotten at some of the most dramatic parts of the book. For example, Emma loses sight of curtesy or elegance when Harriet confesses her love for Mr . Knightley. She "hastily" replies, "Have you any idea of Mr . Knightley' s returning your affection?"(42). Elegance is never hasty in Highbury, especially in Hartfield, where every change is accomplished slowly for Mr . Woodhouse's benefit . Harriet, exposed to many traumas thus far, usually handles them well, at least in public, and so when Mr. Woodhouse's footsteps are heard in the hall, it is significant that "Harriet was much too agitated to encounter him. 'She could not compose herself,'" (47) and flees the room through another door. Emma's attack has discomposed her as much as the gypsy attack did . Harriet must flee from both. Composure, consideration, and society all crumble in this scene, because of Emma's thoughtlessness . When Emma examines her heart after blurting out her question, she discovers the cause of her agitation: she loves Mr. Knightley and is jealous of Harriet . Although she is usually elegant and sincere with others, she has not until now been sincere or elegant with herself. Having honesty and manners with other people presupposes sincerity and elegance within oneself . The very thing--her quickness of mind--that causes her to deceive herself, oddly enough is also responsible for her cleverness and her poor matchmaking abilities . Emma can cleve rly decipher a puzzle: she can scramble letters around in her mind quickly, and when they form a recognizable group (a word), she knows that her solution is correct. She also quickly guesses words at charades, and when two of them court and ship combine to make a third--courtship--she knows that she must have the right word . Later, when guessing who has whose affections, she quickly scrambles people around in her mind. But life presents no way for her to check her answers to show her whether she is correct. She can guess with one clue that Jane Fairfax and Mr . Dixon are in love, but she can not compare her answer to any pattern; nothing "clicks." The idea of Jane and Mr. Dixon has no second half of a charade to match the first clue with, even if it were true . Mental thoroughness does not necessarily develop from cleverness or mental quickness; just because "a mind lively and at ease ... can see nothing that does not answer" (27), it does not necessarily answer correctly. Emma has tried to guess why Mr . Knightley must never marry, but she is content with her first answer of wanting to preserve little Henry's inheritance. It is not until she has the second clue- - her own jealousy--to check her first answer against, that she knows that she is in love. Emma then learns the whole truth "with the speed of an arrow" ( 4 7) . She was not sincere with herself about her feelings of jealousy or of love. We see Mr. Knightley also forgetting the rules of polite society because he fails to apply them within himself. He is insincere with Emma. When he asks her whether she has noticed any love between Frank and Jane, she replies firmly but playfully, "no" . Although he feels obligated to protect Emma's reputation, feeling, and safety from the affections of "a young man who seemed to love without feeling" ( 42) , and although he is willing "to risk everything that might be involved in an unwelcome interference" (42), he leaves Hartfield irritated and without pursuing the subject further. He leaves not precisely lying to Emma, but not telling her what he sincerely feels. Sometimes it is simply polite to neglect to mention certain opinions in Highbury, especially when they are careless and hurtful. But here, his omission is not tactful, but improper, because he wants to "preserve her" and does ~not. He flees Hartfield "that he might not be irritated into an absolute fever, by the fire which Mr. Woodhouse's tender habits required almost every evening throughout the year" (42). But he runs away from more than Hartfield's fires, he runs away from his own. It is ironic that he has told Emma earlier that if she "were as much guided by nature in her estimate of men and women [as she is concerning children] , we might always think alike" (12). Mr. Knightley himself needs to be guided more by the spontaneity of nature and less by judgement. It is a new feeling for him to want 60 Emma all for himself. He has always loved her but her affection for him has never before been .threatened; now that she flirts .with Frank he must accept h_is new · , feelings of Jealousy. But he is so far from being a creature of impulse that he cannot acknowledge his own impulsive feelings. Even when he finds out that Frank has supposedly deserted Emma, he wants only to make his affection for her a little more felt. Only once does he succumb . to impulse; his proposal "had been t he work of the moment, the immediate effect of what he had heard, on his fee lings .... in the momentar~ conquest of eagerness over judgement" (49). So Mr. Kniqhtley, in denying the feelings that appear in a moment, is not truthful with Emma; he breaks his own code of truth and sincerity within himself; consequently, he fail s to b~ a q entleman with Emma. Is it simply impossible to be as honest and thoughtful within o neself as it is to be so with others? Or must we first be honest and thoughtful within ourselves before we ca~ b~ 1~0 with. others? In a house that is "just what it ought to be, and ... looks what it is (42) it seems that its company must be that way too; that is, they must know who they are before they can look like what they are. Or must the appearances be doomed never to correspond with the self? How would one prepare for the dining room if outward and inward thoughts did correspond? In other words, how can one be sincere and thoughtful, or unpretendinq and elegant, to oneself as well as to others? Must a gentleman periodically excus~ himself from the table for a few years in order to understand his true feelings and t~oughts? Or do his true feelings and thoughts become apparent in society and to himself gradually, so that he may simultaneously pass the peas and act on his own true feelings? How can Highbury prevent double standards between its public and its private lives? . Mr. Knightley retreats from society to understand himself; for after Emma tells him that Frank does not love Jane, he takes "a hasty leave, and walks home to the ~oolness and solitude of Donwell Abbey" (42) . The Abbey's coolness and solitude make it out to be the very monastery its name implies. An abbey is a place for co~templation and reflection, and Donwell itself is a pun on done well. Mr. Knightley does everything well there; he examines his soul carefully, thoroughly, and elegantly . ~lone he has no sudden surprises of love or jealousy to examine at a moment's no~ice. He ~an accept Frank Churchill's presence in Highbury and think it through. His heated Jealousy is cooled now that he is away from Hartfield that is, now that he is away from those who kindle his fires. ' But does this retreat, a retreat to monkish living, prepare him for society? Donwell has "all the old neglect of prospect" (42) both of its stream as well as of Highbury's lively society. It is all very well to contemplate one's love but how is that possible in the atmosphere of a monastery, the very atmosphere tha~ cools his love? How can he understand or feel there the sort of thing that happens at a dinner or a ball? He may anticipate another man cutting in on his partner but he will not fee~ it until it happens to him. Mr. Knightley had years to a~ticipate Frank 1 s arrival and Emma's r~action to him, but he could fully feel its effects only when Frank actually arrived. The . intensity of some feelings are due to their un~xpectedn~ss. Accustomed to planning the locations of his paths and fences, Mr. Knig~tley ~inds the very rapidity of feelings that are generated in public to be new to him. His elegant mind has much exercise at Donwell Abbey, but not so his sincere mind. . Alt~ough the residents of Highbury need to be sincere and thoughtful in their own ~inds in order to be unpretending and caring with one another in the dining room, it is now cle~r that they need to be in the dining room itself to be aware of some of those_ f:elings and thoughts . And in fact, members of Highbury society are put into t~e ~ining room from a very young age. While they fill their plates, they are also f ~l~ing themselves; they become the people they are because they are put into the dining room. In this sense society is rather artificial, because it is imposed on 61 �one by other people. Insincerity exists at least temporarily --as when a child fi r st taught to say "thank you" may not necessarily mean it . Although this polite society is somewhat artificial, it is nevertheless firmly a part of everyone except the gypsies in Emma . In fact, it is unnatural to leave Highbury society once there . Mr. Knightley is away from Donwell Abbey (seclusion) "five hours where [Emma] is absent [from Hartfield (society)] one," according to Emma in chapter 36. Emma can certainly never pull away from Highbury, and Mr . Knightly runs to it. Even Donwell Abbey is partly "comfortable," that is, ready to serve others. In addition to its being Mr. Knightley's retreat, it is what it ought to be--the home of a "family untainted in understanding or gentility . " If solitude is not natural for the people of Highbury, neither is being alone in a crowd or estranged from one's group. At the Box Hill party, there was a "want of union" among the picnickers because "they separated too much into parties" (43) . Being alone in a group is as wrong for them as wandering like gypsies . Solitude and society are both slightly unnatural for gentlemen and ladies. What is most natural to them are the most striking parts of the book, where someone has a strong feeling for another person, knows it, and expresses it . Sincerity and caring truly merge here; neither quality belongs exclusively to their personal lives or exclusively to their social world . When Emma visits Jane to wish her well on her engagement and to apologize for having hurt her, Mrs . Elton's presence makes it "expedient to compress all her friendly and all her cong r atulatory sensations into a very, very earnest shake of the hand" (53) . The true joy caused by their sincerity of feeling and caring gives us a hint as to what members of society are meant to be . In contrast, we feel the effect of its members acting merely as they ought when Emma and Jane follow "the other ladies out of the room, arm in arm, with an appearance of good will highly becoming to the beauty and grace of each" (34) . Emma has felt and contemplated both care and joy in private before she shakes Jane's hand, and both care and joy are heightened when she is with Jane. She has no such contemplation or feeling before walking arm in arm with Jane; indeed she has only come to a hurried conclusion about Jane's "affair" with Mr. Dixon. We witness the same thing happening after Frank writes his reflective letter to Mrs. Weston. He, Jane, and Emma are at the Westons' when Frank asks Erruna if a certain ornament will be beautiful in Jane's dark hair. "'Very beautiful, indeed, ' replied Erruna: and she spoke so kindly, that he gratefully burst out, 'How delighted I am to see you again!'" (54) Frank and Emma are finally honest with and caring for each other. A little earlier, they had both sincerely reflected on their feelings for one another - -Frank in his letter and Emma upon hearing the news of their engagement. Nothing is contradictory. The spontaneous feelings generated at the Westons', the sincerity with the self, the deep reflections and the expressed kindnesses all match up in this happy moment. The public and private selves do not have to disagr ee. The most striking scene, and the one that unites unaffectness and gentility, is the proposal chapter. Both Emma and Mr. Kinghtley have realized their love, yet feel it more when faced with each other; both have reflected thoughtfully on their love, yet care more for each other in person. They are sincere and spontaneous in their love. No hypocrisy exists here between truth and caring, as it might exist between Emma's true feelings for Mrs. Elton and her politeness to her. Do Erruna and Mr. Knightley need Highbury (polite society) for such a meshing of truth and elegance? Love would unite these two qualities anyway, but in Highbury they unite often. At a dinner party at Hartfield Mrs. Weston's "looks and words had nothing to restrain them. She was happy, she knew she was happy, and knew she ought to be happy" (35). Like Emma, who had English to check her scrambled letters against to discover whether they "clicked," MlllS. Weston has a model of living to check her actions and feeling against: that ever-present "ought" throughout Erruna. Emma learns about this model during the merging of her spontaneous mind and Mr. . Knightley' s elegant mind, when she says "just what she ought, of course" ( 49 ) Weston knows that sh~ "must love Frank." That is one precept in the model whi~hM~~~ can check her feelings and actions against Privately she has f · 1 h · ' care ully and caring Y t ought about an~ worried about Frank with all her elegance of mind. She can exp~ess that love to him and feel it more when she sees him. She does not love Fra~k simply because she is supposed to; but that pre-established code of sincerel caring for others strengthens the love which she privately feels for him Sh k y she love h . h . e nows . s er new son wit out any "oughts," but those "oughts" help her she is meant to love him. realize that Just as Mrs. Weston feels that she is meant to love Frank, because she does and because she ought to, so do the people at the ball (that is, in society itself ) feel they were meant to be there, because they do find it "delightful" and because it should be delightful. The shrubbery around Hartfield like polite societ · those who are in it the feeling that they are meant 'to be there Li' ke by,. giv~s · t h bb · . · eing in socie y, s ru ery is a combination of what really is--the plants--and what should be--formal paths and shaped hedges. It is a visible combination of truth and el~ga~ce, and undoubtedly helps to combine Emma's spontaneity with Mr Knightley's principles. · Never had the exquisite sight, smell, sensation of nature, tranquil, warm, and brilliant after a storm been more attractive to her. She longed for th~ serenity they might gradually introduce; and ... she lost no time in hurrying into the shrubbery.- - There with spirits freshened, and thoughts a li ttl~ relieved, she had taken a few turns, when she saw Mr. Knightley passing through the garden door, and coming towards her. (49) is The garden cleanses ~nd restores and brings together the two characters. Society needed in the marriage of sincerity and elegance of mind, as its image, the garden~ mak~s clear· In nature, one may enjoy its "brilliance after a storm, 11 but one e~J 0 Y~ it a~ a visitor. In the garden, however, Emma's spirits are freshened and her mind is reliev~d because she belongs there. She knows where the paths turn and what the ~lowers will lo?k like; this is not an adventurous walk, it is a comforting one. It is also ~omforting because one is aware that everyone in it knows where the paths turn· A Highbury resident knows that the principles of honesty and manners belong to everyone. The beauty of the garden transcends nature because one feels he belongs there. The beauty of living in society transcends truth d elegance because, rather than simply enjoying that beauty, one is at home in it. an 62 63 �Edgar's Growth In King Lear Christian Holland Edmund begins his plo t again st father a n d bro ther first by writing a l etter which sets out his. own villainous designs upon Gloucester's title and estate, next by forging the letter with Edgar's signature, and last by directing his father to read it and make of it what he will. Having just witnessed the breach of the bond between Lear and Cordelia, "there's father against child" (I, ii, 121: , Gloucest.er persuade~ himself o f the likelihood of the letter's contents, "there s s.on. against f~:~~d (120) . He blindly exchanges Edgar f o r Edmund -- a would-be parri~ide -- and . for Edgar __ a dutiful son -- just as Lear earlier exchanged Cordelia for ~oneril and Regan, and Regan and Goneril for Cordelia. That's how Edmund's plo~ beg~ns to take shape. But if he is to fashion a fully formed drama, he must practice his craft on Edg ar. 1 · h· When Edgar first enters King Lear Edmund announces his brother's r o e in is drama: "Pat! he comes, like thecaiastro phe of the o l~ comedy" ( 145 ) . In early c omedy the plot was made t o seem all of a pi e::e until suddenly, throug.h some u nexpected and timely event, the parts fell t o gether to form a whole and bring the la t o a clo se. similarly, Edmun d• s plo t is fully worked . out only through ~he ~ne!pected and timely e n trance o f his brother. Edgar's role is t o be the conc~usion o f Edmun d• s drama __ in more ways than Edmund knows. But Edmund's drama is an imitation i n min iature of Shakespeare's g reater drama. Possibly Edgar plays the same r ole in the play as a whole. . Edmund's wo rds have a s p e c i a l sign ific a nc e intended by the greate.r ~ramatist. catastrophe a n d c omedy app ear just this once i n King ~· They ~pp ly fi tt i ngly on l y Edgar is the c onc l u sion o f Shakesp eare's drama literal l y bec a u se t~: t o Edgar. de livers the f inal . quatrain, but mo re importantl y b ;cause ~e alo ne amon g 1 ( IV~ vi~ 136 ) , he a lon e at s u rvivo rs of King Lear is n o t a "ru in'd piece o f nature t h e play's c l~i s ripe t o take Lear's r ole as kin g . Edg ar is like a ~erson out ~~ a c omedy bec ause h is characteristic mo vemen t i s upward. He starts out in a s t ateh ign orance a n d s h allowness, "con temned a n d flat t ere d" (I V , i, 2 ) ; he passes t h r oug ~ eriod o f awesome s u fferin g requ irin g g r eat p atien 7e w.ith Lear . o n t h e heath a n ~loucester on the cliff; and the outcome of his travails is an en ightened, deepened, e nnobled , a nd continued li fe. I shal l f ollow Edg ar I n t h e most p e destr ian way , s c e n e by s c e ne , act by act, t thr ough t h e p l a y p a y i ng p arti cular atten tion to his dress, speech ~ a n d acts. I : a: s t o l earn s omething about what i t mean s t o g r ow up, u p t o t h e p oin t whe re a ma 'd ready t o be k i ng a nd r ule over o t h ers. Along the way Edg ar may serve a s a g~ i e through t h e t hor n s and thicket s o f Lear's a n d Glouceste r's c h arac t ers. Edgar a side , try i ng to ma k e thi s passage is the g reates t c h a lle nge a n d the g rea tes t reward o f any reading of King ~· i . Hi s Father 's Son At the outset Glouce s ter i s joc o s e and well- meaning , f r ee a nd e a s y, ~ut shor t s ighte d, c a reles s , gullible , i rrespon s ible , and supers titio~ s. In. the ope ning scene , betraying his lack o f in s ight into hi s own wr ongdoing, he Je s t s with Kent a bout what "good sport " was had at his bastard son's "making" (I, i, 23). He tells Kent in the very presence of Edmund that he has "so often b-lushed to acknowledge [the whoreson]" that now he is "brazed to't" (10). Gloucester's lack of care for the feelings and the dignity of his son is the fi r st showing of that cruelty which is characteristic of King Lear, the cruelty which arises from an inability or an unwillingness to recognize and respect a fellow person . With such words and deeds Gloucester harden s the unfeeling and indignant por tion of Edmund's heart ; other more considerate wo r ds and deeds might have encour aged Edmund to respond to his father with gratitude rathe r than treachery . App r opriately , Edgar later refers to the place where Gloucester begat Edmund as "dark and vicious" (V, iii, 175) . Gloucester's dealings with others are shrouded in dar kness . He takes note of the people and the actions which surround him, but he does not look beneath the shadowy surface to see them as they are . He is easily gulled by Edmund's forged letter . Showing no grasp of either Edmun d 's o r Edgar's character , he accepts the whole story even though, or perhaps because, i t po r tends his own death a t hi s elder son ' s hands . Right away he takes it upon himse lf to "appr ehend" the "abomi nable villain" (I, ii, 83) as if this were the responsible thing to do rathe r than goi ng deepe r into the matter . Gloucester finally att r ibute s Edgar 's supposed " unnatu r a l d ea ling " (III , iii, 1) to the "late eclipses o f the s un and moon " (I , i i , 111) . Par odying hi s fathe r's superstition , Edmund promises Edgar that a p r ediction based upon an ast r olog i cal s t udy ha s p r oved correct : . . • • • • as o f unnatur alness between the child and t he paren t, death, dear th , dissolution of ancient amities , d i v i sions in state, menaces and maledictions against King and nobles, needless diffidences, banishment o f f r iends, dissipation of cohorts , nuptial breac he s . . . • (142 - 152) . As a noble Edga r is thr eatened with harm; what is more, so are his fathe r and hi s k ing . But since Edmund puts his true account of past, present, and future happening s i n the context of a study o f the star s , Edgar pays him no heed . Edgar~s duty is to ask his b r othe r what evidence besides the stars he has to demonstr ate . that the predicti on is cor rect . Instead Edgar questions Edmund in jest : "How long have you been a sectary astr onomical? " ( 163) . "Come , come ," says Edmund , gratified to discove r that his b r o the r wil l be as easily gulled as his fathe r, " when saw you my fathe r last?" (164) . Edgar does not rema r k upon Edmund ' s patronizing my fathe r and informs his b r other, " Why, t he night gone by " (165) . It makes sense that Gloucester and Edga r see one anothe r in the da r k . Neither unde r stands the other . Ther e is no trust between them . Edgar says almost nothing in this scene . What we learn f rom his silence is tha t he i s without expe r ience and prudence. He is passive, untried , untested . Nine times he speaks: five are questio ns; thr e e a r e simple answe r s to Edmun d' s care f u lly crafted questions ; and the last is a dumb r ecognition of fact : "Some villain hath done me wrong" (177) . Edmund's e x change with his brother is full of irony, all at Edga r .' s e xpense . Edgar is shown to be an innocent fool . When Edmund advises his older brother to "go armed" (124), and Edgar, in weakness and dismay and fear, responds , "Armed, brother?" (125) , Edmund says , "Br othe r, I advise you to the best . Go armed . I am no honest man if there be any good meaning toward you" (186) . It is noteworthy that Edgar is not armed, that he is even taken aback at the thought of being armed . A true nobleman, like the great knight of La Mancha, ought to be clothed with a sword . Gloucester being a poor father it comes as no surprise that Edgar is idle and asleep, smugly secur e and protected, and that he fails to recognize that his position is a privileged one which carries with it weighty responsibilities. Edgar does not feel the p r esence of others who are less fortunate than he is and who rely on men 65 64 �with native abilities such as he has. Edmund sums up Gloucester and Edgar with his Kent, in disguise and in the stocks, asserts that "nothing almost sees miracles / But misery" (II, ii, 163). Just then Edgar appears, in misery. He has fled from his father's castle, his own home, and is now in a wood, and out of breath as the aspirants in his speech show: "I heard myself proclaimed,/And by the happy hollow of a tree / Escaped the hunt • • • (III, i, 1-3). Gloucester has ordered that Edgar be sought out, captured, and punished for his crime. He h.a~ sent ~dgar' s picture "far and near, that all the kingdom may have due note of him. . (II, i, 84 ) • The stage directions demand that Gloucester be surrounded by torchlig~t when he utters these words. He is a cave-dweller. He is certain that he knows his s o n when all he has to go o n is hearsay, and he seeks t o make o thers kn ow Edgar as he kn ows him -- wi t h the aid o f an i mage. on ce thrown back upon himself and challenged to fe n d f o r himself, Edgar pro ves to be extremely res o urceful. He strips himself o f his fine and dandy clo thes and takes on the disguise of a Bedlam beggar: " • the basest and most poorest shape/ That even penury, in c o ntempt o f man, / Brought near t o beast. • . " ( II, · iii, 6 - 9) . Edgar echoes Gloucester, when, in fear o f Lear's rag e and fury, he warns Cornwall not to put Kent in the stocks, not t o inflict upon the king's servant the punishment reserved f o r "basest and contemned' st wretches" (II, ii, 140) . Later Lear echoes Gloucester and Edgar, when, in response t o Go neril' s and Regan's "Monster Ingratitude!" (I, v, 2), he says: " . . • our basest beggars/ Are in the poorest thing superfluous./A1low not nature mo re than nature needs. / Man's life is cheap as beast's. • • "(II, iv, 260-263 ) . This similarity in their speech suggests that there is some special intimate bond between Gloucester, Edgar, and Lear, that there is something they share in conunon. Edgar and Kent are also joined in partnership. They are both outcasts, idiotai. The stage set reveals their common plight. Edgar enters. the wood while Kent is in the stocks outside Gloucester's castle. In effect Edgar delivers his first soliloquy silhouetted against the figure of Kent in the stocks. Edgar's new outward appearance aptly reflects his inner wretched condition. His nakedness serves to unite and to harmonize what he seems to be and what he is. His former dress as a nobleman was a cover for something else, something, if not contrary to the nature of nobility, at least falling far short of it. It was not fit.ting for Edgar to be dressed as a nobleman, and now, as a pariah, his nakedness suits him: "Poor Turlygod, Poor Tom/ That's something yet: Edgar I nothing am" (II, iii, 20-21). Again, through his words, Edgar joins in fellowship with Lear and Kent. Edgar's "I nothing am" echoes the Fool's words to Lear: "Thou art nothing" (I, iv, 200). And his "something yet" is the positive formulation of Kent's "nothing almost." That clear vision can belong to the wretched, that the grief-stricken and downtrodden have the eyes to see the miracles which are at work in the world is a truth which penetrates the darkness and doom of King Lear. In King Lear those -- Gloucester, Edg~Lear -- who are secure and protected in their high estate, those who define themselves strictly in terms of their positions of birth and neglect the responsibilities their positions demand, are each one confronted by some unexpected .event which throws_ into question what lean understanding they have of themselves and their role in the world. From this wayless, wandering state, a state which takes physical shape in the heaths and fields that have no paths to guide wayfarers and pilgrims, they can begin to search for the truth about themselves and their roles. That Edgar is now engaged in such a search, that he is gaining insight and that his imagination is coming to life, is suggested by his speaking in blank verse for the first time. Edgar is young and eager to learn. His Poor Tom disguise -- his lostness and his aporia -- allows him to find the courage and strength required to make his search fruitful. Edgar will "with presented nakedness outface/ The wlnds and persecutions of the sky" (11-12 ) . Edgar's private undressing to take on the disguise of a Bedlam beggar brings to memory Lear's public undressing to "divest [himself] of rule" (I, i, 51 ) . Lear's growing awareness that when he invested his daughters with his "Pre-eminence, and all the large effects/ That troop with majesty" (134 ) , he "gave [ them] all" (II, iv, 248), works hand in hand with Goneril's and Regan's gradual disquantitying of his hundred knights. Lear's herculean imaginatio n leaps fr om the c o ncrete t o the symbo lic witho ut hesitation. When his train, strength and regality and r o yalty, is reduced to n o thing, he begins to see that he t oo , "his little world o f man" ( III, i, 1 0) , is reduced to nothing. He is without p ower, without wealth, and without a place at the center of the large world of man. Lear is naked; but he c o ntinues to wear the splendid robes of his office. He has not come so far as Edgar. He has many more 66 67 special flair: A credulous father! and a brother noble, Whose nature is so far from doing harms That he suspects none; on whose foolish honesty My practices ride easy! (182-185) . Childlike, honest foolishness is endearing and beautiful to behold. From it shines forth the goodness of simplicity, and we are reminded that the world abou~ds in good things. Be that as it may, Edgar is unknowingly aiding wrongdoing by being foolish and by not doing. It does not seem possible to be ~ ch~ld and a. fool and still act responsibly in a world which must withstand the fiendish exploits of an Edmund, or a Goneril or a Regan. Edmund is clever, colorful, passionate, and determined; he is a great reader of others' weaknesses, but a poor reader of their strengths. In compa~is~n, Edgar is dull, pale, and close to lifeless; he is unripe; he has no convic~ions and no thoughts about what might be the right thing to do. If Edg~r,. like Lear ~nd Gloucester, "hath ever but slenderly known himself" (I, i, 290) , it is because.' like them he has not opened his heart to the sorrows of his fellows, or to his own resp~nsibility for their sorrows, or to the role he ought to play in bringing . reli~f to those who are in sorrow. Edmund laughingly uses the word "noble" to describe his brother; he scoffs at nobility as if it had everything to do with what is le?i~imate and what is not. Edgar will begin to seek out what he presently lacks, a nob ill. ~y of heart, not of name or of fortune, a nobility which he will find only by a.ctively feeling and caring for others, by graciously accepting others' griefs as his own· But to feel and to care and to accept, he must suffer. Upon hearing that Cornwall is due to arrive ~t . Glo~cester's castle, Edmund insinuates that Edgar has "spoken 'gainst" the duke (II, i, 25). Edgar's response is a surprised and frightened, "I am sure on' t, not a ~ord" ~29) •. These are Edgar's only words in this his second scene . He is unchange~ since his f~rst a~pear~nce as a . simple and gentle, but blind, vulnerable, stupidl.y innocent, spoi.led rich kid. Whe~ Edmund senses Gloucester's approach he quick-wi ttedly draws his sword on Edgar · "Draw, seem to defend yourself; now quit you well" (33) . Edgar has taken his younger brother• s earlier advice and armed himself, but Edgar with a sword cuts a more idiotic figure than Edgar without a sword.· He has the weapon with which to act, ~he weapon of his station.; when he does not act his will is shown to be weak and flaccid. As soon as Edgar draws, if he draws, he flees to avoid being seen by his fath:r· He cannot stand up for the right of his case; he cannot use his sword to defe~d himsel~; still less can he use his sword to conquer his foe. Edga~ will begin. to gain readiness for his next and last encounter with Edmund by growing, by learning ab~ut what vileness and harshness can live in the world of men's words and deeds, by seeing the need for noblemen to take up arms against the powers of ingratitude and selfrighteousness. But to grow and to learn and to see, he must endure the storm's 1 thunder and rainfall. ii. Poor Naked Wretch 1 �years and seasoned self-deceits to overcome. Edgar's heart has never been opened because of a lack of experience, but Lear's heart has been closed and hard~ned ~ver time. Lear will teach Edgar what sorts of dangers await the simple human things in a king's life. Childlike foolishness sets Lear running fr om his daughters, as it set Edgar The Fool tells Lear the truth: " . thou mad' st thy running from hl.s father. • • thou gav' st them the r od and putt' st down thine o~n daughters thy mothers • breeches" (I, iv, 178). Lear threatens his daughters as a child would his mothe r if she were to do fiendish things: • • • • • • No, you unnatural hags I will have such revenges on you both That all the world shall - I will do such things What they are, yet I know not; but they shall be The terrors of the earth! You think I'll weep; No, I'll not weep; (~~T empest) I have full cause of weeping, but this heart Shall break into a thousand flaws or ere I' 11 weep. (II, iv, 280). . It is, The storm is on the · heath; the tempest is in Lear' s mind (II.I , iv, 10) · besides the deluge in Genesis, the fiercest downpour that ever hit the earth. Nea rly I shall heartbroken, Lear seeks comfort from his beloved and devoted Fool : " O Fool, go mad" (280) . So ends Lear's tirade. . . . Lear is not accustomed to speaking as a child, issuing threats, but as a king, issuing commands. A king need only say the word, and the deed is done . The imperative mood dominates Lear's speech when he enters the storm: Blow, winds, crack your cheeks! Rage! Blow! You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout Till you have drenched our steeples, drowned the cocks! You sulpherous and thought-executing fires, vaunt- courier s of oak- cleaving thunderbolts, singe my white head! And thou, all -shaking thunder, strike f lat the thick rotundity o' th' world, crack Nature's molds, all germains spill at once That make ingrateful man t (III, ii, 1-9) . . Lear commands the elements as if they were subjects quaking before his maJesty;. he addresses them with huge compounds to establish the grandness of the occasion. Lear's fury in the face of "ingrateful man" comes closer than any m~n' s fu.ry has ever come to God's wrath, the wrath that smote Sodom and Go~orrah with br~mstone but failed to triumph over the ungrateful bearing of human beings toward their Creator . The roundness of the earth, so like the shape of a pregna~t wom~n's belly, .Lear.~~~:: smashed crushed so that never again will a father who gives his all to his chi have to' endure their ungracious sinfulness. But only God the Creator of all and the Father of all can accomplish such works. In the storm Lear comes to see that the sense he has of his own role in the world is grandiose and overblown, that he is not the leading player on the . reat stage · g The change which takes place in his speech is a key to Lear's deepening sens~ of himself as a being in relation to others. His tone changes. fro~ rage ~o co~passi?n, and his mood from imperative to interrogative . The same tit~nic . pas~ion with which Lear commanded the wind, the rain and the thunder is present in his kind, gentle and tender words to his Fool: Come on, my boy. How dost my boy? Art cold? (III, ii, 68) I am cold myself . he has never known it was within him to speak Lear has never spoken this way before; to care for the suffering of those around him, this way. He is beginning to feel and not only his own . When Lear and the Fool reach the hovel on the heath which houses Poor Tom, Lear urges the Fool to go in while he.stays outside to pray: Poor naked wretches, whereso'er you are, That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm, How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides, You looped and windowed raggedness, defend you From season's such as these? O' I have ta'en Too little care of this. Take physic, pomp; Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel, That thou may' st shake the superflux to them And show the heavens more just. (III, iv, 36) The gorgeous clothes of kingship, the pomp and pageantry, buried Lear's inner sympathy for others' sorrows . Lear prays that he will be able to find in his human being what he could not find in his being king. Entering the storm is Lear's return to his original humanity . But what was it about being king that prevented Lear from tapping his rich wellspring of feeling? For Lear, kingship did not permit the separation of the private and the public and this thwarted his person, this led to his downfall. A king who knows his r ole is able to place the private alongside the public lest he abuse the private as Lear abused Cordelia's love by trying to exhibit it to the public . But is it right and fitting for a political man to feel with, to show compassion for castaways and idiots? Can a king feel what wretches feel and still retai n the lofty dignity which he needs in order to preserve order in his kingdom? Maybe the more detached feeling of pity, a feeling for others, is what a king ought to possess to meet the requirements of his office . If this is the case, Lear's greatness is not political . His mighty heart cannot remain detached . The storm is the outward manifestation of Lear's suffering, the rain of his inner tears. Despite all his talk to his daughters, Lear weeps . After the prayer Poor Tom enters yelling, "Fathom and half, fathom and half" ( 32) , as if to measure the outpouring of Lear's sorrow and compassion. Lear's prayer is Edgar's cue to enter . He is the person -- outcast, wretched, fooled, and Lear's heir to the throne -- for whom Lear needs to feel. One of the greatest deeds Lear is able to perform at this crucial time in his life is the passing on of what he knows about kingship to the future ruler. Edgar hides himself in the presence of his familiars -- Lear, the Fool, and Kent -- by disguising his way of speaking and acting, by taking on the role of Poor Tom. Unlike solid and steadfast Kent, whose physical change is not accompanied by any character change, Edgar shows himself capable of being a new person while play-acting . Kent knows who he is, and he .is, in his own words, "too old to learn" (II , ii, 129). Edgar does not know what he is about but he is about to learn. These four fools gathered together in fellowship on the heath in the storm are "wanderers of the dark" (III, ii, 44). Yet "though it be night, yet the moon shines" (II, ii, 29) . Lunacy shines her terrible beams on Lear and Edgar bringing them into a special companionship which lightens their grief. Edgar feigns madness, his words and actions represent the words and actions of Poor Tom ; he is an artificial person (cf. Hobbes' Leviathan, chp. 16). Lear's words and actions are his own; he is a natural person. Poor Tom comes on the scene at the ripe moment to set Lear's imagination soaring The Fool labored "to outjest [Lear's] and to sweep him fully into madness. heart- struck injuries" (III, ii, 67). He tried to make the king laugh at himself with the hope of saving him from madness. The Fool was bold to the point of cruelty 68 69 �in his attempt to make Lear face the truth of his r ole , his s peeches and deeds. But Lear did not have the ears to hear the Fool's wisdom. With his mighty heart -"Hysterica passio ! " -- about to burst, Lear could not look upon himself and laugh. Now Lear pays close attention to Poor Tom's lunatic remarks. As a result he begins to acknowledge truths about himself and others which he had formerly avoided . Edga r takes charg e of Lear once the Foo l has l o st his influence . In the mock trial which follows the stonn scene Edgar sings songs in folk rhythms in the style o f the Fo ol . The Foo l sadly leaves the c ompany of his fellows at that time, going off to die alo ne. Like the Foo l, Poor Tom has n o thi n g keeping him from putting his u nderstanding of what is taking plac e aro und him and in him into bold words, mad wo rds. Lear was the first to use the wo rd "fiend" wh e n he accused Goneril of being a "marble- hearted fiend" (I, iv, 266 ) . Poor Tom exploits that image in his speech with Lear . He also explo its the animal imagery b e gun by Lear in his curses and insults directP.d at his elder daughters . (Lear uses the word "wretch" when he is angry at Cordelia·) Animal imagery enliven s the fact that men can under some circumstances, like extreme poverty, be f o rced into bestiality, a n d under others arrive there on their own p owe r s. Imagining that Poor Tom could o nly be in his present condition if he gave his serpentine daughters all, in other words, imagining that Poor Tom is n o ne other than himself i n some way, Lear asks the beggar about his past . Edgar answers him with a shrewd ad j ustment of the seven deadly sins: False o f heart, light o f ear, bloody of hand; h o g in slo th, fox in stealth, wolf in greediness,dog i n madn ess, lion in prey • • • ( 96 ) Poor Tom responds by telling Lear abo ut his own past: false of heart in regard to his love for Cordelia and Cordelia's love for him; light of ear in accepting Goneri l 's and Regan's pledges; bloody of hand in being implicated in the death of his dearly beloved daughter -- "I might have saved her; now she's g o ne forever!" (V , iii, 270 ) . Lear has been a bea st himself . When next he speaks, Lea r s hows that he has assimilated Poor Tom's wo rds: Is man no more than this? Consider him well. Thou ow'st the worm no silk; the beast no hide ; the sheep no wool; the cat no perfume. Ha! Here's three o n's are sophisticated. Thou art the thing i t self; unacconunodated man is no more but such a poor, bare, forked animal as thou a r t (III, iv , 110 ) . Compare the order of Edgar's animals with Lear's : hog-worm , fox-beast, wolf-sheep, dog - cat . Lear compliments Poor Tom, and even imitates him by speaking in pro se fo r the first time . Lear's formal, conventional, poetic speech has given way to a more natural manner of speaking which more nearly identifies him with Poor Tom. The more Lear makes himself like Poor Tom, the closer he comes to feeling what the wretch feels. The word "expose" in Lear's prayer-- "Expo se thyself to feel what wretches feel" -prepares the way for his actual undressing. Like Edgar before him, with this act he makes his outward appearance hannonious with his inward conditio n . But while Edgar undresses out of fear and cunning, feeling the need to take on the role o f an artificial person, Lear freely chooses to undress, needin g to feel what Poor Tom feels. Returning to his original being as a natural person while striving t o join in communion with Po or Tom, Lear conunan ds: " Off, Off, you len dings. Come! Unbutto n here!" (111 ) . Presumably this conunand is issued to the person closest to Lear in blood and in heart, t o Edgar himself . The full significance of this momen t, this deed at the very cen ter of the play, will show itself later. For the t ime being what is mo s t remarkable abo ut this happening is Lear's recognitio n o f himself as a human being amon g o ther human beings through the agency o f Edgar's feigned person . Edga r speaks to Lear about r ight ana wr ong, what is lawful and what is not ab t the foul fiend who anxiously works on ever y human soul to destroy lawfulness . Edgar p r esents Lear with an alte r ed ve r sion of God's commandments t 0 th s ons of Ab r aham in the wilderness : e Take heed of the foul f iend . Obey thy parents, keep thy word justl y , swear not , conuni t not with man's swor n spouse , s e t not thy sweet heart on proud array . . • (III , iv , 83 ) . Thanks to Edgar's wor d s Lear p r obes more deeply into human being and what is jus t . When they t a ke r e f uge together in Gloucester ' s farmhouse 1 Lear begins cour t proceedin~s aga i nst his mon s t r ous and f iendish daughte r s . He makes Edgar pla the r ole of his "robed man of justice " (III , vi , 36) , after seeing in him the souly o f a "noble. phi~oso~he r" (III , iv , 125) . The t r ial is a t r avesty . But Edgar' s compa~ion s hip wi th Lear, a nd hi s fathe ring of Lear, gives him new insight, new depth , n ew l ife . Edgar shows pity fo r Lear: " My tears begin to take his par t so much t hey mar my counte r feit i ng" (III , VI , 60) • When Edgar finally finishes with hi s counter feiting , he will f ully take Lear' s par t . Edga r ha~ been a s.much in need o f the en r iching power o f tears as Lear ha s bee n i n need of.the ir cl ~ ansing powers. With new str ength of will and pur pose Edga r deliv e rs the s ol iloquy wh i ch con c ludes the who le d r ama beg i nning with t he s torm an d pass ing on to t h e mock t r ial : he W n we our bette rs see bear ing our woe s, We s ca rce l y t hin k our enemi es our f oe s. Who a lon e s u f fe rs, s u ff e rs most in the mind Leav i ng fre e th i ngs and happy shows behind . But then the mind much suffe r ance doth o ' e r s k ip When grief h a th mat e s , and bear ing f ellows h i p . How light and por table my pain seems now , When t hat which made me bend made the king bow . He childed as I f athe r ed! (III, vi , 109) . Edga r is . speak ing i .n r hymi ng couplet s fo r the f i rst time , the only time a side fr om ~is conclud1n.g quatr ain . ~he only other s peech in the play which is compar able in its lon~ ch~in of r hymes is France's p r oc l amation of t r ust in Co r delia . Stanley C ~ve~l 1 ~ ri ght whe n he s~y~ ~hat if Fran ce's wo r ds a r e s poke n with a u t ho rity and 1 d~stinction '. ~ r anee s s en s1~1vity a nd manlines s show f o r th the char acte r o f fully n.p~ n e d"" nobili ty. . ~o r sol i d reas on s o f hi s own he refuses to admit that Edga r ach i e ve "' t he. same k ingly statu re i n the cour se o f King Lear. I r athe r think that Edgar's r hyming couplets are an i nd i cation o f his likeness~F r ance Edgar ~s re so~ving the d isson a nce s of the stonn scene and the mo~k t r ial wi th hi s cadence - like . so ~ iloquy . He is clinching f or the audience a t r uth so simp l e and s o ~onunon tha~ it i~ o fte n o~e ~ looked , o r, what i s worse , despised . Edga r' s tru e s peech is s ~ntentious in the o ri g i nal and old- fashioned sense of the wo r d; it is full of mean ~ ng , not . ponder ?usly t r ite o r . ithy . P Imaginatively feeling fo r other s who a r e i n angu ish, ~ak i ng t hei r par t , whether in p r ayer or in being fully p r esent for them , not a s a~ adviso r o r as a couns e l o r, but just a s a fellow presence , is a g r eat ac t o f g r aciou ~ h~an g~odness . When a father and a child feel for one another in such a way, thi s is a s ign of the ir ri ght r elation in blood and in heart . So it is wi th Lear and Ed~a r. They a r e with one anothe r and for one anothe r in the stonn and in th~ mock tria~ as father a nd s on , as k i ng a nd p r inc e , as f e llows who share human being . Lea r i s Edgar's godfather, his spiritual father . Lear named Edga r (II · 1 righteousn~ss ~~d 90) • , Edgar opens the fou r th act with a hopeful speech on worstness : Yet bette r t hus, and known to be contemned, Than still contemned and flattered . To be worst, The lowest and most dejected thing of fortune, 70 71 , �stands still in esperance, lives not in fear ; The worst returns to laughter. Welcome then, Thou insubstantial air that I embrace! The wretch that thou hast blown unto the worst Owes nothing to thy blasts •.•• ( IV, i, 8) Edgar's speech harks back to Lear's words to th e " unacco mmodated man" on the heath, "the thing itself": "Thou ow' st the worm no silk • • ·" (III,iv) • ~ile .playing the r o le of Poo r Tom Edgar patiently ob served Lear's actions and heard his wisdom. What trustworthy, goo~, and right words emerged fr om Lear's sufferi~g, Edgar absorbed. Lear has unknowingly done Edgar some charity in the form of teachings. Edgar's speech also looks f o rward to Lear's knowing statement about his daughters Exclamatory and horrible cries abound in King ~ear: "Darkness and devils!" (I' · 259 ) "All dark and c omfortless!" ( III, iv, 86 ) , "Pluck out his eyes!" (6) , "Hang iv, ' '11 · h 1 m i nstantly!" (7) · "Most s e r pent- like!" (II , iv , 1 60) , "O vi ain, villain'" . (I ' . · 76) ( 22) , "Abominable villain!" ( 79) , "Then kill, kill, 11 Abhorred ' villain!" ii, ' ·· k'll kill kill kill!" (IV, vi, 182), "Murder, mur d er! " (II ' ii, 44) , "No , no ' no , i ' ' iii, 307) , "Never, never, never, never , neve~ •" (309) ' "How 1 ' howl , howl ' ' life!" (V , · . . howl" ( 2 59), "Heaven and earth" (I, iv, 302) . Seeing his bl~ody father being guided by an old man Edgar cries out: "World, world , O world. /But that thy strange mutations make ~s hate thee, / Life would not yield to age" (IV, i, 10 ) • Wh n the faithful loveable old man leads Gloucester toward Poor Tom, Edgar learns that ~is father, in ~eing blinded, has come to see who is his truly devoted son. • • • Oh, dear son Edgar, The f ood o f thy abused father's wrath! Might I but live to see thee in my touch I'd say I had eyes again! (23 ) Gloucester's newfound awareness o f his own guilt and Edgar's inn o cence, his recognition, occurs at the same time as his peripety (c f. Aristo tle's Poetics ) . ·A fte r hearing his n ame called out by his fathe r, Edgar acknowledges that he was wrong about h is own worstness: "Who is' t can ~ay "I am at the worst?" I am worse than e'er I was" (2 5 ) . Why isn't Edgar full of joy to discover that he can be united in t r ust with his father? My imagination tells me that the sight of the bloody-eyed, · pitiable old Gloucester is t oo woeful for words. Says Edga r: " • the worst is not so long a s we can say "Thi s is the worst!"" (27) . So long as we have the clar ity of vision to see that we are in a bad way, so long as reason is still a part of our madness , the worst is not . Edgar confesses that his suffering is surpassed by what Lear and Gloucester , his elders and betters, are enduring . Edgar is p repared to pass through what more may come his way . Corde lia later echoes Edgar in saying to Lear: "We are not the first/Who with best meaning have incurred the worst" (V , ii, 4 ) . Whatever the worst is -- the suffering of innocents? The unlawful death of the righteous? -- Cordelia and Lear are at the worst . She knows that . And yet, like Edgar, she rema i ns calm and patient . Unlike Edga r, she refuses to accuse he r ac cuse rs, to condemn her condemners . Gloucester's trust in the gods has been weakened by the hardship, the injustice , and the cruelty of his overwhelming suffering: "As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods/They kill us f o r their sport" (IV, i, 32) . Edga r grieves to hear his father speak this way and plays the f ool : "Bad is the trade, that must play fool to sorrow,/Argu ing itself and others" (39) . Edgar e x pects those who hear the story of his life to b e up set and put o ff by his foolish role with his father. For s ome reason he see s no other way to act. Why doesn't he simply reveal himself to his father? Wouldn't that resto re Gloucester's belief in the "kind gods" (III , vii, 72)? (When he is blinded , Glouce ster cries, "O cruel! O you gods!" (71) , but a moment later he learns of Edgar's innocence, and p rays, "Kind gods! forgive me that , and prosper him" (72).) But no . Edgar has yet to come to a sure knowledge of who he is and " how this world goes" (IV, vi , 156) . He cannot utter his name until he is most fully at work being who he ought t o be . Edgar has already established the condition of his self-revelation : "When false opinion • • in thy just proof repeals and reconciles thee" (III, vi, 113) . Only when he is prepar ed to overthrow the present rule of ingratitude and injustice, the new Earl of Gloucester , his own brother Edmund, only then will Edga r have accomplished full nobility and only then will he be reconciled with his father and the gods. Being aware that false opinion is directed at the gods more severely than at him, and . trusting to thei r graces, Edgar undertakes as his mission to prove the gods just . By offering the proof in deed, Edgar will have it proved to him that the gods are just . Trust yields knowledge. Gloucester, like Edgar and Lear, is a man "more sinned against than sinning" (II, iv ) . The pain he is forced to undergo hardly seems deserved . Remembering the mystery of the suffering of the fully righteo us Job, however, who can judge what suffering would be a fit measure for Gloucester's sins? Gloucester's agony in blindness allows him to see in company with Lear and Edgar that to trust and to know, he must feel . Gloucester prays : . • • . • • Heavens deal so still! Let the superfluous and lust- dieted man, That slaves your ordinance, that will not see Because he does not feel, feel your power quickly; So distribution should undo excess, And each man have enough. (IV, ii, 74) Gloucester and Lear, in their prayers, both use the word "feel" twice in the same line. But while Lear prays to feel what wretches feel, t o be the wretch in feeling, Gloucester calls on the heavens to make the man who does not feel in Lear's sense, feel the power of the gods. For Lear, justice will be accomplished through his own action, his own wretched and charitable feelings. For Gloucester, justice will be accomplished through the god's action. Lear will show the gods just. Gloucester 72 73 and his courtiers, and himself: • • • . They flattered me like a dog . • • . When the rain came to wet me once and the wind to make me chatter· when the thunder would not peace at my , bidding; there I found 'em, there I smelt ' em ou t • They were not men o' their wo rds; they told me I was everything; 'tis a lie. I am not ague-proof. (IV, vi, 1 0 2 ) • . . . . Lear calls to memory the time of his newfound awareness, his recognition of his daughters' double-dealings and his own faultiness. In the storm Lear h~ard Foo: Tom preach __ "keep thy word's justice" -- and received the charity of Edgar s teachi~gs. Both Lear and Edgar are better off knowing that they are what they are, human beings with faults. They see into their own faults and acknowledge .them as all other persons must acknowledge theirs, difficult as it may be to do. Ki~gs are tempted to a greater degree than most other human beings, because of their flattere.rs, to consider themselves faultless, hence guiltless, hence ~naware ~f . their own sinfulness, which means that they are likely to become self- righteous citize~s of the 1 fiend's state. Lear did believe that he was everything at the pl~y s opening . How else could he have done what he did? Believing that he was eve~y~hing, he t~ought he needed nothing. Lear thought that he could do without Cordelia s love being fully present for him. But he cannot. He cannot live without he r love . Edgar keeps Lear alive during Cordelia's absence. iv. Being With Gloucester �will be shown the justice of the gods. Edgar, in showing the gods just and thereby being shown their justice, in being both active and passive, is a blend of Lear, his spiritual father, and Gloucester, his natural father. Lear sees what Gloucester does not: a person must act freely and compassionately in order to be righteous. But Gloucester sees what Lear does not: to act freely and compassionately a person must be filled with the grace of the gods. No human being can be self-justifying without falling into the hands of the fiend. Human beings can · only be made just through God's work. God is active in the world. He goes about doing good things. If it were not for Him, Lear could not fully feel what Poor Tom feels. What person has the right to make himself a wretch unless God graciously informs and supports his action? Lear exposes himself to feel what Poor Tom feels, and in so doing gives a gift of charity which brings relief to Poor Tom's burdened sorrow. Gloucester feels the power of the heavens, and in so doing gives a purse to Poor Tom. Lear's and Gloucester's prayers are answered. Lear begins to feel with Poor Tom, he tears off his kingly garments and reveals a kingly soul, just after hearing Edgar's adjustment of the seven deadly sins accompanied by animal imagery. Gloucester begins to feel the power of the heavens, he begins to be saved from the power of the fiend tempting him to suicide, just after hearing Edgar's adjustment of the seven deadly sins accompanied by devil imagery. Five fiends have been in Poor Tom at once; of lust as Obidicut; Hobbididance, prince of darkness, Mahu, of stealing; Modo, of murder; Flibbertigibbet, of mocking and mowing, who since possesses chamber-maids and waiting-women. So, bless thee, masterl (IV , i, 60) Lear and Gloucester, whose broad characters encompass something of what is in everyone, have been prone to bestiality and devilishness. This they must face in order to become aware of their own sinfulness . Only then can they know and trust themselves and the gods. In acknowledging their sins, and not merely shoving them aside by moping over their being more sinned against than sinning, Lear and Gloucester feel their dependence on others and the gods. Edgar's disguise, in speech and in act, makes it possible for Lear and Gloucester to hear just words of the divine law and act· upon them. Edgar would be despised as self-righteous and all knowing if he presented his mad words to Lear and his father in blunt, Kent-like speech and in the dress of a young nobleman. Edgar must play out his role as fool before he can be fully who he is. Gloucester commands his old servant to do a favor on Poor Tom's behalf: " • • • bring some covering for this naked soul" (48). On their way to the cliffs of Dover, where Gloucester has resolved to leap off the edge, Edgar is dressed in the "best 'parel" (49) of his father's ancient and devoted servant. Edgar's new found awareness of his father's love, and his taking on a new role suited to his new clothes, happen hand in hand. Edgar grows in stature being loved and being dres~ed. Edgar is leading Gloucester on a pilgrimage. In his view they are wayfarers Journeying to a sacred place as an act of religious devotion. It is a pilgrimage which is "above all strangeness" (IV, vi, 66). Edgar makes a world in speech for Gloucester's imagination so that he may picture the place appointed for his suicide. And dizzy 'tis to cast one's eyes so lowl And crows and choughs that wing the midway air Show scarce so gross as beetles, Half-way down Hangs one that gathers samphire -- dreadful tradel Methinks he seems no bigger than his head. The fishermen that walk upon the beach Appear like mice: and yond tall anchoring bark Diminished to her cock; her cock a buoy Almost too small for sight, the murmuring surge, 74 That on unnumbered idle pebble chafes, Cannot be heard . so high. I'll look no more Lest my brain turn and the deficient sight Topple down headlong. (23) Edgar's poem is highly descriptive. He uses an active voice and an indicative mood; and his meter is a strict iambic pentameter. The details are carefully chosen; first the birds halfway down the cliff; next the fishermen on the shore; last the ship at sea. His vocabulary is particular and technical with names of birds, insects, animals, and boats. He looks low: the ship becomes like· its cock.boat, its cock.boat like a buoy, the buoy vanishes: nothing left to see. He listens high: nothing can be heard. At last he delivers a run of monosyllables imitating the quickening heartbeat of someone creeping and peering over the edge; "deficient" and "sight" halt the pitter-patter; and the long o-sounds of the final three words shift the motion to a gradual, slow, arching fall. Gloucester is ready to leap. Delightful as it may be to inspect Edgar's craft and imagination, there remains the danger of losing sight of what is in his heart. Without looking into Edgar's heart, he becomes a strangely confused son playing a cruel act on his vulnerable and downcast father. His picturesque speech becomes a mockery of his father's blindness. His appeal to Gloucester's hearing only to announce that nothing can be heard makes him cold and marble-hearted. The whole pilgrimage becomes grotesque. A blind old man in despair is made a fool by his only beloved son. Gloucester's leap becomes one of the most ugly, hideous deeds in all of drama. By looking into Edgar's heart, we see what it is that is truly happening. A caring son, full of concern for his father's grief, is doing his utmost to save him from death and lead him to a firm and enlightened trust in the gods. Edgar seeks to drive the fiend away from Gloucester as he drove the dogs away from Lear in the mock trial . The seeming duality of Edgar's action, cruel and kind, is articulated by the servants at the close of the third act. Their discussion prepares the audience for Edgar's role in the pilgrimage. The second servant, mockingly considering that Poor Tom will lead the "old Earl" to Dover, says of Edgar: "his roguish madness allows itself to anything" (III, vii, 105) . The third servant, wishing the best for Gloucester, as is Edgar, says, as if to predict what is upcoming, "Now Heaven help him!" (107). If the two servants could watch the scene at the imagined cliff, the second would see only the horror of the action, but the third would be relieved and thankful to see that heaven does help Gloucester by means of Edgar's madness and foolery. Prayers are answered in King Lear . Edgar himself sees the need to give some cause for his action: "Why I do trifle thus with his despair/Is done to cure it" (IV, vi, 33). Hamlet saw the same need in the bedroom scene with his mother: "I must be cruel only to be kind" (Hamlet III, iv, 174). Edgar and Hamlet are both play-actors and play-makers on the great stage o f fools. Gloucester is tormented by the prospect of a longer life full of "affliction" in the midst of the "opposeless wills" of the "mighty gods" (IV, vi, 38). He does not accept out of trust that the gods will only good things. Instead he leaps. He falls. And yet he lives. "Thy life's a miracle" (956 ) , says Edgar. Having received the gift of the power of the "clearest gods" which makes possible what is impossible for a man alone to do, Edgar works a miracle. He brings Gloucester to new life. Edgar informs Gloucester "what thing" it was that led him to "th'extreme verge": • • . • methought his eyes Were two full moons; he had a thousand noses, Horns whelked and waved like th' enridged sea: It was some fiend. (73 ) Now that the fiend has been driven away, Edgar can speak to Gloucester as a son, he can see in Gloucester a father: " . • • Thou happy father . . . bear free and patient thoughts" (80 ) . 75 �~he iv. Edgar's Readiness Edgar's sane wo rds are punctuated by the entrance of King Lear at the height o f his madness. The scene which f ollows is climactic with respect to Lear's raving thoughts o n human being, o n justice, and on the presence of evil in the world. The t ab l es hav e tur ned somewhat since Edga r a nd Lear were last together. Then Edgar was " the thing itself" (III, iv, 1 0 7 ) . Now Lear is "the Ki ng himself" (I V, vi, 85 ) . Lear s howe d c omp assion for Poo r Tom on the he a t h , and now, in anothe r wild erness, Edg ar l ooks upon Lear with pity : " O thou side-piercing sight" (85 ) • Edgar is wou nde d fr om a distan ce by the sight o f Lear; he does no t get up close a nd touch him as he was t ouched by h im in the sto rm. Edgar does not have the mightin ess o f spirit t o feel wh at Lear feels. He is a n o nlooker, a spectator, detached. Edg ar's r ole in this scen e is t o attend t o Le a r's king ly words with the circumspectness o f a ma n wh o mu st himself s omeday sit on the t hron e. Lear has been o ff stage for a whole act. He last appeared in the mock trial bringing ch a r ges a gains t Gon eri l a nd Regan for t h eir ingratitude. His k in gly madness was bent on seeing j ustice don e. But Lear saw into the foul jud i c ial pro cess: " Corruption in t he place l " (III, vi, 55 ) . He reli nquished h i s effo rts t o take r e ven ge o n his daughters under the c over of the court, and he sought out the o rigin o f their bestiality a nd d evilry: "Is there any cause in nature that make these hard hear t s ?" (7 2 ) . In h is ab s ence Le a r has go ne over this question and p assed on to c o nseque n t q u estion s. If there is a c ause i n natu re f o r beasts a n d dev i ls in human shape, are human being s by nature lustful animals and fiendish creatures? If so, can t here b e s uch a thing a s n a t ura l j ustice ? Can on e perso n rightly judge ano ther? With Edga r p r e sen t, Lear o ffers h is mad reas onings, the fruits of his experienc e as a f al len r u ler. Lear s p eaks a s a k i n g , " Ay , eve r y i nch a king " (I V, vi, 109) , on matters o f g r eates t c oncer n to a r u ler. He asse rts with irony t h at human be i ng s a re by natu re animals , a nd that they must be fr ee t o ac t i n accor d a n ce wi th their nature. Therefo r e , a king can no t justly p r os e cute men a nd women fo r t he ir lust f ul deeds. Lear speaks with Glouceste r present : I pardon t hat ma n' s l i f e , W a t was thy cau s e ? h Adul t ery? Th ou sha l t not di e. Die f o r adultery ? No l Le t copulation thrive: f o r Glou cester's bastard son W kinder t o his father than my daughters as Got 'tween lawful sheets. . . • ( 115) • Lear suppo rts his assessment of human being by recalling that Edmund showed filial devotion to his father while his own lawful daughters showed ingratitude. His speec h echoes Edmund's earlier address to his goddess, "Nature" (I, ii). Edmund's sayings about marriage present a husband and wife who "Go to the creating a whole tribe of fops / Got 'tween sleep and wake" ( I, ii, 14 ) . Edmund claims that he outshines Edgar in strength, wit, beauty, because he was conceived in a fit of "riotous appetite" (IV, vi, 166 ) , which accords with nature, while Edgar was conceived in a du ll, stale, marital act, which accords with convention. In Lear's view, the bond between the child and parent is stronger when the child is conceived, in Edmund's wo rds, "in the lusty stealth of nature" (I, ii, 11 ) . Not k n owing Edmun d, Lear's vision is clo uded. Lear is aghast at the way human beings abuse justice, and at the weakness o f j ustice i n the fa c e o f such abu se: Throu gh tattered r obes small vices do app ear; Robes and furre d gown s hid e all. Plate sin with gold The stro ng lan ce o f j usti c e h u rtless b reak s; Arm it i n rag s, a pygmy 's straw does pierce it. (168) 76 rich and powerful i n t heir role a s judges p er secut e the poo r and unp r o tected: The userer h angs the c o z en er" . (16 4 ) • Wha t is .to be made of J. ustice when i· t s on 1 y . . . f unc t i o? is t o c om~o r t the priv ileged and to tur n the i mpover ished into s capegoats? ~ear s wo rds b~i ng. t o memo r y E~ga ~' s tatte r ed r ags in the storm and Edga r• s r ole as robed man o f J ust ice 11 (I I .I, vi ) in the mock tri al. Edgar has t aken the p art o f t he c ondemned wretch and the Judge . Having seen both sides, he can stand silently by a n d detec t wh a t awf ul t r uth is in Lear ' s r ema r ks : all human beings Lear c laims the opposite : "None does offend, none, I say, ~~~:~~xically, no~!~,; Why do s t thou lash that whore? Strip thine own back ; Thou ho t ly lusts to see her in that kind For which thou whip' st her . (164 ) In Joh~'s Gospel Jesus is con fr onted by a group of Scribes and Phar isees who wish to te s t him as ~atan tes~ed him in the wilderness . These men are preparing to act upon the law wh ~ ch p r e s c r ibes the death by stoning of an adulteress . Eage r t o find s ome weakn~ss in. Jesus , a f a ulty o r heretical teaching, and eager to b r ing s ome cha r ge ~ gainst h i m, they ask J esus what ought to be done with the woman they hav e caught i n the act o f adulte r y . Jesus is seated on the ground r unning hi s finge r thr o u gh. the s and . "Whicheve r o f you is with out sin, let him cast the fi r st stone 11 The Scr ibes a nd Phar i s ees i n o r de r of age take thei r leave . • Je s u s a nd Lear know the p raye r of King Solomon to God : " Give to thy se r van t under st anding~ t o judge thy pe?ple , and to discern between good and evil " (I Kings III:9 ) . As k i ngs and human beings , t hey a r e judging beings. Among the ma ny thing s Hobbes says about the sove r eign in the Leviathan, some a r e t hese : : . . he i s jud ge of what is necessary for peace ; and ~udge of doctr ine s; he is sole legislato r ; and supreme Judge of contr oversies; and of the times, and occasions of war, and peace; to him it belongeth to choose magistrates , counsellors, c ommanders, and all other offices, and ministers; and to determine of rewards , and punishments, honor, and order . (Chapter 20) In the story of the stoning of the adulteress Jesus shows that he knows that no man is without s in . He the r efor e urges all of us to t a k e our own sinfulness to hear t · when we judge the wr ongdoings of our fellows . Jesus pardons, forgives the adulte r ess, and commands her to go and sin no more . Lear enables the adulteress to go on sinning . Since human beings are no more than beasts , . and beasts cannot be said to be sinners, Lear refuses to acknowledge any w r ongdo~n~ on her part . Sin is nothing . But truly this is Lear' s way of par doning, o~ forgiv i ng . The path Lear travels in seeking to understand the origin of evil in his.daughters , l~ads him fi r st to an awarene ss of his own sin f u l ness, and last to a ~e sir e to ~how his daughters mercy . Showing that he feels deeply that every person is responsible for the sins of every other person, he, after Co rdelia's death sorrowfully c r ies : "A plague upon you, murderers, traitors all!" (V, iii, 272 ) . ' . In .response t o Lear's outrageous speeches, Edgar c omments : " O, matter and i~perti~ency m~xed( Reason in madness!" (IV,' vi, 176 ) . Edgar lets nothing of the wisdo~ in Lear s kingly words pass him by. With Jesus Edgar knows that all men sin and with. Lear he. sees a manifestation of this truth in the corrupt j udgements 0 ~ human beings and in the abuse o f justice by human beings . Edga ~ knows that just acts are needed t o fight evil and defend good . with S~lomon s p~a~er,. and the teachings he has learned from Lear, Edgar is being filled w~th the spir.it fit fo r the right discernment of good and evil and for the deed which will ~cc ompl~s~ the triumph of justice over wro ngdo ing. Edgar is the Almighty Sovereign's minister and general . 77 �Edgar alone is present with Lear throughout the whole of his maddest suffering, on the heath, at the trial, and in the field at Dover. And he alone is present with Gloucester throughout the final days of his broken life. Edgar, perhaps unwittingly, does well in being that presen ce which serves to bring Lear and Gloucester together again. That moment when Lear reco gnizes Glo ucester -- "I know thee well enough; t~y name is Gloucester" (17 9) -- c o uld only be brought about through the agency of their c ommon son. The b o nd between child and parent shows itself in hidden way~. The l on ger 'E dgar has heard Lear's wisdom, the longer he has experienced as a pat ient and sen sitive presence the weight of Lear's a~d Gloucester's s o rrows, the better prepared h e has become t o judge and to act righteously. Now Shakespeare allows Edgar b o th to learn of a battle about to be fought between Goneril' s a?d Regan's army, and Cordelia's army, and to emerge from his c ompanionship with his fathers into the larger world o f the play, a world in which he has the role of a noble knight and the heir t o the throne. Recognizing the change which has come over Ed gar, Gl ouces t er asks : "Now, good sir, what art thou?" ( 223) • Edgar's response reveals that he has been filled with the spirit of a righteous human being and a just king, the spirit of poverty: A most poor man, made tame to fortune's blows; who by the art of known and feeling sorrows Am pregnant t o good pity •.. ( 224) Edgar won't be fully ready to enter the wor~d of sophisti~~ted ev~l until ~e c~n: fro nts and vanquishes the unsophisticated evil of Oswald, a serviceable villain ( 256 ) • Goneril, Regan, and Edmund have put a price on Gloucester's life. Os~ald h o pes t o "raise [his ] fortune" ( 232) by killing, murdering him •. But Edgar, t~e Jack of all roles, ever ready to adapt himself to whatever occasion .presents i tsel~, ado pts the rustic dialect t o match his peasant dress and stands up in defense o f his fath er. Oswald is all puffed up. He is c o nvin ced that he can o vercome the l owly Edg ar. They fight . Oswald f a lls. Edgar upho lds the integrity o f " goo~ f o lk" by slay in g Oswald just as Co rnwall's servant did earlier when he slew his master. Edgar's words 'tel l us what he must feel also after he fights his sophisticated bro ther: "I am on ly sorry he had no other deathsman" ( 262 ) . With his dying breath Oswald c ommands the bold peasant to give certain letters to " Edmu nd Earl o f Glo ucester" ( 25 3) . Ed g ar can make his next step into the larger wo rld. ' He learn s fr om the le t ters that Goneril and Edmund, "mu~derous lechers:: ( 280) , are plo ttin g to kill Albany when "time and place . are fruitfully offered (264 ) . They do not anticipate an encounter with the newly ripened Edgar. v. The Champion Pretending t o be a p oo r man, Edgar gives Albany the letter, and begs a favor: Before you fight the battle, ope this letter, If y ou have victo ry, let the trumpet s o und Fo r him that brough t it: wretch though I s e em I can pro duce a champion that will prove What is avo uched there. (V, i, 4 0 ) Edgar displays enormous patience and a mastery over time in this wh?le sequence of events. He brings the letter t o Albany "in the matu.re time" . (IV , vi, 27: ) ; and . he will appear to deliver proof o f Edmund's guilt and his own righteousness 1 wh~n time h 11 s~rve" (V i 47 ) . At the beginning of the play Edgar showed no capac ity f o r S a f I • h• f th I pat ience; he reacted rashly to warnings given by Edmund c o ncern i n g is a er s wrath. Thanks t o the time spen t with Lear and Gloucester, Edgar has been a~le to develop calmness and readiness and mo ral alertness;. he has. l~arned h ow to wait for the ripe momen t t o act and how to measure his acts with precisio n. Patience is n o t passivity. Neither is it sto ical, unmoved endurance. Patience (derived from the Latin patientia, a participle f o rm o f patior, which itself is derived f r om the Greek pascho) is, first, an experiencing, or enduring, or suf f e r ing , of turmoil and sor row, with kindness , and gentfeness, and hope in a coming time of rest and joy ; and next, an active, attentive viewing of this experience so that what is offe r ed as a teaching is learned . Edgar's patience allows him to suffer f r uitfully alongs i de Lear and Gloucester. After recognizing Gloucester , Lear tende r ly r eprimanded him with a fathe r ly tone : "Thou must be patient . /We came crying hither . . . When we are bor n, we c r y that we a r e come/To this great stage of fools" (IV, vi, 180) . Edgar has attended to Lear' s words; for when Gloucester shows a loss of patience, he says : "Men must endure/Their going hence, ever as thei r coming hither : /Ripeness is all" (V , ii , 10) • Edga r witnesses Lear's and Gloucester ' s trials with some detachment -- he pit i es them -- so that he may come to know a better way . "Ripeness is all . " These a r e Edgar' s last wo r ds be f o r e appearing as champion . He is finally ready to r eveal his f ully-formed nobility afte r having lived t h r ough wretchedness and peasantry and servitude . "Thou a r t armed , Gl ouce s te r," say s Albany to Edmund (Shake s pear e would wish u s to hear these wo r ds as a call to Edga r ) , ·"let the trumpet sound" (91) . At the thi r d sound of the trumpet , in memo r y o f Jesus a n d the angels , as if to s ignal the advent of t he f inal judgeme nt , Edga r enter s a rmed . He i s not feigning . At last we a r e given Edgar's natural per son . The question s o o f ten put to Edga r -- a s i f t o mark t he steady stages of his g r owth -- is a ske d again : "What a r e you?" (V , i ii, 1 21 ) . Edgar: "Know my name is lost: /By t r eas on 's tooth bar e - gnawn and canke r-bit : /Yet I am noble • . . " (122) . That name whi ch Ed g ar r eceived fr om King Lear, t h at n ame wh i ch he had been un able t o utt e r i n his disgu is es , a s i f di s gu ised from hims el f, he can utter now (we lear n i n a moment t ha t he has already r evealed hims el f t o Glouc e ste r ) , but not in this company , not un t il h e has p r o v en his b r other 's gui lt, h is own str ength and wi t, and t he gods ' justi ce . Edga r r eveals hi s newfound nobility first in d r ess , then in speech, and last in deed . He challenges Edmund : " Draw thy sword" (125) . When last they were together Edmund mockingly made the s ame challenge to Edgar . Edga r speaks of the entitleme n ts of his knighthood which make such a challenge just and demand that i t be accepted : "Behold , it is my p r ivilege , /The p r ivilege of mine honor s , /My oath, and my p r o f e s s i on • . . " (13 1 ) . In a ct i ng upon the r e s ponsibil ities which go hand in hand with his privileges , Edgar is no longe r a stray layman , an i diotes . With knight- l i ke words and passions Edga r accuse s Edmund of t re ason : • • . • • . • • • • • . • I protest , Maug r e thy s trength , place , youth , and eminence , Despite thy victo r-sword and fire - new for t une , Thy valor and thy hea r t , thou a r t a t r aito r, False to thy gods , thy b r othe r, and thy fathe r, Conspirant 'gainst this high illustrious p r ince , And , f r om th ' e x t r emest upward o f thy head To the descent and dust below thy foot A most toad- spotted traitor • . • (137) Edgar ' s "fair and warlike" presence, along with his heart p r egnant with good p i ty , likens his natural person to Machiavelli's prince (see chapte r s XIV- XXIII , The Prince) . His noble heart, his fighting on the side of truth against falsi t y , pity against t r eachery , righteousness against serpent- likeness, faith against unbelief , thankfulness against ingr atitude, all his good doings make Edmund see the unnamed and unrecognized Edgar -- so much has he changed -- as a p r ince . Edmund accepts Edgar ' s c hallenge . They f ight . Edmund falls . Edmund quite suddenly takes on a gentle tone . He admits to being a traito r, "and much, much more" (163) . He wishes to fo r give his slayer and his better, provided he is noble ( 164) • Again the question is asked: "but what art thou/that hast this fortune on me?" (167) . Edgar r eveals himself . 79 78 �Let's exchange charity .· . I am no less in blood than thou art, · Edmund·: If more, the more th' hast wronged me. My name is Edgar, and thy father's son • •• (169) . Edmund earlier scoffed at the usage of "legitimate" when applied to Edgar while he was called a "bastard": "Why brand they us/With base? With baseness? Bastardy? Base? Base?" (I, ii, 40). Certainly he had due cause to be outraged by the cheap remarks of his father and others. As a child born out of wedlock he went unrecognized and unloved. Consequently he knows nothing of the family bond which yields to, and is a requirement of, political and social order. Edmund saw himself in a condition of war against everyone, believing his legitimacy to be what growth and prosperity his native talents could accomplish at Edgar's and Gloucester's expense. The stronger takes all. That he takes all from his kinsman is not an issue. He owes them no allegiance. He is self- sufficient; he needs no companions . Such a man, says Aristotle, is either a god or a beast , in other words , such a man is no politikon zoon. By ·- iooking upon himself as a man engaged in a selfish struggle for wealth and power and glory against every other man, Edmund looks upon everyone else as hateful and comes to see himself as hateful, and . This fate awaits all those who think t~ey can act alone apart from God and other men -- the fate of the self- righteous . Only to the extent that others could further his private interests did Edmund find them useful. The "love" triangle among Goneril, Edmund, and Regan demonstrates his incapacity to hold any firm commitments of a longlasting and wholesome kind . Without any regard for his immediate family, his father and his brother, or a future family of his own, Edmund is a traitor to community life. Edgar shows Edmund what misguided thoughts he had about sonship. He acknowledged that he is not more "in blood" because he had a lawful mother and Edmund did not, but because he acts in accordance with the political fact of human life, a being with others for the good of all. Edgar's filial gratitude shows that he recognizes with thankfulness his ultimate dependence on others: his parents, and their parents, and so on through the generations, back to the primary and first source of being, whom we call God. After defeating Edmund, Edgar is fully reconciled with the gods. With trust he can confidently proclaim: The gods are just; and of our- pleasant vices Make instruments to plague us: The dark and vicious place where thee he got Cost him his eyes • • • (172) • · k b lb Wh h learned that• Cornwall had been Edgar echoes an earlier remar y A any. en e slain by his virtuous servant while in the act of stamping out Gloucester's eyes, Albany proclaimed: This shows you are above You justicers, that these our nether crimes So speedily can venge. But, O poor Gloucester! (IV, ii, 72) seen in the light of Edgar's words, Albany's betray a naive optimism. At the same time Cornwall was getting his recompense, Gloucester, according to Edgar, w~s also being dealt a just blow. Albany is named a "moral fool" by Goneril. Goneri.l does not know in what way her words are t r ue , but it does seem to be the case that to. see feelingly how this world goes requires moral foolishness of a sort. E~gar too is a fool to be sure his words about his father are hard to take. But he is no Albany. Edga~ • s strength' and prudence are unmatched by any other character in the play, except France. Albany challenged Edmund to a duel, "If none appear to prove upon thy person/Thy heinous, manifest, and many treasons" (V, iii, 93) • But Edgar appears; he is the 80 person who becomes fully manifest, the trait of heroes · (andres ~iphaneis). Edgar makes good the . challenge of the moral fool, just as earlier he made good Kent• 5 challenge to Oswald. At the close of the play Albany hands over the power of rule to E~gar. This is a wise move on his part; so doing, he acknowledges Edgar's greater fitness for the task. After Edgar reveals himself and conunents, somewhat prudishly, upon the cause of Gloucester's suffering, Albany wonders where he has "hid" and how he has "known" th "miseries" of his father (V, iii, 182 ) • Edgar tells "a brief tale" ( 183) • It is on: of.only th~ee narratives in the play. First Kent recounted the events which led to being put in the stocks; next a Gentleman described Cordelia's tears; and now that Edgar has a clear view of his experiences, he tells how he was hunted and changed "into a madman's rags": • • • . . . and in this habit Met I my father with his bleeding rings, Their precious stones new lost; became his guide; Never -- O fault -- revealed myself unto him, Until some half hour past, when I was armed. Not sure, though hoping of this good success, I asked his blessing, and from first to last, Told him our pilgrimage. But his flawed heart Alack, too weak the conflict to support 'Twixt two extremes of passion, joy and grief, Burst smilingly. (202) Now is the time to observe why Edgar reveals himself to his father when he does. Accomplished nobility requires the fulfillment of certain conditions Responsibilities and. duties accompany the privilege of owning wealth and holdin; p~wer: noblesse oblige. A nobleman must be prepared at all times to arm himself and fight for the order of the conununi ty. He must possess the judgement to determine under what circumstances he ought to fight and the prudence to know how to win the day for the sake of the common good. He must possess the courage to face injustice and the strength to conquer it. Edgar was not noble in the true sense at the beginning of . Ki_n5!_ Le~r. He did not own the judgement, prudence, courage, and strength required to discern and overcome Edmund's injustice. But he suffered and he learned. Edgar's patience allowed him to fulfill the conditions of his birth. By joining company with the griefs of his fathers, and by accepting the teachings of the rel~g~ous traditions which are passed on generation after generation, Edgar rises to nobility. Edgar's full-fledged natural presence is revealed when he appears dressed as a knight, accompanied by trumpet calls, armed. But he cannot escape failure: He recognizes that he is what he was meant to be from the start only when he is armed. "Never -- 0 fault -- revealed myself unto him/ Until some half hour past, when I was armed" ( 19 5) • Is the fault that Edgar could not humble himself and allow others to see him and to know him, if not at his worst, not at his best? This is common enough. Again it is the simple thing that hi ts the mark. Everyone knows what it' s like not to recognize a fellow, not to meet his or her eyes for longer than the time it takes to blow out a candle, for fear of being seen by the other, for fear of having to be revealed to the other. But the consequences are tragic. At least Edgar should be praised for looking squarely upon his wrongdoing and confessing it to all the world. Not the least of us would fail to do that. · As is so often the case with failings, Edgar's fault arises from his good~ess. His desire to bring to completion his noble nature, his wishing the best for his father, his capacity for playing the fool for others, his devotion, these are good thin~s. But .his . confidence in his own knowing -- knowing when he is full grown, knowing what is right and best for his father, knowing that he must play the fool in such and such a circumstance, knowing that Gloucester is ,justly punished by the gods 81 �is his fault. I n s o far as Edgar acts knowi ngly, instead of feelingly, that portion of self-righteousness i n h is heart is at work. Still it is praisewo rthy that Edgar acknowledges the p art he has p l a y ed in his father's death , j ust as Lear a c k nowledges his part i n Co rde l ia's death. v i. The King Th i s would h ave seemed a p e rio d To s u ch a s l ove not s o rrow; but a not h er, To amplify too much, would make much mo re, And top extremity • . • . (V , iii, 20 5 ) with these wo rds Edgar prepares his audience -- those listening to his adventures for the tragic tale of Kent. selfless Kent, who did Lear "service/ Improper for a slave" (222) , was so stricken with grief to hear of the sufferings of Lear and Gloucester, "The strings of life/Began to crack" ( 218) . Edgar's words also have a significance outside the context of his narrative. Through them Shakespeare prepares his audience for a scene more sorrowful than just about any ever told. After Edgar's story, Lear enters with Cordelia, dead, in·his arms. A horror and a mystery, I can say no more. Cordelia's death is an unforeseen effect of Lear's love test. Testing love, trying to love without trust , can only lead to death, as Anselmo also knows. Lear is aware of his own responsibility for, guilt in, the death of Cordelia: "I might have saved her; and now she's gone forever!" (220). Strangely, Lear's last words before his own death are these: "Do you see this? Look on her! Look, her lips! Look there, look there!" (310). Does Lear ."burst smilingl~" like Glouceste~? Does Lear's misery turn to joy at the sight of a miracle when he dies? Does Cordelia rise again in Lear's imagination? I pray that is what happens. I wish t o o ffer another view of the last moment in Lear's life, one which by.no means excludes o r runs contrary to Lear's bursting smilingly. A key to understanding Lear's c on dition at the time of his death can be found in the words he speaks just pr ior t o his l ast. "Pray you, undo this butto n. Thank you,. sir" (311 ) • I n the storm Lear spoke words just like these: "Off, off, you lendings. Come, unbutton h e re!" (II I , i v) . Aside from t h e no table c h ange in t o ne, Lear has the same request a t t h e cen ter a nd at the e nd o f the play. What can this mean? I h a ve a l r eady sugges ted that Edgar, the closest t o Lear in b l ood and i n heart, was the p erso n to heed Lear's command in the storm. Lear always turns t o Edgar f~r rel i ef when he is in need o f a fellow. On the heath Lear made Poor Tom . his philo s opher a nd questioned him on causes: "What is the cause o f thunder?" (III, iv ) . I n other words what is the cause of suffering and o f madnes 3? No answer. Lear i n sists on kee~ing the c ompany of his philoso pher for comfo rt, compan i on ship, and relief. In Gloucester's farmhouse Lear asks another cause question : "Is there ~ny c a use in nature that make these hard hearts?" (III, vi, 78 ) . No answer. Being reminded of his disquantitied train at the mention ? f h~s daughter~, Lea: turns . to Edgar his noble man o f justice, for comfort, companionship, and relief: You, sir, I en~ertain f o r one of my hundred" (74 ) . At the end Lear asks a third cause question, the kind that wrench the heart: "Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life, and thou no breath at all?" (V, iii, 307) • No answer. Again Lear turns for relief· "Pray you 1 undo this button." To whom does he turn? Only Edgar's knightly presen~e can bring Lear a final rest. Edgar undoes Lear's button. "Thank you, sir." Edgar is the only person to whom Lear owes some thanks. It would not be fitting for Lear t o t hank Kent, his own shadow. Lear's last words to Kent are, "You a~e we~co~e hither" ( 291 ) . Lear embraces Kent; he hopes that Kent will join company with him in a nd beyo nd de a th. But why do es Lear owe Edgar thanks? Why is Edgar the only person who can bring Lear a fi n a l rest? 82 Kin_ Lear begins with a grand event, which, for the full effect, Edgar must g attend . The great King Lear is providing for th€ perpetuation of his peaceful reign. Foremost among his concerns is who will succeed to his throne, who will take on his "cares and business" (I, ii, 38) • He has designed a plan so that Cordelia , his favorite, will rule the physically largest and politically central portion of his kingdom . The plan fails because Cordelia is silent -- like Budd before Claggart and Chr ist before the Gr and Inqu_ tor -- because she says "nothing" when her fathe r isi commands her to profess publicly her love for him. She cannot comply with a test or make a game of her love . Lear enraged disclaims Cordelia and hastily gives all to Goneril and Regan, dividing his kingdom in two (the number for strife) rather than three (the number for unity) . Lear can only hope that either Goneril or Regan will bear a son to carry on his name . But no . He curses Goneril's womb, a curse which might equally condemn Regan's : Hear, Nature, hear; dear Goddess, hear : Suspend thy purpose if thou didst intend To make this creature fruitful. Into her womb convey sterility. Dry up in her the organs of increase . And from her derogate body never spring A babe to honor her • • • (I, iv, 288) With these wo r ds Lear ensu r es that he will have no p r ogeny, no g r andson to name . But there is Edgar, Lear ' s s pi r itual son, whom he named . Unknowingly, throughout the play , in words and i n d eed s, Lear has taught Edgar c r ucial t hing s he needs to know about kingship -- the danger of flatte r ers , the corruption of courts, etc . Lear has just about ful fi lled his duty a s a fathe r and a king, and Edgar will, once he lear ns the most crucial thing about kingship, fulfill his duty as a son and a prince . So , Lear owes Edgar thanks, and Edgar i s t he only person who can b r ing Lea r a final rest . But what sense can be made of Lear 's last words -- "Do you see this? Look on her! Look, her lips! Look ther e, look there!" -- in this context? Why should Lear command Edgar to look on Cordelia's lips? If Lear sees Cordelia's lips breathe new life, that is a miracle . Pray, let it be so . But those lips have another significance . Possibly Lear is commanding Edgar to look on those lips which he t r ied to make utter wo r ds they could never utte r. Lear is r eminding and teaching Edgar what was his greates t fault as a king, hoping that Edgar will lear n this most cruc ia l thing and never fall from the same fault. Lear's fin al gesture is at once an acknowledgement of his wr ongdoing, an acknowledgement that his wrongdoing is a hidden cause of Cor del.ia ' s deat h , and an effort to ensure that the future king be free f r om such wrongdoing . Lear's last gestur e is his greatest. Edgar and Cordelia , Lear 's g r acious children, always remain faithful to the truth, the one to the truth of his natural person, the othe r to the truth of her love . Because o f this stead fast loyalty Edg ar cannot r eveal himself to his f ather i n speech until hi~ natural person is perfected, and Co r delia cannot profess her love for her father . The tragedies of Lear and Glouc.e ster are in part the consequences of Edgar's and Cor delia's goodness . I cannot rebuke them for being proud, uncompromising, unscrupulous, or what have you . I cannot say that they should have said this or that at such and such a time. This, after all, was Lear's original fault. Edgar's penultimate couplet shows that he has understood Lear's last gesture : The weight of this sad time we must obey, Speak what we feel not what we ought to say . (V , ii i, 324) Finally, Edgar is king. According to Machiavelli, he will show great competence in his office. His gift for making the most of whatever accidents happen to befall him entitles him to the name "natural prince." He has firsthand knowledge of the actions of great men, which is so important for a ruler. He has been offered what is perhaps the best possible education for kingship in living the lives of his subjects: the madman, the begg~z- #;~ the poor man, the servant, the cormnon man, the nobleman, the 83 �judge, the philosoph.e r, and last, the champion knight . Knowi ng that Edgar wil l r ule , I believe that the line which best captures the mood at the end of King ~ is Kent's: " • • • though it be night, yet the moon shines . " NOTES I wish to acknowledge four works of interpretation to which I am indebted: Stanley Cavell' s The Avoidance of Love; Robert Heilman' s The Great Stage; Lawrence Berns' Gratitude:-"Nature, and Pie~in King Lear; William O'Grady' s On Almost Seeing Miracles. - - Also, I wish to thank Mrs. Flaumenhaft for her encouragement and guidance. 84 �Non-Profit Org . BULK RATE U. S. POSTAGE . PAID St. John's College·· Annapolis, MD 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. Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. ii, 84 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 Holland, Christian (Editor) Title A name given to the resource Energeia, Winter 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 Winter 1984. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Energeia Winter 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 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Kalkavage, Peter Energeia Student publication https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/b5c2335be4651c5f180426aec753ae9e.pdf 2d89921fd14117036df7629a908ec6df PDF Text Text SPRING, 1984 _,;;. - �SPRING, 1984 ,. . �ENERGEIA: The a ctiv i ty in which anything is fully itself. n... vov Cover: Mary Napolitano (1947) Still life. Oil. The artist lives in New York. Her work has been exhibited at The First Street Gallery in Soho. £V~PY£~a ~wn ...(Aristotle's Metaphysics, 1072b) STAFF Editor : Printed by the St. John's College Press St. John's College Annapolis, Maryland Faculty Adviso r : Christian Holland C<lthy Buckler Ann Burlein Zoe Churchville Frank Durgin Martin Marklin Alexandra Mullen Merle Sokolik Joe Sachs Energeia is a non-profit student magazine with an in-house circulation to the students, faculty, alumni, and staff of St. John's College, Annapolis and Santa Fe. Ene 'r geia is published thrice yearly, in the Fall, Winter, an~ Spring. The Fall issue is reserved fo~ the student work of the previous school year which has been selected by the Prize Conunittee for public recognition . For the Winter and Spring issues the Energeia staff welcomes submissions from all members of the conununity --ess a y s, poems , stor ies , original math p r oofs, lab p r ojects, 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. �.......... ~-- ~--- - ~~ The Music of the American· Republic Karl Walling CONTENTS 1 THE MUSIC OF THE AMERICAN REPUBLIC Ka rl Walling CHARACTER AND LIBERAL EDUCATION Eva Br.:: 1· MUSIC AS A MEMBER OF THE QUADRIVIUM Jeremy Laue r THREE DREAMS TO WAKING Pierre Gagn ie r MARTHA'S CONVERSJOf\; Zoe Churchville SONNET Step hen Morse THE TEARS OF ODYSSEUS Cary S tic kney ·: ;) MATHEMATICS AND THE CONCEPT OF FOR CE John Ritner u THE FORT A.J. Kriv ak 50 G ALILEO'S LIMITS / .drien Helle r 51 SONNET Stephen Morse 52 DIVIDED BETWEEN TEARS AND SMILES Merle Sokolik 53 POEM Pierre Gagnier 64 "No sooner do you set foot on American soil," Tocqueville says, "than you find yourself in a sort of tumult, a confused clamor rises on every side, and a thousand voices are heard at once, each expressing some social requirements." [ 1] The voices Tocqueville describes belong to men and women governing themselves . For some, the sound they make is mere cacophony, for the confused clamor comes from every American struggling to attain a new or larger piece of the action, and a new or better place in the sun. For others, the sound is a symphony wh i ch expresses the well-ordered functioning of the American polity according to the fot•nders' grand design. Neither the cacophonic nor the symphonic view is exactly correct. Americans have a connnon creed, indeed a political religion, which is expressed in the Declaration of Independence, many of Lincoln's speeches, and the myths which make us a people. The creed gives too much form and depth to the American character for the sound we make ever to be just noise, devoid of order or meaning. We simply have too much in common. Nevertheless, we are also an ambitious people. Americans and American interest groups all pursue their ends with great energy, and often without regard for the interests of others. Symphonies require too much coordination of each sound for the political jockeying characteristic of America to ever have the order, sense, or purpose of a symphony. We are simply t oo free. The sound Tocqueville heard is most like improvised jazz, the organized musical chaos indigenous to America. This improvised jazz leaves plenty of room for displays of virtuosity. Our politicians, for example, constantly blow their own horns. In fact, every interest and leader in America seems to aim at grabbing our attention by being louder or more sophisticated than the competitors whose But the horn-blowing requires accommodations. sound they try to drown. Back-scratching--jiving and staying in tune with others--is absolutely essential for every American politician and interest group to get ahead. In order to play their solos, they have to play with the band. The music of the American republic is therefore full of much harmony and dissonance, much unity and diversity. How did this come about? What. purpose can the music serve? Is there any sense in it? Without laying too much stress on the vision of one man, I would like to suggest that J ames Madison provides the best answers to these questions in Federalist l.Q., and that, indeed, he deserves to be called the theoretical father of American political jazz. BACKGROUND: DEMOCRATIC RULE AND THE PROBLEM OF FACTION In Federalist ,i, Hamilton observes t hat, "it is impossible to read the histories of the pett y republics of Greece and Italy" wi t hout being overwhelmed by "sensations of horror and disgust" at the i r perpetual " vibrations between the extremes of tyranny and anarchy." .[ 2] Thoug h we today tend to t hink that any regime that is not democratic cannot be respectable, Hamilton expressed a view of democracy that has been far more common in history. Historically, democratic 1 �rule has been far from respectable. In Plato's Republic, for example, democracy ranks just above anarchy in the decay of more or less just ststes, and is soon followed by despotism of one form or another . The following passage from Thucydides' description of the civil war in Corcyraea is arz example of what ntany men at the time of the writing of the Federalist thought to bf" an inevitable consequence of democratic rule: [3] "The Corcyraeans were engaged in butchering those of their fellow citizens whom they regarded as their enemies: and though the crime imputed was that of trying to put down the democ:racy, some were slain also for private hatred, others by their debtors because of the money they owed to them. Death thus raged in every shape; and, as usually happens at such times, there was no lengtb to which violence did not go; sons were killed by their fathers, and supvliants dragged from the altar or slain upon it: while some were even walled up in the temple of Dionysus and died there." According to Thucydides, this kind of violent civil st·ruggle has always happened and always will happen "as long as the nature of n1 remains the Bame." an [4] As long as men are greedy or envious, Thucydides says, then they will go to civil war, and democratic nations, such as Athens, Corcyraea, and Rome, will be most likely to go to civil war. In such nations. the poor will have a common passion and interest in taking from the rich and giving to themselves, and the. rich will have an opposite passion and interE!st in defendlrig theit property. The poor, who almost always outnumber the rich. will have the voting power to do what they like. The rich, to defend their property, will often resort to illegal and violent means to defend themselves. Society will become polarized into two warring camps, and no man will be safe from the greed or envy of other men. To be fair, the problem Thucydides describes is not so much a problem of democratic rule as it is of smallness. Small nations are easily divided into warring camps, if only because it is easier for the passions of a moment to spread through all the citizenry. But all democratic nations before the writing of the Federalist had been small, and smallness was considered essential by political theorists before the writing of the Federalist because only small nations ~ere capable of allowing their citizens to meet and vote on every issue. Hence, democracies took the blame for the factional vices of small nations, even though faction was primarily a problem of small nations. Federalist 1Q. is an attempt to prove Thucydides was wrong. Although Madison admits that democracies have been one of the most common sources of civil war (or as he put it, the violence of faction) ''and in general, have been as short in their lives as they have been violent in their deaths," Madison sets out to show that it is possible to both mitigate the dangers of faction and have democratic rule. His task is to make democracy safe for America: "to preserve the public good and private rights against" factions and "at the same time to preserve the spirit and form of popular government." Although Madison addresses an ancient problem, the problem of factional civil war in democratic nations (leading to anarchy or tyranny of one form or another) is as modern as yesterday and today. The chaos and near civil war of democratic rule in the Weimar Republic, the very condition of Hitler's coming to power, demonstrates the perennial nature of the problem. As order breaks down, men will often accept the leadership of any strong man, even if the order they receive in return comes without or at the expense of laws. A brief look at fledgling democracies around the world (at Lebanon, El Salvador, Greece, Turkey, and many other nations) shows that · 2 democratic nations are still often on the verge of civil war or forced to resort to the rule of a strong man to prevent civil war.. Perhaps because he understood that civil war would always be a problem for democracies, Madison, in a rare evangelical temper, suggests that preventing the "mischiefs of faction" is the "desideratum" to recommend democratic rule to "the esteem and adoption of mankind." After all, who would ever wish to live in a democracy, if life in a democracy always led to anarchy, civil war, and despotism? TREATIRG THE CAUSES OR THE EFFECTS? Madison begins his task by defining his terms. A faction is a group of citizens "united and actuated by some common impulse of passion, or of interest, adverse to the rights of other citizens or to the permanent and aggregate i terests of the community." The dangers he sees from faction are twofold: they may act or rule unjustly and they may act or rule unwisely. In either case, factions can provoke civil war by forcing others to rebel against repression or prompting the able to take things into their own hands. Madison's solution must therefore mitigate both of these dangers: it must make factions both wiser and more just and it must prevent civil war and coups d'etat. Like a doctor treating a dreadful disease, Madison sees only two ways to remedy the ills of factions. Either the causes or the effects, the symptoms or the disease, must be treated. Two causes--one motivational and the other conditional--create faction. Liberty is the conditional cause of faction and "essential to its existence." Without liberty, men cannot communicate, organize, or unite. They cannot oppose anyone or anything. The motivational c·ause is the diversity of passions, interests, and opinions of the human race. Men struggle, and perhaps always will struggle, because they are different. Madison soon discovers that it is unwise and in fact impossible to completely cure the causes of faction. Though "liberty (the conditional cause) is to faction what fire is to animal life," liberty is also "essential to political life" in America. We would not choose to live without it. The American Revolution was fought in the name of liberty. To eliminate liberty in order to prevent factional strife, would be to destroy the aims of the revolution. Though tyrants everywhere and in all times have eliminated liberty in order to control faction, such a cure would be "worse than the disease" of faction in America. Since Americans would rightly not tolerate removing the conditional cause of faction, Madison considers removing the motivational cause, but this is simply impracticable. "As long as the reason of man continues to be fallible," men will form different opinions, and they will be mistaken about their opinions. As long as man's "reason and his self-love" are connected, even the best of men will be vain. They will love and defend their opinions as much because they are their own opinions as because they think .their opinions are the right opinions. They will also tend to use their reason as a means to satisfy their passions rather than subject their passions to the rule of their reason. Moreover, though all men have passions, they do not all have the same degrees or kinds of passions. This diversity of degrees and kinds of passions ensures great diversity in the will to satisfy them, and potential violence when the passions conflict. Most important ly, "the diversity in the faculties of men, from which the rights of property originate, is ••• an insuperable obstacle to a uniformity of interests." Protecting each man's right to use his faculties, including his property acquiring faculty, is the "first object of government." But when the government protects "different and unequal faculties of acquiring property," a host of opportunities for factional struggle appear. Men begin to possess different 3 �degrees and kinds of property. The greed of some, the envy of others, influence the have's and the have not's, and thus begins "a division of the society into different interests and parties." For all these reasons, Madison argues that the motivating causes of faction are "sown in the nature of man." To cure the causes of faction, human nature would have to be changed, a task which Madison assumes to be almost impossible. The other way of mitigating the dangers of faction is to control the effects of factional struggle and for Madison, this is the only practical way. In any democratic nation, if a faction is a minority, "relief is supplied by" the principle of a majority rule, "which enab lee a majority to defeat'' a minority through the ballot. Though the minority "might clog the administration" and "convulse the society" with all the clamorous turmoil Tocqueville saw and heard, the principle of majority rule will prevent the minority faction from gaining power. But the very virtue of majority rule in dealing with minority factions is also its greatest vice. If a faction consists of a majority, the faction is able to "sacrifice to its ruling passion or interest both the public good and the rights of other citizens." MAJORITY RULE WITHOUT FACTIONS? Madison's primary purpose in Federalist 1Q is to solve the problem of majority faction: of unwise or unjust rule by majorities. He sees only two possible (and complementary) solutions. Either majority factions must be prevented from having the same passion or interest at the same time, or, if they already have common passions and interests, they must be denied the chance "to carry into effect, schemes of oppression." Notice that Madison is not rejecting the principle of majority rule. He calls himself a "friend of popular government" and insists that laws be made by majorities. But to solve the problem of majority faction, something must be done to ensure that majorities rule with more justice and wisdom than ever before. Madison does not believe that "pure democracies," such as Athens, could ever aolve this problem. The small size which the ancients (and most moderns until the writing of the Constitution) had considered essential for democracies ensures that "a common passion or interest will, in almost every case, be felt by a majority." In such nations, "communication and concert" result from the "form of government itself" and factious majorities therefore possess both the will and the means to rule unwisely and unjustly. But an extended republic, such as America, differs from a "pure democracy" in at least two very important respects. The first is delegation of powers; the second, the greater number of citizens and larger territory which delegation makes possible for an extended republic. The effect of the first difference may be to "refine and enlarge the public vievs" through the public's representatives: people whose experience, love of ju1tice, and patriotism will enable them to withstand the passions of a moment and the clamor of a thousand voices. The effect may also be inverted, however. Demagogic delegates may "obtain the suffrages, and then betray the interests, of the people." But this inversion is much less likely in a large republic than a small republic. To guard against "the cabals of a few," the delegates must be raised to a certain number; to avoid the "confusion of a multitude," the delegates must be limited to a certain number. Though the mean number is bard to determine, that mean number would prevent the sound made by the delegates from being either a cacophony verging on civil war or a symphony verging on despotism. The delegates would debate and disagree, but they would not make just 4 no'ise if they were limited to enough people to meet, listen to each other, make decisions, and, above all, be held responsible for their decisions. The people the delegates represent would demand action, and, in order to be reelected, the delegates would have to reach some consensus and act. The delegates would also conspire and meet in many back rooms, but if there were so many different kinds of delegates that it were hard to communicate with all of them, let alone pack them all into one room, their conspiracies would lack a sufficient number of conspirators to do any damage. EXTEND THE SPHERE. or DELEGATION In an extremely large republic with 13, or even better, 50 states, it is much more probable that the delegates and the interests they represent will be extremely diverse--so diverse, in fact, that forming any majority at all would be an extremely difficult task. "Extend the sphere" of a republic, Madison says, "and you take in a greater variety of parties and interests; you make it less likely that a majority of the whole will have a common motive to invade the rights of other citizens, or if such a motive exists, it will be more difficult for all who feel it to discover their own strength and act in unison with each other." If the vast republic Madison envisions is also a commercial republic, the effect of geographical diversity may be compounded by economic diversity. The most "common and durable source of faction," Madison observes, bas ever been "the various and unequal distribution of property." In small nations, such as El Salvador and much of the Third World today, very little diversity of and between economic classes exists. As long as such economic conditions prevail and the many poor with nothing to lose from civil war outnumber the few rich who have everything to lose from civil war, then such nations, particularly when they become .democrati~, will be prone to violent factional struggle. In large, commercial republ1cs, however, "a landed interest, a manufacturing interest, a mercantile interest, a moneyed interest, with many lesser interests, grow up of necessity." The acquisitive instinct in each interest group will lead it to put its interest first. The interest groups will compete with each other, and when they cooperate, it will be because cooperation is the only way they can attain their ends. Geographical diversity compounded by economic diversity will therefore act to split potential majorities into actual minorities. Such minorities will be "rendered, by their number and local situation, unable to concert and carry into effect" unjust or unwise laws. They will become politically impotent. In fact, they will no longer be factions. They will be interest groups, weakened by the diversity of the nation and tame enough to act only by cooperating with others. The sound of Tocqueville heard is very much the sound of a great commercial people clamoring for more and more .wealth. Tocqueville heard that sound in every part of America. The nation is so large that even though some economic interests are concentrated in the four corners of the nation, great diversity exists within regions as well as between them. Even now, with the advent of telephones, computers, and million name mailing lists, comnw.nication between members of similar interests is often very slow and difficult, and frequently impossible. The ~ost important consequence of the nation's economic and geographical (not to mention cultural and religious) diversity is that America has never bad the same kind or degree of rich-poor polarization which characterizes so much of the rest of the world. To be sure, the nation does have its poor (and far too many of them), but most of us have moderate incomes and our economic interests are largely determined by where we live and work. These different kinds of economic 5 �interests make the formation of a worker's class in America very difficult. If for a trucking firm, for example, we are just as likely to side with the company we work for in asking for help from the government as against the company in a strike for higher wages. We want the work, even if the work for the truckers means less work for others--the workers in the railroad, airline, busing, and merchant marine industries. Therefore, no proletariat exists in America, only interest groups. With such diversity, it is almost impossible for class struggle to characterize the factional struggle which does take place in America. As Friedrich Engels observed, "There is no place yet in America for a third (workers') party. The divergence of interests even in the same class group is so great in that tremendous area that wholly different interests and parties are represented in each of the two big parties." [S] we work "RUINED" BY MIDDLE CLASS MORALITY If I understood Engels correctly, Americans, like Mr. Doolittle in Shaw's Pygmalion, have been "ruined" for the purposes of class struggle by "middle class morality." But the ruination comes from the character our commercial society imparts to us as well as the diversity which makes our commercial society possible. Writing as long ago as 1787, Hamilton observed that the "assiduous merchant, the laborious husbandman, the active mechanic, and the industrious manufacturer--all orders of men, look forward with eager expectation ••• to the pleasing reward of their toils." [6] These men very much want to be rich but they will.settle for being comfortable. These are acquisitive men, but the; are also cautious men--men with some property and men who would regard taking their property from them as a crime. That is why so many of them abhor the thought of taxation, even if it comes with representation. Though this acquisitive, property worshipping characteristic of Americans is often vulgar, and sometimes cruel, it does have some important saving graces. It makes us wary of revolutionaries of any kind because we are very interested in preserving the comfort that we have. Just as importantly, it diverts our attention from one of the most enduring and frequent causes of factional struggle--religion. As Madison observes, "A zeal for different opinions concerning religion" has often "divided mankind into parties, inflamed them with mutual animosity, and rendered them much more disposed to vex and oppress each other than cooperate for the common good." Madison assumes that the nation's "miltiplicity" of religious sects will fragment tyrannical religious majority factions, but the acquisitive character of Americans can greatly reduce the desire to eppress anyone for religious reasons. Bluntly stated, many Americans worship Mammon as much as God, and many others have a long history of confusing Mammon with God, or at least His grace. Who wants to have civil war when it is po11ible to get rich, or at least become comfortably well off? If the people of the Mideast or Northern Ireland worshipped Maunnon as much as God, would they be as likely to sacrifice their lives and property for the sake of God? Or would they adopt the more moderate live and let live attitude of the acquisitive man who lets others prosper so that he can prosper? Engel's reference to parties suggests something which Madison never envisioned in writing the Federalist . America has almost always had two majo r par ties, and occasional third parties. Party was a dirty word for Madison, and synonymous with faction. Large parties, however, are absolutely essential for American government. No single interest group can attain a majority by itself in America, and this fact is the greatest testament to Madison's vision in Federalist 10. The function of parties in America is to provide majorities, but the maj~ities 6 parties provide can rarely be called factions. Parties are coalitions of interest groups which often share philosophical· and humanitarian goals and convictions, but which always share one immediate practical political objective: power. Each interest wants, and assumes all other interests want as much power as it can get. To attain such power, however, the interests must make accommodations and compromises with each other. No interest can dominate for a long time; each eventually has a chance to influence the party in some way to some extent. To be sure, Madison never envisioned modern political parties, but such parties are essential to overcome the nation's diversity, and make it possible to assert that ."a coalition of a majority of the whole society could seldom take place on any other principles than those of justice and the general good." That is why I would call Madison the theoretical father of American political jazz. Had the effect of the nation's geographical, economic, cultural, and religious diversity been to prevent Americans from ever uniting at all, then the sound Tocqueville heard would have been just ugly noise. Instead, with the expressed purpose of overcoming differences between sections, interests, creeds, and cultures, parties have developed flexible and changing coalitions which meet every four years (often to the sound of jazz) in an atmosphere resembling a large New Year' s Eve Party. The sound of men and women struggling to be heard at these conventions is not at all unlike the sound of trumpets, drums, pianos, and trombones improvising in a great jazz band. Each voice and musician wants to be heard, but knows that the success of the party (victory in November) and the band (a happy audience) depends on satisfying most interests (giving everyone a say or a solo). The success of the whole depends on satisfying the parts and the parts depend on the success of the whole. We are forced to get ahead by getting along. SOME PHILOSOPHICAL REFLECTIONS ON SOME POLITICAL PARADOXES I Having seen the utility of the diversity of the nation as a bulwark against factional struggle, it is worthwhile to try to imagine the philosophical method and assumptions which might have led Madison to think of his "republican remedy for the diseases most incident to repub lie government." Though much has been made of Madison's debt to men like Hume, Locke, and Hobbes, I think the assumptions which underlie Federalist .!Jt are owed primarily to Francis Bacon and his maxim that nature, to be conquered, must be obeyed. There is something very paradoxical in the notion of conquering by obeying. After all , most conquerors give orders; they do not take them. But think of what engineers do when they construct huge hydroelectric dams to stop floods, irrigate land, and provide energy for cities. They do not order the water to do as they will, but rather obey very st~ict rules for manipulating floodwater for constructive ends. The water must be allowed to move, or it will overflow and wreak devastation on the towns and land nearby. When the water is channeled in the right direction, it can move the motors that make the electricity. Nature is not conquered so much as it is used, but it is used by letting it do what it must do. The water must move. If it is all too often the Can the same things be said about human nature? nature of men and factions to pursue their own interests and passions without regard for the interests of other men, how can one use this aspect of human nature to control the tendency of men and factions to forsake justice and the common good of their society? If I understand Madison correctly, human nature and the nature of factions, like everything else in nature, to be conquered, must 7 I I �be obeyed. Therefore, the way to control the effects of faction is to use human selfishnesa--the ambition of some and the greed of others, to oppose human selfishness. In an extended commercial republic the size of America it is inevitable that men will have different passions, interests, and opinions,'and if t?ey are left free to follow their passions, interests, and opinions, then they will come to oppose each other. The larger and the more diverse the nation becomes, the more will human nature tend to break up groups with similar interests, passions, and opinions. By a kind of political judo, the forces of human nature and of faction are used against each other. We become so individualistic a~d so diverse that we do not have the political power, i.e., the votes, to accomplish anything by ourselves and are forced to get along with each other and respect each other in order to accomplish anything at all. THE LIMITS OF MADISON'S STRATEGY It seems clear that Madison's strategy for controlling faction is not appropriate for every time and place. Some nations are simply too small; others, too culturally or religiously or economically homogeneous. In America, however, the limits are of a different and almost opposite kind. The dangers come from being too diverse and trusting too much in human selfishness. What I mean is that communities and peoples are defined by something shared. In Federalist 1, John Jay notes some of the things which the American people shared at the time, and by and large, still share. We are, he says, "one united people-:a people descended from the same ancestors, speaking the same language, p:o~essi~g the.same religion, attached to the same principles of government, very similar in their manners and customs ••• " Political communities, as distinguished from other kinds of communities, such as business corporations and markets are defined by such shared characteristics as the ones Jay listed. In partic~lar, they are defined by shared notions of right and wrong, of the just and the unjust. Madison's strategy, I believe, depends as much on this sharing as upon the diversity and pluralism for which he is famous. At the beginning of this essay I noted that Americans possess a common creed--a political religion. That creed means that certain truths are considered to be self-evident to us and that we are shocked when others do not accept those truths as being self-evident. We tolerate dissent and more diversity than any nation bas ever had before because we believe that all men have an equal right to use their faculties as best they can. The self-evident truths of the Declaration of Independence are the fundamental shared characteristics of the American polity. They are the truths which make us different from other peoples because they are the truths which we hold in common. In Madison's Not';s of the Debates of the Federal Convention of 1787, Madison observes that "the states were divided into different interests ••• the most material of which resulted ••• principally from the effect of having or not having slaves." In all fairness to Madison, it has to be said that he and many others hoped that this great division of the nation would disappear as the industry of the South became more diversified and the need for slave labor disappeared. But Madison's hope was unfounded. Far from disappearing, slavery became the "peculiar institution" of the South. It was institutionalized because it was too profitable to give. up. Slavery could not be eradicated by obeying the greed of human nature. Far from it, slavery almost eradicated the Union which the Federalist was written to preserve. The house divided could not stand. The division of the Union, however, was a different kind of division than Madison thought necessary to 8 preserve the Union from civil war. Economic, religious, cultural, and geographical diversity are different from disagreement about fundamental principles. The disagreement ~bout whether all men are creat~d.e~ual undermin~d the possibility that all Americans could be free, and the divisiveness of this issue did split the nation into warring camps Our house· must be divided in order to stand, but if the people do not agree about the meaning of our founding principles, the house cannot stand. Those principles.are meant to be obvious to all rational men, but, as Madison well knew, the passions often prevent men from being rational. To prevent the irrational from gaining complete control of our politics, the nation therefore requires something more than Madison's reliance on competing elements of human selfishness. Constitutions are written as much in a people's character as on the documents and social structures they treasure, and Madison's strategy therefore requires fundamental agreement about the principles of the nation, and men to write those princples in our ~ouls. It requires political religion in order to avoid the religious fanatism which so often occurs when men disagree about fundamental principles. In recognizing the limits of Madisonts strategy, we see that it is very contingent on the character of our people. We begin to grasp the thought of Lincoln together with the thought of Madison, and see that our political jazz, the chaotic sound of our politics, presupposes essential harmony about the purpose of the republic. 1. Democracy in America, 2 vols, Phillips Bradley, ed. 1980), I, PP• 249. (Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., 2. All quotations from the Federalist will be from the 1980 National Home Library Edition, and unless otherwise noted, from Federalist l:Q. 3. The Peloponnesian War, III, 81; Crawley York, 1951). translation, (Random House, Inc., New 4. Ibid, III, 82 5. I owe the truckers example and the quotation from Engels to Martin Diamond's Founding of the Democratic Republic, (Peacock Publishers, Inc., Itasca, Illinois, 1981). 6. Federalist 11.. 9 �Character and Liberal Education Eva Brann Thinking about the conjunction of the terms "character" and "liberal education" . b:ings to mind the beginning of that great Greek work which deals most directly with t h~ relation of human vi~tue to learning: Plato's dialogue Meno. Meno the The~s~llan abruptly accosts Socrates in Athens with a demand : "Are you in a pos1t1~n! Socrates! to tell me whether excellence is a thing got by teaching or by ~raining, or neither by teaching or learning but it gets into people by nature or in some other way?" Socrates, with an irony lost on the provincial visitor answers to this effect: You people up there used to be famous for horsemanshi; and wealth, but ~ow your intellectual-in-residence, Gorgias, has seduced you into the love of wisdom, so that you have magnificent answers for all questions ~hfatsoever, while we Athenians have been left behind, since not a one of us, but l asked whether excellence is taught or gets into people some other way, would l~ugh and say, "How can I te 11 whether it can be taught or not when, to beg in with, I don't even know what it is?" I draw fro~ that opening, mutatis mutandis, the warning first to fix my terms when attempting to speak about character in its relation to liberal education. I shall therefore begin by defining character, and in such a way that unlike Socrates~ vi:tue which turns out to be, strangely, a matter of learnin~ but not of ~e~ching in the ordinary sense, it is eminently a matter both of teaching and t:a1~ing. Then I shall go on to an understanding of liberal education as quite distinct from character training--indeed it may sometimes disintegrate character. But, of course, I shall nonetheless try to save the day for liberal learning. I take my lead for discovering the essential meaning of the word ';.character" from certain overtones in its usage--not that I belong among those who think that u1age i~ mea~ing,, but because usages often preserve implicitly an original gist of meanl.Ilg which might have been lost in the explicit acceptation of the word; in the case of character that first meaning serves to distinguish it from "nature " " exce 11 ence, " " v1r t ue, " " mora l' . . ' ity, " " temperament," "personality," "values" and what have you • Let me start with a revealing extreme. We say that someone is a character, colloquially a "card". We mean that the person displays with abandon characteristics amounting to comic charicature. Theophrastus, Aristotle's successor as bead of his school, wrote a slim volume called Characters, in which thirty human types are characterized, each marked to absurdity by one trait· for example the congenitally abstracted type will do an addition in his bead and, turn Eva Brann is currently a tutor on the Annapolis campus. She delivered this lecture at the Center for Twentieth Century Studies Middlebury College in . ' ' April, 1981. 10 to his neighbor to ask ·for the sum, annd the tactless type at dance will seize a partner not yet as drunk as he.· Theophrastus, to · be sure, does not distinguish · such characters from nature--he expresses wonder that Greeks, all brought up in the same way and under the same clime, should display such a variety of natures. But, it seems to me, in that identification he is mistaken: it is not thirty natures, but thirty "types", in the French sense, that he is fixing in their recognizable and therefore comic peculiarity. For human beings are never by nature as quintessentially comic--it is precisely on those moving occasions when comic characters act "out of character" that their nature is revealed. Besides "being a character" people are said to have a character, and that in two senses: in the sense of bearing a conformation, a shape, upon themselves and in the sense of having that form or mark publicly acknowledged, in bearing a reputation -- a letter of reference used to be called simply "a character". Both of these ways of speaking preserve something of the original sense of the Greek word character. Like our word "scratch" it is onamatopoetic and means a scratched, engraved, stamped or identifying mark, as on a coin or a seal. A character is what we bear upon ourselves, as a brand or mark. Therefore it requires an underlying substance, a human material, a nature upon which it is impressed. People "without character" are by no means without a nature; rather their nature comes out antically, without reliably gaugeable determination, like unminted metal. The notion of character is, then, in its very origin figurative, since it relies on the metaphor of an underlying substance disciplined by an impressed shape. There are, of course, also other ways of imaging nature and its post-natal modifications; for instance one may think of what life does to the soul as a kind of maiming or disfigurement, as when Socrates compares it to a sea god, dredged up from the salty depths with limbs worn off and encrusted with barnacles. All such representation are open to criticism, I am aware, precisely because they are anthropomorphic, and more sophisticated, less image-like, models of individual humanity certainly exist: it may be viewed as a node in a societal or linguistic context, as a concatenation of habits, as a system of responsive behavior, as a mechanism for managing instincts, as a world-generating existence. For present purposes, I prefer the simple figurative model, since it makes the fact of character training pedagogically plausible. For one thing, it offers a resolution to the old debate of nature versus nurture. These two inseparable aspects of human shaping appear to me to be antithetical only when we view humanity remotely, as through the wrong end of a telescope, so that it looks either as if it were helplessly what it was born to be or hopelessly what it was But anyone who has ever been admitted to intimate knowledge of made to be. another person knows that the effort to discern the interplay of original nature and acquired character is one of the most rewarding preoccupations of love and friendship. Parents of very small children, too, watch with fascinaton the original and highly individual motions and emotions of the soul which often manifest themselves in typical gestures. In short, the bald opposition of nature and nurture may be false but the terms themselves are right enough. What I mean to argue is that there seems to be in every human being that which is practically ineradicable, congenital, aboriginal, and also something else which is imposed on that first nature as a second nature. That first nature has been delineated in numerous · schematisms. the first is Socrates' scheme of the tripartite soul, composed of a desiring, a spirited and a reasoning part; here the nature of every human being is defined by the original preponderance of one of these parts. Then there is the medieval theory of temperaments, which distinguishes natures by the peculiar complexion of the four 1 1 11 I ' �physical humours in them: the phlegmatic, the choleric, the sanguine and the melancholic. There is another, Pascal's division of the human disposition into the "esprit de geometrie" and the "esprit de finesse", the mathematical and the intuitive mode. I will avoid deciding the deep question which of these typologies is ultimate -- each seems to have truth in some context -- especially since I want to add one of m~ .own. In my experience, people's most proper nature is revealed in their prevailing sens~, not so much in the physical as the figurative meaning--whether eye, ear, or skin, so to speak, determines the way they take in and act in the world. Those of the last, the surface sense, are immediate and spontaneous, sensitive to creaturely needs but sometimes obtuse to non-immediate desires, ready believers in magic-working patterns rather than searches for hard truths, given to ~ream visions rather than sharp observation, indifferent to logical :equirements, but .full of warm wisdom, naively candid and naively cunning, 7mpetuous.and tenacious. Those who primarily hear, move clumsily and myopically in the wide world, stubbornly warding off wordly wisdom; they are undeflectably moral and honest to jagged harshness--wilful Jacobeans wh~ are forever giving battle t~ the ange~ of the ~ord. Those who primarily view, are given to panoramic p7rspect~ves and live mor~ in scenes than with people; their long-view serenity, t~nged with complacency, is all too vulnerable to atmospheric clouding; in their wish for wholeness they oversee imperfections, and they prefer fittingness to honesty, large shapely truth to detailed accuracy. We all, I suppose, have such schemes, and the point is that most of us do attribute an original nature at least to those we have tried to know well and that we h~ve usually discerned also some shapes superimposed on this nature:-not mere~y blind and breakable patterns of behavior, but also firmly fixed forms. As I sa~d bef~re,.a larg~ part of the fascination of friendship does consist precisely in discovering what the connatural matter is and how it takes the imprint both of brute circumstance and of that deliberate discipline specifically call~d character training--how sometimes nature is too craggy and recalcitrant to receive the marks ~f such training, so that some people remain chaotically and perhaps even c?arm1~gly unshaped, born outlaws, as it were; how in others the ~atu:al material is so soft and viscous that, like pitch, i t fails to hold an imprint and yet fractures when struck at a certain angle; bow in a brush with catas~rophe some characters are wiped away, sometimes to r eveal a pulpy base and sometimes an even firmer original self; how some combinations are made for crisis and others for daily life; how some people's character is harmonious with their being, while others' is at chafing odds with it; and finally, how some exude the path~s ~f a maimed nature.w~ich has been st r uck t oo hard by the die o f an un happy upbringing so that the original blank of the coin has been fractured. It seem~ to me further that however vivid one's image of original human nature may be, it. c~nnot come to appearance at all except under the imprint of cbaracter--it is through character that nature manifests itself and without its shaping what emerges is excessive or amorphous, weak and wild.' Second nature is ~hat appears, and first nature is discerned through it; what shows to the world 18 what the world has circumstantially or deliberately shaped. It is the planned and deliberate shaping that the world administers to us that I shall now particularly mean by character. Let me specify more. Character is a m~ral shape, not.a mere pattern of behavior into which we are driven against our will •. It sho~s in conduct, not in behavior; in willed action, not in driven rea~t~on, though no doubt behavioral patterning, such as children's toilet training, plays a role in shaping the most intimately personal aspects of character. 12 Now human action is distinguished by having purpose before it and principle behind it. Therefore it is governed by articulated thought, by propositions. One might say that these aspects of character can be imaged in the format of a geometric construction problem--on one side there is a diagram containing the lines necessary to the doing of the problem; it corresponds to the fixed form of character revealed in facial expression and bodily bearing. Alongside this drawn figure there runs a mathematical text enunciating the problem to be solved and verbally carrying out the steps under the constraints of logic; it corresponds to the articulated principles of action a person of character possesses. Accordingly character training always has these constituents: the shaping of a form, best accomplished by means of visible examples and models, the inculcation of moral maxims by means of insistent ethical discourse, and some implicit or explicit pressure of enforcement, either through the mere inconceivability of deviating or by reward and punishment. Parents, of course, always have and always will follow some such pattern in bringing up their children. Let me tell a little tale of character training concerning a boy, Collin, the son of an acquaintance, which strikes me as exemplary because it so clearly comprises all three elements. Collin is two and a half, right within those terrible twos which bring the first discovery of the will as an instrument of pure opposition and negativity. Collin is asked by his mother for help in picking up his crayons so they can go for a walk. He won't. "I don't like to do it," he says. His mother ins is ts, reasonably but firmly: "You ought to help me; don't I always help you pick up?" He still doesn't like to. So he is sent upstairs and told to close the door until he is ready to come down and help. He goes, and the door opens a couple of times. Collin is crying hard: "Mommy, I don't like it up here." After a while he gets tired of futile resistance and comes down to help pick up the room, saying with the satisfaction of one who has surrendered to reason: "Mommy, I didn't like it up there; it's much better when we work together, isn't it?" And he earnestly repeats that maxim later in the afternoon. nere the conjunction of good example, reasonable maxim and gentle coercion are perfectly exemplified. I cannot believe that anyone doubts that parents and teachers could, if they would, administer such training. To be sure, it becomes very difficult to teach standards of respect and self-control, industry and style without communal support , when the adults themselves decline to serve as moral models, when there are no common commandments, and when scruples are voiced about all constraints, so that nothing remains permissable but the infuriatingly evasive injunction that "you have to decide for yourself." The causes of this disintegration have been investigated to weariness, but I think there is some agreement that at least two main roots are: one in historical circumstanc e , namely the demogr aphic f a ct t hat the young have achieved numerical and economic power, and the other in the Rousseauean theory which interprets the communal upbringing as a societal conspiracy to repress nature and turns the very observation that human beings can be shaped against education. There is clearly some general agreement now that what is needed is not more pedagogical theory but a summoning of the public will. In fact there are interesting new views on how and where such communal resolution can best be expected to arise, such as Gerald Grant's contention that it is the private schools which are at this juncture most apt to have a real public, that is to say a constituency that knows what it wants. So the cause of character needs action rather than analysis. Nor was I, in any case, to speak about character and schooling but about character and liberal education, a very different matter. Therefore, reverting to Socrates' injunction, let me begi~ by saying precisely what I understand by 13 �l' liberal learning. It scarcely needs repeating that there is no current agreement about the matter of liberal learning-- indeed, the educational community seems to be fixed on reiterating that there can and ought to be no such agreement because that would constitute a confining and arbitrary choice which no faculty has authority to make. But, oddly enough, that one feature which characterized liberal education from its very beginning is generally and apologetically conceded to distinguish it sti~l:-- i~s "uselessness." In speaking of the education of the young, indeed, in defining 1t for the Western world, Aristotle says, in his Politics that though usefu 1. arts . are indispensable for the young, they should not be t~ught ~o many mechanical skills as to make them narrow, but they should be educated in the free or li~eral arts; clearly, education is liberal essentially in contrast with vocational training. Its liberality then and now is its freedom from the constrai~ts ~f application. It can take a leisurely, large, and long perspective; it allows the mind to play over possibilitie s; it strives for no immediate application. And that is still an element which the most diverse set of course offerings have in common they are largely disciplined play. Now.that sort of education seems to me to have a most dubious and problematic relation to character training. To begin with, in order to profit from such an education a student must bring to it a character already shaped. That holds in the most practical and obvious way simply because college work, being done at the leisure and discretion of the student, demands self-discipline just as self possession is demanded by th ~! pressures of student life in its gamut from childish piggishness to yo\J. tbfol splendor. But this circumstantial need for an already-formed character is not the essential one. That has to do with the pedagogical fact that it is next to impossible for students to assimilate books critically, to test themselves in engaged discussion, to close in on a complex problem, if they do not have strongly-ingrained principles to pit against the new influences. There can be, it seems to me, no reflective learning which does not begin in the raking-up of well-stamped prejudices-- and that is exactly what principles held by tradition and training are. That great and continuous re-opening of issues is impossible for an unshaped human being. Into an amorphous mind all notions drop with a dull thud or messy splatter, to produce accesses both of vapo rous en t husiasm and ~haotic resistance. Students are ready for liberal learning when t heir training in character as well as in basic skills is pretty well done -- both the undertrained and the prematurely-liberated are hard to teach. (That incidentally , is why the middle middle-c lass often produce ideally teachabl~ students, students docile in the best sense: well-prepared, receptive, yet staunch.) It follows that liberal education understood as a critical and reflective interlude is more apt to test and perhaps disintegrate character than to form it, a fact all too well known to teachers and parents. Freshmen who have discovered the cudgel of dialectic can be the scourge of their surroundings-- Socrates compares such new-born philosophers to yapping puppies. Sometimes the harm is more serious and lasting; students begin to lose their internal -- and external contour as their familiar faith and trust comes unravelled. Most college students, to be sure, have already undergone a stage of adolescent rebellion, but that is like an exuberant tribal ritual compared to this loneliness, lostness, and melancholy of young adulthood. What then can liberal education do with respect to human formation? I think it is exactly this: to reveal to students their own acquired opinions with their 14 - limits and to show them ·how their upbringing jibes with their nature how it constrains or consummates what they are. In a word, the achievement proper to liberal education is self-knowledge. Aided by the study of just such schemata of human nature as I have mentioned, by reflection on the notion of character, by thought about principled action, students learn to shape an image of themselves for themselves. That, rather than the acquisition of academic information seems to me the point-- as Socrates says in the Phaedrus: "I can't as yet 'know myself' as the description on the Delphic temple enjoins, and so long as that ignorance remains it seems to me ridiculous to inquire into extraneous matters." And so, he says, he will let such learning go and make an effort to discover whether he is like that seething, hundred-headed monster Typhon or a gentler being. What then is the end result? It seems to me quite without guarantee. There will be some students who emerge from college pretentious and unstrung, fit neither for action nor for contemplation. But in general the influence of a liberal arts college on character should be neither disintegrative nor even neutral. At the least, early character training does usually reassert itself, and most people after a period of salutary breaking away do return to the established way of their families and grow back toward their parents as they grow in to the world. Secondly, most theories of moral action concur in assigning to the intellectual virtues at least ancillary value in realizing goodness, since right action does require that large perspective on the way things are and that versatility in the choice of means which liberal education is supposed to engender. And finally, there is even one understanding of liberal learning the only one I know of -- according to which learning, if it actually occurs, is directly and unfailingly related to human excellence. If such excellence is a kind of knowledge, knowledge both of oneself and of the nature of things, then a course of reflective learning is the shaping of a good human being. That is why the name of Socrates has figured several times in these observations -- because that is his view. If he were right, the notion of character would be to some degree obviated -- it would recede into the background as a facilitating form, somewhat higher in standing but not different in kind from those good habits, like washing one's hands, which surrender to a fixed rite necessities of civilization not worth keeping in mind, while our conscious deed would issue quite immediately from having thought about and from knowing -- subject to continual correction -who we are and what we are doing, that is to say, from a kind of thoughtful sanity. So let me set out for you what are the presuppositions and consequences of this strange Socratic doctrine , that "excellence is knowledge" -- you may have heard the formula. Since most knowledge, at least most knowledge of the kind spoken of in colleges, is connected with learning, it is at least likely that Socrates' saying connects some sort of goodness with education. Now what kind of goodness is this excellence? The word has at best an antique, at worst a somewhat discriminatory ring. Two decades ago a liberal arts college like your own would usually claim in its catalogue to strive for excellence, but now the word has often been censored. Not that the word "character" is much in vogue -- but it is probably felt to be more quaint than offensive. The reason is, I think, precisely in the fact that character, as a mold, is in its very description common and democratic, while excellence seems to be distinctive and uncommon. And what is more, character can be associated with common . decency, while excellence might well seem to go with all sorts of brilliant immorality. What · Socrates means by excellence is indeed not decency or honesty or sympathy 15 �--------y or kindness. The Greek word -- you may have heard it before -- is arete. Some people connect the .!!.. root with the name of the god Ares -- Mars. The word expresses pot~ncy, the ability to be effectively to be -- a certain way. It does not particularly carry the notion of surpassing others which is in the Latin word ~cell~nce, but there is a sense that it is not particularly part of common humanity, either, to be very powerfully what it was meant to be. Excellence, then, as an antique term -- and of course, it is not in the least for so-called historical reasons that I am recalling it but because it seems to me a valuable notion -- excellence, then, is potency, effectiveness. That means that there are as many excellences as there are contexts for being what one is. For example, excellence with respect to fearful stituations is called courage and with respect to what is one's own it is called justice. Socrates thinks tha~ all such situ~tions. can be collected under four main headings; these are the so-called cardinal virtues-- but that is not so important at the moment. Now what has this potency with respect to one's own being in certain situations got to do with liberal learning? If anything is meant by such learning it must be, it seems to me, this: the liberally educated human being can articulate reasons, give causes, spell out why~s~ wherefore's, and how's. I doubt you will find my saying that wildly exciting. It has the sort of insipid obviousness that a truth much battered about but never quite exterminable does have. Three or four student generations before yours it was aggressively and even brutally denied, in an attempt to regain a lost paradise of primitive, inarticulate, spontaneous, playful imme~i~c~. Now it is again. tolerated, but without any commonly-acknowledged specificity. For as I mentioned earlier, the only commonly recognized mark of a liberal education is the negative one of non-specificity and uselessness. And while t~at notion is nostalgically tolerated as an ideal it is also practically set aside as luxury. So reduced to a pulp first by the aggressiveness of its enemies and then by the insecurity of its friends the terms will scarcely cause anyone's heart to miss a beat. And yet it ought to. If there is one realization which proves itself over and over it is this: that the human being is an animal, that is that physical organism, which cannot find its fulfilment in mere functioning or even in mere consciousness, but which needs needs - to come to terms with itself to be self-conscious, to be clear and truthful about itself. There is always so~ething moving and pitiable about watching the laborious, awkward, helpless efforts of older people who are without that learning which makes such self-consciousness shapely and adequate. For there is such learning and it is useless and unspecific only because it is as the root of all usefulness and at the foundation of all specialization . I will tell you very few , terse terms wha t I think it is but I am most willing to explain myself after this lecture. ' Such learning is made possible by and begins with the blessed fact that there are those in.this world who think deeply and write down what they have thought, and that their books are known and available. I shall be glad to tell you later who I think they are and why I think so. Liberal education begins with, -- and I might even argue consists of , the devoted study of such texts. By devoted study I mean first of all this: that one studies the text with the ardent hope, but by no means the sanguine presupposition that it might tell the truth-- in other words, real study in the approach to remarkable writings in a spirit of wary expectation. The only preparation necessary for this advanced sort of learning is literacy. When I insist that liberal study begins and ends with the best of texts, the so-called tradition, I might sound as if I thought the subject matter was of no account. But that is just what I do not mean-- it is one of the functions of the 16 inescapability of its falling short, when heard in the chord, engenders a tension that is rendered a 11 the more satisfying wr1en ans·wered by a chord that fills two conditions. The first condition is that the fundamental base of the second chord imply by potential division of the string every tone of the seventh chord, but Dot vice versa; that is, that the string of thte dominant tone and its division is only a part of the string of the tonic tone and its division. The second condition, and this is also the second quasi-assumption, is that the voice motion from the first to the second chord of the cadence be stepwise, as is natural for melody. Once. this has been granted, music has a principle in the theory of hC'lrr:wny by v1Hch four- o : even five-part pieces may be written, as every two successiv~ ~h~rds ~ilJ reflect either more or less strongly the paradigm c r-: J e·iF ':. . T.::1 fa(t a good deal of the interest that rnusic has for a listener stemR r ,.ci m C:' P "c:~:atiC> n s ." ':tt1t:"r confirmed or denied as a result of the cade[lce. •..._ 1 tf; f n·1\ r;- ~· he ca .::'. , , ::<· c•mf irms the argument of using the harmonic proportion as · \! i d '-.' 1h0 d ; ·, t ~ ·o i. c =- ~· der because in the cadence is every tone of the t- ::· : · c Er S <-' ' ·i P 011':., which can certainly be thought to be in1 plied. From , ,',/ E I , a s c<.1dc·n c('l indicates in the fundamental base of the second chord ~i-i ~ no t ion of key is born . In fact it is difficult to discuss key or ·1:-·' • r:: in the beginning of this paper, without also discussing , ;·1('.-n · · d - ;_ ~ i. 0 ::1 to what harmony has already clarified about music, also in : 11t.· <.t, T:"c'l :i cin of the cadence the notion of dynamic values is born, on ;·:,"C r:' i l fil" .' ·:t:3 J · ., , ;.ind ninor dissonances . . Tl-: ·i s ~ ·:-; <'<> t . .. , ;_ i1p theory of harmony has a significance in explaining even r~ (·:od y s itr· 0 yT.: . : r..: values for Zucket'kandl are a kind of explanation of 11 : :·, · .i y. MeJcdy Le·· · l':t is essentially different than harmony, with few clear , , ;:;ndards to su1d2 it :~ production. Rameau says, "giving definite rules for its H f '" is almost impossible, since good taste plays a greater part in this than A J'..hing e lsP. We shall leave to privileged geniuses the pleasure of c1i, · inguj sl-:ing themselves in this domain on which depends almost all the strength •> r sentiment." Up to this point an argument has been followed where as little as possible has bH'n assumed in an attempt to fulfill the stated principle: to mathematize the emoti ons and affections, the beings of the soul. However this is not to say that a lot has not been assumed. If music, or the study of it, is truly a mathematization of the beings of the soul, then it is not difficult to see why it ~K cn 11i E'S obr,cure, as first principles of the soul are understandably hard to ;»:. :·m t n •_, ,, Nc n is it difficult to exp1ain why music might be thought to be so Cl osely re 1ated to th soul. Boettius says, "there can be no doubt that the unity of cur body sn<l soul seems to be somehow determined by the same proportions that joir: togE>ther ;rnd unite the h.nmonious inflections of music . " In support of this hE' supplies several striking exan1ples of music's effect on the mood, actions, and well-being of listeners and one can easily augment the list with examp1es from personal experience • . OnE~ n:ight say that the point at which music becomes unexplainable by strict rati ona l method, therein lies the mystery of the soul's sympathy with it and consequently the mystery of the soul itself. H~re music seems to leave the quadrivium and become a thing; explainable only in tE·rms of itself. Music has now become something like metaphysics and something like psychology. Specifically, some of the respects in which music is unexplainable are 1) what is the special nature of harmonic division and why is it not continued beyond the interval of the third in the forruation of the diatonic scale? 2) what makes a cadence indicate the tonic note so strongly? Although it is by examination of the relationship between melody and harmony that some of these questions are answered, the answers remain, at best, likely stories. Furthermore, since one · " 1 i 19 �begins to see that melody and harmony, two different disciplines, both approach one single nature, the question is what is the nature that they approach? There are many different styles of music that are diatonic; there are types of music that are not diatonic also. Harmony and melody can be said to mirror images of the same thing. Even more fundamental, there are many different species of intervals and possible tunings for a scale. No tuning is mathematically perfect, yet each is equally valid in its own musical context. What it is that the ear hears the same in different fifths or in melody and harmony or even in diatonic and non-diatonic music alike? What other than that universally significant thing: music. There are many different kinds of earthly music, but obviously there can be only one Music, existing both in the soul and the world. Because of its significance and sympathy with the soul, it follows how it is not only a matter of speculation but also of morality, or as Rameau says of good taste. However this is now backing off from the discussion of music as a purely mathematical art, a member of the quadrivium. The solace from this confession of ignorance is that since music is by nature subject to investigation by methods that attain to knowledge, not merely speculation and wonder, for example mathematics, the soul is also, perhaps through nothing other than the study of music. Until it should become clearer how to formalize this study not directly through mathematics, but in a more definite manner though, it is wise to trust the opinions of those wise in the matters of the soul, i.e. the epitome of a man of distinction: Socrates, and his advice on music in Books III and IV of the Repub lie. Three Dreams to Waking I I listened with all my flesh Rigid in the small room: A shape in the window light, Composed of some intrusion of the moon, Who stands by the slanted squares Creeping on the still loom: Waits, musing beneath a veil. Last night she stood in the cold, Flinging her salt like seeds Upon the glassy ice. Her pearly fingers stroke the pearly trees. Inchoate mud that's bound, Binding roots, softens, bleeds -Ineffectually. II Dark. I hear clanking storms in distant rooms; Gaping wrenches weigh down my obscure hands; The world is inside-out -- this vaultless maze Of basement pipes swallows my whole round light Of spacious sky -- a dry pea dropped in night. The surge of nrud climbs heaving deep crawlways: All is now a blind, viscuous search for plans, Plumbing, breath-torn, this wilderness of tombs. III A shining map is spread upon my knees; The sun sets there as in a mythic lake That shifts and whispers in the golden wind -There I was found, crying beneath the trees, In their waving dance centering the skies. In their long shadows I push down roots, White, into the low ground's heart; my map's wings, Dazzling, impart their flight into my new eyes. Pierre Gagnier 21 20 11 �Martha's Conversion Zoe Churchville to her, just like that in a parking lot. God. Death. Faith. She had confronted and accepted her own death. She was doing it nowi She was doing something which almost no one was capable of doing--maybe once in a generation a person arises who--who is chosen. "Chosen," she whispered to herself. Martha looked around again at the sky and trees, and smiled. If you bad seen that smile, if you had seen her joyous, serene expression as she leaned against the car with her arms folded and gazed up at the sky, you would have thought that she was a very attractive woman, that she must have been a beautiful, happy girl. When Martha Northe was forty-one years old she was told that she had multiple sclerosis. She had a peculiar reaction to this news, a reaction that was surprising even to her. But there it was, there was no denying it: Martha was relieved. And the relief she felt was so unexpected, so liberating and, as it seemed to her, complete, that it produced a great change in Martha's character and way of life. The change began right in the doctor's office. Martha sat quietly looking into her lap while Dr. Emir finished his diagnosis and went on to describe the course which she could expect her illness to take. Martha strained to listen to him. but she could hardly make out one word from another. This made her very uneasy, even though she was not trying, at that point, to understand anything. No, all she wanted was to feel certain that she could control herself. A cold, rapturous sensation was coursing so violently through her body that she was afraid she might utter some sound. Her bands were jerking in her lap. She couldn ' t look at the doctor, couldn't even raise her head. She bit her lower lip to keep from smiling. "Now I know what is wrong with me." she repeated fervently to herself. "Are you a 11 right, Mrs. Nor the?" Dr. Emir asked gently. Martha glanced up at him and immediately dropped her eyes again. "He's so dark," ·she said to herself, not knowing what to think and conscious only of a terrible sense of embarrassment that she had to be with another person at this moment. "Yes," she said in a hollow voice. "Yes, I am." "Well, how do you feel about all this?" he asked, and Martha almost said "All what?" She looked at the wall opposite and cast about in her mind for some thought, any thought, which would bring her back to her senses. Doctors, she thought with an effort, aren't so bad. They can be compassionate. Suddenly she stood up and extended her hand to Dr. Emir. Her mouth was so twisted that he looked concerned. "We 11, doctor, thank you for everything," Martha said in a feeble voice. "I just--! just need some time to think things over." Dr. Emir looked more cheerfu 1. "Of course you do, my dear. These things•" he waved his hand a little," these things take time to accept." "Yes," Martha said, and added caustically to herself. "We'll see what - can I accept." Once outside, Martha shuddered involuntarily several times. She looked at the sky and at a few distant trees as she walked through the parking lot. "Nature," ahe thought, and stood stock still beside her car. An urgent need to articulate something to herself was holding her there . "What is it?" Martha asked. "What has happened?" She put her hands to her head. "Accept. To accept. That's it. Acceptance. But what--exactly--have I accepted?" Then it came to her, as coldly and vividly as that feeling which had overtaken her in Dr. Emir's office. She knew that she had understood something, faced something, but it had to have a name. Maybe even a few names. And they all came That curious feeling of relief lasted for more than a year. And it was not just a feeling. Its effect was so overpowering that some. might say it was.the cause of a gigantic breakdown or collapse of Martha 1 s will. Every once in a while Martha herself wondered whether this could be true. Later on. however, she came to realize that that year had been necessary for the development of her faith. Of course everything bad changed that day at Dr. Emir's. Her life had been divided in two and there was no going back. There could be no doubt about that. But she had still needed a block of time in order to understand what ~ad happened to her and to figure out or discern, as some say, what she was being called upon to do. "It takes time," Martha thought with satisfaction when that year was over, "and it takes patience to ~nder~tand the wil~ of God. You can't just leap into things. You have to wait. You have to 11e on your bed and be still.' Transformation takes time." So Martha spent a year doing very little and, for the first time in her life, she didn't worry about how much she did or what she did. The world was simply a harmless, pretty place which she felt that she understood. When she woke up.she would stand by her bedroom window and stare out at the backyard for a long time. The clump of birch trees, some little brown birds hopping about, the tool shed, Mrs. Adelle shaking her nasty green kitchen rug over Martha's azaleas; every object, every spectacle pleased Martha's senses. Nothing bothered her. Ma:tha realized this, of course, and she was positive it meant that she loved all things with a proper sense of detachment. If it was warm and rainy for days on end, she was indifferent. If she chanced to notice that her husband and children had grown very quiet, even sullen, and studiously avoided catching her eye, Martha would merely consider these facts for a moment, like the sight of a bird or a tree and, smiling to herself, reflect upon how the world had less and less of a claim on her with each passing day. Oddly enough, Martha almost never thought about her illnes~ or her ~eath during that first year (unless you were to count those sweet, tragic fantasies she used to have about growing pale and emaciated and always wearing black dresses). She would have admitted to this herself. "No," she would have said, "I do my best not to dwell on it. But I carry it with me everywhere." Nor did she think about her faith very much, although she would ask Clifford or the children about the gospel reading when they got back from Sunday services. She flipped through the Bible at times, but she knew that she was still too tired for any kind of study. Martha did not, however, permit her fatigue to get her down She made a consistent effort to keep her spirits up and her thought clear: • • • she bought a lot of expensive nightgowns, read hundreds of ladies I magazines, watched television, and ate to her heart's content. She felt herself to be detached enough for these few indulgences. When she did think, she would reconsider her whole life in the light of that critical moment when Dr. Emir had finally told her that there was indeed 22 23 �something to all of that twitching and dizziness. She had a disease which everyone knows is terrible, debilitating, and fatal. She was going to die. Not now, but eventually. Propped against half a dozen pillows, wearing a wrinkled blue satin bedjacket and eating chocolate after chocolate, Martha could spend hours musing over how her past life had been justified. She had suffered from twitches, dizziness, and a tendency to hyperventilate ever since she was nineteen. No one ever knew what it was, but everyone had his theory. It was the pressures of going to college, of getting a job, of having a family. · Or it was an oversensitivity to life, or some disposition she had to worry excessively. Martha herself had never really believed that it was just a bad case of nerves. For a while she had thought that she had a brain tumor, but then she had noticed that all of the symptoms went away after her engagement to Clifford. They had returned, however, with a frightening intensity soon after they had gotten married, and they had never gone away again until Dr . Emir's diagnosis. (Strange that those symptoms did go away then for a year or more. But she was sure that this could safely be attributed to a new phase of her illness.) Those had been awful years, Martha would think with a shudder. Just awful. Especially after she and Clifford had gotten married. She remembered it as one long day of pitiful, frantic attempts to be useful. She pictured herself as she had been for the last twenty years and almost every scene was of a small, anxious woman struggling to appear competent, self-assured, and full of purpose. And the struggle had gone on from morning until night. Why, the very way she used to jump out of bed in the morning, the way she would put on her make-up as quickly and as firmly as possible, the way she would bustle with the children or charge through the grocery store; everything that Martha could remember of her old life revealed one desperate attempt after another to prove that she was someb ody who could do something. And those projects and resolutions! The courses in French, wine-tasting, photography; the lists and vows! Martha often winced at these memories. Yes, it was gratifying to be able to recast her life-- and not just her life, but her opinion of herself--in a better, a truer light. But there was still an unpleasant, almost bitter edge to her memories. If only she had known then what she knew now! If only she could explain those years to everyone. Sometimes these thoughts got the better of Martha and she would involuntarily moan aloud, or kick the blanket off the bed. One day, however, it occurred to her that perhaps she had known all along what In a subconscious way, of course, but didn't subconscious was in store for her. things mean a lot? A stray recollection brought this idea to mind. For some reason, Martha t hought of how she bad a lwa ys had to lie down on t he so f a in t he ea r ly afternoons. That had been the time of day when she would feel so shattered that she no longer cared what happened to her. She would lie there for an hour or so, her arms folded across her chest, and try not to think or feel anything. But then she had to get up and do something before Joseph and Lizzie came home from school. She would always feel most desperate just before they walked in the house, and she would sit down to read or study in a state that was very close to hysteria. Sometimes she would. get the Bible, kneel down in the middle of the living room floor and, with her right hand on the Bible, she would swear that she was going to make something of her life. Have a purpose that would surprise everyone. But it had never worked. While she was still down on her knees her resolution would crumble into that old, anxious question: how could a person acquire a sense of purpose which would not go away? Martha went over this scene with great care. Everything fit together now. The sofa, the Bible, that terrible desire to have a purpose. For the first time in 24 .[ her life Martha was able to pity herself freely (or all of those wasted, tortured days. She had been sick. It was as simple as that. Why, Dr. Emir had even told · her that she might have had multiple sclerosis for a long time and not have known it, since she was young and probably quick to dismiss bodily disorders. That was it, that was it. She had been young, she thought, crying and eating a chocolate at the same time. She hadn't understood. Her fate, her vocation, it had been there all along. It was hard to believe. Not only was she facing something now which very few people had the courage to face, but she had been facing it for years in some mysterious, biological way. For a while this realization set Martha's mind completely at rest. But after that first year of her illness had gone by she became very uneasy. The signs were unmistakable. She lost interest in staring at things. She felt fat and restless. At night, she began to wonder what Clifford and the kids were doing downstairs, and she made frequent requests for cookies and juice. She was irritated to find that whenever Joseph or Lizzie came in with her tray (Clifford never came up until it was time to go to bed), they would answer her questions in an extremely morose and perfunctory way. "Where did you get that dress?" Martha would ask Lizzie. Lizzie w~s fourteen. "I bought it." "How I wish I could go shopping with you darling." Silence. Lizzie would actually stand there and say nothing. "Didn't that girl Claudia- -didn't her aunt have M.S.?" "I don't remember. I think I'll just take these dishes away for you, Mot her." Martha wonder~d. They were rude, out and out rude. "What was the matter?" Row could they not care about her at a time like this? How could she feel anxious again? Then, late one night, it came to her. Clifford walked into their bedroom looking down at his shoes, the carpet, his pants' leg--there was no telling. He undressed very methodically, hung up his clothes, and turned out the light without saying a word. Martha could tell that he was angry, but she didn't care. She was angry herself. And then all of a sudden, as suddenly as she had understood everything in Dr. Emir's parking let, Martha knew what it was. No one believed her! That was it! They didn't really believe that she was sick. The shock and pain of such a realization brought tears to her eyes. Then a profound sensation of tranquillity and warmth flooded through her. She was entering into a new level of acceptance. She would have to face . everything alone; she was going to die and no one believed it. For a moment it was all that Martha could do not to switch on the light and confront Clifford with this ugly truth. If only he knew that she knew. But no, she would wait. She would find some ot he r , una r guable way of showing t hem what was wrong with her and of --Martha tried to think of what she wanted to show them. "Not show them," she corrected herself. "I want to teach them what my illness means." The next morning Martha got 'up right after Clifford and the children left. First, she read a few Psalms. Then she made appointments to see Dr. Emir and another neurologist who had been recommended to her. She spent a long time getting dressed because almost none of her clothes fit. But at last she found something, an old blue maternity dress, and set off for the library. She spent t he whole da y por ing ove r medica l books and artic l es on multiple sc l eros i s. She took notes on everything and dutifully looked up all of the technical words in a med ica l dic t ionary . She even photocopied an article by some woman from Missouri who, she supposed, had already succumbed to M.s. "One of the most painfu 1 things about MS," the woman had written, "is that the symptoms are neither omnipresent nor easily distinguishable ." Martha was so happy and absorbed that she didn't even look at her watch until it was a fter six o'clock. lj 25 �"Oh, Lord," she thought, laughing a bit. "Now THIS is s good beginning. I can't very well convince them of the gravity of my situation if I get home after they do." When Martha walked into the dining room, Clifford smiled at her and stood up to · help her off with her coat. "You must be feeling better," he said softly. Martha looked at him and then at Lizzie and Joseph. "No. No, I don't. I need to sit down." Clifford went back to his seat. "The truth is--I feel much worse·." Martha said in a solemn, businesslike tone. "Lizzie. Joseph. Why don't you go upstairs? I want to have a talk with your father." The children darted out of the room as Martha slowly and painstakingly sat down at the opposite end of the table from Clifford . "Clifford, I want to dis cuss some very serious things with you." Clifford nodded. "I wish that you would look at me." He raised hie head and looked directly at her. Martha noticed, but only for an instant, how cold and blue his eyes were. And his face--his cheeks--were extremely flushed. Almost purple. "If the truth were known, Clifford, I am very, very ill. M.S. i.s a strange disease, you know. It takes time for it to do its work, so to speak. You see, it comes in waves. Sometimes the patient feels fine for long periods, that's called remission. Then, all of a sudden, the patient enters into a painful, degenerative period." Here Martha took a deep breath and looked pointedly at her husband. "I am now entering into one of those degenerative periods," she went on. "I'm sure I'll have times when I'll feel better, but right now I am a very sick woman. I don't know what to say to you, Clifford. This could go on for years." The expression in Clifford's eyes sharpened even more. "I don't want to be a burden to you--" · ''You are not a burden to me," he said harshly and looked down into his lap. Martha smiled at him. He is a good husband, she thought to herself. "The Lord," she said with an air of resignation, "The Lord works in mysterious w.ays. But we have to trust--" "What can I do for you?" Clifford interrupted in a low, restrained voice. "I- think we should install an elevator," Martha said promptly. Not an ELEVATOR elevator. Just one of those electric chairs that you attach to the bannister. I've been having trouble getting up and down the stairs. And I need one of those walkers. You know. Those silver walkers that old people use." There was a short silence. "Can we afford this, Clifford?" "Yes." "Well, in that case, I really think we need a live-in maid, too. Can we afford that? Good. A live-in maid would be a great help. A big weight off my shoulders." Clifford stood up and pushed in his chair. Martha was a little startled, but she managed to say, "Thank you, Cliff." He nodded and looked at her once more before leaving the room. She could never tell with him. His eyes had been perfectly blank just now. "Well," Martha thought as she limped over to the stairs, "at least he looked at me. Strange, though. He clearly doesn't want to think about God." 26 The electric chair was installed and Martha got not one but two walkers. The maid was finally hired after three full weeks of interviews and telephone calls to double check on recommendations. (Martha was amazed at how many of those women lied.) The maid's name was Jane. She was a nice, neat, respectful Scotswoman of fifty or more. She kept to herself, finished all of the cleaning early in the day, and never once objected to cooking dinner--even though she had not been hired to do so. As soon as she felt sure of Jane, Martha forgot about the household and settled down to her studies in earnest. She began to go out more, especially after she had mastered the art of inching along with her walker. Normally, she would spend a couple of hours each day in the library, pursuing her medical researches and writing a little diary of her illness. (Martha thought it might help someone else after everything was over for her. And she was determined that her family should have a record of what she wa s going through. They were so stiff when she tried to talk to them; she didn't want to push it. But they had to know the truth some day.) The remainder of her day was divided between visits to masseuses, chiropractors, health spas with whirlpool baths, snd neurologists. Everyone else acknowledged that Martha was seriously ill, and this had a softening, inspiring influence on her. She joined a weekly Bible class at her . local church, which she liked to think of as her "stronghold." Martha would always, somehow, manage to come in the room a little later than the others, and all of the ladies would beam at her as she inched in. After the class was over, someone would invariably press her hand and say, "You are one courageous woman, my dear," or: "I just want to te 11 you, Mre. No rt he, that you are an ex amp le, a rea 1 1 ight for the rest of us. Row many people just sit at home and do nothing and complain about how life has no meaning? It makes me so mad. if they could only see you, honey, getting up every day of your life and doing what you can, in spite of everything. It's true, you know. God helps those who help themselves." Martha particularly enjoyed it when she was asked to read aloud in class. She knew that every eye was on her; she even thought that some people shivered a little when she spoke. When she finished, she would smile timidly and stare into her lap for a long time. Martha's life went on like this for seven years. She would be the first to tell you that she had never been happier. In fact, she had a little speech worked up which she liked to deliver to anyone who asked about her illness. "I know my place in life," she would say. "The most important thing a person can do is to believe in God and to acknowledge his own mortality. Then everythin.g becomes different. Not just for you, but for everyone who meets you. Of cou r se this is also one of the hardest things to do--probably THE hardest." At this point, a faraway express ion would come into her eyes. "But I try," she would say slowly. "I do my best." During that time, Martha had resigned herself to the fact that her family did not want to understand her. Why, Clifford and the children were almost unrecognizable. She hardly knew them anymore. Of course, everyone said that Lizzie and Joseph were at the age when kids don't care about anything. And Clifford had always been a preoccupied person. But Martha knew that something had changed as a result of her illness. The kids were never home. Clifford slept in the spare room now, and, from what Martha could tell, he drank a lot. His face had grown quite purple from drinking. She would probably never know whether they believed in her illness, especially Clifford, but she had long ago decided that this was just another trial for her to bear. 27 �Eight and a half years after Martha's momentous visit witb Dr. Emir, her son Joseph was killed in a car accident. The maid told her. Clifford and Lizzie wouldn't come upstairs. it was raining heavily that night. Martha lay on the bed for a long while. Then she got up and went over to the window. She had never seen it so dark out. She could just barely make out the tool shed. What else was out there? Where was the moon? she wondered, and everywhere she looked, everything that occurred to her, was accompanied by the sound of Joseph, Joseph, Joseph. Her chest hurt. She stood by the window for more than an hour. Then she put on a bathrobe and walked, unaided, to the head of the stairs. Without thinking (it bad been over seven years), Martha sat down in her chair and rode down the stairs. When she walked into the living room she found Clifford alone, lying on the sofa with his arm bent over his face. He heard her footstep and stood up. "Clifford." Clifford's face was very flushed. He gave her a curious, crooked smile before he spoke. "You are not going to the funeral," he said. Martha stared at him. Later that night she realized that she had understood exactly what he had meant at that moment. "Oh not It's okay, Clifford, it's okay. I can manage it--I must--" "I don't ¢are what you can manage," he said, and went back to the sofa. "What on earth do you mean?" "What do I MEAN? What do I mean"? Oh, sweetheart. Do you think I would try to explain anything to you?" He jumped up from the sofa again. "I won't have you there I If YOU go, I won't go--" · Martha started to cry. Her chest hurt so much--her throat--she could hardly swallow. "He' a my son," she said hoarsely. ''Don't talk about him. I don't want to hear you mention his name. Don't come near me, Martha." "Clifford," she begged. Clifford started to pace around the living room. "Okay, okay. I' 11 te 11 yoY ' tbia much." . He stopped and looked at her. His eyes were narrowed ~~ bloodshot. "You," he said carefully, "have ruined everything." Martha was silent. "You've ruined everything," he repeated. "Clifford ., please--! HAVE been sick. I couldn't help it. I AM sick. I am really, really sick." "I don't care if you're sick or not," he said very quietly. Martha began to shake . She felt as though something, she didn't know what, were coming apart inside of her. "Clifford, I'm sorry. I've tried. I didn't know what I · was doing, I--" "And you are not brave!" he roared. "Do you hear that? You are NOT brave!" "What do you mean? Tell me what you mean! What made you think of that?" Martha was suddenly overcome with panic. Clifford smiled at her again, but bis mouth was trembling. "I know about you, Martha. And I know what you all do at his funeral. Jesus," he turned his bead away. Tears ran down his face and into his mouth. "Jesus God, you won't even let someone e lee die! You' 11 hog it. I--" he stopped and shook his head violently in an effort to control himself. "I don't know anything about God," he went on in a fiercely restrained voice, "but I know this much. 28 You haven't been anywhere near Him, Martha." "Is there one thing that made you say this? It is Joseph? I know, I know--" "That's it, Martha. I'm through talking to you. But you' re not going to his funera 1. Joey wouldn't have wanted it himse 1f." When Martha sank into a chair and cried, Clifford left the room. Martha sat there the whole night, crying and looking at the furniture. For the most part, she did not think about what her husband had said. She couldn't. She kept thinking of Joseph and of how black and frightening all of this rain was. What happened? she said over and over to herself. What has happened? She was un~ble to picture anything but herself going to the doctors, herself at a meeting, herself lying in bed. She couldn 1 t remember the last time that she had talked to Joseph. He was away so much. Why was he away so much? He was only twenty-one. Was that right? She was almost thirty years old when he was born. My son, she thought. My little son. How could a person live for fifty years without ever having acted purely, without ever having been free from the desire to be noticed? How could she have been so mistaken? What was the point of it--making so many terrible errors? Why had that been allowed to happen? Martha did not go to her son's funeral. She made no fuss about it. Lizzie told everyone that she was too ill to go. Martha sat at home during the service and tried to read some of the book of Psalms. ~ut she closed the Bible after only a few min.utes. She had no concentration. She couldn't think. Sonnet Ste ph en MtJrsf' o l d s ak , fad e d J i k e a ri o d sock , rock s And wait. s beside the open 1A ind ow. Breeze Enters softly, sliding through his locks Of white hair, bright thE:'re in thE.· sunlight, pleased To be so near. Isak knows t.ht• su11 Knows to go down now, k ri l~~·s t }1p moon wt.tits, st i l l, Patiently for the ictervention · (Wren in nest, o1d n1an e1t I(' St) of his will. Waits like a cellist waits and \Vatches (One stroke in a tlrnusand) for Hs cue, Like a suitor for his lady's time Old Isak waits; for now and then he catches Snatches of the harmony, a few Clear and perfect pieces of the rhyme. 29 �what I may yet do or think. I must connect myself by causes and purposes and fears to the rest of my life, or else I will be a mere point, without so much as location. I could not be going to or from one place or another by my own motion because I could not hold onto either my or1g1n or my destination. If I were a heavenly body which moved in a perfect circle perhaps then could I have a motion and a location, but only in respect to myself. I would always be the same, always be at my origin and my destination, but the circular self thus constituted surely bears little resemblance to a human being. Aristophanes relates that the original unsplit humans were the offspring of the sun, or the moon, and resembled their parents in being spherical. The comic playwright goes on to tell a tragic story: in their arrogance, these spherical beings became a threat to the gods and so were struck down. What might this mean? If I were the sort of indivisible point I described, truly an unconnected whole, I would need nothing and no one, for to be whole means to lack nothing. I could then have no relation to the rest of things or I would thereby have become a part of something larger. Thus these fragments, these whole beings, as selves without others, are a gap in the fabric of things. If there is a larger whole, they deny it, indeed, they may be said to refute it, since it will hardly be the true whole if there are things which do not belong to it. But this denial of any larger whole is hubris, the pride of tragedy. Oedipus the tyrant pretends to master his own destiny, destroys the man and possesses the woman to whom he owes his own being, and imagines he is a self-made man, who owes nothing to anyone. And so too, says Aristophanes, will we be struck down again if we forget that we are but parts, not wholes. We have lost any capacity or simple circular motion; the right reverence for the gods consists in recognizing that we cannot simply possess, or be at one with our origins or our destinations, that we are part of a larger whole and for that reason are set apart for a real unity with our selves. Love becomes an admission of neediness or partiality, or a submission to a larger order in which I am not sufficient unto myself. Two questions arise here: Why does Plato put this story in the mouth of a comic poet? And, why is the service of love recommended not only as a submission to and an admission of our own partiality but also as the best cure for that partiality? Later on I hope to say something about the first question, but right now I will try to speak to the second. What is the special connection of love with wholeness? Lovers ask one another that they hold nothing back, that they have no secrets from one another; both in Plato's time and in ours one sign of a true love is thought to be that the lovers spend the whole of their lives together. And sometime we hear of lovers' suicides and may imagine that the sense of mutual surrender and entire possession seemed so perfect to them for one moment that they could not bear the thought of ever disagreeing or even feeling the slightest holding-back in the other or themselves again; and that knowing such a ·fall to be inevitable if they went on living, they preserved their imagined wholeness by dying together before their own partiality and the thousand trivial details of living could begin to separate them. What is this wholeness, this possessing which is not content unless it is at the same time a being possessed? May it not be in the same relation to our ordinary ways of being as being at home among kin is to travelling among strangers? When I try to know myself I find most of the time that I am broken into pieces: I do not desire only one thing, I do not remember only one, or fear only one, Usually I do not even know which of the many pieces of myself is the most important at the moment. I find myself doing or thinking this or that and I may puzzle long over the many possible reasons, good or bad, before coming to a provisional conclusion, which I may later conclude is mistaken. The "I" that The Tears of Odysseus Cary Stickney I. INTRODUCTION About a month before I wrote this lecture I heard a Friday night lecture on the Hippocratic Oath, and I learned that the first thing sworn to in that Oath was reverence for one's teacher. In one sense that might seem to say very little to us here. We often proceed on the assumption that it is precisely by a kind of irreverence that we learn; I mean that readiness to question and cross-examine and perhaps to see refuted not only the serious opinions of our elders and betters, the authors, but even sometimes, when we are generous, our own cherished opinions and habits of thought. That is the irreverence of which Socrates was accused, and convicted. Nevertheless, I think our readiness to question is a way of searching for what is truly worthy of reverence, and it is not unusual to feel a reverence arising for the patience and affection and hope and generosity and insight of one's partners in that search. Without them one would surely give up too soon. I don't think it is a bad idea to call upon the divinities to witness and aid our resolution not to forget the depths of reverence and gratitude we owe to those with whom we have learned. Like other debts it is all too easy to forget, but when we do, we not only commit the crime of ingratitude against our teachers, but we make ourselves that much less able to be moved and taught by them or anyone else again. Perhaps the worst of ingratitude is not an insufficient attention to gifts already received, but rather the pretense that further gifts are neither needed nor desired. I expect this lecture will be a sufficient showing that further gifts are needed in my case; I want to say beforehand, in gratitude to all here who have helped me learn by their insight, affection, and patience, and especially to those whose patience had to be the longest, how much their further gifts are desired. II • PARTS Alm WHOLES I want to speak first about parts and wholes. In the Symposium Aristophanes tells a story of how all humans were once whole beings but have since become split. And now, he says, we must seek to approach our original nature in the union of love, and meanwhile beware lest we be split again. What is this split which love is said to heal? I think it is connected to being what we call a self, to having a memory and personality. In order to know myself at all, it is not enough merely to be aware of whatever one thing I happen to be doing or thinking at the moment. I must divide myself, that is, I must remember what I have already done and thought and anticipate Cary Stickney is currently a tutor on the Santa Fe campus. this lecture to the Annapolis comnrunity in the Fall, 1983. 30 He delivered !I 31 �does all this is like a wanderer among strangers. It doe~ not know precisely where it is, but can only take the next step of an indefinite journey. It must place a certain trust in the companions of the moment and may even come to know some of them much better, but, like Odysseus, it must always hold something of itself back; it must not forget the possibility of dangerous surprises. When Odysseus falls asleep, almost within sight of his own home, his crew members, the men he has fought next to and travelled with for four years, open the bag he has held back from them and their ship is instantly blown far away from Ithaca by the winds they set free. They violated the rule of travellers: do not demand from another whatever he prefers to hold back. The best sorts of hosts the stranger Odysseus meets in his wanderings do not even demand his name from him. They take him in and feed him before they so much as ask, and when he is unwilling to answer they do not press him. And so, too, must I behave to the different parts of myself: I do not know their origins or all their possible connections with one another and if I try to possess them utterly or to wrest from them by violence what they will not willingly give, I may find myself, like that bad host Polyphemus, made drunken, blinded and befooled, or like the shipmates of Odysseus, blown off course forever. And yet, I must give those parts a place in me or I will not know myself at all. Our first view · of Telemachus in the Odyssey is of a boy dre aming of his father returning to drive away the oppressive crowd of uninvited guests. Yet when Athena appears in the guise of yet another uninvited guest, he hurries to welcome her. Of course, he hopes to hear news of his father, and he is not altogether disappointed in that hope, but his immediate readiness to welcome a stranger--we are told he was indignant with himself that a guest should have to wait--this unpremeditated hospitality springs from an innate readiness to be changed, to become more than and different from the boy he is now. Every stranger welcomed may change the looks of the world, may reveal origins or destinations we had not dreamed of, which may yet become our own. This is what happens to Telemachus; he had dreamt only of his father returning to make things right, but his welcome of Athena leads to his own bold defiance of the suitors be fo r e t he evening ends, and to his own voyage forth from Ithaca a day later. He calls an assembly, commands a .crew of sailors and presents himself and his questions to Old Nestor on the beach of Pylos. He has never done any of these things before and he w ould not be doing them now without Athena's help. But he would not have Athena's help had he not welcomed her when she was a stranger at the gate . Beginning by making an opportunity for him to discover that he can still give willingly when requested what has come to be rudely demanded of him by others, Athena goes on to let him give gifts he didn't even know he had. Her first visit, in the guise of Mentes, ends with her refusa l of Te l emachus ' offer ·of a gift, " a treasure from me, such as guest-friends give to friends." She tells' him not to hold her back from her journey now, but to give her a very fine gift when she returns; her final words are that there will also be something fine for him, something worthy of exchange. She returns of course the very next day, following the assembly in which Telemachus's request for a ship has been refused. This time Athena is in the guise of nentor, and her gift is a swift ship with a good crew and her own presence among them. What is the very fine gift of Telemachus? It must be his active trust: he bas followed he r adv i ce and done wha t she said, and when it seemed to have led nowhere he has prayed for her help. These are gifts he could not have given the night before . She had left him then more confident and mindful of his fat her t han previously , but now he has begun to do things that have been his father's :· speaking in assembly, pl anning a voyage, relying on Athena. These things are thus both gifts t o him and from him, and that is as it · should be for they are part of hi s inherit ance. Wi t hout welcoming and trusting 32 the stranger he would not have begun to take po~session of his own birthrights. So, too, if we cannot make room . for the imperfectly known and the fragmentary in ourselves, we may never discover our inheritance, or even very much of the way the world looks. Of course trust is often violated, as when Odysseus' crew, impatient and resentful over what they imagine to be his withholding of a treasure from them, open the sack of winds. But perhaps Odysseus' shipmates were misled by the nearness of home, for there can be a place where one is not among strangers, and where a demand that nothing be held back is no violation, but a sign of love. Such a place is home, and it is a mark of how perilously close Odysseus knows he has come to losing his home forever that when he does at last return, he cannot permit himself, at first, with his son, his father, or his wife, to make that demand. The twenty years he has been gone may have made his family strangers or even enemies to him, and be no longer feels sure of his right to expect love from them. Athena must intervene and tell him it is time to reveal himself to his son, and Telemachus cannot at first believe the truth. He saw an old man in rags, a strange wanderer, and now he must try to see a well-dressed young nobleman, Odysseus as he must have looked sailing off to Troy when Telemachus was a baby. Both figures are Odysseus, yet how can they be one? How can there be anything left of the Odysseus who had scarcely begun to be a father when he went away for twenty years? Telemachus thinks that only the gods can accomplish such transformation. Odysseus tells him he is no god, but his own father, and weeps as he embraces him. When Telemachus still cannot believe it, he adds, first in tones of rebuke, that it is unseemly for Telemachus to be so astounded at the sight of his own father, and then says: "There certainly will not come hither yet another Odysseus, but I, just as I am here, am be." [bode _ggQ_ toiosde] He admits that Athena has indeed changed his appearance, but explains that it is easy for the gods to make humans appear glorious at one time and ignoble at another. Now, at last, Telemachus recognizes a man he has never seen before, throws his arms around him, and begins to weep, too. There is something truly miraculous about this scene, but it is not so much the sudden change in Odysseus' appearance as the sudden change of two strangers into father and son. Odysseus succeeds in making himself one, a kind of whole, and his son succeeds in seeing it, but how? It is very hard to unravel, but I think it has to do with the strength of the desire, the whole - heartedness with which they long to become father and son. Odysseus conceals nothing: as he names himself father he immediately adds, "on account of who, you suffer, groaning, many pains, bearing the violence of men." This is the plain truth; when Telemachus was asked in Book One if Odysseus were his father, he replied that he was not sure of that but that he did know his inheritance was trouble and t ears. Te l emachu s has no t given up hoping, but l ike anyone who has been fooled by hopes before, he fears deception. Now Odysseus makes a demand of Telemachus, namely, that he cease to marvel over much at his own father; the act of making the demand, of telling Telemachus that his behavior is unseemly, speaks as loudly as the words themselves. u.r am your father and I expect you to trust me and listen to me as someone you belong to, not as a marvelous stranger or a god." When he says that yet another Odysseus will not come and that he, as he is then and there, is that Odysseus who has suffered and wandered so much and taken twenty years to reach his native land again , he does not deny that much has happened to . change him; but he gathers all of that together and says it is one and the same with the man who right now most of all wants to have, demands to have, every right those twenty years might have destroyed, to be treated by Telemachus as a loved and loving father. Sometimes, very rarely, we are able to say all of what we mean at a given moment. Most of t he time a great deal more is left unsaid, even left inexplicit in thought, than 33 �we manage to say. But now and then we may feel we have sai~ everything we have to say for that moment. "I'm sorry," spoken through tears, may for an instant say everything I know about myself, everything I am. "Thank you" under certain circumstances may be said as though everything I am has gone into those words and poured forth, leaved not a single undissolved grain behind. "I love you" may sometimes still be such a phrase, in spite of all the ways it can be trivialized. I think that Odysseus speaks to Telemachus here in just the same way. As he finishes speaking, he sits down, as if indeed he has said his say and there can be not~ing to add. Had Telemachus hesitated after this, he would have made himself a stepson and his father a stepfather. But his acceptance is as total as his father's offer. He embraces him without another word and now both men are weeping. If this account has made any sense of the meeting of Odysseus and Telemachus then it may suggest something about the wholeness found in love. That wholeness seems to consist of a gathering-up of all the unpossessable parts of oneself in order to give them to another. The power of that desire to belong to another and for the other to belong to oneself, will not permit that anything be held back. There may be no secret reservations to whisper that at some later time it may suit me better not to belong entirely to the other, or for the other not to belong entirely to me. Each must perform a self-unification for real love to exist because one cannot offer oneself as a whole to what is only a part of someone else, and still feel that one entirely belongs, and one cannot accept such an offer with a part of oneself and still feel that one entirely possesses. So that the only real acceptance is a full giving in return, and the strength of desire enables a real possession of oneself only in the act of giving oneself away. That the strength of this desire is so great as to accomplish what seems nearly impossible may suggest that at the deepest level we so truly belong to one another. If Telemachus wanted no more than someone who would kill the suitors and leave him ·a large inheritance, then how could he accept and share Odysseus' tears? He would not be one whole person, but part of him would be intent on pleasing this useful relative, while another part looked forward to the gains to be had, while yet another part shrugged over the spilt milk of a twenty-year separation which made it impossible to feel close to this stranger. Instead, he too becomes a whole in bis acceptance of his father. Thus there seems to be a wholeness proper to a part. This kind of wholeness is so far from needing no one and nothing, that it can only exist in the powerful need to belong to another; the whole so constituted is not free and unconnected but is bound is a part -- that is, if its meaning is not exhausted in self-reference but requires a larger context, then we might say that insofar as its reference to the larger context is concealed or overlooked, it appears as a broken fragment, an accident. On the other hand, if it were possible to see all the connections of the part to the larger context of its whole, then the part would so to speak, have become the whole. But if we could only see far enough ' . beyond the part to recognize the possiblity of the larger whole, to begin to trust that the part might have its own rightful place, then one might be able to see what should be called the wholeness of the part. This sort of unity would not be perceived in the light of some perfectly complementary other half or of a background with a perfectly-defined blank spot awaiting a foreground figure to fit it, but rather in the light of a belief, perhaps an opinion, midway between ignorance and knowledge, that a fragment is never just an ace ident but a~ways a fragment of something larger. So, too, what we call whole-heartedness is most often a state of wanting or trying wholeheartedly for something one does not have. Nobody simply is whole-hearted, without reference to an~ g~al or activity. The heart is whole in its direction toward something outside itself. 34 ! ' We are bound together in wholeness because we are bound for some destination. Someone who is in no way bound, not even a~ a traveler is bound for a destination, or someone for whom every bond, like the origin and destination of a merely idle traveler, is ultimately a matter of indifference, that is to say, someone who accords to any possible bond no more that a minimal hospitality or a traveler's welcome, such a person will act not freely or spontaneously but randomly. Without the bonds that make up any sort of determinate self, such a person can never be helped to become more of himself or herself as Telemachus was helped by Athena. How can one learn from a stranger when one has no home in which to invite her, no fire by which to warm her or see her face? Telemachus is not so much of a boy or a dreamer as to forget he is in hie own home and that it is his part to greet the stranger, even if the place looks more like a rented banquet hall and the question of ownership grows daily more doubtful. However unlikely it may seem that the place will ever belong entirely to him, he knows he belongs to the place, and his dream had in fact been of a time when he could belong to it even more deeply, for the return of his father would make it more of a home than he has even known. It is just this very bond to a dreamed wholeness that gives him a place into which he may welcome Athena. In this way Telemachus already has the wholeness of a part, that is, he has a destinatione And, because he has a destination, it is possible for his journey to matter. For we all journey, but we must ask ourselves the question Nestor asks when Telemachus lands at Pylos: "Do you sail to get somewhere, or do you wander at random like pirates, who gamble their lives bringing trouble to others?" This is a question that seems especially pressing in the case of Odysseus, and, indeed, it is not always easy to tell the difference between him and a pirate. But love gives him, too, the unity of having a destination. Without the powerful desire to belong to another it is not possible to unite the myriad loose ends, contrary impulses, and separate parts of the self even briefly into one, for the wiliness of the wanderer dictates that some things must always be held back in case of unseen dangers. No arguments can compel utter trust as long as the possiblity of the unexpected is looming as large as it does in our minds even as in that of Odysseus most of the time. Unless some kind of love comes to our assistance we lead our lives as wanderers, always ready to lie to our companions, or, worse, to discover we have lied to ourselves about ourselves, taking every step with the reservation that we must "wait and see" how things seem to be turning out. Of course, it will turn out that we die, having made of ourselves meanwhile just what Telemachus feared Odysseus had become, someone "altogether without a fate among mortals" [apotmotatos], "invisible to all" [aistos], worse than dead in the eyes of anyone who might have felt connected to us. The freedom of the wanderer becomes the freedom of the ghost. .1 use the word "freedom" because I think we often console ourselves with the thought of our freedom when we succumb to the temptations to believe that all voyages are ultimately aimless. · The strongest temptation is contained in the fact of death. Our family and friends all die; those essential parts of our homes and our destinations become insubstantial phantoms, whom we can no longer embrace, as Odysseus discovers with his mother in hie voyage to the land of Death. In deed, at that moment Odysseus himself is little more than a shade as far as his wife, father, and son are concerned. He is as far away from home as he can be. And anyone who reflects that not only must the parts of his own home all become phantoms someday, but that he himself may do so at any moment, is very likely to feel that if he is ultimately a phantom he must already be one in some way even now, and that sense of belonging anywhere in the present is part of an illusion. But almost worse for us is when we are not despoiled of the people and places we love by death, which at least robs everyone impartially, but by 35 �betrayal or apparent desertion. A constantly repeated part cf the background of the Odyssey is the disastrous home-coming of Agamemnon, betrayed by his wife; and the continual . temptation to Penelope and Telemachus, never mentioned by them and only once hinted by Odysseus, must be to suspect that he does not return because he doesn't want to. The last temptation is contained in the passing of time. The closest embrace must soon end, the deepest understanding must yield to future misunderstanding, nothing seems to stay the same or remain trustworthy. This is what Odysseus and Telemachus struggle with at their meeting and what causes the lovers' leaps mentioned earlier. But most of us, most of the time, are neither leaping, nor embracing, nor even imagining we are on the way to an embrace. We commit suicide on a smaller scale by concluding that we live as we die, alone. Since, then, we are already essentially phantoms, our embraces must be illusions at bottom, too, and any order or beauty we may see, however impressive, must in the end be no more that a lovely lie told by a traveler with no destination. It is perhaps less painful, when one has been robbed, to decide that on the contrary one never owned anything in the first place; and we sweeten the bitter pill further by boasting that it takes great courage and clarity of vision t.c• see the real bleakness of things, and even more courage to enjoy the phantom's freedom that results. It does take courage to wander at random gambling one's life, but perhaps that only says that it takes courage to endure lovelessness and homelessness, not that it is good to do so. Maybe all of that courage is just the fear of being robbed, a brave mask over the rage and resentment with ~hich someone whose hopes have been disappointed swi::a rs never to hope for anything again. Still, one cannot cure such despair by mere reason. If one asks on whet grounds everything has been concluded to be i ! ·~ scry, this fear, or courage, or skepticism, will reply that no grounds can be ~ iven for the groundlessness of all things. It becomes a kind of faith, and again, if other sorts of faith are often suspected of being empty products of fear, surely we ought to wonder what this faith is a product of. The cure for this feeling of being a part without a whole must be love, if Diotima is right when she says that love binds the All together with itself, and if it is love that brings Odysseus back from Hades and lets him discover while he is there that the dead are more than phantoms, that if we give them the stuff of life they will speak truth to us. I want to propose an understanding of how tears and laughter may help us to feel the wholeness of a part; how they may help us to love, and to find our way home. III. TEAllS What makes us weep? Physical pain, fear, frustration, compassion, grief, loneliness, joy, the list is long; and yet weeping is for many a rather rare occurance in spite of their frequently feeling, to some degree at least, most ~f these. If their feelings most often partake in the ambiguity of sights seen on a voyage, where clouds may mean an island, or a storm, and the signs that mark the end of one trouble may spell the beginning of the next, then it is not surprising that to wait and see is more often our response than to weep. Mingled with our frustration may be the suspicion that our frustrated desir~ is not so important as it seems; mingled with our pain, the memory of worse pains or the determination never to yield or show weakness; mingled with our compassion may be fear or contempt. This ambiguity could be called suspicion or unwillingness to trust any one feeling, and a large dose of suspicion is necessary for travelers, both for those who do and even more for those who do not know where they are going. But suspicion alone will not help a traveler to the destination, if there 36 is one, or help find orie if it hasn't yet appear~d. Tears may help. When we first hear of Odysseus in the Odyssey, Athena is telling Zeus that in spite of the beguiling talk of Calypso, who keeps him on our island and seeks to make him forget Ithaca, Odysseus' desire to see even the hearth smoke of his own land is so great that he longs to die. The first news Telemachus gets of his father's condition is from Menelaus, who has heard from Proteus that Odysseus is weeping on an island. . The first we see of Odysseus' present is in Book Five, when Hermes descends to Calypso's isle to set him free. He does not find him within Calypso's cave, we are told, "but rather that one was crying, sitting on the beach just where he always did, tearing his spirit with tears and groans and pains." It is ~ot throu~h suspicion of Calypso's soft and cunning words, nor through one of his many wiles that Odysseus preserves himself as someone still able to go home . It is through his tears, through trusting his tears. It is hard to see how he could have retained any rational suspicions of the nymph after seven years. It is clear she means him no harm, and if it is adventuring he likes she is ready to make him immortal and thus equip him for an eternity of advent~res though obviously preferring that he stay home with her. But Odysseus does no~ even address the possibility of becoming immortal in his reply to her suggestion that he stay and live forever with her. Still less does he imply that it is the glory.of mortals t~ die and thus define their lives. For him it is a simple question of longing for home. Mortal or immortal, this island is not his home and Calypso is not bis wife. This may seem very simple but how does he in fact know these things? Why should he not have decided, wee;ing one day on the beach after four or five ears alone with C~lypso, that Calypso and the isle of Ogygia were not part of the way back to Penelope and Ithaka, but that Penelope and Ithaka had been part of the way to Calypso? There would certainly be no proving of th7 one or the other, and perhaps he ought to have ceased weeping and decided to wait and see. But that would mean that even if he had eventually returned to Penelope thereafter, she would have seemed to him merely another Calypso--perbaps a.home, perhaps a way station. Instead he sits on the beach "tearing his spirit with tears.and groans and pains." Tears that tear the spirit may seem hard to connect with wholeness, but I think it is through this very tearing that he r etains the possibility of becoming whole again. When he weeps he feels his loss~ be doesn't feel it, I think, ~ingled with hope, or mingled with despair, but Just .!t!. loss. He feels the pain of a part separated from its whole and he feels it entirely. That he does not avoid the place or the thoughts that give rise to this pain may signify hope, but it is a hope based on how deeply he knows and feels himself to belong to Penelope and Ithaka. Whether there are real gr~unds for hope or not, he can never succeed in forgetting a happiness without which he would rather die. This is what tears his soul. Of course he might if h7 can't forget it, at least try not to think about it, become more suspiciou~ of his own tears, as most of us do when someone or something we long for is temporarily or permanently out of our grasp. He does not as I say 1 explain himself to Calypso or to us, beyond the simple statement ~hat each day he longs for home and the day of his return. To Nausikaa in Phaiakia he adds a little more, in the form of a blessing upon her: "May the Gods give you all you long for in your heart: a husband and a home and ~ay ~hey send as companion to those blessings, a true kinship of spirit; fo; nothing 1s stronger or better than when husband and wife together hold their home and agree in their thoughts." The verbs in the phrases translated "hold their ~ome" and "agree in their thoughts," are neither singular nor plur~l. They are in the dual, a form used to describe things that are two but act as one: a pair of horses yoked at the same plow, a pair of eyes or ears. Perhaps the line 37 �1 should be translated: "Nothing is stronger or better than when husband and wife, acting as closely together as two hands, hold their home and share their thoughts." "But that," adds Odysseus with a kind of delicacy, "they themselves always know best ,"as if to say there is something about a home and marriage that cannot be explained, a trust and belonging that ought to be felt. This wily trickster and lying voyager has an extraordinary respect for trust. The next time Odysseus cries it is at the court of Arete and Alkinoos, Nausikaa's parents in Phaiaikia. He has been listening to the minstrel Demodokos sing, at this request, a song of the taking of Troy. And Odysseus let the bright molten tears run down his cheeks. As a wife cries, throwing herself upon her husband Who fell before his own city and people Trying to ward off the pitiless day from his home and children. Seeing him dying in gasps Giving herself to cover him she wails loud But those behind, beating her back and shoulders with spears Lead her off b.ound, to have toil and pain. Her cheeks wear away under most piteous grief So Odysseus wept piteous tears ••• These are different tears: Odysseus does not long to be back at the sack of Troy, nor does he mourn the death of his companions in &rms. He weeps as though he were one of the women of Troy whose husbands he helped to kill. Is it too much to suggest that only on the last night of his t en-year wanderings has he realized that what he helped destroy was not just an enen1y city, but somebody's home? He and his nob le comrades killed the husbands and made the wives and children into slaves, permanently homeless people, into!!.. andrapoda, to use a peculiarly bloodchilling, though not Homeric, Greek word for slaves; literally "things with men-feet," more loosely, "plunder that can walk." Are ten years of homelessness too much to have paid? And now he begins to tell the story of his wanderings, perhaps because only now does he understand how where he is coming from fits with where he is going. He learned in his tears. If his tears on Calypso's island could be called a reaching out of his present and into his hopes, then these tears on Phaiaikia might be called another kind of tearing, a tearing himself away from his past. He cannot return wholeheartedly to his home if a part of him is still at Troy. Troy was not easy to escape from in one piece. ; of t he peopl e \.'e tteet in the Odyssey who have been there, most are dead. They either died at Tr oy, like Achilles and Ajax, or on the journey home, like all of Odysseus's crew, or upon arrival home, like Agamemnon. Of those who are alive and back safe at home, we meet first Nestor, then Menelaus and Helen. lestor is on the beach, as if still at Troy, He and all the men of Pylos are offering a glorious hekatomb of black bulls to Poseidon, presumably in gratitude for their safe passage home. Telemachus states his business: that he has come seeking word of his fathe r, and Ne st or replies : "Ah frien d , when you remind me of the pain we sons of the Achaians bore in that land, relentless in ou r anger, sometimes in the ships on the misty sea , ranging a fter plunder , where Achilles excelled, sometimes around the gr eat town of Lord Pr iam ••• we fought." A student showed me that two things are especially striking in this beginning of Nestor's answer. The first is that we find ourselves transported not just back to Troy but back to the beginning of the Iliad. The words I have translated 38 as ''relentless in our ~nger" are menos aschetoi and they remind one of the anger of Achilles both in meaning and in sound, for menos--"spirit, force, anger" is not far from menis--"wrath, rage." Moreover, Nestor then mentions Achilles by name and speaks of his preeminence at the pillaging which kept the army supplied with food. But one of Achilles's own complaints in his rage at Agamemnon in Book One of the Iliad is that he does the fighting and Agememnon distributes the plunder, always reserving the lion's share for himself. In fact, one could say that the distribution, or in this case, the redistribution, of plunder is the occasion for the ruinous wrath of Achilles. The second striking thing is that Nestor never fulfills the expectations he raises with the third word of his reply, "when." "Q. phil 1 epei. •• " One wants to ask, "Yes, when he reminds you what then?" But .Nestor cannot come back to the present once he steps into th; p~s t. He goes on to te 11 who died there, Ajax, Achilles, Patrok los, Anti lochos, his own son, then pauses to tell Telemachus that even if they had five years he couldn't tell him the whole story of the suffering of the Achaians at Troy. Perhaps he means to convey how hard a time it was by a figure of speech. But if there is anything expressed in his choice of that particular figure of speech it may be that, ten years later, he still cannot separate himself enough from the experience to make it a tellable tale. He has not, it seems, finished saying farewell to the Trojan war, so as to put it behind him and view it whole. Instead one suspects that when he views his present through his memories of the past, of the sheer magnitude of the suffering and of the men who bore it and caused it at Troy, his present can only seem small and disappointing, even when as in this scene, he is presiding at a sacrifice of 81 black bulls conducted nine companies of 500 men each. But if this is only conjecture about Nestor, it is clearly true that Menelaus and Helen cannot put Troy behind them. Telemachus arrives at their palace on a wedding day; Menelaus's son is getting married, but, we are told, his son by a slave girl during the war, for after one daughter Helen has never born any more children since going to ·troy. When Telemachus remarks on the opulence and beauty of the palace, Menelaus replies that it all means nothing to him without the friends he l~st at Troy and thereafter. He revels in his tears, he says, for his lost companions, or stops weeping before the surfeit makes him shiver. Soon after this Helen drops an anodyne into everyone's wine to make them incapable of tear~ •. Perhaps tears :or what is irrecoverably lost~ worse than useless, and yet it ts strange to find Helen so ready to numb herself and her companions so long after the occasion of the pain. There seems to be no hope of a natural cessation of tears, and this is confirmed in the stories which Helen and her husband then recount. Hera seeks to assure him that her escape to Troy was an aberra tion and that she longed to return to him during most of the war while his . r~minds her of her attempt to trick the Greeks in the horse on the ' very last night of the war, and so save Troy. She is asking him to believe that she is now truly on his side again, that she · really loves him ,and he is replying that he can never forget that he got her back by force of arms and that he will thus always suspect her of being with him against her will. She is his prisoner in his mind, not his wife, and all the opium in Egypt will not erase ~hat unhappiness for them. Telemachus asks if it isn't time for everyone to be going off to rest, and I don't blame him. Menelaus and Helen remind me here almost of those people in the lowest circle of Dante's Hell, whose tears freeze in their eyes. Perhaps it is that chilling, deadening character of his tears which is b; signified by Menelaus's earlier remark that he must sometimes stop weeping before the surfeit makes him shiver. In any case, Odysseus's tears at the song of Demodokos are anything but cold; the literal translation of one of the verbs used is that he melted (teketo). He is not yet assured that be can rejoin his family 39 �------=~==- in the full sense of becoming part of it again, but thos~ tears disjoin him, dissolve him from Troy in a way that no one else in the book who has survived the war manages to get dissolved. By a grief as whole-hearted in its rejection of the consequences of the war as the grief of one who has utterly lost home and family, Odysseus is freed to make a whole-hearted attempt to embrace home and family. have already The next tears Odysseus weeps are with his son, in the scene I spoken of. This is how Bomer describes it: Telemachus embraced his noble father, weeping. A longing or tears of mourning arose in both and cries burst from both as keen and fluttering as those of the great taloned hawk whose children farmers take before they fly. The fledgling and the hawk are here restored to one another, yet they must mourn their separation. When Odysseus left for the war he cannot have wanted to believe he would not return in time to see his son growing up. Whatever had been foretold him he could not then have been comparable to the hawk who sees its nest robbed; and Telemachus was not ever aware that in one moment he had been deprived of his father's presence and care for twenty years. Re had only known, as the years wore on, that his father was not home .I.§!.• They have both ~ad twenty years to get used to this seperation, to be insensibly hollowed out by it day after day as drops of water hollow rocks. But the fullness o~ their restoratio~ to .each other lets that separation suddenly appear in all of its full, .harsh. immediacy, and a longing to mourn arises. Now that they truly ~ave it again, they.are pierced by what they had lost. An overly lite~al translation of on~ of the lines might read: "They cried loud and clear, something more fully flow7ng. than the great taloned . hawk cries ••• " and so forth. The alpha at the beginning of the word "adinotarov " "more fully flowing" is not the privative alpha, but what is called the inten~ive alpha, used to denote fullness or joinedness. It is the same A in our Latin-derived word "satisfaction," fullness, completeness; and the oldest meanings of the English word "sad," in Chaucer for example, are in fact "whole, fully ripe, constant, steadfast." It seems to me that the best sadness is indeed a wholeness that produces constancy, the wholeness of a part; the wholeness to be felt in tears. IV. LAUGHTER. Since J.. began with a speech attributed to Aristophanes, I should try to say a very little about laughter before I close. For, in spite of all the tears, or perhaps because of the kind of tears they are, the Odyssey is a comedy. A lecture on Dante by Mr. Littleton suggested that the soul of comedy had to do with being able to turn around and go back. According t~ that definition the Odyssey is preeminent among comedies; but also according to the words of Aristophanes in the play bis chorus describes as the one he'd worked ha~dest of all upon, The Clouds; Athens is said, by the chorus of Clouds, .to be a c:ty full of folly but whose very mistakes the gods tu:n to the better. T~e ~thenians are then urged to see that trusting Cleon is a mistake, and to put him in the st~cks that things may again turn out for the best. That mistakes may turn out r~ght 80 if only we recognize them is, I· think, a thread that runs through most. comedies• ,It is assumed that turning things to the better is what the gods are dispos~d to do for us if we will let them. This is comedy's opposition to tragedy, which assumes that the gods are disposed to let certain mistakes develop until they 40 crush us. Laughter is, then, a recognition of a forgiveable or reversible or non-fatal ~istake. To ~augh at something is to feel that there is a whole and a way that its parts fit together and that that laughable something does not fit as it pretends to! but that it also in no way threatens the whole. A German writer of the ea:ly ninetee~th century, Jean Paul Richter, speaks of comedy in the figure of a bird •. The. bird Merops, or as I am tempted to trans late, "eye for the part," he says, flies into heaven backwards, by looking back and laughing at all things earthly. The great hopefulness of most comedy must proceed from the insight that to laugh at a.pa:t is to affirm the whole. One need not see the whole as such to be a~are of ~t in the laugh that recognizes the absurdity of a part and at the same time cont~ins the possibility of reconciliation. Theodor Adorno, a contemporary German thinker, suggests tb~t laughing may be like naming in these two aspects . In on~ w~y to laugh at a thing and to call it a name can be a glorying in our own super10:1ty.and mastery over it, while, in another way, it is precisely by thus separa~ing it off and addressing it directly that we are able to let it have its o~ being, ~o freely accept it for what it is. On this understanding a certain ~i~d er wh~ s never bees. a chance to trust that even as there is some absurdity in everything, so there is some rightness, some truth, in everything, too. ~he ~tory of Odysseus, as Adorno points out, ends with a joke meant to produce this kind of ~aughter. Odysseus, as he learns in Hades, is to walk inland with an oar over bis shoulder until so~eone asks him what kind of a winnowing fan he's got 7h7re. At :hat spot he is to plant the oar upright in the ground and sacrifice to Poseidon. Then he may return home and live to a ripe old age, finall~ to die a gentle death that comes from the sea. You may not find the confusion of an o~r with a winnowing fan terribly funny, but I think Poseidon is expected to. He is the god who holds the whole middle realm with his brother :eus taking th: Heavens and his brother Hades the Underworld,' and he knows that JUSt as the shield of Achilles showed, Ocean circles everything and makes up most of the world. Nevertheless here is some clodhopper who's never heard of an ocea~, and doesn't ~now ~he great sea-farer Odysseus from a migrant farm laborer or h18 oar from a winnowing fan. Poseidon has to laugh at this ignoramus who h~s never tasted salt, and at Odysseus, the island-dweller and sailor like a f1sh.o~t of water,.tryi~g to explain what god it is he is honoring ~ith great sa~rifices an~ this winnowing fan. Like Adam Smith so deep in thought about things economic that he wallked off the end of a dock, these are people who don't know where they are. More than any sacrifice could, the laughter Odysseus calls forth fr~m Poseidon remind~ the ~od who each of them really is, and where they a~e. This laug~ter reconciles him to Odysseus, even disposes him especially kindly toward ~im, so that he will send him prosperity and a gentle deathh. May we, too, who live much of our lives no less ignorant of the whole to which we belong than the farmer, be granted such a reconciliation. 41 �Mathematics and the Concept of Force John Ritner We live in a world of motion, so that if we are to understand our world and ourselves, we must understand motion. Indeed, it seems that nothing can occur in this world we perceive without motion's being involved--yet how do we grasp such. a changing thing? Our minds seek something unchanging, sometbing we can say we know, so our question is, what is the unchanging or absolute part of motion, and how do we grasp it? As we shall see, the answer has vast implications for philosophy as well as physics and must lie in mathematics and the concept of force. The Ancients tended to make a distinction between theoretical and applied sciences. We need only read, say, the first line of Ptolemy's Almagest: "Those who have been true philosophers, Syrus, seem to me to have very wisely separated the theoretical part of philosophy from the practical." Ptolemy goes on to note that the practical part of philosophy involved constant repetition, while the theoretical involved progress onwards. He mentions Aristotle's division of the theoretical into "three immediate genera: the physical, the mathematical, and the theological." Of these three, we can have scientific knowledge only of the mathematical, and Ptolemy undertakes the investigation of the astronomical part of mathematics. His intention is not really to explain the physical movements of the planets, but to "save the appearances" and expound upon the theoretical mathematics of astronomy. His science is not meant to be applied; rather, he prefers to "indulge in meditation mostly for the exposition of many beautiful theorems and especially of those specifically called mathematics." When we open Euclid's Elements, we are struck by the very first definition: "A point is that which has no part;" and the Elements continues in a similar fashion to expound "pure" geometry--perhaps a measure of the earth, as its name implies, but in a purely theoretical way. In this way, mathematics was, with a few except ions, firmly separated from the other sciences, such as physics. For instance, Aristotle gives no truly mathematical account of this science, but merely an account from observation and meditation. Yet this account, due to its vast subsequent influence, is the necessary starting point f or an examination o f physics. "Physics" comes from the Greek word for nature, and Aristotle defines nature as "a source or cause of being moved and of being at rest in that to which it · belongs primarily." (Book II, 192b.22) The last clause, "in that to which it belongs primarily," is included in order to indicate that a man- made item like a bed, insofar as it is a bed, has no "innate impulse to change," but only insofar as it is wood. Thus, physics is the study of the causes of motion and rest. I t is the science immediately necessary to understand the world ar~und us, for nature obviously exists and things obviously move --t o try to prove these things would be absurd, as Aristotle points out. So we are set the task of studying the causes of motion and rest. To do so requires a great deal of explication about many things. For instance, as Aristotle states at the beginning of Book III, we must understand the necessary conditions of motion, among which are place, void, and time. We must also 42 consider that motion is continuous and that "the infinite" is necessary in some way to explain "continuous." The definition of motion is then given as "the fulfillment of what exists potentially, insofar as it exists potentially." (20lal0) It has been debated whether this definition is comprehensible but it does at least point out the central position of motion in the study of the world for it is in.motion that things ar: fully what they should be. For eight book~ the explanation~ go on about such things as the four causes, the infinite, place, space, tendencies of the four elements--all with scarcely a word about math:matics or an indication of how we practically deal with motion. We know not~ing . about the natural paths of motion or about the velocities bodies can achieve or about the work they can do or about their relationships to each other. At best we have a mediocre knowledge of nature. "My purpose is to set forth a very new science dealing with a very ancient subject," proclaims Galileo at the beginning of the "Third Day" of his Two New Sciences. There is, in nature, perhaps nothing older than motion, concerning which books written by philosophers are neither few nor small; nevertheless, I have discovered by experiment some properties of it which are worth knowing and which have not hitherto been either observed or demonstrated. Indeed, a new age is being introduced--Galileo has opened this "vast and most excellent science," and some of the greatest thinkers from his time on have exp~ored it in de~th. Galileo treats of uniform motion, naturally accelerated motion, and the motion of projectiles, and he proceeds using Euclid and other mathema.ticians--this is the revolution. He does not abstrusely define motion but proves how the elements of motion--time, velocity, and space--are related t~ one another. From Galileo's work, we know that with falling bodies the distances covered vary as the squares of the times and that projected bodies move in parabolas--and to prove these things, he uses the ancient mathematicians. Now we have a way of understanding the world, for we have applied the certainty of mathematics to the physical world. We are shown that this world has mathematical laws as clea: as Euclid's or Apollonius• ·mathematics--though certain unaccoun~ed -f or factors.will throw off the results of the application of these m~thematics t? the physical world. That is, for instance, the motion of a body will follow given laws except insofar as it is affected by air resistance or other such (and perhaps limitless) factors. Still, we are left with the hope that .we can mathematically take into account even these factors and explain them by fixed laws. Descartes clearly expresses this hope in the second part of the Discourse on Method, written shortly after Galileo's time: Those long chains of reasoning, so simple and easy, which enabled the geometricians to .reach the most difficult demonstrations had me wonder whether all things knowable to me might not fall into a ~imilar logical sequence. Descartes proceeds to combine "the best traits of geometrical analysis and algebra, ... and correct "the faults of the one by the other." As he shows in his Geometry, the key is to develop a formula which takes into account all the various factors and which can be solved algebraically. 43 �With Galileo and Descartes, the primacy of mathematics in the consideration of physical matters is established. To understand the.moving world around us, we must understand how it is mathematical. Once we understand this, it is claimed that we have knowledge as certain as that of, say, Euclid, and we may solve practical problems. We can predict with great accuracy, for instance, how nruch velocity a machine would require to move a certain body a certain distance. Thus, we must measure and quantify--distance, velocity, time all become numbers--and we must learn to relate these numbers. Given the establishment of mathematics in physics, we must seek out just what mathematics is dealing with--what are the factors, how are they related, and what is absolute in motion? Our first considerations of motion dealt with single objects moving uniformly or falling with uniform acceleration or being projected in a parabola. Given two of the three elements of velocity, time, and distance, we can find the third , without having to take into account any other factor. For instance, among heavy bodies, it is not true, as Aristotle maintains, that the heaviest falls most rapidly--mass makes no difference. All heavy bodies accelerate in the same way and achieve the same final velocity at the end of the same amount of time. Two . projectiles of different weight will form in the same parabola given the same velocities--assuming, as usual, ideal conditions. Yet we know from experience that it is generally much easier to send a lighter projectile farther than a heavier one, and that it is more painful to be hit by a larger projectile than by a smaller one . Something more goes into the mo tion of a heavier body, and that factor is dependent upon its mass in some way . The bes t starting point for the consideration of this new factor of mass is Huygen's The Motion .Q.f Colliding Bodies, for in this work is demonstrated the effect that perfectly hard, moving bodies have upon each other. Further, Leibniz' Essay on Dynamics can be brought to bear on Huygens' work with particular advantage, for Leibniz is searching for something absolute in motion and explores many of the ideas Huygens puts forth. Proposition 4 is the first proposition in Huygens ' treatise to deal mathematically with bodies which have different masses. It states that the relative speeds of the approaching bodies--whatever their masses are--are the same as the relative speeds of the departing bodies. That is, for example, if body "B" approaches with a velocity of 10 a larger body "A" at rest, then the two bodies will separate with velocities that together add up to 10. Leibniz points out this fact in his Essay on Dynamics, and notes that although it is a conservation, it is not something absolute in bodies, for the true :velocities and the absolute forces of the bodies can change in .innumerable ways. Thus, the conservation of relative speeds tells us very little--nothing abou the actual speeds of the mass of the body or the effect they would have on other bodies. The sixth proposition of Huygens points out a negative truth, namely, that contrary to Descartes' theory, the quantity of motion in two colliding bodies is not always conserved. What Huygens means by "quantity of motion" depends upon the velocity and size of the bodies, and Leibniz takes it as being the product of mass and velocity--what is now called momentum. This is on the surface a strange idea--for we have never before multiplied together two unlike things in order to obtain the definition of a third. It is true that nowadays we conceive of velocity as a ratio between distance and time--that is, velocity is equal to distance divided by time--but that is more directly comprehensible, for we truly think of a body covering a certain distance in a certain time. Besides, Galileo presents velocity as a measurable quantity in its own right, and it took later developments in calculus to completely define velocity as a derivative of 44 distance over time. Now, although we have a good idea of why mass and velocity should be considered togethe:, we can have no im~ge of momentum or of other "absolute" quantities soon to be discussed. T~e. notion of such quantities measurable only indirectly in terms o~ other.quantit7es has several important implications, some mathematical, ~ome philosophical. First of all, the dominance of mathematics has been secured ~nso~ar as the c?ncept--at least the precise concept--of a quantity like momentum 1s incomprehensible except mathernat~cal~y and s~ecifically quantitatively. Further, when we.say.that we ~re multiplying mass times velocity, we really mean that we are multiplying numerical quantities of mass and velocity. We have advanced beyond Euclidean ratios of like things to manipulations of the measurements of very unlike things. Only by thus turning to algebra and quantification, as Descartes does in his Geometry, can we make any solid advances in physics. The justification of such steps is precisely that they work (as shal~ be seen eve~ mor: clearly in the following discussions of force). That is, for 1~s~ance, bodies wit~ equal momenta can stop each other upon impact. Their velo~ities and m~sses in~ividually may vary widely, perhaps, but multiply each body s mass by its velocity, and if the results are equal, the two bodies can stop each other. In subsequent physics, the predominance of mathematics has grown to such an extent that, with the introduction of quantum mechanics, Schroedinger warns us against attempting to imagine what we are studying. Our knowledge of physics is strictly mathematical, for even though we may have started with images of particles or waves, we can achieve consistency only through abandoning such images and studying the mathematics. In the end, such paradoxes have indeed led to a thorough questioning of whether the mathematics is then meaningful at all-:-but. stil~, t~e only way to consistency in physical concepts and to · their application lies 1n mathematics. But to return to the seventeenth century, one of the philosophical ramifications of these new concepts involves the specific idea of absolute or living force that Leibniz developed, so discussion of it will be postponed. There are, however, two other philosophical ramifications of particular importance that I hold to have come directly from these new, unimaginable physi~al concepts an~ the mathematical expression of tbem. The first is the doctrine that . na~ure rn general may be trea.ted mathematically, and the second that concepts which exceed the imagination can validly be used and in fact must ~e u~ed,, th:oughou~ philosophy. Both Descartes and Spinoza develop the latter implication in makin~ a distinction between the highest type of knowledge--the purely conceptual, which exceeds the imagination--and sensual knowledge or as Spinoza ca~ls it, opinion. Now, granted that the theory of higher 'form~ of know~edge is sc~rc~ly ~e~, ~hat is important is that these advances in physics prov:de a certain Justification for Descartes and Spinoza; for them, the modern, physical concepts are a necessary .part of our understanding of the moving world around us. They are not abstractions, but workable concepts which suggest that there a:tually a:e some relationships--clearly understandable and fundamental to ~an--w~ich underlie the world we perceive and suggest something absolute about it. Finally, such a view of the world, with the Cartesian claim that all things knowable ~o man.can.be demonstrated mathematically, ultimately leads Spinoza to develop.h:s Ethics i~ a geometric fashion---an ethics which includes every topic we traditionally assign to philosophy as a whole. But to set aside the philosophical ramifications let us continue the search for something more truly absolute than momentum in, physics. Now, momentum is not conserved between colliding bodies J but the momentum in a given direction, or • quantity of progress, as Leibniz calls it, is conserved. Further, this 45 �conservation holds for all bodies, not just perfectly hard or Flastic on es. But it does not correspond to somet.hing, absolute in bodh•s, for ir1 g,f-'n~ · ral twc f·quaJ bodies with equal velodties which approach each other- gj •.,i <~ o q li-1r:f_ jty of progress of zero. Thus, we know nothing about the indiv i d ua J bocl'ps - -th ~ ~ cou1d be going any velocity an<l have any ruass. , Finally, Huygens prove$ in his elevenlb proposition t\-..:H ~.; 1· f.·~t :_, i! 1 qt .-:1 ntjt;/ which Leibniz calls C1bsolute or living force i2... cc1nsPrved . In H11 y2. H•3 ' ~ 1.vc\rds, "the sum of their [the bodie.s'] magnitudes su1t:ip~ier1 b;: tlw ~.qu ;1 r ei:. n !" th i: ·1-r respective velocities is equal bPfore and ~ftt-:1 tl ·e · o1Ji.s ·ion4'~ 'fr; tb< ric tat 1o r· of Leibniz, avv + byy = a:xx -+ bz2, wlif' rE- ''.:· '' i~. '; ~ · r::.·-1,:. s c1'. r· p(~; ' ·· ·· , " ~:. " 1 u; L1 11 -· . . - b ,.1 \ f . . . , . ' • t mass of body two, "v" is tbe velocity c· f . o u:; ;·~c' c E»(i -E' c: _,J \ ~ :,: ,r ;; f ! :J x 1 :-; velocity afterwards, and "y" is tht- vt-:loc ~t y 0f b ody tv1c• rwfcr '- c · · 1 _ t,i("fl ;-ind!''."." ; its velocity afterw<Hds. So Leibniz cloir.i s thc;t at ~ast \>'<' \ , i;,,~ .:,c; n1t>t~!ng absolute in motion, something independent o f directjon c·f iro\·c:rniont cind ncit relative to any othE·r factor. Tbi_s livirig, f(ITC•_ is H n:1:..:;~1.t r :,1 ~,l.· qt•<:n t -: ty , '" ' 1 comprehensible and unchangin~ tbi.ng---altlwugr. i t i;:; 1irni.l.t·(, tr ~,.-rf.:11> ·;2rc1 bodies and their perfectly elastic co11is ·Lrins. Leihni;·. not ~·s rL:l !. '. ~1 it:d ) , 111~ and suggests that although the 1ivint, fr,rcF- r:;a;· bP Jo:..t f .~, r : L~, ~-h -· 1:' \t , ;., absorbed by the small parts of thE" body imd is not ~cist f<·r th e un;,, ,_, ,- ,c. This is the place to pick up the postponed d) scussion c:7 ~ '. P.- t:,l'>-f.<'t philosophical ramifications that Leibniz draws from this concept 0f ~t s 0 ute force. Principally, he makes the clairr tk1t 1 ivinE:, force muq bf• co n ~; t'. n.·E'c'. h the universe as a whole--there in nev~r any more nr less of it--for 8 ~ r: 8 tt ~ r ho~ much bodi es collide, this living fc,ree remains und.angt>d. lier,c<', ld~ c;:ir: sp('8k 0f conservation of living force in the s~ne way ~s cons~rvation of matter-- it ~uuld be absurd to think of either changing, for how can something come from nothing? Yet this living force is nothing which is as :ir.:mediately imaginab~e <:;S ir.3ss or velocity. Why should tbe universe's basic cor.sE-rvCJtion be of sonietbing, found hy squaring the velocity and multiplying by the mass of bodies? It remains for Newton to seek out the natural mathematical reasons for the absolutes of physics--to rebuild the science from the ground up using an amazing system of definitions and axioms. He ignores (for the most part) thE> theological arguments which spring from physics and lead to the defpnse of th" r,;ost vi.-nying concepts of God, from Leibniz' teleology to Spinoza's idPntif:ication o f God with nature. Instead, Newton seeks to grasp the basic l aw s behind natural forces and to express them mathematically. Herice the title, the Mathematical !'rinciples of Natural Philosophy. He makes it cle<ir tlwt he is stic'l:ting to n1t1t't. t> n1::1t ;cs <n1d t l ) nat.u re 's own forces in his very pre face: 1 1 1 1! ,. • 1 1 I consider philosophy rather than 11rt and wTitf· nut c on<":err;jng e1Hn u Dl but natural powers, and consider chiefly those tlings wrich re1atc to gravity, levity, elastic force, the resistancE:· cf fluid's, ;.i ncl thE-" :H.0 forces, whether attractive or impulsive; and theref orE I 0ff~r t~is work as the mathematical pdncipJes of philosophy> for tbE' \vro1e burden of philosophy seems to consist in tt.is--from tbP pben or.1E'f1a c-f mot ior:s to investigate the forces of nature, and then from th ~sP forces t0 demonstrate the other phenomena • • • • Hence he is not dealing with the collisions of lard bodies, but with the forces that they naturally have between each other. Further, he i s not concprr.ed with the or1g1n of these fore.es. He designr. "only to g,ive a math e matical notion of these forces, without considering their physical causes and seats." Let us start by considering certain of his definitions. The second definition is of the impressed force "f" has a kinetic energy equ2l to the integration of force over distance, or, in other t~rrns, one half rov squared. Remember that similarly momentum is equal to force integrated over t1'me, th a t · 1~, to mass times accel~r~tion integr~ted over time, or simply mass timPs velocity. All of these quantities have their 1 articular uses, depending on the circumstances, and their con~- epts are fundanwntal to our understanding of the moving world around us. With subsequent advances in physics , Newton , Leibniz , and the- other p h y S J. C 1 S t _S · · . . o f t h e seventeenth and eighteenth centuries were shown to be dea1ing with Ji 't d cases; that is, New:-onian physics cannot explain physical ptienoniena iwhichmi extremely small or which move at A a veJocity approaching that of light r n d ee d , d ., t l . . • mo ~:T· q~an um. t 1 eory introduces ~ notrnn of uncertainty and probability into physics,.and this eugge~ts that strict cause and effect relationstips and even mathematical understandings of nature may be severely limited . Modern physics suggests that our Vf'ry mathematics may break down at the atoIT.'ic level; in other word~, our tool of mathematics may not conform so well to the atomic basis of the pb~~1cal world. But ~his consideration is beyond the scope of this paper. Besides, the fact remains that mathematics and our scientific understanding of th~ world cannot be> sep<ffate<l--when the old matbematicaJ theorems break down, we seek new onps c:r ~u~po~e t'- t <;; f·urt h er k nowledge is beyond human capabilities . 1:a Note tha~ FV~n a stat1st1cal method is mathematical. If there is a third ~tlternat1ve betwe~n mathematics and resignation, then I have not yet heard of 1 a~e 1 • In conclusi on, the search for something absolute in motion -- in pbysics--leads to the applir~tion of mathematics to nature and to the development of concepts--not2blv fc > rrc•---·whirh f'XIJress that which , t",_ b eyon <l \_ . . . . ., . uougu uum.an in: 8 &1 n .a t l on , l s ll b s o 1 u t e ~ IJ t h e ~ h y s i c a l wo r 1 d • Su ch d e v E lop men t s 1e ad not on 1 y to the greatest .advances 1n physics, but to applications of mathematics to ethics and to metap~ys1cal ~e1i:fs in the conservation of an absolute force (as well as to ~he pract1ca~ belief in the modern conservation of energy). What all of these no71ons . have in common is the be 1 ief in something stab le in and fund amen ta 1 to tb~s moving world of ours • . And even today, the advances in physics discussed in ~bis paper form the basis of our understanding of our changing world which includes, even, ourselves. I quote from the following editions and translations: Almagest, Ptolemy, from the Great Books edition, translated by R. Catesby Taliaferr o Elements. Euclid, from the Dover edition, translated by Sir Thomas L. Heath Physics , Aristotle, from the Random House edition, translated by R . P . Hardie and R. K. Gaye Two New Sciences, Galileo Galilei, from. the Carew and Alfonse de Salvio Discourse on Method, Rene Descartes . . translated by Laurence Lafleur' fron1 ed1t1on, tl1e Library of ~athe~1atical Pr~nciples cl_ Natural Philos.Q2.hy, Sir Isaac Un1vers1ty of California edition, translated by Andrew Motte, Cajori 1. "D" here and everywhere else 1n 11 t·\.11' s _ _ paper repres en t s d e lt a 49 46 Dover edition, translated by Henry the Liberal Arts Newton, from the revised by Florian �Galileo's Limits The Fort Adrien Heller In the fading heat of August when we were young and the trees were old the fort rose to save our once young season from falling into the hands of an old enemy. The walls were high and stayed the attacks from those who'd found out where we'd built her . They came in swarms like yellow-jack~ts . coming f r om the grass where the mackintosh . lay squashed and brown and smelling like a rotten apple should. In Autumn when every breeze felt like wind again we stuffed the cracks with leaves and the only light came through the door e So we sacrificed for warmth, the days for night, the green for gold. When the trees stood bare we could see the fort from at least a hundred yards and no one ever dare sneak in or out before we came and caught them there. We finally closed the door the day before Christmas I believe. She lay covered in white and watched Orion hunting night thro ugh . '' The proposition is carefully worded to naintain a proportion between somet hing call ed time and something called space. By putting his descriptions in Euc]idean terms Galileo is able to maintain the~ as descriptions. If, however, Galileo had employed Descartes' mathematirs in ~{s descriptions he would have been forced to state a definition of motion. He would have to have said precisely what motion is. For the equation he ~11ould have arrived at, V=D/T, is an identity, not a relationshjp or a prr1portioi:-1. We should have been able to ask - after night until we had forgotten bow dark and cold it must have been inside. It melted from the roof at first, trickling through the boards we had known to creak on occasional nights but never thought would ever leak. Galileo, "What is speed?" D /T is e s sent i a 11 y speed • And he would Vo i 1 a • " h2vc to1d us, "Speed is the number D/T. Seemingly, equations explaini~g what precisely a thing is run counter to Galileo's intentions. His intentions are stated in the beginning of the treatise: "I find many symptomata of motion t11at. are worth knowing." Stillman Drake translates "symptomata" as "esseutials.'r Th:is may bf' the right word with which to transJate "s:ymptomata." I c<ln't say with authority whether it is or isn't, as I am not familiar with anybody's thoughts about what "essentials" are, particularly Mr. Drake's. The word ''syrr.ploriau, ," howe.ver, can be translated, Oh how it leaked! The water dripped in fecund drops down the walls and onto the chair and table top left in the darkness from Winter. We tried to fix it and dry the dampness in the warm new breath of Spring; and bring in light through the door That had not opened since that Eve. Adrien Heller, '83, currently lives in Springfield, Illinois. A.J. 50 There is one aspect of a many-sidf~d <";alileo that I would like to s.cty sor.ietr.i rf, about. The subject is old, but the words are new. Tbe subject lS thP bet th:: GaliJeo uses Euclide8n magnitudes. There appears to b~ a differenc~ between the sort of magnitudes Euclid thought · about in his Elements and the sort of magnitudes most mathematicians hav~ use d sincr Descartes' particular geometry gained currency. Euclid and tbos~ n f bis school tl1ought of numbers only with reference to p<..;.rt icular magnitudes. ThE:y did not sciy, "Five -- voila!'', they said, "Five of what?" Thus they could not !:'ay that if C:E·rtair1 ratios \VE:re in tlw same propn·t'io n they wPre also equal~ they werE-> talking about. specifically different t.hfr1~,s , .C'! !Hl were interested in telling you what the relationship was, not what thP t}~n fP ~erP. Descartes, on t.he other hand, by telling y~u t~~t R certain proportion WHS actna11y ar, pq1 !l1ity, was telling you what th ..- ,., . t ! ~ ·-. :;s actually were: "Five [or J v.i hat eve r L " W:i t h : ": s c a r t e s t here i s no r P 1 n t fo Ml r .i I' , ' ) :-· l y id en t i t y • ' ( I d en t i t y of what? Who kno~s? Not important.) But reL~ti.ons Btf-' very important for G3ljle o. We see, first of all, that in the first proposition in the treatise on local motion, Galileo uses Euclid's definition of same proportion. Looking fort.her into his and the followins propositions, we see that Galileo is really not interested in explaining what motion is, or what speed is. He appears to be interested only in the relationships of what happens when motion occurs. He says, "If a moveable equably carried with the same speed passes througb two spaces, the times of motion will be to one another as the spaces pass ~ d Krivak 51 �" h according to Messrs. Liddell and Scott, as c ance, characteristics." Indeed, our word, "symptoms," expresses lty casua ' the same accidental notion of accident. that Galileo's "symptomata" are "accJ'.dents" and his treatise I suggest, t h en, • ] that are wo1·th knowing." This on local motion is about "accidents of [motio~ keeping with Galileo's own translation of "symptomata" seems muc h m~re in . . not insistance on the use of Euclidean proportions . Euclidean proportions do show the essentials of the magnitude which compose them: .They set fo~th ,a en whatever the magnitudes are. Similarly, Galileo s relationship betwe d d time are· they show us a propositions do not show us what spee , space, an . , relationship between.magnitud~s Galile~ ha~pened to p~rce1v~.his observations are Galileo was a cunning perceiver. His interpretations o . · . . . informative. But his interpretations are still his de~cr1pt1ons ~n the1~tmo~~ distinct formulation . One describes accidents. One ascribes essent1als:t. t · · d · 'b entials quite in oppos1 ion o only our modern age which wishes to es:r1 e ess ' the limits which Galileo imposed upon himself . Sonnet Stephen Morse The silent, sombre sentinel creeps high Above the mountain's purple battlement, And climbs up cloudy stairs across the sky While all around that milky ghost, the firmament Like some jeweled raven -- spreads its pitchy plumes, Encompassing eternity and man Within a cold and timeless, still stfll tomb, A tomb awaiting us since time began. But now that silver spectre slips below The world's edge, shunning, unlike we, The blinding star, with its deceitfo 1 glow; For that which light illumines soon shall flee Into the gaping dark which needs no light. And waits for me to step into the night. 52 Divided Between Tears and Smiles Merle Sokolik I. "this state of schemes and hopes and connivance" It is right for social man to find pain in solitude. Change, looked on as the loss of the familiar, always makes us~ little more alone. With his daughter's marriage and no~ Miss Taylor's, change has left Mr. Woodhouse sharply more and more a]one . For a mar1 "without activity of mind and body" th~ power of change is overwhelming. The acute solitude that it brings Mr. Woodhouse drives him into "hating change of Pvery kind." Emma also feels the solitude that the change of Miss Taylor's marriage and move brings. Hers is an intellectual solitude. In losing Miss Taylor, Emma loses "a friend and comp&nie:n such as few possessed, intelligent, well informed, useful, gentle, knowing all the ways of the family, interested in all its concerns and peculiarly interf'::;ted in herself." (I.1). Such a companion her father's age, constitution, ~nd habits could never offer. We, along with Austen, must wonder about Emrna: "How was she to bear the change?" (I.I). Emma finds some sat:isfaction in considering how ' she always wished for and promoted the match . She can even tell Mr. Knightley that she made the match . Not being blind, as her father is, to all change not fully determined, being far more resourceful than her father, and always having had rather too much her own way, Emma can take the responsibility for bringing about change herself . To bring about change, Emma must look on change differently from her father. She is able to see change not only as the loss of the familiar but also as the arrival of what is new. The novelty and promise of the match between Mr. Weston and Miss Taylor might make the change appear good, something to be wished f0r and worked for. This view of change gives Emma special adeptness in lessening for her father the harshness of beneficial or necessary changes. Only she could lead Mr. Woodhouse to accept the replacement of the familiar small-sized Pen~roke with the large, modern, circular dining table. Only she can lead him not to lament in excess Hart field's loss of Miss Taylor. This loss still remains a sorrow, though, to her father and to her. This loss might tell us that no adeptness in the face of change is strong enough to ward off the pain of an inevitable solitude. But Ernma hc:is a "disposition to think a little too well of herself," and she does not fully recoznji~e ber powerlessness. Sorro"W does come, but it is a "gentle sorrow • • • not Git al 1 in the shape of any disagreeable consciousness," (I .1). Encour~1~e d hy her success in managing Hart fie Id and her father and not cnnsc·io11s of ht·r ~'' eakness, Emma protects h~· rself from solitude not by spurning ch~ng~, HS ~er f a ther does, but by setting out to make changes herself. Only tr.is wjJl !:~atisf y her fascination and love for what is new. ("News! Oh yes, I a hrnys J ike M''t.'S ."--II .3) She therefore desires not only a new companion to fill the place of Miss Taylor but also someone to whom she can be useful. That is, Emrra nt>eds E .onennt? on whom she can practice change . She notices the artless Harriet Smith. She sets out to improve Harriet, detach her from her bad acquaintances and introduce her into good society, form her opinions and manners: 53 �"It would be an interesting and certainly a very kind undertaking, highly becoming her own situation in life, her leisure, and her powers," (I.3) .. "Emma never thinks of herself if she can do good to others." In telling this to Mr. Knightley, Mr. Woodhouse unknowingly lets on that her concerns of being useful to others are a constant distraction to solitude. Emma's attachment to Harriet will be even greater assurrance of not being alone than her companionship with Mrs. Weston. Emma could do nothing for Mrs. Weston, but she can be useful to Harriet. The power to have influence on the life of another intimately connects us to that person. Harriet's life wil bear the mark of Emma, and Emmci will never be alone. This is the -charm of meddling. But the charm is deceptive. Change always brings some loss along with its new gains. It is not a simple thing to arrange the life of someone else, and Ennna's first failure with Harriet, the mistake of Mr. Elton's behavior, brings her the loss of some comfort. Emma is a"1are to some. extent of her wrong conduct and feels regret. But the discomfort is of the sort that is much alleviated upon waking to a new morning. This failure in meddling does not reveal all the deception of the charm. Although Emma swears off matchmaking, thinking it "adventuring too far; assuming too much making light of what is serious--a trick of what ought to be simple,'' ' . she still applauds her having persuaded Harriet not to accept Robert Martin. She then comically goes on to consider a match between Harriet and William Cox. Ennna's blunder is not severe enough for its effect to be either radi ~ al or lasting. This blunder, which comes to light at the end of the first volume, is a tf-!ll i ng foil to the blunder that comes to light in the last part of the thi r d volume --Emma's mistake of the true object. of Harriet's attachment. Emma's meddling has failed miserably now. She has endeavored to give Harriett notions of self-consequence , and Harrriet has dared to fall in love with the man Emn~ has unwittingly loved for many years. This mistake promises a loss much greater than a little discomfort: Till now that she was threatened with its loss, Emma had never kno~n how much of her happiness depended on being first with Mr. Knightley, first in interest and affection. (III.12) This loss--change--will leave Emma all alone: The prospect before her now was threatening to a degree that could not be entirely dispelled--that might not be even partially brightened. If all took place that might take place among the circle of her friends, Hartfield must be comparatively deserted; and she left to cheer her father with the spirits only of ruined happiness. (III.12) comes in part wi t h his hybrid r aising : "Ther~ is something s o shocking in a :hild ' s being ta~en away from his parents and natural home," (I . 11). Also the illness of ~rank . s aunt M s. Churchill is offered up as what stood in the way of r Fran~'~ paying his.natu r al duty to his father and his bride . Mrs . Churchill's detaining and calling back of her nephew riddles the course of events after Frank's introduction - -most drastically with the postponement of the ball. There are als~ such unn~tural things as Emma's supposed growing neglect of her famil for s~c1ety, da~cing, and a ball where a girl like Harriet can fix her sight on man like Mr. Knightley . Novelty, confusion, and disruption of nature make the middle of the novel a maze of intrigue . Changes in the outer occurrences are now quick and close. Far from disheartening Emma , as they may her father, they hold a great fascination for ~er. What harm ~s there in ~etting in to the romantic image of Frank saving Harriet fr~m the gypsies. a~d setting up a "scheme , a mere passive scheme?" Why not let in to the deceiving charm of meddling, under which, though, lies great sorrow? ! II• II jusqu'~ ce qu'il comprenne qu'il est un monstre incomprehensible." --Pascal Besides th: indulgence to Emma's inclination to look on change as gain of the new, the arrival of Frank Churchill also marks the beginning of self-interset for Emma. Emma always.believed--even before meeting Frank--that if she~ to marry, no .one would su:t her rn?re t~an he. During his first visit to Highbury, Emma begins :o wonder if she might Just not be in love with him. Upon consideration s?e decid~s ~ot, but after he leaves and she hears of his expected return, a little agitation sends her to further reflection. For the first time Emma who never thinks of herself if she can do good to others must think of herseif and sort out her feelings. ' . A person who is drawn into making change, forming even just a passive scheme in order .to. combat solitude will find himself bringing on situations disruptiv~ to. t7anquillity: "She felt. as if the spring would not pass without bringing a crisis, an event, ~ some~h~ng, t? alte: her present composed and tranquil state," (III.~). Once this crisis arises its proper resolution seems to demand self-i~terest. A crisis brought on by defying solitude-bearing change face to face will leave us alone--perhaps forever. The only way out of loneliness will be to use our own resources . (Recall the irony of Mrs. Elton: "Blessed with so many. resources within myself, the world was nothing to me."--II.15) This means looking at ourselves, having a certain self-interest. Those who sneakily escape chan~e encounter no crises. But then no one would ever call Mr. Woodhouse heroic. The hero's resolution of a crisis begins in the appreciation of the crisis, the realizaiton of his own wretchedness having brought on the crisis: What makes this blunder so much more severe than the other is what has happened in between the two. Frank Churchill has entered upon the scene, and with him novelty~ confusion, and unnaturalness come to play their rol:• The n~velt~ com~s with Frank's being new to Highbury, arriving at unexpected times, having his hair cut in London. The confusion comes with his secret engagement to Jane Fairfax, which plays on both Emma's delusive fascination that Jane has some attachment to Mr. Dixon and the to-be-expected pairing or Emma and Frank. The unnaturalness 54 How to understand the deceptions she had been thus practising on herself and living under! The blunders, the blindness of her own head and heart! She sat still, she walked about, she tried her own room, she tried the shrubbery--in every place, every posture, she perceived that sh7 had acted mos~ w:akly; that she had been imposed upon by others in a most mortifying degree; that she had been imposing on 55 �herself in a degree yet more mortifying; that she was wretched and should probably find this day but the beginning of wretchedness . To understand , thoroughly understand, her own heart , was the first endeavour. (III . 11) Emma has fought with change and has been violently hurt . Unbearable confusion takes hold of her thoughts. The inescapable feeling of her past weakness , the pain of probably long - continued wretchedness, marks the first clear ing of her confusion . Ennna cannot accept confusion; the situation must be made sense of. But the realization of wretchedness cannot be much more comfortable to her than unsettling confusion . . Emma cannot settle with wretchedness . She must ask why she has come to be wre t ched . She begins to answer by looking at her past vanity: With insufferable vanity had she believed herself in the secret of everybody's feelings, with unpardonable arrogance proposed to arrange everybody's destiny . She was proved to have been universally mistaken, and she had not quite done nothing--for she had done mischief. (III.II) To account for her present wretchedness Emma turns to her past assurance of her greatness. Emma dared to work change, to arrange destinies, and her presumption carries the shock of wretchedness. Not quite doing nothing, taking desti~ies in hand, is the work of heroes, though. A hero's story, at least a comic hero's story, cannot end in wretchedness~ Once aware of her weakness Emma longs for self - contentment. The hero ca~ envy the boring old man, for that old man may be content with himself and at peace. Mr. Woodhouse, ever concerned with the preserving of good health of his body and the bodies of those he loves, is the image of self-contentment. But a boring man can only be a valetudinarian of the body; he is unaware that there is a health for the soul. This is the health that Emma's wretchedness sets her out to procure. She may in fact grow to give us along with Mrs. Weston "the idea of being the complete picture of grown - up health," (I .5, emphasis added) . The hero's sickness calls for the curing of heroic faculties . For Emma these faculties are her understanding and her fancy . Emma is always admired for her clevern e ss , quickness of mind, and observation . Mr . Knightley repeatedly appeals to he r understanding . She excels by far her sister's power of observing . She can quickly form an insightful judgment of character as we can see in her cons id erat ion of M . El t on . Emma can obse r ve and read the appearances well . rs --That is until her second strength, "that very dear part of Emma, her fancy," intrudes. Emma can imagine herself the future Mrs. Frank Churchill long before their meeting. She can imagine Harriet the child of a gentleman in the face of Mr. Knightley's well-founded suggestions otherwise. In her drawing she :an portray Harriet a bit more becoming than she truly is. Emma has the charming talent of being able to manipulate and fabricate appearances. She can see what there is to be seen and make seen what is not. In failing to notice her love for Mr. Knightley and fancying herself in love with Frank Churchill there is a conflict of understanding and fancy. So there seems to be, at leas~ to Harriet, in Eunna's attaching Harriet to Frank instead ~f Mr. Knightley in her mind. The occasion, therefore, of Emma's blunder is conflict of understanding and fancy. The first response upon recognizing the blunder is still a confusion of these faculties. Emma tries to be detached and follow her understanding in considering the possibility of a match between 56 Harriet and Mr. Knightley. Her fancy confusedly comes to the understanding. The result is the mistaken regret that the match possible. aid of is all her too Somehow, for Emma's health of soul, understanding and fancy must be reconciled. Mr. Knight ley is right that Emma wi 11 never submit to "anything requiring industry and patience and a subjection of the fancy to the understanding." (I.5) True, such a subjection would bring less pain, but it cannot be expected from .a hero. A hero needs keen understanding. He must be able to read the :hanging appe~rances well and recognize heightened solitude. But he cannot let his understanding overcome his power to look on changes as gain of the new.and to con~emplate future change. He must not just accept what is brought to light but bring to Ught ("fancy" .: phaino) things himself Emma~s. l?nging for self-contentment can only be satisfied by a true reconc1~1at~on o~ her unde~sta~ding and f~ncy. But what is a strong enough guide for th~1r direction? Emma s first lessening of the pain of her wretchedness is found in her resolution to come to know herself: the only ~ource whence ~nything like consolation or composure could be draMl was in the resolution of her own better conduct and the hop~ that however ~nferior in spirit and gaiety might be the ;ollowing and ever~ future winter of her life to the past, it would yet find her mor~ rational, more acquainted with herself and leave her less to reg re t \1111 en i t we re gone • (I II • I 2 ) ' Emm13 desires to grow acquainted with herself, think of herself before doing good to others. Emma promises to come to act with the dignity found in being ever mindful of her self-respect. S?e has turne~ to ~eek knowledge of herself, and the conclusion of the first series of ~eflections is.that she never really cared for Frank Churchill at all. Her af~ection for Mr. Knightley, the only sensation revealed to her, is the only s7nsation that does not make her sorrowfully indignant and ashamed. Emma d1~covers a love for truth, a willingness to submit to the influence of Kn~ghtley . I~ only she had a?cepted Mr. Knightley's penetrating suggestion t~:~ Fr~nk Churchill loved Jane Fairfax, she might have escaped her tragic mistake. If .only she had followed Mr. Knightley's known wishes in paying attention to Miss Fairfax, "she must in all probability, have been spared from every pain which pressed on her now" (III.12). It is painstaking and bitter to try to make sensf' of confusion in the heart. But t~e sense . of progress an·d honesty are great rewards for the melancholy of scrutiny: The weather continued much the same all the following morning; and the same loneliness and the same melancholy seemed to reign at Hartfield; but in the afternoon it cleared; the wind changed into a softer qua:ter; :he clouds were carried off; the sun appeared; it was With all the eagerness which such a transition gives, summer again. Emma .r:solve~ to be out-of-doors as soon as possible. Never had the ex~ui~1te sight, smell, sensation of nature--tranquil, warm, and brilliant after a storm--been more attractive to her. She longed for the serenity they might gradually introduce • • • • (III.13) Change has brought solitude to Emma. 57 But as she seeks t o gain com f ort b y · . �. s begins to pass. Mr. Perry comes to .ng to know herself t h e l one 1 ines . h . h" turni · h h. climate of health, wh1c is 1s .Hartfield after dinner and brings wit 1m a professional concern. when her truthfulness to herself leads her Emma's health of soul is only se~~:e in terms of a plot, seems to be only to a broader love of truth. But Mr.1sinightley. When Mr. Knightley enters ~he possible with an attachment to Re asks her to bear with lk "th Emma he has a truth to revea 1 • shrubbery to wa wi '. h. . t. ism Only upon looking closely at it as well as she has borne with a 11 is cr1 ic • M Knightley's love what appears about her and what lies within her own he~r~~-~:; understanding and for her and her love for him--will Emma be healthy. do fancy must somehow marry truth--which all knights defen • . nc1tice truth · h · h · It demands keen understanding to A marriage to trut is eroic • h t .· ~ criticism that that appears. But it also demands keen fancy to endure t e ryino truth presents: You hear nothing but truth from me. you, and you have borne it as no other borne it. (III .13) I have blamed you and lectured woman in Engl:rnd would have account ed to her ability to imagi.ne Emma's endurance of such trials is to be nd to design destinies, including imagine and work change a · d t and work change. To of tbe fancy. Emma's understanding makes ber suite o our own, is the work that allows her to bear it for the good and truth. But it is her fancy appreciate it. Is anything too wondrous for the Lord?" III. "Why did Sarah laugh • • • --Genesis reconciled with her understanding. by the help of an When Emma's fancy was not . . of h could fail miserably. Mr. attachment to truth, her proJection c ange t der h brings a momentous change to Emma. Emma m~s won ·. Knightley's proposal to er k how to hope for could come so pleasingly true. how a change she did not even now Emma was almost ready to sink The dread of being awakened from most prominent feeling. (III.13) under the agitation of this moment. the happiest dream was perhaps the · K · htley's fantastic hope is true. Emma's happy dream is reall, andl_Mr.f nigy and understanding towards truth and to • ty of sou to a ign anc . A. h It tak es ma t ur l K . htley has patiently guided Emma • .lj_s er have a truthful hop:· The mature Mr. n1gnd ainted pictures of a more cautious, educator he has manipulated what he ~:~~la en~eavor has gone into making his hope caring Enrrna that come true. Not a 1 e that Emma will marry him come true. But the outcome does not rest wholly on his work: wholly unsuspicious of his own influence. He Re had in fact been · 't H had come followed her into the shrubbery with no idea of trying i • ~ . h how she bore Frank Churchill's engagement wi~ no in anxiety to see ·f h 11 ed him an selfish view, no view at all but of endeavouring, i s e a ow k of to Soot he or to counsel her. The rest had been the wor opening, 58 the moment, the immediate effect of what he· heard on his feelings. The delightful assurance of her total indifference towards Frank Churchill, of her having a heart completely disengaged from him, had given birth to the hope that in time he might gain her affection himself; but it had been no present hope--he had only, in the momentary conquest of eagerness over judgement, aspired to be told that she did not forbid his attempt to attach her. The superior hopes which gradually opened were so much the more enchanting. (III.13) Mr. Knightley's lack of suspicion of his influence, the absence of selfish view, the spontaneity, the conquest of eagerness over judgment, and the enchantment of hope all speak of grace. Mr. Knightley knows himself, has become champion of truth, and has ordered his soul with dignity. Re has tried to influence the appearances about him for the good. What is beyond his power but not beyond his good hope may be granted him by grace. The endeavor of a mature soul can bring about many beneficial changes. But it is unlikely that one person's good work to arrange the life of another will be fully effective. Mr. Knightley's hopes of Emma's accepting a proposal of marriage from him, although enchanting, always remain superior. But when the hopes come true, we must ask "why?" What sense does the ans"'er "grace" make for a book whose greatest villains are the vicar and his wife and whose heroine rejoices over not being able to get to church on Christmas or the next Sunday? How can grace act where "devotion might be interrupted, [but] curiosity could not be satisfied by a bride in a pew," (II .14). The story of chance may seem odd and the story of good fortune might seem nice. But both of these in contrast to the story of grace seem rather dismal. I doubt that these stories hold any lasting interest for us or can continue to make us laugh. Everything unexpected may be funny, but good comedy goes beyond the funny unexpected. It seems to allow room to hope for the unexpected, rising above the story of chance in this way. It also seems to hold interest by telling of growth, rising above the static story of good fortune in this way, since good fortune requires no special maturity to notice or receive. Jane Austen secures these two claims for her comedy with great artfulness. She never lets us forget that this world is contrived, directed, and orderly: She exercises judicious balance placing one blunder in the beginning, one at the end; one instance of penetration for Mr. John Knightley in the course of the first blunder, one for his brother in the course of the second. Her ordering is almost intrusive with the three marriages at the end. And then there are such distinct resemblances . Among the marriages: the John Knightleys', Eunna's and Mr. Knightley's, Frank Churchill's and Jane Fairfax's, and Harriet's and Robert Martin's. Among the characters: Almost everyone can bear some telling resemblance to Emma--Jane Fairfax, Miss Bates, Frank Churchill, Mr. Woodhouse, Isabella, Mrs. Weston, and Mr. Knightley. Jane Fairfax resembles Mr. Knightley in character and Mrs. Weston and Harriet in situation. Mr. Woodhouse is as engagingly self-centered as Mr. Weston and as much a homebody as Mr. John Knightley. This is a world where events bear the clear mark of manipulation. From the beginning we have an assurance, from Mrs . Weston, that all is destined to turn out for the good in the end: " • • • [Emma] will never lead anyone really wrong; she will make no lasting blunder; where Emma errs once, she is in the right a hundred times," (I.5). The novel seems to bar all chance and invite all hope. The balances and resemblances also offer foils against which we can take notice of Emma's growth. When Emma believes everything is going well with Harriet and Mr. Elton, she might think Hartfield to be a pocket of good fortune: 59 �There does seem to be a something in the air of Hartfield which gives love exactly the right direction and sends it into the very channel where it ought to flow. The course of true love never did run smooth-- A Hartfield edition passage. of Shakespeare would have a long note on that The course of love does not run smooth, at least for a while. When we notice Ennna's growth out of failure, we notice something hope for good fortune never could excite. Hope in grace, though, might. To notice grace, though not necessarily to receive it, takes a niature soul. We must be able to see that things might not always turn out for the good. We therefore get to see the two blunders, and Emma gets to be bothered by a check to all her great happiness. Harriet remains hurt, and it is most J y Emma's fault• It seems that not everything will turn out thoroughly good. Emma feels the weight of Harriet's claim, and how best to guard her COQfort becomes the quest ion. Emma knows that it is really "too much to hope even of Harriet that she could be in love with more than three men in one year," (III.15). Harriet's pain will not wholly subside until Mr. Knightley is forgotten, which will not be soon . But Emma must hope that some e:omfort can be found. She therefore devises her last scheme of th~ novel and sends Harriet to the home of her sister and brother-in-law. Emma fully understands her powerlessness to do any better than this. But Ennna's growth of soul has led her to the alliance of fancy and understanding with truth. I said earlier that a well-grown soul, like Mr. Knightley's, gains the possibility of truthful hope. It seems that Emma's might now be well ordered enough to invite grace. Perhaps she will receive it. When Emma hears from Mr. Knightley of Harriet's engagement to Robert Martin, it seems that she has received grace. Nothing that Emma has done stands in the way any longer of her happiness. She truly appears "faultless in spite of all her faults." Such is the power of grace. Emma now has a genuine hold on "some of the best blessings · of existence," which we are told as we first meet her she seems to unite. That existence has its blessings is a religous sentiment, and grace might be what delivers these blessings. We gain assurance that the answer "grace" makes sense when we can lau~h at the story. The comedy of Emma gains its force from the fact that after thrngs ~eem to settle in their turn for the worse, they take a turn for the better. Things have the audacity to turn out right in the end, and that ' s lau~hable • . Laughter seems to be a healthy recognition of grace. Sarah in the Bible cannot help laughing when she hears the Lord's rnessenge: report that she will soon bear a son. It is too incomprehensible that a ninety-year-old woman can have a child. God's fancy--his power to change the way things see~--is too great not to bring on laughter. The messenger seems to approve of this response, for he comically taunts Sarah: "Why did Sarah laug.h, saying, 'Shall I in truth bear a child, old as I am?' Is anything too wondrous for the Lord?" • • • Sarah dissembled, saying, "I did not laugh," for she was frightened. He replied, "But 60 you did laugh." (Genesis 18:13-15) We must laugh at the incomprehensible close of Emma's story, and so must she: Serious she was, very serious, in her thankfulness and in her resolutions; and yet there was no preventing a laugh, sometimes in the very midst of them. She must laugh at such a close--such an end of the doleful disappointment of five weeks back--such a heart--such a Harriet! (III.18) ·:··' " 1" 2 dth, hope, love abide • • " --Paul to the Corinthians Changes occur in Mr. Knightley's and Hariett's lives that betray the craftsmanship of grace. For a religious person grace 1 s probably always at work in the designing of destinies. But there is room for human initiative: Mr. Knightly ~ends himself off~ and Emma sends off Harriet to the John Knightleys'. At Bru~swick Square Mr. Kn1ghtley and Harriert might have come into contact with something that could act as the instrument of grace. it is rather clear that the model of the goodness of home had its effect on Mr. Knightley: He had gone to learn to be indifferent. But he had gone to a wrong place. There was too much domestic happiness in his brother's house • (III .13) Emma's world apears to be very much a world of social man. That is what makes Emma's candidness to Miss Bates on the Box Hill expedition so distasteful. Emma t:ansgresses the strictures of social intercourse much more blameworthily than Miss Bates has ever done. As Mr. Knightley pointed out to her earlier it is almost human instinct to preserve smooth social relations even at the e~pense of truth: We all know the difference between the pronouns "he" or "she" and "thou,'.' the plainest spoken amongst us; we all feel the influence of a something beyond common civili.ty in our personal intercourse with each other--a something more early implanted. we cannot give anybody the very disagreeable hints that we may have been very full of the hour before. We feel things differently. (II.15) The demands of society are very early concerns, but there are other concerns still more basic : the concerns of home. Mr. John Knightley finds Mr. Weston's dependence on society for his comforts a bit unnatural. Emma was half a mind to take up this reflection of her brother-in-law's when he shares it on his Christmas visit, but she struggles and lets it pass: 61 �She would keep the peace if possible; and there was something honourable and valuable in the strong domestic habits, the all-sufficiency of home to himself, when ce resulted her brother's disposition to look down on the common rate of social intercourse and those to whom it was imp ortant. It had a high claim to forbearance. High in t'be rank of ·i-.l-'r nnist serious t: 1 ·,.J l· t·.i1 t - ft:, H f <-· 1 1, --; r :1"'· \·':.::::. t r1e r E' f 1e c t i n n t h ., t 8 1 ] n c c i::' ~ s i t. y c f c n n c f' ~ '. n.; :u I : fr t": rn '!,I l • t'- '' ; :., \ i t -~ •.~- ~; would r:;oon t:f' OVf"·r . Thi- ·3 ifgtd.se, eql1iv,)c .::it:l "~ n, myst~·ry, sc l : .'.1( .. ;·,, ! 1 1, · · 1-: t-> r t 0 p r a c t i s t-' , ir i g b t s (,o r 1 b c, c v (-· r • S h (· c o u ~ d n ~, ,, ? o c -~:. ( ~ , : ·. · ~ · 1 1 gi ving him t h f;t fu ::1 an,: f!f'. rfect c ot ; fid ..." n Lt' whictJ l-:. ·r d>:r·' ·f·, ; ; 1 .. :·: \ . £:J:; r.lost ready tl'.1 we 1 cc1' '. f· ;-i s .: 1 duty. (JJT . 18) (I . 11) Emma later comes to share something of her brothe r's disposition . When she realizes that she is only one of Mr . Weston's several intimates that he asked to survey the Crown before the ball , she is a bit disappointed : She liked his open manners, but a little less o f open - heartedness would have made him a higher character. General benevolence , but not general friendship, made a man what he ought to be . She could fancy such a man . (III .2) Noh th.-1t c~. '-11Jty .c, ,. ~... r 11ir-: o f t-">: ptt- s si o n hetwf·E'. n Emme! hnd M::- .. f: · : -..' t :r .:-' ~- ; , : hf'l-'tl ri.~.r1.acf.'c with t.n~t 1~, •rnuth f' r· hr:rc i c turn comeB: th? r0 ;-·1.:• .• r . r: (• f the ,~ ,-n ,r• T t: f :. r t'- ~: pt• dj e n1 · ; w:th tb·, ci::n(f·rri for what is tn:. 1: ;_ :; c;d, .:· im .. • 1,, .-:1;,t. s !c L1: 11f:pf u l to ~larr~. ~ · t , nnc~ • <'f't">dit·ri l" _y : ~; h e r concfrn in mald.nt:, H;..rr:cr. 's tn <.•tcl: ,,_· ; l: Mr. ~ 1t o n: "Tb:· 1ongeT sht cor.~; id(· rt-d it, the f;r t at 1:-· J ~•• n :; 1-t· r ~<, .-,.::. ~:· c~ i l ' < . p·diency>'' ( T .4). Euf th f· e > ssiv t: desirE: tc" bt: usE:fu~ ic• r -1 !·;;1 :-' lt-~: l ·ifi< ·:c; t <: "> :e:e .' : L i d . o f s ~· ;_ : [· -- ront· 1-· ntn: t'nt -- sonH:.~tbing our hen·. gainPG ~rcn :d i g nint u ndt·r ~ tcrnd in~ :rn d ·· ,rn ,: y tc·h· t rch : rnth,. .Expediency betrays t00 1,1,:: 11 nnn !puL1t:i(>n ;;i ·,,; cc>1 1l : v lf.'· -m ,,dr{ 1ins . Tt: is D(Jt loyo.1 enougl: tc; tn: ti-. f·~) r- '' h ere. Wl1 :--n ~,- , c- n:~v t-·r·sc· ·•... ith thc:se we love, ot:r conco:n c- .Jn t-. (• r~)tl: '·•'h < ;s truJy it (1rncond-it l(1n ~dly) ~o od. Emma's mardagi'> to Mr . Kr:ight10:r i .s ~_..: ..-.J J.n thj,s ~.., 3 y- -·f"?VOl ;; ::·(Jd fc.r } it t 1 ~ · H<''n ry Knight 1 ey, even goou fc., r Vir, ~lcod h ut:_.., E'. It is f.ml! 1 ;i's t; ,s~ t< : b rf n ~: her fathe.r, whom sbE· 1o"es, to "1elcornE. what iB good. At thf'.' c1ei s (' 0f t'h. i noveJ Emma's talt•nl for <:lrT8nging the livE:s of other~ 'has : , 1- • E' n f u 11 y (. 11 ~ t i " a L ·· .3 • ··' he urn i ndu c e Mr • Wood ho u s e t o c on s en t t c1 he r n~ a 1 f'i ~1 ~ t> • ~ h ... r- :s! ~o1 Jor·1 ~ i rs . ;.~r· ston 's Jead i [I prf'senting, thf' subject as both s r· t tJp( nnd .• 1 ~ ,· .. , ,_: --- • · .; ,; t:• ·· ·~· ,. ~ 1 <~vJ<JT t= ::i f' t bP n e rtrJ y E"'"lu ~i1 i.n,purt cince of the t.vm r t- ccn !•, f·r 1d cii i ~·, :1r I• i ·: .. 1 .. c'l·Jli , S ':"~ ' n!nd," :-., (1Jf.17). Put <H tlie t i me for the Wf'dd~n t :iPf. r ::: .:ichc; .·· r,.' r- 11. \.fc,,dhcusr· resign<; birnseH to i t~ i1H.:vitabi1ity without: bC ·. ··: i:t ;llL iu; (~ f'.' ~ ~ r :-d:i ility, Fm:nJ's fancy and underst<rnding meet an(lthl:'r crisis . .i:-_ 1 ~ ;;; l.:1_9~·.Q.. rr.cit iv!r. Woodh0t•SE'· -wiJJ calm down soon after the weddjng, but ~h· 2.]_1"_'.jL_::·. G~ t:is suffering is too strong for her to go on with it: 1 1 Perhaps Emma fancies a man who recognizes that men are not first so cial animals, that they are ultimately alone. This man must recognize that solitude. is painful and that the safest, most legitimate, noblest way t o comba t that pain is with the love to be found in a good home. Home can be the seat of the starkest solitude as Hartfield seems t o be after Emma recognizes her second blunder. The weather is dismal, and she is left all alone with her father: "It reminded he r o f their first forlor n tete-a-t'ete on the evening of Mrs. Wes ton's wedding-day; but Mr. Knightley had walked in then, soon after tea and dissipated every melancholy fancy," (III .22). Hartfield seems to have lost,what magic it might have had at the opening of Harriet's attachment to Mr. Elton. It is time for the magic of the heart t o take over. Mr. Knightley must walk in again. When he does, he brings with him love that can make Hartfield a rival to Brunswick Square in the power of domestic happiness. The "all-sufficiency of home" at Hartfield will be even greater t han at Brunswick Square since it will be heroic. Part of the heroism of Emma's and Mr. Knightley's marriage is that it can be the occasion t o share trut h . Society cannot always allow this; Emma ought not to be candid to Miss Bates. Emma fears, though, that even her love for Mr . It causes her great pain not to Knightley will not allow the sharing of truth. be able to divulge the truth of her conduct regarding Ha rr iet. But she can divulge her true feelings at the momen t of the proposal: Seldom, very seldom, does complete trut h belong to any human disclosure; seldom can it happen t hat something is not a little disguised or a little mistaken; but where, as in this case, t hough the conduct is mistaken, the feelings are not, it may not be very material. (III .13 ) That Emma and Mr. Knightley can feel genuinely and show their feelings as~ures u s that they have gone beyond common intercourse . But the power to bare painful truths like that of Emma's conduct, even to someone as dearly loved as M r. Knightley, is rare, heroic, and not quite human. With the help of t he graceful event of Harriet's engagement even this comes: 62 1 Sti]], however, he was not happy. Nay, he appeared so r:mcb <;t1 1er wisf' b j_ ~i d2ughter 'S ('OUT <'lg€ fa i 1t>d. r.be C Oll Jd not bear tc S E>E• r it;·. t hM s~ f f ~r{ng; to knn~ him f~ncying unc1d:·r s tnn<ling alr:iost acquiEsced Kn ig1it 1eys that when once the hi~s~Jf i.n the neglected; Assurance• and of though her tl ~ P Mr. both evE::nt YIE'H over hi.s distress would be so o n uver too, she hPsitated -- she could not proceed. (JJI.19) But i.n ht:r ~•ttach!H'nt. to t.ruth Emma h&s g<dnt:>d trE· .:.e}f-contentment shf· longed f o r • S r'. <> k nows h E-" r s nu 1 , a nd i t i s we 1 1 c, rd f r e d • Hc· r s o u 1 c an n ow in v i e grB ce . Mr. Knightley's bridl" is to be "thf.· c:he£;t?n, the first, the d<:arest, the friend, the wife to whom he l ooked fo r a]J the best b1E's si ngs of existence,'' (ITI.12). This is not Ea rriE·t but Emni<:i. TiiE'. irr.::ig,t> of don:u. tic pf·ace once again acts as the instr11n:t-•nt u, hring on grace . This ti.me Fartfit>ld, not Brunswick Square, with Emma's and µr. KnightlPy's loves brings g r ace tu ~ ~ cur~ the best blessings of ~xistence f( ' r aJ1 in volv€>d . TI-:f> grau· cor.;es iri the form of poultry-yard raids. Mr. Woodhcuse fea rs housebreaking, and ''the strength, resolution. presence of rr,ind and of the M r. Knight h-y s commandecl. his fulJpst depPndPnce," (JII.19). Mr. Woodhouse's n0rvous systeo is hrought to oper a t ~ in ~nother ~ ~y-- h~ is able to l ook on the marriagf' as good - - by an act of grac e -with the image of the peae:e of Hartfield in the fore ground . Grace . a lways at work in the designing of destinies, still leaves room for human arrangement of 1 ives. Emma is right; there is a third sort of matchmaking 63 �---(which Mr. Woodhouse's change of mind truly is) that is "a something between the do-nothing and the do-all," (I.1). I t takes talent, a special strength of soul, to meddle well and with love. Emma Woodhouse seems to have this talent whose basis is self-contentment gained by an attachment to truth and an ability to see not only what appears but also what lies beyond appearance, something a Mrs. Elton could never do: • • • Mrs. Elton, from the ·particulars detailed by her husband, thought it all extremely shabby and inferior to her own. "Very little white satin, very few lace veils; a most pitiful business! Selina would stare when she heard of it." But in spite of these deficiencies, the wishes, the hopes, the confidence, the predictions of the small band of true friends who witnessed the ceremony, were fully answered in the perfect happiness of the union. (III.19) One night beneath the turning sky, I stood Above the floor -- the cusp bearing us two In its great sweeping round. You, sleeping pearl crescent, Transfixed me at your bed, as if below The gently floating shell in slow turning The sea pulse brought you for the land toward day, While the deeps still wound in your wide black hair . What fe 11 away Suddenly lost Like a warm stone When I reached down And you stirred? -- Pierre H. Gagnier 64 -- �~ St. John's College Annapolis, Maryland 21404 Non-Profit Org . BULK RATE U. S. POSTAGE 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, 64 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 Holland, Christian (Editor) Title A name given to the resource Energeia, Spring 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 Spring 1984. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Energeia Spring 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/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/f471a1a3d9705252a449359061b939c8.pdf ca8b5818574b60bf4ad2d38908826e1d PDF Text Text �ENERGEIA: The activity in which anything is fully itself. n••• vou ,, tvlpyE~a ~w~ ••• . STAFF: Cover phot<;> by Ondine McRoberts It's called "fiighland Down" Printed by th~ St. John's Coll~ge Press St. John's College, Annapolis, Maryland (Aristotle's Metaphysics, 1072b) co-Editors: Faculty Advisor: Chris Bailey Talke Breuer Susan Borden Barbara Gesiakowski Nancy Harriss Steve Jackson AJ Krivak Bernadette Rudolph Gabrielle Fink Joe Macfarland Jonathon Tuck Unfortunately due to the limited length of Energeia only excerpts have been taken from some of the senior essays. If you would like to read these essays in their entirety, you may find the prize essays in the library or by contacting the editors. The editors of Energeia extend an apoloqy to Bruce Johnsen for the unauthorized editing, excerpting, and publishing of his ·essay "For My Soul is Filled with Troubles" in the Fall 1984 issue. 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 conunittees 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. �r ' CONTENTS .. .. ANNUAL SENIOR ESSAY (ANNAPOLIS) ''A HORRIBLE AND BLOODY MISCHANCING OF HUMAN AFFAIRS":* WILLIAM FAULKNER'S ABSALOM, ABSALOM! Mark Streeter 1 Michael Strong 17 Stuart Sobczynski 25 Liz Waldner .25 · Daniel Schoos 26 Nancy loevinger 33 Karel Bauer 42 Mark Manry 49 , David Amirthanayam 50 ANNUAL SENIOR ESSAY (SANTA FE) ''A SHALLOW READING OF MARX" AND OTHER LIKELY STORIES* HONORABLE MENTION, ORIGINAL POETRY (ANNAPOLIS) MA ... DEMOISELLE BEST TRAN~LATION OF A FRENCH POEM (ANNAPOLIS) WUIS MFNARD'S "CIRCE" ANNUAL JUNIOR ESSAY (ANNAPOLIS) A FISHHOOK FOR HOBBES'S LEVIATHAN ACKNOWLEDGED FOR EXCELLENCE (SANTA FE) THE TWO HANDS OF GOD: AN EXAMINATION OF GOETHE'S FAUST* ACKNOWLEDGED FOR EXCELLENCE (SANTA FE) PERCEPTION AND ANALYSIS IN UNDERSTANDING BEING BEST TRANSLATION FROM A GREEK TEXT (ANNAPOLIS) ·A CHORUS FROM ARISTOPHANES' THE FROGS ACKNOWLEDGED FOR EXCELLENCE (SANTA FE) ON POETIC RECOGNITION ANNUAL SENIOR ESSAY (ANNAPOLIS) THE SEARCH FOR WHAT THE MEMORY HOLDS: MEMORY, IDENTITY AND THE USES OF THINGS Liz Waldner ,. *excerpts 65 �''A horrible and bloody mischancing of human affairs": William Faulkner's Absalom, Absalom! Mark Streeter It's just incredible. It just does not explain. Or perhaps that's it: they don't explain and we are not supposed to know . We have a few old mouth- to- mouth tales; we exhume from old trunks and boxes and drawers letters without salutation or signature, in which men and women who once lived and breathed are now merely initials or nicknames out of some now incomprehensible affection which sound to us like Sanskrit or Chocktaw; we see dimly people, the people in whose living blood and seed we ourselves lay dormant and waiting, in this shadowy attenuation of time possessing now heroic proportions, performing their acts of simple passion and simple violence, impervious ~o time and inexplicable--Yes, Judith, Bon, Henry, Sutpen: all of them. They are there, yet something is missing; they are like a chemical formula exhumed along with the letters from that forgotten chest, carefully, the paper old and faded and falling to pieces, the writing faded, almost indecipherable, yet meaningful, familiar in shape and sense, the name and presence of volatile and sentient forces; you bring them together in the proportions called for, but nothing happens; you re-read, tedious and intent, poring, making sure that you have forgotten nothing, made no miscalculation; you bring them together again and again nothing happens: just the words, the symbols, the shapes themselves, sha.dowy inscrutable and serene, against that turgid background of a horrible and bloody mischancing of human affairs. --Mr. Compson (pp. 100-101) •• ~ I ! •. \ ' ~ l o' '. Absalom, Absaloml by William Faulkner-·is the story of Thomas Sutpen. However, it is not a story in the sense that one would expect, where a narrator, first person or third, omniscient or limited, tells the story with at least some regard for chr~­ nology and fact. Rather, the story of Thomas Sutpen is told by four narrators : Miss Rosa Coldfield, Sutpen's sister-in-law; Mr . Jason Compson; QUentin Compson (his son); and Shrevlin Mccannon, Quentin's roonunate at Harvard, from Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. Each of them gives an account of a part or of the whole of the story, often repeating and revising previous accounts by other narrators; they disregard chronology, jumping from one scene to another twenty years previous without warning or explanation; they not only have a limited knowledge of the facts of the story, but often seem not to care about the facts. For the narrators speak in 1909 and 1910, forty years since the death of Thomas Sutpen, and their interest lies not so much in exactly what happened (though they certainly do guess about what must have happened) as in why what happened did happen. When Quentin and Shreve are imagining together the scene on that Christmas Eve when Sutpen called Henry into the library, imagining Bon and Judith walking in the garden just beyond the library, the author as omniscient narrator inserts: It would not matter here in Cambridge that the time had been winter in that garden too, and hence no bloom nor leaf even if there had been someone to walk there and be seen there since, judged by subsequent events, it had 1 �been night in the garden also. But that.did not matter because it had been so long ago. It did not matter to them [Quentin and Shreve] anyway. (p. 295) Nor is the narrators' a passing interest, for their enterprise seems at times to border on an obsession (especially with Miss Rosa and Quentin) , or at least a fascination with the motivations and thoughts of their long-dead subjects. The cause of their fascination is not at this point immediately apparent; however, let it suffice for now to say that they are all involved and interested in the story and in their telling of it, even though only one of the narrators, Miss Rosa, was present and involved when any of the events took place (and she only in a relatively minor role). In telling it, even by telling it, the narrators are trying to make sense of the story, to make the story itself make sense. Their involvement with and interest in the story of Thomas Sutpen and his design demand that they endeavor to obtain some meaning and truth from it (and this is possible only by telling it), which is often personal, and prejudiced, and yet is not useless or even false. The narrators tell and . retell sutpen's story, each of them seeing (telling} it differently, as if each sees through a piece of tinted glass colored according to his or her own character or personality, which often results in a distorted, inaccurate, and, for the reader, confusing picture. It is through this medium that ·the reader must come to learn, know, and be fascinated with, the story of Thomas Sutpen. Rosa portrays Sutpen as an unscrupulous and ruthless villain with a hidden and unspeakable past, who not only knew what he was doing, but went ahead and did it anyway, as if, she says, he was sent by Heaven as the bearer of letribution and punishment to expiate some long-forgotten familial sin. She speaks in a stylized and extravagant language, employing many "religious" and sexual images to express the extent of her outrage. Combined with the affront which Sutpen committed against her when he suggested that they "breed like dogs" and await the result before marrying, the ruination of the Coldfield family causes Rosa not only to hate sutpen and desire revenge, but to cry when she learns that he is dead: *'Dead? ••• Dead? You? You lie; you're not dead; heaven cannot, and hell dare not, have you ! ' (p. 172) Rosa herself is an old woman of sixty-four years, who was born into her parents' middle age (her mother died while giving birth to her), and who describes herself as never having been young, Since what creature in the South since 1861, man woman nigger or mule, had had time or opportunity not only to have been young, but to have heard what being young was like from those who had, (p. 19) and because, she says, The Narra~ors The reasons for each narrator's fascination with Thomas Sutpen are dependent upon each narrator's character and experience and are therefore as different as the narrators themselves. Because the novel is also in some sense the story of the narrators, I will here concentrate on them and their enterprise, returning to the subject of Thomas Sutpen later in this essay. Miss Rosa's account comprises Chapters I and V: in Chapter I she is talking to a somewhat unwilling Quentin, having asked, "summoned, him to call on her on that September afternoon, while in Chapter v Quentin is recalling internally her words while sitting upon the porch of his house that same evening, waiting for the time when he must go and get her in the buggy to make the trip out to Sutpen's Hundred. Rosa's subjects in Chapter I are Sutpen's early days in Jefferson, his marriage to her sister Ellen, and her relations with and attitude towards the Sutpen family in the days before the war. In Chapter V she recalls the events following the death of Charles Bon by Henry's hand, and, with herself as main character, tells of Sutpen's return from the war, her engagement to him, and her life in Jefferson following her outraged flight from Sutpen's Hundred. Rosa• s account is filled with her visions of Sutpen as a hell-born demon or ogre, with outrage and unforgiveness, and with her "cold, implacable, and ruthles~" hate of the man whom she blames for the destruction of her family. She blames him not only for the destruction of her family, and of his own, but also for the destruction of the South itself: 11 *[this is] why God let us lose the war: that only through the blood of our men and the tears of our women could He stay this demon and efface his name and lineage from the earth. (p. 11) *All quotations marked with an asterisk are passages from the book which appear there in italics. In.the book, italics are used to signal the thoughts of a character as opposed to his or her speech; for instance, almost the whole of Chapter V is not Rosa speaking, but Quentin remembering Rosa speaking (he is still on the porch). 2' I was born too late. I was born twenty-two years too late--a child to whom out of the overheard talk of adults my own sister's and my sister's children's faces had come to be like the faces in an ogre-tale between supper and bed. (p . 22) When Rosa was young she was isolated and outcast, for her father was neither prepared nor inclined to give her what she needed. The aunt who lived with them did not provide the care and attention which was her due either. Both father and aunt were too concerned with Ellen, who had already been married seven years and given birth to her two children by the time Rosa was born. It was, Rosa thinks, as if she had never been born because she had never been raised. This was why Rosa was never young: she had neither received the attention proper to an infant nor ever heard any words but those about Ellen's marriage to that "ogre." Rosa was rudely introduced to the anguished adult world very early in her ife by listening outside of closed doors. *So that instead of accornpl~shing the processional and measured milestones of the childhood's time I lurked, unapprehended as though, shod with the very damp and velvet silence of the womb, I displaced no air, gave off no betraying sound, from one closed forbidden door to the next and so acquired all I knew of that light and space in which people moved and breathed. (p. 145) Rosa was always on the outside looking in, unable to participate in the scene unfolding before her. so was it also with love. During that "summer of wistaria" when she was fourteen, Rosa fell in love. She at first fell in love with Judith's beau Charles Bon, even though she had never seen him. However, in realizing that Bon was unavailable to her she,also realized that she would forever be on the outside of any possible love relationship. She therefore fell in love with love itself; she became *"all polymath love's androgynous advocate" (p. 146) 3 �When Ellen on her deathbed asks Rosa to protect Judith and Henry.., she is inviting Rosa into her family as an actual participant, yet Rosa, who is herself younger than both the children, is unable to comply. Her inability stems not from herself, she would probably desire such a role, but from the children themselves. Henry is away at the war, and she will not see him again until that September night in 1909. She attempts to save Judith when she goes to Sutpen's Hundred immediately after the death of Charles Bon, hoping to give comfort and sympathy to Judith in her mourning. Yet when she gets there she is met not with bereavement but with that mask which Judith wears that shows no emotion. Rosa is repulsed and relegated to her role of onlooker once again. Sutpen's proposal of marriage to her was probably a source of hope for her, hope that someone would see her and c a re for her, yet this too turne d sour . Rosa believes that she died at that moment when she realized that Sutpen did not want her for herself but only for her possibility as a breeder ("my life was destined to end on an afternoon in April forty-three years ago" (p. 18)). She never could get past that moment. She is a Southern lady of tradition , principl e, honor, and pride, who is obsessed with he r hatred of Thomas Sutpen. Mr. Compson says that she is now a ghost because that is what the war did to ladies, though she herself blames Sutpen (who for her practically represents, symboli~es, the war) for her ghosthood. Her character and words recall Dylan Thomas' words : 'We who are young are old . It is the oldest cry. Age sours before youth's tasted in the mouth And any sweetness that it has Is sucked away. ' For Rosa, any sweetness that she ever had has long ago turned to bitterness and rage. Mr. Compson's nar ration dominates Chapters II through IV as he talks to Quentin on the porch the ev e ning following Quentin's visit to Miss Rosa. Mr. Compson first tells of sutpen's early days in Jefferson, his arrival, the town's reaction, and his marriage to Ellen . He then takes up Rosa as his main character and examines her relationship with sutpen and his family. (It is interesting to note that Mr. Compson's narration covers the same material as Miss Rosa's immediately preceding in Chapter I . This allows the reader to get some sense of what is going on in the book, for he is confronted with two narrators telling the same part of the story differently.) Finally, in Chapter IV, Mr. Compson speaks about the relationship between Charles Bon, Henry, and Judith. M . Comps on is de t a che d , e ve n cynical, in hi s t e lling, using hi s s kept ical r cynicism as a defense against becoming too involved with the story, against being forced to acknowledge the tragedy which he ultimately believes the story to be. He is afraid of the force of the story, its ability to move him, and protects himself by his personae using his knowledge of classical mythology and tragedy to create separate personae for the characters of the real story. He sets up a stage upon which sutpen and his fellow actors move and strut, where while sutpen was "still playing the scene to the audience, behind him Fate, destiny, retribution, irony,--the stage manager, call him what you will--was already striking the set and dragging on the synthetic and spurious shadows and shapes of the next one" (pp. 72-73). Mr. compson applies this tragic and theatric formula to the story, completing the metaphor himself by becoming the director who sits in the empty auditorium and tells the actors what to say and do. The characters become his playthings. Mr. Compson does believe sutpen's story to be tragedy; yet by applying to it his own tragic form and setting, he denies the real tragedy of it, and changes it into a trite, banal, and distant happening. Mr. compson distances himself from the story because he sees in Sutpen's fall a ;4 : microcosmic symbol for the fall of the South, and sees in its characters "the people in whose living blood and seed we ourselves lay dormant and waiting" (p. 101). The story is part of Mr. Compson's heritage, which is filled with those same undying ghosts of which Quentin speaks, and which is that past or history which is yet present. Consistent with his tragic setting, Mr. Compson believes the characters of the story larger-than-life, heroic. . ' ••• of that day and time, of a dead time; people too as we are, and victims too as we are, but victims of a different circumstance, simpler and therefore, integer for integer, larger, more heroic and the figures therefore more heroic too, not dwarfed and involved but distinct, uncomplex who had the gift of loving once or dying once instead of being diffused and scattered creatures drawn blindly limb from limb from a grab bag and assembled, author and victim too of a thousand homicides and a thousand copulations and divorcements. (p. 89) Mr. Compson obviously envies this distant and "simpler" time, and accordingly withdraws, not only from the trenchancy of the story, but from his own life as well. The reader of the book very well may pause at this point and breathe a sigh of relief, for with the end of Chapter V comes also the end of the most difficult half , of the book (from the standpoint of a first reading). The reader at this point has been provided with most of the known facts of the story, and the second half is an attempt by Quentin and Shreve to further explain and understand those facts. The two of them try to recreate the events of the story by placing themselves in the shoes of their characters. In this manner they hope to understand why and how such a "bloody mischancing of human affairs" could ever occur. The character of Quentin Compson dominates the book - he is the central narrator and his role is of almost equal importance to Sutpen's. The book is in many ways about Quentin Compson. He is always present, listening more often than speaking, yet when he speaks or thinks he gives voice to some of the most important and germane ideas and themes of the novel. His "section" comprises Chapters VI through IX where he and his Canadian roommate Shreve recreate (or relive ) the story, their enterprise occasioned by Quentin's receipt of a letter from his father telling of Miss Rosa's death. It is now almost exactly four months since Quentin and Rosa went out to Sutpen's Hundred to find whatever it was "living hidden" in the house. Quentin resembles his father in many ways, yet differs in one major aspect: he is unable to distance himself from the story, to allow it to remain mysterious and inexplicable, as his father can and does. Quentin is obsessed with the story of Thomas sutpen and is compelled to listen to it and tell it, even though the listening and telling disturb him both emotionally and physically ("now he began to jerk all over, violently and uncontrollably until he could even hear the bed" (p. 360)). Quentin is consumed by his feeling of purposelessness. He cannot reconcile himself with his tradition, the tradition and history of the South, and because of this has no foundation upon which to build his life. He is lost. 3 Quentin grew up in a land where "tragedy is secondhand" and he accordingly seeks to understand those tragedies in the hope that he might finally understand himself. It was a part of his twenty years' heritage of breathing the same air and hearing his father talk about the man Sutpen ••• Quentin had grown up with that; the mere names were interchangeable and almost myriad. His childhood was full of them; his very body was an empty hall echoing with sonorous defeated names; he was not a being, an entity, he was a commonwealth. He was a barracks filled with stubborn back-lo~king ghosts still recovering, 5, �- - - - -- - - - even forty-three years afte:rward, from the fever which had cured the disease, waking from the fever without even knowing that it had been the fever itself which they had fought against and not the sickness, looking with stubborn recalcitrance backward beyond the fever and into the disease with actual regret, weak from the fever yet free of the disease and not even aware that the freedom was that of impotence. (pp. 11,12) The characters of those Southern tragedies are to Quentin also ghosts which haunt and inhabit his very soul. With the story of Sutpen, Quentin is confronted with one of those tragedies, yet this one is more meaningful than the others, because in the story of Thomas Sutpen~Quentin sees not only a story of the South but also himself in the person of Henry. Becauoe of this Quentin is obsessed with the tragedy of Thomas Sutpen and most specifically with the character of Henry Sutpen. Quentin sees himself as two separate entities; the one self trying to continue living in the present, and the other unable to live in the present without the copresence of the past. He [Quentin] would seem to listen to two separate Quentins now--the Quentin Compson preparing for Harvard in the south, the deep South dead since 1865 and peopled with garrulous outraged baffled ghosts, listening, having to listen, to one of the ghosts which had refused to lie still even longer than most had, telling him about old ghost-times; and the Quentin who was still too young to deserve yet to be a ghost, but nevertheless having to be one for all that, since he was born and bred in the deep South the same as she was--the two separate Quentins now talking to one another in the long s1lence of notpeople, in notlanguage. (p. 9) These two polarized selves pull Quentin apart and render him a non-entity, one of the "notpeople." Like the post- war South, he is impotent, unable to act; he is paralyzed into a permanent state of anxiety and indecision. This is apparent in his relation to the story. The telling of the story fills him with a kind of terror, yet he desperately wants and needs to tell it. Finally he is unable to prevent the telling of it: *Am I going to have to have to hear it all again ••• ! am going to have to hear it all over again I am already hearing it all over again I am listening to it all over again I shall have to never listen to anything else but this again forever . (p . 277) Furthermore, Quentin's impotence makes him unable to bring peace to his two warring and conflicting selves; the war will always be still being fought within Quentin. 'Nevermore of peace. Nevermore of peace. Nevermore Nevermore Nevermore.' (p. 373) Unable to relegate that ghost-history of the South to the past, Quentin lives in guilt, shame, and remorse. Quentin's attitude towards the South is best expressed in his answer to Shreve's question: "Why do you hate the south?" When Quentin answers "I don't hate it," the reader must know that Quentin both loves and hates the South, and that he is forever doomed to both love and . hate the South, its history, and his tradition. Nor is this any passive ambivalence about his home; rather, it is a passionate affirmation of his own bipartite and lost self. The guilt and confusion which Quentin feels, and which Jim Bond both excites and symbolizes ("You still hear him at night sometimes. Don't you?" (p. 378)), must make him hate the South and the 6 .. heritage it has bequeathed to him. Nevertheless, Quentin deeply loves the south and its traditions because it is his home. Unable finally to break ~he hold which the past has on him, Quentin commits suicide in June of the same year, finally silencing the ghosts which haunt him and which have made him "older at twenty than a lot of p7ople who have died" (p. 377). Quentin himself expresses his condition best, and finally one can only conclude with him, *Yes. I have heard too much, I have been told too much; I have had to listen to too much, too long. (p. 207) Shreve is obviously the most curious choice as a narrator, yet he is entirely necessary to the purpose of the book. Set as a counte:rweight to Quentin in order to balance the narration and keep it sane, he at first forces the reluctant Quentin into reliving the story once again, then insures that Quentin does not become bogged down in his obsession by either prodding Quentin along or by taking over the telling himself. Neither born in the South, nor involved in the story, and from farther north even than the North, Shreve is the one narrator who can ever be disinterested or ambivalent to the story, who can lay it aside and forget it when he so desires; however, he too is fascinated by Sutpen. One reason for his interest in the story is his natural youthful enthusiasm of a freshman at Harvard; for Shreve the telling is a l kind of "play" (p. 280), that is, his fascination with Sutpen is not imbued with the' outrage, anxiety, or dread of the other narrators. Shreve simply recognizes that the story of Thomas Sutpen is an amazing and incredible one, and one that excites his · interest. But perhaps Shreve is most _ valuable because he takes upon himself the part of the reader, giving voice to words that must at times be on the reader's own tongue. One often hears Shreve saying "Wait!", trying to slow QUentin down and make him explain those points about which, though Quentin knows the truth, neither the reader nor Shreve have the slightest understanding. Shreve is also of great value to the non-Southern reader, whose interest and confusion about the South are expressed in Shreve's words: · *Tell about the South. What's it like there. What do they do there. do they live there. Why do they live at all. (p. 174) Why On the subject of what it's like to live in the South, to be a ghost living among other ghosts, Shreve gives the best explanation, even though he is only voicing his own confusion and ignorance, and although Quentin answers him with a final "You can't understand it. You would have to be born there." I just want to understand it if I can and I don't know how to say it better. Because it's something my people haven't got. or if we have got it, it all happened long ago across the water and so now there ain't anything to look at every day to remind us of it. We · don't live among defeated grandfathers and freed slaves (or have I got it backward and was it your folks that are free and the niggers that lost?) and bullets in the dining room table and such, to be always reminding us to never forget. What is it? Something you live and breathe in like air? A kind of vacuum filled with wraithlike and indomitable anger and pride and glory at and in happenings that occurred and ceased fifty years _ ago? A kind of entailed birthright father and son and father and son of never forgiving General Sherman, so that forevermore as long as your childrens' children produce children you won't be anything but a descendant of a long line of colonels killed in Pickett's charge at Manassas? (p. 361) 7 ~ �Shreve encourages the reader to dare to fashion his own version of the story by showing no hesitation in submerging himself in the story and in telling portions of it, though he is unqualified and ill-equipped to do it in comparison with the other narrators. Though he often stings Quentin with his jokes and irreverance ("Jesus, the South is fine, isn't it ••• It's better than Ben Hur, isn't it·." (P. 217)), Shreve is sincere in his efforts to understand the South and Thomas Sutpen. Considering the relativistic and biased accounts of the narrators, which they yet hold to be true, one must wonder about the nature of truth in this book. Is truth a personal thing, where each narrator's account is true only because it is true, because it has meaning, to them? The following quotation sheds some light on what the narrators are doing as they tell their stories, and search for what is true. It did not matter to either of them (Quentin and Shreve ] which one did the talking, since it was not the talking alone which did it, performed and accomplished the overpassing, but some happy marriage of speaking and hearing wherein each before the demand, the requirement, forgave condoned and forgot the faulting of the other--faultings both in the creating of this shade whom they discussed (rather, existed in) and in the hearing and sifting and discarding the false and conserving what seemed true, or fit the preconceived. (p. 316) The narrators are trying to "conserve" what seems true, and yet what is true to them is oftentimes that "might-have-been which is more true than truth," and the true that is more true than truth (factual truth) is actually factual falsity. In their act of creating the characters of sutpen and all those who surround him, the narrators are like the woman singer in Wallace Stevens' s "The Idea of Order at Key West" who gives order and meaning to the otherwise mute and meaningless sea in and by her singing. The story of Thomas Sutpen is nothing without them. The narrators' distance from the actual events allows them not only to embellish the story, but also, it seems, to see it more clearly and meaningfully. When Quentin is imagining Sutpen's return to Jefferson in the middle of the war with the marble slabs for his and Ellen's graves, the omniscient narrator states, "he could see it; he might even have been there," and Quentin thinks, *"No. If I had been there I could not have seen it this plain" (p. 190). Thus, the narrators examine the story as they are telling it for its meaning and truth, for had they been involved in the actual events, their involvement would have been too much for them to have any perspective on it; they would have been overwhelmed with the living of it. Shreve, it seems, speaks for all of the narrators when, recalling Miss Rosa's words, he says: there are some things that just have to be whether they are or not, have to be a damn sight more than some other things that maybe are and it don't matter a damn whether they are or not. (p. 322) Shreve is saying that some things are truer than fact, that facts can get in the way of truth and obscure it, and that what is most true is that with which the narrators imbue their accounts: their own innate meaning which they find in their hear ts, or sub-conscious, or somewhere. Because the narrators' accounts are meaningful and true, and put together where the reader can experience all of them, they yield, from the very union of these personal and true accounts, a truth which is the reader' s own, and which is greater than any of them separately. Quentin and Shreve demonstrate the problem of historical truth~ how anyone can ever really know the past. They attempt to "know" by placing themselves inside their characters and by trying to imagine what they felt and thought. Their endeavor to experience history "first-hand" indicates the historical validity and value of a nov- 8 .. el like War and Peace; by placing his reader in that world, Tolstoy allows him to feel what it was like to be there and to know at least better than before what went on in the hearts and minds of the people living at that time. . Quentin thinks that the narrators have a true relation to the story and that any differences between their stories and the original are due only to a different "temper~tur~" and "molecularity" of the medium through which the story must pass. That medium is the narrator. Yet Quentin, with his relationship to history, believes that the story in its truth is "unchanging", and that all the narrators are determined by and dependent in their very being upon Thomas Sutpen; for Quentin, history determines both the physical and spiritual reality of the present, and is therefore present also. *Maybe nothing ever happens once and is finished. Maybe happen is never once but like ripples maybe on water after the pebble sinks, 'the ripples moving on, spreading, the pool attached by a narrow umbilical water-cord to the next pool which the first pool feeds, has fed, did feed, let this second pool contain a different temperature of water, a different molecularity of having seen, felt, remembered, reflect in a different tone the infinite unchanging sky, it doesn't matter: that pebble's watery echo whose fall it did not even see moves across its surface too at the original ripple-space, to the old ineradicable rhythm thinking Yes, we are both Father. Or maybe Father and I are both Shreve, maybe it took Father and me both to make Shreve or Shreve and me both to make Father or maybe Thomas Sutpen to make all of us. (pp. 261-262) Thomas Sutpen So who is this man Thomas Sutpen? For the reader, he must at first be , and finally remain, an enigma. Reminiscent of Milton's Satan, he is described as a demon, a Faustus, a man who "given the occasion and the need ••• can and will do anything" (p. 46) , and yet also as a tragic hero whose "trouble was innocence" (p. 220) , a symbol of human folly before Nature, Fate or God, and a man who embodied those American ideals of hard-working ambition, independence (self-reliance), integrity, perseverance, and success. He is portrayed as an unscrupulous and inhumane man, about whom the townspeople "thought of ruthlessness rather than justice and of fear rather than respect, but not of pity or love" (p. 43), who "had never learned how to ask anybody for help or anything else" (p. 273), and was underbred yet still accomplished his climb to the aristocracy, and who at times legitimately arouses the reader's pity and sympathy. He is Cadmus with his "ironic fecundity of dragon's teeth " and Abraham whose children "sho:uld have been the jewels of his pride and the shieid and comfort of his old age, only-- (Only they destroyed him or something or he destroyed them or something. And died)" (p. 9), and lastly David, who wanted a son and got one too many. The narrators never stop talkin9 about him or thinking about him, even when they are talking about someone or something else, and the reader is therefore inundated with descriptions, opinions, and reflections about him. The image of the townspeople who chant "in steady strophe and antistrophe: *Sutpen. Sutpen. Sutpen. Sutpen." (p.32) hangs over and infiltrates the book. Sutpen elicits both the reader's awe, respect, and fascination, and his revulsion and indignation. Finally, however, one must make a decision about Sutpen. was he a victim of history, circumstance, and coincidence, or was there something truly evil in and about him? Perhaps by examining his life, his design and his actions, his motivations and concerns, we can reach some understanding of the man who was Thomas Sutpen. The years of his youth in the mountains were definitive in forming his charac- r.: �ter. There, a man was judged "by lifting anvils or gouging eyes or how much whiskey [he] could drink then get up and walk out of the room" (p. 226), and not by either possessions or birth. so that when he was introduced to traditional Southern society, plantation society, with its rigid caste system and blatant discrimination,he was·shocked. He had never heard of, never imagined, a place, and land divided neatly up and actually owned by men who did nothing but ride over it on fine horses or sit in fine clothes on the galleries of big houses while other people worked for them; he did not even imagine then that there was any such way to live or to want to live, or that there existed all the objects to be wanted which there were, or that the ones who owned the objects not only could look down on the ones that didn't, but could be supported in the down-looking not only by the others who owned objects too but by the very ones that were looked down on that didn't own objects and knew they never would. (p. 221) Sutpen thought that these "down-looking" men were only "lucky", men whose advantage . and "superiority" were given them by chance and circumstance, "and that the lucky · :·ones would be even slower and loather than the unlucky to take any advantage of it or credit for it, or to feel that it gave them anything more than luck; and he still thought that they would feel if anything more tender toward the unlucky than the unlucky would ever·need to feel toward them" (p. 226). Thus, when he walked up to the front door of that plantation house and was told by a house servant to go around to the back, the shock was not only because of the intrusion of reality upon his private world, but also from the realization of his own innocence of that reality. ~e lost that innocence then, but not all of it, or maybe it was that he lost one kind of innocence and retained or gained another. This other innocence was implicit in his design, though it was not the innocence or naivete that allowed him to believe that he could ever be anything but underbred in that aristocracy to which he aspired; rather, it was the innocence which believed that the features of this aristocratic life could be bought and possessed like objects, and that they were accessible in their genuine form to anyone, provided that he was courageous and shrewd (and Sutpen probably did understand one or the other of these to mean unscrupulous). Sutpen's innocence takes the form of an abstraction which he performed upon and extended to all the facets of his life, and his life was really only one prolonged and iron-willed struggle towards the implementation and accomplishment of his design; anything beyond or outside of it, which coul d not be used towards the f u lfillment of it, was of no interest or concern to him. (He could never love nor hate anyone or anything because neither love nor hate made any difference in his plan.) This innocence become abstraction is visible in his conceptions of tradition, respectability, morality, and slavery. Sutpen thought of tradition and respectability not as traits inherited or handed down in families and towns, but as material as could be assumed upon oneself like a new set of clothes could be purchased and worn. Because these were necessary to his design, he chose to possess them regardless of the persona l or f amilial cost, t hough he never los t sight of his per sonal integrity, for that too was for him part of respectability. When speaking to General Compson about his "second choice," the decision about what to do about Bon, Sutpen says, either choice which I might make, either course which I might choose, leads to the same result: either I destroy my design with my own hand, which will happen i~ I am forced to play my last trump card, or do nothing, let matters take the course which I know they will take and see my design complete 10 \ itself quite normally and naturally and successfully to the public eye, yet to my own in such fashion as to be a mockery and a betrayal of that little boy who approached that door fifty years ago and was turned away 1 for whose vindication the whole plan was conceived and carried forward to the moment of this choice. (p. 274) This need for respectability is also why he had to "put aside" his first wife. Whether he objected personally to her black blood is beside the point here; plantation owners just did not have part-Negro women, not even octoroons, as their "ladies-of-the-house." Sutpen's morality is likewise abstract and betrays the same kind of innocence. According to General Compson, Sutpen believed: that the ingredients of morality were like the ingredients of pie or cake and once you had measured them and balanced them and mixed them and put them into the oven it was all finished and nothing but pie or cake could come out. (p. 263) General Compson also testifies that it was this same morality, "his code of logic and morality, his formula and recipe of fact and deduction whose balanced sum and product declined, refu:s@d to swim or even float" (p. 275), which would not permit him to "malign or traduce the memory of his first wife, or at least the memory of the marriage even though he felt that he had been tricked by it" (p. 272). He refused to do this even when she had, it seems, sought him out in order to avenge herself upon him after more than thirty years. Thirty year s, sutpen says, after my conscience had finally assured me that to rectify it. (p. 265) I had done what I could All these things, morality, justice and conscience, are caught up in sutpen's rational, business-like, and abstract scheme of things. For sutpen, conscience is something that can be bought off and convinced either by arguing with it long enough or by utilizing that concept of justice which is nothing more than a business transaction. The simplicity and innocence of Sutpen's morality is most evident in the way he handles his first wife; he believed that by giving her money he would automatically gain her forgiveness, and that his conscience should not trouble him because of the great amount of money which he gave her. General Compson can reply to sutpen's words quoted above only by exclaiming, 'Conscience? Conscience? Good God, man, what else did you expect? Didn't the very affinity and instinc. for misfortune of a man who had spent that t much time in a monastery even, let alone one who had lived that many years as you lived them, tell you better than that? Didn't the dread and fear of females which you must have drawn in with the primary mammalian milk teach you better? What kind of abysmal and purblind innocence could that have been which someone told you to call virginity? What conscience to trade with which would have warr anted you in the belief that you could have bought immunity from her for no other coin but justice?' (p . 265) Such characters as Miss Rosa and Wash Jones associate Sutpen with the south and the sin of slavery, that South which had, according to Mr . Coldfield, er ected its economic edifice not on the rock of stern mor ality but on the shifting sands of oppor tunism and moral brigandage . (p. 260) 11 '. �One interpretation may indeed equate sutpen 1s fall with the fall of the South and view the book as a kind of allegory and explanation of the ruin of the Old South. Yet such an interpretation of the book, where Sutpen in his prosperity, sin, and final ruin is a metaphor for the South, does not fit in many ways. The failure of sutpen's design is not contingent upon the outcome of the war; even if the So?th had won, Henry still probably would have had to kill Bon in order to prev~nt him from marrying Judith. Nor is sutpen typical of Southern plantation owners1 his character traits, the optimism, innocence and strong-willed and unflagging determination, are .neither emblematic nor especially suggestive of the planter class. sutpen was always on the fringe of the aristocracy 1 and the town's partial acceptance of him was a truce called only when the townspeople realized that it was too late to stop him because of. the money and power he had amassed. The following passage indicates both Sutpen ' s differences with the typical male Southerner, and his attitude towards those "committees" which were the germ of the Ku Klux Klan: *That was the winter when ••• the ruined, the four years' fallow and neglected land lay more idle yet while men with pistols in their pockets gathered daily at secret meeting places in the towns. He did not make one of thesei I remember how one night a deputation called, rode out through the mud of early March and put him to the point of definite yes or no, with them or against them, friend or enemy: and he refused, declined~ offe.re~ them (with no change of gaunt ruthless face nor level voice) defiance if it was defiance they wanted, telling them that if every m~n in th~ South would do he himself was doing, would see to the restoration of his own land, the general land and South would save itself. (p. 161) as Finally, the differences between sutpen and Southern aristocracy are most apparent in his attitude towards blacks and slavery. sutpen grew up in a place ·"where . the only colored people were Indians and you only looked down at them over your r~fle sights" (p. 221) , and so he not only had no understanding of the fact that the lives of people of another race could be usurped for one's own ends, but also.he had none of the fear and insecurity inherent in such an attitude. Sla~ery was JUSt a~oth~r practice which he appropriated for himself from the pl~nt~r soc~ety; there was in him no innate belief in his own white superiority, a superiority which never ?eeded to be doubted or tested. sutpen' s belief in his own superiority was something which . he tried and proved both to himself and to his slaves by stripping down and stepping into the ring with them, "fighting not as white men fight, with rules ~nd weapons, but as negroes f ight to hurt one another quick and bad" (p. 29), gouging eyes ~nd drawing blood. sutpen never escaped from those brutal tests of a man's worth which he had learned as a boy, because they were part of his innocence: . The presence and acceptance of Clytie in the family also indicates that Sutp7n had no special discriminatory feelings about blacks. She is acknow~edge~ as his daughter and lives with the family in the house, and her sometimes being discove:ed · with Judith in the bed or on the pallet probably caused no especi~l 1 ~o~:i~~~ation or distress for sutpen. Rosa's indignation about this.is the a~prop:i­ at e and expected southerner ' s response . Be caus e sutpen re?ards.clyti~ as benign with res ct to his design, he allows her to coexist and grow with hi~ f~ily. . peYet with Charles Bon it is a different matter. sutpen, seeing in Bon a.definite threat to the success of his plan, cannot tolerate Bon's presen~e in t?e family • . T~e harm which Bon could do is of two sorts: the first concerns his marriage to ~udit , and the second involves sutpen's inability and refusal ~o recognize .Bon as his so~. Neither of these matters devolves from sutpen's own opinions or feelin~s abo~t Bo~~ bl k blood· it is only the perfection, both inner and outer, of his design wi . wh~~h he is 'concerned. For had he allowed Charles to marry Judith, the apparent com- pletion and success of his design would be a "mockery and betrayal" of the design itself, not in the eyes of the world and the society, for no one would ever need to know of Ben's true nature, but in Sutpen's own eyes. The reality of his design would not fit that abstract picture in his mind of the perfect aristocratic family and life . The fact that he knew that Bon was black disallowed any marriage, fo r such an event would render his design imperfect. It is Sutpen's abstract conception of blackness as something unsuitable and bad which determines his thoughts and actions. Sutpen's inability to recognize or acknowledge Bon as his son also depended on the success and ultimate perfection of his design. To have acknowledged Bon would mean to acknowledge and accept his own failure, again not necessarily in society' s view but in his own. The perfection of his design had already been impeded and marred by the travesty (in Sutpen's eyes) which was his first marriage. Sutpen r e garded his virginity as part of his design, as he tells General Compson: 'On this night I am speaking of (and until my first marriage I might add) I was still a virgin. You will probably not believe that, and if I were · to try to explain it you would disbelieve me more than ever. So I will only s~y that that too was a part of the design which I had in my mind.' (p. 248) Not only did he lose his virginity in that first marriage, but for the price of it got a black wife and a black son, who: made an ironic delusion of all that he had suffered and endured in the past and all that he could ever accomplish in the future toward that design. (p. 263) So that when he saw Bon when Henry brought him home that first Christmas, he knew, . sensed , what was going to happen, and: he must have felt and heard the design--house, position, posterity and all- -come down like it had been built out of smoke, making no sound, creat_ing no rush of displaced air and not even leaving any debris. (p. 267) Sutpen had failed and probably knew it, yet never gave up trying. He chose to play his last trump card and use Henry to stop Bon. Sutpen's inability to acknowledge Bon is also the reason why he had to use Henry as his instrument in disposing of Bon; had Sutpen himself acted against Bon , it would have been tant amount to acknowledging Ben's existence both as his son and as a problem. sutpen did practice slavery, yet did not reserve blacks for this treatment. He used anyone who could possibly further his design: both his wives, Eulalia and Ellen, Rosa, Henry, Mr. Coldfield, the French architect, and his slaves. Sutpen "chose them with the same care and shrewdness with which he chose the other livestock--the horses and mules and cattle" (p. 61} , and used them in the same way, as tools and instruments to accomplish his design, never recognizing them as individuals, human beings who had lives and thoughts and feelings of their own. In one sense he was trying (like Judith in giving Bon's letter to General Compson's wife) to make an impression, leave his mark, only in his case by establishing a dynasty; yet, he never realized (as Judith did) that his own actions affected and were intertwined with the actions and lives of other people, and that in his blind monomania he might hurt one of those people to the . extent that his business- like justice and recompense could never repair the injury done . Sutpen touched and harmed the "central I - Am" of many of the people with whom he came in contact, but the harm a r ose not out of any par ticular verbal or physical blow; rather, the harm arose out of his re j e ction of 13 ' 12 I �and his blindness to the fact that those people even had an "I-Am," that they had any other existence but that which he could manipulate and use. Sutpen did not deny his own hwnanity because he was never aware that there existed anything like humanity that could either be embraced or denied; he was simply "innocent" of any concept which postulated a shared and common existence. He could never imagine or comprehend that he had wronged anyone, or done anyone an injustice, or, if he had, he believed that he had done everything in his power to make it right. He never realized that someone might give him something like love and not demand something in return. 'You see, I had a design in my mind. Whether it was a good or bad design is beside the point; the question is, Where did I make the mistake in it, what did I do or misdo in it, whom or what injure by it to the extent which this would indicate. I had a design. · To accomplish it I should require money, a house, a plantation, slaves, a family--incidentally of course, a wife. I set out to acquire these, asking no favor of any man.' (p. 263) sutpen is incapable of seeing himself as culpable for any injustice or inhumanity which would warrant the seeming punishment and destruction which Bon was poised (whether intentionally or not) to mete out and accomplish. And he [Sutpen] not calling it retribution, no sins of the father come home to roost 1 not even calling it bad luck, but just a mistake: that mistake which he could not discover himself. (p. 267) su~pen • s inability to recognize his shared humanity, his inability to ask something of someone without believing that sooner or later they would require him to repay his debt 1 and his "crimes" against humanity, are part of the tragedy of his life. The final and fatal irony, however, which completes the tragedy of Sutpen himself 1 is that in perpetrating his crimes, sutpen re-enacts the very offense which was done to that little boy before the front door of that plantation house, and which was the impetus and reason for his design. The plantation owner rejected him because he was guilty of that very same blindness of which Sutpen himself was subsequently guilty, that blindness which in the planter's case designated some people as simply inferior because of the color of their skin or because of their poverty. At one point in the book Sutpen tells General Compson that if a little boy were to knock on his front door: that now he would take that boy in where he would never again need to stand on the outside of a white door and knock at it: and not at all for mere shelter but so that that boy, that whatever nameless stranger, could shut that door himself forever behind him on all that he had ever known, and look ahead along the still undivulged light rays in which his descendants who might not even ever hear his [the boy's] name, waited to be born without even having to know that they had once been riven forever free from brutehood just as his own [Sutpen's] children were. (p. 261) This passage might be viewed as a glimpse of Sutpen's humanity, of some kindness, yet I think that it only lends further emphasis to Sutpen's innocence. I do not doubt that he might say this and believe it of himself, yet it is ironic that even while saying this he was in the process of turning away a little boy {Bon) and that.he had shut the door in the faces of many others, while simultaneously (and unconsciously) advocating and practicing that very "brutehood" from which he believed he had escaped. 14 Though until now Sutpen has been portrayed as a tragic figure, it is difficult to see hi~ as the final embodiment or resultant of that tragedy. Sutpen never does escape his innocence, he never learns the true nature of his mistake or fault, and lastly he never gives up trying to bring his design to fruition. It finally requires Time itself to come personified as wash Jones with that rusty scythe to stop him. Sutpen simply refused to admit and accept his ultimate failure. Conclusion Thomas Sutpen was an amazing man; one cannot help but be attracted and fascinated by him. I have tried in this paper to illuminate the tragic aspects of sutpen and his life, but finally I think his character resists any simple or easy formula . Sutpen refuses to be labeled as simply "tragic" because he never learns (as Judith and Henry do) and never gives up on his design. Yet other characterizations lead to problems also, such as the identification of Sutpen as a symbol for the South, or as simply an evil man. I have chosen the tragic because I think that it yields the most fruit; that is, reveals the most about Sutpen • s character. He remains an enigma. The sensitive reader, I think, may very well sympathize and understand Wash when he thinks: *How could I have lived nigh to him for twenty years without being touched and changed by him? (p. 287) Thomas sutpen and his story affect one powerfully, but not simply. The reader may very well find himself vacillating between two extreme and oppos~te feelings about him; at one moment he m~y feel pity for Sutpen, and at the ne~t be thinking with wash, *Better if his kind and mine too had never drawn., the breath of life on this earth. Better that all who remain of us be blasted from the face of it than that another Wash Jones should see his whole life shredded from him and shrivel away like a dried shuck thrown onto the fire. (pp. 290-291) Thomas Sutpen's story is a story about the South, but it is also ·a story about America, in which the American dream of rising from poverty to wealth and fame becomes a nightmare. Because you make so little impression, you see. You get born and you try this and you don't know why only you keep on trying it and you are born at the same time with a lot of other people, all mixed up with them, like trying to, having to, move your arms and legs with strings only the same strings are hitched to all . the other arms and legs and the others' all trying and they don't know why either except that the strings are all in one another's way like five or six people all trying to make a rug on the same loom only each one wants to weave his own pattern into the rug; and it can't matter, you know that, or the Ones that set up the loom would have arranged things a little better, and yet it must matter because you keep on trying' or having to keep on trying and then all of a sudden it's all over and all you have left is a block of stone with scratches on it provided there was someone to remember to have the marble scratched and set up or had time to, and it rains on it and the sun shines on it and after a while they don't even remember the name and what the scratches were trying to tell, and it doesn't matter. And so maybe if you could go to someone, the stranger the better, and give them something--a scrap of paper--something, 15 �anything, it not to mean anything in itself and them not even to re~d it or keep it, not even bother to throw it away or destroy it, at least it wou~d be something just because it would have happened, be remembered even 7f only from passing from one hand to another, one mind to another, and 1 t would be at least a scratch, something, something that might make a mark on something that was once for the reason that it can die someday, while the block of stone can't be is because it never can become was because it can't ever die or perish ••• (pp. 127-128) Footnotes 1. There is also an omniscient narrator who plays a minor role. He sets the scene for each conversation, and gives an account of Sutpen's arrival in Jefferson in the beg inning ·of Chapter I I. 2. From Dylan Thomas's poem "The World Is Too Much With us." stanza. 3. From The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner. is something that Mr. Compson says to Quentin. 4. In The Sound and the Fury we learn that Quentin is obsessed with his sister's virginity, and contemplates incest as a means to "preserve" it. Quentin and Henry share many conunon traits, not the least being the close relationships they have with their sisters. s. From The sound and the Fury. This is the first I cannot find the line, but it Quentin drowns himself in the Charles River on June 2, 1910. 6. The best example of this is the delayed fact that Milly's baby was a girl (see p. 292). (All page numbers used in this essay refer to the Vintage Books Edition of Absalom, Absaloml by William Faulkner.) 161 ''A Shallow Reading of Marx" and Other Likely Stories Michael Strong '. This is a waffling essay. I have tried to be fair in judging two antagonists . They have each in turn seduced my judgement entirely. I hope that I have put each in some perspective so that the place of each contribution might be appreciated. If nothing else, the issues have been clarified somewhat, at least for me. First I introduce the problem: virtually all of those who make it their profession to study economic phenomena believe that Marx is wrong. In trying to understand their reasons for believing so, I point out the flaws in Marx's theory of value from their perspective. I then review the teaching on value of the father of economics, Adam smith. Although he adheres to a labor theory of value that is not in its essence different from Marx's labor theory of value, I show how his theory is "corrected" by subsequent economists. I then turn to Marx and follow his argument on value in the beginning of Das Kapital. I try to show how radically different the entire endeavor of his theory is. Finally, I try to delineate the advantages and disadvantages of each theory. It is almost too easy to defeat his argument: first, it is unnecessary, if not ridiculous to assume that the commonality of commodities relies on a property inher' ent in them. It can be pointed out that the relational aspect of the exchanging parties, both with respect to each other and each with respec~ to their commodities, is obviously significant in determining the quantitative relation in which use-values are exchanged. That is, how much of each commodity each party has in its possession, and how great the need or desire is for each commodity that is not in its possession. or to be generous and speak in Marx's terms, it is not true that "only one property remains, that of being products of labor." (p. 128) Another property remains, that of being scarce items relative to demand. Marx has been defeated in his argument for his labor theory of value. It is too easy to "defeat" Marx's arguments. Especially when he is not arguing what one thought he was arguing. I shall consider the foregoing a shallow reading of Marx as I now proceed to understand him on his own terms. It is very plausible to r ead Mar x in the above manner, and, given the presuppositions of a political economist, it is difficult not to do so. . First of all, such a concept of "defeating" an argument assumes that Marx is arguing in a logically sequential and dependent manner: a deductive sequence rather than in the dialectical mode. I here understand the dialectical mode as one in which a thought is developed until it makes sense, and then another is contrasted with it to deepen it. Like the verbal process of dialectic, the dialectical mode is almost a s e ries of appr ox imations, asymptotically approaching the truth, although a de finite margin of error may exist on either side. Indeed, the error is almost used to define the next step in the logic, for it necessitates its own correction. If this is an accurate description of Marx's method of argument, it is pointless to pull out individual statements as inaccurate in hopes of "proving" Marx wrong. Inaccurate statements will probably be corrected by subsequent developments in the theory. Second, Marx is not trying to argue for a labor theory of value. He is cr~ating the first theor y o f t he commodity . This distinction will prove most helpful in un- 17 �derstanding his argument and hence his contribution to the study of political economy. Statements that seemed to be virtually ridiculous will now have a context in which they make sense. The first step towards understanding Chapter 1 is to read the preface to the first edition. \ Marx writes in the preface to the first ed~tion of Das Kapital his conception of the nature of his project: Beginnings are always difficult in all the sciences. The understanding of the first chapter, especially the section that contains the analysis of commodities, will therefore present the greatest difficulty. • • • The value-form, whose fully developed shape is the money-form, is very simple and slight in content. Nevertheless, the human mind has sought in vain for more than 2,000 years to get to the bottom of it, while on the other hand there has been at least an approximation to a successful analysis of forms which are much richer in content and more complex. Why? Because the complete body is easier to study than its cells. Moreover, in the analysis of economic forms neither microscopes nor chemical reagents are of assistance. The power of abstraction must replace both. But for bourgeois society, the commodity-form of the product of labor, or the value-form of the commodity, is the economic cell-form. Marx conceives Das Kapital to be the beginning of a science. He believes that no one before him has satisfactorily illuminated the economic process; he is writing a critique of all previous political economy. His conception of the scope of his science does not seem to be limited to measuring variations in the Market. He perceives his great scientific triumph to be the discovery of "the value-form, whose fully developed shape is the money-form." If it is thought that Marx is offering a labor theory of value, then it does not make sense for him to make the extravagant claim that he has discovered something that "the human mind has sought in vain for more than 2,000 years." At the very least, Smith and his followers had been discussing something like that for almost 100 years. However, he is not simply offering a theory of prices, for Marx understands the value-form to be prior to the money-form. Moreover the form is very important to Marx. Nor is he studying the Market, for that would be "the---cc;mplete body". Marx understands wealth to be nothing more than a great collection of commodities. The commodity is the cell-form or capitalism, the basic unit behind even the great structure of the Market. Thus Marx begins his analysis of economic activity by examining the commodity. I will return to Chapter 1, "The Commodity", Section 1, "The Two Factors of the Commodity: Use-Value and Value" and try to understand the development of his argument a little more deeply. The first step for Marx is to define what is meant by a commodity. Marx's analysis of the colIUl\Odity-form is philosophical rather than scientific. He wants to know the nature and the source of this form. He begins with the distinction between use-value and exchange-value. To be a commodity, an article must have both kinds of value: There must be a use for it, and it must have some value in exchange. Marx describes use-value as the value that an object has through its usefulness to human beings in a given society at a given time. An object with use-value has qualities which satisfy human needs of whatever sort. "Use values are only realized in use or in consumption." (p.126 ) They are "only realized", meaning they are merely potentially use-values previous to their consumption. Use-values are strictly a function of the qualities of an object, without regard to quantity. Marx centers his discussion of the commodity on exchange-value, because it is exchange-value which distinguishes the commodity-form of use-value from other forms of use-value: .18 [Exchange-value] appears first . of all as the quantitative relation, the proportion, in which use values of one kind are exchanged for use values of another kind. This relation changes constantly with time and place. Hence exchange value appears to be something accidental and purely relative, and consequently an intrinsic value, i.e. an exchange value that is inseparably connected with the commodity, inherent in it, seems a contradiction in terms. (p. 126) ,"Appears first of all as the quantitative relation" refers to the genesis of the existence of exchange-value. The question is "How does the commodity-form come to be?" Its distinguishing component is exchange-value. Thus he embarks on his investigation of exchange-value. Marx has introduced the basic problems associated with having a knowledge of "exchange value". It is true that it appears first of all as the quantitative relation, and it has always been quantified. The exact amount, however, does change constantly with time and place. It does seem to be a purely relative phenomenon. But some exchange-value is the prerequisite to a commodity-form. If Marx wants to understand the commodity-form, then he must understand the nature of this exchange-value as prerequisite. Thus, in this logical structure, Marx knows ~ priori that the relativity is merely an appearance. This statement still appears at first to be absolutely absurd; the high exchange- value of a fashionable dress this year can fall to virtually nothing in five years. However, such examples are easily dismissed already; in order for an object to be a commodity, it must have a use-value. In such extreme examples, the object no longer has a use-value. Or if it does have a use-value, it is not the same use- value it originally had, and therefore is not the same commodity that it originally was. The original use-value of the dress was to display the fashionability of the wearer much more than to protect against the elements. As the original use-value vanishes with time, .the remaining use-value transforms the dress into a very different commodity with a very different exchange-value . An intrinsic value becomes a possibility. because a commodity is not simply a material object in Marx's usage. Marx now deduces the relation of exchange-value to commodity: Let us now take two commodities, for example corn and iron. Whatever their exchange relation may be, it can always be represented by an equation in which a given quantity of corn is equated to some quantity of iron, for instance 1 quarter of corn = X cwt of iron. What does this equation signify? It signifies that a common element of identical magnitude exists in two different thing s , in 1 quarter of corn and similarly in x cwt of iron . Both are therefo re equal to a third thing, which in itself is neither the one nor the other. Each of them, so far as it is exchange-value, must therefore be reducible to this third thing. (p. 127) "Let us now take two commodities"--The question is, tween two commodities that makes them such? Because have a common element. Exchange-value is that commensurable entities. Because he is investigating commodity, not value, it is no longer absurd for Marx what is the common element bethey are commodities, they must which makes two commodities specifically the na ture of the to state: This common element cannot be a geometrical, physical, chemical or other natural property of commodities. (p. 127) When he claims that "only one property remains, that of being products of labor", he is intentionally defining his analysis in terms of the properties of the commodity. 19 1 �Moreover, he is not ignoring the relational aspects of exchange-value (the supply-demand arguments} , as his subsequent discussion of the nature of this "labor" reveals. In the analysis of his theory, it is more helpful to consider some kind of "labor" as being a property of the commodity-form. In addition, this sort of analysis falls out of the dialectical method--he proposes a hypothesis that is plausible and then refines it as additional theoretical burdens are required of it. It will turn out that this labor is very abstract and relational. Indeed, Marx's next point is that this labor is not any particular kind of labor--it is abstract labor: But even the product of labour has already been transformed in our hands. If we make abstraction from its use-value, we abstract also from the material constituents and forms which make it a use-value ••• All the sensuous characteristics are extinguished ••• With the disappearance of the use.ful character of the products of labour, the useful character of the kinds of labour embodied in them also disappears; this in turn entails the disappearance of the different concrete forms of labour. They can no longer be distinguished, but are all together reduced to the same kind of labour, human labour in the abstract. (p. 128) The point seems easy enough to understand: the labor that is the source of value is abstract labor, not any particular kind of labor •. It has to be something general enough to contain all the varied particular forms of labor. Apparently all that is meant by "abstract labour" is labor insofar as it creates value. However, this is a topic on which Marx provides some wonderful metaphors to help us understand how he is really thinking of abstract labor: Let us now look at the residue of the products of labour. There is nothing left of them in each case but the same phantom-like objectivity; they are merely congealed quantities of homogeneous human labour-power expended without regard to the form of its expenditure. All these things now tell us that human labour-power has been expended to produce them, human labour is accumulated in them. As crystals of this social substance, which is common to them all, they are values--commodity values. (p. 128) time to complete the article. He then corrects himself: ., The labour that forms the substance of value is equal human labour, the expenditure of identical human labour- power. In addition to the abstraction from the particularities of any given profession, Marx's abstract labor is abstracted from the proficiencies of any given worker . It is becoming clear that Marx is not suggesting any simple proportion between hours worked and exchange-value resulting. His theory of value is not meant to be a calculus for comparing prices separated by great temporal or geographical distances, though it is similar enough to Smith's theory to work at that level as an approximation. Marx's point is that regardless of particular conditions, the source of value behind all market variations, in all commodities, is abstract labor. We have learned that a commodity has two factors, use-value and exchange-value. Use-value was purely qualitative, exchange-value was purely quantitative. Labor was the only "property" that commodities had in common which could explain the possibility of exchange-values. This labor was very abstract, at the least an abstraction from the particularities of type of labor and proficiency of labor. Marx wants to learn what makes a commodity what it is. In the last Section of Chapter 1, on "The Fetishism of the Commodity and its Secret", Marx states: A commodity appears at first sight an extremely obvious, trivial thing. But its analysis brings out that it is a very strange thing, abounding in metaphysical subtleties and theological niceties. So far as it is a use-value, there is nothing mysterious about it ••• But as soon as it emerges as a commodity, it changes into a thing which transcends sensuousness ••• The mysterious character of the commodity-form consists therefore simply in the fact that the commodity reflects the social characteristics of men's own labour as objective characteristics of the products of labour themselves ••• the commodity-form, and the value-relation of the products of labour within which it appears, have absolutely no connection with the physical nature of the commodity and the material relations arising out of this. It is nothing but the definite social relation between men themselves which assumes here, for them, the fantastic form of a relation between things. (p. 163-165) Marx paints a vivid picture of the commodity-form of value. He speaks in terms of labor as a human experience. The "residue of the products of labour" suggests that which is left behind after one has labored. That nothing has been left in them but "the same phantom~like objectivity" tells us that the subjectivity, the personality, has been taken out. That they are merely "congealed quantities of homogeneous human labor" provokes images of something blood-like having been left behind in the process of laboring towards this commodity. Abstract labor is not simply non-specific labor. It is also no longer human labor, a sign that the capitalist system of production itself is no longer a system of economic relations between people, per se. An observer of the Market would pass over this facet of the economic relation as not pertinent to economics. Marx places it in the middle of his dialectical analysis of the commodity. Next Marx refines the concept of abstract labor: The labor must be "socially necessary" labor. In discussing how labor is to be measured, Marx discovers that it is to be measured by duration. He then replies to himself: In the first analysis of Marx's text, I took a commodity to be an obvious, material thing. Marx's explanation of value in that context was lacking. Here we see that Marx's conception is much more complex. The commodity-form is a congealed version of the social relations between men. As such, for Marx there can be no separation between an economic science and a sociological science, and thus any moral implications that are associated with the revealed social relations. The cell-form of the economic system represents the relations between men. Now that I have some appreciation of the richness and complexity , as well as a knowledge,of the basic elements, of Marx's commodity theory, I am ready to begin to understand what he is saying. To help in this, I will move to his discussion of classical political economy with regard to its failings in analyzing the value-form. In "The Fetishism of the Commodity and Its Secret", Marx states: It might seem that if the value of a commodity is determined by the quantity of labour expended to produce it, it would be the more valuable the more unskillful and lazy the worker who produced it, because he would need more Political economy has indeed analyzed value and its magnitude, however incompletely, and has uncovered the content concealed within these forms. But it has ne ver once asked the question why this content has assumed that 2b 21 �particular form, that is to say, why labour is expressed in value, and why the measurement of labour by its duration is expressed in the magnitude of the value of the product. These formulas, which bear the unmistakable stamp of belonging to a social formation in which the process of production has mastery over man, instead of the opposite, appear to be political economists' bourgeois consciousness to be as much a self-evident and nature-imposed necessity as productive labour itself. (p. 173-175) Now, one sentence at a time: Political economy has indeed analyzed value and its magnitude, however incompletely, and has uncovered the content concealed within these forms. The first clause is a statement of the purpose of value theory in classical political economy. Marx is aware of the insufficiencies of classical value theory in achieving its purpose of analyzing economic magnitude. The "content concealed within these forms" is opaque from the point of view of political economy. For Marx, the "con.:. tent" is labor and the "form" is exchange-value. But it (political economy) has never once asked the question why this content has assumed that particular form and why the measurement of labour by its duration is expressed in the magnitude of the value of the product. What does he mean "Why the measurement of labour by its duration is expressed in the magnitude of the value of the product"? What kind of answer could there be to such a question? I thought that Marx had deduced this relationship in Section 1. There is no need to ask such a "why". Isn't it like asking why mass "is expressed" as weight? Mass is expressed as weight because the force of gravity pulls on masses equally, thus assuring a proportion between the masses of bodies and their weights. That's just the way gravity works. Likewise, labor "is expressed" in value because the demand for labor pulls on the products of labor equally, assuring a proportion between the duration of labor in a product and its value. That's just the way demand works. Fortunately, Marx provides us with a footnote to clarify this point: It is one of the chief failings of classical political economy that it has never succeeded, by means of its analysis of commodities, and in particular of their value, in discovering the form of value which in fact turns value into exchange-value. "which in fact turns value into exchange-value." What value into exchange-value? In conformity to the usual contrast, I take the it to be use-value that is transformed into exchange-value. The point Marx is developing is that it is not necessary for use-values to be exchange-values. There are alternative value-forms, in alternative economic systems: (same footnote continued) The value-form of the product of labour is the most abstract, but also the most universal form of the bourgeois mode of production~ by that fact it stamps the bourgeois mode of production as a particular kind of social production of a historical and transitory character. If then we make the mistake of treating it as the eternal natural form of social production, we necessarily overlook the specificity of the value-form, and consequently of the commodity-form together with its further developments, the money-form, the capital-form, etc. 22 ., These remarks provide some idea of the scope of Marx's investigation and what he means by a deeper analysis than that of classical political economy. Marx is concerned with where the Market came from and where it is going to. Since the commodity is the cell-form, he is interested in how it came to be that particular cell-form and what other cell-forms are possible. In a communist society, commodities, and thus exchange-values, will not exist. In feudal society, use-values were distributed by means of the corvee and tithes in addition to the commodity-form and its exchange-value; thus Marx's criticisms of the narrowness of political economy. Nor are these idle observations, of interest solely to those who believe in the revolution or with a historical fondness for medieval times. The distinction between use-value and exchange-value, taken for granted in a capitalist system, is the source of a major difficulty, even in a capitalist system. Use-values are commensurable with "human" values1 exchange-values are not. We choose between the various ways of using our time: eating, sleeping, thinking, acting, etc. our time is necessarily consumed by acquiring certain use-values, such as food and shelter. Human values, too, must be expressed in the same finite period of time. There are circumstances in which we choose between the two in our allotted time. We can build an extra shelter or we can study the stars, build a plaything or take time with our civic responsibilities. In our decision-making, we naturally decide between use-values and human values. This is not the case with exchange-values and human values. Exchange-values are the quantity of labor that can be conunanded by a given article, a commodity-form of labor. Exchange-values are quantitative, and, qua exchange-value, more is better. (Thus Marx's later characterization of capital as an uncontrollable, self-sustaining creature that necessitates its own growth.) There are no qualitative considerations in exchange-value. Marx recognizes the critical importance of the distinction between use-value and exchange-value; this importance is not in facilitating calculations, but in the fact that it is an unnecessary, and largely undesirable, social distinction. If we return to the quoted text (leaving the footnote), we can now understand the last sentence: These formulas, which bear the unmistakable stamp of belonglng to a social formation in which the process of production has mastery over man, instead of · the opposite, appear to the political economists' bourgeois consciousness to be as much a self-evident and nature-imposed necessity as productive labor itself. To start with the final (easier) clause, of course the commodity-form, exchange-value, and duration as a measure of labor's value producing capacity appear as givens in the system of economic science. Economics by Marx's time had already defined itself as the study of the Market in capitalist society. An economist would not find Marx's insult interesting or informed. Why "these formulas" bear the stamp of a social formation, in which the production process has mastery over man, is directly related to Marx's emphasis on understanding the nature of the conunodity-form. The "stamp" that these formulas bear is that of the alienating commodity-form, with its congealed abstract labor; the commodity-form, of which the only intrinsic property is exchange-value. Marx sees, in the "givens" of political economy, the essence of human domination by the material forces of production. One of his more extravagant metaphors might now be taken more seriously: The "dead" labor of a commodity, because of the very nature of the commodity-form, sucks the life-blood from living labor. Marx's theory does provide us with a more detailed picture of economic relations than does a merely descriptive theory. Because of science's wondrous successes at 23 �prediction, the bulk of attention is directed towards meticulous description, in hopes that it will lead to accurate predictions. An understanding for its own sake, of what occurs in economic transactions, is not generally appreciated. Yet regardless of accuracy, Marx's theory enables us to consider the type of interactions that occur. It thus allows us to consider factors other than maximizing material wealth. Marx's theory is not very useful for analyzing the fascinating rules which govern the Market mechanism. On the other hand, economic relations become significant human activities in the theory, in that it depicts the dehumanizing aspects of commodity-production in a capitalist system. In addition, one might question the legitimacy of a social theory based strictly on man's material intercourse. Objects that are bought and sold can be quantified and commodities can be defined as such objects. If value is simply a reflection of price, it too can be quantified. But there may yet be a purpose in qualitative observations on these material relations; such observations may even be useful to the quantifiers. The issue of whether the laborer is "exploited" depends on whether labor is the . sole source of value. This question remains undecided. Marx uses the claim that labor is the sole . source of value1 whether that claim is derived from an explicit labor theory of value or a theory of the commodity-form, it still amounts to the same thing when he applies it to his theory of surplus value and exploitation of the worker. Is this claim defensible? Marx's labor is abstract, identical, socially average labor. In order for an object to be a commodity, it must have both a use-value and an exchange-value • . If a commodity has use-value in a given society, then Marx would claim that the ultimate source of its value is congealed socially average labor-time. Such a statement seems true; I know of no objects that are purchased that do not have some labor- time congealed in them. The claim that their value is in some sense proportionate to the amount of labor-time congealed in them is less obvious. Yet the qualifications that the labor-time be socially average labor-time and that the object have a use-value make the proportion impossible to calculate with any precision. Moreover, Marx is willing to believe in a discrepancy between relative price and exchange-value. Given Marx's conditions, it is very plausible that labor is the source of value; but it is not proven in any definite sense. I had hoped to resolve something in this essay. I now fear that Marx is right in that there can be no compromise with bourgeois political economy. Marx's analysis of the commodity has convinced me that exchange-value is incommensurable with human values. I had hoped to see an economic science that could be cognizant of the human condition, as Marx's analysis is. As long as the fi r st distinction in an economic theory of value is between use-value and exchange-value, such a "sensitive" economics is impossible. It is difficult to imagine an economics that begins in any other way. Ma . . . demoiselle Stuart Sobczynski o I Ma ••• demoiselle Liquide Splendide Flowing down the street Glancing from curb to curb Like your eyes within your gaze so of ten So of ten I remember my delight at the beach Staring sullen straight into the sunset As patience alone Caused the sea to stand still Though the waves sang still And the same at the sight Of your eyes Dancing within your face Your smile Singing Light Still A Translation From Louis Menard's Circe Liz Waldner Sweet as a beam of moon, as a tone of lyre At her single smile the feral yield with soft moan. With her eyes' caressing a magical fire Burns each our breath with ecstasy kindling on bone. The lions wild and roaring, the great grizzled bears Lick their ivory claws; a cloud slow from her censers Envelops them. She sings, she allures, she ensnares, Sinister Pleasure, with all powerful philt.r es. All page numbers used refer to the Vintage Books Edition of Capital by Karl Marx. Under yoke of desire she draws in her wake Innumerable troops of creatures, her retinue, Charmed by her virgin regard, her mouth's lies rehearsed Tranquil, irresistible. Ah! accurst, accurst! Since you change man into beast at least lull to sleep The shame and remorse in our hearts sore full of you. 24 25 �..... . A Fishhook for Hobbes's Leviathan Daniel Schoos . How are we to understand the Leviathan to be Christian, or in other words, in what way is a Hobbesian commonwealth a Christian commonwealth? Hobbes is subtle in revealing his true thoughts on this matter, despite his passion for his exactness in speech and his apportionment of the entirety of Part III of Leviathan to the topic "Of a Christian Common-weal th." Hobbes's caution is merited by the heretical and atheistic foundation on which the structure of his commonweal th stands, for hi~ analogy between the sovereign and God, which appears throughout Leviathan, is not an analogy at all, but rather an identity, a practical equivalence. In chapter 43, Hobbes states, "The (Unum Necessarium) Only Article of Faith, which the Scripture maketh simply Necessary to Salvation, is this, that Jesus is The Christ. By the name of Christ is understood the King, ••• " However, throughout the book Hobbes's intent is to argue for the converse of that assertion, namely that the king, or sovereign, is Christ. When we say, "is Christ," it is not meant that the sovereign is truly Jesus Christ, the Saviour, God-man, of Scripture. Rather, the sovereign takes the place of Christ. This is the essence of Hobbes's perfect Leviathan, or Christian commonwealth, specifically, that if the "sovereign" be Christ, then his commonwealth is salvation, or heaven on earth. What Hobbes does not mean is for salvation to rest in God replacing the sovereign. Instead, it is that salvation rests in the sovereign replacing God. The first step towards a better understanding of this answer lies in recognizing the difference between the "Commonwealth" or "Leviathan" as described by Hobbes, and any other kingdom or commonwealth. Hobbes is not looking at any past or contemporary government as a model for the art whereby he builds his "Common-wealth." Instead, he compares himself with Plato, as one who is creating new rules by which the best of commonwealths would be structured. This is an important distinction whose significance is highlighted by a complimentary distinction Hobbes makes in chapter 31. Throughout Leviathan Hobbes speaks of a "Kingdom of God," but there are two kinds of such a kingdom, and these are described in chapter 31. The first is the "Natural!," the second is the "Prophetique," also called the "peculiar." Hobbes defines the "Natural!" as, "wherein God governeth as many of mankind as acknowledge his Providence, by the natural! Dictates of Right Reason." Shortly before this passage Hobbes had explained that those who do not "acknowledge his Providence," such as "Bodies Inanimate" and "creatures Irrationall," as well as "Atheists" and "They that believe not that God has any care of the actions of mankind," are not properly speaking, God's subjects, but, at least for human beings, "are to be understood as Enemies." The "Prophetique" or "peculiar" kingdom is described as, that "one peculiar Nation (the Jews ) " which God chose to rule "not only by natural! Reason, but by Positive Lawes, which he gave them by the mouths of his holy Prophets." Later, in chapter 35, Hobbes dismisses the notion that by the kingdom of God is meant, "Eternall Felicity, after this life, in the Highest Heaven." He restates his belief that it means nothing more than "the Monarchy, that is to say, Soveraign Power of God over any Subjects acquired by their own consent, ••• " (italics mine) The first of these "peculiar" kingdoms was that with Abraham. Hobbes is careful to stress in chapter 40 26 ' that the covenant God made was with Abraham only, and that it was due to the prior situation, wherein Abraham had a "lawful power" · to make all his family and future family "perform all that he covenanted for them," that Abraham was able to extend his covenant over them. This kingdom lasted through Jacob, "but afterwards no more, till the Israelites ••• arrived at the foot of Mount Sinai; and then it was renewed by Moses •.• " According to Hobbes, Moses was not the true "soveraign" of the Israelites until at Sinai they declared: "speak thou with us, and we will hear, but let not God speak with us, lest we die." Afterwards, the succession continued through Aaron's heirs, ending with the election of Saul as king. For when the Israelites "deposed the High Priest of Royal Authority, they deposed that peculiar Government of God." It is this "peculiar" kingdom which Hobbes claims Christ shall restore at his second coming, as in "The World To Come" presented in chapter 38. Hobbes makes it clear in chapter 35 that this is a "Civill Kingdome" and explains: The Kingdome therefore of God, is a reall, not a metaphoricall Kingdome; and so taken, not onely in the Old Testament, but the New; when we say, For thine is the Kingdome, the Power, and Glory, · it is to be understood of Gods Kingdorne, by force of 00r Covenant, not by the Right of Gods Power; for such a Kingdome God alwaies hath; so that it were superfluous to say in our prayer, Thy Kingdome ~' unlesse it be meant of the Res:auration of t~at Kingdome of God by Christ, which by revolt of the Israelites had been interrupted in the election of Saul. In Chapter 12, Hobbes reveals that in the "peculiar" kingdom of God, "the policy, and Lawes Civill, are a part of Religion; and therefore the distinction . of Temporal!, and Spiritual Domination, hath.there no place." Now as there was a distinction between a "Natural!" and "peculiar" kingdom of God, so is there a distinction made in chapter 12 between the "Natural!" seeds of religion and the "supernatural!" seeds of religion. What shall proceed to be shown is that the "peculiar" kingdom of God is one based on the supernatural seed of religion planted by God. Yet for Hobbes this supernatural! seed, based on revelation by God, is only an empty argument, leading us back to the natural seeds of religion. From there the only path is that to the converse of the "peculiar" kingdom of God, where the sovereign replaces Christ. That the "peculiar" kingdom of God is based on the supernatural seed of religion is evident from chapter 12, where Hobbes describes the two seeds of religion. "Divine Poli tiques," as opposed to "humane Poli tiques," is organized by men "by Gods commandment," men such as Abraham, Moses, and Christ, men "by whom have been derived unto us the Laws of the Kingdome of God." Hobbes elucidates later: "But where God himselfe, by supernatural! Revelation, planted Religion; there he also made to himselfe a peculiar kingdome; and gave Lawes." The relationship between the "peculiar" kingdom of God and "supernaturall Revelation" clearly established, let us explore the signi.ficance of "~upernaturall Re~e­ lation," to see why it cannot stand on its own as a viable foundation for a Hobbesian "Common-wealth.... The very opening of chapter 12, "OF RELIGION," immediately t~rows suspicion on any attempt to distinguish between seeds of religion. Hobbes writes: "seeing there are no signes, nor fruit of Religion, but in Man onely; there is no cause to doubt, but that the seed of Religion, is also onely in Man." Hobbes explains that "every man" is "in an estate like to that of Prometheus," because he "hath his heart all the day long, gnawd on by feare of death, poverty, or other calamity." Fear and ignorance are the basis of the natural seed of religion. . But to return to the "supernatural! Revelation," the seed of God's "peculiar" kingdom, we find throughout Leviathan that Hobbes meticulously and methodically removes all power from the side of the supernatural. Hobbes more often connects 27 �"supernatural!" or "spiritual!" with fear, darkness, strife, and evil, than with God. Hobbes disparages the "Pretense of Inspiration" (ch. 29), cautions against the role of miracles (ch . 37) , and is utterly suspicious of prophecy (ch. 36) • Hobbes is clear: "there is no Covenant with God, but by mediation of some body that representeth Gods Person; ••• [viz.] Gods Lieutenant, who hath the Soveraignty under God." In Leviathan the example is given of Abraham, previously mentioned, whose covenant with God extended to his heirs only because of a previous, natural and civil, agreement. "God spake onely to Abraham," Hobbes claims, "and therefore contracted not with any of his family, or seed, otherwise than as their wills ••• were before the Contract involved in the will of Abraham." In other words, the "peculiar" kingdom of God was first founded, indeed, could only have been founded, because there existed already a civil sovereign. In chapter 40 Hobbes states that, "they to whom God hath not spoken immediately, are to receive the positive commandements of God, from their Sovereign; as the family and seed of Abraham did from Abraham their Father, and Lord, and Civill Soveraign." What of those to whom God hath spoken immediately? Hobbes's discussion on prophecy and inspiration is lengthy and complicated, yet a concise explanation of this particular situation can be given. Hobbes is careful by dividing such prophets into two categories, the "Prophets of perpetuall Calling" and "subordinate prophets." The former class were "first Moses; and after him the High Priest, every one for his time, as long as t..hc priesthood was Royall." After the so-called revolt of the Jews from God, "those Kings which SUbmit.tQd them.s elves to Gods government" were the "Soveraign Prophets. "Of the subordinate Prophets" Hubbes concludes! I find not any place that proveth God spake to them supernaturally; but onely in such manner, as naturally he inclined men to Piety, to Beleef, to Righteousnesse, ••• Which way, though it consist in Constitution, Instruction, Education ••• yet it is truly attributed to the operation of the ••• Holy Spirit ••• For there is no good inclination, that is not of the operation of God. But these operations are not alwaies supernaturall. We see that the "Prophets of perpetual! Calling" are already sovereigns. The only outstandi,ng quality of the "subordinate Prophets" is their inclination to virtue, nurtured by institutions of the state. As a result, Hobbes asserts: "When therefore a Prophet is said to speak in the Spirit of God .•. he speaks according to Gods will, declared by the supreme Prophet." Therefore, a true prophet is either a sovereign or one who obeys the sovereign. It is the "peculiar" kingdom of God which Christ is expected to restore in "the World to come." The "Natural!" kingdom is not mentioned. How will this new "peculiar" kingdom arise? It can only be instituted through the cooperation of a civil sovereign, as with Abraham or Moses. Will Christ be striking deals with the world's leaders at his coming to rule? This is peculiar. Hobbes stressed in chapter 41, "Of the Office of our Blessed Saviour,,-,-that during his first coming, Christ did or taught nothing which would tend "to the diminution of the Civill Right of the Jewes, or of Caesar," and "did therein nothing against their laws." Hobbes explains, "The Kingdome hee claimed was to bee Li another world," and consequently his preaching of it was not seditious . But what is to happen at Christ' s second coming? Hobbes states that Christ will "execute the Off ice of a King." How will he be able to do this without finding himself guilty of the very sedition that Hobbes describes he was innocent of at his first coming? What if Christ restores the "peculiar" kingdom through conquest? Still, as Hobbes writes in chapter 20: "It is not therefore the victory, that giveth the right of Dominion over the vanquished, but his own Covenant." The problem remains. We have shown that the "peculiar" kingdom of God is founded on divine revela- tion, the "supernaturall" seed of religion, and have furthe:anore outlined what little power Hobbes leaves for divine revelation. Hobbes observes in chapter 12 ing: the follow- . '. For seeing all formed Religion, is founded at first, upon the faith which a multitude hath in some one person, whom they believe not only to be a wise man, ~nd to labor to procure their happiness, but also a holy man, to whom God himselfe vouchsafeth to declare his will supernaturally, ••• If we view the possibility of supernatural governance with grave suspicion and as a result postpone consideration of the supernatural! as related in the 't ab what re . . th d f. . . . quo e ave, . mains is ~ e inition of a "Common-wealth." Compare the quote from cha ter 12 with the following from chapter 17: p ••• the Common-wealth; .•• is One Person, of whose Acts a great Multitude b mutuall Covenants one with another, have made themselves every one the, Au: th~r, to th7 end he may use the strength and means of them all, as he shall think expedient, for their Peace and common Defence. And he that carryeth this Person, is called SOVERAIGNE, and said to have Soveraigne Power; and every one besides, his SUBJECT. We notice that in • the passag.e f rom c h apter 12, Hobbes speaks of the foundation of • • 11 11 "all form~~ relig10~ (it.alic s mine). No distinction is made for "peculiar" or Naturall.. Hence, if we include the "peculiar" with the "all " it · th h "Co lth" appears at t e mmon-wea or Leviathan" can be equated with the "peculiar" kingdom of God th "Mortall God," which Christ, the "Immortal God," the "SOVERAIGNE " 'll t ' e "the World to come." -' wi res ore as 11 • . , . Let us consider the passage in chapter 38 where Hobbes speaks of this "World to come," salvation: There are three worlds mentioned in Scripture, the Old world, the Present World, and the World to~-·· So the first World was from Adam to the g7nerall ~lood. Of t~e present World, our Saviour speaks, (John 18.36) My Kingdo~e ~ not of this World. For he came onely to teach men the way of Salvation, and to renew the Kingdome of his Father, by his doctrine. Of the .world to come, St· Peter speaks, Neverthelesse we according to his pro~ise lo~k for ~ Heavens, and~~ Earth. This is--:that World, wherein Christ coming down from Heaven, in the clouds, with great power ••• and thence forth reign. ' The ~orld to Come is only in the future insofar as Hobbes states earlier, in the conclusion of Part II, that: "I am at the point of believing this my labour, as useless, as the Common-weal th of Plato. And later: 11 I recover some hope that one t · th th · . . , ime or o. er, is wr1~1ng of mine, may fall into the hands of a Soveraign, who w1ll. •. convert this Truth of Speculation, into the Utility of Practice." In other word~, the World to ~ome does not begin on Judgement Day, as one may think after rea~1ng that passage in c~apter 38~ b~t it begins when some prince privately reads Leviathan and puts th.e entirety of it into practice. (Maybe this is the Day of Right Judgement.) That prince would be the practical equivalent of Christ. Christ does not replace the prince. The prince, or "soveraign, 11 replaces Christ. (And Hobbes is John the Baptist?) Only now is the power of that which is called supernatural restored. All such power has as its source the 11 soveraign." There is no covenant with God, ex . .: " pt 11 28 29 �through the sovereign. The hazards of action in accordance with that which men may think to be divine inspiration or prophecy, a folly which would lead such men to, "despise the Commandements of the Common-wealth," (ch. 26) dragging the state into civil war, are all removed when the sovereign is the sole determiner of divine Law and true prophecy. There is no universal church, only the church which the sovereign creates. Hobbes states in chapter 39: I define a CHURCH to be, a company of men professing Christian Religion, united in the person of one Soveraign: at whose command they ought to assemble, and without whose authority they ought not to assemble. Again in chapter 42, on ecclesiastical power, Hobbes asks: How then can wee be obliged to obey any Minister of Christ, if he should command us to doe any thing contrary to the Command of the King, or other Soveraign Representant of the Common-wealth ••• ? It is therefore manifest, that Christ hath not left to his Ministers in this world, unless they be also endued with Civill Authority, any authority to command other men. In addition only the interpretations of scripture presented by the sovereign are to be accepted. In chapter 40 Hobbes uses a metaphor to explain this point further. (Whatever became of the warning against metaphor?) He first quotes two passages from Exodus: Take heed to yourselves that you goe not up into the Mount, or touch the border of it; whosoever toucheth the Mount shall surely be put to death. Goe down, charge the peoples, lest they break through unto the Lord to gaze. Hobbes then explains that the Scriptures are the Mount Sinai mentioned above, and "the bounds whereof are the Laws of them that represents Gods Person on Earth." For the subjects in a commonwealth, as the sovereign replaces God, so do the laws act for the Scriptures (as interpreted by the sovereign ) . Hobbes continues: To interpret them; that is, to pry into what God saith to him whom he appointeth to govern under him, and make themselves Judges whether he govern as God commandeth him, or not, is to transgresse the bounds God hath set us, and to gaze upon God irreverently. The "them" above are the laws of the commonwealth, as with the bounds previously mentioned and again seen above: "the bounds God hath set us." Then clearly is for "God" in that context to be read "soveraign." The equating of the sovereign with God is given special attention in chapter 30 , which is entitled, "Of the Office of the Soveraign Representative." In this chapter Hobbes explains the duties of the sovereign and his subjects in light of each of the Ten Commandments. The first in this pattern, "Subjects are to be taught not to affect change of Government," is presented: The desire of change, is like the breach of the first of God's Commandements: For there God sayes, ••• Thou shalt not have the Gods of other Nations; and in another place concerning Kings, that they are Gods. 30 . ' Another list appears in chapter 31, for the "Attributes of Divine Honour." Many of these reflect standard, widely-accepted notions on the nature of a supreme being, for example, that he exists, and is infinite. Later, however, this is all qualified by Hobbes: "And because words (and consequently the Attributes of God) have their signification by agreement, and constitution of men," then those attributes and their associate honors, obedience being of paramount importance, depend on "the will of the Common-wealth, by Lawes-Civill." Hence the sovereign, as the maker of laws, determines what attributes and honors are to be followed in his commonwealth. This is something of an expansion on the placing of ecclesiastical powers in the sovereign's hands, which we have previously discussed. The sovereign not only makes the ceremonies, he makes the god, and this god is himself. Hobbes even accounts for the doctrines of the immortality of God in his argument for the sovereign. In chapter 19 he states: " ••• as there was ord.e r for an Artificial Man, so there be order also taken, for an Artificial! Eternity of life," and then proposes that, "This Artificial! Eternity, is that which men call the Right of Succession." In chapter 31 Hobbes asserts: The Right of Nature, whereby God reigneth over men, and punisheth those that break his Lawes, is to be derived, not from his Creating them, as if he required obedience, as of Gratitude for his benefits; but from his Irresistible Power. As a result, those attributes of God one may generally think to be universal, especially God as creator, disappear on the whim of the sovereign. By excluding all such elements while solely concentrating on power as the cause of God's right to rule, Hobbes again points to the special relationship of God and the sovereign of a civil state. "Jesus Is the Christ. By the name of Christ is understood the King, ••• " is, if by the name of King is understood Christ, this exclusive interpretation as to the nature of God which can allow Hobbes to found his World to Come in the present, on earth. In other words, when it is said that the king is Christ or replaces Christ, we mean not that the sovereign is similar to Christ, or "is as Christ" metaphorically. Instead, we mean that the sovereign defines Christ; that for Hobbes, although he never openly reveals himself, there is no God, unless he be that "Artificial! Soul" of the commonwealth, the king. As we have seen, throughout Leviathan Hobbes systematically removes all of God's powers to the civil sovereign. At the same time, he warns that if the absolute power be usurped from the sovereign, the conunonwealth would be dissolved, and the former sovereign be not a sovereign anymore. In chapter 29, Hobbes discusses this subject, "those things that Weaken, or tend to the DISSOLUTION of a Common-wealth." His list proceeds in every case to describe a situation where absolute power of the sovereign is being diminished, including "Private Judgement of Good and Evill," the "Pretense of Inspiration," and "Subjecting the Soveraign Power to Civil! Lawes." The attributes which define God's power become for Hobbes both the necessary and sufficient attributes which define the sovereign. "The Present World" as Hobbes speaks of it in chapter 38 is consistent with this view. He quotes John 18: 36, "My Kingdom is not of this World," which is clearly opposed to earlier lengthy and vehement arguments - Hobbes citing from many passages in both the Old and New Testaments - for an earthly kingdom of God. The quote from John is simply a restatement of Hobbes's observation that no Leviathan, as he is describing it, has ever been seen in world governments . Following the quote from John, Hobbes writes: "For he [Christ] came onely to teach men the way of Salvation, and to renew the Kingdome of his Father, by his doctrine." There is no renewal or restoration, since no true Hobbesian commonwealth, according to the author, ever ex- 31 i �isted. The doctrine is, in Hobbes' view, nothing more than obedience. Obedience is for Hobbes the same thing as faith, and obedience is assured of being obtained only when power is present to enforce it. Hobbes gives examples in chapter 12 of the causes which weaken faith, one of which is a dearth of miracles. The example is cited from Exodus of the absence of Moses and the resulting revolt from God through the act of constructing the gold calf as a god. Hobbes continues: And again, after Moses, Aaron, Joshua, and that generation which had seen the great works of God in Israel, were dead; another generation arose, and served Baal. So that Miracles fayling, Faith also failed. However, earlier in the same chapter, Hobbes left open the chance that a "soveraign" has an effective means with which to restore faith. As we have seen, when "they that have the Government of Religion," the sovereign, "shall be unable to shew any probable token of Divine Revelation," then their religion shall become suspect and rejected. But there is a very important qualifier added parenthetically by Hobbes, namely: "(without the feare of the Civill Sword)." In other words, miracles are not necessary to the sovereign if he retains power in the commonwealth. As Hobbes explained in the beginning of chapter 17, there must be a visible power to hold men out of the "condition of warre," and to "tye them by feare of punishment to the performance of their covenants." The Leviathan is Christian, then, in the sense that the sovereign replaces Christ (with Hobbes as the voice crying out in the wilderness). The sovereign may enforce in any way his right to honor through obedience, this honoring (obedience) being another formulation of what faith is. Rules which guide the subjects in their endeavor to obedience must be promulgated by the sovereign, and can be derived from the Ten Commandments. The commonwealth is sustained by the obedience of its subjects to their sovereign, or rather, Salvation, the kingdom of God, is only possible through faith. In his neck remaineth strength, and sorrow is turned into joy before him. (Job 41: 22) All quotes from Thomas Hobbes' Leviathan are taken from the Penguin English Library edition, edited by c. B. Macpherson. The quote from Job was taken from the King James Version of the Holy Bible, published by Thomas Nelson, Inc. The Two Hands of God: An Examination of Goethe's Faust Nancy Loevinger What good is it i f you construct a wh.olt:? The public takes it all apart again. (102-103) -------------------------------------------------Faust is a different man from most of us, more ruthless, more passionate, m ore destructive, more noble. Yet through his striving he asks the same questiuns c ha~ we ask: What does it mean that man was created in God's image? What kina of l~r2. ~nd hence what kind of action, will render man's life meaningful in the face GL (i·a~h? What place does love have in this life? Faust's striving is ruthless and unrepentant, and it is hard to understand why he is saved in the end. Interceded for by a creature whom he had abandoned and destroyed, he is whisked off to Heaven by seductive cherubs in a battle of roses, on the very day that he had caused the deaths of a pious old couple. What does this mean? The most obvious interpretation of the work is that it is a glorification of striving as such, regardless of means or end. When I started this paper ~ believed in a diametrically opposed interpretation: it was Gretchen's love alone that sav~d Faust. Slowly I have come to realize that neither interpretation alone is ~rue, t hat wanting to choose either one or the other is succwnbing to Faust's need for dicnotomies, not Goethe's, and that it is not Faust's striving alone tnat ::aves l"l..L n . nor 's it Gretchen's love alone. It is the combination of the. two, the mysterious ana illogical reconciliation of two irreconciliably opposed ways of life. I have not fought my way to freedom yet. Could I but banish witchcraft from my road, Unlearn all magic spells -- oh, if I stood Before you, Nature, human without ' guile, The toil of being man might be worthwhile.' ( 11403-11407) As the first scene of Part Two opens we see Faust "reclining on a lawn with flowers." He is still restless (unruhig), but he is inunediately comforted by spirits who "cleanse his mind of memories that smart," and rock his heart "in Kindesruh," the rest of children. It was the memory of such childhood peace that saved Faust from despair on the night before Easter, and here too Faust is saved from despair, f rom the pain of remembering Gretchen's ruin without understanding her salvation. .Just as the chorus of angels sang then of Christ's resurrection, the heavenly spirits have now come to Faust with a message of rebirth. The spirits bathe Faust in "the dew of Lethe's spriy," instilling in him the ritual forgetfulness that will prepare him for a new life. As the spirits descend to Faust they sing: When the vernal blossom showers Sink down to embrace the earth, 32 33 �isted. The doctrine is, in Hobbes' view, nothing more than obedience. Obedience is for Hobbes the same thing as faith, and obedience is assured of being obtained only when power is present to enforce it. Hobbes gives examples in · chapter 12 of the causes which weaken faith, one of which is a dearth of miracles. The example is cited from Exodus of the absence of Moses and the resulting revolt from God through the act of constructing the gold calf as a god. Hobbes continues: And again, after Moses, Aaron, Joshua, and that generation which had seen the great works of God in Israel, were dead; another generation arose, and served Baal. So that Miracles fayling, Faith also failed. However, earlier in the same chapter, Hobbes left open the chance that a "soveraign" has an effective means with which to restore faith. As we have seen, when "they that have the Government of Religion," the sovereign, "shall be unable to shew any probable token of Divine Revelation," then their religion shall become suspect and rejected. But there is a vert important qualifier added parenthetically by Hobbes, namely: "(without the feare of the Civill Sword)." In other words, miracles are not necessary to the sovereign if he retains power in the commonwealth. As Hobbes explained in the beginning of chapter 17, there must be a visible power to hold men out of the "condition of warre," and to "tye them by feare of punishment to the performance of their covenants." The Leviathan is Christian, then, in the sense that the sovereign replaces Christ (with Hobbes as the voice crying out in the wilderness). The sovereign may enforce in any way his right to honor through obedience, this honoring (obedience) being another formulation of what faith is. Rules which guide the subjects in their endeavor to obedience must be promulgated by the sovereign, and can be derived from the Ten Commandments. The commonwealth is sustained by the obedience of its subjects to their sovereign, or rather, Salvation, the kingdom of God, is only possible through faith. In his neck remaineth strength, and sorrow is turned into joy before him. (Job 41:22) The Two Hands of God: An Examination of Goethe's Faust Nancy Loevinger What good is i t i f you construct o. wh.olt:? The public takes it all apart again. (102-103) -------------------------------------------------Faust is a different man from most of us, more ruthless, more passionate, rr ore destructive, more noble. Yet through his striving he asks the same questions : ha~ we ask: What does it mean that man was created in God's image? What kina of i~r2. i nd hence what kind of action, will render man's life meaningful in the face o~ ~1 a~h? What place does love have in this life? Faust's striving is ruthless and unrepentant, and it is hard to understand why he is saved in the end. Interceded for by a creature whom he had abandoned and destroyed, he is whisked off to Heaven by seductive cherubs in a battle of roses, o.n the very day that he had caused the deaths of a pious old couple. What does this mean? The most obvious interpretation of the work is that it is a glor1f 1cation of striving as such, regardless of means or end. When I started this paper ~ believed in a diametrically opposed interpretation: it was Gretchen'.s love alone that sav~d Faust. Slowly I have come to realize that neither interpretation alone is true, t hat wanting to choose either one or the other is succumbing to Faust's need f or dichotomies, not Goethe's, and that it is not Faust's striving alone tnat :::aves 1 n . nor !s ·i..L it Gr.e tchen' s love alone. It is the combination of the. two, t~e mysterious ana i_logical reconciliation of two irreconciliably opposed ways of life. I have not fought my way to freedom yet. Could I but banish witchcraft from my road, Unlearn all magic spells -- oh, if I stood Before you, Nature, hwnan without ' guile, The toil of being man might be worthwhile.· ( 11403-11407) All quotes from Thomas Hobbes' Leviathan are taken from the Penguin English Librart edition, edited by C. B. Macpherson . The quote from Job was taken from the King James Version of the Holy Bible, published by Thomas Nelson, Inc. As the first scene o f Part .Two opens we see Faust "reclining on a lawn with flowers." He is still restless (unruhig), but he is immediately comforted by spirits who "cleanse his mind of memories that smart," and rock his heart "in Kindesruh," the rest of children. It was the memory of such childhood peace that saved Faust from despair on the night before Easter, and here too Faust is saved from despair, f rom the pain of remembering Gretchen's ruin without understanding her salvation. .Just as the chorus of angels sang then of Christ's r esurrection, the heavenly spirits have now come to Faust with a message of rebirth. The spirits bathe Faust in "the dew of Lethe's spr~y," instilling in him the ritual f orgetfulness that will prepare him for a new life. As the spirits descend to Faust they sing: When the vernal blossom showers Sink down to embrace the earth, 32 33 �When green fields, alive with flowers, Fill all human hearts with mirth, Then great spirits, looking lowly, Rush to help those whom they can; Whether wicked, whether holy, They would heal the wretched man. (4613-4620) This is a very different song from the one the angels sang on Easter morning. Both songs speak of love and rebirth, but the change in language from Christianity to nature broadens the message in a way that changes its meaning. Since the love of Christianity only applies to those who believe in Christ, Faust was ultimately excluded from grace that Easter morning; but the forgiveness of nature applies to all, "whether wicked, whether holy." In the dungeon scene we saw that ordinary moral justice was allied with the devil, rather than with heaven, and here too the ordinary dichotomy between good and evil is superseded. Heedless of these supposed opposites, heaven, despite Faust's clear moral guilt, heals him of remorse so that he can continue his striving. "Deep within you (Nature) prompt a stern decision: to strive for highest life with all my powers" (4684-4685). Since nature is no longer acting as judge, Faust need no longer confront it merely as an antagonist, and this change is reflected in a change of imagery. Instead of being shown within his study, surrounded by dusty books, Faust is shown reclining upon a spacious lawn, surrounded by flowers. The flowers, with their ephemeral beauty and annual rebirth, represent the regenerative power of nature, and so its eternal forgiveness. Moreover, the spirits that heal Faust are "charming" and "friendly," as opposed to the more impersonal angels of Part One. This change is also brought out in the appearance of Ariel. Ariel had appeared earlier, in "Walpurgis Night's Dream," a dream of the devil. Here, however, he acts in conjunction with heaven, as a personification of the aethereal, and so spiritual, aspect of nature. In this way hell, heaven, and earth are shown to be united. This change in nature, and so in Faust, is also evident in Faust's first speech. Forced to turn away from the sight of the rising sun, Faust contemplates with delight a waterfall and its rainbow: The rainbow mirrors human ••• strife. Consider it and you will better know In many-hued reflection we have life. (4725- 4727) In Part One, Faust spoke on Easter morning to Wagner about the beauty of nature (1068-1099), but there the glorious sight of the sunset angered and dismayed him, by reminding him of his limitations in not being able to follow it. Here Faust accepts, at least for a moment, man's inevitable failure to directly confront life, and in doing so recognizes the value of capturing a reflection of nature in transitory images, a capitulation that earlier would have seemed to him ignoble. Furthermore, the image of the waterfall itself is an image of hope. The constant action of the water forms mist, and when this is illuminated by the light of the sun, a rainbow appears, "enduring through all change." Thus human striving, despite the ephemeral nature of its effects, is capable of creating beauty when it is illuminated by a sense of the divine (v. 4634, "the holy light.") • Healed in this manner, Faust returns to the world, and his less antagonistic, and so more fruitful relation to nature is reflected in his marriage to Helen. Faust first saw Helen in the witch's mirror, where she personified both the beauty of nature and its elusiveness. Helen is, for Faust, the incarnation of beauty without 34 shame, and so an image of man before the fall. This image can only be represented on earth by innocence and purity, a representation necessarily sterile. Faust pursued Gretchen after his view of Helen in the witch's mirror. He sought in her Helen•s earthly image, and he left her, among other reasons, because, once possessed, her innocence was destroyed, and so she no longer contained that image. But Helen forgives herself for her actions in a way that Gretchen could not, and, because of this, her kinship with nature and her ability to create are not destroyed by her lack of innocence. It is thus possible for Faust to achieve through Helen a consummation with nature that was impossible with Gretchen. The marriage of Helen and Faust is celebrated in an idyllic forest grotto, and t~eir child is spoke of as "a faun with no brute nature" (p. 198, Act Three, Arcadia) • By reenacting his relation with Gretchen in this manner, Faust is finally freed from his need to possess nature through the feminine, and, after Helen's death, he turns to the more masculine realms of war and social action. It is significant that for his last battle against nature Faust chooses the sea. The sea is a symbol of nature in its most indifferent and alien form, nature, that is, as Mephisto sees it. "For God separated the earth from the sea on the third ay, and before that the sea was all" (Genesis 1:9-10). Man was given dominion over tne fish of th sea, but never over the sea itself. In this way, the sea, as a symbol of the primal watery chaos, represents a negation of human meaning, which is dependent upon the existence of boundaries, particularly the boundaries of good and evil. Good and evil were separated from each other, and so created, through the action of the fall. In the same way God created the earth by separating it from the sea. Thus, by further separating the earth from the sea and so creating a new earth, Faust hopes finally to prove his likeness to God and so create meaning for his life. My eyes were turned toward the open sea: Its towering swell against the heaven it :Dore, Then, shaking out its waves exultantly, Came charging up the level stretch of shore. This grieved me, that a haughty arrogant flood Can cast free spirit, prizing ever right, Through passion of the wildly kindled blood, Into a trough of feeling's vexed despite. So in a thousand channels creeps the sea, Sterile itself, it spreads sterility. It seethes and swells and streaming far and wide Takes desolate regions in its rolling tide. There wave on wave, by hidden power heaved, Reigns and recedes, and nothing is achieved. This thing can sadden me to desperation, Wild elements in aimless perturbation! To soar beyond itself aspired my soul: Here would I strive, and this would I control. (p. 220-221, Act Four, Mountain Heights) For more than fifty years Faust fights the sea, pushing it back inch by inch, creating gardens and meadows, harbors and towns, "offering men a new existence." But Faust must use Mephisto to create this paradise. By day the ditches are dug with shovels, by night the canals are built with human sacrifice. And so, just as in his relation to Gretchen, the closer Faust comes to God, the closer he is chained to the devil . This opposit;on between means and end confronts Faust in the personae of 35 �Baucis and Philemon. Faust hopes to build a lookout on their land in order to view from above the new world that he has created, and so ignore the particular means that were used to create it, just as earlier he had hoped to use Gretchen to comprehend the earth spirit, while ignoring the particular fact of her seduction. Faust has come to terms with the feminine aspect of Gretchen in his marriage with Helen, but he still has not come to terms with her purely human aspect. That is the test before him now. Faust is infuriated by Baucis and Philemon because they remind him of the entire history of his aspirations and failure. First and foremost, they remind ·raust of the individual and physical aspects of the earth spirit that he has always be.n unable to face. They remind him also that he need not have chosen Mephisto, by showing him . the peaceful life of the farmer that he had rejected before taking the potion of youth (2353-2361). The serenity of their married life reminds him of the future that he destroyed for Gretchen, and, finally, the tolling of their church bells reminds him of the Easter bells of fifty years ago and their promise of peace, a peace that he has nev~r known. Faced with these gentle bu.,t unyielding judges, Faust reverts to his former nature, gives in to impatience, and turns to force. As before, he evades tak~ ing responsibility for his actions by asking Mephisto and his henchman to evict the old couple, and, as before, he becomes disturbed and uneasy when he is finally confronted with his destruction of life. "Commanded fast, too fast obeyed" (11382). But this time no supernatural spirits descend to Faust to heal him, and in the smoke of the fire Care appears • . Why does Care appear now to Faust, but not Guilt? Care (Sorge) is defined as sorrow, anxiety, or uneasiness. Faust spoke of her in Part One, on the night before Easter. "Deep in the heart there dwells relentless care/ And secretly infects us with despair ••• She always finds new masks she can employ" (644-647). Here Care masks herself as the fear of death. Guilt in itself does not inhibit action, but fear does. In this way Care can be seen as a sister to Gretchen's evil spirit in "Cathedral," and she comes in a similar role, to test Faust's strength. Faust refuses to recognize the power of Care and so wins the test, but she blinds him as the scar of the victory. When men defy gods, they cannot hope to escape unscathed. When Jacob wrestled with the angel of God, the angel, "seeing that he could not master him, struck him in the socket of his hip," and Jacob went limping from Peniel (Genesis 32:26-31). In the same way Faust is branded and so set apart. So, too, Cain was branded when he dared to defy God's judgement. Yet Faust still refuses to yield. Hearing the approach of death in the darkness, he returns to his project with a strengthened resolve. But Care is a test of more than j ust Faust ' s strength . When Faust confronts Care and demands that she leave, she refuses. For perhaps the first time in his life1 Faust curbs his impatience. Faust (first irate, then calmer, to himself): Beware and speak no word of sorcery. (11424) This is a crucial turning point for Faust. Impatience has always been Faust's familiar; and magic, the mode of immediate mastery, is the ultimate tool of impatience. It was by the lure of magic that Mephisto first caught Faust, and it was by Faust's impatient pursuit of Gretchen, and his consequent use of magic as an aid in seduction, that Faust's bond to Mephisto was sealed. But, through the ruin first of Gretchen, and then of Baucis and Philemon, Faust realized the destructive force of magic, and through magic, of action itself. It was by the curse of patience that Faust ~ejected the earthly and heavenly wor lds in the pact scene in Part one (1583- 1604) . Thus, hav i ng acknowledged pat ience and r ejecte d magic, even if only 36 temporarily, these worlds become possible for him again. Blind, and standing on the edge of this grave, Faust dreams of a new life : T ' This is the highest wisdom that I own, The best that mankind ever knew: Freedom and life are earned by those alone Who conquer them every day anew. Surrounded by such danger, each one thrives, Childhood, manhood, and age lead active lives. At such a throng I would fain stare, With free men on free ground their freedom share. Then, to the moment I might say: Abide, you are so fair! ••• As I presage a happiness so high, I now enjoy the highest moment. (11573-11586) Here again it is evident that Faust has changed. Earlier, Faust had theoretically sought conununion with humanity, but, faced with a given situation, he invariably treated people merely as obje_ ts . This is evident not only in his treatment of c Baucis and Philemon, but also in his exploitation qf his patients during the plague, and in his exploitation of Gretchen. Even in his final battle against the sea, Faust was primarily concerned with himself and God, and any benefit to mankind was secondary. Here, however, Faust accepts his place within humanity as an equal among equals and so finally comprehends the earth spirit. Yet this understanding, while real, is only conditional. Faust is not yet able to accept man as he is, and his acceptance rests upon his dream of a new man, purified and hardened by a new life. Faust's ambivalence is mirrored in the language of his speech. Faust says both that he~ enjoys the highest moment, and that "then to the moment I might say. " In the German, Faust uses the subjunctive ("Zurn ·A ugenblicke durft ich sagen"), and thus Faust both enjoys the highest moment, and does not, and both loses the wager with Mephisto, and wins it. Mephisto also has both lost and won. Faust has died a natural death, but the original pact is still to be fulfilled. Just as Mephisto was Faust's servant in this life, so Faust will be his in the next. And Mephisto has the "blood-signed scroll" to prove it. Legally, everything is clear. Yet what happens? An army of seductive cherubs fly down from heaven, strewing roses, and Mephisto's devils flee in terror. Caught up in lust, Mephisto do~s not notice unt il t oo late t hat t he angels have carried away Faust's soul: A peerless treasure, stolen shameful.ly: The noble soul that pledged itself to me They snatched from me, and now they moralize. (11829- 11831) M ephis to c l a ims that the angels have r obbed him unjustly, and he seems to be right. In what sense then is Faust's salvation justified? Let us return to Genesis. After the fall, God curses the serpent and says to him: I will make you enemies of each other: you and the woman, your offspr ing and her offspring. It will crush your head 37 �. And you will strike its heel (3: 15) That helped win the victory, Helped the lofty work conclude And this precious soul to save. (11942 -11946 ) Compare this with the "Prologue in Heaven." There God says to Mephisto: Man's activity can easily abate, he soon prefers uninterrupted rest1 To give him this companion hence seems best Who roils and must as Devil help create. (340-343 ) Evil is given to man so that man will respond to it, and so continue to act. But why is constant action so important? Striving, or incessantly searching for knowledge through action, is the highest use that man can make of the gift of reason, yet it .seems merely to exile man from God, as all action in this world necessarily involves evil. Hence, the more man seeks to become like God through action, the less like Him . he becomes. Yet it is the evil inherent in action that eventually brings man back to God. That is why when God exiled man, He gave him the serpent also, and that is why God does not hate Mephisto. "Man errs a·s long as he will strive" (317), but "unless you err, naught can be truly known" (p. 134, Act Two, Again on the Upper Peneus). It is by the inevitable failure of his actions that man learns the restrictions of his reason. Through reason man abstracts himself from life, and posits himself as a god. Thus Faust, immured in his study, felt himself to be a god in relation to the macrocosm (439). Through the development of his reason through action, and its subsequent failure, man is then forced to confront life, and so to realize his distance from God. Thus Faust's involvement in life ultimately brought death to those around him. This failure to become like God through action alone forces man to recognize that, if he is to resemble God, he must do so by other means. In this way, striving both separates man from God and eventually brings him back to Him. This two-fold aspect of striving explains the seeming injustice of Faust's salvation. Faust both deserves to be saved, and he does not. In other words, just as Faust's striving contains both constructive and destructive aspects, and just as, because of this, Faust both loses and wins the pact, Faust is ultimately saved both by his own actions, that is, by his striving, and by grace, that is, by the undeserved forgiveness of love. · This seemingly contradictory statement is explicitly brought out in the text. When the angels reach Heaven carrying Faust's soul they sing: Saved is the spirit kingdom's flower From evil and the grave: "Who ever strives with all his power, We are allowed to save." And if, besides, supernal love Responded to his plight, The blessed host comes from above To greet him in delight . (11934-11941) Here it seems that Faust was saved by his striving alone, and that the power of love merely added to his acceptance. Yet the song continues: Loving-holy women gave Penitent, the rose to me, 38 Here it seems that the power of love was a decisive factor in Faust's salvation. That the army of cherubs that sweep down to battl.e Mephisto represents love is also evident. What else would lust represent in a devil? This two-fold aspect of Faust's salvation reflects not only a division within Faust's life, but also within human life in general. In Part One Goethe snows us the collision of two opposed modes of life: the mode of action, represented by Faust, which is necessarily amoral, and the mode of purity, represente-a by Gretchen, which can only flower when isolated from the world. These two modes could also be stated as wordly vs. spiritual, or intellectual vs. emotional, or in any other similar way. When brought together, the two modes inevitably destroy one another, for involvement in the world destroys purity, and an over-scrupulous concern with a moral ideal inhibits, and so destroys, action. The opposition of these two modes is seen most clearly in the dungeon scene, and it is the pain of their mutual destruction that constitutes the tragedy of Part One . Yet, as we have seen, these two modes are not as opposed as they originally seem. For example, Faust's relation to Gretchen is inextricably composed of both lust and love. In the same way, Faust's striving for knowledge is composed of both a lust for power and a yearning to know God. But it is a mistake to think of one of the modes as evil, and of one as good, and to think of their unification as merely the inevitable mixing of good and evil on earth due to man's imperfection. Both modes share a common origin: they seek to create, and so to express man's likeness to God. It is through this relation to God that the two modes complement one another, and it is through this relation that they are ultimately reconciled. It is the reconciliation of these two modes that Goethe shows us in Part Two. This unification is seen most clearly in Faust's salvation and in the last scene in heaven, and it is the necessary imperfection of any earthly unification that constitutes the tragedy of Part Two. What does it mean then for these two modes to be brought together? Let us turn again to Genesis, and the story of the fall. Because of his action, and his consequent knowledge of action's correlate, evil, man is condemned to till the soil daily in pain. In this way the knowledge of evil ensures man's continuous striving. This is the first step toward man's redemption, but it is not enough. This _striving is striving against the world. Through action man comes to know himself, but only in a negative manner. He knows, through failure, of his difference from God. And so man despairs. Feeling ashamed, he denies his actions. Thus the darkest moment of the fall is not when Eve eats the. apple. It is when Adam crawls out of hiding and says to God: "It was the woman you put with me; she gave me the fruit" (3 :12-13 ) . Yet through woman man is given the knowledge not only of evil, but also of good. woman too was cursed in the fall. She was condemned to long for man, yet always to be ruled by him, and to bear him his children in pain. In this way the knowledge of good and evil brings forth love. It is only after the fall that the bond between man and woman is consummated. Through the fall man is condemned to strive, and to fail, and woman is condemned to love, and to fail, but through their union a new life is brought into being. This is the second step toward man's redemption. Through the creative marriage of action and love, man realizes his likeness to God and so is released from despair. Thus, if there is hope for man's redemption, it must come through a synthesis of action and love. The play ends with a stanza on the Eternal-Feminine because for the last five hundred pages we have been given the story of the Eternal-Masculine. It is 39 �Bibliography the combination of the two that is important. As Aristotle states in the Ethics, man bouncas from one unbalanced vice to another, continually trying to come closer to the mean. In the same way the eternal balancing of action and love brings man closer to the ideal that he seeks, whether that be called God or Nature. If there is a God worthy of the name in heaven, he will not condemn man for trying, and so failing. Apostle, Hippocrates. tr. Aristotle: The Nichomachean Ethics, D. Reidel Pub. Co., 1975 \ J I What is destructible Is but a parable; What fails ineluctably, The undeclarable, Here it was seen, Here it was action1 The Eternal-Feminine Lures to perfection. (12104-12111 ) Arndt, Walter. tr. & Hamlin, Cyrus, ed. Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe: Faust. Critical Edition, W w. Norton & Co., 1976 . Bloom, Allan, tr. The Republic of Plato. Norton Basic Books, Inc., 1968 Doherty, Chava. "Goethe's Faust: A Book of Life." 1984 Gregory, Horace. tr. Ovid: The Metamorphoses. Senior Essay, St. John's College, Viking Press, 1958 Hunt, Margaret and Stern, James. tr. The Complete Grimm's Fairy Tales, Pantheon Books, Random House, Inc., 1944 It is no trifle to put forth in one's eighty-second year what one conceived in one's twentieth, and to clothe such an internal, living skeleton with ligaments, flesh, and skin, and on top of that to wrap a few mantle folds around the finished product that it may altogether remain an evident riddle, delight men on and on, and give them something to work on. Goethe, letter to Zelter, 1831 5 Jones, Alexander. ed. The Old Testament of the Jerusalem Bible. 1966 Kaufman, Walter. tr. Goethe's Faust • . Doubleday & Co., 1961 Ryan, John K. tr. The Confessions of st . Augustine. 1960 · Wayne, Philip. tr. Goethe: Faust/Part Two. Footnotes 1 For an example of the myth of Lethe, see Plato , The Republic, Book Ten, 620e-62lb, p. 303 in the Bloom tr. 2 All quotations from the section of Part Two not translated by Kaufman are from the following edition: Philip Wayne, tr., Goethe: Faust/Part Two, Penguin Books, 1959. As this edition does not include line numbers, all citations will be referred to by page, act and scene. 3 For an earlier version of their story see: OVid, The Metamorphoses, Book Eight, 11.670- 724, p. 234-23 7 in the Horace Gregory tr. 4 Aristotle, The Nicomachean Ethics, Book Two, Chaps. 6-9, p. 28-34 in the Apostle tr. Kaufman, Introduction, p. 11 40 Image Books, Doubleday and Co., Penguin Books Ltd., 1959 Oh, that at long last you had the courage for once to yield yourselves to your impressions, to let yourselves be delighted, let yourselves be moved, let yourselves be elevated, yes, to let yourselves be taught and inspired and encouraged for something great1 only do not always think that everything is vain if it is not some abstract thought or ideal. 6 Goethe, Conversation with Eckermann, 1827 5 Doubleday and Co., 41 �Perception and Analysis in Understanding Being Aristotle acknowledges that some subjects are beyond definition in this quote · from The Physics, Karel Bauer As far as trying to prove that Nature exists, this would be ridiculous, for it is evident that there are many such things; and to try to prove what is evident through what is not evident is the mark of a man who cann~t judge what is known through itself from what is known not through itsel~. We perceive through various mechanisms of the soul which we group together under the terms "senses" and "intelligence". Through the cooperation of these mechanisms we move toward an understanding which Aristotle posits to be the perfect harmony between ourselves and our environment. This motion toward understanding manifests itself in what we call analysis. Analysis is the process through which we interpret our experiences. For instance, in order to designate a piece of our instantaneous experience as an object, we must distinguish that piece from its environment, using whatever criteria we have accepted as valid for such a process. we assign the object a symbol;· that is, a name, and by so doing provide it a place in our memory. Then we can begin to consider and discuss it. r't seems clear that in discussion we cannot exchange actual experiences or objects, but only our representations of them provided through words: language is the exchange of words, not objects. Since this is the case, any understandings which we arrive at through discussion depend for their accuracy upon our understanding of how the names, or words, represent the objects being discussed. Can words represent the essence of objects, or only some collection of their attributes? Can we as readers understand the essence, the Being of an object described through mere strict interpretation of the words, or must we provide some factor entirely of our own experience if we are to achieve true understanding of what is being communicated? The latter is my assertion in this paper. I maintain that in naming and discussing an object· we cannot represent the essence of its Being to ourselves, but only a collection of attributes representing facets of its Being, leaving some other part of us to provide the sense of the Being's essence. This may be the problem of analytical understanding of which I am aware when I read Aristotle. This disparity between our experience of Being and our ability to discuss Being is the subject of this paper. That there are problems in trying to discuss Being is evident at the outset. As Aristotle puts it in the Metaphysics: And so it remains something to be looked for, from of old and now and forever, and thus something that offers no way out: What is Being? 1 The problem of defining Being is the longest standing and deepest concern of philosophy. The problem, as I see it, is centered around the fact that our processes for developing understanding are built upon logic which is an analytical process of examination. Analysis is defined as: a separating or breaking up of any whole into its parts, especially with an examination of these parts to find out their nature, proportion, function, and interrelationship. 2 The breaking or separating of the whole, analysis, necessitates the loss of the whole as a whole in our minds, and this loss is the key to the problem of defining Being. When we discuss Being, or read Plato or Aristotle discussing Being, we are dealing with explanations of parts, or attributes of Being, not with the whole that is Being. But Being is somehow more than the collection of its attributes, it seems, in fact, to be beyond definition. 42 How, then, are we to understand the attempts of philosophy to define Being? If breaking up a subject into parts is the only method we have for developing understanding of it, what is it that allows us to achieve an understanding of the subject as a whole? Or can we ever achieve such an understanding? The recognition of Being simply as an unqualified, universal continuum does not appear to be the understanding that Plato and Aristotle are trying to communicate. Being is completely universal--the most pervasive, underlying fact of our universe and of any expefience. As one author put it, "The [any] thing is, and it is, merely because it is." Anything that we can call a thing partakes of Being, and partakes of Being to the same degree that any other thing does. All things that are, are equally. It is not the Being of an object that defines that object. In order to recognize an object as an object, we must see more than just Being, for everything in our field of perception is equally. In order to recognize a rock, for instance, we must provide some kind o°"f"definition which will allow us to differentiate its Being from the whole, continuous Being of our perception. If we do not make this differentiation, if we simply experience the whole of our perception without interpretation, we are experiencing something very basic, perhaps even eternal. But to what end is this apparently unsophisticated experience? The aim of Western attempts to define Being does not seem to be merely saying, "this is a universal experience", but brings the universal experience, somehow, into the realm of rational understanding. Thus to say, "Being is the primary factor that underlies all experience," is, in a sense, useless. As Aristotle says at the beginning of the Physics, For if Being is only one and is one in this manner, no principle exists at all, seeing that a principle is a principle of some thing or things. Indeed, to inquire wh~ther Being is one in this manner is l~e arguing against any other paradox maintained for the sake of argument ••• The paradox that Aristotle speaks of is this: to state that Being is one and only one, immovable and universal, presupposes any analysis, and leaves the inquiry wi th nowhere to go. For Aristotle, understanding is equat~d with knowing the first principles of a thing; if we posit that Being to be so encompassing that it in effect has no principles, we've made it unknowable (this does not contradict the paper's position, which is, that though Being is the universal experience, it also possesses many aspects ) . We already are aware of Being in the sense of its universality. we acknowledge that universality every time we say that something is, which we do regularly. Our pursuit is not to recognize that everything is, but to understand something about that isness. This is why analysis comes into the picture. In order to try to understand what Being is and in order to be able to talk about it, we break our experience of Being into parts, or attributes of Being. Perhaps the first act of analysis we perform is to select an object so that we can limit our experience of Being and consider an object as a whole having or representing Being, rather than Being enveloping us, for we have already seen that to unqualifiedly experience Being as an enveloping force is not und1>rstanding as we are here concerned with it. We qualify our perception in order to be able to think about it. We define it somewhat, by representing it 43 �through an object. This allows us to consider it as something distinct from our-· selves and from our environment as a whole; a necessary step if we are to be able to maneuver it as a conceptual object, and the first step of our analysis. From this point analysis continues, and we assign more definitions and create more distinctions as our attempt to understand or communicate increasingly specific ideas or aspects grows. We have acted upon our ability to separate and examine specific aspects, yielding specific understandings, but in so doing, we have lost a sense of the initial experience which prompted the whole reaction (analysis). This loss is inevitable: the experience itself was an instantaneous event. What we are dealing with afterwards is our attempt to represent and interpret the experience; to apply some kind of reason to it. In his discussion of the "qualities by which truth is attained", Aristotle describes five distinct functions or regions of the mind, each responsible for separate kinds of understanding. They are: Pure Science, Art, Practical Wisdom, Theoretical Wisdom, and Intelligence. Four of these involve rational processes. The fifth, Intelligence, is a non-rational function and an element necessary to each of the other four; it is the function which apprehends the principles fundamental to reason, and is the function responsible for our perception. Of the role of Intelligence in our understanding, Aristotle says, It is intelligence, not reasoning, that has as its objects primary terms and definitions as well as ultimate particulars ••• For it is particular facts that form the starting points or principles for the goal of action ••• Hence one must have p~rception of particular facts, and this perception is intelligence. Intelligence, therefore, is both starting point and end; for demons~rations start with ultimate terms, and have ultimate facts as their ends • . I interpret this to mean that it is Intelligence that is . responsible for our experience of (perception of) an object or of Being. The quality of our Intelligence determines the quality of our understanding in experience; however, analysis of experience is a process of reason, not of Intelligence. Therefore our ability to connect these functions so that they may influence each other is crucial to the development of our understanding. If we are to grow in-our understanding,we must integrate the information from our reasoning faculties into the function responsible for perception, our Intelligence. · · We have seen that to bring Being from. the point of pure experience to the realm of reason ·requires analysis. We have,. in ef feet, dismantled our experience and examined its various parts seeking a greater understanding, a deeper view, than our initial experience provided us with. But what we're now left with is a pile of parts and our respective understanding of them. This is not the understanding of the whole that we were striving for. The endeavor is to achieve perception with understanding, not to perceive, then shatter our perception into a swarm of individual understandings. In order to do this we must develop the function responsible for our perception, Intelligence. Somehow we must effect a resynthesis of the fragments of our perception that will allow us to re-experience Being with deeper understanding of its nature. A simple reversal of the process that allowed us to dismantle our experience and examine each of its parts is not sufficient to provide a recombination truly descriptive of Being. We must also provide the sense of inunediacy that was lost when we represented our experience of Being as an object, in order to analyze it. As a simple demonstration of this necessity, let us consider the analysis of a fragment of a poem by E. E. Cummings: .44 o sweet spontaneous earth how often have the doting fingers of purient philosoph9rs pinched and poked thee ••• we may count its words (17). We may try to discern its meter, the individual meanings of its words, the significance of any misspelled words, its spacing--there are any number of criteria that we can apply in the attempt to reach a deeper understanding of the poem--and doubtlessly they all can contribute to understanding. But we cannot assemble the bits of information determined through our analysis into a group and claim that this assembly constitutes our deeper understanding of the poem. Reading a list of facts, however pertinent, will not give us the feeling that we understand the poem, and we obviously do not expect this. Instead, having analyzed, we reread the poem, and our new perception which results is a step towards the understanding that we seek. This new perspective is not the culmination of our endeavor--the process of understanding is an ongoing one (for we say that no person knows all about anything). This is however a peak in the process; it is a return to the starting point, but at a higher level. The process here described can be imagined as a spiral path; in order for our understanding to grow, rather than remain at a certain level, we must reanalyze our newly-gotten perception, and the process continues, at times, very quickly. This flux of our understanding is, I think, what makes attempts to define Being, and to understand attempts to define Being, so difficult. Written communication allows us to consider many attributes of Being, but minimizes the possibility of dealing with Being as a whole. At the beginning of the Metaphysics Aristotle says, The investigation of truth is in one sense difficult, in another easy. A sign of this is the fact that neither can one attain it adequately, nor do all fail, but each says something about the nature of things; and while each of us contributes nothing or little to the truth, a considerable amount of it results from all of our contributions ••• to have some of the whole truth, and not be able to attain the part that we are aiming at, this indicates that it is difficult. Perhaps the cause of this difficulty, which may exist in two ways, is in us, and not in the facts. For as the eyes of bats are to the light of day, so is the intelleq_f of the soul to the objects which in their nature are most evident of all. The investigation of truth that Aristotle addresses here, he later in the same passage equates with the investigati9n of Being: Accordingly, as each thing is related to its existence, so is it related to its truth. Aristotle's awareness of this difficulty of defining Being, coupled with his perspective on the functions of the soul described earlier, seems to be responsible for the structure of the Physics. The method of this book is described in its first chapter, and is equivalent to the process of analysis discussed in the first part of this paper. In Aristotle's words, The natural way to proceed is from what is more known and clearer to us to what is by nature clearer and more known ••• So we should proceed in this manner, namely, from what is less clear by naIBre, though clearer to us, to what is by its nature clearer and more known. 45 �Through this process we are able to examine aspects of Being, in the case of Physics, the Being of objects, without inunediately having to deal with the overwhelming fact of their nature, the Being itself. An understanding of Being is what we are working towards and what, for Aristotle, is "By its nature clearer and more known." In order to achieve this understanding, we must analyze and, as we have seen, we must integrate the results of our analysis with our perception. This is an essential step in our understanding, and it is here that I see one of the major roles of the Prime Mover. As quoted earlier in this paper, Aristotle considers it useless to attempt to prove "what is known through itself through what is known not through itself" (this is not a contradiction of the process of analysis described above, in which the movement is from the superficially evident to the self-evident) • It seems clear that this quote applies especially to Being, which is by its nature most known through itself . Hence Aristotle posits the Prime Mover as an attempt to represent this self-evident factor, Being. The Prime Mover is actually actualized, the purest form of Being expressible in words or the idealized experience of Being. Perhaps positing the Prime Mover allows Aristotle to keep a representation of the essence of Being as nearly available as possible while discussing attributes of Being. This proximity is definitely desirable when we remember that, in order to complete each cycle of our developing understanding, we must re-experience that which we wish to understand. The position of the Prime Mover at the end of the Physics is a strong one, for in a sense, trying to conceive of the Prime Mover induces us to re-experience. We can, it is true, attempt to create a sense of Prime Mover in our imagination, but this sense will not be effective in creating an understanding which will be in agreement with the world to which it is applied. For, says Aristotle, Imagining lies within our power whenever we wish, but in forming opinions [and understandingsl we are not free: we cannot escape the alternative 9f 1 falsehood or truth. We cannot escape having to apply our understandings to the world--this is what they are for. The Prime Mover is real experience, idealized. The only way we can really grasp it is to experience. We can go no further in analyzing Being from our old starting point. qur capacity for analysis is .what allows us to develop understanding; indeed, this capacity is considered to be the quality that separates man from the animals. The goal of any analysis we perform is the growth of our understanding, which growth depends on our ability to integrate the results of analyses with our experience. This remarkable process in which we are engaged, constantly experiencing, analyzing, integrating, and re- experiencing, is highly active (earlier I likened it to an upward spiral). It is possible that in my attempts to discuss this process, I have made it appear more static than I conceive it to be. This stasis is, in part, an inherent problem in written communication: a problem I hope to have elicited in this paper. As stasis is the antithesis of active understanding, writers of philosophy must be especially aware of this difficulty of creating experience through words. In order to understand what is written, a reader must bring to the reading something beyond what the writer can provide. As readers we must bring our own experience in such a way that is consciously applied to the reading. Only then can the synthesis of active understanding occur. In the final part of this paper I would like to explore some implications of this active understanding as Aristotle has written about it in De Anima. As our understanding develops, we become aware of increasingly fine delineations between objects and experiences. our awareness of the texture and detail of our environment grows. Initially, perhaps, we become aware of objects. Next, ourselves. Then our attentions shift to the relationships which exist between ourselves and the objec~s •. As.we become increasingly aware of the complexities of these relationships, the distinctions we are able to draw between self and object become subtler. It becomes difficult to say where "I" ends and where "it" begins. The thinking part of the soul must therefore be, while impassable, capable of receiving the form of an object; that is, must be ~~tentially identical in character with its object without being the object. With the continuing growth of our understanding this potential identity of character is becoming actual identity. From relationships initially vague due to poor delineation, objects which appeared to become recognizable as distinct entities are again becoming less distinct because of the difficulty of distinguishing between mind and object. The process of analysis that initially seemed to be happening in our minds about their objects, now seems to actively involve both our minds and their objects equally. What seemed to be an interval between mind and object, we now begin to see as our experience of thinking. Mind is itself thinkable in exactly the same way as its objects are. For in the case of objects which involve no matter, what thinks and what is thought are identical; for speculative knowledge and its object are identical. •• In the case of these which contain matter each of the objects of thought is only potentially present. It folriws that while they will not have mind in them, mind may. yet be thinkable. We are drawing ever closer to a complete experience of understanding, an experience so total that we are aware of the whole of our perception. When this occurs completely we are aware of every facet of the object of our perception and of our relationship to it. There is nothing that remains outside of our awareness. Analysis has become synthesis. We have embraced, or been embraced, by all. At this point our thought becomes its object, the two merge, and understanding occurs in the truest sense. The object and understanding have become one, and as such, the understanding defines the object entirely. This, for Aristotle, is the culminating point of the mind for which we have been striving; this is Actual Knowledge. As he says, In every CfSe the mind which is actively thinking is the object of which it thinks. Mind, thinking itself in the state of true understanding, has become equatable with the Prime Mover, When mind is set free from its present conditions it appears as just what it is and nothing ~gre: this alone is immortal and eternal ••• and without it nothing thinks. Thinking, both speculative and practical, is regarded as akin to a form of perceiving; for in one case as well 's the other the soul discriminates and 1 is cognizant of something which is. 46 47 �A Translation of a Chorus from Aristophanes' The Frogs FOOTNOTES 1 Aristotle's Metaphysics, The Peripatetic Press, Grinell, Iowa; 1969 Hippocrates G. Apostle Mark Manry Trans. 2The Webster's New World Dictionary; 1972 3Aristotle's Physics, The Peripatetic Press, Grinell, Iowa; 1969 G. Apostle 193a3 4 The Phenomenology of the Spirit, G. Hegel 5 6 Trans. Hippocrates Physics, 185a5 . Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics, Bobbs-Merrill Publishing, Indianapolis; 1962 Trans. Martin Oswald 1139b15 7 Ibid, 1143b 8 100 Selected Poems, E. E. Cummings, Grove Press, Inc., New York; 1923 11Aristotle's be Anima, Random House, New York; 1941 Ibid, 427a18 Ibid, 429a14 14 b'd 430a3 I l. ' 15 Ibid, 431b17 16 Step forward! See that you exalt, singing with noble voice, The Savior Goddess, Avowed protector of our city now and forever, Even if Thorykion does not wish it. {ant. Trans. Richard McKeon 427bl8 Demeter, queen of holy, secret rites, Stand by to assist us; Preserve your band of singers and dancers. Grant me safe playing and dancing The whole day. (str. Let me proffer myriad jests, And many weighty sayings, too, Sporting and mocking worthily for your festival, And victoriously, to be crowned with the wreath Of the victor. lOPhysics, 194a16 13 {str. Come now! Sing anew in praise to the harvest queen, the goddess Demeter; honor her with sacred songs. #5 9Metaphysics, 993b 12 Go now, all men! Into the blooming bosom of the meadow, Dancing, mocking, playing, and jeering; For there has been enough partaking. (ant. Now invite the fair god here with hymns, This chorus' fellow traveler. Ibid, 430a23 Highly honored Iacchos, Most pleasant member found at the festival, Accompany the goddess here. . And show that you have completed the great course Without weariness. Iacchos, friend of dancers, Guide me! For you have torn this my sandal And my ragged garment To make me silly and shabby. And you have contrived this So that we may play and dance Without loss? Iacchos, friend of dancers, Guide me! 48 (a. (b. 49 c �OD. Poetic Recognition David Amirthanayagam The essential moment in poetic experience--both for poet and listener, though I will have to speak for the latter until I am a poet--is a moment of recognition. Poetic recognition begins in a simple way. Aristotle, in the Poetics, explains that: The experience of learning things is highly enjoyable, not only for philosophers but for other people as well, only their share in it is limited; when they enjoy seeing images, therefore, it is because as they look at them they have the experience of learning and reasoning out what each thing represents, concluding, for example, that "this figure is so and so"; for if the image depicts something one has not seen before, the pleasure it gives will not be that of an imitation but will c~me from its workmanship or colouring or some other such source. (1448b4) We like to recognize what things represent. But these words are not as simple as they might seem: works of art, whether made with colours, tones, movements, words, sticks and stones or anything else, re-present objects or experiences to us. As such we can re-cognize them--that is, rethink them, apprehend them afresh, so that in some sense we see them for the first time. At least we never see them in the same way again. A professor once led me through the original Italian of a single tercet in the second canto of Dante's Inferno, at the place where Virgil has revived the pilgrim's wilted spirit with a story of three gracious ladies in heaven. Here translated, gamely but miserably, into English, Dante writes that he recovers: As little flowers, which in a frosty night Droop and shut tight, when the sun shines on them Stretch and look up, erect upon their stalks. (II 127-9) He thudded down, his gear clanged on his body, and blood bathed his long hair, fair as the Graces', braided, pinched by twists of silver and gold. Think how a man might tend a comely shoot of olive in a lonely place, well-watered, so that it flourished, being blown upori by all winds, putting out silvery green leaves, till suddenly a great wind in a storm uprooted it and cast it down: so beautiful had been the son of Panthoos, Euphorbos, when Menelaos killed him and bent over to take his gear. (50-6 0) Bernard Knox quoted this passage in his lecture The Iliad: ~ war Poem, and there pointed out that if one had ever seen olive trees in Greece, which only reveal the silver-gold underside of their leaves when swayed by wind, one would realize how apt is Homer's image, how subtle its pathos. . At the finely crafted close to the finely crafted fifth book of The Odyssey, we find Odysseus the great tactician on shore in Phaiakia, half-drowned, having long since shed the tangled sea-cloak of Kalypso and forsaken his raft, and having loosed Ina's veil; he deliberates on his course of action, how to find shelter from the cold and the wild beasts. Presently, He made his way to a grove above the water on open ground, and crept under twin bushes grown from the same spot--olive and wild olive-a thicket proof against the stinging wind or Sun's blaze, fine soever the needling sunlight; nor could a downpour wet it through, so dense those plants were interwoven. Here Odysseus tunnelled, and raked together with his hands a wide bed--for a fall of leaves was there; Odysseus' heart laughed when he saw his leaf-bed, and down he lay, heaping more leaves above him. A man in a distant field, no hearthfires near, will hide a fresh brand in his bed of embers to keep a spark alive for the next day; so in the leaves Odysseus hid himself. I have many times seen flowers open up at dawn, but never again in the same way after hearing the music of Dante's Italian. Similarly, during Maryland's splendid summer lightning storms, I find it second nature--literally--that some of King Lear's tempestuous invectives, or perhaps Homeric epithets from Fitzgerald's Iliad ("Zeus who delights in thunder") weave their way into the sea bolts, seen and heard. I shall illustrate the case where the "image depicts something one has not seen before," by invoking Homer and his olive trees. At the beginning of Book XVII of the Iliad, young Euphorbos, son of Panthoos, the first to hit Patroklos though Hektor won the glory, comes forward to challenge Menelaos, who is now defending the body of Akhilleus' beloved. They exchange the spine-chilling taunts that so personalize the encounters in the Iliad--the elder angered by the younger's vanity and animal audacity, the younger made bold by thoughts of revenge for his brother, killed by Menelaos in the bloom of his manhood and marriage. But there is never any doubt as to the outcome; only listen to Homer's simile, as Atreid~s' spear hits home: The last line translates ~OA.ouc:n KaA.0\jJcno : so in one graceful stroke, we see what the nine years have been for him with Kalypso, at once a protective covering from danger but at the same time a shroud that hid his inner fire. And now, as ever, above and around him, the intertwined boughs of a deeper love constitute his true home and safety, and are ready at last to reappear: olive and wild olive, Penelope and Odysseus. When he is finally carried in asleep to Ithaka, he is met on the beach by Athena in the guise of a shepherd, who later prepares him amongst her caresses for his upcoming ordeal with the suitors. The place where he lands is described in this somehow recognizable way: 50 51 Phorkys, the old sea baron, has a cove here in the realm of Ithaka; two points �of high rock, breaking sharply, hunch around it, making a haven from the plunging surf that gales at sea roll shoreward. Deep inside, at mooring range, good ships can ride unmoored. There, on the inmost shore, an olive tree throws its wide boughs over the bay... (XIII 96-103 ) Two high points of rock encircle and protect a bay from the sea, so that ships can go unmoored within their arms; on the beach, an olive tree spreads its protective boughs. Is this an image of Ithaka as it ought to be, with its lord and lady present? And then they meet, after the suitors have been disposed of. The decisive--but not the first--act of recognition between them involves a certain bed Odysseus made, and Penelope claims to have moved, much to Odysseus ' surprise and anger. He himself describes how he made it out of a certain kind of tree: An old trunk of olive grew like a pillar on the building plot, and I laid out our bedroom round that tree, lined up the stone walls, built the walls and roof, gave it a doorway and smooth-fitting doors. Then I lopped off the silvery leaves and branches, hewed and shaped that stump from the roots up into a bedpost, drilled it, let it serve as model for the rest. I planed them all, inlaid them all with silver, gold and ivory, and stretched a bed between--a pliant web of oxhide thongs dyed crimson. There's our sign! I know no more. Could someone · else ' s hand have sawn that trunk and dragged .the frame away? (XXIII 190 -204 ) Perhaps we understand why, though exhausted, Odysseus' heart laughed at the sight of those two olive shrubs and his bed of leaves on Phaiakia. Their secret revealed, Penelope and Odysseus embrace, and re-knit their worn hearts' web, tell~ng tales and making sweet love through Athena's magic length of night. Now I have never seen an olive tree--or at least never recogn'ized one. When I am at last introduced to one, I doubt I shall be at a loss for words. Let us now consider a different, deeper kind of poetic recognition, not simply that "this figure is so and so". I began by speaking of a "moment", because I think this kind of recognition takes place in a moment. We remember, though, that moments are living, supple, hard to measure quanta of time: the literal moment it takes for Odysseus' foot to splash in Eurykleia' s basin in Book XIX of The Odyssey involves many many lines of poetry, including a digression about a hunting trip, while very few lines--a moment of poetry--relate nine years of Odysseus' detainment on Ogygia. To aid in this discussion let us enlist Aristotle again, this time from the Metaphysics. Hare he aays: a T W ]J 2\ 1 y p \) ( , ~ .,, Tl a 0x n , fl 'TT 0 1 fll W V "' ~\ ~ VOU S' l1 i \J TE;X \JT) T~ l\ l') 'TT 0 1 0 UV T l OUV <l lJ lS TlS' (1025b22-3) Thia is the Loeb translation, with my alternate readings in brackets: "For in the 52 case of things produced [poems ] the principle of motion [ first cause, origin] (either mind or art [skill, cunning] or some kind of potency [power, strength, force, meaning]) is in the producer [poet ] ." I could describe the moment of poetic recognition as C_;>extensive with the apprehension of these . a pxal, whether VO US, TEX\)n, or ouvaµ 1~' within the poem. - There are several reasons why I shall not. These three are well-chosen terms--I can't imagine three better--but I do not in principle find a categorical approach satisfactory. One good reason is that I am talking about the essential moment in poetic experience, and a reader never experiences one of these principles without one of the others. If one finds VO VS' or mind in a work, for example, perhaps in the form of an argument or a philosophy, this necessarily implies craft. After all, if a poet had something to say in the form of an argument, he would (or should) have said i t , and not wr"itten a poem. Readers of Plato's Dialogues can spend a lifetime discussing the relationship between philosophy and art as expressed ~ these very dialogues', a form of writing which Aristotle mentions in the Poetics among kinds of mimes that have not acquired a common name (a447b8-9 ) . Further, if a reader thrills to the power of force of meaning ( o uv a µ t S"J enmeshed in a poet's words, he never fails to admire as well the poet's skill at his craft. Finally, if one comes to know a work of art through the mind, craft and power within it--whatever their ultimate source--one has come to know something in much the same way that one comes to know a person. And if one does not subject people one knows to such a categorical analysis, why should poems one loves be so deserving? ~hink of Odysseus, for example: to know him in terms of . vous; , · T £_x vn , and cS u vau u" · i s t.o know him well, but they are not in him as distinct characteristics rather he is_ a living, acting mixture of these elements, together with traces. of other ingredients that will forever wreck our best-laid schemes. Getting to know someone, well enough to recognize him or his handiwork, clearly involves getting to know oneself, because of the similarity in natures. The same can be true of a poem. The deeper kind of poetic recognition I am addressing often involves seeing oneself, or an element of one's thought or experience, reflected in the work or its author. The poem becomes a mirror; as such, it allows us to see ourselves, in great detail or perhaps in a glass darkly. And when it becomes a mirror, a poem can show us ne~ things, possibilities hidden beyond our minds' corners, as a glass held to an open door can reveal great secrets. But the sun's unexpected reflection may blind us. we should also note that the relationship between poem and listener is not one sided, for the poem needs us, in our attentiveness and love, to give it life. We understand why identifying with a poem, or with a character or with its author, is such a wonderful way into the poem's landscape, because one then becomes part of the poem itself--literally one of it~ own metaphors. Dante brings this discussion to bear in unique ways on canto XXVI of the Paradiso. Here the pilgrim meets Adam, described metaphorically as an "animal under cover" (97 ) . The first father begins their meeting by saying he can: discern what you wish better Than you can the things you see most clearly; Because I see it in the true mirror Which makes itself the image of other things While nothing makes itself the image of him. (10 4-8 ) Adam is usually taken to be referring to God as this true mirror. He then goes on to list the pilgrim's questions and then answer them in the wrong order. Now two of these answers have no Biblical authority; when asked how long it had been since he 53 �r was exiled from the Garden, he responds first by saying how long he remained in Hell: From that place whence your lady brought Virgil, I longed for this assembly while the sun Revolved four thousand three hundred and two years; These extracts follow in his conclusion: [The translator's ] task, minute by minute and hour by hour, is not the invention of a beautiful imitation--and did not Remy de Gourmont say that the imitation of a beautiful thing is always ugly?--but the effacement of himself, so far as may be, before the text ••• The translator's mind is an empty room in which the verses float before him, surrounded as it were by what he has extracted, as possibly relevant, from the half-irrelevancies of dictionaries and the confusing propositions of commentators. The moment comes--sooner rather than later, later rather than sooner, according to the difficulty (for him) of the passage--when he sees through the original to the matter--the actual objects--of the original. It is at that moment that his own.,words form, and he has to take what he is given and to say what he sees. (118-20) and then when answering how long he had actually lived in the Garden, he relates: On the mountain which rises highest above the waves, I was, counting my pure life and the other, From the first hour until the hour which follows The sixth hour, when the sun passes meridian. (139-42) Strangely enough, after Dante reaches limbo, "that place whence your lady brought Virgil," he spends the rest of the Inferno, save four lines at the end, in Hell; in other words, four thousand three hundred and six lines minus four, or ~our thousand three hundred and two. And the time Dante spends in the Earthly Paradise is 3 from dawn until the sun reaches the meridian, or six hours. Clearly, Dante (poet and pilgrim) is identifying himself with Adam in some way, and if he represents Everyman, so do we. The question forms, is this (heretical) identification meant to be hidden, except from the eyes of those who care to untangle his numerical knots? And who is a better candidate for being that "true mirt'or" than Dante himself, that cagey poet? We must look further for a way of elucidating poetic recognition. If not Aristotle, then to whom do we have recourse in our still dark forest, where the "sun 4 is speechless 11 ? Fortunately, we have a wonderful and neglected resource, provided by people who claim the most intimate relationship in all poetry. These people are translators of poetry, from verse in one language to verse in another, and our resource is their experience, as related in Translator's Introductions. I shall let them speak for themselves; see how my "moment of poetic recognition" comes to life. c. H. Sisson, a recent British translator of Dante, describes an early encounter: the first sight of Dante, for one who catches a glimpse from afar, is of a tailor narrowing his eyes to thread a needle, or a gaggle of cranes stretched across the sky. That does not give you a style to imitate; it gives you a perception of the maximum which can be done, in a few words, to evoke a physical presence. The lesson from this is , silence: t her e is certainly no encouragement to produce °5 few more pages of verse for the next reading, or the next poetry prize. Later, we hear that In my experience, there is an identifiable moment when the translator can first say: I can translate a particu.l ar poet. Until that moment, all is uncertain ••• What might be called the subjective authorization to translate Lucretius came to me on the bus between Avignon and Tarascon : •• The phenomenon is as definite as that of writing a poem: more consciously prepared, perhaps, but finally as spontaneous . After that, the ~our~e ~f the labour before one is clear. Through whatever morass of linguistic and other scholarship you may pass before it is finished you kno~ th~t, as the meaning clarifies itself line by line and page by page, it w~ll take on itsell that newly discovered form to which no further reflection can be given. 54 I feel that not only translators are privileged with this kind of experience. All good listeners strive for the same kind of intimacy of awareness and recognition that Sisson describes. Allen Mandelbaum, in the introduction to his rendering of Virgil's Aeneid, speaks of a journey through his past associations with Virgil, and the influence on him of two other poets, Giuseppe Ungaretti and Dante himself, until he finds "the path that opens when the guides, for whom one has been grateful, fall away or say: 'I crown and mitre you over yourself. 1118 Robert Fitzgerald doesn't seem to write Translator's Introductions. I like to think that this is because he sees a translation of his as itself an introduction--li terally a leading within. It might be instructive to look at two translations. The passage I have selected is the closing eight Latin lines of the Aeneid. Aeneas has just recognized Pallas' armour on warlike Turnus, supplicant at his feet; here follow Allen Mandelbaum's lines: And when his eyes drank in this plunder, this memorial of brutal grief, Aeneas, aflame with rage--his wrath was terrible--cried: "How can you who wear the spoils of my dear comrade now escape me? It is Pallas who strikes, who sacrifices you, who takes this payment from your shameless blood." Relentless, he sinks his sword into the chest of Turnus. His limbs fell slack with chill; and with a moan his life, resentful, fled to Shades below. Notice that Mandelbaum reproduces Virgil's sudden change of tense in the middle of the narrative ("relentless, he sinks his sword ••• ). The present tense makes the scene and the thrusting act strangely present to us, but it never fails to surprise us as part of the narrative. We remember that in Homer, when used in the narrative, it is employed strictly in the service of analogy: collecting all his might the way an eagle narrows himself to dive through shady cloud and strike a lamb or cowering hare: so Hektor lanced ahead and swung his whetted blade; (Illiad XXII 307-11) and: Conspicuous as the evening star that comes, amid the first in heaven, at full of night, and stands most lovely in the west, so shone in sunlight the fine-pointed spear Akhilleus poised in his right hand. (317-20) 55 �My thoughts on the subject are not as mature as I would like, but this is how the question forms: by introducing the present tense into the narrative, does Virgil intentionally place his story, and send his heroes, into the world of analogy and simile, that translucent, shimmering shadow land? Here the spirits of the poet could remain undefiled, escaping the relentless run of time and history, which even got Rome in the end. I agree this is fanciful; Allen Mandelbaum simply says "there is no uniform explanation for these shifts (of tense] in Virgil; but each instance counts in its place and is motivated there." Mr. Mandelbaum himself says the project of translating Virgil came out of his greater, overarching concern with translating Dante. Here now is a version of the above lines rendered by a translator who travelled Virgil's own route--through Homer: For when the sigh came home to him, Aeneas raged at the relic of his anguish Worn by this man as trophy. Blazing up And terrible in · his anger, he called out: "You in your plunder, torn from one of mine, Shall I be robbed of you? This wound will come From Pallas: Pallas makes this offering And from your criminal blood exacts his due." He sank his blade in fury in Turnus's chest. Then all the body slackened in death's chill, And with a groan for that indignity His spirit fled into the gloom below. 10 Fitzgerald eschews the narrative present tense in this case and appears to follow his own rules with regard to its translation throughout his version. One doesn't know what to think of this; should we recognize the special authority he claims, as a poet viewing a poet, to the point where it is up to him whether he translate verb for verb? I have a final observation to make here, a confusing recognition, if you will. These lines are spoken to Hektor by Akhilleus in Book XXII of The Iliad, after Troy's hero, beguiled by Athena, has stopped his running and turned to face his pursuer. He asks for a guarantee that the loser's body be returned to his respective side. Akhilleus responds: "Hektor, I'll have no talk of pacts with you, forever unforgiven as you are. As between men and lions there are none, no concord between wolves and sheep, but all hold one another hateful through and through, so there can be no courtesy between us, no sworn truce, till one of us is down and glutting with his blood the wargod Ares •.• Now there is no way out. Pallas Athena will have the upper hand of you. The weapon belongs to me. You'll pay the reckoning in full for all the pain my men have borne, who met death by your spear." (261-72) I hear an unmistakable echo of this speech in Virgil's final lines. Both Akhilleus and Aeneas speak of acting on behalf of their own, and--inexplicably--refer to themselves as instruments of Pallas, though one meant the daughter of Zeus, and the other the son of Evander. so Aeneas is identified with Akhilleus in this final gruesome moment (at least in The Iliad we end with the funeral, not the death), and indeed he can be seen as a ruthless invader; Turnus is identified with Hektor, a native defending his 56 father~and. But this only points up the incongruity that earlier in the poem, Aeneas was painted as a kind of Odysseus, returning, in fact, to his true destined home with a long exiled people, while Turnus, the frustrated suitof when he enters alone into 1 the Teucrian camp--"a tiger mingling with cowed cattle" --calls himself "Achilles" by name. My preliminary conclusion from this is that Virgil's relationship with Homer, poet to poet, is an essential part of his poem, but remains the hardest depth to fathom in The Aeneid's Roman music. . Some poems have it central to their experience that they be interpreted. I find interpreting the whole Iliad something like interpreting the ocean stream· Dante's Commedia, h~wev~r, is overtly allegorical, and hence demands this kind of ~esponse. Interpretation is not.r:cogniti~n; .if it is good, it follows from and is inspired by the ~oments ?f recognition and insight we experience. At its best, it is an attempt to fin~ m~aning ~n~ order, with~n and without, in the many visions a poem grants us; a nourishing activ~ty for the mind which helps keep a listener's relationship with a poem--or another listener--fresh. Bad interpretation abounds, however; this can res~lt through the ~mposition of an external order on the poem, or the too hasty spinn~ng out of theories from a too limited vision of the object. The great sin of assigned analytical papers in literature classes is that they encourage both these latter. Dante Alighieri .or all poets has suffered most at the hands of his interpreters. He is only to blam~ in that he makes it clear his lines have two meanings, a literal one and an allegorical one. But this does not license an editor to flood an edition of the Commedi~ ~ith 7omment~ries, so ~s to make the .poem inaccessible. obviously. Some modern editions in English come with companion volumes of commentary, twice as long as the poem. At least three editions preface each canto with a detailed summary and fol~ow it u.p with more notes than there was poetry. The poem has to be read like a mag~zine article (turn to page 16C for the next installment) ! one gets the impression that Dante must be a "solved" writer, a poet destined. to be "all figured out" by modern scholarship. Fo: this reason, Ernest Fortin' s lecture, How To ~ Dante• s comedy, was refreshing. He showed how Dante eludes his interpreters, how he hides himself above, underneath, inside his own comedy. As many mirrors confuse the eye so with Da~te' s Comm~dia~ one doesn't know what to think, even about the poet's ~eligious faith· F?rtin .cited many examples, including the secret identification with Adam I have mentioned. He also pointed out a scheme that explains the role of statius, one of the pilgrim's three poet-guides, for whom Dante invents a life history: before he purportedly discovered Christian faith, Statius wrote two pagan epics (that is, he said the wrong thing and too much); afterwards, Statius hid his Christianity, he didn't say enough--he was a poetic miser. Virgil, the first poet-guide, was a non-Christian poet who wrote a non-Christian epic; Statius was a Christian poet who wrote a non-Christian epic; Dante, last in the trio and his own poet-guide, "crowned and mitred over himself", is supposedly the Christian poet who writes a Christian epic. But this setup leaves open a tantalizing possibility: the non-Christian poet who writes a Christian epic. "Who dat?" asks Mr. Fortin. He closed by revealing how in the last canto of the Paradiso, the anticipated allegorical level actually masks the literal meaning; the supposed Beatific vision, a description of the Trinity, fits a~ well, if ~°Jt better, with the object which literally consumed Dante's eye sight: his own poem. I have my own response to these matters. What follows is my guided trip through canto XVII of the Paradiso, where Dante meets his ancestor Cacciaguida. I think something of Dante's experience came home to me as I read this canto. Perhaps I delude myself; I cannot be the judge. 57 �c,_..- If Homer's Odyssey is a poem of return, and The Aeneid is a poem about carrying in one's household gods, Dante's poem is a poem of exile, in all its salt anguish and longing. In two previous cantos, in the sphere of Mars, Cacciaguida has chronicled the golden age and then the decline of Florence. Now, in the opening tercet of the central canto of the Paradiso, Dante approaches Cacciaguida, his ancestral father, As there once came to Clymene, to ascertain The truth of what he had heard said against himself, The young man who is still a caution to fathers. (1 -3) The young man is Phaeton, who came to his mother to find out for sure who his father was. It turns out this was Phoebus, the sun god; to prove it to him, as one version of the myth goes, Phoebus offered Phaeton any favour he wished. The son rashly chose to drive his father's chariot, which he couldn't control, burning earth, mountain and sky, before Zeus killed him with a thunderbolt. Dante's analogy is cryptic at best. The poet asks Cacciaguida to explain the many prophecies he has heard while: , climbing up the mountain which cures souls And going down into the dead world, (20-21) - - -- Heaven chased them out, so as not to become less beautiful, And the depths of hell also re]ected them, Lest the evil might find occasion to glory over them. (Inf. III 40-2) Cacciaguida tells Dante that he: will learn how salt is the taste Of other people's bread, how hard the way Going up and down other people's stairs. (58-60) These words speak for themselves. I might only suggest that as Beatrice, a girl our poet once knew, c~e to represent more and more to Dante, until she became Divine ~ove or Re~ealed Wisdom, so perhaps did his exile from Florence take on deeper meanings for him; perhaps Dante saw in it the germ of that greater longing the longing caused by man's exile from the Kingdom of God. We are less mysti'fi'ed 'then b h' 1 t . . , , y is a er i. d en t. f ying with Adam, the first exile from that Kingdom. 1 . Dante goes on to hear many more things, things "incredible to those who will li~e throu?h them" . (93). Then he makes a fresh start; fearing that his poems might alienate him, not Just from Florentines, but from all others as well he explains to Cacciaguida that in his journey, ' and he responds: I have learned things which, if I repeat them, Will have a bitter taste for many people; Without the circumlocutions in which people were swallowed up before the slaughter of The lamb of God who takes away sins ••• And if I am a timid friend to truth, I fear to lose the life I have among those Who will call the present time, ancient times. But in clear words and plain exact speech ••• Hidden but appearing in his smile. (31-36) This clarity of speech represents the way in which the Christian .Aoyos transformed, fulfilled, and retroactively clarified Old Testament prophecy. Cacciaguida tells Dante of his upcoming exile from Florence. He prefaces the hard words with this explanation: (116-20) Sho~ld he hold back his bitter words, for practicality's sake, or reveal all for posterity? Of course we know what he cpgoses; Brunetto Latini, the rhetorician who "instructed.· .how man may be eternal," is eternally running around the burning sands of Dante's Hell. Cacciaguida says: let them scratch wherever they may itch. Contingency, which does not stretch beyond The limits of your material world, Is all set out before the sight of God: For if your words are objectionable At the first taste, they will yield nourishment Afterwards, once they have been digested. But does not on that account become necessity Any more than a ship which is drifting downstream Drifts as it does because a man sees it. (37-42) This cry of yours will do as the wind does, Strike hardest on the summits which are highest. The image of a man watching a ship drifting would be simpler if Dante had not described his own poem as a vessel, as at the opening of the Purgatorio; if we ha~ not 4 if been audience to the profoundly moving story of Ulysses' Promethean ship voyage; he had not used Jason and the Argona._psts as a recurring theme, which even finds its way into the final canto of his poem. For the first time, the man and the ship are separated, if we think of the man as longing to be on board that drifting ship, for whatever reason--perhaps he is marooned and longs in vain for family and friends; perhaps it ought to be steered upstream--we see the power and subtlety of this image, as it bears on Dante's exile. The helplessness one feels when one is not allowed to participate is, I think, central to Dante's experience of exile. We remember the place Dante gives to those people and angels who, by their own choice, refused to participate: 58 (129-34 ) We are reminded again of Phaeton, swooping low in his borrowed chariot. But if Dante is playing God for a day, he is only the charioteer; it is the sun that th_ poet. e burns , not Cacciaguida ends the canto by explaining that Dante has been shown Only the souls of those who are known to fame; For the listener's mind will not find its rest Nor fix its faith unless it finds examples Of which the root is known and not hidden , And arguments which are plain as day. (138-42 ) In ligh~ of Mr. Fortin's arguments, this is clearly ironic. Dante himself, save for the unmistakable longing that is the root of his words' beauty, remains, as ever, far 59 �from plain view. . . we have yet to acknowledge the most dramatic of all moments of recognition, the one Aristotle mentions by name. These are experienced by characters; two standard examples are the "recognition scene" between Elektra and Orestes in Aeschylus' Libation Bearers (Sophocles' Elektra has a fascinating version of the same scene, and :Euripides' Elektra provides a hilarious parody), and the moment Oedipus discovers the t~th about himself in Oedipus Rex. Aristotle explains: Recognition(\va.yvwp101S'), as the word itself indicates, is a change from ignorance to knowledge, leading either to friendship or to hosti~ity on the part of those persons who are marked for good fortune or bad. It is the second of three elements in a tragic plot, the others being suffering ~ ~ (mi eOS' ) ·and reversal (TIE p 1 TIsTs1 a.) ("a change from one stat\Ef.f affairs to its exact opposite •. in conformance1 with probability or necessity." ) • Though there are many types of ~va.yvwp101s--and we have seen two in Penelope and Odysseus and Aeneas and Turnus--Aristotle says, "The best form of recogWion is that which is accompanied by a reversal, as in the example from Oedipus." surely one of the most sublime of all recognition scenes in dramatic poetry is Act IV Scene 6 of Shakespeare's King Lear. The recognition takes place between Lear and Gloucester. There is no re-;ersal; Gloucester's earlier blinding is a classic ex~le from this play of recognition · combined with reversal, for as he is blinded, he discovers the wrong he has done Edgar. To include this later scene in his Poetics,· Aristotle would have to coin a new terin: recognition through suffering. --. we have been through the banishments and the slow descent; we have wit11essed :&ear and his poor naked train on the heath; we have seen the unimaginable in · Gloucester's blinding. The schemes . of the play's five fiends--Edmund, Regan, Goneril, Cornwall, and oswald--are working themselves to fruition. And we have seen justice responding in a few noble souls: service in Kent and Gloucester, king~iness in France, conscience in Albany and valour in Cornwall's slaves. The scene is set for the final meeting between the two suffering old men. The scene as a whole explores the power of the imagination. It is in part a man's imagination that determines his world. we open with Gloucester's attempted suicide, from a cliff that is not there. I think it well to note that on Shakespeare's unadorned stage, there is no reason to believe the audience will not be deceived along with Gloucester. Edgar's speech about the cliff is superb descriptive poetry; until his explanation: Why I do trifle thus with his despair Is done to cure it, (32-3) we, in our heightened imagination, are on the edge of that cliff, careful that we do not "topple down headlong" (24). The deception prepares us to question our own imagination and conception of what is real; if a detailed account of cliff-side sensations is all we need to believe the men before us are standing on a cliff, in what other ways do we fool ourselves? (The men are standing on a stage, incidentally.) When his father falls, Edgar worries because he know[s] not how conceit may rob The treasury of life when life itself Yields to the theft. (42-4) But Gloucester recovers, to be convinced again by Edgar's story, this time of a miraculous fall and the fiend whom he left on top of the cliff. The message here is 60 strong, however we feel about Edgar's purposes, and bears on all the speeches about the gods and fiends we hear in this play. Whether the gods are kind and just, or whether the world is full of fiends and beasts, can only be revealed through our own actions, just or unjust. We must take the world as what it appears to be, but at the same time it is our world to make; often it appears to others only as we present it to them. Enter the king himself. He invades our discussion by living in his own world, gliding down from unseen heights, to dwell, for a moment, eye to eye with Gloucester. In his first speech, he is apparently hallucinating. George Kittredge explains it this way: In his delirium he sees constables who try to arrest him as a coiner of counterfeit money. The next moment he is a captain engaged in the enlistment of drafted men and in testing the recruits. Suddenly he catches sight of an imaginary mouse •.• Then he is a champion defying all opponents; then a captain once more; then a spectator at an archery contest; then, catching ~ht of Edgar, he becomes a sentry and challenges him: "Give the word." Lear plays six roles in seven lines. Yet he remains completely genuine: as natural as a thunderbolt, or a bastard son. Gloucester says,"I know that voice" (95). Even without seeing him, he recognizes the authority which so masters Kent. "Hal Goneril with a white beard?" (96) responds Lear. We are used to Lear' s imbuing the world with his own pains and concerns; if Poor Tom has b~in reduced to a naked wretch, it must be because he, too, had ungrateful daughters. But Lear continues: ·When the rain came to wet me once, and the wind to make me chatter; when the thunder would not peace at my bidding; there I found 'em, there I smelt 'em out. Go to, they are not men o' their wordsl They told me I was everything. 'Tis a lie--I am not ague-proof. {100-05) Apparently we can be greatly deceived by others, even about ourselves. But Gloucester is sure of what he has heard. Though the words make no sense, Glau. The trick of that voice I do well remember. Is't not the king? Lear. Ay, every inch a kingl When I do stare, see how the subject quakes. (106-08) ·Lear works himself up to a fever pitch of fury and revulsion1 the world around him seems populated by demi-human beasts. "Give me an ounce of civet, good apothecary," he says, "to sweeten my imagination." {130-1) If we must mark the instant, Lear's recognition begins with Gloucester's plea, "O, let me kiss that hand!". (132) Here is the first heartfelt attempt to make contact with Lear, to touch him, show a sign of love. And Lear hears it. "Let me wipe it first," he says, "it smells of mortality." It seems that Gloucester's loving gesture has united the two, so that they can recognize each other as fellow sufferers: as such they live in the same world. Lear tunes in and out--he calls Gloucester "blind Cupid" (137)--but the bond is still there: Lear. o, ho, are you there with me? No eyes in your head, nor no money in your purse? Your eyes are in a heavy case, your purse in a light. 61 �Yet you see how this world goes. Glou. I see it feelingly. (144-8) Lear then begins a tirade against the two-faced justice and corrupted authority that plague the world. Again, the outward appearances deceive: Robes and furr'd gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold, And the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks; Arm it in rags, a pygmy's straw does pierce it. None does offend, none--I say none! I'll able 'em. (164-7) Mind in the passive .sense is such because it becomes all things, but mind has another aspect in that~~ makes all things(ITOlEl~]; this is a kind of positive state like light. My theme has been poetic recognition, and this is its highest form: recognition of oneself as poet and listener, maker of one's life and world, yet also audience to their creation, in the moments when we live. Christian Holland, in reference to this speech, makes this revealing comparison: In the story of the stoning of the adulteress Jesus shows that he knows that no man is without sin. He therefore urges all of us to take our own sinfulness to heart when we judge the wrongdoings of our fellows. Jesus . pardons, forgives the adulteress, and commands her to go and sin no more. Lear enables the adulteress to go on sinning. Since human beings are no more than beasts, and beasts cannot be said to be sinners~ Lear refuses to acknowledge any wrongdoing on her part. Sin is nothing. 2 Finally, Lear knows his friend and servant by name: If thou wilt weep my fortunes, take my eyes. I know thee well enough; thy name is Gloucester. Thou must be patient. We came crying hither; Thou know' st, the first time that we smell the air We wawl and cry. (175-9) We have witnessed a grand but simple encounter. The world can deceive; to some degree, we all live in our own imaginings. But these two, Lear and Gloucester, though one is blind and the other mad, have recognized each other. By weeping each other's fortunes, having acknowledged their sins, they have managed, for a moment, to share the world. But the gods must have their sacrifice. we must offer our best. Cordelia and Lear have learned the art of self-sacrifice, the one by nature, the other through suffering . They are nature's masterpieces. And what goddess demands this ritual, other than Nature herself--the goddess of this play--terrible in her magnificence? The closer one gets to King Lear, or any work of art, the harder it gets to keep oneself clear, as to where the poem's world ends and the real world begins. From my experience with Lear, getting close to the play involves hearing it all inside onesel~, becoming all the parts--hero and villain, king and subject, philosopher and natural fool. As the lines re-echo, the play begins to sound more and more like a piece of music, with its own inner meaning that defies interpretation. And the music of King Lear needs no translation. One simply listens, and returns to the world, · full of words to experience it with. we begin to see the dialogue that poetry fosters: great poems, like these I have discussed, are creations in words that reflect and reshape our experience; but their words in turn become part of us, the matter with which we ourselves remake and ennoble our lives. we remember these words of Aristotle, from his treatise On The Soul: 62 63 �Footnotes The Search for What the Memory Holds: M~mory, Identity and the Uses of Things 1. Aristotle, Poetics, trans. James Hutton 2. The verb is KaA.UrrTw,,meaning to cover up or envelop for protection, preservation, or concealment (Cunliffe). I owe this passage to Jerome Downey, whose insight is at times as big as the rest of him. 3. Ernest Fortin, How To Read Dante's Comedy, lecture given Spring 1984. 4. Dante Alighieri, Commedia: Inferno , I . 60 5. Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy, trans. c. H. Sisson, Regnery Gateway, pg. 37 6. Ibid., pg. 39 7. Ibid., pg. 42-3 8. Allen Mandelbaum, The Aeneid of Virgil, University of California Press, pg. 336 For a moment they are say and are a part 9. Ibid., pg. X Of an element, the exactest element for us, 10. Ibid. In which we pronounce joy like a word of our own. 11. Virgil, The Aeneid, trans. Robert Fitzgerald, Random House, pg . 402 12. Ibid., pg. 286 13. Fortin, paraphrased from memory 14. Alighieri, Commedia: Inferno, XXVI 15. Ibid., Paradiso XXXIII . 94-6 Without the labor of thought in that element, 16. Ibid., Inferno, XV. 85 And we feel, in a way apart, for a moment, as if 17 . Ar i s t otle, 1452a There was a bright scienza outside of ourselves, 18. Ibid. 19. Ibid. 20. William Shakespeare, King Lear, ed. George Kittredge, pg. 114 (note to 11. 83-92) Liz Waldner OF BRIGHT AND BLUEBIRDS AND THE GALA SUN Some things, nine, some things are like this, That instantly and in themselves they are say And you and I are such things, o most miserable ••• It is there, being imperfect, and with these things And erudite in happiness, with nothing learned, That we are joyously ourselves and we think A saiety that is being, not merely knowing, The will to be and to be total in belief, 21. Shakespeare, III. 4. 47 22. Christian Holland, Edgar's Growth in King Lear, Energeia, Winter 1984, pg. 77 23. Aristotle, On The Soul, Loeb, 430a14-16 Provoking a laughter, an agreement, by surprise. - Wallace Stevens All quoted passages of Dante ' s Comrnedia were translated by C. H. Si sson; all the paasagea from Homer were translated by Rober t Fi tzger a ld. 64 In book X of his Confessions, Augustine endeavors to say what he now is, not, as before, what he has been. His love for God kindles in him the desire to know his God; therefore he hopes, by confessing what he knows and what he does not know of himself, to make his soul a fit dwelling for that God who loves the truth. The attempt to say what he is comes as r~~E__onse to his longing for knowledge of God and 65 �builds on his conviction that what he is and perhaps who he is may be discovered in light of his love for God. In general, knowing what someone loves may help us to understand who she is; believing we are made to love and serve God, Augustine expects to know his own nature better as he delves into God's. Thus Augustine makes a beginning by asking what it is that he loves when he loves his God: But what do I love when I love Thee? Not the beauty of bodies, nor the fair harmony of time, nor the brightness of the light, so gladsome to our eyes, nor sweet melodies of varied songs, nor the fragrant smell of flowers and ointments and spices, not manna and honey, not limbs acceptable to embracements of flesh. None of these I love, when I love my God; and yet I love a kind of light and melody and fragrance and meat and ernbracement of my inner man: where there shineth unto my soul what space cannot contain and there soundeth what time beareth not away and there smelleth what breathing disperses not and there tasteth what eating diminisheth not and there cleanseth what satiety divorces not. This is it which I love when I love my God. And what is this? [I asked ••• ] (p. 208) The pleasures which the senses make available are not those loved in loving God, but they are like them; they remind one of the thing sought for. The beauties of this world, subject to diminishrnent, dispersal and ravishment by time are pale in comparison to God who made them. Against the view that the joy we take in air and light, in having a body is full and final, Augustine levels the testimony of the pleasure-givers themselves: heaven and earth and everything in them bid Augustine love God and declare, "I am not He, but He made me." The pleasures of the changeable world are understood to be harbingers of an unimaginable goodness of which they bear tidings. From the world around him, Augustine "turns himself to himself," demanding "Who are you?" Soul and body represent themselves to him upon his answering, "A man ." It is the inner man, "I, the mind" allied with soul who, questioning the things of the world, is able to discern in their form of beauty the report of the outer man: not I, but He made me. For Augustine, it is this inner man who wonders at himself, pondering his memory, its force "excessive great" a power of his through which and in which he seeks his God. · As reason is set over the senses to judge of their reports, so God is "above the head of the soul". Reason enables Augustine to read in the loveliness of the creation--between its lines, as it were--testimony illegible to beasts and' undiscerned by those mastered by the outer man, testimony to the existence of "one greater than I". Because he has avoided mistaking the thing made for the maker, Augustine 's world, like a choirmaster, directs him in a rehearsal of the inquisitive mode: if not you, then whom do I love? Thus, allegiance to the inner man is requisite to the "rising by degrees" which is his pilgrim's progress toward God's metaphorically mixed locus "above the head of my soul;" otherwise he would have loitered unawares and discomfited among way-markers, signs, and images. By means of his soul, Augustine finds the right way; on this he finds the fields and palaces of his memory. Every opportunity is taken to emphasize the expanse and amazing character of this treasure-trove found in the head of the soul. The search for God has led from admiration and inquiry "of the seas and the deeps, the whole air with its inhabitants·, sun, moon, and stars and all that encompass the door of his flesh," to that door itself which, opened in answer to his knock discloses images of all he has admired, his admiration, and, wonder of wonders, himself. The stages of his journey, early and late, and souvenirs thereof, even up to his entry just made, are caught up and held for him--inside of himself. As Augustine somewhat defensively opines, it is as if the memory were the belly of the soul; the outside is taken in and stored 66 there. The more spacious the palace, the more numerous the mansions of this house, the more inexpressible its windings, unfathomable its depths, various its cupboards and pantries, the more wonderful the fact that anything therein should ever be recalled, the more awesome the realization that this great and strange power of remembrance is ours, part of our nature, a thing to be spoken of when saying "what I am." Since this power also bears witness to the yet greater glory of God who made it, the source and object (in true genitive fashion) of Augustine' s search, fear, love and reverence for God increase accordingly. Awe in the presence of God and the search for him are at least furthered if not begun by wonder at his works, which include oneself. In the wondrous cabinets of memory, then, we find two sorts of things: those which the senses bring into it from all sorts of perception, to be stored according to kind; and those "whereof we imbibe not the images by our senses," but have in memory the things themselves. The latter are perceived within, by the mind's experience of its own passions. Numbers and geometry's fissures are among these, as is "all, learnt of the liberal sciences and as yet unforgotten." They are "removed as it were to some inner place, which is yet no place." These lie unknown, scattered and neglected until received and ordered through recollection. The images transported by sense are preserved distinctly; when one is remembering the look of an adobe wall on a winter's evening, the smell of the second floor bedroom at one's grandparents house in 1962 neither intrudes nor commingles. Despite occasional contretemps--a bevy of eager memories present themselves when only one is called for {requiring their dispersal from "the face of remembrance" with "the hand of the heart" ) ; or the would-be rememberer is made to wait unduly long for the desired article while encountering various unexpected, inexplicable others--Augustine suggests that things go on here in an orderly way. One enters his storehouse, requests what he will, and it is fetched, with more or less dispatch as its cubby-hole is far or near, more or less swallowed by forgetfulness. The latter resembles a species of snow which accumulates with time, through every weather; gentle and diligent, it obscures and at last buries what it falls on. The woman of the parable, having lost her groat, sought it with a lamp: one might say that lit lamp is memory: unless she had remembered it, she would never have found what she sought. Memory then, acts as a place holder, albeit a fickle one--a somewhat inconstant zero. Something there is which is not here, it reminds us feeling "that it did not carry on together all which it was wont, and maimed, as i~ were, by the curtailment of its ancient habit, demanded the restoration of what it missed." ( ~. 2~1). Unfortunately for all who would be reminded, it can't be counted on to persist in its demand. Some count this a blessing. The tutor remembered Monday's meeting with his advisee until Friday; on Monday he found himself with the unwonted luxu- ry of an hour before his next class, an hour which he thoroughly enjoyed, disturbed ~nly once~ as he stirred his coffee, by the familiar feeling of memory's suffering its curtailment: he was forgetting something. He decided it was sugar for his coffee, whic~ he got. At 6:30 the next morning the sugar packet, transubstantiated, revealed itself to have been an appointment. Bad conscience or gratitude rose thereupon, like a signal effluence of character. Thus we see the toll taken by th~ ~assage of time (which time ought to be paying, since it is doing the moving, making ~nroads o? memory; memory might do well to add this claim to its suit, as long as it is demanding restorations) upon the figure cut in his memory by the tutor's appointment; it retained a recognizable face for several days, whereupon weathering so eroded its form that it was mistaken for a condiment. It is possible, however, for memory to serve as an enduring standard for the lost, a flag waving Provenance, not lowered until the object of the search at last arrives and identifies itself as prodigal but true-born inheritor of that standard's device-whereupon that device is discerned. When something has slipped one's 67 �mind--what, for instance, was that large-eyed woman-waif's name in Fellini's "La strada"?--one makes attempts to bring before memory's throne the syllables sought. This can be something like memory's holding Cinderella's glass slipper and our proffering multifarious objects, only discovering it was a foot we were loo~ing for when memory exclaims, Ahal It fits! {Lest we be seized rather by exasperation than by Augustine' s admiration at such antics on memory' s part, we may remark these slippers of memory's are sometimes very transparent.) sometimes, however, we have a little more to go on, a feeling for the r~ytlun of· the name or for the sound of its vowels. Then it is like seeing that a foot is wanted and stage-mothering our best friends, mothers, aunts, cousins and lovers into t~ing out for the part--go on, you're a shoe-in. Thus I bring ~efore memory ~uch essays as Dulcinea? Giusetta? Jucipetta? until I say, Ahal or give up •. {Happily, memory is not like those kings who behead their daughter's unsuccessful .suitors.) The woman seeking her groat persisted until she said Aha, kept mindful of her loss and ready to identify the speck when found, meanwhile dismissing pretenders and imposters, by power of her now steadfast and scrupulous, not out-to-lunch memory. one of the memory's more dependable characteristics, and perhaps most wondrous of all, is its capacity to serve as a chamber wherein one may hold court with oneself. · The court, at least, will be there. In it, Augustine finds, he can confer with himself as he now is, or ponder himself in the various guises with their concomitant settings of the "Ancestor Augustines" that he has been. (Of these lat~er, those in favor or disfavor--of especial note to the visiting royalty--are most likely to accept i~vitations; others incline to the impromptu. Still others may decline an interview altogether.) "A large and boundless chamber! Whoever sounded the bottom thereof?" Visiting there, Augustine knows he is surrounded by myriad slumbering things of which he is unaware (and some of which are he) whose awakening.is the exercise of a power that he, its owner, does not comprehend. .Hence t~at dictum re~ark­ able in its somber and devoted astonishment: "Therefore is the mind too strait to contain itself." The vast lumber room of memory, the head of the soul, recalls God's mindfulness of His creation, His attending to sparrows and numbering the hairs of the head. Heaven and earth and all that one could think thereon, besides what one has forgotten, are there to serve him who sits in the seat of the mind as the material of inference , hope , J'udgment, discretion, surprise, counsel, resolve, laughter . and red gret--a large and boundless chamber, indeed. A wonderful admiration surprises an amazement seizes Augustine: brought together in the mind is properly said to be thought upon." (p. 215) Refusal to have any truck with re-incarnation and a virtue that is the gift of a panoply of Gods may be reasons for his failure to remind us of the fair Meno and his would-be slave, the torpedo fish, who will again stir the memory when Augustine takes up the question so like Meno's: whence have we the idea of a happy life, which all desire, without ever having known it? Virtue, we remember, is not acquired through recollection; nor, we shall see, is the knowledge of God which is granted in the moment of learning" him. Let us then scrutinize some sort of happiness that can be learned. Prudence will stand us in good stead. Like the numbers wherewith we number, prudence is recollected and dwells in memory before and after the event, inchoate in its deepest recesses before, near at hand after. We are ignorant of prudence until by conception we order and arrange its scattered components, thus marking or recognizing it for what it is. It is somewhat disconcerting to allow for the presence in memory of unidentified snips and tatters of an idea, languishing until the treacherous spark of conception animates it, only to relegate this creation to memory's caves. Yet the concept does not enter the mind--as a thoughtful effluence, say, commensurate · with some "sense" of the inner man1 its elect bric-a-brac are there already waiting. Apparently, it is galvanized, a sort of elective affinity provoking the arrangement of constituent bits into agreement with Prudence encountered in the flesh. We come into its presence and, Ahal Behold! That's Prudence, we exclaim. Socrates, investigating this phenomenon, consulted "certain wise men and women, priests and priestesses" who sought "to give a reason of their profession," and poets who spoke by divine inspiration. By their account, the soul is inunortal, born into the world and leaving it in death many times. Hence the soul has learned all things, and there is no difficulty in her eliciting, or as men say, learning, out of a single recollection, all the rest, if one is strenuous and does not faint, for all inquiry and all learning is but recollection. (81C-D) This bewilderment--how is it that I, the mind, find myself in memory?--leads to another: how is it that I find God who is not in my memory? An examination of ~he difference between recollection and "learning God" leads to Augustine's conclusion that the search for what the memory holds is itself a sign pointing beyond the memory. At that point the importance of the remarkable array of memory' aspects and abilities is addressed. As we have seen, recollection is that sort of remembrance which is not an image, but consists in the presence in the mind of the thing remembered. How do we come.by reasons and laws concepts like eloquence? We recollect them. Although Augustine does not his ex;lication and etymology do call Meno and Socrates to mind. "The mind has appr~priated to itself this word cogitation, so that what is recollected, i.e., As for the catalyst, the impulse toward recollection seems to be the encountering of difficulties. Why is this so? It would seem that a full knowledge, or fullness of being, is primary, and ignorance like so many clouds before its sun. The soul "wants" to unfold, wholly to recollect the things it holds, thus renewing its acquaintance with the whole of the intelligible world--returning to pay a visit to The Forms. Difficulties keep it from its native place, prolonging its exile; hence they kindle its desire to see its homecoming. Thus, the slave boy possessed of a perplexity, divested of confidence because cognizant of his ignorance, is a slave boy possessed by desire to know. That favorite among the Emperor's New Clothes, that fashion time never renders passe, which moth hardly corrupts and no one need steal, namely, the fancy that one knows what one does not, in fact, know (which is reversible and may be worn as well as complacency: there is no knowing and no use trying to) is shrugged off in exchange for a Deianira's cloak of desire. The truth of all things, then, has always existed in the soul, awakened into knowledge by the putting of questions to it. Questions are put to the soul when the head of the soul is perplexed. One's loss, one's ignorance is recognized. Knowledge is sought after and spontaneously recovered in recollection. The torpedo fish's sting effects a confusion, a torpor like that bothersome feeling that one has forgotten something. we sense a disturbance, a throbbing in the back of the mind, a repeated inkling. The brow wrinkles: what is this? The soul returned greets the world: Aha, aha, aha! I remember you. Furrowed forehead: on the trail. Recollection's nod: the lost is found. A laughter is provoked, "an agreement, by surprise." 68 69 For we are not now searching out the regions of heaven, or measuring the distances of the stars, or enquiring the balancings of the earth. It is I myself who remember, I, the mind. It is not so wonderful if what I myself am not, be far from me. But what is nearer to me than myself? And lo, the force of my own memory is not understood by me. (p. 218) �Having pondered the ways in which lost things are found and considered recollection's recovery of knowledge, Augustine returns to his question, What do I love when I love Thee? His answer divulges that his love has been suffered as search, as desire: "When I seek Thee, my God, I seek a happy life." (p. 222) It also reveals his recognition that its converse is false, which is apparent only to those who "learn God," as it turns out. At this point in his inquiry, Augustine echoes Meno: "How then do I seek a happy life, seeing I have it not, until I can say where I ought to say, It is enough? As though I had forgotten it, remembering I had forgotten it? Or desiring to learn it as a thing unknown?" (p. 2 2 2) The answer 1 ie s somewhere in between or above , encompassing and superseding remembering the forgotten and recollection. To arrive at the answer the inner man pursues that path which reason discerned and desire traced among the reports of the senses upon the things of the world. He who has ears to hear perceives that "when I seek God I seek a happy life" lies in the direction indicated by the earlier answer, "we · are not he whom you seek, but he made us." It, too, points the way. The inner man "solves" the equation "seek God = happy life" when he comprehends that the concept of a happy life itself points to something beyond it. As we remember, virtue was said by Socrates and Meno to be recognized but not acquired by means of recollection. The problem with seeking God is that he can't be recollected, much less acquired thereby. To be learned as a thing unknown, like prudence, he would somehow have to be present in memory, unrecognizable in the rags and tatters of the idea of himself. Although he does prove to have been with Augustine all along and in a sort of disguise, God himself is not present in the memory until learned. Nor yet, Augustine continues, is he among the images of corporeal things stored there, nor in the affections of the mind~ nor is he the mind itself, being rather its lord. The problem with seeking a happy life is that everyone remembers, loves and longs for it without having known it: "All will the happy life; no one altogether wills it not. This could not be unless the thing whereof it is the name is in memory o II (p. 223) The · problem to · end all problems is that seeking God . is seeking a happy life: therefore the thing sought must be at once in and not in the memory. with -the help of the inner man' s audio acuity Augustine reduces this absurdity to a state of impending grace, to be inaugurated by an act of grace, the bursting of the surd, his deafness. All indeed desire to attain the same end, but many fall short, deceived and distracted by semblances of joy. These semblances, lesser happinesses, are present in memory, are recollectable--and hence mistakable for him who made them. Just as Socrates and Meno agree that some desire what they suppose to be goods, although they are really evil, so Augustine maintains that those who seek a happy. life in anything but loving God for his own sake--rejoicing "to, of and for Him"--rejoice in falsehoods. we may seek a happy life without seeking God but the desire that urges one is the mark of God's call. Neither the attainment of the thing in which "false" joy was sought, nor the presence of the thing itself in memory, end the search for a happy life; and this argues that we have not yet found what is wanting. Loving God for his own sake requires, first, learning him and this, as Augustine confesses, can prove a lengthy and painful process. Seeking a happy life necessitates willing it entirely; only then is it possible to learn God. Satisfaction with semblances of joy is a sign of partial willing. Although one must recollect the meaning of the testimony of the senses before God can be learned, no accumulation of such knowledge will amount to or spontaneously convert to knowledge of God. The moment in which he is learned is God's gift. As it was possible for Meno to inquire into the nature of any of virtue's swarm by means of 70 recollection, so Augustine queries and ponders the created world while seeking its creator. In each case the seeker has a vague idea of the thing sought. Socrates explains this with his tale of the soul's previous visits to mortality. Augustine offers us the idea of a happy life which is a placeholder. Recollectable and desired, the idea whets the appetite for The True Happy Life since each desire satisfied only inflames a brighter successor. In this way the happy life we seek in the senses' pleasures is sought like a thing forgotten: we are restless, something is wanting; we know to look for it in its absence and judge of the satisfactions found. However, nothing the senses or the mind offer will satisfy memory, the desires' keeper, for the thing sought, the truly happy life, discloses itself only to a humbled heart whose provenance is the unified will. Toward this disclosure the head of the soul guides us through false joys by means of the desire it tends, accepting no substitutes, unassuaged by the offerings of the outer man. Information gleaned about God from the world induces an ordering of ourselves, a collecting of our wits and wills in preparation for seeing what no ready willingness on our part can make appear. The search is a prelude, initiatory. Augustine's is a God who hides himself; the seeker must wait for revelation of the face behind the veil of the idea of the happy life in his memory. When recognition occurs it is recognized as a gift, as grace. Muscular exertions of will are of no avail, necessary but insufficient exercises. Socrates declared virtue to be the gods' gift to the virtuous; learning God is God's gift to those who deem knowledge of him sweeter than honey. What does Augustine tell us about the experience of . learning God? God called, shouted, and burst his deafness. He flashed, shone, and scattered his blindness. Afterwards, he sees "Thou wert within and I abroad. Thou wert with me but I was not with Thee." God was present but unknown. Where did Augustine find him? "Place there is none." The no place in which God is learned is like the some place in which God was with Augustine all along: the will shapes it. This place is created in a moment during which the previously incomplete will is aligned by a whole-hearted desire to know God. Then God makes his presence known, enables Augustine to note in retrospect God's abiding with him. He understands that the unresolved image from unresolved will had obscured his vision. Whereas the "miserable and ill-fated" of the Meno become so through ignorance of the nature of · the good, for Augustine knowing is not enough: one must wholly will the good. Unfortunately it is as Pogo announced: we have met the enemy and they are us. "The mind conunands the mind, its own self, to will and yet-- i t does not." (p. 165) This, says Augustine, who knows whereof he speaks, is monstrousness. A healing of this split, however momentary, is accomplished in the moment of learning God. Having learned God, Augustine, like the slave-boy of the Meno, is humbled, recognizing the extent of what he does not know, and smitten with desire to know more. Augustine's passion is greater than when he sought surcease of desire plunging amid fair forms; touched by God, he burns for his peace. The two-ness of the mind, its ability to resist its own command, its guardianship of a lost thing which can't be found, thus leading the head of the soul on to the true object of its search, all recall and deepen Augustine's amazement at the varied identities and uses of memory. I-the-mind, the inner man, head of the soul, image in memory, rememberer, chamber wherein image meets rememberer and thoughts upon that meeting--and upon all else that has crossed his mind: this is memory. To what end is memory made multifaceted? How are what conceives and what marks that conception related? It is possible to dismiss Augustine's perplexity as the effusiveness of a hobbyist or scholasticism. On the other hand, we may avail ourselves of an opportunity to recollect, bidding our souls god-speed. Thus to give 71 �Augustine's peculiar and alarming metaphors their due--which is to say, consider them rather than remark on them as distasteful conceits, startling but essentially decorative figures --may yield some insight into his attempt to reduce a conundrum to a figure of accessible wonder. If Christ were understood to be head of the mystical body all share, whose body all comprise; and if, in order so to share, one -must crown the ,inner man king and declare him judge; and if that inner man were understood to have a spiritual body like Christ's, comprising and made in his image (once removed or twice projected, as you will), then it is not surprising that the soul, identified as the inner man, should have a head, that memory should be at its head, nor that the scattered mate7ials of concepts-to-be should be found in a lodging suitable for One whose concepts, in fact, are being. As Christ is mankind's connection to God, so is memory the inner man 's : in an upper room God "has builded a sanctuary", designing to take a room in our spacious palace for his residence. Thus memory is, for the inner-man-which- is-I-the-mind, the head of that mind--the mind's mind, as it were, a truly inner sanctum, a room with a view to an end: love of God. This purposiveness of memory's activities taken as a whole, its finai cause, ·is a paradigm for the curious teleological character of that constituent function, conception. Memory's semblance to packrat's den would puzzle the admirer of nature's famous economy were it not understood that its vast inventory is potentiality earmarked for its bearer's actuality, for Augustine's benefit in his search for The Happy ~ife. God will use all heaven and earth outside and all of that within memory to turn the inner man toward him, to incline his ear--in other words, to push him to · make that effort to unify inner and outer man (also known as mortifying the flesh)--in preparation for God's bursting that ear's deafness. That we have memory is a sign that this hearing, learning God, is the true nature and end of human life, just as perplexity indicated obstruction of the recollecting soul's complete knowledge. Therefore, Memory as the stuff of self, than which nothing is nearer to us, without which we cannot so much as name ourselves , is the stuff of epiphany. our sense of self, of character, personality, identity is developed gradually during the search for God, who reveals himself to whomever he will. Augustine says what he is and spe~ks truly in th~ light of God's self-disclosures, whether they be impending or accomplished. Memory is manifestation's medium. As certain hi the_ to unnoticed odds and ends in the memory unmarked except by r their destiny (which in this context is to say except by God) ~re fore - ordained to concept-hood, so the entire inventory is dedicated to fostering self- hood without which the inner man has no ear to hear. By means of this slug's trail of personal experience and pr~vate histor y , a n on- going col l ection of a ccumulat ed percept ion, thought, and emotion, . we ~hoose our next direction, next move. Decision, such as tha.t to be f!ee from the law of sin, is bound up with the will, with sense of self: with the understanding of identity in the context of human nature. This sense is developed in ~he interaction of a personal past and the present moment, which is made our own by vi~tue of our past's presence in it, in memory. Memory interprets "now" for us; dangling the carrot of our desire, it suffuses the present with our hope for the future· It's as if the slug's silver trail were each moment's expression of self, which, in memory's overview, marks a path with evidence visible only to the i ndividual, a more intimate earnest of "things unseen" than the testimony of heaven and. earth. In fact, .it is just this string of memories that makes their testimony audible; by means of it we have intercourse with the world . Interpenetration of past a nd present in memory's chamber is the process of making sense of what we encounter whose eventuality is the generation of self- identity and whose end is the encounte; with God . As we make our way, each moment, the self is sloughed, its abrasion by the present countered in its conversion into trail, to memory's entailment . 72 Memory is both marker of the way chosen and source of the trail, urging the pilgrim along toward an end obscure to him. This trail-blazing has the feel of a thing half-forgotten, vaguely familiar, almo::;t reco~nized: wending our way toward that which we desire, we travel a path whose origin is with us, in memory. Thus, its end moves as we do; arriving at the place of the desired we hear its call beyond us. we have displaced it. Hearing God's call to the soul, memory serves as a lamp unto the path, marking the last step and lighting the way for the next. Despite its attendant images of dim attic, dusty cabinet, dark cave and subterranean winding, memory is the light of the mind, for by it we are enabled to see what we have been, and thus to say what we are. By analogy to Christ's position as head of the mystical body and as the way to God , the "head the soul" seeks to make straight the way to knowledge of God . M emory, like Christ, stands as an interpreter, mediating between our experience in the world and the meaning of that experience. As an intercessor, memory seeks to bring these to an accord: the happy life is the life desired; the life desired is love of God. The soul is restless until rest is found in him. In this way memory serves as an augury of journey's end and a sign of kinship to God, to whom Augustine prayed at the outset of his undertaking, "Let me know thee as I am known." What might such knowledge be like? It would be comforting to believe that God's knowledge of us included a mindfulness of our memories. Melancholy it is to feel that when I die, my dear memories will be no more. No one else remembers them as I do, no one else has them, no one else can know them, no one else will be me when I am dead. The attitude toward death of the solicitous self is a peculiar poignancy, a protective regret that these memories--so long and hard in the making, so rich and complex and, now one thinks of it, quite wonderful--shouldn't be allowed to go on absorbing and furnishing the world. The indignation is King Lear' s at Cordelia's death: what! a horse, a dog have breath,. but my poor fool have none? We are attached to it, fond; we shall miss it, this memory of ours. But if God knows me, he must know my memories. Thus sorrow over their frail dependence on mortal us is changed in an inkling to joyful hope: all that I remember is with God, already is in God. Home is where the heart is; I am at home in my memories; my memories are remembered by God. My heart, my self, is kept a place in God's memory, a home in the house of many mansions. Nothing is lost. The world will be made whole. My memories are waiting there for my arrival, for me to claim them and be claimed by them at the joyful end of the race well run, with much exclamation and delighted reminiscence, mutual congratulation and grateful amusement: remember how I almost missed you? all become one voice--mine, identical with their sum total at last . source of restless wa nder ings and cove nant like the rainbow b ridging "head of the soul" and Godhead, portent of and guide to rest for the weary, memory is a beacon, calling soul home. What does it mean to experience one's life as a seeking in response to a call? Augustine peers back through time at himself, at his life, and pronounces, "I was ever restless until I found my rest in Thee." His conversion interpreted the meaning of memory's content. Stolen pear, Manichaeanism, Monica, Alypius, Ambrose--all are imbued in retrospect with the appearance of trial and error, with the urgency of search. A moment has occurred in which meaning became apparent. Like a golden thread shot through a dark fabric, ~ t traced a pattern, in-woven, of revelation's design. Its glint is recognized now in the remembered and recast darkness of which it was part. Conversion's hindsight sheds revealing light on events which now by reflection declare themselves: see? We, too, were with you all along. Previously unnoticed in the context of the present1 because discrete, not yet bound to like fiber in other moments, now this thread binds up and repairs the old garment of our days. Thus refurbished, our lives seem to fit, to have been made especially for us, here, now; and as we are. of 73 �This garment i~ fastidiously mended; each loss is restored by its incorporation into foil for that thread of gold. Past grief prepared Augustine for the moment of learning real joy. His painful searGh along a difficult w~y is redeemed by the understanding that the road was made dark and treacherous by the blemish in his own soul, by his not-altogether-willing will. In retrospect, pain is seen to have been a reminder of God's call, proof for Augustine of his fierce love. God was with him, turning his mis-steps back into· the right way, using his error to lead him to knowledge. Past joy is also reinterpreted; renamed sin, it is occasion for remorse, but as such, for present gratitude and praise for forgiveness and mercy. His actions were evidence of God's call, being befuddled responses thereto, and thus witness to his mercy. The fabric of his history is shot through with the meaning that flashed and shone when God scattered Augustine's blindness. Sight restored, loss is restored: he sees he is looked after. Every memory, every moment passed has been bound up into an infinite and all-redeeming Now. The world has spoken to the seeker in an intimate voice words most fit--full of his desire's satisfaction--for his very own ear. He has been known: all along some One has been noting, keeping track, waiting for him. It is like discovering we have always had a mother who loved us 1 only our own waywardness had kept us from full knowledge and actual experience of her loving presence. She was with us all along; it was we who were not with her. She, in our seeking her at all times and in all places, was within, while we floundered among her witnesses without. Now that we · have found her we are no longer lost. One moment's epiphany entailed adoption of orphan aimless moments passed, discovered to us their place and made them at home. These things were preparing a place for us, making straight the way at whose end we exclaim, Aha! This is who I was becoming! as we step into the waiting shoes which that loving Presence made ready. Safe, consoled, befriended, as one, we have learned the uses of the things of the world. we are at home. "I am I!" we say. Memory, trusty guide and interlocutor, enables the world to yield us a life that fits us. In the twinkling of an eye, meaning flashes, gathered from and reflected upon the darkness of the previous moment's ignorance. Its brilliance illuminates the present, and marks it as ours. I.t is recognized as the destination prepared for by all our days. It is a mirror. we see ourselves in this bright element. But what can we say about such a moment when it is not understood to be learning God, a gift whose acceptance marks us as God's own? What do we make of the event which yields reconciliation, solace, hints of home, but which is not identified as response to Augustine's God's call? Since this moment, referred to hereafter as the Moment, seems to point to "a bright scienza outside of ourselves" as did Augustine's creation when interrogated, it is natural for the Christian to ascribe to it evidence for Christianity. Since it initiates us into mystery, permits us to enter that element in which "we pronounce joy like a word of our own," we give it to religion. Since it allows us to become "erudite in happiness with nothing learned" we give it to the omniscient. Since it is a breath of safe-keeping, hearth and home awaiting us, we attribute it God, the Father. Certainly we know a grateful healing, a respite for the heavy laden, refreshment for those who hunger and thirst--a mending of what's ragged. Jesus' promise of rest and peace goes right to the weary heart, but can it relieve those who bear memory's burden and suffer its thirst? What would such relief mean for them? How would their understanding of the world and their relation to it be altered? Everyone lives with memory, with seeking and longing and loss; the experience of restoration is indeed a gift. Receiving it, we feel it has been given by one who knows our heart. our understanding of the uses of memory an.d hence of the things of the world determines our relation to the world. we can put it into the context of 74 Christianity, discovering its use as beacon and beacon's follower, God shining and us finding our way into and finding ourselves in that beam which we follow toward Him. What would our experience of seeking and finding reveal in another context? Baudelaire's ·"Le Cygne" offers us an opportunity to find out. Who has given us this knowing gift, self and the present wrapped in meaning? Who calls us, and to what end? "Andromaque, je pense a vousl" says Baudelaire as he walks through a city whose form has changed more quickly than his heart. His heart contains the city memory has built, .a citadel of the self. Therein the city through which he once walked is kept, taken into memory. He walks across the new Carrousel, and suddenly his fertile memory bears fruit. The river swelled by Andromache's tears, the mirror of her widowhood's grief, has made fecund Baudelaire's fertile memory. The present is made to point beyond itself--to something in Baudelaire. Remembering the old Carrousel, Baudelaire suffers one of the Moments. Andromache's grief has made Baudelaire's fruitful; the thought of her is the water bringing forth and preserved in the fruit. What nourishment, what refreshment does it contain? As Baudelaire crosses the new Carrousel he sees with his mind's eye that which is no more: the camp of booths, the shattered capitals, the hewn stones greened by their pools. The presence of the new place reminds him of the absent one, evokes "en 1' esprit" its presence as memory. An inventory of sights remembered is scanned by the mind's eye; among the confused bric-a-brac it comes upon the menagerie that used to sprawl over the tiles there. There he saw one morning, under clear and cold sky at the hour when Labor awakes, where streetsweepers raised in the silent air a somber hurricane of dust--a swan. Although the memory received and now recalls he~ter-skelter a record of time and place, light, weather, characters and activity, among these blue sky, dust cloud, waterless gutter and a swan bathing in dust stand out. The memory has marked these as self's own, capable now of speaking meaningfully to the beholder. Recognition has occurred. Memory, a Nathan who, like King David's, is no respecter of persons, has declared: that swan is you. The heart of the swan is full of his beautiful natal lake. In a dry and dusty place, waddling over pavement on webs meant to paddle, dragging white feathers over rough and broken ground, the swan bathes in dust by a gutter without water and addresses a blue sky: water, when will you rain down? The present provokes memory and exacerbates the pain of remembering. The lake remembered is no more. It is inaccessible to sense, no part of the outside world, yet present to mind. The lake carried in the heart cannot be entered, its waters cannot wash away the dust or refresh the parched throat except in this experience of longing for it, of suffering its loss. Because of the desert, the lake is recalled; the lake welling up in memory waters thirst, and "suckles grief," by incorporating, naming its own, those aspects of the present which need has marked--thus giving to us what we have of it, of solace. In this way identity is developed; the remembered and its elect in the present are bound up into self via need. The self in the present holds within it past selves and their passed presents. When something outside, something now present as an object to self touches what is held within as memory--as dust cloud touched the swan's lake--the remembered is brought to life in the present. This arousal is a claiming of the stuff of the self, identifying dust cloud as meaningful because related to and ordered by its natal place in the heart. Identification of self's objects as development of meaning allows the self to incorporate the outside, to "take it in". Identity is strengthened and its number of possible objects multiplied. Thus the swan speaks to its own, out of its full heart, when it addresses a blue sky clouded only by the streetsweepers' dust. The swan's posture of reproach is an attitude of need: I am full .of desire both because of the presence in my heart of this lake and for this lake no longer present and accessible in the WQrld precisely a 75 �...., because it is in my heart. The swan is stretched by the lake in the heart from dry ground to cloudless sky. Its presence come to life inside defines him as a figure of longing, impressed by the remembered from within and. shaped by its absence without. Begging a "-sky cruelly and ironically blue" for rain would be merely ridiculous were it not that from it alone relief is to be wrested. In his need for it the swan has all that he ever did and ever will have of it. This is ironic. He cannot help needing it; nor can he reach it. This is cruel. Need itself must blossom into all the recompense it requires. Only the cold clearness of blue sky can satisfy the thirsty swan; absence is made fruitful. This is the exile's sublimity. The swan remembered is present to Baudelaire as a vision by which he is transformed. The memory reveals meaning in the present; in this case the revelation catches up memory itself. No longer "La, je vis " , past tense, but here, now " Je vois ce malheureux, mythe etrange et fatal." The memory yields the vision of swan as exile, a strange and fatal sight: it bears like a contagion the revelation of identity. seeing the swan's exile, he sees his own. Memory has brought the sight; by witnessing, it as a thing seen in memory, by looking on it in the present, he is transformed into an exile. Remembering the swan has made him like the swan: he sees what is not there. An exile, Baudelaire sees what is in_ his heart. He sees the swan in front of the Louvre as one might see the child's features in the face of the mother. In this case those features are discovered to be one's own, become so through one's looking. This surely is a Greek swan, no doubt one of Zeus' bastards, mythic in its potency to reveal, fatal in its relation to us as ancestor perceptible only in retrospect. Its pattern, its story, its word, or muthos, is like Baudelaire's; it explains his present by impregnating a past moment with its image. Thus, as Yeats' account of Leda's "annunciation" has it, "burning Troy engendered there" is discerned (in the past rape) from the vantage of the present. This is a writing of history backwards, as must happen if it is to be made meaningful, using the present to give life and understanding to the past--in order to say what one is. The swan's presence in the new Carrousel is something like the presence of Zeus-as-swan in the new Troy of the false Simo is. It renders history as change allegorical, composing autobiography, an account not of discrepancies wrought by time' s march on the future, but of identities perceived in retrospect. Something past is built up by the present to be its own foundation. That is, what is real is what is remembered. The present is the mother, nurturing the past, "suckling grief". We discern the mother's features in the face of the child which is born of her labor, her flesh and blood. The only sight we have of her is in the face of her child. What we know of the present is that which elaborates and explicates the past. What we have of the present is whatever the past, inspired by memory, needs in order to live, but lacks. In other words, we have a present to call our own thanks to our character .as exiles. The present city becomes allegory, its new palaces, old neighborhoods, and scaffolding encounterable, comprehensible and thus assimilable only as they refer to the self, the more enduring city in the heart, built of "chers souvenirs" heavier than stone. Walking among them we touch, we taste and see; we carry off within us an effluence, an essence which lack and loss of them inspires. They yield to us their souls 1 at last we are with them . At last we know them. At last we are possessed of a world. Baudelaire in the new Carrousel like the swan in the old yearns for a past place in the heart. Baudelaire desires the place in which he saw the swan stretched by desire. Once there, in memory, he stands congruent with the swan and there understands: I am, like the swan, an exile, possessing by pain of its absence the past place and possessed of a self by virtue of this pain. He acquires a present by extension (like swan's neck} of need; need identifies self's objects, those ordained to make up self, by its arousal in their presence. Its objects are allegorical. What he 76 notices is what need points out. What he hears is what tells us about the past. Loss remembered identifies what belongs to self in the present. The present reveals the identity of the self by relating and furthering the meaning of the past. The world speaks to Baudelaire in rhymes of loss. The memory of the old carrousel contains an image of the rememberer and his loss. Now and Before are bridged by identity. swan and Baudelaire and exiles everywhere meet in memory on the banks of the river of tears they share. Baudelaire, then, like the swan is grieved andguided by the lost, by what is no more. Hearts full of a present which has dried like pressed flowers, they suffer loss's determination of the new moment's appropriation. Understandably the image of the swan is oppressive; he sees in its mad gestures his own. He, too, is.wrung ~y its relentless desire; the fullness in the heart evoked by th.e prese~t filling it with his need for what it cannot give him precisely because he needs it. His ?eed comes from within and can be satisfied only there. To set there, to come within a thing must be memory--which is experienced as desir~ for its lost state a7 Present. Need is our element, "O most miserable," the air we breathe. We thrive on ne~d. we have no choice; without our gnawer, our desire, we're as nothing. If not sublime and ridiculous exiles, we become apathetic nobodies, citizens of nowhere. Because Odysseus• identity was so strongly determined by his desire to see the day of his home-coming, he could afford to deceive the Cyclops by saying he was "no-man." Without a like desire we cannot say, I am, let alone what or who we are. Memory consigns us to a life of seeking, drives us to ask the present for what it has supplanted, whose absence it signifies. Need rises like a smoke, conflagration of desire sen~ing up sign~ls of our incongruence with the present, lake in the heart feeding the fire. This smoke's particles congealed and constellated cover the present, marking w~th an outline of our desire what is ours, bringing it to stand before us as- what is not here. The things that are here we have only by remembering, in their passing into our memories. Andromache, deine among exiles, is the form of the fruit of Baudelaire's recognition of self in the swan. His loss is swelled into fruition by their shared grief, a river that calls forth and keeps their tears. She is remembered as another for whom relation to and hence meaning in a new, changed city is informed by the internal gravity of a past not passed, an unbudgeable city of melancholy. The new Ca~rousel and the second Troy weigh upon those who hold within them their predecessors. Their external presence renders the memories they've vitalized insuperably private, inaccessible and inescapable. The remembered as present' s referent is source of tears; as present it is the power which bends Andromache into her ecstasy of grief. The sight of the second Simois is magnified by Andromache's tears. She sees in it both her reflection at the moment--"femme de Helenus"--and the context or support for that reflection, the first Troy, the true Simois, and the reflection's_ original--"veuve de Hector." The moment of ecstasy unifies these, wresting into agreement the forms of widow and wife. The "slower" heart suffers the impossibility of identity, the incongruence that memory, like the river, engenders and preserves. Andromache has become a "vil betail," a pack-anima. led from a fallen husband's l arms by the hand of his proud enemy. Stretched between the two men, between past and present, she is burdened with implacable desire for what was r~ndered past ~oo sc:>°n while bearing the weight of the present necessity. She carries her memories like burdens. The present carries its own weight, only weighing on us when and where we remember. Where we mark an absence within, there the present's touch becomes insupportable. Andromache bent before the empty tomb is like Baudelaire oppressed by the image of his great swan: each is the image of the image before which she or he bows. T~mb and swan become allegorical. Andromache holds memory within as the tomb holds its emptiness; each marks by its presence something absent. As the emptiness within and 77 �the space around it define the tomb, so Andromache is shaped by her intangible memories and the lack and absence to which they refer. The tomb is built out of memory's desire; so is Andromache. Each is present bearing witness to loss, full of what it does not hold. Andromache's posture, bent in tension between Hector and Helenus, burdened by the weight of airy present on the nothingness she carries within, is that of mediator, of exile, grounding memory with grief, watering herself with her tears. What the heart holds is what we have of the lost. The blow struck us by the reminder of its absence stirs its memory, working it to ripeness. This fruit' s succulence is the preservation and transformation of the tears that brought it forth. Tasted, it yields nourishment of knowledge, of fortified self-identity: by such fruits we know ourselves. Its flavor is bitter; it is ripened in the flaring of grief, solstice of that hot sun's season. For one terrible moment we are one in our longing with the longed-for. Very longing has blossomed into its own satisfaction, an "ecstasy of grief." The present is eclipsed by the ripe moment's flaming forth1 dark and cold it is as nothing for us, stirring no memory. Memory itself rises and swells in us to fill all the shape of our desire. Resolution of the internal and external bring them to bear as one on the self, removing us for an instant from the cycle of need-engendering need. The moment of remembering belongs neither to past nor present. For us it is timeless, bearing us outside of time. Remembered and rememberer meet transformed "en !'esprit." This moment of identification, the deepening and enlarging of self, restores an imbalance which is our natural state. Once passed it is felt to have concretized the present; the lost, so painfully present, are restored and re-stored with our experience of this restoration in memory. The moment's ripeness has burst, scattered and conduced outward~ back into the world of the present. Collapsed, the fruit sows the seeds of self, laying claim to what will grow to be self's own. Thus identification contains in the moment of identity with the remembered the transcendence of memory's pain as well as- the · seeds of pain's -source, of its offspring comprising the present regained. In this way Andromache's "Simois menteur" is strengthened; in its drinking of the present it is all the more p0tent to grieve us again. If the river as symbol of loss, as witness to and ·· evidence of the absence of the desired, is enlarged by her tears, so is the present in which it is so experienced. This is bitter fruit, but to be desired: the deeper the river the more fruitful the memory and hence, the richer the self and more meaningful the present. The Simois, then, however false, is not like a river of Dante's hell, encircling .a repetition, a fruitless imitation of living. On the contrary, the wider the river, the wider the array of self's objects in the present: more of the world is our own--in which to walk as an exile. memory's "blast of the horn" in the forest gives the lost soul direction--and punctuates distance, revealing the extent of the dark wood it wanders. our sense of self, of our relation to the world, is forged by such · memory-stirring blasts. When we hear this call we answer out of our experience, out of our identity which is never identical with what is present to it now, never belongs. The emaciated negress begging in the mud asks a wall of fog for the coco-palms of proud Africa·. The mind is helpless, desire puissant. Living in accord with the ponderous city in the heart, she is bound by its necessities. Where are you, desired? water, when will you rain down? we demand of the desert. Mad gestures--there is no help for it: this memory, this need, this voice is our own. Because we are given stones; we ask for bread. When we receive it we are bent and bowed like Andromache by such necessitous fare. Because the name the exile has for herself, her "I", was given her by people and places not there anymore, she suffers their claim on her present, unable and unwilling to be free of them: they are all she has of who she is. Shun them and the present collapses into unidentifiable rubble like the detritus of the old Carrousel, 78 building blocks without an architect's design. The old Carrousel's shattered capitals and crumbling stones were appropriated and restored by memory's "plan". They were needed to make sense and self of Now. The absent whom we need and desire re-invent for us the meanings and thus the uses of things, adjusting Now to meet Then. We are the malleable joint suffering the alignment only to prepare, by our presence, its going awry once more. we "tettons la Douleur", suckle grief. were Andromache to forget Hector immediately upon his death, the painfully perfect fit of her days would be altered. we know the lost through memory's suffusion of the form of its absence, by nursing grief until it grows to press upon the shape of its absence held in memory, holding us tight against its absence in the world around. Like the tomb, we are sculpted by loss. We bear the imprint of the desired. we bear its likeness. Remembered and rememberer meet. This burden of so coming together as to be alike is memory's fruit. This is longing's recompense and the communion of exiles. such painful accord cannot undo loss, yet on it the future world depends: it builds up of these accords self and self's world. Time's erosion itself gives us the stuff of a world. Consuming our souls in the coming together of Then and Now, breathing a smoky future, we are formed by memory's immense store of debris, by the accrual through memory of the ashes of the lost. Baudelaire's thought passes from the swan to Andromache to the Negress and on to all who have lost what can never ever be found, who water themselves with tears, suckling Grief like a good she-wolf. Paris changes, his melancholy remains. The changing external city is, in a sense, the timeless if not the eternal1 outside of us, it is outside of our time. When we mother grief, we acquire through time the personal experience that mingles the times and places of the external with ourselves. The city memory holds is mortared by identity. Once the present is so enjoined, its material claimed--this is my present--then the presents past in memory go to work on it, hewing and chiseling and joining, making it in their image. The external city, unalloyed with time, at large, not yet part of ourselves, wears away the already-fashioned. Memory harnesses this erosion, turning it to its use, using it to fashion self. we stand remembering between this erosion coming against us and the inertia of the past which, if left isolated and fixed in its grief, would not yield an "I" who can make sense of Now, thereby claiming it. Memory mediates between these forces whose interplay determines the development of identity. Thus we are strangely allied with time whose presence in our memories is their guarantor of ultimate obliteration, whose advent as portended by arousal of desire is accomplished in the search to satisfy it. we depend on memory to make time's constructs real, accepting the unweildy present with hands guided by time passed, always seeking to accomplish what desire pre-figured and time proposed: homecoming. we are given an inhospitable present; in it we find no chair familiar with our figure. In fact, we discover here the inexorable eraser of all our imprints. Memory goes before us to e'ncounter the present on our behalf, to save a seat and warm a chair. Memory is Proust's angel custom, making a habitable room of the world. But while we are given this present, we are denied the past as equally present, though present it is to us, in memory. There its comfort of the accustomed is beyond our immediate need to be held; we can't sit in the memory of that old chair. Nevertheless its presence in memory is understood as the subject of an imperative: go home! You go home, you who know and need this very chair, find it! Be one with itl so we seek it. we arrive homesick; homesickness is our native state, furnishing its native daughters and sons with homegrown amenities as souvenirs: melancholy, longing, lonesomeness--our inalienable suitcases. Our native land exists in our experience of the breach and lapse, discord and distance between the city in the heart and that city through whose heart we pass seeking it. 79 �sailors forgotten on an island, captives, the conquered--all are hailed with an old Memory's "plein scuffle du cor." All answer to the name of exile, flock to Memory's summons, as do "bien d'autres encore." Not only those who live with great loss held by memory's terrible fidelity, but any who seek to make sense of their present while grieved because they cannot touch their desired, come to be numbered among the company of exiles. The hero seeking to embrace the underworld's shade wraps his arms around himself--foolish gesture, mad gesture, the exile's fraternal greeting. They are brothers to grief and related by it to others so related. The oddly anti-climactic "an many others, as well" at the poem's end is like the failing echoes of the horn's blast among the trees. Memory's transcendent moment, the moment of the exile's "kinship", subsides into the ebb and flow of longing, into isolation. The roll call of exiles begun by Baudelaire's particular grief fades from individual, to group, to revery's all-embracing melancholy, its "pauvre et triste" mirror. He is again, as he began, alone. Who then calls us? Memory calls us. Memory gives us to ourselves. Memory leads us into a valley of shades where we come into the presence of the lost • . In memory's court where we are changed by grief at its loss into its likeness we become one with its memory. we instill into it our breath of life and it gives us in return our human life.. Praise and thanksgiving are compounded with grief and reproach. Their ally, the exactest element for us, is Andromache's ecstasy of grief, a conversion not . of sorrow into joy, but of joy and sorrow into an "I" unconstrained by time's narrow file, a self who knows and is known--as an exile. What is lost holds us, with its knowing arms, in an embrace of the absent, the company of exiles. What we had and knew in a time passed is truly known and possessed when we are possessed of and by its memory. We suffer the thing we seek to know. Recalling it, we become like it, transformed by this memory's presence in our present, we know it , as knowing us: it has come in response to our need for it. It has come to assuage · our sorrow at its absence. It has come in answer to a summons written in grief from what has taken its place. It delivers us from a welter of presence, unmarked as Mine, interpreting for us its unintelligible formless address. The remembered arranges and orders that hodge-podge, mediates between the woven "I" and the stuff of experience, incorporating the undiscerned design of the moment, binding up with our monogram the wound its summoner has opened in the flawless flatness of Now. Not memory as fact, as noun, as word referring to incident or to sight, but the activity of remembering, capitalized and old, sower of seeds which in us bloom into memories, calls us. It is a power, a source. We are patterned by it. It is an activity. we participate in it, making it our own in the ecstasy of grief. we are struck with passion; its touch sparks desire. It is an activity like thinking on thinking, an inexplicable going round, a spiraling which entails us: we are moved by it. we remembering, partake of its moving, the past recollected inspired, collecting and breathing life into the present whose second coming as memory initiates what is for us its real life and continues our resurrection. Each memory thus redeemed furthers our ascension to the outside-time and no-place wherein we stand one with our longing, and congruent with the figure of our losses. We raise, remembrance by remembrance, a body of self-knowledge into its unfigured garment, a waiting air. Baudelaire's understanding of memory does, then, hint of a completion, a wholeness to be attained, just as it did for Augustine. Something is watching over, waiting for us; why else this longing, this search? How else should the world speak words meet and fit for us? Even without the meaning-giving "speech", the resolution of fragments into a pattern-casting leaded glass of the Moment, the fact of our longing proposes to us the existence of a grail probably holy. That there is a lost thing we seek, something we remember we have forgotten says to us faith is being kept: the memory will not forget us; we are engraved on the palms of its hands. It has slipped our minds, 80 this word on the tip of the tongue, but it will wait for us. So habitual is the attitude, we forget it is that of searching. our days are tinged with apparently native desire, aroused when we stray into the presence of the desired. The thing itself beckons, urges us. We say, No, not this, unable to say what it would be. we feel drawn; we follow; arriving, we sight it elsewhere. It is in our memory, it has become of what has been and yet we turn to face it as though it is yet to be, to be discovered at once, complete and whole. It is what we have of our living. It seems, thus, to be "not-I" , outside of ourselves. We hear its call in the things of the world, but cannot discover the caller there. In this way the things of the world point beyond themselves. For Baudelaire, too, a kind of outer self gathers the mundane material from which the inner gleans, gathering not evidence of, but the unseen itself--the stuff of self. The outer notes the details of the Carrousels prompted by the inner' s longing. The inner is the seeker, sifting the wealth brought before it by the outer, for mementos of the desired. In each case the Moment gives access to a deeply inner self secretly wrought in the room of our days, whose continuity--recognized existence--is at once surprise and confirmation, "an agreement provoked by surprise". All along we have sought; only we are surprised to see what it is that we sought. In the moment of "Aha" is "Yes, here it is" and "What? Is this it?" "This" feels somehow familiar. The inner self senses in the things of this world the presence of it lost, which are at once its progeny and its self-to-be. The memory of the swan belonged to Baudelaire; he had seen it. The memory was one of self's brood, but was held captive in the new Carrousel. That in the new Carrousel which touched on the swan hidden there was claimed by memory to belong. Chance released it. Chance revealed it. Exiles, sublime and ridiculous, are "idiotai", idiots, answering voices only they hear, recovering property that exists only when they are touched by it. They hold their hands before them like sleepwalkers; what is theirs must 'touch them. When stwnbling in the waking world upon last night's dream, we know a quickening. On the verse of recollection, a sense of wonder transforms us. We enter for a moment that element compounded of instantaneous participation in the dream with the present touchstone yielding it, thus displacing memory and bestowing a wondrous buoyancy on the present. The inner self senses this compound's presence, living in a perpetual state of advent. Always it listens, absent-mindedly heeding, turning toward--toward what? What moved it? It may happen that we discover what called us. This feels like grace. This feels like redemption. We feel, for a moment, that we have arrived at a lucidity which raises us, effortlessly. An alignment, a resolution of attention yields an atmosphere of vast transparency. we sense mystery, privy to intimations of a world made whole. Disparate events, tergiversating, have eschewed time's rank and file to lie superimposed, revealing as would transparencies, outlines of correspondence. The thing sought and revealed in the Moment is identified through and identifies the self. The "souls" of those the self has lost, imprisoned in objects, can call it because they share a name. The recognition of this kinship affirms the self and its place in the world. We feel as if two fingers touch, reaching from this world to another whose existence longing suggested and recognition confirms. In this Moment our past is caught up and shown to have spoken the words whose meaning we apprehend now. Our comprehension results in a rapture; we are raised above time, lifted out of ourselves. We feel we have, by participation in something larger than us, learned who we are. There is a knowing, and we are part of it and in these Moments we have access to that knowing and hence to· ourselves. Thus we discover what we have desired and what our desire makes us. This, too, recalls Augustine. How do I say what I am? I seek to discover what I love. In the Moment, identity is discovered as a particular relation to the world. Recognition of identity is portentous; its revelation determines the uses of and re- 81 �lation to the things of the world. Thus the Moment's activity is world-making. In its raising us above time, allowing its interpretation to insinuate itself retrospectively, claiming past events as its emissaries, it is ahistorical and proposes that we, too, are properly more akin to the spiral than to the line. Its meanings spread backwards in a wave, obliterating cause and effect, washing from effect over cause. In the Moment we can see that all those precedents, those causes were this moment; they just happened to be scattered. Something about our presence, something in our nature keeps us from always seeing them wholly recollected, but we have the sense that there is a place where memories gathered meet as one with the rememberer. Recollection is the paradigm. The whole world is memory's treasure-house. Memory gathers up the multifarious outside, extrudes it through self and grounds it in a Larger Than Self. Augustine read the sequence in the opposite order. One God through his people, created in his image, works to deliver--to create--a kingdom of heaven. All creation groans in this labor of turning the inside, Christ's kingdom in our hearts--out. Thus the Christian's relation to the mystical body will determine the uses of the things of this world. Baudelaire interprets the sequence in another way, emphasizing our kinship with the "lesser" creation. Nature is a temple wherein we encounter symbols that look at us and do so familiarly, "avec des regards f amiliers." Here the puppets dance of their own accord in the playroom by night. We may on occasion dance to their melancholy tune, which we're apt to hum, absent-mindedly, while crossing the new Carrousel. we are one of them and all together, taken as one, we in our whirligigs, dervish-like, find revealed in ourselves the figure of a larger, yet like, dance. The things of the world act on us. Because of our presence among them we are swept up into the dance. They speak to us; because their speech is familiar, if confused, we can answer their · overtures. It happens on occasion that we feel they answer to us: for an instant we correspond. Deep and twilit, the Larger-Than-I is unveiled. Through suffering them and being moved by these things we develop identity and a sense of infinite. The very fact that the poets of actuality are outside of us supposes that they are kin to us, will be bound into the final cause, the shape of self to come. They correspond to something within us1 we in turn answer to something in the Larger-Than-I toward which we live. Augustine dismisses the things in favor of the God they bring. They are throw-aways, career emissaries not properly lovable in themselves. our kinship with God is stressed; strengthening this binding tie is the work determining the uses of things. Thus love of music for the pleasure it gives is suppressed; the words' kinship to The Word and music's place as an adjunct to worship are stressed. Baudelaire, on the other hand, counters that what the senses bring to us is bound up in our experience of the infinite. Sense is not a vehicle abandoned at its destination, but is integral to the destination. There is in us sense which answers to color, sound, taste and touch1 and mind, or "l'esprit". In Augustine's view, the former are poor relations, black sheep to be avoided if one would claim inheritance in God's kingdom. For Baudelaire, sense and mind are a desirable continuum, whose inseparability is the source of their transport which the sense of the infinite sings. Each man would claim that the unity of inner and outer precedes the Moment, but for Augustine such accord is understood to be the inner man's conquest of the outer, whereas for Baudelaire each realm is heightened, overflowing bounds to intermingle. Baudelaire is not troubled by Augustine's pause wherein the complete will awaits God's visit. As sense and mind are a continuum so is their transcendence. Augustine's moment of helplessness and humility during which he waits for God is the source of his memory's transformation. Its emptiness, its need, are the perfect receptacle for God's presence. Only its pain is fit to hold true joy; thus past occasions of grief are filled with joy. The finding of the lost requires the submersion of their absence in God's presence. What was dear is denounced by Augustine in order to widen the gap between inner and outer man, drawing inner nearer to God. Memory's grief is still, as for Baudelaire, the source of identity, but it is grief at sin, at offending and thus distancing himself from God. Grief over his loss of his mistress is drowned in joy of loving God. Some part of this joy is remorse at having dallied elsewhere, confused by less fair forms. The moment of conversion inhales . not only all moments past to mark them with its reinterpretation but exhales interpretations of the moments which follow it. This is the working out of self. The capitalized--Travail, Douleur, Souvenir--in "Le Cygne" are present in Augustine's Confessions of what he is. In the pause before conversion they are stilled, stopped. The inner has vanquished the outer. Learning God, Augustine learns new uses for them. They deepen the rift between inner and outer. They split asunder what they had bound together, in order to bind anew. Whether in Augustine's or Baudelaire's view, we are in the middle. Mysterious longing is our lot. We mediate between Then and To Come, between the made and the being made, outside and in, between many things and one, happy life and Happy Life. The inner man's body is a middle term1 memory as the head of the soul is closest to their home, that head from which all souls flow. Through "un vieux Souvenir" the exile approaches home remembered; as its call fades his vision fades; he is lost in the wood once again. Being thus in the middle we affect what we see. We see ourselves in what we look at. The inner man finds evidence of the inner man's existence. If the world points beyond itself, saying not we but he made us, it points in our direction. To see beyond ourselves we have to see through ourselves. When the world points, we are part of . the vision indicated, for we are part of the pointing world. The witness to a Presence, allusion to One, is like our shadow; our own presence as an integrated and integrating one among the world's manifold casts it. A sun shines in the moment of looking; when looking recognizes its shadow then it feels the sun. Andromache sees its glint on her river mirror; in its flash she sees herself, heart full of Hector and Troy, reflected in the present of the second Simois; Andromache in the river and Andromache on its bank are brought together. The sun is here is with her; she knows it in that moment. Correspondence of self in the world, its shadow there, with the inner self who hears its voice and understands its speech yields a sense of an encompassing presence. From the private and particular, from the intimacy of a world which observes us with familiar looks, we are caught up into a sense of infinite things. The world has known this; it is the knowing temple, the portal and dwelling place of this Moment. we have been called into its presence by name. Because the world is kin, we make sense of its speech: it speaks with our voice syllables of accord, sounded by our presence and revealing our nam'e . 82 83 A CONCLUSION OR TWO we all make ourselves at home in the world by means of memory's mediation . Among us are those whose memory holds for them a reminder of another mediator who, by sharing in our memories, shares in memories' uses. This memory in the flesh is a friend. The Shakespeare of sonnets 29 and 30 was one possessed of such a friend. The friend sympathizes as "deaf heaven" is troubled with "bootless cries." His presence belies utter disgrace "with Fortune and men's eyes": here is one who loves me, who holds me in his regard1 this is great good fortune. All-alone-weepings of outcast states are transformed by the happenstantial thought of the friend's acceptance of us �1 and presence in our lives, thus enfranchising and offering access to conununity. As one who knows us, sharing in our memories, mindful of our needs and hopes, the friend grounds us in the present, in an outer changeable world. The friend is a bridge to a familiar world whose presence there enables us to see ourselves at home in it. Memory's grief is converted by the remembrance of the friend. When the remembrance of things past alienates us from the present, eclipsing it, remembering the friend restores the lost, clearing a way back to the present. In the thought of the friend, our grief catches on something external, refers us to someone who, u~like those who people memory, is not-us and is part of the present. The need born of memory is diverted and no longer gnaws at us; from a solitary descent inward, we are restored to a footing in the populous present. The friend grants restoration by remembering us. Relieving our woe in the absence of those who knew us, whom we love and in the remembered presence of those who hurt us, the friend's knowledge of and care for us brings solace: we are not alone. we who remember are remembered; memory's burden is shared. The existence of the friend affirms and sustains our own loss-riddled existence. Augustine, after learning God, had a permanent friend. His friend said, I will never forget you; his friend's immortality gave his words unconunon weight. His friend said, I am always with you, even to the end of the world. Augustine's friend knew his heart, for he made it. His disappointments and sorrows were shared with Christ who promised rest and peace for the troubled and heavy-laden. His happiness was magnified by his friendship with the God he knew to be the source of every joy. Friendship with this never-failing friend transformed the memory of his solitary seeking, revealing in them his friend's benificent presence. With him, the world which had been rendered two-faced by the split in the pilgrim's soul appeared whole. Befriended loss and being lost are seen to be questions of perspective. The finding of the lost sinner "finds out" all his losses, transforming their relation to him through memory' s transformation. Once he is found, Augustine' s "lost" are found. The press of memories can never oppress by their presence. They have been, along with Augustine, restored in an eternal present. Augustine's memory is grounded beyond this world, in his God. In the Happy Life there is no real loss. For the friends of Augustine's God, this world is not a vale, but a veil of tears. Behind it is the face of a permanent friend. Augustine never walks alone. Baudelaire, as he crosses the new Carrousel, is quite alone--with the company of his memories. Only he bears them. Their oppression widens the rift between the city within and that without, strengthening the inner with pain come of the outer until it swells in an access of grief into access to the company of exiles. Memory's grief is Baudelaire's "dear friend"; his "chers souvenirs ••• plus lourds que des roes" abide with him, grounding him in grief itself--in the river to which all exiles' tears are tributary. Every exile has a friend in that river wherein he, like Andromache, sees his other self. Exiles are friends not with one another but with their grief. Thus a.11 are related by this common friend in a fellowship entered into always and only "en l'esprit." such a friend does not share in and keep one's personal memories, but preserves them tr an sf ormed and sublime as "Souvenir." A memory recalled led Baudelaire to Andromache's Siioois; the memory of an exile led him to the exile's "home." Andromache remembered and no citizen of the new Paris led him through his old Carrousel to the bank of the river where exiles weep. For Baudelaire, loss is inalienable and its character indelible. No transformation or realignment of the soul through a friend's presence alters loss' s form or meaning. Loss itself, intransigent and untransfigured, leads him to memory where the exile's friend is found. Loss here is not restored but deepened. Its "unpublished virtue" runs deep in the cleft between present and past. The friend recalled and God's presence revealed lead, like Ariadne's thread, out of the maze of memory back 84 into the light of day. Baudelaire's friend is found in the heart of the maze1 through his grief, enlarging and elaborating its intricacy, he reaches the no-place wherein he finds its river. There the remembered presses upon the rememberer its likeness. Through this "Travail" life is re-stored and restored to memory. Baudelaire enters into the exile's communion: he is one with his memory. The friend Proust seeks is himself. An unknown Proust is hidden in a morsel of tea-steeped cake. Trying its taste, he savors himself. He is his own "dear friend" the encounter with whom in memory's chamber effects a strange restoration. "What is nearer to me than myself?" asked Augustine. Madeleine and cup of tea come between Proust and Proust; matter intrudes, recalcitrant matter. Proust is a god who hides himself and seeks himself in cups of tea and the smell of varnish. He· is an outer man and an inner; the outer reveals what the inner hides. Were all the faithful smells and tastes of things relieved of the burden of "their vast structure of recollection," Proust to Proust would be utterly restored. I feel that there is much to be said for the Celtic belief that the souls of those whom we have lost are held captive in some inferior being, in an animal, in a plant, in some inanimate object, and so effectively lost to us until the day (which to many never comes) when we happen to pass by the tree or to obtain possession of the object which forms their prison. Then they start and tremble, they call us by our name, and as soon as we have recognized their voice the spell is broken. we have delivered them: they have overcome death and return to share our life. And so it is with our own past. It is a labor in vain to attempt to recapture it: all the efforts of our intellect must prove futile. The past is hidden somewhere outside the realm, beyond the reach of intellect, in some material object {in the sensation which that material object will give us) which we do not suspect. And as for that object, it depends on chance whether we come upon it or not before we ourselves must die. (p. 34) Recognizing the voice of the little lost Proust of Sunday mornings at Combray, Proust is filled with a "gaiety that is being," that element "in which we pronounce joy like a word of our own." No sooner had the warm liquid, and the crumbs with it, touched my palate than a shudder ran through my whole body, and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary changes that were taking place. An exquisite pleasure had invaded my senses, but individual, with no suggestion of its origin • . And at once the vicissitudes of life had become indifferent to me, its disasters innocuous, its brevity illusory--this new sensation having had on me the effect which love has of filling me with a precious essence1 or rather this essence was not in me, it was myself. I had ceased now to feel mediocre, accidental, mortal. Whence could it have come to me, this all-powerful joy? (p. 34) A genie of vapor freed from madeleine and tea, Proust past welcomes Proust home. AN APOLOGIA Proust is my cup of tea. By that I mean two things. His "overture" to swann's way was my chosen essay subject 1 reading it recalled to me my feeling for the momenta like his with tea and madeleine, and served as occasion for one of my own. Out of my 85 �reading and thinking and remembering in preparation fc;:>r my attempt, this paper, sprang into being. Thus, you have had before you its recalcitrant vapor, outwardly Proustless, and now arrive at its genius, the cup of tea: And just as the Japanese amuse themselves by filling a porcelain bowl with water and steeping in it little crumbs of paper which until then are without character or fo:an, but, the moment they become wet, stretch themselves and bend, take on color. and distinctive shape, become flowers, or houses or people, pe:ananent and recognizable, so in that moment all the flowers in our garden and in M. Swann's park, and the water-lilies on the Vivonne and the good folk of the village and their little dwellings and the parish church and the whole of Combray and of its surroundings , taking their proper shapes and growing solid, sprang into being, town and gardens alike, from my cup of tea. Bibliography Augustine; Confessions, Everyman's Library, Dent/Dutton Plato1 ~, trans. Jowett; Liberal Arts Press Baudelaire, Charlesi Le Fleurs du Mal, Garnier-Flammariol Proust, Marcel; Du Cote de Chez Swann, trans. Moncrieff, Random House Stevens, Wallace1 The Palm at the End of the Mind, Vintage 86 �.. Non-Profit 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. Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. i, 86 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 Fink, Gabriell (Co-Editor) Macfarland, Joseph C. Title A name given to the resource Energeia, Fall 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 Fall 1985. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Energeia Fall 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/9976c1f86b361cc55af4ca52f53cccca.pdf 4f747db0774ec99e61b1a47a0a8a6885 PDF Text Text SPRING 1986 �ENERGEIA: The activity in which anything is fully itself. ~ ... vou ev&pyew. ~co~ ... (Aristotle's Metaphysics, 1072b) Cover: The Emerging Odyssey by Jennifer A. Lapham Ink and Watercolor Printed by the St. John's College Press St. John's College Annapolis, Maryland Staff: Barbara Gesiakowski Chris Howell Steve Jackson A.J. Krivak Bernadette Rudolph Co-Editors: Gabrielle Fink 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 commun~ty-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 PHOTOGRAPH Christopher K. Watson 1 THE CHARACTER OF A METER David Amirthanayagam 2 POEM James Brown 8 THE GORGON AND THE BRIDE OF LEBANON Catherine Irvine 10 SOCRATES Elizabeth De Mare 22 THE JACOBSEN CUT: A GEOMETRICAL PROPOSITION Henry Higuera 27 PHOTOGRAPH Christopher K. Watson 33 PURGATION OF THE HUMAN SPIRIT William O'Grady 34 A WAY TO THINK ABOUT DARK TIMES William O'Grady 40 TWO POEMS: #3 AND #8 Stuart Sobczynski 45 FINAL CAUSE AND THE PROBLEM OF EXISTENCE Jim Guszca 46 ANTIGONE Hugh Brantner 49 THREE FACES (WATERCOLOR) Yolanda Rivera 55 SONNET FOR A SLAVIC MINER A.J. Krivak 58 THE DEAD Renee Bergland 59 THE FLESH MADE WORD: SOME THOUGHTS ON GOGO~S STORY "THE OVERCOAT" Christopher K. Watson 61 LA REINE DE JADIS Liz Waldner 67 �1 �The Character of a Meter David Amirthanayagam A friend of mine who helps young children learn to read and write told me recently about a special class of children: these children read very well, in that they can follow words on a page with their eyes and sound them out. If, however, they are asked about the meaning of a passage they have just read, they make no connection. The words themselves and the act of reading seem to bear no relation in their understanding to anything the words might mean. For this reason, schools single them out as "problem" children; the young learners grow greatly distressed and discouraged by their confusion and its effect of singling them out. Yet I wonder whether the problem lies not with the children, but with the words, and whether, taken another way, this "problem" can be seen as the root and mainspring of our poetry. For clearly, words have a dual nature, which confuses children, and ought more often to arrest us. First, they are signs, which have a relationship with what they signify, or simply with what is outside them, by which we express their "meaning". (This relationship of "meaning" is clearly very subtle and complex, and might hurl us into philosophy.) Second, they are things in themselves, half-created, sensible measures of space and time. In this second nature, words are elements of poetry. We can see that the connection between meaning and the words themselves might not be obvious for children. I suggest that, if we are willing to accept that words have two natures, neither of which is necessarily problematic, the tension (or harmony) between the two might be the richest source of our best poetry. I reflect on these things because I have been asked, for my edification, to do what problem children do, that is, to sever the connection between measure, or form, and meaning. In examining the iambic pentameter as used by five English poets, I see that this can be done fruitfully, both for its own sake, because the meter itself is a changing thing of beauty and character, and for the sake of reharmonizing the duality. I mean that one can see a kind of meaning in meter. Even with my limited knowledge of metrics, the simplest awareness of metrical, or more generally, formal purposiveness on the part of the poet sent my study into realms of significance deeper than this paper can practically follow--waters I fear to tread safely for long, though I might, in what follows, rush in on impulse. Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, Pope, and Wordsworth all employ the iambic pentameter line. I will look, as agreed, at the opening of the Canterbury Tales, Sonnet 29, the opening of Paradise Lost, An Essay On Criticism, and "Tintern Abbey". The line is recognizable in each poem as the material and vehicle of the art; yet in each it takes on a characteristic signature dress. Calling the line of each poet a signature might allow me to conceal my critical, formal duty behind a claim for the uniqueness and individuality of each poet. Yet I find I can get a good way into the individuality of the poets by treating their lines formally, arranging their dress into its parts. Three "parts,''. or elements, of the pentameter line single themselves out, as signature strokes: rhyme, enjambment, and metrical substitution. Each is conspicuous through its presence or absence. From hearsay I gather that the Old English poetic line had four strong Germanic stresses, with a great variety of syllable counts and sometimes a dropping of the fourth stress. The effect of these was vigor and variety, without rhyme. My crude 2 sense of such things is that the Norman conquest brought French grace and syllabic verse into our language, producing at last the harmonious synthesis of Chaucer's five-stress, ten-syllable, Middle English line. There is nothing composite or artificial, however, about Chaucer's line, despite its genealogy; there can be no more natural a line than Chaucer's in English. Dryden later characterized the verse as having "the rude Sweetness of a Scotch Tune ... which is natural and pleasing, though not perfect". The last remark was based, I think, on an incomplete appreciation of final "e" and the phenomenon of elision. Following my text's editor's instructions, I find Chaucer's lines to be true pentameters. Consider lines 13-14 of the General Prologue: And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes If palmeres scans as a dactyl, the second foot of the first line is an anapestic substitution; final -e in kowthe elides with the following vowel. These are two pentameters with feminine endings. I think Dryden's Scottish prejudice stems from the Middle English vowel sounds, and so I partly hear his "rude Sweetness"; yet at the same time, the most remarkable thing I observe about the lines is their elegance and stately grace of movement, unmatched in the later poets. The cause of this grace is the gentle lilt of the French "e" and of the long vowels. The latter essentially introduce the quantitative element into a stress meter; the combined effect of quantity, stress, and final "e" seems impossible now to reproduce. Consider line 5: When Zephirus eek with his sweete breeth In the iambic scansion, it seems to run spondee, pyrrhic, trochee, iamb, iamb. This peculiarity comes to light, however: the initial spondee is a stress spondee, while the other feet are stressed and quantitative. Note the breathtaking way the line prepares for "sweete breeth"; I would prefer to measure only four feet, naming stress spondee, quantitative anapest, anticipatory pyrrhic, gorgeous quantitative cretic. Rude sweetness indeed! In terms of our three signatures, we call this verse rhyming, closed, and metrically variant, though all five poets employ metrical variance, and so the question becomes one of degree. Here the amount of metrical substitution is relatively small, though we have seen its artful use. I think Chaucer's regular iambic line, with stress, quantity, and romance "e", is too musical to become monotonous, even in lengthy service. The romance "e" also waters the significance of the rhyme; in Middle English, rhyme seems more nature than art. Not so with Modern English: compare Dorothy Sayers' translation of Dante's Italian, which does nothing but mock the terza rima with forced rhymes. Shakespeare's Sonnet 29 reveals the modern iambic pentameter as an element of an overarching form. The sonnet itself is larger than any particular language: it is a form of "thought poetry," shaped by end rhyme into three quatrains and a couplet, or two quatrains and a sestet. The form is logical, and yet the poem's meaning is rarely the implied syllogism. The question of poetry's dual nature, and ours, becomes ~ipe and mysterious in the sonnet. The sonnet's thought is a thought that needs measure and time, and spaced rhyme. And not just any measure: in English the pentameter is no arbitrary brick, but the only measure to suit and space the rhymes, the only context that gives the thought its life. English hexameters fall apart at the seam; tetrameters are too short (see Shakespeare's unimitated sonnet number 145). Here follows the poem. Note the structural significance of end rhyme, the occasional tasteful trochaic or spondaic substitution, and the stunning use of enjambment in line 12, made most poignant and meaningful by its avoidance elsewhere. 3 �When in disgrace with Fortune and mens eyes, I all alone beweepe my out -cast state, And trouble deafe heaven with my bootlesse cries, And looke upon my selfe and curse my fate. Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featur'd like him, like him with friends possest, Desiring this mans art, and that mans skope, With what I most injoy contented least; Yet in these thoughts my selfe almost despising, Haplye I thinke on thee, and then my state, Like to the Larke at breake of daye arising From sullen earth sings himns at Heavens gate, For thy sweet love remembred such welth brings, That then I skorne to change my state with Kings. A peculiarity of this sonnet is that it "turns" twice, once at line 9, and again in the closing couplet. This is to say, it exhibits a tension between the Petrarchan · (octe t-sestet ) and Shakespearian forms. I noticed this also in two of Charles Baudelaire's sonnets, "La Beaute" and "La Musique". The tension there pulls the other way: both are Petrarchan sonnets, but with closing couplets in the sestet . In "La Beaute" the couplet stares at us with "de purs miroirs qui font toutes choses plus belles:/Mes yeux, mes larges yeux, aux clartes eternelles!" In "La Musique", it introduces elements of the dark and dreadful with a sinister enjambment ("Me bercent"), then turns the poem on its head with despairing swiftness: "D'autres fois, calme plat, grand miroir/De mon desespoir!" In Shakespeare's sonnet, enjambment and substitution are used sparingly, as counterpoint, and so with great effect. In Milton, they become the rule, producing a line of awesome power and vigor. His iambic pentameter is unrhymed, open, and full of substitution. Milton's case against rhyme (or Rime) is powerfully made, "as a thing of itself ..• trivial and of no true musical delight; which consists onely in apt Numbers, fit quantity of Syllables, and the sense variously drawn out from one Verse into another, not in the jingling sound of like endings." He was wrong, however, to call rhyme "the Invention of a barbarous age, to set off wretched matter and lame Meeter," for Chaucer defies any such criticism. But English had changed. I am no linguist, but Milton's language seems less French than Chaucer's, but more Anglo-Saxon and more Latin. Under these conditions, the pentameter unleased the power of stress. Heroic verse, except in Old English, had known no such stress. Homer's and Virgil's lines were also open and unrhymed, but Homer's Greek hadn't stress (and didn't need it!) while Latin stress was more or less strait-jacketed by the adoption of Greek quantitative standards. In Milton, open lines and substitution bring the stressed feet into their own. Milton's freedom in substitution was no license: his line was strictly decasyllabic, so only trochees, spondees and pyrrhics could be used. Consider the effects these three have in sharpening the image and making the line itself brood: And chiefly Thou 0 Spirit ... .•. with mighty wings outspred I confess I am better at feeling than pointing out such usages, unless they are both obvious and effective, as above. That we feel the effects of such substitutions without always needing to account for them, was made apparent to me when I looked again at Blake's The Sick Rose; for our class's discussion, and the poem's interest, surely stemmed from the black and consummating spondaic substitution in the phrase, "dark secret love". One characteristic of the open line is that it can begin with a verb. A whole range of effects can be transmitted this way; here we see an active, Middle English verb opening the line with a stressed spondee, supporting sense with number: Him the Almighty Power Hurld headlong flaming from th'Ethereal Skie With hideous run and combustion down To bottomless perdition. I find it remarkable and ironic that in looking back to classical poetry, the English iambic pentameter rebels against the norms of its upbringing, and yet discovers not something classical, but something completely new about itself. A rebellious line for a rebellious angel! Pope, on the other hand, as a translator and critic, is a follower and no rebel, though he makes an i mpass ioned eulogy and justification of t he critical life in his Essay On Criticism. I find his iambic pentameter the most troubling of all. By our classification, the lines are closed rhyming couplets with a fair amount of substitution. This sounds like Chaucer's line (!), but the two are even further apart than their separation in time would indicate. Rhyming here is premeditated bravado. In modern English it can be a powerful tool, and surely Pope can thank rhyme for immortalizing some of these lines; used at length, however, end rhyme in couplets tire s the reader, even if the rhymes themselves are full of wit, as Pope's are. A further distinction must be made between his and Chaucer's lines because Pope follows Dryden; Pope 1 s must, therefore, according to convention, be called "heroic" couplets. The use of heroic couplets in something called An Essay On Criticism, as opposed to The Aeneid, might imply broad irony on the poet's part ( in particular if one considers the respective heroes of the two poems). Irony is perhaps the critic's strong suit. The title itself seems ironic: This is an essay on criticism that is itself a poem. The metrical variations attempt to compensate for the regularity of the rhyme; coming from a critic, they are very self- conscious. Consider these examples; first lines 150-51 on poetic license: Thus Pegasus, a. nearer way to take May boldly deviate from the common Track. The word "deviate", being hard to say in two syllables, is itself the deviation. Here is line 356: A needless alexandrine ends the Song, That like a wounded Snake, drags its slow length along. Dove like satst brooding on the vast Abyss And mad'st it pregnant ... Clearly, such a technique of metrical substitution can be used with great subtlety. 4 The wounded alexandrine is needlessly lengthened by trochaic and spondaic substitution. More metrical wit follows a few lines later: When Ajax strives, some Rocks' vast Weight to throw, 5 �The Line too labours, and the Words move slow; Not so, when swift Camilla scours the Plain, Flies o'er th' unbending Corn, and skims along the Main. The first couplet suggests weight and slow labor with spondaic substitution, while the last line, though an alexandrine, runs fastest of all because of a pyrrhic. . My quarrel with Pope is that he has turned the iambic pentameter into a society man, with too much wit and too little real art. An irony that might be lost on Pope, since he translated Homer into couplets, lies in his emulating ancient poets and critics, and yet using a poetic line that, unlike Milton's, has nothing in common with them. Closed rhyming lines better suit the Grinch than Pope's nobler sentiments •. With Wordsworth's poem of loss and reconciliation, let us conclude. The lines of "Tin tern Abbey" are open and unrhymed, and employ much artful substitution. We might expect a line with Milton's vigor and cadence, but again, the English pentameter discovers a new character and motion. "Tintern Abbey" is sweetly elegiac, longing in mood, above all reflective in its use of rhythm. The sensibility of the poem cannot be separated from our familiar yet newly flowing meter. I believe the open lines permit Wordsworth this elegiac mood, by freeing him to let his lines overflow and commingle, repeating words in different stress positions, and so heightening the sense of reflectiveness and of passing things over in memory. Consider how the fives in the opening lines set the tone: Five years have passed, five summers, with the length Of five long winters, and again I hear These waters rolling from their mountain-springs With a sweet inland murmur. Notice then the quiet repetitions in these lines near the end, as the poet addresses his sister seeing the country for the first time: For thou art with me, here upon the banks Of this fair river, thou, my dearest friend, My dear, dear friend, and in thy voice I catch The language of my former heart, and read My former pleasures in the shooting lights Of thy wild eyes. Oh, yet a little while May I behold in thee what I was once, My dear, dear sister! He has learned an art of poetry, to hear, in an iambic line, "the still sad music of ' humanity. " In what follows, the number and meaning of the verse are completely interfused, and. we leave our study of Wordsworth's line, our numbered English line, awake to all its possibilities: And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts, a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean, and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man-A motion and a spirit that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still A lover of the meadows and the woods And mountains, and of all that we behold From this green earth--of all the mighty world Of eye and ear, both what they half-create, And what perceive--well pleased to recognize In Nature and the language of the sense The anchor of my purest thought, the nurse, The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul Of all my moral being. In a shifting and unmusical world, at least we still speak English. Where so many read, and where so many words and symbols re-echo in commercial profusion, still there breeds in our world a deeper illiteracy. But the rhythms and meters of English spring from the language itself, and thankfully, for as long as English lives, their numbers await the rediscovery of new poets, who will learn to keep proportion and mend our broken time. I do not believe that these five poets, or their many imitators and occasional equals, have come near to exhausting the rhythms of the iambic pentameter. Perhaps we won't see the Shakespearian sonnet again, or the heroic couplet; but new poets will discover new movements, ascending in iambs, moving with thought, with power, with wit, with longing--a sweeter breath, perhaps, stressing always from within, like a wind through a mighty English oak. (115-22) Sometimes the verse has the quality of measured prose, breathing and moving in natural rhythm; yet the meter is always there, spacing and nudging the lines, a pervasive force that anchors and shapes the whole meditation. At the heart of the poem the poet reconciles himself to his loss: For I have learned To look on Nature not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity, Nor harsh, nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue. ' 6 7 �----- , Poem James Brown Because I cannot forget, Because every day flickers sickly empty .•. waits for action! watch the deserts in a smile or breath, my soul, I breathe . (Which man is meditating on the mountain, he of skin, of desire, of soul) Reason exceeds all bounds, resting in a meshland crushed. The little bits we held tightly vanish. Beauty is on the table Love in the wineglass in the countryside in the emotion. as I saw a lone sparrow creeping across my wet sky of dreams poets and ghosts invited me to a celebration (fame in the sense show, the hostile cracks of contact, of lambs and dry blood ••• ) blood in the doorway, blood in your mouth. The ground is disguised as a cracked smile, the cymbal ceases after the throat swallows, preparing to laugh. Too many torn, ripped, wounded words. Blow on a feather bursting in repose, now is a moment I give you forever. So I'm bound, you stuck seer, so I'm free, you roaming eyeless face. Calamity beckons me, nestled in wooly womb of letters I thrust meaning in your face. Somewhere I lose, I have lost. Intimate memories surround, hemorrhaging . My blood is soft, flowing through screens of dying sanity, screams unquenchable and unfulfilled. Does this anger have a home? Can I come home? (a mirror speaks in shades of light, darkness in absence thereof. And thus the silence) Spliced awareness The replication can be divided ( the quartering cleavage in pregnant hips, new sorrow, shivering at dusk, my disheartening years) I once believed the colors I see came from within, seasons of delight. But in the crowd of people I forgot myself: and so I disappeared. Now t he qui tters return (so then ) abashed and speechless with dumb shame. Some times I (look the dther way) In the game show I was the victor: look! 8 9 I �The Gorgon and the Bride of Lebanon Catherine Irvine In The Divine Comedy, the images of the Gorgon and of Beatrice are intimately connected by the notion of love. The connection is based upon the idea that when the human being loves, he may be led either to salvation or into the depths of Hell. . What will be shown in the following pages is that both the Gorgon and Beatrice represent the two faces of Dante's own loves. In ~ppearanc~ an~ in eff~ct they are opposites. The Gorgon is ugly and destructive, while Beatrice is beautiful and redeeming. Their opposition, however, will be seen to stem from the human element. For the soul immersed in sin, to look upon love is to look upon the Gorgon and be doomed. For the soul in grace who follows the true path, to look upon love is to look upon Beatrice and find the doors of Paradise swung wide open. These two images stand out amongst the hordes of others which fill The Divine Comedy. The atmosphere at the Gates of Dis is full of tension caused by a combination of doubt, fear and danger. This makes it a dramatic moment in the story. There is a feeling that the whole of the journey is in jeopardy and that its success is at stake. The same kind of feeling accompanies the reading of Cantos XXX through XXXII of the Purgatorio in which the unveiling of Beatrice occurs. This ~ime, however~ the tension is not born of danger and suspense. It is a result of climax . There is an exaltation, a culmination of emotion, present that makes the scene sparkle in the memory. The life that both images take on is so real and persuasive that in remembering them they become strongly bound to one another. They have an interdependence that is a determining factor with regard to the existence of the story. The prevention of the first instance, Dante's looking upon the Gorgon, allows the possibility of the second, Dante's looking upon Beatrice. Likewise, the allowing of the first would result in the prevention of the second. In the first case there is a story to tell of Dante's journey . In the second case The Divine Comedy would have ended at the Gates of Dis. Looking closely at this interdependence, one sees that the key to both situations is the act of beholding. The effectiveness and potency of the images lies in Dante's looking at them. There are no other elements involved. If Dante looks upon the Gorgon he will become stone. If he does not look upon her he will remain untouched. Beatrice has an influence upon Dante that extends beyond his looking at her~ for instance, in his memory of her. But the actuality of the good she promises him is only accomplished through his beholding. Although Dante undergoes change up to the point where he encounters her, his full purification does not take place until he looks fully at her. It is also the case that when Dante is involved in this act, he must be involved alone. It is a private experience. Virgil has no influence upon what Dante se~s. With the Gorgon, Virgil encounters the possibility of a situation in which he will not be able to help his charge. Virgil can exert no control over what happens to 10 Dante if Dante looks. The only thing he has control over is whether or not Dante looks, and that is a control that does not involve reason, but command and force. If Virgil fails to prevent Dante from looking at the Medusa, he can do no more. Similarly, Virgil has much influence over Dante in the period of time before Dante meets Beatrice, but precisely at the moment when Dante sees Beatrice, Virgil is gone. He is completely absent during the unveiling. It might be looked at in this way. Virgil's function is to bring Dante to the point where Dante will be able to look at Beatrice. This being so, his function in the jo·u rney is also to prevent Dante from looking at the Medusa. Virgil has a definite relation and function with regard to the two, but the act of beholding in itself and the consequences of it are beyond his realm. This act Dante must do without the aid of his mentor and guide. ***** At the Gates of the City of Hell the situation is menacing. Virgil's capabilities are inadequate. He cannot use reason or art upon these souls who do not even respond to the truth that all of Hell, in addition to all of Heaven, is under divine will. Virgil must wait for divine aid. Meanwhile, he has no idea what the inhabitants of the dread city might do. They are rebellious and unreasonable. If they show aggressiveness they have the power to harm Dante. Dante is doubtful and insecure, for the most part because he sees Virgil, who is his only safety, in a position of weakness. The appearance of the mad and self-destructive Furies who attack intensifies Dante's fear and Virgil's anxiety. Hence, even though the act of beholding the Medusa is only a potential one, it is clear that Dante is in danger. If the potentiality of that act were to become a reality - and there is a possibility of that happening - Dante would be lost. Virgil, accordingly, reacts immediately to the threat alone. He does not wait, not even for a moment, to see if it will be carried out. The Medusa is a force he cannot reckon with if Dante is to be her victim. The only way that Virgil can protect his charge is by forcing Dante not to look. 'Turn your back and keep your eyes shut tight; For should the Gorgon come and you look at her, Never again would you return to the light.' This was my Guide's command. And he turned me about Himself, and would not trust my hands alone, But with his placed on mine, held my eyes shut. (Inferno IX, 52-57) The Medusa is a formidable enemy. Firstly, the temptation to look upon her is so great that Virgil does not trust Dante to resist alone. Secondly, should Dante submit to the temptation, he will be transformed into stone. His being will be drastically altered: animate to inanimate, rational to unthinking. This inanimate characteristic of stone would alone doom Dante to remain in Hell. In addition, when Virgil tells Dante that he would never return to the light he is referring to man's need to have light, both phys{cally and mentally, in order to be the creature that he is. Physically, as stone, Dante would remain stationary in the darkness. But the implication is also that mentally Dante's capabilities of distinguishing right from wrong, good from evil, and beautiful from ugly will be destroyed. On this level, Dante will become in life what the souls of Dis are in death: eternally sinful and rebellious, with no hope of ever leaving Death's kingdom and with no hope of ever being able to see his own miserable condition. This is the threat that the Medusa poses. She would alter him so greatly that his nature would 11 �become essentially 'other'. In doing so she would doom him to a world of blindness and immobility - a world without God, a world without hope, a world that for a man become stone is a world of eternal death. ***** In Cantos XXX through XXXII of the Purgatorio, the beholding is not potential but actual. Beatrice's unveiling takes place gradually, since it is a process rather than a mere possibility which can only _ be looked at in terms of result, as in the case with the Gorgon. Dante's beholding takes place in three stages. Each stage has more power over him. The first time that Dante sees Beatrice he undergoes a kind of fixation which he describes as a stupefaction. He recognizes his emotional reaction as that of his old love for the mortal woman. Yet Dante is not completely riveted. Recognizing this emotion, he is able to turn to Virgil. He is free to move his attention elsewhere. He is able to be distracted away from Beatrice when he discovers that his guide has left his side. He is not quite overcome by Beatrice yet. Dante feels the pain of Virgil's disappearance acutely. He is fully involved with grieving until Beatrice begins to reprimand him as a woman would reproach a lover who has strayed. She demands that he confess his infidelity to her. Dante is so overwhelmed by her reprimand and the harshness with which it is delivered that he says he became frozen in place. He confesses that he has sinned. This confession is essential to the process of unveiling, for if he does not confess, Beatrice will not unveil. The second time Dante looks upon Beatrice is when she prods him to feel the full weight of his sin. Dante says: With my tear- blurred and uncertain vision I saw Her turned to face that beast which is One person in two natures without division. Even veiled and across the river from me Her face outshone its first-self by as much As she outshone all mortals formerly. And the thorns of my repentance pricked me so That all the use and substance of the world I had most loved, now appeared my foe. Such guilty recognition gnawed my heart I swooned for pain. (Purgatorio XXXI, 79-89) image of the Griffon reflected. Dante describes how a thousand .burning passions held his eyes fixed upon hers and how his soul "in wonder and delight/ was savoring the food which in itself I both satisfies and quickens appetite" (Purgatorio XXXI, 127-129). While he is still in this state of bliss, he is led to her mouth. Beatrice's face is now completely uncovered. The vision that Dante sees when he looks upon her smile is indescribable. It leaves him even more helpless than he had been before. My eyes were fixed with such intensity On quenching, at long last, their ten years' thirst That every sense but sight abandoned me. Tranced by the holy smile that drew me there Into the old nets, I forgot all else My eyes wore blinders, and I could not care. (Purgatorio XXXII, 1-6) Beatrice has now completely taken off the cloak of mortality t hat she wore in Dante's mind when he first glimpsed her in the pageant. She has a god-like potency for him. Here when he is finally able to look upon her with no obstruction between his sight and her face, he is made incapable of doing anything but stare. Every other bodily sense has ceased . He i s t ransfixed . Dante gazes with such intensity that he is forced to look away, and when he does look away he discovers that the brightness of his vision has blinde d him. In addition to being aware of the effect that the unveiling has upon Dante, it should be noted that when Beatrice begins to explain her purpose to Dante, she says: I see your mind Turned into stone, and like a stone, so darkened That the light of what I tell you strikes it blind. (Purgatorio XXXIII, 73-75) It is important that Beatrice says this about Dante's mind. What it implies is that during the process of unveiling Dante's mind has become like a stone, so that it does not respond to what he is being told. When the unveiling is completed, Dante drinks from the Eunoe and is made •.. new, ... per f ect, pure and ready for the Stars." (Purgatorio XXXIII, 142-146). " What Beatrice has worked in Dante, through his beholding, is a final purification that will allow him entry into Paradise. ***** This time Dante sees Beatrice as more than the mortal woman he had loved. She has a great control over him, a power that she never had while she lived. As he looks upon her when she faces the Griffon, he comes t o know his sin and to fear it - so much so that he cannot bear even to look upon her anymore. He is rendered unconscious in a faint. When Dante wakes from this swoon he finds that he had been immersed in the waters of the Lethe, the river of forgetfulness. From that immersion he rises in a new purity that will enable him to look fully upon the face of his beloved. Previously, the weight of his sin caused him so much agony that he could not stand the sight of Beatrice's face even still covered. Now, the memory of t hat sin and that grief washed away, he may look upon her naked face fully conscious and gain from what he sees. The four nymphs who are Beatrice's ordained handmaids come and lead Dante to this final beholding. Dante looks into Beatrice's eyes. There he finds the changing Having looked at both situations in detail, it becomes evident that Beatrice has essentially done to Dante what the Gorgon threatened to do. She has frozen him still, immobilized him, blinded him, and caused his mind t o be turned to stone. The things she does to him, however, have been done for his redemption rather than for his destruction. When he is initially frozen cold by her, what results is his confession . The swooning leads to his immersion in the Lethe:, which then enables him to look upon Beatrice fully. The blinding is the result of being forced to look away from the most beautiful being he has ever seen. The gazing and the forcing away are both good things. What Dante experiences when he looks at her smile is a heavenly rapture, but Dante himself says that while he gazed he forgot all else - and did not care that he had. Since he may now go with Beatrice to Paradise, he cannot be allowed to stare forever at the smile of his beloved. His condition then would be stationary. No 12 13 �-, growth would take place within him. So although he suffers from temporary loss of physical sight, ultimately he gains from that loss. As for his mind being turned to stone, Beatrice tells Dante that this has been done for good purpose. It is meant to demonstrate, in a potent way, how far his attempts to know the truth are from the truth itself. Furthermore, Dante must have a completely clean slate, one unconfused by many previous thoughts, so that he can go on and learn in the Paradiso. [My words] 'fly so high', she said, 'that you may know What school you followed, and how far behind That truth I speak its feeble doctrines go; And see that man's ways, even at his best, Are far from God's as earth is from the heaven Whose swiftest wheel turns above all the rest.' (Purgatorio XXXIII, 85-9 0) Nevertheless, though the content of what Beatrice does to Dante differs from the . content of what the Gorgon would have done, it is still the case that both have the same power over Dante. If these two entities exercise the same power, then why would the Medusa's power be destructive while Beatrice's power is constructive? ** * ** To We know love in tion by this by begin searching for an answer, let us look at what we know about Beatrice. much more about her than we know of the Medusa. Beatrice is connected with two important ways. The first is that it is she who set the journey in mogoing to Virgil and sending him to Dante. Beatrice claims to be spurred on to love. It is I, Beatrice, who send you to him. I come from the blessed height for which I yearn. Love called me here. (Inferno II, 70 - 72) The second is that Beatrice was Dante's greatest mortal love while she lived. It is because of her that Dante finds enough courage and confidence to make the journey. When Dante sees her again in the Earthly Paradise, he describes what this mortal love had done to him . My soul - such years had passed since last it saw That lady and stood trembling in her presence ... - now •.. felt the full mastery of enduring love •.• ... I was smitten by the force, Which had already once transfixed my soul Before my boyhood years had run their course. ... I recognize(d) The tokens of the ancient flame. (Purgatorio XXX, 34-48) XXX, 130-132). In reproach she tells Dante that after she had died he should not "have been weighed down by any joy below/ - love of a maid, or any other fleeting/ and useless thing ... " (Purgatorio XXXI, 58-60). Since Dante's love for Beatrice kept him on the true path and his love for othe r things led him astray, it seems that the answer to the question about Beatrice and the Gorgon lies in what love means to the human soul. ***** Virgil tells Dante "that Love alone/ is the true seed of every merit in you,/ and of all the acts for which you must atone." (Purgatorio XVII, 102 - 105). Thus it may be concluded that if love led Dante to Beatrice and from thence to the highest good, then love must also have led Dante to his confrontation with the Medusa. Accepting this conclusion, what is it about love and the human soul that causes this two-faced image of love to appear? To answer this we must begin by looking at where the source of man's love is in the scheme that Dante provides. Marc the Lombard informs Dante that: From the hand of God, whose love Shines like a ray upon it, even before birth, Comes forth the simple soul which, Like a child at play, cries, laughs, And ignorant of every measure But the glad impulse of its joyous Maker, Turns eagerly to all that gives it pleasure . (Purgatorio XVI, 85 - 90) Virgil similarly says: The soul, being created prone to Love, Is drawn at once to all that pleases it, As soon as pleasure summons it to move. From that which really is, your apprehension Extracts a form which it unfolds within you; That form thereby attracts the mind's attention, Then if the mind, so drawn, is drawn to it, That summoning force is Love; and thus within you, Through pleasure, a new natural bond is knit. (Purgatorio XVIII, 19- 27) Virgil further comments that this inclination towards what is pleasurable is an "innate primordial appetite/ •.. as within the bee/ the instinct to make honey· and such instincts/ are, in themselves, not blameable nor worthy. 11 (Purgatorio X~III, 57-60). However, man is attracted to what is pleasurable with his mind: "Neither Creator nor his creatures move ... / .•. but in the action/ of animal or of mind- directed 11 love· (Purgatorio XVII, 91-93). The pitfall in this is that after Adam disobeyed God's command and fell from grace, man's reason was no longer sustained by the clear light of the truth. St. Thomas Aquinas tells us: Beatrice indicates that Dante's love for her was desirable. He had had such potential for fulfillment that as long as she lived and he could keep his gaze upon her countenance he was not in danger of straying from the true path. She says, however, that as soon as she left him "He turned his steps aside from the True Way, pursuing the false images of good that promise what they never wholly pay." (Purgatorio The human reason cannot have a full participation of the dictate of the divine reason, but according to its own mode, and imperfectly. Conseq~e~tly, just as ~n the part of the speculative reason, by a natural participation of divine wisdom, there is in us the knowledge of certain com- 14 15 �mon principles, but not a proper knowledge of each single truth, such as that contained in the divine wisdom, so, too, on the part of the practical reason, man has a natural participation of the eternal law, according to certain common principles, but not as regards the particular determinations of individual cases . (Summa Theologica, Prima Secundae . Q. 91, Art . 3) Man does not always perceive the truth and he cannot always correctly distinguish between what is good and what is bad. He is given a natural light which helps him to determine what is true and what is false, but being instinctively drawn to pleasure, he does not always discern correctly which pleasures are good and which are bad. In The Divine Comedy, St . Thomas gives Dan te the following advice: Move slowly, like a weary man, To the 'yes' and 'no' of what you do not see. For he is a fool, and low among his kind, Who answers yea or nay without reflection, Nor does it matter on which road he runs blind . Opinions too soon formed of ten deflect Man's thinking from the truth into gross error, In which his pride then binds his intellect. (Paradiso XIII , 113-120) The hastiness that Aquinas warns against is precisely what is dangerous about pleasure. The mind deems that something is pleasurable and it is prone to rush after it without careful consideration. Marc the Lombard describes how men are caught up in sin because of this. The simple soul "tastes small pleasures first . To these it clings,/ deceived, and seeks no others" (Purgatorio XVI, 91 - 92) . Things appear worthy of love, but "though love's substance always will appear to b71 a go.od,. not every impress made,/ even in the finest wax, is good and clear. (V1rg1l Purgatorio XVIII, 37 -39 ). Being in the dark, so to speak, and with this natural handicap, man does not always realize that the love and pursuit of God would give him the greatest pleasure . Man has the insightful knowledge, however, that there is a good in which he will find what he most seeks : a fulfillment in loving. All men, though in a vague way, apprehend A good their souls may rest in, and desire it ; Each, therefore , strives to reach his chosen end. (Purgatorio XVII, 127-129) This desire spurs man on and encourages him to love. Man is endowed with a free will, and hence is able to choose, through the use of his intellect, the good that will give him salvation rather than damnation. He can escape the trap that loving sets for him. Virgil says: Natural love may never fall to error. The other [mind- directed love] may .•• While it desires the Eternal Good and measures Its wish for secondary goods in reason, This love cannot give rise to sinful pleasures. But when it turns to evil ... The creature turns on its creator. (Purgatorio XVII, 94-102) 16 and he continues: Now, that all later wills [after the natural impulse] and this first bent May thrive, the innate counsel of your Reason Must surely guard t he threshold of consent. This is t he principle from which accrue Your just deserts, according as it reaps And winnows good or evil love in you. ... all love, let us say, That burns in you, springs from necessity; But you still have the power to check its sway. (Purgatorio XVIII, 61 - 72) St . Thomas describes how this rational aspect of man leads him into sin: Everything, by its own natural appetite and love, loves its own proper good because of the common good of the whole universe, which is God ..• Hence in the state of integral nature man ref erred the love of himself and of all other things to the love of God as to its end •.• But in the state of corrupted nature man falls short of this in the appetite of his rational will, which •.. follows its own private Good . (Sunnna Theologica, Prima Secundae . Q. 109, Art . 3) It is this rationally chosen love of the lesser things that dooms man by bringing him into sin. Because man does not find satisfaction in t he false pleasures that he loves, if he is not somehow checked, he begins to travel down a pathway littered with one love after another. Eventually, in his greed for satisfaction , his ability to distinguish what is good and what is bad is undermined by his growing desire . He does not look closely at what appears to be good in orde r to judge whether or not he has found the true provider of this satisfaction. As he is continually tempted by false promises and is continually deprived, he begins to care less and less about the things he pursues. He thereby falls into error with increasing frequency. The influence and good of his reason is submerged beneath his passion, and finally, if he never turns away from the path he has taken, it will die. He will not be able to use his power of judgement any longer. As Virgil says of the souls in Hell, they have lost the good of intellect. They were led to that state by perverted love . Augustine says in The Confessions: We are carried away by custom to our own undoing and it is hard to struggle against the stream. Will this torrent never dry up? How much longer will it sweep the sons of Adam down to that vast and terrible sea which cannot easily be passed. . . (Book I, 16) ***** The next question is why the weakening of the intellect is the greatest cause for punishment. On the most obvious level, what results from weakened reason is sin. But this extends further beyond punishment for doing wrong. It delves into the soul of man and claims that his very being finds its greatest fulfillment in the per fection of the intellect, and its damnation in the loss of that intellect. St. Thomas says: Each thing is inclined naturally to an operation that is suitable to it 17 �.I according since the a natural according to its form: e.g., fire is inclined to give heat. Therefore, rational soul is the proper form of man, there is in every man inclination to act according to reason; and this is to act to virtue. (Summa Theologica, Prima Secundae. Q. 94, Art. 3) He also says: The law of man which ..• is allotted to him according to his proper natural condition, is that he should act in accordance with reas on; and this law was so effective in man's first state, nothing either outside or against reason could take man unawares. But when man turned his back on God, he fell under the influence of his sensual impulses. In fact, this happens to each one individually, according as he has the more departed from the path of reason. (Summa Theologica, Prima Secundae. Q. 91, Art. 6) Since man is given intellect, if he utilizes the ability to distinguish right from wrong he will be able to see that the highest good and the highest pleasure is found in God. Or, to put it another way, he will see that the false pleasures he loves do not give him the rest he seeks, and so, whether he has full knowled~e of God or not, he will use his rationality and willinglychoose the other alternative: God and the truth. If he does not come to this conclusion, then he is being unreasonable. Thus the souls who are in Hell have chosen to be unreasonable because they have travelled along the path of perverted love. As a result, they are unable to perceive and acknowledge the truth. Being unreasonable, they have become 'other' than what they were created to be: reasonable creatures. Therein lies the cause of man's greatest sin. He is fallen, but he is given the opportunity to rise. If he does not take this opportunity then he falls again, only this time he falls to a condition that is beyond redemption. It is true that man requires guidance from the law and from grace in order to avoid this. But even if a man is caught unawares in the trap that his own loving sets for him, he is doomed unless he finds his power of judgement and realizes that the path he is on will lead him to damnation. Treading on this path will turn him to stone: the image of which conveys the impression of being stuck in one place, unable to move and not knowing enough to realize that one should move. Virgil tells Dante that: Within the habit of mankind You set your whole intent on earthly things, The true light falls as darkness on your mind. (Purgatorio XV, 64-66), and Beatrice says: Tranced in blind greed, your ever deepening curse, You have become as mindless as an inf ant Who screams with hunger, yet pushes away his nurse. (Paradiso XXX, 139- 140) . ***** 'mmersed 1'n the surge of its passions in this manPlotinus describes t h e sou 1 1 ner: 18 The ugly soul •.• is dissolute, unjust, teeming with lusts, torn by inner discord, beset by craven fears and petty envies .•. friend to filthy pleasure, it lives a life abandoned to bodily sensation and enjoys its depravity .•. The life it leads is dark with evil, sunk in manifold death. It sees no longer what the soul should see. (The Essential Plotinus, Beauty, p. 38-39) Although Plotinus' idea of how the soul comes to be in this condition may not be completely in accord with Dante's, his description is surely in agreement. It is when a man is in this condition that to look upon his love fully is to look upon the Medusa and be turned to stone. Prior to Dante's waking in the Dark Wood, his soul was in this condition, and as he stands at the Gates of Dis his condition is not much changed. He realizes that he is lost, but he is still full of sin. Dante is hesitant. He has confidence in Virgil, but he lacks confidence in himself. He lacks this confidence because his mind is clouded over with false impressions and his reason is weak from long disuse. His weakened reason rebels at the decision that he has made to follow Virgil into the underworld. He rebels because he fears, and he fears because he does not see the truth. This state of wavering from his resolve is very much present at the Gates of Dis. Virgil has had to constantly support Dante. At Dis Dante is so awe-struck and frightened by the resistance that they meet that he is more willing to turn around and put an end to the journey than he is to face the difficulty before him. Oh my beloved Master, my guide in peril, Who time and time again have seen me safely Along this way, and turned the power of evil, Stand by me now ... in my heart's fright. And if the dead forbid our journey to them, Let us go back together toward the light. (Inferno VIII, 94-99) Even though he is on the way toward salvation, before these Gates he is dangerously close to being stone. He is teetering upon the edge . He has not climbed up far enough to be safely out of danger. Dante is unprepared to look upon love while in this premature and sinful condition. It would destroy him. It would make him truly stone. Dante is making this journey in order to gain back his good judgement and be rid of the things that are false within him. He is on his way to seeing "what the soul should see. " What is seen in his encounter with Beatrice is a much more mature Dante. He had undergone a gradual process of elimination. Virgil has taken him through Hell where he had seen the damned. Dante has been through Purgatory, and the seven deadly sins, in the form of . P's, have been removed from his forehead. He has not yet seen the full truth, but he has seen the false. By the time he reaches the Earthly Paradise he has been able to witness the false loves that made up the crooked path upon which he had been walking. Dante has been able to see the sin within himself. He has been purged. Dante's soul is so greatly changed that Virgil relieves himself of his role as guide: I have led you here by grace of mind and art; Now let your own good pleasure be your guide; You are past the steep ways, past the narrow part ... Expect no more of me in word or deed: Here your will is upright, free and whole, 19 �And you would be in error not to heed Whatever your own impulse prompts you to: Lord of yourself I crown and mitre you. (Purgatorio XX.VII, 130-132, 139-143 ) Love prompts men to do all that they do, whether it be love of glory, or wealth, or another human being ...... the list could go on and on. Even if he does not love what he does in a specific instance, he is acting for the love of something else. Consequently, the two faces of love, either that of the Medusa or that of Beatrice, await him around each corner as he walks upon the paths of life. False pleasures have no allure for Dante now because he is capable of seeing that they are false. He is ready to rush joyfully after all that pleases him. He is no longer in danger of rushing after the wrong thing. Dante is prepared to l ook upon his love. This time it will not bring him death and destruction, but eternal life. Beatrice will make him ready to go on and stand upright before the bright glory of what is true and can never be false. In this cleansed state love will infuse him completely, leaving him whole, perfect and fulfilled. This means the rising of the intellect, within the mortal body, to the utmost height: Bibliography Main text The truth I wished for came Cleaving my mind in a great flash of light ... ... I could feel my being turned Instinct and intellect balanced equally. (Paradiso XXXIII, 140- 144) Three volumes of The Divine Comedy : The Inferno, Dante John Ciardi New American Library Inc. 1954 ***** At this point it would be well to remember t hat Dante is still living when he makes this journey. For the soul that is dead there is no Gorgon and no Beatrice . The life of that soul has already come to the conclusion of its earthly travels and is already in its chosen place. What Dante faces when he encounters the Medusa and Beatrice is the culmination of the two paths upon which love may take him . It is as though, for Dante, love with all its power contained in the two faces of the Medusa and Beatrice exists simultaneously in its end result in Dis and in the Earthly Paradise. To look upon his love naked and powerful when he is in sin or when he has been purified is to choose the pathway that he will take in the life he still must lead . Thus it is appropriate that Beatrice was a mortal woman whom Dante loved and who is now, in Paradise, filled with divine love. It is also appropriate that the Medusa was the only one of the three Gorgons who was mortal and is now, in Hell , filled with perverted love. Could not the Medusa, once a beautiful woman, represent the false pleasures which Dante had loved after Beatrice left him? The potency which the two hold then stems from the fact that Dante loved both. That the opposition between the Medusa and Beatrice should find its source in the human beholder is not surprising when one recalls that they bo th have their birth from out of the human element. Hell exists precisely for the punishment of human sin. The Gorgon dwells within the walls of t he City of Hell. Grace exists solely for the redemption of man . Bea trice is the being through which Dante re ceives divine aid, and she resides in Paradise. Both Beatrice and the Medusa stem from that force, that necessary instinct in man, of love . Love is what spans the distance between Heaven and Hell. It is the force that has the greatest power over the human heart. Love has driven men to the greates- heights and it has caused men to fall into total ruin. Because man's heart t is schizophrenic when it comes to loving, love often works its two-faced might in the mind of one and the same man. Sometimes it causes him to do the noblest of deeds, sometimes the most foul . Man's heart is deep and mazed. Love enters into it and in that natural bond between man and the things he loves the contradiction, and perhaps the tragedy, that is present in all facets of his behavior is born. 20 The Purgatorio , Dante John Ciardi New American Library Inc. 1957 The Paradiso, Dante John Ciardi New American Library Inc. 1961 Supplementary text The Divine Comedy, Dante Prose Translation H.R. Huse Rinehart and Winston Inc. 1954 Other sources quoted from: The Essential Plotinus Elmer O'Brien Hackett Publishing Company Inc. 1964 The Confessions, St. Augustine R. S. Pine-Coffin Penguin Books Ltd. 1961 Summa Theologica, St. Thomas Aquinas Anton C. Pegis Random House 1945 21 �I still remember you as children, small and afraid, on the day of your father's execution, although by now you must be young men just beginning t o set out to make lives of your own . It is to help guide you in this endeavor that I am wri ting now . I had come into Athens to I only met your father once - on the day of h i s dea th. trade some oriental fab rics, and by a stroke of luck happened t o accompany Phaedo to the prison where your father was be ing held. I am no philosopher, but the will and intellect of your fathe r was so strong that they seized my attention, and I listened intently to all that was said. Some of the things that your father said seemed so inconsistent with the man himself and what he said and did, that I have been thinking about them ever since , and, in thinking about these contradictions, I have come t o some small understanding of wha t your father believed . Crito promised that he would make I have imagined you growing up as orphans. sure that you were well cared for, but he is such a practical man tha t I fear he has not told you anything real about your father. It is perhaps presumptuous of me to believe that I could tell you anything about Socrates, after only meeting him once. And yet, because of all of the thinking that I have done about the things that he said, I hope that I might be able to explain him to you, and help you to come to love the man as I have . By now your memo rie s of you r father mus t have become so jumbled with all of the things that you have heard about him t hat you can hardly know what to think . On the day of his dea t h , your father spent mos t of his time discussing what might happen to the soul afte r the death of the body . We considered whether it was immortal or not, and what type of o t her world it might inhabit i f it were. This might seem to you to be a t opic mos t wo rt hy of discussion, particularly in the hours just before death , and so it seemed to all of us listening. But the further we got into the discussion , the more each of us began to realize t hat we we re not going to find any concrete answers to the questions which we were ask ing. We all came to feel that the immortality of the soul could not be proven beyond a doubt . I have since learned that your father must have known this from the v ery beginning. On the day of his trial he had said that anyone who t hough t that he knew anything about death was a fool, for it was simply unknowable . This was t he first contradiction that I became aware of between what your father said and what he did, and it set my mind buzzing, trying to figure out what the man was up to. I think that I have finally come to understand something of this. I believe that your father was not particularly interested in finding answers, in knowing the knowable things, because answers can not really explain anything . This is certainly the impression I got from listening to him talk about his experience with natural science . He said that he became interested in natural science be cause it promised him the knowledge of the cause of everything. What he found instead was a description of the materials of which things were made and the shapes which these materials took . He found these sorts of descriptions to be confusing and misleading, for they did not approach an explanation of the kinds of causes he was concerned with. Yet it was easy for men to get caught up in them and forget about their real concerns. I had always believed that natural science was an important study of why things happened, but I think that your father was looking for a differ ent type of 'why', one that would explain things and actions in human terms rather than describe strange substances and proclaim them t o be the reas ons for everything. Your father was trying to find answers to human concerns - -an swers t ha t need t o be c o uched in human terms. What is interesting ab ou t a thing is its relati on t o mankind in general and the individual in particular, not t o some other t hing . Once he realized that natural science was not going t o prov ide the answers he was seeking, your father devised a system of his own that explained absolutely everything. He explained that a beautiful thing is b eautiful because it partakes in absolute beauty. To all of us listening t his seemed to be a mos t elegant and understandable explanation of things, one which could faultlessly answer any questions we might poss ibly ask. But as I th ought more about this formulation o f things, I came to realize that it, to o , does not begin t o deal with any of our real, our human, concerns. It does not help us t o understand anything which we do not already know . I think that your father also realized this, and that after his encounter with natural science he had come to realize that answers were not really what humans are after. In order to help us to come t o feel thi s way to o , he concocted this incredibly simple system which could answer all of our questions and none of our concerns. Your father used many such inherent contradictions and paradoxes--such as "the answer is not really The Answer"--to get us all to think. What becomes evident to all who do think a bou t this is that we are not really looking for simple answers to the questions which perplex us. Well then, what are we looking for and how d o we come t o have some human under standing of things which are not thus "knowable" , like the soul or virtue or knowledge itself? Although we may not really wish for God , or Socrates, t o drop down out of the heavens and just give us some answer--this would not truly help us to understand anything which we did not already know--we do care ab out these things and need to have some understanding of them which can serve as a b asis f o r our actions in the world. I think that your father was using this discussion of the soul as a paradigm to show us how best to approach all of our human concerns with the unknowable. Since I knew nothing of philosophy, there were many thing s about the way your father spoke--with such keen intelligence and lively imagination--that struck me as strange that day, but one of the words your father used seemed par ticu lar ly unusual. Early in the morning he said that it would be fitting for him µu80Aoy21v about the soul. This word, a combination of A.oyos , rational speech, and µG8os story, seemed a particularly striking one, since the two terms are often t hought t o be opposites. But throughout the rest of the day, your father employed both of these means in his discussion of the soul. , 1 . The young men in your father ' ,s company were very read y t o accept AOyo1 , rational argumen ts,as a means of prov i ng t he immortality of t he soul . This type of discussion was apparently customary f o r your father. Indeed, h e proved the immortality of t he soul twice, once beginn ing with t he notion that learning is recollection and then, when we were n o t satisfied by t ha t, in a very involved argument using the relationship between oppos ites and some t hird accompanying factor . But Simmias and Cebes - I suppose you know the men I mean - seemed able to come up with objections to even the finest of arguments, until finally we all despaired of even understanding any t hing through A.6yos . Your father was very careful t o make sure that we never let ourselves come to mis trust Aoyos comple tely. He seemed to believe that our trust in arguments and use of them was a v ery es sential thing . I have b een thinking about why he felt so s trongly about this, and I think that I have the answer. These arguments of your father's began with some belief that one of us had, such as the idea that learning 22 23 Socrates Elizabeth De Mare Dearest children, �was recollection, the soul is a harmony, etc ., and examined it. By means of a dis cussion, we were able to see if this concept had any self - cont r adictions and if it contradicted any of the other things which we believed. The idea of contradiction was very important to your father . He believed that a man could not hold two contradicting beliefs at the same time, once he had been made aware of these contradictions. I think that on his last day, he was using theses arguments which dis closed contradictions in par t t o force us into really thinking about the things that he was talking about. For if he is right, and a man cannot hold two contradicting views, then that man must try to reconcile them within himself . In the process of this reconciliation he comes to understand the topic at hand more thoroughly. Arguments also proved to be a marvelous way for a man to come to understand himself and discover the things which were important to him. When two of Simmias' beliefs were shown to contradict one another, that learning is recollection and the soul is a harmony, he had then to choose the one more important to him and stick by that. Argument could not tell him which one was true, but it could force him to re alize which things he wanted to stand for. The importance of comparing two ideas did not lie in their contradicting each other absolutely, but rather in how they related · back to the person who was believing them, and how he was t o reconcile himself to them. Once our beliefs were found not t o involve us in contradiction , your father was able to lead us in a discussion of what the logical consequences of these beliefs were. As in his proofs of the immortality of the soul , he could help us build an almost mathematical system, beginning with our conceptions and deducing necessary consequences from them . The young men surrounding your father were frustrated because his Aoyos could not give them beliefs which they did not already have; but they did not realize how much more confident it could leave them about beliefs which they did have . For they had weeded through many things they had heard and thought, until they arrived at a few beliefs which were important to them, and these beliefs had been tested against themselves and others and found t o be sound. They were therefore as likely to be true as it is humanly possible to insure. In addition to arguing , your father also told us many stories . He used two distinct types of µG8os . The first was the simple example. Throughout the discussion, both your father and the young men, used examples in order to make their meanings clear. I was very surprised to find lovers, coats, and lyres, to be the stuff of philosophy. The second was the full - fledged myth . After we all had become frustrated with argument and sure that it could not give us the answers we believed we wanted, your father replied to a question by telling us some of his life story. He ended with a myth about the real configuration of the world and the after-world. Crito, always the practical one, seemed to believe that all this story-telling amounted to nothing . Though your father said that only a fool would believe that everything was exactly as his story made it out to be, he defended stories against Crito's disbelief. Again it took me some time to understand what your father could have meant by insisting that myths were important. One of the very first things he did as we went in to him that morning was to tell a myth about one of the gods having joined pleasure and pain at the head because the two could never stop quarrelling . Then, only five minutes later, he said that he was not a maker of myths . Here was another of his blatant contradictions which was, I believe, designed to set our minds racing. What could this man who obviously could make up tales, mean by insisting that he was not a maker of myths? These stories shared with examples that ability to make things exceedingly clear . They had a very soothing effect, calming us all where arguments had left us heated and emotionally disturbed. But your father seemed t o want us to think of them as more than mere emotional outlets. 24 Then I remembered that your father, by using the word µu6oA.oyElV , had given e qual importance to µD8os and .\oyos , and that Simmias had warned that arguments based upon pro bability , in philosophic .\oyos as well as mathematics, were unreliable. From these facts, I deduced the importance of story-te lling . In addition to making ideas seem much mo re vivid to those trying to understand , stories actually help us to understand our principles. In a story we can examine the questions, "What would it be like t o live that way?" and, "What are the possible and probable consequences of our system of beliefs?" Story-telling can succeed in a regi on where logical argument fails to have any real sway : stories are able to look at the probable ends of abid ing by your beliefs. This examination by µD8os is jus t as important as a logical one, for it is possible that all of a man 's principles are logically sound, and yet once he looks beyond their logic to the consequences of believing such things he dis covers that they lead him or others to evil. By imagining what things your beliefs will probably lead to, you then have another means besides contradiction to judge whether they are truly the things which you want t o believe in or not. One of the necessary parts of an approach through A6yos is the breaking down of an idea , and the examination of its component parts. MUAos , on t he other had , serves as a means of seeing the entire system of your beliefs . In this sense, µu8os can come much closer to relating those beliefs to the real, whole world. Logical arguments and µu8os thus compliment each other. Aoyos serves the essential function of sorting through beliefs t o find those which are the truest (least contradictory) ones possible, and then deducing the absolutely logical consequences of these beliefs . M08os can take over from there and make sense of the possible and probable consequences of these beliefs. A6yos without µu8os does not fully relate ideas to the human realm, and µu8 os mus t have a firm beginning of noncontradictory beliefs from which to opera te or it becomes meaningless . Perhaps you are surprised to hear that such human things were your father's concerns. Most people imagine philosophers to be men who take leave of their senses, removing themselves from their own bodies and all things tainted with humanity, and concentrate their attention upon understanding those things which are not seen by the rest of mankind . Indeed I have heard of a play by Aristophanes which protrays your father as such a man . During the course of your father's last day, Socrates himself gave just such a definition of a philosopher, elaborating upon it several times. I, like the rest of the company, swall owed it whole at the time; it sounded so usual. But because your father is renowned for convincing people who believe they know some thing that they do not, I believe that he said such things just to make us all think about the differences between his own philosophical life and the stereotype which we carry around inside us and sometimes try to emulate. Your father was certainly not a man who had drawn away from himself and his f ellow humans . He always seemed supremely present in the room and in the conversation. I have rarely met a man who observed so carefully, cocking his head to listen and piercing us with his gaze . And he certainly understood our moods. Although he was about to die, he seemed much less afraid than we, because he understood the fear of death, both his and our own. He was quick to resp ond to our feelings of distrust in A6yos which followed the loss of our hope for an answer. Whatever his philosophy did involve, it clearly was not a withdrawal from this real world. I believe that philosophy for him did not involve avoiding people, but rather involved examining their principles by means of his beautiful and ordered stories and arguments. He sang the people's own beliefs and deeds to them as Homer sang those of the heroes. Your father was concerned with matters which could not be called mun dane, such as the existence of absolutes and the meanings of opposites, but I think that he understood that both this world of absolutes and the world of mere bodily sensations meet and join harmoniously in the man who thinks and acts . Your father's concern seemed to be how these absolute things, envisioned by the human mind, related 25 �to our human affairs, rather than study of them as unrelated to human thought. He certainly did not attempt to discuss matters which were not heart-felt by us all. I think I may have a clue to what your father thought was important above all. He spent much of his time talking about invisible things or worlds, and the way to approach these. He said that we must do this through A6yo1, speeches, for the task was beyond our other means. What kind of a realm can be approached through speech with others? From what happened on the day he died, I can only suggest this much: while I was listening to your father, I felt and thought about myself and others, more perhaps than I ever had up until then. By means of a discussion, he managed to expose our thoughts, beliefs, hopes and fears. I think that it is these human ideas, suggested by the world around us, yet existing separately from it, which are the things which people your father's invisible world. Thus he was a man concerned not with some kind of distant ultimate world as we tend to believe all philosophers must be, but rather with the much more human world of our intellectual beliefs and hopes which can be entered whenever we think and converse. I think this was what he meant when he envisioned a world above this one, clearer and more pure. I believe that he thought of this world as better, not because it was full of bodiless souls, for he spoke of its inhabitants as having senses, but because they had lost the basest concerns of the body, such as illness and decay, and had realized that thinking about their beliefs was essential. They were therefore able to live together and approach a perfect society where justice and virtue were realized in action and thought and men were able to think and love and hope much more exquisitely. The things which I heard from your father on that day have changed my life , not all at once , but gradually as I have come to understand them better . I have not given up my lifestyle to become a philosopher; however I have come to understand that it is essential for a man to examine all his beliefs to discover what exactly they are, in orde r for him to be able to live a truly full life. A man who neglects the search of the soul for an understanding of the absolutes and unknowables is not fully living as a human being . This wonder about the absolutes combines in man with an understanding of the visible world and makes all of his actions much more certain. He understands why his beliefs are important to him and acts upon them. By knowing the values that he holds, he can become a better person, aspiring to that ethereal world while living in this one. I shall not rec ount the noble manner in which your father died, for you have only to ask anyone about it. Rather I shall end here and hope that these few words have made some difference to you, that somehow they will help you to know that above all a man must examine his beliefs closely and, if he is convinced they are the best he can find , he must stand by them and mold all of his actions after them. This , I think, is what your father believed . The Jacobsen Cut: A Geometrical Proposition Henry Higuera I would like to share a solution I discovered to a question about conic sections proposed by Bryce Jacobsen--largely because his conjecture, which I proved to be correct, is so pretty. I hope the reader feels as I do, and that his interest in the question helps get him through my proofs. In addition, I managed to prove it by purely Apollonian means, which increased my admiration for the power of his approach; and for this reas on too my proof is worth sharing. This is the situation which made Bryce and me wonder: A You are given an oblique cone with axial triangle ABC perpendicular to the base of the cone. (Upperclassmen will recall that with this kind of cone and axial triangle there are two kinds of cuts which will produce a circle a fact which will become important in a moment). Now, if you take this cone and start making cuts producing ellipses, a couple of facts are obvious: A steep cut, like the one in Figure 2, will give you a highly-elongated ellipse: i.e., DE will be the major axis and will be much bigger than the minor axis; and the ellipse will get more highly-elongated the closer D gets to A. This is clearly true as well for a cut down the other side of the axial triangle, as in Figure 3. Again DE is the major axis and will be much bigger than the minor axis; and again the ellipse gets more elongated the farther down D is. Mr . Higuera has been currently on leave. 26 a tutor at St. John's since 1982 and is �I say t hat RO>OE, so that HE is the minor axis. But what if your cuts get less steep, so that the ellipses become less highly elongated? Does t he effect eve r get reversed? Specifically, what if (so Mr . J . mused) you make a cut at an angle in between a cut parallel t o the bas e and a "subcontrariwise" cut? These two cuts [Apol. I 4, 5] give you circles, i.e., "non- elongated" ellipses; so, do cuts in between give you ellipses elongated the other way, with DE as the minor axis? And if so, is there one specific cut for any oblique cone that gives you the "fattest" ellipse? The answer is "yes" to all these questions, as I hope to show. For, DP : PE :: HO : OE and HO:OE: : FN:NE; theref ore OP and NO when joined are parallel to HD and FH , respectively [Eucl. VI 2]. But F, Hand Dare all on AB, so N, O and p are all on a straight line parallel to AB, one side of t he axial triangle. Produce line NOP t o meet AC at T and BC at U, and from U draw UV ou t to the conic surface perpendicular to BC. Then UV is parallel to LG and MK, and thus to QN, RO, and SP as well . And QN , RO, SP and UV are all in one plane, having a common 1 transver sal TU . Therefore, by Apollonius I 11 that plane produces a PARABOLA when it cuts the cone --with ve rtex T, diameter TU, and ordinates QN , RO, SP, &c . The proof basically rests on this fact. A The. f"\ysh.ry C1.1t ~ Now from 0 draw OW parallel to FE and meeting AC or AC produced. OWll FE and L ABC=LAEF from the subcontrariwise cut; so, Now , DEii BC, . UTllAB , I. To prove that t he elongation becomes reversed--the so- called "Jacobsen Effect . " LCBA=LCUT=LEPN while LCBA=LAEF=LEWO; so EPN= EWO . 2 Now , EON> EPN [Euc . I 17) , so LEON )ilEWO. £EWO; then LEOY<L.EON and (This proof uses an easily-proven LEMMA: Given three lines A, B and C, if A:B>B:C, then sp.A :s q . B:?J\:C. I'll sketch an argument for this in a note when I use it.) Construct a new angle,LEOY, equal t o EN>EY . 3 OK, here we go: Given a cone with axial triangle ABC perpendicular to the base . Make three cuts, all intersecting side AC at the same point E: one parallel cut, producing a circle with diameter DE [Apol . 1.4]; one subcontrariwise cut, producing a circle with diameter FE [Apol. L 5]; and a random cut in between , producing an ellipse with axis HE [Apol . 1. 13, 7]. Of course the common sections of the cutting planes and the plane of the base, LG and MK, have to be perpendicular to BC produced [Apol . I 5, 13] ; thus they are parallel to one another . Now you've Therefore : constructed EOY equal t o OWE, while YEO= EOW [alt . int. angles]. b YEO is similar t o 6EOW 4 and EY : EO::EO:OW. BUT EN >EY, so EN:EO)EO:OW [Euc . V 8 , 13]; Bisect the diameters FE, HE, DE at N, 0, P respectively; and draw NQ, OR , and PS out to the conic surf ace to LG parallel These (and MK) . are all ordinates I 13] [Apol. therefore and conjugate axes of their respective diameters [Apol. I 15]; and QN=NE and SP=PE, since those cuts produced circles. therefore sq . EN : sq . EO>EN:OW [LEMMA] 5 . Now, EN:OW: : NO : OT [Euc. VI 4] so sq. EN: sq. EO)NT:OT [Euc . V 13] ; but sq. QN: sq. RO::NT:OT [Apol. I 20], since QN and RO are ordinates, and NT a.nd OT abscissas of a parabola; furthermore QN=EN , since they're radii of the subcontrariwise circle, so sq. QN=sq. EN. Therefore sq. EN: sq. RO :: NT : OT [Euc . V 7, 11] and sq . EN : sq. EO)sq. EN: sq. RO [Euc . V 13]. Therefore sq. RO)sq. EO [Euc . V 10] and RO)EO . Q. E. D. 28 29 t I I �I I II. To prove that the cut bisecting the angle between the parallel and the subcontrariwise cuts -- the so-called "Jacobsen Cut" -- produces the maximum degree of elongation the other way. I say that KG:GE)LH:HE--i.e., the Jacobsen ellipse is more elongated out towards the reader than an ellip se resulting from any other cut. For, extend HG to meet AC at M, and from H draw RN parallel to DE meeting AC or AC produced. Then, first, KG and LR are ordinates of a parabola with vertex M, so Proving this involves a preliminary fact that I'll establish separately: a Jacobsen cut cuts off an isosceles triangle on the axial triangle. sq. KG: sq. LH :: GM :HM [Apol. I 20]; but, second, GE: HN::GM:HM [Euc . VI 4] , so sq. KG: sq. LH::GE:HN [Euc. V 11] . Let GE bisect the angle between DE and FE, so that: Now, with GE as a common height, GE:HN:: sq . GE : r.GE, RN, LGEG=,LFED. so sq. KG: sq. LR:: sq. GE : r. GE, RN , or sq. KG: sq. GE :: sq. LR : r. GE, RN, alternating. Then, since in addition LABC=LADELAEF, because of parallels and the subcontrariwise cut, LGED+LADE=tFEG+LAEF [C.N. 2]; NHM . Now, it was given that LADE=LAED , so because of parallels, LNHM=LHNM . Therefore: but LGED+LADE=LAGE [Euc. I 32] while LFEG+LAEF=LAEG, LEHN<LENH. Cons truct a new angle,LEHO, equal to LENH , with 0 on DE . so LAGE=LAEG and 6AGE is isosceles. Then, LEHO>LEHG and EG< EO. Meanwhile, LOEH=LEHN too [alt. int. angles], so Now to prove that the Jacobsen cut delivers the maximum Jacobsen Effect. Given a Jacobsen Cut, so that LADE= LAED, producing an ellipse with DE as min.or axis and KG as major axis; given also a cut random producing an ellipse with FE as axis and LR as the 6 conjugate axis (G and H are the midpoints). ..60EH is similar to 6EHN and EO : EH : : EH : RN . But EG<EO, so EG:EH(EH:HN or EH:EG)HN:EH, inverting; therefore sq. EH rect.)GE,HN. [Apol . I 34, n. l] But it was shown above t hat : sq. KG: sq. GE: : sq. LR : rect.GE,HN, sq. KG: sq. EG)sq. LR : sq. EH [Euc . V 8 , 13] and KG:GE)LH:EH. A similar procedure would deal with cases where F is above D. Q.E.D . 30 31 But EHG �NOTES 1. Euclid never bothers to prove t hat three parallel lines with a common transversal must be in the same plane, which is too bad. I won't try to do it here, but I'm sure it's true. 2. Here you can see one reason why the Jacobsen Effect only exists in between the parallel and subcontrariwise cuts: if 0 were below P , EON would be less than EPN and the proof wouldn't hold. 3. Is this self-evident? At any rate, if you look at all the angles in the triangles involved, EYO> ENO, so EYO has to be the exterior angle of NYO , or Euc. I 17 is violated. 4. Here's another reason why the Jacobsen Cut has to be in between. If 0 is above N, then even if (as is perfectly possible) EON> EPN, as in the earlier part of the proof, the angle EWO will here be the exterior angle of EOW, and it won't be similar to YEO. 5. Given three lines A, B, and C, if A:B>B:C, then sq.A:SQ.B A:C; basically because the first ratio if compounded of A:B and A:B, while the second is compounded of A:B and A:C . 6. Note that the cut FE doesn't have to be above the parallel cut for this proof t o hold--the ratio just keeps decreasing. 33 32 _ II �Purgation of the Human Spirit William O'Grady enjoyed my drinks. make you I? What happens i f you drop all the things that I would like to present some quite fragmentary thoughts about Dante's Purgatory and about what the purgation of the human spirit might mean, why human beings might hope for it and why they might fear it. I am very eager to know whether these thoughts make sense to you. She means, I think, and Augustine means, that what arouses dread is not so much the prospect of giving up the reliable pleasures for the sake of something less well known, nor even the anticipated pain of the straightening of what has been crooked in one's life and one's self; but rather the possibility that there will be nothing left to mean when I say "I"-- the very word will nu longer have content. What am I, am I anything at all, when stripped of the ways of being l have chosen to make my own and have somehow placed myself into and taken responsibility for in laboring through my life? When the human spirit, my very own spirit, has been purged of all that is displeasing to God, will there by anything left of me?-- this most disquieting of questions is felt by Dante the pilgrim as well as by ourselves. I II Let me begin with a passage from Augustine's Confessions, occurring just before he recounts the moment in the garden when he hears a voice "as of a child" inviting him to "take up and read" a passage from St. Paul that seems addressed specially to him. He reads and "as if before a peaceful light streaming into my heart, all the dark shadows of doubt fled away". But this is how Augustine describes his condition before receiving and responding to the invitation: I think it is impossible to understand Dante without holding fast to the realization that he insists with equal passion on the legitimacy of two fundamental human desires: the desire to enjoy the highest good, to be in the loving presence of God, to be as full of His grace and light as one may be; and the desire to be one's very self. Neither of these desires must be sacrificed to the other--this is the source of many of the great tensions of the Comedy (as well as being the reason, I think, why there is no regret, let alone resentment, in a hierarchical paradise: Cunizza, for example, within the sphere of Venus, knows that she could be a more perfect vessel for God's light only by ceasing to be Cunizza--and this she cannot want). Because of the properly irreducible duality which Dante recognizes as fundamental to humankind's deepest desire, the purgation of the human spirit is a complicated matter. But it is also of the greatest importance that the journey of Dante the pilgrim does not begin at the base of the mount of purgation. If that were so, some calculation of cost and benefit might be imaginable: how much is one willing to sacrifice for how great a good. The fact is, however, that Dante arrives at Purgatory having emerged from Hell, having seen with the greatest clarity--a clarity none of us, I take it, possesses--what the alternative to purgation is. That alternative is unbearable. Therefore purgation is necessary: Dante cannot impose conditions or otherwise negotiate; he can only hope that at the end of the purgation of his spirit, his "I myself" will still have some content, and indeed will have its most proper content, whose properness is recognizable not only by God but also by Dante himself. (In memory of my mother, Isabel Geddes O'Grady) What was there that I did not say against myself? With what scourges of self-condemnation did I not lash my soul, so that it would follow me as I strove to follow you? [All of these words are spoken of course to God] Yet it drew back; it refused to go on, and it offered no excuses for itself. All arguments [against being a Christian] were used up, and all had been refuted. There remained only speechless dread and my soul was fearful, as of death itself, of being kept back from that flow of habit by which it was wasting away unto death. In order to understand something of Augustine's paralyzing dread, which only the most definite invitation (as Augustine understood it) from God Himself could overcome, we must understand something of what he means by "the force of habit", which is his remarkable and bold paraphrase of what St. Paul calls "the law of sin". I think he means by habit something very radical, something that is perhaps suggested in some words spoken by the adulteress--heroine in Grahame Greene's novel The End of the Affair. Sarah is resisting the renunciations--above all the renunciatiDn-o~her lover--which she is coming to believe God requires of her in fulfillment of a bargain into which she entered out of desperation and love. She writes in her diary: Nothing to do till seven when Henry Had a couple of drinks by myself. It give up drinking too? If I eliminate I was somebody who loved Maurice (her (her husband) would be back. was a mistake. Have I got to everything , how will I exist? lover) and went with men and Mr. O'Grady was a tutor at St. John's from 1970 until his death last January. 34 III The alternative to purgation (whether in this life or afterwards) is Hell. Allow me to digress briefly upon what I take to be the principle of the choice for Hell. I think that according to Dante's presentation the principle of that choice is, above all, the unwillingness to be moved by another, to have the source of one's motion outside of oneself. That is why the extreme of Hell is sheer frigid immobility: those who were unwilling to be moved by another are ultimately unable themselves to move; at the furthest point from the unmoved mover Who draws all beings to Himself, we encounter the unmoved movers whose only power--an irresistible power, it seems--is to repel. It is important to be aware that the unwillingness to have the source of one's motion outside of oneself can, and often does, assume subtle guises. It is possible to seem to be moved by another, by a being outside of oneself, while in fact using 35 �11 that other as a mere substratum upon which to project one's own fantasies, so that in fact one is being moved by one ' s own fantasies, and the sou rce of one's motion is exclusively and securely within oneself . This appears to be part of t he meaning of the dream of the siren, the ancient witch, which Dante experiences upon the terrace of sloth. IV I said earlier that Dante as a characte r in t he poem p oss es s es perfect clarity concerning the alternative to purgation, and t ha t we do not. But we seem t o have some clarity about that alternative, and in any case neither Dante's submission t o purgation nor our own seems comprehensible as nothing but flight from; there is surely also an element of the motion toward. After all, what overcomes Dante's final dread of the flames through which he must pass is the promise of Beat rice awaiting him on the far side. But the elements of flight from and motion toward seem to me intimately connected, as I shall try to indicate by distinguishing between t wo aspects of purgation of the spirit as presented by Dante. The first has to do with the so-called seven deadly sins. Of three of these--pride, anger and lust--Dante knows himself to be more guilty than he is of the others. These sins, or perhaps roots of sin, are surely serious and dangerous matters; but one can, after all, do something about them. At least within certain limits, willing avails to mortify pride, for example, and to restrain at least the out ward eruptions of anger--one can undertake to practice gentleness of speech. But t o be lost in the dark wood, to come t o oneself again in the dark wood, seems t o involve more than recognition of one's entanglement in particular sinful ways. Dante's own heart is not fully healed until at the top of the mount of purgation, "the ice that was bound about my heart turned to breath and water and with anguish came forth from my breast by mouth and eyes". What had happened to Dante, above and beyond his particular violations of the conduct proper for human beings, is that his heart had grown hard and cold; and he knew that; and he knew that he could not, by howsoever heroic an act of will-power, undo that hardness and coldness. The most he could do--and that was difficult enough--was to sustain his sorrow that it was so, his sadness that his heart was no longer capable, as the heart of the young boy had been capable, of opening in awe and gratitude in the presence of the beauty presented to him in the figure of a little girl, and of resolving to be as good as he could be so as to be worthy, not indeed to possess her, but to be in the world that contained her. Had Dante been unable to sustain his sorrow over the growing coldness of his heart, had he self-distractingly or cynically accommodated himself to it, he would have be en truly dead, and neither the grace of God, nor the graciousness of Mary , Lucy and Beatrice, would have availed him anything. v Let us now finally enter Purgatory with the pilgrim Dante . In the fi r st Canto he is perfectly silent. What does this silence contain? There mus t be in it great re lie f, and wonder, and some bewilderment. Above all, there is the certain knowledge that Hell must be rejected , and hence the way of purgation must be chosen, must be submitted to. What will this submission require? Dante first of all hears the se vere Cato say that although Marcia was, in the old mode, t he surpassing love in his life, in the new mode he is wholly unmoved by he r. Whatev er Cato means by these words, they must be heart -rending for Dante to hear. When Dante does finally speak, in the second Canto, it is to ask Casella, the friend of his young manhood, to sing for him "one of the songs of love which used to 36 quiet all my longings, so as to refresh my soul with them for a while, which is so spent coming here with my body . " But Dante prefaces his request in this way: "If a new law does not take from you the memory and use of these songs." It seems to Dante entirely possible that a new law does forbid lovely and, as it seemed, innocent t hings which once brought him consolation and refreshment --and if it is so, the new law must nevertheless be submitted to. But what then will be left, not merely of consolation and refreshment, but of Dante himself? I think these worries are very much on Dante's mind, as they may be on ours, and they are hardly alleviated by Cato's sharp rebuke, castigating delight in song as blamable negligence . Well, it requires the presentation of Paradise itself before Dante and we can even glimpse the aliveness, the richness and fullness of personality, the being more myself than I have ever been before, enjoyed by the spirits whose purgation has been completed . But there are two moments within Purgatory itself that I should like to indicate briefly as bearing upon our hopes and fears in this matter. The first occurs in the second Canto . As the thousand souls disembark from the angel- piloted ship , they sing, all together with one voice , In exitu Israel de Aegypto, "when Israel went out of Egypt" , a hymn of liberation anddeliverance . And, Dan t e expressly tells us, they sing "all that is written after of that psalm". Let us listen to a few more words from this hymn (Psalm 114) which Dante heard: The mountains skipped like rams, the hills like young sheep -- Why, mountains , do you skip like rams, and you, hills, like young sheep? Dance, 0 earth, at the presence of the Lord, at the presence of the God of Jacob, who turned the r ock into a pool of water, the granite cliff into a fountain. There is in these words heard by Dante the promise that in the delivering, liberating, purging action of God there comes to pass the greatest and most joyous enlivening of all his creatures-- submission, still less renunciation and loss, are very far from being the final moment. VI And yet as we read the end of the Purgatory--t he second moment to which I wished to call attention--we cannot help but feel a heart - rending sense of loss : "But Virgil had left us bereft of him, Virgil sweetest father, Virgil to whom I gave myself for my salvation"; and Dante, in Eden, weeps. I cannot say anything adequate about this moment. But I would like to say some thing about Virgil's words, Vir gil's poetry, of which Dante has not been lef t bereft; and then, very shyly, about Virgil himself . In the thirtieth Canto , in which is told the re-union of Dante and Beatrice and the loss of Virgil , we encountei two lines from the Aeneid, the first spoken as it were by Dante the poet, the second by Dante the pilgrim. The poet in describing the pageant in honor of Beatrice tells us that as she approaches "there rose up a hundred ministers and messengers of eternal life, who all cried, Benedictus qui venis ("blessed are you who come", which must be referred to Beatrice despite the masculine grammar) and, t hrowing flowe r s up and around , Manibus o date lilia plenis ("with full hands give lilies")". The second of these utterances occurs originally in book six of the Aeneid, as Anchises speaks sorrowfully of the early death of the beautiful young man Marcellus, his life cut short before its full flowering, bringing a sorrow which is not overwhelmed by the splendor of Rome's accomplishments. At first glance it appears that by transferring to an occasion of reJ01c1ng words originally belonging to an occasion of mourning, the Christian poet is correct- 37 �ing the pagan poet who knew so well of the tears of things and the affairs of mortals that touch the heart: mourning has been transformed into joy. But upon reflection we find that it is not so simple. For the words "Blessed are you who come", that is, "Blessed are you who come in the name of the Lord" (Ma tthew 21-9) are spoken to Christ on Palm Sunday as he enters Jerusalem acclaimed by a greai crowd. That is, they are spoken at the beginning of the week of the Passion of Christ, the agony that revealed most fully the depth of the tears of things. The Christian poet cannot simply transform or reverse Virgil's words - -mourning into rejoicing; he must first of all deepen them or at the very least--which is not so little--remember them. Now let us turn to the words from the Aeneid which Dante the pilgrim utters at his moment of greatest need, of greatest awe, bewilderment, and overfullness. As he sees Beatrice and once again, for the first time in ten years, feels "ancient love's great power", he can find no words of his very own, no words originating with him. But he needs words, and words are available, from Virgil: "Not a drop of blood is left in me that does not tremble; I know the marks of the ancient flame." "I know the marks of the ancient flame"--the words are Dido's as she comes to realize that the part of her that died with the death of Sychaeus is coming to life again in the presence of Aeneus. That the story which comes out of this experience turns out painfully is immaterial here; what matters is the experience itself, an experience which has befallen men and women in all times and places, and which once upon a time was tenderly and truly understood and put into unforgettably beautiful words. That true and unforgettable words had once been found for such an experience, and that, through the loyalty and devotion of Dante they were not forgotten, had the result that in the most overwhelming moment of his life, Dante did not have to live wholly out of his own resources. It is true of course that the pilgrim Dante must make Virgil's words his own: Virgil's Latin becomes Dante's Italian. Kepler puts it more fully, "formed, contained and terminated" by Christ. Or, as St . Augustine says near the beginning of the Confessions, quoting the 139th Psalm which speaks to God: "If I descend into hell, you are present." VII I cannot close without trying to say something about the loss of Virgil himself at the peak of the mount of purgation, whatever may be the consoling power of the knowledge that we do not lose his words. Of the distressing question of the destiny of the "virtuous pagans" much could be said, and the least that should be said is that their apparent exclusion from the presence of God seems to have been as dis tressing for Dante as for many of us--he returns to it again and again, finally in the heaven of Jupiter, the sphere of justice , where his question about the possible salvation of those who know not Christ receives a negative answer theologically but an affirmative answer empirically: the pagan Ripheus, an obscure figure in the Aeneid who is said in that poem to be the most righteous of the Trojans, is encountered by Dante in Paradise . The only suggestion I have to make about this matter is the following. I think Dante would have been very grateful for, and would have made good use of, a certain speculation of the astronomer Johann Kepler . Traditionally, of course, Christ is thought of as the mediator between man and God , as occupying a sort of in-between position. Kepler suggests an image complementary to this one in his discussion of the regions of the world. There are three of these, he says, corresponding to the three Persons of the Trinity by way of a "divine symbolizing." In the center is the sun, symbolizing the Father. The sphere of the fixed stars symbolizes the second Person, Christ; and the region in between, which of course includes the earth and its denizens, is pervaded by the Holy Spirit. Thus it is we human beings who occupy the in-between position, our lives centered in the Father and contained by Christ; or as 38 39 �A Way to Think about Dark Times William O'Grady transcending his r age and despair . Had Priam come earlier his pe ti tion would have been futile . Bu t if the gods had not , contrary to all rational expectation, pre served the body of Hector while Achilles was enduring and laboring through his rage, if divine grace had not secured harmony between t he requirements of Achilles's inner time and the requirements of the world-time which men share, Achilles would have had nothing t o offer Priam except regret, and the most beautiful moment within the Iliad, from which light streams upon all of the darkness and bitternesses of the poem, would never have occurred. Homer writes: But when they had put aside their desire for eating and drinking, Priam, son of Dardanos, gazed upon Achilleus, wondering at his size and beauty, for he seemed like an outright vision of gods. Achilleus in turn gazed on Dardanian Priam and wondered, as he saw his brave looks and listened to him talking. I have been asked to talk about dark times, about t he darkness of the times in which we live . I shall try to do that, bu t it seems t o me t hat , being who I am, for better and for worse, I can only indirectly carry out what has been asked. A sign of that· indirectness, which I hope will not dismay you, is that I shall present what I have to say in the form of refle ctions on brief passages from four books, t he most recent of which was writte n about seven centuries ago. But I shall try very hard to make myself understand and I hope t ha t some good may come from our being together. From t he Iliad of Home r, composed more t han 2500 years ago, I wish t o talk about what it means for one human being t o offe r another as much time as he needs; from the Confessions of St. Augustine ab ou t what it means to be faithful t o that original care for one's own well-being which seems t o be a part of each of us; fr om Dan te's Purgatory about the sort of weeping that might b e redemptiv e and about how one can keep intact one 's capaci ty f o r that sort of weeping; and finally from the Gospel of St. John about why it might be that if all the deeds done by Christ were t o be written down, the world itself could not contain the books t ha t would b e re quired . I would like to b egin with a moment in the Iliad because that book seems t o me t o be very much about time. In pondering the assignment to speak of living in dark times, I had to ask myself what it would b e like t o live in bright times . And it occurred to me that the difference between dark times and bright times might not be the most important diffe ren ce , just as Achilles , t he beautiful young warrior who is the he r o of Homer's poem, comes to his proper wisdom when the choice which had always seemed so important to him--a long life versus a short life, much time versus little time --comes to be re placed by the difference which depends not upon choice, but rather upon a sor t of g race. I shall try to explain what I mean. Because o f a certain prophecy, Achilles believes he has a choice between a brief life of unforgettable glory or a long, undistinguished--though not unhappy--life. He broods much over t his choice and is greatly confused . Then his dearest friend is slain in war and he is impelled into acti on of a despairing and merciless sort. He slays scores of men and even does battle against a mighty river. He finally slays Hector, the slayer of his friend . In his rage he drags the body of Hector on the ground behind his chariot, around and around the camp , every day for twelve days. But the gods Apollo and Aphrodite protect Hector's body, and the natural outcome does not en sue -- Hec t or 's body is preserved rather than being mu tilated beyond rec ogni ti on. Finally on the twelfth day Priam, who is very old , the father of Hec t o r, c omes t o Achilles t o ask for his son's body so that a proper funeral might be celebrated, with ritua l lamentation and the feasting of a great feast. Achilles and Priam weep together, Achilles now f or his own father, now for his dead friend, Priam for his dead son. Their tears somehow form one stream and are indistinguishable. Achilles, moved by the beauty of Priam, grants his reque s t--h e is willing to restore the body of Hector . And--this is the one act of divine grace which takes place within the Iliad--there is a body t o restore not a formless mutilated obscenity which would break Priam's heart to see, but the body of Hector, young and handsome . Reconciliation takes plac e within the Iliad because Achilles has been given enough time, as much time as he needs . At no earlie r moment would he have been capable of Achilles has been given--graciously, independently of any claims he might have --e nough time, and he knows it. Anyone who has experienced being given enough time-and part of that experience seems to be a powerful sense of how easily things might have gone otherwise, how likely it is for one to be given not quite enough time--the question of much t ime versus little time, of a long life versus a short life, cannot seem very important. Thus Achilles asks Priam how long he will need to mourn and bury his son. Priam says t welve days and explains why . Achilles grants him twelve days - he will hold back the war for that long. Achilles, having himself been given time, gives Priam enough time. This is Achilles ' imitation of t he gods , his truly god-like act within the Iliad. And it seems to me that for us too, it is utterly important to give people as much time as t hey need, t o let them tell us just how much time t hat is, and to understand that clear reasons cannot always be given for needing just that amount of time. But I do not think that many of us - I leave out of account a few great souls among us - are capable of giving another time unless we ourselves have, in one form or another , had the experience of being given, beyond any fair claims we can make, and contrary to all rational expectation, enough time. However dark our times may be, I do not think that such experiences are altogether impossible for us . And when they do befall us, surely gratitude requires that we make available to another, as graciously as may be, what has been made available to us. Let me now turn to the Confessions of St . Augustine, a book written about 1500 years ago. The title Confessions means something different from what we might sup pose . For Augustine , the proper subject of confession is the goodness of God. But God 's goodness is shown not only in the deep-down, always - presen t goodness of His creation, but also in t he mercy He shows to sinful man . Hence to acknowledge and praise God ' s goodness includes acknowledging and praising His mercy, and that re quires that the occasions of that mercy, the sins and sinfulness of our lives, be set forth . That in turn requires a travelling through memory . This is what Augustine does in his Confessions : he presents himself in his neediness in order to present God in His graciousness and to give Him praise for His graciousness. According to Augustine, this praise is not so much our duty as it is our deepest delight, the de ligh t for which we were made . I would like t o consider with you something Augustine says about himself as a young child. He finds something wonderful in that child, something altogether worthy of praise. That something is no achievement of the child, nor any potential for achievement, but rather something wholly God- given : it is, Augustine says, "a care for my own well- being" which shows itself, among other ways, by the fact that " I shunned sadness and dejection." This may seem s trange t o us. We are accustomed to saying and perhaps thinking 40 41 �that it is a matter of course for each of us to care for himself--"to take care of number one," as we sometimes say--the only surprising thing--perhaps even a miracle-being that occasionally we also care for other people. But for Augustine the most difficult thing in the world is to care for our own well-being, or more precisely, to be faithful to that original care for our own well-being with which God endowed us in the beginning, to ~ on caring for our own well-being, to ~ on shunning sadness and dejection. The reason is that we grow weary, feel worn-out, are bewildered and embarrassed as we attempt to sustain the care for our own well-being. We long for rest. Not that Augustine thinks we ought not to long for rest. He says to God: "Our hearts are restless until they rest in Thee." But until that most proper rest comes to be, the human task is to be faithful to the original restlessness and to the original care for our own well-being from which it springs. Augustine does not praise himself in the Confessions, one reason being that he knows the great power of what he calls "the passion for self-vindication", that is, not merely pride in the sense of having too high an opinion of ourselves, but rather the awesome passion to vindicate ourselves when accused, whether by others or by ourselves. Augustine does not suppose that this passion within him needs any help from him. But if he were to praise himself, to find something praiseworthy in his life-achieved with the help of God of course but still achieved by Augustine--it would be for being faithful through many years to his own restlessness, for sustaining, in the face of so many temptations to come to some false settlement, to some false peace, that restlessness which so wearied him. From the point of view of Confessions, written when he was about forty-five, he writes of himself in his thirty-first year, fully the thirteenth year of his most earnest searchings for a truth in which his heart and mind could find genuine rest-that is, the 13th year of what we so easily refer to as an "adolescent religious crisis." He writes of how weary he was, and how embarrassed--how embarrassed, since he had been making such a fuss about his own well-being for so long a time, instead of getting on with the practical business of life (he was, after all, a Roman). But he held out in his weariness and his embarrassment until, as he recounts it, he received a true invitation from the true God. And then he said yes. Now let me turn to a passage in the Divine Comedy. There is a certain story told to Dante by a soul in Purgatory which I would like to tell you. But first I must say a few words about how Dante thinks of Purgatory. The souls in Purgatory-every one of them--will one day be in Heaven with God and each will be f illed--in the measure possible for each without his ceasing to be himself--with light and joy. But first--and this is what Purgatory is for, according to Dante--a kind of patience is necessary, and a coming to understand the ways in which our lives have been perverse, and an attempt--for once, happily, an attempt which is bound to succeed--to straighten out what has been crooked in them, not because otherwise God could not stand the sight of us, but because otherwise we would be simply ashamed and bewildered and miserable in the presence of God. The straightening out of what has been crooked in our lives--in us--is painful, but it is pain which the souls in Purgatory do not wish to avoid. Now let me recount to you the story which one of the souls in Purgatory tells Dante. His whole life, he says, or almost his whole life, had been full of violence and hatred, of hating and being hated . He met his death hunted down by his enemies, who wounded him and drove him into a swamp, where as he lay dying he saw pools of his blood form alongside him in the stinking water. He was alone and there was no one, even far away, who loved him. The moment before his death he shed a tear: " I ended on the name of Mary and there fell and only my flesh remained" (Purgatory V. 101-2). The devils came to take him away to Hell. But angels came who would not permit them. The devils were furious at the unfairness of it: "On account of one little tear (una lacrimetta in Dante's Italian) we are deprived of what is rightfully ours," they shriek, "What is one little tear against a whole life-time of violence and hatred?" But the angels are firm, and the soul goes to Purgatory, to prepare itself for the presence of God. I want to reflect with you upon that one little tear, so strangely powerful. First, I think it must be not merely a tear of self-pity, of feeling sorry for oneself--! think some wider sorrow must be in it, some sorrow for having offended God or having offended against the beauty of His creation or some sadness at having betrayed things one shouldn't have betrayed. But I am not so sure that there may be nothing of self-pity in it. It would be strange, after all, and perhaps perversely prideful, to see and sorrow over the deep sadness of the world--the "tears of things", as Virgil says--and to exempt oneself, to stand above that sorrowful world and look down upon it. No, I do not think that self-pity--of which we so often speak harshly-must be excluded from that tear, although of course much more must also be included. Second, we must be aware that to shed such a tear, to shed the right kind of tear, is not an act of will. We cannot heroically, at that final moment, make ourselves do it through strenuous exertion. Such a tear comes forth or it does not. It comes forth from a heart in which there is still some goodness. Here, I think, is where the will comes in, where trying hard and struggling come in. Not indeed the kind of struggle to be as good as good can be, the struggle to be very good. Rather I am thinking of human beings in· whose lives it is much too late in the day to make of their lives a beautiful thing which might gladden those who behold them, but for whom the question is: after so many betrayals of the things I ought least to have betrayed, after so many acts of violence against what I ought most to have cherished, what difference could one more betrayal, one more act of violence, possibly make? What difference could there possibly be between a thousand betrayals and a thousand and one? Perhaps I could resist this present temptation to betrayal--it would be painful, but perhaps I could do it--but what's the use? What difference could it possibly make? And surely tomorrow I shall be guilty of some new betrayal. What Dante means to say, I think, is that it does make a difference: that one moment of fidelity in the midst of a thousand betrayals does not indeed make a life into a beautiful thing in which men and angels may rejoice, but i t may be enough to keep somehow intact a heart capable of shedding the right kind of tear when it matters most. Let me conclude by saying a few words about the final sentence of the Gospel of St. John. That sentence says: "But there are also many other things which Jesus did; were every one of them to be written, I suppose that the world itself could not contain the books that would be written." This makes sense, I think, only if we suppose that John does not have in mind only the deeds of Jesus during his thirty-three years in Palestine, where of course he encountered only a not very great number of souls. Rather, John must mean that every soul that has ever been in the world or ever will be encounters Jesus in one guise or another, knows him by one name or another, responds, however obscur~ly, to his invitation. And I think it is not blasphemous to speak of these deeds of Jesus as being not only for our rescue--although surely it is right for us to think of them in this way most of the time--but also for this own fullness and therewith for the fullness of the creation. For we must take seriously his being a person. And of myself as a person I know that there are some things in me which are brought out -- and in some mysterious way even called into being--only by a certain friend, other things brought out only by another friend. The loss of a friend is the loss of a part of me. As Jesus issues his invitation in as many ways as there are souls in the world, the creation comes fully into its own. These words may sound to you outrageously serene coming from one who was asked to speak about the darkness of our dark times. Surely an urgent and bewildered sense of our need for rescue, and painful doubts about the very possibility of rescue, its 42 43 �availability in any comprehensible way, are among the deepest parts of our experience here and now . But I wonder whether there are not moments in the experience of each of us in which we can somehow sense the truth of these words spoken by Wisdom, that is, somehow , by Christ: "I am from eternity, and before the earth was made I was with Hi m forming all t hings , and was delighted every day, playing at His feet at all times; playing in t he world. And my delights were to be with the children of men." How such moments--moments in which the world seems a deeply innocent place--are to be put t ogether with the dark moments is very hard to say--it is surely beyond my powe r t o say--but not t o give voice t o them at all seems to be a lie. #3 I lay on my back in a field Beneath the moon I close my eyes, open them And the moon is no longer above but before , Earth no longer beneath but behind , Like a wall where prisoners are sent to die. #8 Now you've left, My bed is flat Hot I'm falling asleep A drop of spit on a just-hot griddle Skittering, Diminishing. Stuart Sobczynski 44 45 �]I Final Cause and the Problem of Existence Jim Guszca Though separated by nearly 2000 years, Aristotle and Erwin Straus asked some of the same questions about the causes of human existence in their re spective works, Parts of Animals and "The Upright Posture" . Both philosophers questioned the validi ty of ~ientific theories that only gave "material" causes for "the products of nature." Both believed that a Final Cause must be given to explain why animals, particularly the human, exist as they do. Aristotle was refuting one of the physiologers when he said that "it must be explained how it comes to pass that each of these [non-uniform parts] is charac terized as it is and by what force this is effected" (640b - 20). In other words, it is not enough to say that the stomach, for example, is formed by water flowing through the body; a re ason mus t be given for the specific form of t he stomach, a complicated non- uniform part of the body . To do t hi s, one must consider the precise purpose for which the stomach exists. This purpose is observed as the function t he stomach performs in its environment. Straus had a similar argument against t he paleontologists. He said, in effect, that it is not enough to say that man developed from the primates through an evolutionary process. "Paleontology t ells us wha t man o r what his ancestors once were, but not what man actually is ..• it has little to say about how the change to modern man came about and what its final result was" (pg . 140). In other words the prehis toric forms of our ancestors do not explain how or why humans exist as t hey do in the present. Both philosophers advocated similar scientific methods: t hat we accept as given whatever is and go on to state its cause . Mere observation isn't enough. The reason why something came to be as it is is necessary in order to understand its place in the world. Aristotle gave t he example of the house. The house is formed by a certain process . Each step of the process, however, is determined by the house's Final Cause. That is, we first consider the function, and therefore the nature, of the house in relation to its environment and then go on the build it in such a way that it will se r ve its function. So the process of formation itself isn't the cause of the final form of the house, or similarly the animal, since the process is ultimately dependent on the house's (animal 's ) function in its environment. In describing the automobile, Straus gave a similar example. One cannot "explain its present form and shape by mere reference to its forerunner" for "it is the automobile's own function and dynamic structure that determines its shape". The development of the automobile didn't occur spontaneously . Certain problems with its functioning lead us t o draw up new plans for design. Let us note that both men dealt with the hand as an "organ" because they both considered its Final Cause . The important fact about the hand is not that it is made up of certain uniform parts in a certain way. The hand exists as a part of us and has a special function. That function explains why the human body has the hand that it has. It also explains why it is an organ, as oppos ed to the finger, whose func tioning is incomplete out of the context of the whole hand. What each of the philosophers gave as their Final Causes differed, however. To illustrate this difference, we will consider the authors' respective treatments of the human hand. 46 Both authors allowed that the upright posture is a necessary prerequisite for the human hand (Aristotle, 687a 10; Straus, pg. 149) . Aristotle, however, went on to say that the human being "has his hands because he is the most intelligent animal" . That is, he has his hands because of the nature of his soul; his soul is not determined by the nature of his hands. In On the Soul, Aristotle called the soul the Final Cause of the living body: "Just as the mind acts with some purpose in view , so too does nature, and this purpose is its end. In living creatures, the soul supplies such a purpose ('function') , and this is in accordance with nature, for all natural bodies are instruments of the soul" (415b 15) . Aristotle also compared the living being to a wax figure. The body is the "wax" in the raw state, and the soul is t he "impression" made on the wax to give it shape. The impression is what must contain the Final Cause of the figure if its final form is to agree with its func tion. Neithe r can exist without the othe r, but it is clear that the wax (body) exists for, and is moulded to conform to the needs of the impression (the soul). Thus , the soul is the Final Cause of the body . It determines the form and the function of each of the parts of the body. Straus wasn't quite so definite in giving the Final Cause of the body o r of its parts. Like Aristotle (687al0) , Straus said that "In upright posture, the frontal extremities are no longer asked to suppor t and carry the body ... they are free for new tasks" (pg . 149) . So the anterior limb of the primates develops into the human arm , and t he hand develops into an "organ of gnostic toughing". Note the implication that the hand is formed the way it is to perform certain functions : "The hand is a tool in re lation to the living, experiencing being" . For t he development of the hand, "upright posture is not only the gene tic condition, but also continues to domi nate the function of the hand" (my underline) . In this last quote, uprigh t posture seems to be to Straus the same type of Final Cause as the soul is to Aristotle . But although Straus listed a number of body parts denoting intelligence: "While upright posture permits the formation of the human skull, and, thereby, of the human brain , the maintenance of upright posture demands the development of the human nervous system", he was unclear about the role that human intelligence plays in causality: "Who can say what comes first and what comes last --what is the cause and what is the effect (pg . 164)". So could we say that the Final Cause of the human form is an evolutionary inter action between the sensory organs and the central nervous system? "The sensory o rgans cannot change without a corresponding change in the central nervous system. No part could be altered alone. With upright posture, there is a transformation of sensorium and motorium , of periphery and center, of form and function." The implica tion is that the development of one, either mind or body , creates a function that the other must develop in such a way as to serve . So we could say that Aristotle and Straus disagreed as to whether the body adapts for the soul or whether the "soul", or mind, adapts along with the body . But I don't want to end with this comparison, either. Using this evolutionary interaction to explain our present state of existence seems like the physiologers' use of purely material causes to explain the stomach. Why does this development take place and why does this development produce the changes it does? Bo t h bel ieved that body and soul are interdependent. But where Aristotle be lieved that the body exists for the sake of the soul, Straus believed that the two cannot be separated in this way. He did say that all of the evolutionary "alterations (in nervous and sensory parts) are related to upright posture as their ba sic theme". Thus the upright posture is the Final Cause of the human mind/body complex . Going back to t he house analogy, upright posture is the basic structure, while evolution works out the details as development proceeds. There are, then, two levels of final cause here. The reason Erwin Straus, a phenomenologist, wrote about the upright posture is 47 �that it has had an important role in determining our present form and therefore our present existence. But specific causes are needed to explain specific evolutionary changes. These come from problems with our being -in-the-worl d on a biological level . The existence of the creatures we once were was threatened by various cases of incompatability with their environment. As nature's trial-and-error process of development stepped in to change our form, the factors of upright posture and intelligence began to have more major parts to play in the development. Presently , they play the most important parts in the makeup of our being -in-the-world. Aristotle, it seems, would agree with Straus . Like Straus, he knew that a reason must be given for everything that happens in nature. Not being an evolutionist, he personified Nature and give her the ability to make rational, and very economical, decisions that directly determine the order of things. Straus believed that nature makes her decisions by the trial- and - error process of evolution . Both men made it a point to explore human existence through biology. They did this by trying to determine the way in which man arose out of nature, that is, what his final cause is. As one man put it, this isn't the type of science you smash atoms with, but it does deal effectively with the key problem of our existence: how we live our lives. 48 Antigone Hugh Brantner At the time of the first paper on Antigone it seemed to me that the character of Antigone was unambiguous; so much so that she was difficult to write about. Indeed, it seemed she was so intent upon her actions and so unremitting of them that she was a long distance from audience sympathy. "Her unwavering intent upon her goals dis tances us from her such that our ability to live with her through her role is diminished." Perhaps it was a reluctance on my part to see Antigone's faith in her own actions as anything but the negative sense of the the Greek word - an untold presumption or arrogance. Perhaps it was also because Sophocles presented her character to us in such a way that access to her heart is not allowed until late in the play, and then not simply by watching her. There is little doubt that Antigone's intentions in the play are of a righteous nature. Long before they are uncovered by the plot, the audience knows her actions to be well done. Yet from the first lines of the play it is much easier to be sympathetic with Ismene's fears for her sister and her subsequent unwillingness to cross the state decree. Perhaps this is the result of an inability to see the human usefulness of such an action, which makes it difficult for us to find the reserve of strength necessary to fly into the face of death. Of course we don't want Antigone to die; we have the belief that she is right. Yet we are not one with her. Indeed, what she does seems beautiful, but its apparent cost causes us to shrink into ourselves, away from her. Antigone, though, is not all strength and purpose. She is human. As a human she too must recognize death and know its meaning. It is in acknowledging this that Antigone seems to become accessible to the audience. It is through her last lines in the play that we can come to affirm her judgement and perhaps come to love her. It is here that the superhuman effort needed to overcome the all too human fears falls away leaving an heroic but very human being. To accept this interpretation of Antigone's character is to step into some apparent controversy over a series of lines in the play. Sir Richard Jebb along with some other translators find these lines, vv 904 - 920, to be spurious. Perhaps these lines are not authentic as Jebb argues. If this is the case it would seem that the audience is robbed by the playwright of a view into another mortal's soul-- the soul of the namesake of the play. If o?e reads this play without these lines he is denied the realization that the actions of the play are all human actions. Instead the veil that surrounds the driven Antigone remains drawn. Creon dashes his ship upon her, an unmoving, unyielding rock. If, however, the lines stand, then Antigone is not the foil of Creon. Certainly they cross one · another, but i t is in going to different destinations. It is as if Creon has set his sights upon the monsters lurking at the edge of the sea thinking them to be beauties. He sails by his own navigation over the edge. Antigone runs afoul of Creon enroute to her own destination. She is purposeful, like a river flowing where it must until the very end. Jebb's arguments against these lines are fairly concise. It seems that he objects to them primarily on grounds of logic and grammar. He states three objections to these lines. The first objection is: "The general validity of the divine law, as asserted tn vv. 450-460, cannot be intelligibly reconciled with the limitation in vv. 90 5-9 0 7." 49 �In lines 450-460 Antigone asserts in her confession of the rites of burial for Polyneices that the immortality of the gods is to be respected above all. A law of the gods must be obeyed prior to any law of man who is mortal. It is not possible for any of man's laws to "over-run" one of the gods'. Since the rites of death have long been held as an act of piety towards the gods, Creon's order to withhold burial rites cannot be obeyed. She acknowledges that death is necessary, for she must cross a man's law. She obviously does not perceive any hope of Creon rescinding his edict. But what kind of ill could death at the hands of man be when held in relation to the ill of being impious to the immortal gods? These lines do seem clear in affirming a belief in that law. Jebb apparently feels that lines 905-907 contradict the priorities Antigone states in lines 450-460. After having uttered these lines, why would Antigone say that the actions would not have been done had she been a mother or wife with a child or husband mouldering away? He seems to feel that if one is ready and willing to die to honor divine law above mortal law, then it would make no difference what the mortal-world conditions were. The divine law must take precedence. Therefore, it is illogical to babble in the later lines about a child and husband. Jebb's second objection is an extension of the first: "A still further limita:.... tion is involved in 911 ff. She has buried her brother, not simply as such, but because, while he lived, he was an irreplaceable relative. Could she have hoped for 1 the birth of another brother, she would not then, have felt the duty so binding . " Jebb seems to feel that this statement by Antigone further eclipses her from lines 450-460. Again it is illogical that any mortal condition, even human love, should stand in the way of the priority of divine law. How could the loss of a "replaceable" brother possibly alter the law? It would still stand, and the lack of burial rites would of course be impious. The third objection Jebb cites is simply that: "The composition of vv. 909 1 912 is unworthy of Sophocles." Further down in his line-notes, Jebb elaborates with three points. The first is about a word which is not believed to have been in Attic use at the time of Sophocles. The second is about the jumbled hypotheses in the lines. The arguments are not kept grammatically clear and distinct, but instead fall over one another. His third is again a point over awkward grammar. An overview of Jebb' s statements seems only to turn up the two categories of objection: logic and grammar. These seem odd grounds in some ways upon which to base a decision about the authenticity of these lines . Antigone is about to die . Would anyone ask of a person facing death by any form of execution that he be consistently logical and grammatically correct? Perhaps. If the person was of high moral character, strong, confident in the righteousness of his actions , then one might come to expect coherency from him even in the worst of conditions. Antigone is all of these, but it seems that Sophocles shows us more of her character than just this side. What Sophocles shows us is important in order to fully understand Antigone as a human character, to sympathize with, and possibly to love her. Sir Richard Jebb was a Greek scholar impossibly far beyond my own abilities as a student of the Greek language. If he says that a point of grammar is so or that usage in a particular fashion is unusual, I must believe him. However, I see no reason to hold fast to his conclusion that lines 905-912 are not Sophocles'; and that lines 904 and 913-920 must fall also because of unity within lines 905-912. Jebb may be right and the play should be read without these lines. If so, then an image of a strong character until the end prevails. Sure in the righteousness of her actions, Antigone sails straight to her destination, slipping off the edge of the mythical sea, but into immortal fame. If, however, one grants that the lines were penned by Sophocles, then the picture, it seems, is different. The rough grammar and the twisted logic portray another depth of character. The superhuman effort breaks up, dashed upon the reality of Antigone being human. Then these lines would be a mark of 50 a skilled playwright rather than the crude insertions of a lesser mind. . One ,Problem for ~hose wh? call these lines spurious is their appearance in Aristotle s, The Art of Rhetoric. Jebb answers this by saying that the lines mu t ha:e been inte.rpolated shortly after the poet's death, perhaps by the poet's so:. This chronological approach is far less interesting than the points Aristotle mak · · es in t h e section i n wh" ich he quotes Sophocles. . I~ t~e Nic~omachean Ethics Aristotle writes that it is by a man's actions along with his intentions that man should be judged. Outlining the nature of Tragedy, he writes in the Poetics that action must occur within the narration for there to be a good story. Action takes precedence over character; then character fleshes out that action for the listeners. In the Rhetoric he draws a distinction for how an audience will perceive an action, given the type of motivation for that action. Do not let your words seem inspired so much by intelligence, in the manner now current, as by moral purpose: e.g. 'I willed this; aye, it was my moral purpose; true, I gained nothing by it, still it is better thus.' For the other way shows good sense, but this shows good character; good sense making us go after what is useful, and good character after what is noble.2 Aristotle has drawn a dichotomy in the reasons for which a person may be perceived to accomplish an act. On the one hand, he could be doing something because it is useful. This usefulness could admit of several species, such as prof it, need, desire, etc. On the other hand, he could be doing something out of "moral purpose". Motives springing from usefulness are perceived as less honorable than those of moral purpose. The primary difference seems to come with the lack of visible gain in the latter. One does something out of moral purpose with no end in mind, perhaps even at a great cost to himself. The point that Aristotle is taking up is that it is desirable to show character in a play. Moral interest and moral purpose show character in a way that purely sensible actions springing from reason cannot. When we see a character on the stage move through actions motivated by reason alone we judge him by that reason. Our sympathies and energies focus on the action in terms of the steps leading to the end. Perhaps the end is not clear to an audience right away, but his actions nonetheless move in quantifiable, logical steps. He is acting upon a common ground we all can trea~ and so can look backwards and forwards, coming to know what he has done, what he might do, and why. Of course reason is not always consistent between men. When a character makes an unexpected move we search for the reason in the new action that might indicate the new end sought. We see action that might indicate the new end sought. We see action in terms of a motivation towards that end. However, if a character is ac~ing from moral purpose, the linear quality of reason breaks up. It is no longer clearly motivation with an end in mind + action toward that end + end. Instead the action and the end can become one. No longer is there a more-or-less objective grid available to trace an action upon. The act must be perceived in a more subjective manner. This places two individuals in a realm where emotional responses must be elicited. The first person is of course the character who will display qualities of some emotional and moral depth. The second is the individual member of the audience who will see this side of the character and must respond in kind. He will not be able to appeal to some more neutral contrivance as a reason to judge the character's actions and intentions. Instead he must respond emotionally from inside of himself. The more morally deep the action, the more depth the audience member must plumb in himself if he is to understand what is going on before his senses. It is this type of character who can move an audience and give meaning to a play. 51 �l T I will lie together with him, a beloved together with a beloved A playwright must have some moral purpose motivating a character received with some emotional attachment by t he audience , and that character must display the pur pose through his action, his wor ds , or through other charac te rs a r ound him. In some way or another the intention behind the actions must be made manifest for the audi ence. Aristotle continues beyond these points i n the Rheto r ic to the actual quote of Sophocles . He cites lines 911 and 912 as an example t hat gives cause to Antigone's behavior : It is, however, the pie t y of lines 74-77, and 89: having dared a righteous crime; since the time is greater for those below , who it is necessary for me to please, than for those here. There I will lie forever . But it may seem right to you to hold in dishonor the things the gods hold in honor. Where any detail may appear incredible, t hen add the cause of it; of this Sophocles provides an example in the Antigone, where Antigone says she had cared more for her brother than for husband or children, since if the latter perished they might be replaced, 'But since my father and mother in their graves Lie dead, no brother can be born to me. ,3 But I know that I am making good to whom it is necessary to most have pleased. which gets carried forward from this scene and reaches its climax in lines 450- 460 . Somehow Antigone's love drops beneath the surface of the play . Ismene's expression of love in line 99 seems to heighten the obscurity of Antigone's feelings: This cause is an irreplaceable love . This, however , does not seem to convey the whole picture to me . These l i n e s are important for showing Antigone's cha r ac t er and purpose . It does not seem , however , t hat Antigone feels love for Polyneices because he is irreplaceable . Neithe r does it s e em tha t she would ac t any di f fer ently i f t he dead was a r eplaceable loved one. Ar i stotle se ems r igh t i n hi s unde rstanding t he underlying cause for Antigone' s action as love . Yet he wants to put a qualifier on the depth of the love which seems to delimit some of the character t hat may have been put into the play by Sophocles . If Antigone is not elucidating a reason for her actions, and not contradicting herself, then what do t hese lines say? Simply that Antigone is shuddering under t he mantle of her own actions . It i s not a shuddering of r e gret , but rather a giving ouz of the extreme reserve of st r ength necess~ r y to "go to t he fullest verge of daring", t o find "the high foundation of jus t ice" . She is now alone . The act has be en done , the confrontation is past. Her momentum is all but spent. She seems like a rough stone ball which rolls when i t has force and momentum, but which to t ters, wobbles , and shudders in its motion as t hat force is spent . Her speech of lines 891 - 928 is not spoken to Cr eon or the chorus . It is spoken to the dead, and as an inwa r d reflection t hrown outwar d. The wo r ds she speaks seem to be ones of some doubt . They seem to be casting about for a reason . Yet the anguish which r ises up thr ough the lines indicates that there is no doubt. Antigone has not changed. Her self is no longer full of her singular will. Instead she is giving herself over to emotions which have only been undercurrents through the earlier portion of the play . Antigone's action of performing burial rites for Polyneices is of course the center of the play. When she talks early in the play, the reasons she gives for her action are those of piety . Yet they are not purely of piety. In lines 27 - 29 she speaks of the burial rites not in terms of piety, but rather in reference to mortals: they say he has proclaimed to the whole town that none may bury him and none bewail, but leave him unwept, untombed .. . 'Go , if i t seems so to you ; but know this, that foolish you go, but by those who love you, rightly loved . ' Ismene, while running short of the strength necessary to act as Antigone asks, none theless has the ability to r each beyond those limit s with an expression of love . Ant igone's interest in piety is a real one . It is neither a cover for her actions, nor the prime motivation for them . If her actions were guided purely by an interest in piety, then the lines Jebb questions would indeed sound out of place. She would be denying herself the very r eason for her action . In this light Jebb's arguments would be a little bit more persuasive . As it turns out, Antigone's lines of 909- 920 do sound odd. Falling on our ears as they do, they seem in contrast to the hardened Antigone who leaves Ismene in the first scene, and who corrosively responds to Creon's vehemence against her. They do not make sense with the other things we have heard from Antigone. Because they seem in contrast, they do not pass by smoothly. Instead they stick and jam and must be internalized . Their meanings do not indicate why they are spoken. Only in their disorder do they convey their meaning. The unities we expect of logic and grammar become broken. Mortal conventions fall before an immortal passion of the soul. The Antigone who leaves Ismen e in the opening scene is har dened, anneal e d f or what she wills. The task she asks Ismene to share must now be done alone. Arguing piety, she leaves for her task with Ismene' s words of love falling like petals on frozen ground. When we see her next she must confront the attacks of Creon. Defiant and firm she remains hardened. She cites the divine law as her defense. She answers law with higher law as they exchange barbed statements over the justice of the situation . Finally in lines 522 - 523 t hey come to the issue at hand: 5 Creon : Antigone: She seems to see the burial rites in terms of the human needs to which they attend. Here she is not thinking of piety as much as expressions of love for one who has died. Lines 48 and 73 reflect not primarily pious thoughts, but ones of love: Never the enemy, even in death, a friend. I cannot share in hatred but in love. 6 Antigone's response falls upon our ears in an odd way much like line 909-920, though this line (523) is prior . Antigone uses the verb ¢uw , which here means that But there is not for him a right to shut me out from those of mine. 53 52 I_ �T it is by nature that she is disposed not to join Creon in hating Polyneices, but rather love him. It is a strange statement falling after the rapid-fire, heated words over justice. It is hard to reconcile this vision she has of herself with her character on stage. She has been scathing in her treatment of Ismene and of course Creon. The words seem somehow misplaced. However, there is not time to reflect on them as the force of Creon's reply, along with the momentum of the preceding lines, carry us quickly beyond them. His reply itself in lines 524-525 only helps bury her words, for he cannot connect with her sense of love: And now he leads me, taking me by force unbedding, without a wedding song, obtaining not a share of a wedding feast nor in the nurture of a child, 7 but an ill-fated one, alone from friends. The lines preceding line 905 from line 897 also speak of her idea of love in ref erence to the burial rites she has attended for her father, mother and brother, Eteocles. Couched between her expressions of love for others in the past, and those · once hoped for in the future, these lines lead us to see that her actions sprang not from a need to be right, to honor the gods, but rather to express her love for her brother. Thus we are led deeper into the soul of Antigone and for a moment can be sure of her actions and humanity. Indeed what we once shrank from may seems less fearful for a moment. In finding her motivation we have to open ourselves up to the love we have known. And for that moment our hearts are open in an attempt to understand, death seems to be remote while it is Antigone who is near. Sir Richard Jebb has his reasons for eliminating these lines which seem to open Antigone up. Somehow though, I find his Antigone colder and more removed. I have come to like the closeness that this perhaps less scholarly interpretation allows of her character. There is meaning and depth in her which are born of love. Yet when all is said and done, I think that it is the sense of promise that I most respond to; the promise that the love I experience in this human existence can be powerful enough to extend me beyond the self which delimits my existence in terms of fear and death. This is a promise one cannot be reminded of too often. 1 - Jebb, Sir Richard, The Antigone of Sophocles abr. version, E.S. Shuckburgh, editor; Cambridge Univ . Press . 2 Aristotle, The Art of Rhetoric, W. Rhys Roberts, trans., III, 16, lines 24 - 27. 3 - Ibid, III, 16, lines 28 - 33. 4 - Antigone, Elizabeth Wyckoff, trans, lines 852 - 853. 5 - Ibid, lines 27 - 29. 6 - Ibid, lines 522 - 523. 7 - Ibid, lines 524 - 525. 55 54 �56 57 �r Sonnet for a Slavic Miner A.J. Krivak The Dead Renee Bergland Let us roll all our strength, and all our sweetness, up into one ball: and tear our pleasures with rough strife, through the Iron gates of life. Thus though we cannot make our sun stand still, yet we will make him run. In this town, along this river, down these shafts Darkness reigns under the earth. In America, a still struggling re-birth Carries you along, men in and endless rafts Of coal out in a stream of blood-smeared dust . From Prague peasants rode the civilian trains To steamships waiting in Hamburg . The rains Come for days to thaw, the leeching cars leave rust On your hard blue hands; the tortuous sound Of ceiling drops, muffled ground-thunder below . Memories of the old kawntree fade, Your children soon are breaker boys who pound Piles of stone with hammers for pay. Shenandoah fires burn, your Anna collapses in tears she made. 58 -Andrew Marvel "To His Coy Mist,ress" Gabriel Conroy is falling asleep. His wife is beside him, dreaming dreams which have no room for him. He muses, "Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age". Then he falls asleep peacefully. His soul swoons slowly into sleep, and the snow falls faintly upon the living and the dead . We close the book peacefully and fall asleep ourselves, lulled and comforted by the warmth of human hospitality and kind humor which Gabriel has told us about. We are certain somehow that Michael Furey, beautiful, passionate, blazing boy that he was, was somehow wrong. We do have world enough and time. Eternity is not a pressure, but a peaceful promise. Gabriel brings us glad tidings. Tidings of peace on earth in a joyous, but somehow wistful manner ... Something in the struggle and the blaze is attractive to the human soul. Tragedy is romantic, powerful, and moving in a way which no happy ending can ever be. It is strange that his glad tidings are not more powerful, nor any more compelling. And at the same time it is utterly appropriate. One could not paint peace in violent, vivid color. His message has, as he himself does, a melancholy, almost awkward, glory. What is this peace? The biggest, best part of it is the fact that the war with time is over. The sun need not stand still, nor fly from us. For somehow, as the snow falls, blanketing absolutely everything, truce is declared. Yes, yes, that would happen very soon, Gabriel muses on Julia's death, knowing that he does not need to fear her death, or even his own. We are all, living and dead, in this thing together . Death is all that has ever given time any sting at all. But strangely, the victory over time strikes me as a bigger one than the one over death. Time's shrinking gives Michael and Gabriel the chance to love Gretta completely or shall I say, to make Gretta completely loved , each loving as much and as well as he can. Were Gretta loved by one man or the other, she would be a sad, grey woman. She is not. Two loves in two different time schemes have made her warm, rich and beautiful; and each love has done the same for each man as well. When Gabriel accepts Michael's love, he joins Michael in a new, strange world where the living and the dead are equally present, equally important. That world, however, has been building the whole time. Part of the reason a timeless, deathless, lifeless, snowy world seems so natural is that we have spent most of the story at a holiday ball; it holds every one of its past manifestations in it, as only an annual party held where it has been held for a good thirty years can hold its past. What is 59 �it about that party which makes it see so frighteningly real? Reading the story now halfway between Thanksgiving and Christmas, and the parties I have been attending since I was born, I feel self-conscious. That's it. That's a holiday ball. Right down to Freddy Malins and his poor mother, everything is captured. Everything can be captured because there is a universal element to a party like Julia and Kate's. Year after year they remain the same; and year after year t hey go off splendidly, in spite of Freddy and Mr. Browne. Every year the old ones get a little frailer, and every few years one of them dies. The party never changes . This party, t his truly changeless, unremarkable occasion is our entrance into timelessness. Having entered, we find eternal love, and we find it twice: Living and dead. The two loves do not oppose each other. Both are warm and fiery. One is a pale and tender flame which never wavers, and the other is a blast of heat and fury, quickly doused in rain. But as Michael Furey dies for Gretta, he gives her all his warmth in one mightly explosion. He leaves her warm, but ready to receive more warmth, quieter and steadier. Gabriel gives her this with all his heart and with all his tender, deep passion, dissolved across years, books and children, but never stilled, never doused. His love grows when he learns that it has been completed by a strange young boy from Galway long ago. It grows more quiet , but it also grows stronger. Finally Gabriel sees that there is nothing to fight and no need t o deny. He can go west. He is not excluded and he does not lack the wild watery romance which is Ireland. Rather, he shares in it through his wife, who has been filled with it by another, different lover. And at the same time, as he watches the quiet snow which binds him to the wildness with peace, he holds his wife close to himself, and he rests deeply and warmly with her. He guards Gretta, he keeps her feet dry. She lets him watch her, hair dry, bronze, and clean . They are dry and warm and safe. Michael Furey is wet and cold and dead. Both, or shall I say all three, are quiet, peaceful, snowy. Times' winged chariot may hurry as close as it likes. It is empty. It has been emptied by a new, compound, eternal love, shouted forth by two men: one tearing through the iron gates of life toward death; and the other , quietly, with world enough and time, letting his vegetable love grow vaster than empires and more slow. The Flesh Made Word: Some Thoughts on Gogol's Story "The Overcoat" Christopher K. Watson If modern philosophy can be said to begin with Descartes' methodological skepticism, his making ontology essentially problematic, a whole tradition of the novel, as the paradigmatically modern narrative genre, is informed by the same critical-philosophical awareness, beginning almost a half-century before Descartes with Cervantes . Ontological critique in the novel, moreover, is carried on typically not as discursive exposition but as a critical exploration through the technical manipulation of the very form that purports to represent reality. This observation by Robert Alter in his book Partial Magic is extremely helpful in a consideration of Gogol's "The Overcoat", for in such an endeavor one must necessarily begin with the problem of perspective. However, the story does not willingly lend itself to the normal avenues of approach. In fact, the most revealing characteristic of the story seems to be its virtual absence of perspective . We are not presented with a concrete structure but with an elusive and constantly changing entity. This applies equally to the parts as to the whole. For this reason "The Overcoat" tends to escape the greedy and prosaic clutches of analytical interpretation . Not because its words and sentences will not retain meaning, but because its protean prowess is so great as to enable it to take on all possible meanings. This process extends itself in such a way that a complete reversal of meanings, hierarchies , and even characters can be seen to occur throughout the course of the story . Hence, ongoing metamorphosis being the predominant aspect of this text, one begins to question the place in which a reader might figure in this self - contained and (as will be shown) self -consuming Gogolian universe. In the department ... Starting with the first paragraph, we are immediately exposed to Gogol's elliptical style . The normality of the first three words is fleeting and they quickly become enshrouded in an elaborate digression. Thus the formal beginning is yanked out from under the reader, exposing him to the acutely self-conscious considerations of the author. Gogol forces the reader to realize just how impossible it is to designate relevancy or give meaning to anything without dangerously enormous and escalating effects. He even repeats this process in the digression when he claims that he can't recall the town of the police commissioner even though the incident occurred "not so very long ago". The careful reader finally has to commiserate and even take on a certain amount of the anxiety that has infected the narrator. The whole process ultimately endows the undefined department with immense significance. As if by magic, a concerted attempt to make something insignificant and undefined has mysterious ly given it the utmost significance. But what is significance? "A certain department" could mean anything, and in its infinite possibilities lies both its significance and absence. 60 61 �Absence most certainly plays a central role in the dynamics of the story. The most perplexing absence is that of the narrator. As the classical pillar of perspective, the narrator's frequent disclaimers, his states of amnesia, and his lack of control over the course of events and descriptions of characters (as if they were queuing up behind his pen and pushing it across the page) continually def late his worth as an interpretive gauge. His self-professed lack of memory progresses to such an extent that towards the end of the story he says: ••. everything in St. Petersburg, all the streets and houses, has become so blurred and mixed up in our head that we find it very dif f icult indeed to sort it out properly. An amusing example of Gogol's craftiness in this respect is the derivation of Akaky's name, undoubtedly from the Greek 6.Ka.Kos: "innocuous" or "guileless", of which the narrator innocently states: His name and patronymic were Akaky Akakyevich. The reader may think it a bit odd, not to say somewhat recherche, but we can assure him that we wasted no time in searching for this name and that it happened in the most natural way that no other name could be given to him. The name itself denotes absence (in-nocuous or guile-less. Among other things, Gogol has conceived a multilayered mimicry of his own denial of device). Of course, the christening of Akaky comes about in the most unnatural way: this is, through an obstinate mother's fear of novelty and the creative whims of an intractable calendar. Akaky himself, who when only a tot seems to have had "a premonition that he would be councillor one day", is described as the paradigm of stasis: his a titular constancy is so extreme as to verge on non-entity: price of the new overcoat and after reconciling himself to the fact "His whole existence indeed seemed now somehow to have become fuller". The overcoat becomes "a sweet helpmate", "as though he had got married" and "his character even got a little firmer" . The day of the overcoat's delivery is "one of the greatest days in Akaky's life", a life which has been depicted as an absolute homage to uneventfulness. Akaky, who previously was gustatorily unconscious_ . eating "flies and all", is even , affected physically: his heart begins "beating fast", he suddenly is aware of the St. Petersburg night life, and he _i_~ls the first impulses of erotic attraction. When he is invited and compelled to the assistant head clerk's birthday party, he is like a debutante going to her "coming out" party: "and indeed he had not left his room in the evening for several years". At this point I would like to make my own small tribute to excursiveness and absurdity. When Akaky grins in front of the provocative painting of a woman "taking off a shoe and showing a bare leg", the narrator questions, "Why did he grin?". He then proceeds to posit the following seriocomical reasons: It might have been because he had seen something he had never seen before, but a liking for which is buried deep down inside every one of us, or because (like many another Civil Servant) he thought to himself, "Oh, those damned Frenchmen! What a people they are, to be sure! If they set their heart on something, something ..• well, something of that kind ... " But perhaps he never even said anything at all to himself. How indeed is one to delve into a man's mind and find out what he is thinking about? This implies that the character's derivation is not one from nature but from nature as refracted by established fictional conventions. This serves to nullify any understanding of Akaky qua human being. Seen in this light, Akaky's quest for a new overcoat, which is properly spurred by physical necessity (it is the inclemencies of the St. Petersburg weather which drive him into the world of contingency), seems to be a progression towards normality. He raises his voice "probably for the first time in his life" upon hearing the This last question, adequately dressed in ironical trappings, is perhaps one of the most central questions of the story; however, another, completely illogical intuition arises as an answer to the initial question--that is, posterity. In the beginning stages of the story the narrator, struggling to find something revealing about Akaky's "unremarkable" persona, traces the etymology of his surname, Bashmachkin , to the word "bashmak" --"to wit, shoe". But any facts concerning the "metamorphosis" remains a mystery, the whole endeavor seems to yield nothing. Nevertheless, this simple act of research impresses the image of a shoe on the reader's mind; and through Gogol's artistry this word, as do many others, takes on a certain magnetism and seems by itself to be able to retain the reader's attention. This also serves as a good example of how Gogol's concerns for the insignificant, the purely quotidian, pervades the whole story. Returning to the hypothesis that Akaky's overcoat may represent a catalyst for i dent i t y , or even a spiritual mediator (a kind of textile Beatrice), we must immediately begin to doubt it. An inspection of the overcoat's source seems to be the most proper place to begin. And, although one might contest the source as not being in any one place, Petrovich, the tailor, appears to be its most striking abettor. In introducing Petrovich, the narrator gives us subtle admonition: "We really ought not to waste much time over this tailor". However, "time", which seems to have very little to do with this story anyway, is wasted and Petrovich proceeds not only to function as an important transitional vehicle, but also as the most externally unique character in the story. Everything that characterizes him is mysteriously nefarious, his flat is in a back alley and surrounded by mist so dense "that even the very cockroaches could no longer be seen". He drinks "in the tradition of his forebears", "on any church holiday, on any day, in fact, marked with a cross in the calendar". And when Akaky brings him his bedraggled overcoat, Petrovich is sitting "with his legs crossed under him like a Turkish pasha"--an infidel. To his wife he is a "one-eyed devil" or at least a lesser demon under the dictates of a Devil, who occasionally nudges him and makes "him ask more than he is worth himself". And one 62 63 During all the years he had served in that department, many directors and other higher officials had come and gone, but he still remained in exactly the same position, in exactly the same job, doing exactly the same kind of work, to wit, copying official documents. We are told that Akaky is ithelbutt of the off ice wits' jokes, but that he is utterly immune to their disparaging jibes, living in "a multi£ arious and pleasant world of his own"--the Russian alphabet. Moreover, his "tormentors" must invent special stories about him, as they are hard-pressed by his lack of character. Even an attempt to compare Akaky to a "real-life" counterpart is baffled by Gogol; for he says that Akaky's rank, which is equivalent to his identity. ... has been sneered at and held up to scorn by all sorts of writers who have the praiseworthy habit of setting upon those who cannot hit back. �must concede that it is a brilliantly comical stroke on Gogol's part to emphas i ze in this way the necessity for a t ailor af t er the fall . Petrovich is said to be "greatly pleased that he had neit her demeaned himself nor let down the sartorial art". Here one must ask oneself just what it i s t hat this "sartorial art" consists of : a tailor patches, he alters , he hems and covers, he is the "Artificer" . And at a crucial point in their encounter he seems even to cast a spell over Akaky: At the word "new" a mist suddenly spread before Akaky' s eyes and everything in the room began swaying giddily. The only thing he could still see clearly was the general's face pasted over with paper on the lid of Petrovich's snuff box. This is an amazing example not only of the command which the insignificant exercises over the events of the story, but also of the way in which Gogol is able to reverse and even merge opposites, in this case presence and absence . The clearest thing to Akaky in his state of ve r tigo is a non- picture. We had previously read of this por ~ trait of "some" general that "the place where the face should have been had been poked in by a finger and then pasted over with a square bit of paper" . But this pic ture is more than simply an amplified abs ence : it is also an example of t he way in which predestinat i on seems t o fi gure in this Gogolian un i v erse . No t unl i ke Akaky ' s premonition that he would one day be come a titular councillor, we discov er later on in the story that the rank of the Very Important Person , who ul t imately becomes Akaky's agent of doom (being his last hope for the recovery of his overcoat), is th~t of a "general". Moreover, Akaky' s encounter with the Very Important Person culminates with Akaky fainting in front of him . But who is this Very Important Person? On one level he is seen as the menacing counter-pole to Akaky's meek obsequiousness. However, there are striking parallels that seem to call this relationship into question . In the first place, we are told that this Very Important Person was once a "rather unimportant person" which seems to oddly echo what was previously speculated about Akaky's diligence: If he had been rewarded in accordance with his zeal, he would to his own surprise have got as far as a state councillorship. Like Akaky, who on his nocturnal excursion drinks champagne and feels sexual desire before the disaster, so the Very Important Person seeks diversion in champagne and a visit to his mistress before the ghostly encounter. The Very Important Person is defined by his false and authoritarian facade: "Strictness, strictness, and again strictness!" he usually declared, and at the penultimate word he usually peered very significantly into the face of the man he was addressing. There seemed to be no particular reason for this strictness, though, for the dozen or so Civil Servants who composed the whole administration machinery of his off ice were held in a proper state of fear and trembling, anyhow . towards a "fuller" self is thwarted. The overcoat now begins to symbolize a spurious growth towards selfhood, a false _ idol. And Akaky' s former state, which "might have flowed on as happily to a ripe old age", appears idyllic, as i f it were a kind of civic Eden. Also in support of this view one comes to see another correlation, but in this case it is to literature itself. The first details of the robbery are related as follows: Soon he approached the spot where the street was intersected by an immense square with houses dimly visible on the other side, a square that looked to him like a dreadful desert. A long way away--goodness knows where--he could see the glinnner of light coming from some sentry-box, which seemed to be standing at the edge of the world. Is this not reminiscent of Dante's and after him Tennyson's depiction of Ulysses' errant quest to "the unpeopled world"? Perhaps for a brief instant we imagine Gogol with disheveled hair laboring away in the eighteenth ring of the Inferno. To isolate either one of these views as "correct reading of the text" would be just as erroneous as taking Chaucer's Nun's Priest seriously when he asks his audience to "taketh the fruyt, and lat the chaf be stille". For, as has been mentioned above, Gogol does not always create a reversal of hierarchies and meanings, but seems to merge them as well. So that the final effect becomes what Nabokav calls "a vicious circle". The ghost at the end of the story which is taken as being Akaky's is in fact that of the miscreant who had robbed Akaky in the first place (he displays "a fist of a size that was never seen among the living" and "a pair of huge moustachios"). Even the most traditional opposition is blurred: the cops and robbers, the good guys and the bad guys. We recall that the story began with a police commissioner, and that both the policemen and the thieves are characterized by the same anatomical parts. The first policeman that Akaky bumps into is defined by his "calloused fist", well-used and expansive receptacle for snuff. And the "guardsmen", who were the only known witnesses to Petrovich' s wife's facial appearance, have "twitching" moustaches, all of which correspond to Akaky' s marauders with their own moustaches and "a fist the size of a Civil Servant's head". Can we in any way not be dizzy at this point? Is it not clear that this conglomeration of words will not allow themselves to be glossed over and quickly reshelved? Ultimately a "message" must be discerned through the sentiments of the reader himself, priority must be imposed. Gogol's comedy seems to have an uncanny effect upon its reader: if pondered too long it unfolds, revealing a limitless sadness which cannot be defined by any text. The way in which this occurs structurally is by a dovetailing of humor and horror. The most striking instance of this is the effect of Akaky's voice on the departmental rookie who falters: ... abruptly at Akaky's mild expostulation, as though stabbed through the heart; and since then everything seemed to have changed in him and he saw everything in quite a different light. A kind of unseen power made him keep away from his colleagues whom at first he had taken for decent, well- bred men. And for a long time afterwards, in his happiest moments he would see the shortish Civil Servant with the bald patch on his head, uttering those pathetic words, "Leave me alone! Why do you pester me?" And in those pathetic words he seemed to hear others: "I am your brother". The voice of Akaky Akakyevich when he asserts himself "for the first time in his life" at the police department and threatens "that i f he lodged a complaint against them, they would see what would happen" is equally authoritative. Further, the rumor of his vindictive ghost (as if it were a new fashion trend) is enough to cause "alarm and dismay among all law-abiding' citizens of timid dispositions". Viewed from this angle our initial and instinctive sympathy for Akaky's progress Here, unlike the other examples, there is no "vicious circle", and there is no sign that the young man returns to his former state; he is unable to sneak back through 64 65 �the point of departure. Something similar occurs with the Very Important Person when he is remembering his delightful evening at the party: La Reine de Jadis Liz Waldner Feeling very pleased, he recalled without much affort all the pleasant happenings of the evening, all the witty sayings, which had aroused peals of laughter among the small circle of friends, many of which he even now repeated softly to himself, finding them every bit as funny as they were the first time he heard them, and it is therefore little wonder that he chuckled happily most of the time ... All of a sudden the Very Important Person felt that somebody had seized him very firly by the collar. Turning around, he saw a small-sized man in an old, threadbare Civil Service uniform, and it was not without horror that he recognized Akaky Akakyevich. It is most likely impossible to state succinctly what Gogol wants us to consider when he propels us into this realm, but I leave you with Pascal's thirteenth pensee, which seems to come close. Two faces are alike; neither is funny by itself, but side by side their likeness makes us laugh. I. Here again amongst flowers and candle-not roses, no more the little lantern its breathy fog, its quavering star no night through the casement rolled wide, but a dry room, splintered and bare, higher in air: this is winter. Old brick, this; old wood, old care cups of tea old, too, however made new in hope of the queen's coming. Remembering the advent of various princes of wine in the afternoonses, kisses elaborated, slumbers ennervated, many a dawn met with an own transparency temporary, for the medium of air; hair that flowed while walking, that bobbed that flew, that lay on the pillow so and new new new: nothing to think on simply to do. Feel the night, meet the day go on an own way, back remarking angles of repose along the stem of the carnation spiraling into a receiving known as the heart of the rose, a hope for coronation. Goes, goes the time proposed; my assent was head to toe and then some. But here the chair scrapes the floor and I sit on bones that scrape the chair feeling my knowing Ago and There, ghosted by this or that remembered damp. Fair, fair was eclipse of apperception debonair was skin's near kin. How then with such short hair have I come to be here in the presence of dead wood and the province of books? It was memory brought the one and stole the other flower. My like power, until my book is opened anew shrinks to two breadths and inkily goes as prose across some page. Is it reading or writing the queen must do? The candle climbs the carnation across or through the angle of wall and roof. I sit and drink and stick tea twigs into its steepley flame and look at the shadow not mine any more, nor mine were I in disbelief to look to lovemakings not mine anymore to deliver me from Memory who will deliver me my name--mine whose hand was raised against every man's who reaches now to those who felt its blow before I knew Ago. 66 67 �II. IV. My hand itches where the scab is coming off pink skin and I am filling the room with heat and drinking, thin the first uncalculated drinks in years since when in my other life where it was warm, I'd swallow afternoons entire to evade their evenings; even so such quickenings are only signs by which I know I am into Like or a I am that I am dead. For instance, when I read that the queen that Elizabeth of Romania called Carmen Sylva (given a Celtic brooch and a Balmoral shawl by Queen Victoria) waved a napkin to a grazing cow she'd taken for a loyal subject , then I knew . Quixote, aha, oho I said; the life is mor e tban windmills . I know when one lives and when one's dead (as Lear also de la Mancha , s aid) . For me no feather sirrah, nor mirror . Cordelia lives and I am dead; these are clear . III. It's not the food that I want--it never was; but the jars of jelly marked a place and held it unti l another day I could in atonement come bellying up like a fish to the surface to t he grinding place where the days and I met like a face with a mirror, gnashed together our teeth held one another to the promise: asked for bread, ate want made flesh. It's not the moon which isn't risen yet or is set, nor her Pleiades nor the loved men named Baptiste or Ben neither the life nor the death of the motorcycle boy nor the women peculiar with liquids and bridge-the myriad longed for, imagined one by one now arriving like leaves on the top of a pond that cancel the sky with their gold; growing in, growing in, growing in the life my mother bled. a window framing a very particular air shape, a figure, heading through an air come to stand inside her knowing. A luxury here of knowings how: of how one loves, of how they need of how one needs, of how they love how one is no more taken care of-here, just here, I stand congruent with her. She bled a prescient blood. surprised by the silence and numbed by the air in the coolness of distance I hear with her ear; hailing Mary, angels bear Damocles' sword. Denied! I heard. Bleed air, breathe fire spin, spin, spin. Take in the laundry of the earth and hide its poor beneath your skirts. Beware the dark, the car, the bar, the men . Then flee, flee, flee on what ass? to the stable, the gate, the way you came in . See her shadow pour from your feet as you walk see her eyes in the mirror they will bring. Or sing: Stella Maris, amongst women blessed, and what for? She gave no birth unbegun of her blood; unbegun and always her blood was a window giving onto his growing in to be born of her prescient blood . not any silence o f Cordelia's, Hermione's, Penelope's Philomenas who showed me the surface of faith not the thought of the thinker, a profile in lamplight a Gretel fed on breadcrumbs behind somebody's back but to be in clear wat er safe, unseen suspended and shadowless : not to be denied. Liz Waldner is a St. John's alumna, class of 1985. 68 69 �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. i, 69 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 Fink, Gabriell (Co-Editor) Macfarland, Joseph C. Title A name given to the resource Energeia, Spring 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 Spring 1986. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Energeia Spring 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/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/9a1bd1f4ebcf822d658d63161cff4eff.pdf d8c7b973edd1d4e74dc7355f7ecd3682 PDF Text Text SPRING 1987 l •C SJ ~] St.John's College • C St.John's SJ ~] College THE GREENFIELD LIBRARY THE GREENFIELD LIBRARY Annapolis, Mar yland 21401 Annapolis, Maryland 21401 Non-Profit BULK RA U.S. POSTJ PAH PERMIT NC AN NAPOLI 1 1 I I{, 1 7! 1A 1 ) �ENERGEIA: The activity in which anything is fully itself. "APPLE COMPOSITION" COVER-COLOR SLIDE by Jennifer A. Lapham Watercolor Photographed by Greg Ferguson Printed by the St. John's College Press St. John's College Annapolis, Maryland 11 ... voG tvtpytm ~roil . .. (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. 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, 61 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 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. 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 [Winter] 1987 Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Cooper, Laurie (co-editor) Macfarland, Joseph C. Energeia Student publication https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/0d42625fcd83c70110a9c55c16cb566e.pdf 7ab04196e3ede8489a4d025939cc32cb PDF Text Text SPRING 1987 ~ ar: ~ z iiii z <I: . ~ lll:: u ..... :z: ..... :z: .... I �ENERGEIA: The activity in which anything is fully itself. Cover: ARES: "The Tremble and Scream of a Body's Undertow" by Lance Connin Pastel on Watercolor Paper Photographed by Greg Ferguson il ... vou c:vtpyc:ta ~roil ... (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/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. 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, 84 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) Datcher, Rhonda (Co-Editor) Title A name given to the resource Energeia, Fall 1987 Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1987 Description An account of the resource Issue of the Energeia, published in Fall 1987. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Energeia Fall 1987 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/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/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/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 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/924796add137ab5c36edcd43f8d1366e.pdf e37b4b15422eb7cf2819d801075b9e76 PDF Text Text �- - --- -·- - ENERGEIA: The activity in which anything is fully itself. ~ ... vou EVEp"fEta ~ro~ . . . (Aristotle's Metaphysics, 1072b) Staff Sara Gama Marie Pelczynski Amy Thurston Senior Editor Douala Dennis Junior Editor Jeff Seidman Faculty Advisor Henry Higuera Special Thanks Tina Davidson Curtis Davis Chris Colby Don Murchak:e Don Smith 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. �Contents Spring 1992 Truth and Teaching Eva T. H. Brann, Dean 1 Ode to an Hour at Summer's End Thomas Madden, '91 4 Knowledge and the Two Faces of God (Prize-Winning Sophomore Essay) David Walter, '91 5 The Divergence of Acute Angles: A Proof in Absolute Geometry Bryan Dorland, '92 10 Front and back cover photographs by Rakesh Brennig Untitled (photograph) Greg Francke, '92 12 Desktop Publishing and Printing by the St. John's College Print Shop Rex to Wretch: Transfonnation and Riddle in Oedipus Tyrranos (Prize-Winning Freshman Essay) Zena Hitz, '94 13 Nick (photograph) Greg Francke, '92 17 The Day of Picking Melissa Bond, '94 18 From Ambiguity to Epiphany: A Qairvoyant Reading of ''The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" (Prize-Winning Senior Essay) Ange E. Mlinko, '91 20 Untitled (photograph) Rakesh Brennig, '93 29 Animals in Motion: the Flattery of Becoming in Plato's Timaeus (Lecture) Peter Kalkavage, tutor 30 Time the Dominant (photograph) John Dunn, '92 39 Origami David Ruy, '91 40 ''The" Exponential Curve Henry Higuera, tutor 41 Balance (photograph) Jeff Seidman, '93 47 Two Humors (Prize-Winning Preceptorial Essay) Ellen M. Myers, GI '90 48 The Wrath of Aeneas (Prize-Winning Preceptorial Essay) Donna Schueler, GI '89 53 Ricardo J. H. Beall, tutor 60 The Other Face of Darkness J. H. Beall, tutor 61 Angel and Quill (photograph) Nathan J. Humphrey, '93 62 �Truth and Teaching Eva T. H. Brann What is truth? said jesting Pilate; and would not stay for an answer. Certainly there be, that delight in giddiness [cogitationum vertigine], and count it a bondage to fix a belief .... The quotation is from the essay "Of Truth" that heads Bacon's Essays, Civil and Moral (1625). Bacon's borrowing is true to its source, the Gospel of John (18 : 38). Jesus has just spoken to Pontius Pilate of the truth; the Roman says: "What is truth?" and goes out to tell the Jews that he can find no blame in Jesus. He does not impugn the truth of Jesus but truth in general; he does not stay for an answer since he had asked no question. And though we may doubt that the Roman governor took delight in cognitive vertigo, we may well believe that he counted it a bondage to fix his belief. But whatever was Pilate's case, Bacon has given two motives, obverses of each other, for setting truth aside: the positive pleasure in a levitating skepticism and the willful resistance to a settling of the mind. He immediately associates these with lying: But it is not only the difficulty and labor which men take in finding out of truth; nor again that when it is found it imposeth upon men's thoughts, that does bring lies in favor; but a natural though corrupt love of the lie itself. Here we hear in Bacon a voice from a golden time when the proper antithesis of "truth" was "lie" - golden, since every genuine lie confirms the actuality of truth. Our condition is more difficult: the foil of truth now is not falsehood, intended or unintended, but honesty. I. Honesty Honesty, I must argue, though it is a civil and moral virtue, can be an intellectual and pedagogical scourge - both honesty and its even more subjectivized mode, sincerity. I say "even more subjectivized" because it seems to me that there is a cognitive spectrum here: truthfulness is the desire to find the truth and to tell what can be told of it; honesty is a scrupulous determination to say all that one knows and no more; and sincerity is attention to the pure-heartedness of one's meaning. Truthfulness is concerned with what is, honesty with unexceptionable speech, and sincerity with purity of intention. Thus truthfulness pertains to the speaker's accord with the object of knowledge, while honesty involves the candor of the person and sincerity the intimate integrity of the self. Now I am saying that the sophisticated attack on truth mounted so successfully in the last hundred-some years is not in the name of truth - its assailants are too acute for such a logical solecism - but under the banner of painful explicitness and agonized resolve. Think of the personal modes of the two founders of our condition, one in the last and one in this century, Nietzsche and Wittgenstein. Why would one cavil at so noble a cognitive stance? Well, just because it is so centered on the self, so unswervingly bent on public self-examination, so unforgivingly fixed on inner unexceptionableness. Because it puts the self before the world, turns all knowledge into epistemology, is always masterful and rarely receptive. Because it eschews the play that permits wild surmises, the analogies that draws truth from images, even the hypotheses that make contemplation possible. But above all, because this noble and even exquisite way, since it requires a peculiar! y fine and high-strung personal nature of a sort not common in academia, is prone to a particularly racy corruption: while the older philosophies of truth would suffer degradation into rigidity, the contemporary debasements have a galvanic vigor. However, these are descriptions and not analyses, so let me start again. II. Truth What is truth? We too cannot stay for a thorough answer, but there is a least time for a distinction. If the word has any meaning it has at least two: there is truth of being and truth in speaking. The tradition used to be preoccupied with the relation of these two: what things must be like so that they can be told and what speech must be like so that the telling might be true. Let me offer here merely the grossest pedagogical conditions for maintaining the tradition of truth-directed inquiry. Iflearners are to conceive an interest in this activity, they must come across at least some objects that are natural and some opinions that are traditional. If truth-seeking is to have an even chance with them, they must have experience of some things that are grown rather than constructed - trees rather than pylons - and of some beliefs that originate in the community rather than with the intellectuals - faiths rather than theories. Again, if teachers are to guide such a search they need the help of some books that take nature and tradition seriously while they make the discovery and telling of truth their aim. I mention these inchoate points only to show how well I know that the pursuit of truth is not without conditions and presupp0sitions - of the strongest sort. 1 �III. Doubt It is these that the party of honesty throws into doubt. What I want to do now is to sketch out four points of attack on these presuppositions (A), to delineate their noble original versions (B), to characterize their debased outcomes (C), and to offer a saving mean, saving that is, for truth (D). A. 1. Quandaries of knowing 2. Consequences of formalism 3. Disposition of mind 4. Reading of texts c. B. => => => => 1. Perspectival viewings 2. Undecidable propositions 3. Vertiginous positions 4. Hermeneutic problems dogmatic relativism willful suspension settled indifferentism arbitrary construal D. 1. Aspectual inquiries 2. Perennial questions 3. Tensed dialectic 4. Direct reading Let me try to clarify these somewhat opaque rubrics. 1. Cognitive quandaries concerning the possibility of reaching the objects of knowledge go back to antiquity. Protagoras gave them their starkest expression, as reported by Plato: He says that the human being is the measure of all things, of those that are, how they are, and of those that are not, how they are not .... [He says that] as each thing seems to me, such it is for me and as it seems to you, such it is for you. [Theaetetus 151] Strong as this relativism is, it is not total, for there is reference to the things - albeit unknowable - that are, and what is relative is only their perceived quality. It is a modern radicalization that phenomenal aspects might be all there are, that no true thing underlies the perspective views from which individuals construe their mundane and moral solids. This perspectivism is deeper and more complex than the notion that the world is appearance; it involves the claim that the appearances themselves, which to ancient relativists have at least the practical inertness of thingbased variability, might from time to time shift radically and out of all recognition as the human viewpoint shifts, making older knowledge obsolete and inaccessible: Since some temporary trust in science is necessary to modem life, the stabilizing of opinion devolves on society, and the doctrine that wins the apptoval of the social group concerned with it is not, indeed, verified but rather justified. The vulgarized version of cognitive perspectivism and social justification is well known to teachers: it is a dogmatic relativism in which the all-too-comfortable doctrine of the impossibility of principled choice becomes the occasion for succumbing to inarticulate social pressures. 2 The saving mean between surrendering to the sophisticated or succumbing to the debased version of cognitive perspectivism seems to me to be an inquiry beginning very literally, namely with an investigation - even calling to aid some projective geometry - of the "perspective" metaphor, to go on to ask what the world must be like so that it may present views, what society is such that it might serve as the guarantor of opinion and how opinion comes about such that a human being should defer to it. In short, teachers might invite students to a serious program of what I would call "aspectual inquiries." It would amount to a critique of the critique of knowledge, and it would at least recall the presuppositions of truth-seeking to the scene of learning. 2. One of the several sophisticated intellectual discoveries of this century that have been victimized by careless extension is the formal undecidability of certain propositions in arithmetic. (The special theory of relativity is another such.) The highly technical context of the astounding fact of such undecidability is set eagerly aside and hasty application is made to the wide realm of human thought: certain questions are in principle unanswerable and hence there is no point in asking them. The questions so classified are of course those taken up over and over in the history of reflection and supposedly always unanswered. Thus the historical experience appears to coincide with the logical theory, and the permanent suspension of truth-judgement, willing and willful, becomes universal doctrine. I would propose the mediating approach of inquiring into the nature of the putatively perennial questions. What are they? What must one know to pronounce such questions unanswerable? Do questions represented as unanswerable incite effort or induce lassitude? Have the questions themselves endured, or have they changed? Does the questioning activity itself evolve or only its object and context? Does the fact that questions have contesting answers mean that they are unanswered? It seems to me once again that such a regimen of questioning questions would at least make room for the hypothesis of truthseeking. 3. It is an uncontestable part of the contemporary frame of mind to enjoy what Bacon calls the "giddiness" of the liberation from the obligations of truth. For serious thinkers there once was the choice intoxication of rope-dancing over the abyss, of assuming difficult vertiginous positions. The original efforts at retaining balance on the rope and integrity on the knife's edge were fierce and compelled admiration. But more relaxed followers found that falling off was no calamity, that the abyss was a soft bed to all positions, that the hard landing was as yet out of sig?t, and that settled attitudes of light-headed indifference were quite comfortable. It seems to me that there is a third position between the strenuous refusal of all truth and the easy unconcern with any deep issue. It is the tensed condition of actual dialectic, liv~g conversation. It means that teachers help students to find the vital element in many contesting opinions including, of course, the denial of the possibility of truth. It means helping learners to bring the positions to life so that they do not confront each other as petrified neutralizing opposites but respond to each other as moments of thought. And again it may be found that such revivified responsiveness has implications not unfriendly to the hypothesis of truth-finding. 4. Almost all thinking past a certain naive stage, certainly all thinking in institutions of learning, takes place with the aid of books. In the last century certain tricky problems with the interpretation of texts began to be formulated. For instance, it became a concern that every text is written into a context and that the reader needs some prior knowledge to construe the text adequately. Moreover, the reader's own presuppositions were shown to shape readings powerfully. Such hermeneutic insights were eventually pushed to extremes. Books were interpreted not in their context but by their context, authors' personal or social histories were used to nullify their intended communication of truth. The difficulties of getting at"the true text were so recklessly and sophisticatedly exaggerated that the flashy art of creative interpretation began to replace the modest effort to read receptively. A hopeful mean between the subtle difficulties of serious hermeneutics and the inesponsible resolutions of deconstruction, is, I think, an ever-present possibility for students in particular: the direct reading. Teachers of present-day students need expect so little common learning and so few deep-rooted opinions that, if only they succeed in focusing interest on the text, they can almost count on a certain immediacy of reading. In fact, making students face books directly, in amazed alienation, as if they were monoliths just now shot up from the earth, is about the only practical beginning I can think of. It also happens to offer the fairest chance for the truth-telling claims that most serious books make. I do not of course mean that the teaching of truth, its knowledge and belief, will become fashionable in academia. That would be worse than the near-universal suspicion of the possibility of truth-telling we live with now. What we may rather be ready for is a revival of the inclination to seek being and of the presuppositions that make "the inquiry of truth, which is the love-making and wooing of it," again a respectable enterprise. But why wait for that? ****** [Y]et truth, which only doth judge itself, teacheth that the inquiry of truth, which is the love-making or wooing of it, the know ledge of truth, which is the presence of it, and the belief of truth, which is the enjoying of it, is the sovereign good of human nature. ["Of Truth"] That the finding, having, and enjoying of truth is the highest good - that is the teaching of truth itself for Bacon, though for recent generations the proposition has become systematically dubious. Yet we may not be in the worst position for a revival of the hypothesis of truth-seeking. There is a zest in destructive doubt for the several generations that are still supported by the learning, the faith and the tradition they are opposing. But when the branch on which the destructionists sit is finally sawn through, then there may well come a moment of grasping for the trunk itself, a wish to find something to hold on to. We may possibly be at such a juncture. 3 �Ode to an Hour at Summer's End Knowledge and the Two Faces of God Thomas Madden St. Thomas, the Church, and Aristotle David Walter Ah, in Shakespeare's garden there was surprise: diamonds scattered among the leaves, and stars perched, pregnant, atop grass-blades. She and I we both could see the rain as a benediction. It was to be our last night, and the rain had come - a mother's hand upon a fevered brow, the breath of a promise. Giddy with the air's approval, we chased after a wrong turn and walked into sudden, cultivated vibrancies of shadow. The shape of a garden stands and grows, and restores wine of memory to a shattered heart. A steeple's cap kept watch in the curtained sky. And we came to a fountain, and accepted the consciousness represented in the winding of a wet branch. I danced over flagstones trying to find expression as this moment, this season, this year all melted - resolved into the seal of forever. Awake to the measure of the dream, her fingertip's gesture across my lips never said goodbye. We never gave a name to our desire. 4 Preface The Church, in the time of St Thomas, was very conservative. Seeking to preserve their authority, church members were very wary of writings, both ancient and modern, which threatened the vitality of its written Creed. Certain writings were altogether condemned as heretical works, while the writings of others were considered dubious and held under close scrutiny. Such were the writings of Aristotle. Aristotle's writings were accessible to intellectuals at that time, because he was considered to be primarily a natural philosopher. Aristotle was concerned with the causes of natural events. He traced events logically to God as a First Cause. Thomas Aquinas found Aristotle's logic very compelling, and very pertinent to his Christianity. Although there were certain subjects on which Aristotle and the Church disagreed (such as whether or not the universe had been created), Thomas thought that he could incorporate the Aristotelian philosophy to suit the demands of the Church dogma. It remains to be seen whether Aristotle himself would have approved of the mysteries of the Church, which are not according to reason, but according to tradition based on revelation. Nevertheless, given what Aristotle left in writing, Thomas enthusiastically set out to found a theology, based on Aristotle's philosophical thought. The question of his success will be considered in part in this paper. ***** For St. Thomas Aquinas.knowledge is concerned with things as they appear to us. The method of science, by which we gain knowledge, begins with the appearance, or the thing as sensed (The Summa Theologica I, 12, A12). The sensible world constitutes our primary "reality." What is "real" to us is the particular object of sense - the entity existing apart from all other entities. The intellect seeks to know the "causes" of a particular thing, by abstracting universals from that thing. Hence, our knowledge of universals, while not given, is inferred from our perception. Consequently, we are born with no prior knowledge or understanding of universals; we gain such knowledge or understanding through a process of inference from repeated individual experiences. Of course, Thomas' view that we come to know about things through first having sensed them is not the only possible one. We know of others, most prominently Plato, who posit a reality apart from sense perception. Thomas, presumably aware of other possible view points, such as that of Plato, chose this characteristically "Aristotelian" epistemology. It seems to be a curious choice, in some respects, because it results in limitations in talking about God. We get knowledge about things from our interaction with them, and the problem lies herein: we have no direct interaction with a transcendental God.We only know Him through His "effects"(!, 1, A8, rep.1). We are separate from Him because of our "mode" of being - separate in action, and separate in speech: "Nothing temporal can be in God, for He is above time"(I,13,A7). On the other hand, the Scriptures, especially the Old Testament, depict a God who has an intimate relationship with creatures. He speaks directly to them. In short, Thomas' choice limits the knowledge we can have of God; and these limitations seem to bar the type of intimate interaction between God and creatures presented to us in the Scriptures. At first glance, Thomas' choice seems to present us with an irreconcilable conflict between the impersonal God of Aristotelian logic, and the very personal God of the Scriptures. The Aristotelian God spends all His eternity thinking about Himself. He does not involve Himself in our ethical struggles. The Scriptural GodisaLaw-giver, andaLaw enforcer. He has an undying devotion to His people. The two concepts appear antithetical. But there is a subtle strategy underlying Thomas' choice. On the one hand, Thomas wants to show how the Christian faith can increase and perfect our scientific knowledge. But also Thomas wants to show us the limits of scientific know ledge, inasmuch as recognizing such limits reinforces our faith. Faith perfects knowledge; knowledge reinforces faith. The Aristotelian epistemology yields concrete limitations, which Thomas can exploit. Working from the Aristotelian assumptions themselves, we can subsume the Aristotelian epistemology into the Christian doctrine. We can make it conform. In natural science, we reason from abstractions of particular events, to conclusions about those particular events, by means of demonstration from first principles inferred from experience. Sciences are differentiated because different classes of knowledge deal with different classes of events. The physicist deals with physical objects; the mathematician deals with mathematical objects; the metaphysician deals with metaphysical objects. These are formal objects, two of which may inhere in the same body, in different respects. Each of the respective classes of objects is abstracted from the real objects of sense. Reason classifies these objects, and investigates them according to the first principles of demonstration. But, what if the object of our knowledge is God? Is God abstracted from objects of sense? It is not possible to classify God as we classify mathematical objects. When we classify a thing, we give it a definition according to its essence, or nature. But we cannot do this with God. We do not know His essence. We have no direct experience of God through our senses. However, we are aware of Him indirectly, through His effects. Hence, because of our mode of knowing, which is grounded in the senses, we (natural scientists) can only see Him as if through a mirror; as in the saying from I Car.xiii: "We see now through a glass in a dark manner," a favorite quote of Thomas'. Nevertheless, as natural scientists, drawing our principles from natural reason, we are able to know some things about God. 5 �For instance, that He exists can be demonstrated in His absence, from His natural effects. Now one of His effects is motion. So, if we are able to ascertain the essence, or nature (formal quality) of the event of motion, and then to apply to it our first principles of reason (cause and effect, non-contradiction, impossibility of infinite regress), and arrive at a conclusion, then this constitutes a demonstration. The demonstration will allow us to arrive at a primary source of motion, i.e., the First Mover. And we may ·"understand"(!, 2, A3) this First Mover to be God, in the sense that we identify God as the First Cause of motion. But knowledge of the fact that God exists (as a First Mover, as a Primary Efficient Cause, as necessarily always existent, as Greatest in Being, as Supreme Intelligence) is not enough for the theologian. He is interested in God "not only so far as He can be known through creatures just as philosophers know Him ... but also so far .as He can be known to Himself alone and revealed to others" (I, 1, A6). The theologian is interested in uncovering particular truths concerning the nature of God. But in order to obtain a fair amount of such truths, he needs more than what he can gather from his senses. Since he does not have the capacity to discover knowledge of the supersensible on his own, it must needs be given to him immediately, by God, through revelation. The Scriptures and the Articles of Faith contain principles revealed directly by God. Man is directed to God as to an end that surpasses the grasp of his reason ... But the end must first be known by men who are to direct their intentions and actions to the end. Hence it was necessary for the salvation of man that certain truths should be made known to him by divine revelation.(I, 1, Al) And this gift of revelation christens a new science - the divine science. The Articles of Faith are "given" to the theologian (divine scientist) just as, say, the mathematical objects (points and lines) are given to the geometer; or as the physical objects (stars and planets) are given to the astronomer. And they are as certain to the Christian as any of the things we perceive by means of sense. As a formal body of objects the Articles of Faith have relationship to one another that is rational, as do all the other objects of science. We can infer principles from them, just as the natural scientist infers . principles from his particular class of objects, by virtue of their being formally classified. Just as music accepts on authority the principles taught by the arithmetician, so sacred doctrine accepts the principles revealed by God. (I, 1, A2) So the divine science obtains its principles primarily from a divine source (revelation), and only secondarily from a natural source (reason). This is what separates Thomas' science from the strictly natural theology of others (Aristotle, for example). Our knowledge of God may be confined to what we can know of Him through His effects, but Thomas finds compensation for this: God gives us a special set of effects manifest in the Scriptures, and in the Articles of Faith. They are certain, in that they have been revealed to the Christian by God. This gives the theologian a great advantage over the strictly natural scientists. It allows him to infer certain principles which cannot otherwise be obtained by the scientist (such as that God is both three and one). These principles taken from the body of the divinely revealed texts are the highest principles available to man. They deal with the acts of the Christian in respect to the First Truth, God (II, 1, Al). Theology, which considers such acts which terminate in God, presides over all other sciences, which consider only natural acts. He who considers absolutely the highest cause of the whole universe, namely God, is most of all called wise. (I, l,A6) But what happens when we treat the Articles of Faith as objects of science? As canons of faith, they are primarily to be believed. In what sense do they invite our knowledge of them? To answer this, Aquinas makes the distinction between what we believe, and how we believe it. What we believe is a reality. We imagine the object of our belief to exist. Like every real object we perceive, it exists singularly. Existence is in the individual thing. But we are compelled to represent that belief as a proposition; just as when I say "this giraffe is an animal," as if there were two entities, when, in fact, there exists to my eyes only one. Consider the object of faith from its two perspectives. First,from the perspective of the reality believed in, and then the object of faith is something non-composite, i.e. the very reality about which one has faith. Second, from the perspective of the one believing, and then the object of faith is something composite in the form of a proposition. (II, 1, A2; emphasis added) The thing believed is simple (non-composite). The believer expresses his belief in a composite manner. He divides the thing believed into components of a proposition, as he is accustomed to do with objects. A proposition about a thing distinguishes between the thing and its essence: the predicate signifies a part of the essence of the subject. A proposition is composite. To make things clear to ourselves, we may distinguish between (1) the reality provided by the act of faith: "I believe in God eternal;" and (2) the proposition which signifies the reality: "God is eternal" (c.f. II, 1, A2, ob.2). The only way we get knowledge of a real thing put before us (1) is to predicate essential qualities of that thing (2). This necessary operation is the restriction occasioned by our own mode (modus proprius humani) of knowing (II, 1, A2). Thus, if the object of faith is to be considered by theology just as the real thing we sense is to be considered by science, then we need to understand the object of faith as we understand the things we sense - in the form of a predication. As an object of belief, the Article is self-evident. As an object of knowledge, the Article is not self-evident. With respect to the mode of the knower/believer, a principle is only self-evident if it is "seen," i.e. if it is inferred from perception (II, 1, AS). Now, the reality signified by the Articles of Faith is not seen by us only imagined. The principles derived from the Articles (such as, that God exists) are self-evident from the standpoint of that reality. But that is not a reality which we see. Clearly, then, no belief or opinion can have as object things seen, whether by sense or by intellect. (II, 1, A4) We only believe in it. The angels, who see higher things than us, may actually see that which we only take on faith ; c.f. II, 1, AS. Therefore, the divine principles revealed by the Articles of Faith are self-evident only from the perspective of the reality represented in our belief. In turn, any proposition found in the Articles is evident with respect to the divine principles obtained from the Articles. It follows that it (the proposition) is not evident with respect to the natural principles (or "seen" principles) which we obtain through experience. Therefore, in order that the proposition be of knowledge to us, it needs to be made clear, apodictically, in terms of principles which are evident to us through sense ("seen" principles). The task of the theologian, then, is not to demonstrate the Articles of Faith per se, but to make them clear to us in tenns of our natural knowledge of things. He shows that in principle, they do not contradict one another; for the principles revealed by the Articles of Faith will not fail the test oflogic. It is very important to understand that the Articles do not compromise themselves to science; they maintain their divine status. Man ... ought to believe matters of faith, not because of human reasoning, but because of divine authority . (II, 2, AlO) Each Article has a reality all its own, which is manifest in the act of belief. The act of belief is simple (non-composite). The process of knowledge is complex, because the believer is complex. The way the known exists in the knower corresponds to the way the knower knows ... the way of knowing truth proper to the human mind is by an act of combining and separating. For this reason the human mind knows in a composite way things that are themselves simple [i.e. non-composite]; this is quite the opposite of the divine mind, which in a non-composite manner knows things that are themselves composite. (II, 1, A2; emphasis added) Knowing involves "combining and separating." The intellect understands the Articles as (composite) propositions, just as the intellect understands the objects of sense as (composite) propositions. These propositions may be brought forth and verified by demonstration from logical principles. As has been mentioned earlier, concerning all t~ings, it should be understood that when we are talking about the thing as a real and particular being, and again, about that thing in its formal sense, as the object of science, we are not talking about two different things. Rather, we are talking about two different senses of the same thing. The formal thing has no separate existence apart from the particular being. It is abstracted from that being. As rational creatures, we must make predications concerning abstractions of the individual thing. This is in order to have actual knowledge of that thing which is "given" to us either sensibly, or supersensibly. As is clear from its language, the Creed expresses the things of not have a proposition as its term, but a reality, since, just as with scientific knowledge, so also with faith, the only reason for formulating a proposition is that we may have knowledge about the real. (II, 1, A2, r2) As has been stated, knowing is a process of combining and separating. And it is in this necessary operation that theology justifies itself. The Articles of Faith exist simply in the Christian attitude. But in order to bring them down into our domain of knowing, we consider each as it predicates something of God's essence. As the mediator between ourselves and the divine principles, theology secures its role as the highest of sciences. And, more importantly for Thomas, it insures the pre-eminence of revelation. Science does not tread on God's territory. Faith forms the body of Thomas' theology. Faith is a simple act, unquestioned. But this gift of belief makes it possible for the scientist who believes, as one would trust his senses, to know principles about God which the natural scientist could not discover on his own (such as that God is both three and one, c.f.I, 12, 13), and to formulate propositions from these principles concerning the complex points of faith. The topic of knowledge has to be discussed in more detail. It was said that the thing believed is non-composite. But it is expressed in terms of the believer, as a proposition which is composite: "God is eternal." A proposition can be demonstrated, and thereby it is known. Thus, God is believed in some respects, and known in others. In order to see more precisely what, according to Thomas, is our relationship with God, we have to ask, "What does it mean for a thing to become known?" "How do we know it?" We can only know things that are by nature composites of form and matter. When we sense, we sense that particular thing, which exists apart from all others. Now, a particular thing consists of a form which is individuated in matter. Form and matter make up the object that we sense. We take the step towards knowledge of that thing by abstracting from it its form . That is to say, we differentiate between the thing in particular, and its essence, or formal quality. We categorize it. The form makes it intelligible to us. To abstract from a thing is to "inform" ourselves of that thing, quite literally(c.f. I, 12, AIO). We replace its matter existing outside of us with "matter" in our minds. Hence, the thing becomes whole again in the mind - wholly composed of its abstracted form, and the "mental matter" we provide for it. Thus, "Each thing is known in so far as its likeness is in the one who knows" (I, 12, AIO). The thing becomes "reproduced," as it were, conceived of form and matter in the mind. A form on its own is not known or sensed by us. The mind is always housing it in matter of its own. As has been said above, form can never be "stripped" from the object itself. It always exists in conjunction with the thing particular to it. In short, we are able to know something because it (like ourselves) is composite of matter and form. faith as they are the term of the believer's act. Such an act does 6 7 �Our soul, as long as we live in this life, has its being in corporeal matter; hence naturally it knows only what has a form in matter, or what can be known by such a form. (I, 12, Al 1) Things which are not individuated in matter (non-composite things) are not suited to be informed in the mind. We do not have the capability to conceive them in our minds. Form is intelligible only in conjunction with matter. God is pure form, and contains no matter; so He is unsensible and unknowable by us. We depend on the compositness of a thing in order to know it. God is non-composite (I, 3, A2). We depend on differentiation between a thing and its essence. In God there is no such differentiation (I, 3, A3). He is the same as His essence. Hence, we cannot comprehend His pure form: "God cannot be seen in His essence by a mere human being, except he be separated from His mortal life" (I, 12, All). We cannot inform ourselves of Him; so no likeness of Him can exist in our minds. To know God, we would have to be Him. This is obviously impossible, since He is a purely transcendental being. Consequently, we only know of Him through sense experience, with the help of principles given by revelation. What do we know of Him? That He is simple, that He is eternal. The reason can know that a simple form is, even though it cannot attain to understanding what it is. (I, 12, 12, rl) But we can only express these qualities of Him "by way of temporal things, because our intellect has a natural proportion to composite and temporal things" (I, 13, 1, r.3). We know Him as everything natural and sensible is ordered to Him; as far as every natural event we perceive can be traced to Him as a permanent and unchanging Cause. How, then, is it possible to speak of Him as having changing relationships with creatures, or having conversations with them? "Moses asked 'If they should say to me, What is His name? What shall I say to them?' the Lord answered him, 'Thus shalt though say to them, HE WHO IS hath sent me to you"'(I, 13, All, from Exd. iii). How is it possible to say that He was speaking with Moses at one time, and not speaking with him at another, when, according to Thomas "God is above time" (I, 13, A7)? In general, how are we to reconcile the logical God of Aristotle with the God who appears in Scripture, as giving commands, or the God who handed down the Articles of Faith in written words? Can God dictate? We have, broadly speaking, answered this question. There are some things which we cannot, and were not meant to know concerning God and his mysteries. Our mode of knowing prevents us from passing beyond a certain point of comprehension. If we could know these mysteries, then faith would no longer be meritorious (I, 1, A8). The challenge for the theologian is to come up with some logical, or analogical explanation of our particular relationship with God. Thomas wants to "place" himself, and hence his new-found science in a proper relation to God. He has to try to give an account of this relationship with God in tenns that we can understand. 8 In Article seven of Question thirteen of the Summa Theolo gica, Thomas addresses this matter concerning our proper relationship with God. To follow his discussion, we must first make clear what a relationship is. Thomas gets his notions of relationship directly from Aristotle's Metaphysics, Book Delta, section 15. For Aristotle, it seems that a relationship is not something which subsists outside the things related. It exists in each of the terms. This will become clear as we go on. It must be understood for now that if we define a relationship between two things, then we say "x is related to y," and "y is related to x", not simply "x and y are related." We always consider a relationship from the point of view of its distinct components. Thomas proceeds to expound the different possibilities for a relationship based on what Aristotle has set up for him. The singular component of a relationship may have a relation to the other component (assuming still we have only two terms) which is only in thought, or it may be an actual "real" relation which inheres in the thing itself. Hence, there are three types of relationships which are possible, according to Thomas. The first is a strictly mental coupling of two terms, in which each has to one another a relation because of some trick of the intellect: such as identity - mentally reproducing one thing we can say "the same is the same as itself'; or extrapolation - such as the relation of a "thing" to "nothing," which involves mentally conceiving a negative term; or selection - whereby the intellect pictures a set and a subset, a genus and a species, etc. None of these relations are formed in reality, but only in thought. The second type is an actual "real" relation between two terms, because there is something common to both in reality. Quantity is given as an example as that which inheres in each of the objects themselves. The "being bigger than" and the "being smaller than" are "really" related to one another because they share the sensible property of magnitude. So with "being double" and "being half." The "being what is changed" and the "being what changes" are "really" related because they both share in a real causal action. This dichotomy between what is "real" and what is only an idea may seem to be an artificial and confusing distinction to some, but it really conforms to Thomas' notion that primary reality is in the thing sensed. Thinking refers to internal operations. The mind can think up relationships between things which do not inhere in nature and are outside of sense. The third possible relationship is the one Thomas is most interested in. It is the hardest to understand, because it relies on the clear distinction between "real" things and ideas. Thomas also discusses this relationship in his commentaries on the Metaphysics, which is the source of the notion as far as I can tell (c.f. Commentaries on the Metaphysics, V. L.17: c 1001-1032). I will try to point out the main tenets of this crucial relationship as Thomas explains it in Article 7, question 13 of the Summa. A relationship may occur in which one of the components has a real relation to the second; but the second does not have a real relation to the first. This is the case, Thomas says, with the "being knowable" and the "knowing." As we have explained, when something is known, a likeness of it is created in the mind; it itself remains outside the domain of knowing. Hence, the "being knowable" itself has no real relation to the knowing, but from the perspective of the "knowing," there is a real exchange taking place between it (the "knowing") and the "being knowable." The relation qualifies as "real" from the standpoint of the "knowing," because the "being known" is external to it. It is not merely a relation in thought, it is a genuine interaction. Hence, the knowing has a "real" relation to the knowable. To repeat: taking separately our two terms: From the perspective of the "knowing," there is areal relation between itand the "being knowable." From the perspective of the "being knowable," there is no real relation between it (the "being knowable") and the "knowing," but only in thought. So, when we think about something, or when we sense something, the relationship betWeen us and the thing can change. But the thing does not change in itself, as a result of our thinking . it, or sensing it. It only changes from our perspective, with respect to our change. As we move and change, we have a real relation with the external object. As the object neither moves nor changes in reaction to our change, it has no relation with us at all. The pillar, standing still, is at one time "on the right" because of my relation to it. Then I turn around, and it is "on the left." This is due to no change in the pillar. The situation applies analogically to the relationship between God and temporal creatures. God, unchanging, is at one time "speaking with Moses," we say, because Moses is being spoken to; then Moses is not being spoken to - so we say God is not speaking to him. There has been no "real" change in God, as we well know - only in Moses. God's temporal relations to creatures are in him only because of our way of thinking of him, but the opposite relations of creatures to him are realities in the creatures. It is quite admissible to attribute a relation to God because of something that takes place in the creature, for we cannot express the reality in creatures without talking as though there were matching relations also in God, so that God is said to be related to a creature because the creature is related to him, just as, according to Aristotle, the knowable is said to be related to knowledge because knowledge is related to it. (I, 1, 13, r4) knowing Him. Yet from our standpoint, we have a relation to Him sine qua non, as created beings, as recipients of salvation, as lorded beings, as beings who are moved. And from our standpoint, His relation as Creator, Savior, Lord, Mover, is real. It is the relationship of lordship in him that is supplied by our minds, not the fact of His being Lord. (I, 1, 13, r5) Hence, he "really" is the Creator, Savior, Law-giver, and Mover, as we are all ordered in respect to Him; also though, He really is the unmoved transcendent God, who is ordered only in respect to Himself. Out of Thomas' rational account of the relation between creatures and God, God emerges startlingly as both impersonal, and personal, as unmoved, and mover, God of philosophy, and God of the Scriptures. The two-faced God that Thomas set out to reconcile has turned-out to be none other than Aristotle's Unmoved Mover. Thomas' argument in defense of the active God of the Scriptures is drawn directly from Aristotle's formal discussion of relations in book delta of the Metaphysics (ch. 15). This gives it incredible weight. Using the Aristotelian assumptions of how a thing is known, Thomas manages to justify (analogically) his relationship with the Christian God. Of course, due to our knowledgeable limitations, it is impossible for Thomas to provide an explanation in logical terms of how the transcendental God speaks to us - that would imply the contradiction of knowing God's essence. Itis just the nature of God to transcend such logic. This has been Thomas' assumption all along. If God were not what He is (absolutely unknowable), theology could not subsist as Thomas wants it. However, if we accept Thomas' analogical argument, based on Aristotle's naturally-founded assumptions, then we have thoughtfully reconciled the problem of the two notions of God - the one which falls under the Aristotelian epistemology, and the one which falls under the Christian dogma. Which is what we have set out to show. The reasons which are brought forward in support of the authority of faith are not demonstrations which can bring intellectual vision to the human intellect; and so the unseen is not removed. But they remove obstacles to faith, by showing that what faith proposes is not impossible; and hence such reasons do not diminish the merit or the measure of faith. (II, 2, AlO, rep.2) The only real relations which exist in God are those that are predicated of Him eternally, insofar as He exists outside the domain of sense and knowledge. As He is portrayed as having anything to do with creatures in the temporal world, there is no relation in Him to us. We "import" this relation, because it is impossible for us to conceive of having a real relation with something which has no relation to us. He exists independent of us, just as the "being known" exists outside of knowledge. To recount our analogy: from the standpoint of the "knowing," knowledge does not exist apart from the "being known." From the standpoint of the "being known," it (the "being known") does exist apart from knowledge. So, from the standpoint of God, who exists absolutely outside our knowledge, He has absolutely no relation to us, not even in our sensing and 9 �The Divergence of Acute Angles: A Proof in Absolute Geometry Bryan Dorland I suppose we all went through the same test in our first semester at St. John's. "Can you independently prove Euclid's fifth postulate?" asked our devious tutor, all the while knowing full well that the task is impossible from within merely plane geometry. Euclid was not being coy when he "asked" ('Ht't~aeco let it have been asked) for the fifth. He seems wiser, in retrospect, than that legion of geometers which followed him who thought it necessary to prove the fifth. Lobachevski reveals why this is so. The positive form of the postulate is logically simultaneous, not posterior, to plane geometry. Lobachevski's Theorem 22 represents the resolution to the problem of parallelism as a decision the geometer must make. The geometrical road has come to a fork. Either the angle of parallelism 1 is rt/2, or it is less. If we take the former path, we will arrive at the plane geometry of the Elements, and if we choose the latter, we will enter the realm of the imaginary. Euclid has truly "asked" us to journey with him by granting him the positive form of the Fifth Postulate. Similarly, we grant the specific negative form (i.e. the angle of parallelism is less than rt/2) to Lobachevski, and we leave the well traveled path to follow him. We are not forced to make this choice at the outset of the journey. We may choose to linger on that stretch of road which leads up to the fork. Here, every property we discover must prove true later, regardless of where we go, for the discoveries here must not make any assumptions regarding parallelism. This region has a name - it is the realm of absolute geometry. Any geometrical property we discover should fall into one of three categories. It should either be true in plane geometry and false in imaginary, false in plane and true in imaginary, or true in both. A property in either of the first two categories should involve specific assumptions about the angle of parallelism, while one from the third should be free from such strictures. This is to say that a geometrical property true for both systems must properly belong to absolute geometry. Or should it? The problem of the limitless divergence of acute angles presents itself to us as paradigm. In a Euclidean formulation (vid. fig. 1), the problem is sufficiently self-evident as to not require a proposition. If I call BC the distance between lines BA and AC (which form some acute angle at A), it is clear that I may increase this distance beyond any limit. Extend AB to AB', drop the perpendicular to C' on AC extended, and B 'C' will be in the same ratio to BC as AB' is to AB. Because I can construct increasingly larger, yet similar triangles , I may exceed any limit for B'C' by sufficient augmentation of AB'. This demonstration relies on specific properties of triangles whose lineage may be traced to the angle of parallelism. These properties are not present in imaginary geometry, and we know from Lobachevski 's 23rd Theorem that Euclid's similar triangle construction is specific to plane geometry. The "Non-Euclidean Geometry" manual we use in the ~enior year presents a proof for the boundless divergence which is specific to imaginary geometry. We have a problem: the divergence seems to be a property in both systems, while at the same time being specific to both. Is this possible? Are there some properties which are not absolute, but true in both systems? 2 If the unbounded divergence of the sides of an acute angle can be shown without recourse to parallelism, then it is a property of absolute geometry. This is what I shall show. Proposition: The sides of an acute angle diverge without limit. d' >1.D 2 C'E=D B'F= B'E c Fig.1 C' If in the quadrilateral ABCD, the angles at A, B, and Care right, then the side DC must equal or exceed the side AB. 1. Here I use Lobachevski' s formulation. By the angle of parallelism, I mean the angle a formed with a first line when a transverse cuts a second line with aright angle~. i.e.: 2. The system of absolute geometry is posited as comprehending two subsystems - euclidean and non-euclidean. Now if a property can be found which is proper to both subsystems yet not to the system itself, then the existence of more subsystems, for which the property does not hold, is implied. But in his Theorem 19, Lobachevski argues that there are only the two subsystems. Hence the problem. 3. This means properties which can be established without recourse to the angle of parallelism. Examples of such properties are propositons 1 through 28 of the "Elements", and Lobachevski's Theorems 1 through 22. 4. I can say by Euclid I.26 that if D is a boundary, it must be a member of the class of distances which d can never attain. In other words, D cannot be the greatest distance for d, but must always exceed d. Therefore to solve the reductio, I need only show that d can equal D. 5. In a systematic treatment of absolute geometry, the lemma would take the form of a proposition and would appear prior to the acute angle proposition. It is included here as a lemma because it is necessary to the main proof. B' a B G F Fig.3 d A c d" d' C' D J Fig.2 A Lemma5 quadrilateral ABCD, the sum of the angles exceeds 2rt, or four right angles, which is impossible. [This follows from Lobachevski Theorm 19.] Therefore the side CD can not fall short of AB. H E B' B distance which distanced will neither meet nor exceed. 4 Extend AB to B' such that the perpendicular B 'C', or d', is greater than 1/2 D. Extend C'B' to point E so that C'E equals D. Cut off on B 'C' some length B 'F equal to B'E. Erect from point F some line FG perpendicular to EC' at F. FG will fall on AB' at some point other than either of the vertices [Lobachevski Theorem 4]. From point E, erect some line EH equal to FG and perpendicular to EC'. Connect B' to H with a straight line. By construction, lines FB' and FG equal lines B'E and EH respectively. The angles at E and Fare both right. Therefore triangle B 'EH is congruent to triangle B 'FG and angle a equals angle ~- Therefore line AB' lies evenly with line B'H, so AH must be line AB' extended to H [Euclid I .13]. From H, drop some line HJ perpendicular to AC. The angle EID can not exceed the angle at E [Lobachevski Theorem 19], therefore EC' can not exceed HJ [vid. lemma]. Distance HJ is d' '. Thus some d'' has been found which is either equal to or greater than the limit D, which was supposed impossible. Therefore there is no limit to the divergence of the lines which constitute an acute angle. Given line AB meets line AC at some acute angle, it is necessary to prove that the distance between the two lines grows without bounds according to the precepts of absolute geometry. 3 From some point B on AB let fall a perpendicular to AC [Euclid 1.12]. This distance shall be called d. Let there be some other distance D which bounds the divergence, i.e. D is the least If not, let DC be less than AB. Extend CD to CD' such that CD' equals AB. Draw straight lines AC, BD'. CD' was constructed equal to AB, the right angle at B equals the right angle at C and BC is common. Therefore triangle ABC is congruent to triangle D'CB and AC equals BD' [Lobachevski Theorem 10]. Draw the common line AD '. Therefore triangle BAD' is congruent to triangle CD' A [ibid.], and angle BAD' equals angle AD'C. Angle D'AB is greater than rt/2, so AD'C must also be greater. But angle ADC is greater than AD'C [Euclid 1.16], so angle ADC must be much greater than rt/2. Therefore in the 10 11 �Rex to Wretch: Transformation and Riddle in Oedipus Tyrannos Zena Hitz 1H0o<; au0pro1tro Oatµoru. -Heraclitus,frg.1211 Sophocles' Oedipus Tyrannos is a play fundamentally composed of opposites and motions between them. The principal motion, of course, is the transformation of Oedipus from king to wretched old man, but contained within that are many more: sight becomes blindness, ignorance becomes knowledge, hubris becomes humility, master becomes suppliant, foreigner becomes native. The play consists of a series of scenes in which Oedipus is set up against people of varying positions and objectives, and through dialogue the character underlying these transfonnations is gradually and subtly drawn out. The play also involves a series of riddles that are like nested boxes, beginning with the solving of the Sphinx's riddle, ending with the solving of Oedipus' riddle, and leaving us, circularly, with the first one again: the riddle of the nature of man. Is man recmsive; do all of his actions eventually fall back on himself? Is he merely bronze for the sculpting hands of the gods? Is he a victim of a world of blind chance, his will meaningless? This paper will analyze the transformations and reversals within the play to try to get at their meaning in the context of these questions. The most external change that occurs in Oedipus is his loss of sight. He calls out as he strikes out his eyes with Jocasta's brooches: "They [his eyes] will never see the crime I have committed or had done upon me! Dark eyes, now in the days to come look on forbidden faces, do not recognize those who you long for!" (1271)2. He seems to be avoiding the horror of the visual recognition of his crimes (namely, his children) - a futile task, since mental recognition is quite enough to send him raving in disgust. The relation between vision and knowledge is taken to its full metaphorical extent in the dialogue between Teiresias and Oedipus. That scene involves a complex interplay of physical vision, that is, the vision for which one uses one's eyes, and supernatural vision, with which one derives information beyond normal human perception. Teiresias, physically blind, proclaims that he sees the truth, that he knows the answer to the riddle of the ,plague. Oedipus, eyes in full working order, denies that answer, opposing his own riddle-solving powers as demonstrated by his conquest of the Sphinx to those of Teiresias: "I solved the riddle by my wit alone. Mine was no knowledge got from birds" (398). He repeatedly tries to discredit Teiresias' vision, asking first why he could not answer the Sphinx's riddle and, after the prophet leaves, why, if his accusation is correct, he did not speak sooner. Teiresias answers neither of these ques1translated "A man's character is his daemon." Untitled Greg Francke 12 2Unless otherwise marked, all translations are by David Grene, University of Chicago Press, 1954. tions, but merely spouts more riddles: ''This day will show your birth and will destroy you" (438), and "You have your eyes but see not where you are" (413). Although to the reader familiar with the myth the meaning of these riddles is painfully obvious, to Oedipus they are bewildering: "How needlessly your riddles darken everything" (439). This line shows a particularly interesting reversal: Teiresias, who offers the first answer to theriddle of the plague, instead of shedding light on the question so that Oedipus can see for himself what the answer is, rather darkens it, answering riddle with riddle. It may seem as if Oedipus is stupid for not seeing the truth; however, Teiresias never once states that Oedipus either married his mother or killed his father, let alone showing a circumstance in which that could have occurred, but only says that he killed Laius after Oedipus demands that he clarify his first answer. Even then the answer is cryptic: "You are the murderer of the man whose murderer you seek" (363). By the end of the scene, Oedipus is not only clearly blind to his origin, but blind to his blindness as well. Rather than being convinced of his own guilt, he is convinced of the guilt of someone else. This discrepancy between what he should know and what he does not is a principle irony of the play. It is a reversal explicitly connected with sight: at the end of the play, when he sees the truth of where he is, he blinds himself, crying out that he wishes to avoid his crimes but actually confronting and answering his own previous blindness to them. The reversal of sight and knowledge is also demonstrated when Creon presents the riddle of Laius' murder to Oedipus at the beginning of the play. Oedipus responds to the name, although Creon has posed no question, with "I know of him by hearsay. I have not seen him" (105). In his attempts to solve the murder, he first inquires of an oracle, then a seer, then eyewitnesses. All the information he receives, however, is hearsay, sometimes two or three people removed from the actual source. Once again, the proper roles are reversed: Oedipus himself, he who has seen, learns of the event from people who have not seen. Oedipus and those around him, however, have no reason to trust Teiresias' judgement over that of Oedipus. Teiresias is the man who could not solve the riddle of the Sphinx, a blind man who speaks in riddles. Oedipus, on the other hand, is the great riddle-solver with functioning eyes and a keen wit. Because the reader is acquainted with the story, he believes Teiresias and laughs at Oedipus' foolishness. The person in events offstage, however, has neither true prophet nor any other way of discerning what is to come. The second major transformation of Oedipus is that of parentage and place. This issue begins in the title with the word 'tUpmmoc;. The word means "master" or "ruler," but it specifies a ruler without traditional political legitimacy, one who did not receive the crown by parentage, but by some other means. This is clearly true of Oedipus at the beginning of the play. He is king 13 ��by wit and riddle-solving ability; indeed, he is a foreigner. As he learns the truth of his parentage, it becomes clear that he is not only a native of Thebes but a legitimate heir, a Kpetcou (king). However, at the same time that he learns this, he learns that he is a moral atrocity, and thus sentences himself to exile, to be a foreigner without title, and Creon (Kperou) becomes king, due not to direct lineage but as the brother to the queen. Oedipus' sons are not mentioned, indicating that Oedipus' transformation back into foreigner at the end is complete. Just prior to his final realization, though, comes word from Corinth that he will be king there. Oedipus thinks at the time that this is a position acquired by birth; in fact, it is a position acquired by association and perhaps character, similar to his rise to power in Thebes. Oddly enough, it is this second rise to power that is the key to his downfall: the same messenger tells him that Polybus and Merope are not his parents. So what should be a confirmation of heritage, an inheritance of a throne, is in fact a double dethroning. Thus Oedipus lives another contradiction: he is a "tyrant" both at the beginning and the end of the play, although he is also legitimate heir throughout. We see the importance of parentage and lineage to personal identities for Greeks in the Iliad, when each person is considered not only the sum of his achievements, but of the achievements of his forefathers. Indeed, to the heroes of the Iliad, the names of one's forefathers serve as inspiration to overcome fear of death, as reasons for preferential treatment by the gods, and in general, indications of honor and character. Thus far Oedipus has four parents: two biological and two adopted. But by proclaiming himself a "child of fortune (1tUXTJ)" ( 1080), Oedipus offers us another way to understand his parentage. Aristotle describes fortune as an "accidental cause of things done according to choice andfor the sake of something" (Physics 197a), a sort of displacement of final cause. This describes Oedipus' actions and their results: Jocasta gives away the child for the sake of its death; the child lives. Oedipus runs away from Corinth to avoid a prophecy; he runs straight into it. He marries the queen of Thebes for the sake of power and greatness; he instead marries into moral atrocity. In requesting Oedipus' help at the beginning of the play, the priest describes him as having brought fortune with him to Thebes, telling him to "be now no less in fortune" (53) 3. However, this is an unsatisfying answer not only because it is thematically empty, but because it does not 3Along with fortune, the gods are sometimes used to explain the discrepancy between Oedipus' intention and his actual deeds; however, unlike in the plays of Aeschylus and Euripides, the gods never make a physical appearance in the play. They are frequently referred to as those to whom men are suppliant and as revealers of information beyond human knowledge. The gods in this way are extremely important they reveal the limitations of man and his thought and perception. However, it seems that they lack the role of definite agent. They do not chase characters with whips, or set up courts of judgement as in the Oresteia. They do not vow punishment on stage as in the Hippolytus. They are seen solely through the filter of human perception and action. They are always off-stage. 14 account for Oedipus' character as determining the choices he makes, which fortune may displace. He solves the riddle of the Sphinx, as he says, by his "wit alone." Although the priest says he did so by fortune, this seems an implausible way to solve a riddle. Solving a riddle requires thought and perhaps intuition, but fortune seems to be something outside of these, something beyond the power of human choice and skill. The priest also says Oedipus solved theriddle "in virtue of no knowledge we could give you, in virtue of no teaching" (38), which implies that either it came by "some god" or from within Oedipus himself. Sim~larly, he kills a man, out of the same irrational temper we see displayed in his encounters with Teiresias and Creon. He discovers his origin due to his own thirst for knowledge and blindness to the warnings around him. Considering Oedipus' character as a cause also involves understanding him as a parent. This is shown in the fact that he not only destroys his lineage through his father, but that he marries his mother, essentially replacing that lineage with him- , self. He is husband to his mother, brother to his daughters, and therefore father to himself. He is thus the ultimate self-made man, the character without bonds of lineage or history. The chorus expresses this, saying "Cithaeron was mother and nurse to you" (1094). It is as though Oedipus springs fully grown from the earth, like the men sprung from the dragon's teeth sown by Cadmus to found Thebes. However, it is his lineage, indeed the fact that he was generated, that is his destruction. His discovery of his parentage is at the heart of the play. This brings with it the knowledge that the he is the murderer he seeks, that he is the plague on the city. Thus he proclaims at the end," the hand that struck me was none but my own" (1331 ). Even those actions and events attributed to fortune throw Oedipus back on himself. The shepherd sends Oedipus to Corinth to rub away his lineage; he ends up returning to it and tangling himself within it. Oedipus runs away from the prophecy of who he is and what he will do, and heads straight - not to Nicaea or Megara or Athens - but to his home town. He kills a man at a crossroads; it is his father, and thus he replaces his lineage with himself. He marries the queen of Thebes; he does not know that it is his mother, but he yet again throws himself back on himself, like a stone tossed upward, only to return with multiplied velocity. Oedipus' transformation over the course of the play replicates the same pattern of the return to the self. He begins a search for the murderer of Laius as "one who is stranger to the story as stranger to the deed" (220), an outside investigator, aware only of his ignorance. His search for' a solution to the plague progresses into a search for parentage and thus self-knowledge through his dialogues, first with the priest: "why the plague?"; next Creon: "who killed Laius?"; then Teiresias: "what is going on?"; and finally and fatally with the messenger and the shepherd: "who are my parents?" The truth that he discovers is no longer the answer to any one of these questions, but an answer to all of them: the answer to a simple "who am I?" Thus, although he begins the play investigating something seemingly foreign, he ends completely inside himself, all-knowing, all-responsible. "To this guilt I bore witness against myself..." (1384), he proclaims, and therefore testifies against himself, judges himself, and punishes himself. He blinds himself, cutting himself off from outside stimuli, and making himself so gruesome none can look at him. ("I shudder at the sight of you!" [Chorus, 1306]) He is recursive, he is isolated, he is wretched. All tools and events in the play - his blindness, the discrepancy between intention and recursive result, and all transformations, yield Oedipus himself, Oedipus the man, and thus man himself. The riddles thus come full circle: 1) The riddle of the Sphinx (what is man?) 2) The riddle of the plague (what is being done wrong?) 3) The riddle of the murder (who killed Laius?) 4) The riddle of parentage (who is Oedipus?) 5) The riddle of Oedipus (what is man?) Oedipus is then the great riddle-solver both as supplier of answers and as answer himself. Similarly, Oedipus underlies the contradictions and motions between opposites in the play - sight to blindness, ignorance to knowledge, hubris to humility, master to suppliant, foreigner to native. He is both seeing and blind to himself, both ignorant and all-knowing, both close to god and near to beast, both in control and completely powerless, both legitimate heir and tyrant. These extremes cancel to yield simply Oedipus the man. For example, consider the opposites previously discussed of Oedipus' birth and Oedipus' position at the beginning of the play: KPE"QN 'OIAI"TIOYL What, then, is the nature of Oedipus? What is it that remains constant? The most literal answer is his name. oiot7tOU~ is composed of two words: 01.ocro, to swell, and 7tOU~, meaning foot. Forms of oioeco can also be used metaphorically to mean 'of inflated style.' It is also related etymologically to tumors and diseases e.g. ot&i,µa, swelling or tumor. He is the infant left on the hill to die with his feet bound, the disease of the city, and he is also the one who truly "knows" as in "o1Ba ",the perfect of eioeco, to see. The term 'swollen' or 'of inflated style' is a way of speaking of something inflated, something out of shape, and perhaps of a sense of transience, since the swelling will go down. Oedipus' rise to power is such a swelling. Oedipus is he whose feet were bound; the secret of his birth is contained in his name and yet o!oa, he knows and has seen, he is the city's disease and its cure, he is swollen with greatness and yet he is wretched. He in some way contains king and wretch, heir and tyrant, master and suppliant. However, there must still be an underlying material that undergoes these transformations. This material, then, is that which constitutes Oedipus' character and physical form. As man, he is neither of foreign nor noble birth, but he is born. He can see physically but has neither eyes for the future nor eyes to look inside himself. Many raised and conditioned him, but he is ultimately descended from no one except himself. He seeks mastery but much is beyond his control. He seeks knowledge but much eludes his grasp. He does everything in his power to be moral and good: to save the city from the plague, find a murderer, keep himself from killing his father and marrying his mother. The three major character traits that underly these actions are a thirst for knowledge not easily quenched, a desire to do what is good, and a fierce temper. It is his thirst for knowledge that leads him to ask his parents who he is after a drunk calls him a bastard, to ask the oracle when the answer is unsatisfactory, to try to answer the riddle of the Sphinx, to solve the murder of Laius, and to discover his parentage, despite multiple warnings as to its result. It is his desire to do what is good that leads him to leave the city where he was raised, to avoid killing his father and marrying his mother, and it is that desire which motivates him to decipher the cause of Thebes' plague. It is evident from the way the town and priest beg him to solve this problem that he is under no obligation to do so but does it only out of concern for the city. It is his temper which flares when he is pushed out of the road by King Laius, and thus he kills him and his entire company. When Teiresias pushes him out of the riddle-solving him of road, so to speak, his temper flares again and he accuses_ conspiracy. "Perhaps it was a sudden gust of anger that forced the insult from him, and no judgement" (Chorus, 523). These are the very characteristics which define man. His lack of foreknowledge in making his choices reflects that of all men. Although in the play the audience has the blueprint of what will happen, Oedipus does not, and neither do we in everyday life. Indeed, Oedipus' characteristics are similar to the three parts of the soul presented in Plato's Republic: the contemplative and rational part, the part concerned with honor and duty, and that ruled by the passions. Oedipus passes through all stages and extremes in which people find themselves, thus demonstrating that all of those extremes - king, wretch, master, suppliant, etc., flow from man, and are not imposed from the outside. The tragedy of the play, then, is that which all mankind experiences, much more tragic in its universality than it could be specifically: the tragedy of the impossibility of foreknowledge of events, and the tragedy of all knowledge, all mastery, and all greatness being inescapably transient, likely in the space of a day to collapse into its opposite. Wonders are many, and none is more wonderful than man; the power that crosses the white sea, driven by the stormy southwind, making a path under surges that threaten to engulf him; and Earth, the eldest of the gods, the immortal, the unwearied, does he wear, turning the soil with the offspring of horses, as the ploughs go to and fro from year to year. And the light-headed race of birds, and the tribes of savage beasts, and the sea-brood of the suiface, he snares in the meshes of his woven toils, he leads captive, man excellent in wit. And he 15 �masters by his arts the beast whose lair is in the wild, who roams the hills; he tames the horse of the shaggy mane, he puts the yoke upon its neck, he tames the tireless mountain bull. And speech, and wind-swift thought, and all the moods (6P'YtlJ that mould a state, has he taught himself; and how to flee the arrows of the frost, when 'tis hard lodging under the clear sky, and the arrows of the rushing rain; he has resource for all; without resource he meets nothing that must come: only Death can he not flee from; but from sicknesses without cure he has devised escapes. Cunning beyond fancy' s dream is the fertile skill which brings him, now to evil, now to good. When he weaves the laws of the land to that justice which he has sworn by the gods to uphold, he is high in the city: no city has he who.for his rashness, dwells with sin. Never may he share my hearth, never think my thoughts, who does these things! - Chorus, Antigone, 332-372 Slightly modified from the translation of Sir Richard Jebb. Nick Greg Francke 16 17 �The Day of Picking Melissa Bond I was ten years old the day we picked the com. My brother and I had been waiting for it all summer. Going out each afternoon, behind the rusted chicken house and up the small muddy path to our beloved garden, we would wonder if it was time. I could never tell if the corn was tall enough. Dad always said it had to be just a sprinkle above my head, whatever that meant. I would ask Kenyon if it was a sprinkle yet, but he would just squinch his face, raise his eyebrows for a minute and then return to catching the Japanese beetles that he always fed to the fish. It was a Sunday in late July when the day of picking came. Kenyon and I were pretending we were dead when Dad came in to get us out of bed. "Ready-Up!", he shouted dancing around the room. He was humming to himself and had a half-lit, fivepenny cigar sticking out of his mouth. "Hmmmm-uhhhhhmmm-hmmm." His hands glided through the air, tracing wind currents back and forth, back and forth. "Hmmm-uhhh-hmmmhmmm." Kenyon and I began to giggle. Dad leapt over the small footstool I used to reach the bookcase, and farted exquisitely upon landing. "My dearest, loveliest children," he began, ''Today is a day of infinite grandeur. The air is stilled to perfection, the sun has warmed the back of the earth and all is toasty and content." I looked at Kenyon who was smiling and blinking his eyes at the flurry of our father's arms. Kenyon's head inclined slightly toward me as he rolled his eyes. Dad was given to making speeches. " ... the grasshoppers make lazy love sounds, the honey is sweet and the magnolia's smile. My dear, beloved children, today the corn is sprinkle high. Today is the day of picking." Kenyon and I jumped up on our beds and began running in place. "Wooo-woooo-woooo," Kenyon yelled. "Wooo-wooowooo." With a great exhalation, our father stopped us. "First," he said with all seriousness, "breakfast." Kenyon and I yelped. Dad clomped off toward the kitchen, cigar clenched firmly between his lips. The day of picking had begun. Breakfast consisted of sourcream poundcake, buckwheat pancakes with real maple syrup, fresh strawberries from the garden, and big glasses of Tang. Dad was waiting at the table when Kenyon and I began to heap food on our plates. As I reached for the strawberries, dad grabbed my wrist. "Homage to all grasshoppers, the sky and every silk thread we find." he said gently into my eyes. "Understand?" I nodded my assent. He let go of my hand slowly, becoming distracted by the maple syrup. Kenyon's amber eyes looked into mine. "Pass the strawberries," he mouthed. The following six hours Dad, Kenyon, and I spent Hauling manure water. Kenyon and I were given three foot yellow plastic shields to drape over our bodies for protection as we hauled five gallon pails of water and horse shit from Clay Odom's house to the garden. "We must replenish before we consumeth," said Dad, slopping a big turd around his zucchini plant. "We must replenish before we consumeth," Kenyon and I 18 echoed, trying to splash each other. Each haul took several hours as Clay Odom lived a little over three miles away. The three of us walked to Clay's house swinging our buckets. Kenyon and I then waited for Dad to finish the cigars he smoked with Clay on all days of picking. They shared two cigars, passing them back and forth and commenting on the quality of corn that season. "Got Silver Queen this year." Dad said scratching his ear. "Swee test damn com you ever put in your mouth." "Yup," Clay answered, sucking his grey teeth, "I ain't never got it off the stalk fast enough though. You got to get it off the stalk while it's still green, while it's still alive if you want that sweet honey taste." "Yup," Dad said. He stood up, extinguishing his cigar. "I think it's about that time." Kenyon and I picked up our buckets, waved goodbye to Clay, and followed our father's intent body up the road. After thorough scrubbings, Dad gathered Kenyon and I in the kitchen. It was about four o'clock and the afternoon heat had dissipated into a slow, contented warmth. Dad was pulling all the pots from the cupboards and examining them. He pulled each one out, holding it away from himself for inspection. After inspection he would gingerly place it back in the cupboard, pulling out the next one for examination. He finally decided on an old chili pot Clay had given him at a Bar-B-Q three years before. The pot held five gallons, was made of stainless steel and had huge handles on each side. "Yes. Good. Good." Dad whispered turning it. He filled the pot with water and set it on the stove to boil. Kenyon's foot was wagging back and forth as he stared at the garden. Dad put a stool in front of us and sat down. He ran his hands through his dark hair and then clasped them together, grinning at us. "My most beloved children," he began. "Today is the day of picking, it is a day of honor. We must honor... ". He trailed off, his eyes locating a butterfly outside. The air was quiet, only the sun and our breath beating through the silence. He began again, "Fivecobbseach. Only five. Don'tpick them until I tell you to. Once you have picked them, run as fast as you can to the kitchen. Shuck them and throw them into the water. You want them to be alive when you put them in. They have to have life to get that sweet honey taste. Okay?" "Okay," Kenyon and I whispered, vibrating. The water began to boil. Dad, Kenyon, and I walked to the garden with deliberate slowness. "You don't want to cleave the air too fast on a day like this," Dad said "it makes for bad pickin' ." we arrived at the garden. The stalks were golden with feathery blooms for heads. The sun made slats through the rows, taking its place with all fairness. Nothing pushed too fast here. Kenyon and I began to walk slowly, caressing the dark green and the light. "Homage to all grasshoppers, the sky, and every silk thread." I thought. We took our time, cleaving the air slowly, finding the com we thought would be the biggest and sweetest. "Has everybody found their corn?" Dad yelled from somewhere to my right. "Yes!" I yelled. "Yup!" Kenyon yelled. Okay," Dad said, "on the count of three, I want everyone to pick, shuck, and boil! Ready! One! Two! Three!" Kenyon and I screamed. I rushed to each of my beloved com cobbs and picked them with all the delicacy I could muster before rushing to the next. At the fifth one I ran down to the house, my lungs screaming in my chest more from laughter than from exertion. Dad was shucking like a madman and throwing the naked cobbs to Kenyon who dropped them into the boiling water. I joined the shucking and within minutes all fifteen cobbs were rolling around in sweet, aquatic, Clay Odom's chili pot bliss. Dad smiled and nudged me, "Did you hear them sigh as they went in?" he asked. "I think we got them alive. I believe we are going to have us some Silver Queen com shooting sweet honey straight down our throats." We set the table with three plates and one big bowl of fresh butter. We didn't even use knives, we just jabbed those com cobbs straight in and let the honey mix with the butter until it was just right. It was sweeter than honey when that sigh shot straight down my throat. Dad said, butter glistening on his beard, that the magnolias must be smiling. 19 �From Ambiguity to Epiphany: A Clairvoyant Reading of "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" Ange E. Mlinko Introduction A sower went out to sow. And as he sowed, some seeds fell along the path, and the birds came and devoured them. Other seeds fell on rocky ground, where they had not much soil, and immediately they sprang up, since they had no depth of soil, but when the sun rose they were scorched; and since they had no root they withered away. Other seeds fell upon thorns, and the thorns grew up and choked them. Other seeds fell on good soil and brought forth grain, some a hundredfold, some sixty, some thirty. He who has ears, let him hear. (Mat. 13:3-9) Jes us told this parable by the seaside. He speaks here of his own mission to convert, but the parable might apply to all storytellers, whose words fall likewise on shallow and fertile imaginations. Stories aim to teach, but their subject- the mystery of life - defies simple or literal language. Instead the language of parable or poem circles around its subject, approaching the vortex with circumspection. This is not, however, our usual method of acquiring knowledge about the nature of things. We think of communication and inquiry as arrows with a target: information. The following passage by a seventeenth-century theologian exemplifies this: I can easily believe that there are more invisible than visible beings in the universe. But of their families, degrees, connections, distinctions, and functions, who shall tell us? How do they act? Where are they found? About such matters the human mind has always circled without attaining knowledge. - T. Burnet These exact questions of category belong to the natural philosopher. Yet man's most "natural" approach fails when applied to spiritual inquiry. It is ironic then that this passage begiris the long epigraph of Coleridge's "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner," a parable about a man who goes off in search of the unknown, violates its mystery with his blundering arrow, and undergoes an astonishing penance: initiation into life-indeath, the prophet's condition. To become prophetic one must attain clairvoyance, the ability to apprehend the invisible. For one who wishes to know at all costs no suffering is too great. The Mariner is doomed to wander the land, exiled from spiritual and human society, sowing his tales among other chosen men and thereby sundering those men from human society. Similarly, we the readers of ''The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" must attain some degree of clairvoyance in order to "see" what the poem means, but does not say. Our minds, drawn to its beauty and then to its mystery, circle around its ambiguities until we experience the same epiphanies the Mariner experiences. The epiphanies are three: seeing in the dark, hearing the invisible, 20 and feeling the wind of welcoming, the creative breeze. It is my hope in this essay to chart the progress from the "circling" mind to the "clairvoyant" mind first in the Mariner, then in the poem's reader. And I hope throughout to impart the sense of danger that permeates the quest for knowledge lying beyond the realm of natural philosophy. II - The Circling Mind and the Mortal Eye The Mariner thwarts the Guest's purposeful passage the way the elements thwart the purpose of his ship. His first lines express the initial excitement of the mind venturing forth into regions unknown: The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared, Merrily did we drop Below the kirk, below the hill, Below the light-house top. Below, below, below; the ship sails off with ease, as the word "drop" indicates. Yet the very next stanza counterpoints downward motion with upward motion, straight line with circle: I -The Wedding on the Periphery Outside the frame of the Mariner's story is a second story wherein will lie the real moral. The Mariner must tell his parable to someone, like the sower tossing his seed. He diverts "one of three" from the doors of a wedding feast, and that man, the Wedding-Guest, must hear him. But he must conquer the will of his victim, first with a "glittering eye" and then with bewitching words. The Mariner brings the sea into the Wedding-Guest's ken with his very person: "glittering eye" and "long grey beard" suggest the hypnotic moon, and the stretch of ocean beneath it. And when the Wedding Guest cries, "And thou art long, and lank, and brownj As is the ribbed sea-sand," we think of something washed over and over by a motion as inexorable as the tide. Indeed, the Mariner later reveals: Since then, at an uncertain hour, That agony returns: And till my ghastly tale is told, This heart within me burns. Over and over he experiences that eroding fever. The Mariner's voice and features bring the natural elements into a wedding feast. Marriage is the cornerstone ritual of society, which is itself man's greatest bulwark against the elements. And as the Wedding-Guest puts it: The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide, And I am next of kin. This next-of-kin enjoys the protection societies and marriages give to individuals. With protection comes cheerful ignorance. The Mariner, by not allowing the Wedding-Guest passage across the threshold, breaks the spell that sheltered ignorance holds over his heart. The Wedding-Guest "beat his breast" at the sound of music and laughter coming through the doors. He and the Mariner must remain outside the human domain, as must the knowledge they come to share. mind's eye confuses its nature; he circles, like the mind in the epigraph looking for "families, degrees, connections, distinctions, and functions." As the Mariner builds his stanzas toward the revelation that he killed the bird, the pace heightens. But at the crucial moment when he might have given away his motive, the Wedding-Guest preempts two and a half lines to cry, God save thee, ancient Mariner! From the fiends, that plague thee thus! Why look' st thou so? Whatever the Mariner might have said is lost in the drama of cry crashing on cry: "With my crossbow/ I shot the Albatross!" What caused the Wedding-Guest to cry out just then? The stanza prior to it goes: The Sun came up upon the left, Out of the sea came he; And he shone bright, and on the right Went down into the sea. Instead of saying "we headed south," the Mariner incorporates the rolling motion of the orbit in his words. "We headed south" conveys purposeful ease, which Nature will subvert. So as soon as the ship goes beyond "the line," or equator, it can no longer navigate itself. A storm-blast causes it to lose its bearings. This storm, "tyrannous and strong," is likened to the ship's "foe." And in the absence of men and ·beasts, the very landscape takes on a malevolence; the ice "cracked and growled, and roared and howled." The ship finds itself in the land of mist and snow where eye and mind flounder in confusion. The simple compass needle, which so scientifically points north, spins. The Mariner cannot see shapes for the mist; this is a physical indicator of a mental condition. Most importantly, he does not know he has drifted into the territory of the Polar Spirit. Coleridge wrote in the marginal gloss that it is "one of the invisible inhabitants of this planet, neither departed souls nor angels .... They are very numerous, and there is no climate or element without one or more." This might remind us of the world of the Odyssey, where one must be on guard against the capricious wrath of the many immortals and semi-mortals who inhabit the seas and islands. But the characters in the Odyssey know quite well that such beings exist; the Mariner does not, and so incurs their wrath by killing their messenger, the Albatross. The Mariner's tale is told in retrospect. Hence when he tells us it came like "a Christian soul" we think of the bird as a good omen. But the Mariner amid the mist and snow cannot tell if an omen is good or bad. He tells us "the ice was here, the ice was there, the ice was all around" - and we picture him spinning dizzily about, overwhelmed on all sides. Whence comes the Albatross: "Through the fog it came," "It ate the food it ne'er had eat," "round and round it flew." And round and round the Mariner's mind goes, first describing it as spirit, then as bird. His In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, It perched for vespers nine; Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, Glimmered the white moon-shine. The obscured moon-eye, the magical nine nights, the mist, the shroud - all theses serve to fill us with vague dread. Is it bird or ghost? If the bird is a ghost, an arrow won't draw blood. So to answer the question, "What manner of beast are you?" the Mariner draws his bow. When the senses fail to inform us, we proceed to experiment; that is the way of the human mind. The shot arrow attempts empirically to penetrate the mysteries to which reason cannot gain admittance. Afterward, the crew cannot decide whether the bird is innocent or the Mariner heroic: For all averred, I had killed the bird That made the breeze to blow. Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay, That made the breeze to blow! But: Then all averred, I had killed the bird That brought the fog and mist. 'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay, That bring the fog and mist. Minds still circle around the issue of the Albatross' goodness or evil. The Polar Spirit, who "loved the bird," enters the dreams of the sailors: And some in dreams assured were Of the Spirit that plagued us so. 21 �Because the soul's eye sees what the mortal eye can't, the Polar Spirit appears to sleeping men. The dreaming eye tells the truth. By day, the Mariner once more mistakes the nature of an apparition on the waters: At first it seemed a little speck And then it seemed a mist; It moved and moved ... A speck, a mist. a shape, I wist! And still it neared and neared: As if it dodged a water-sprite. It plunged and tacked and veered. Frenzy rises in the Mariner; he desires to name what he sees, but his eye renders nothing clearly. Once again he draws blood in his mental tonnent; he savagely sucks the blood of his arm to cry "A sail! a sail!" - apparently to engage the eyes of the other crew members. He wants confinnation: Do you see what I see? Blindly. the crew follow his example, and drink likewise. There• s no indication in the poem or gloss that they see the skeleton ship bearing Death and Life-in-Death. ill - Two Epiphanies [Seeing in the Dark] Twice up to this point the Mariner draws blood, twice as a way to answer his uncertainty regarding the nature of what he sees. Twice this act fails. In part III, the poem makes a distinction between the carnal and spiritual eyes, symbolized by the sun and moon. The carnal, or mortal, eye of the Mariner has thus far mistaken a bird for a phantom. and a phantom for a ship. The new world he has trespassed into demands the growth of a new eye - one that, like the moon, sees in the dark. In part II, the ship bursts into the doldrums at the equator; there the "bloody Sun" stands above the mast like a judging eye. But the sun's great telling moment comes when the skeleton ship drives "suddenly/ Betwixt us and the Sun." The Mariner's eye, entrenched in his body, is unable to judge right. The setting sun now symbolizes the judging eye as the imprisoned eye: And straight the Sun was flecked with bars, (Heaven's Mother send us grace!) As if through a dungeon-grate he peered With a broad and burning face. The carnal eye is shown to be imprisoned in flesh. Furthermore, the "bars" that obscure it are the "ribs" of the ship. At the invocation of "Heaven's Mother," that blue-mantled Mary, another apparition answers: the Mother of Flesh. Red-lipped and golden-haired. her skin "white as leprosy," she is the Muse's 22 alter ego: if the Muse gives immortality, she gives mortality. If the Muse inspires with the Breathe of Life, Life-in-Death provides the unregenerate clay. We could explore her extensively, or shudder and pass by, knowing that she is meant to touch an oxygen-less depth in us. The human eye sees by the sun; another eye. akin to the moon, must take over the senses when darkness falls, as it does very suddenly after the spectral ship takes off. First "four times fifty living men" drop dead, each with a curse in his eye meant to repel the Mariner's bodily eye and spur the development of his spiritual eye. He says: An orphan's curse would drag to hell A spirit from on high; But oh! more horrible than that Is the curse in a dead man's eye! By the Moon the Mariner finally attains his first epiphany~ How goes the movement from damnation to grace? He mourns the dead: The many men, so beautiful! And they all dead did lie: And a thousand thousand slimy things Lived on; and so did I. The Mariner can still see the dead men; but he cannot see the "thousand thousand slimy things" that live in the deep. His confusion about the nature of things he can't see begins to resolve when he closes his eyes. First "I looked upon the rotting sea," "I looked upon the rotting deck," "I looked to heaven, and tried to pray." To no avail, until, "I closed my eyes." He does not say when he opens them again. Then like a moon rising in the night, a new eye causes him to see through the darkness. Again he looks at the sky, the deck, the water, and finally sees: Beyond the shadow of the ship, I watched the water-snakes: They moved in tracks of shining white, And when they reared, the elfish light Fell off in hoary flakes. "Slimy things" have become, with epiphany, "water-snakes."No longer does the sea "rot:" Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, They coiled and swam, and every track Was a flash of golden fire. As the Mariner looks for the first time in fearless wonder, the Albatross falls away. He comes to know something without desiring possession of its very nature. What is it that he now knows? He has seen the essence of Creation; he understands a universal order, born in beauty as well as chaos. As a result he realizes the futility of apprehending beings with scientific instruments and faculties. When he looks down at the circling, flashing creatures. he sees through the dark; he succumbs to the circling. the confusion, that prepares the mind for its flash of understanding. [Hearing the Invisible] Beast and man take their places in the cosmos for the Mariner; now he must learn to comprehend the spirits. After seeing into the depths, the Mariner hears the music of the spheres. In part V, the spirit world perfonns an opera. The Moon and stars are still out. but joined by stonn clouds, lightning, and torrential rain. And soon I heard a roaring wind: It did not come anear.... And the coming wind did roar more loud, And the sails did sigh like sedge; - and, in the commotion The dead men gave a groan. Under these supernal auspices, the dead rise, possessed by an angelic troop, to work the ship. Like the Albatross. they give it t~e means to go, and they also steer. The Mariner works alongside them and pulls "at one rope" with a spirit. He becomes one of them even as they become one of him in their borrowed bodies. Their steering represents what happens when spirit joins man to overcome the dead, chaotic matter of Nature: a direction may be taken. This is exactly his second epiphany. For at dawn, when the troop departs, Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths, And from their bodies passed. Around, around, flew each sweet sound. Then darted to the Sun; Slowly the sounds came back again, Now mixed, now one by one. After the opera of chaos, true music plays. The Mariner compares these sounds to three things: angels' song (a bow to the supernatural), songbirds (a bow to Nature), and musical instruments (a bow to man's art). The possible harmony of these three reahns - so unfortunately sundered, only seen together through the power of clairvoyance - transfonns the Mariner again. He hears the Invisible. IV - The Two Epiphanies in the Ideal Reader . :r?e Mariner's epiphanies. seeing in the dark and hearing the mv1s1ble, are repeated elsewhere - in the heart of the reader reading the poem. The reader sets forth on the sea of Coleridge's cosmos, and comes to the last of its 625 lines. She more than likely will begin again; her mind acts out the circling and circling that is confusion. Too much remains unsaid or invisible to her. But as she begins to penetrate, she comes to clairvoyance. We achieve our first level of understanding when we "see in the dark" - order inchoate images in a coherent way. We have been doing that quite a bit up till now. One of the first questions we asked was, "Who is the Mariner?" Putting images together, we created a picture, made him visible to us. Through another image, we answered for ourselves the question of why he killed the Albatross. Seeing in the dark requires, for us, letting images answer to the unsaid; we allowed ourselves to imagine obscurity, ambiguity, mist and moonlight, until we realized that ambiguity compelled the Mariner to test his senses. After we learn to see the meaning in recurring images, we learn to hear meaning in recurring rhythms. The ability to do both results in a kind of clairvoyance. The paradigmatic pattern of the poem is the circle, a continual return to the same places, same images, same rhythms. The archetypal wanderer is not so much the time-traveler, faring ever forward, but the earth traveler, following the circles of latitude and longitude. Thus the hill, lighthouse, and kirk in the beginning of the tale recur at the end. On the outskirts of that tale, we come to a wedding, depart, and return to it. The Mariner must repeat his.story again and again. The ship crosses the line once, twice, thrice. The sun rises, the moon sets, the sun rises. These are motifs, macro-rhythms in conjunction with micro-rhythms like meter and rhyme. We will speak of the latter presently; first we must look at just a few recurring images and see what insights come to clairvoyant eyes. [Seeing in the Dark] Repetitions of images occur in disguise, for instance these images of chaos from parts II, III. and IV respectively: About, about, in reel and rout The death-fires danced at night; The water, like a witch's oils, Burnt green, and blue and white. Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, They coiled and swam. and every track Was a flash of golden fire. I watched the water-snakes: They moved in tracks of shining white, 23 �And when they reared, the elfish light Fell off in hoary flakes . The upper air burst into life! And a hundred fire-flags sheen, To and fro they were hurried about! And to and fro, and in and out, The wan stars danced between. A Witch's oils, water-snakes, and lightning stonns are all described by Coleridge in such a way as to conjure up the same flickering patterns each time. The death-fires and the dancing stars are also imagistic kin. We think of all of them as images of chaos. And yet by being orchestrated, they appear to us as chaos half-ordered. Such is the effect of another recurring image: that of a multitude set against a lone one. The many, or chaos, is constantly contrasted to the one, or unity. "One," aloneness, is always left. In the first two lines of "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner," one meets three; as if by mitosis four divide into two, and by the very end the last two also divorce. In a poem of two's - a groom for a bride, a sun for a moon, an eye for an eye - one is the remainder. We never see the bride and groom together through the doorway. The spirit world never mingles with the human. The sun and moon never appear together. The Mariner can neither hold the Albatross nor the listener. This is a poem of matter dissolving into atoms: Water, water, everywhere, Nor any drop to drink. Four times fifty living men ized number is a recipe for incantation. Numbers like three, seven, and nine occupy the space between unity and chaos where man's mind lives, makes patterns, an out of patterns, magic. This seems to be the message encoded in the following stanza regarding the skeleton ship: The ice was all between. The naked hulk alongside came, And the twain were casting dice; ''The game is done! I've won! I've won!" Quoth she, and whistles thrice. Is it real gambling going on? In the words themselves, numbers riddle: the dice are two (because one is a die), and dice rhymes with thrice. Dice signify chance, but a witch who whistles thrice invokes its opposite, magic. Done rhymes with won, a homonym and double entendre (the Mariner is the crucial one to be won); and both eye and ear follow the progress of twain to one (twain wanes into one). The gambling image- connoting chance - is counterpointed by the play of number. What is said and what is unsaid conflict, with the greater weight of truth resting on the unsaid, the hidden. Hence Coleridge seems to be making a bid for order underlying chaos. While there is an order, one must practice magic to learn it. [Hearing the Invisible] After looking for epiphanies in patterns of image, we look to patterns of rhythm for another kind of epiphany. Coleridge incorporates the music of the sea into his hypnotic poem: V / I.I / V v ,, v ,,. v / / V / The Sun came up upon the left y / The Sun now rose upon tne right VV 1..1 ,/ / V And a good south wind sprung up behind ...the stars rush out, At one stride comes the dark; And the good south wind still blew behind And now 'twas like all instruments, Now like a lonely flute. The orchestration of many-dropping-to-one prepares us for disbelief at the Mariner's ending prayer. God may love "all things both great and small," but even they will drop "one by one" someday. But between unity and chaos is the kind of half-order that orchestrated images represent. A detail like number gains significance: In nature, number is random; in language, it is purposeful. Chosen numbers are reiterated in the poem: "one of three," "three-years child," "I saw a third," "vespers nine," "nine fathoms deep," "seven days," "seven days, seven nights." Symbol- 24 Vl..I / V ""'v The ice was here, the ice was there, The ice was all around. The overcrowding of "ice was" conveys exactly the crowding in of the ship. But in the next example, we hear the isolation of: Alone, alone, all, all alone, Alone on a wide wide sea! Here repetition conveys a great deal of space. The long o's sound like a lone wolf baying. The echo about all-all one-one goes on and on. The rhythm of "the ICE was ... the ICE was ..." sounds like teeth gnashing compared to "a-LONE, a-LONE ... ," which is all vowel. Echo also conveys both weariness and excitement: There passed a weary time. Each throat Was parched, and glazed each eye. A weary time! a weary time! How glazed each weary eye.... The alliteration of passed/parched, the assonance of time/eye, each/weary, and the repeating of glazed and weary all weigh the stanza down. But the following is an exciting stanza because as the Mariner waits with bated breath for the skeleton ship to close the distance between them, so do the lines: /V/ They dropped down one by one. And a thousand thousand slimy things Lived on; and so did I. sometimes it is used to accelerate the heart. Echo, rhyme, and meter provide the tools. Echo, for instance, is used to convey crowded or empty space, weariness or excitement. Here the echoing of "ice was" crowds: .;' i..J / These iambic lines imitate the periodic motion of the sun, gusts of wind, and ocean waves. Hence the bewitching quality of the words that force the Wedding-Guest and us to listen "like a three years' child." Rhythm carries amazing powers of suggestion. The lines quoted above are near-repetitions from parts I and II of the poem. The difference is that between each repetition a crucial act, the Albatross' murder, has occurred. Immediately after the murder we are told "The Sun now rose upon the right" as if the world has taken an 180-degree tum. But in fact; the universe takes no notice. The turnabout of the sun is really the turnabout of the south-bound ship, and the underlying rhythm of the sun, wind, and waves - and of the above lives remains the same. Nature is oblivious to man's drama. Just so, rhythm is oblivious and inexorable. Coleridge can, however, half-order that rhythm. At times it is perfectly regular, giving us a stifled and monotonous feeling; At first it seemed a little speck, And then it seemed a mist; It moved and moved, and took at last A certain shape, I wist. A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist! And still it neared and neared.... and forward bends his head, The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast, And southward aye we fled. Here the bumper-to-bumperrhymes of prow/blow/foe mimic the intense chase. It is a timely variation that segues promptly into our established pattern after a caesura between lines 4 and 5. The internal rhyme in line 5 is typical as well. This is musical virtuosity! The tension between regularity and variation in rhyme as well as meter illustrates the tension between the chaotic "dead" matter of the elements and the "inspired" matter of the mind. One may say, for instance, that this is a poem of ballad stanzas, that each stanza contains alternating tetrameter and trimeter lines, but that is only so when Coleridge wants to convey weariness or calm: /VV "'Vv .I' V "-'.I' V/V .I' We stuck, nor breath, nor motion; VIJ/ V" V / As idle as a painted ship v.l'V.I' V.l'V Upon a painted ocean. ~_,. V""V/V/ I woke, and we were sailing on ""' ~ / / I.I v V/IJ ,,. V As in a gentle weather: With sloping masts and dipping prow, As who pursued with yell and blow Still treads the shadow of his foe, t,J u / ,.. 'Twas night, calm night, the moon was high; v ,, v ,,. I.I ,,,. I.I The dead men stood together. These lines are very regular and iambic, with alternating masculine and feminine end stresses. The fact that feminine, that is, unstressed syllables end each stanza contributes toward a low-key, fading-out feeling. And in the painted ship stanza, where each line is so symmetrical and droning, the long a's and o's, the multiple p's, don't segue into other sound patterns; they, and the stanza, go nowhere. But just eight lines prior to this withering stanza came this blood-rush: V/"' ""'V .;' / / The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, V/1.J/v The entire stanza closes up like a fan, underscored by '·'neared and neared." Rhyme is another "echo" constantly bouncing on the ear. Rather than have meaning in specificity, it has meaning in its generality, a constant ABCB, DEFE that creates expectation in the reader of an endless wave-like motion. Sometimes Coleridge varies with a six-line stanza that rhymes AAABCB or ABCBDB. Take this stanza: / Day after day, day after day, / The furrow followed free; v v .Y VV V "'V v ; ,, v "' We were me first that ever burst / Into that silent sea. The variation here takes the fonn of a regrouping of stresses, all masculine, into what sounds like a longer stanza of shorter lines. The former stanza was one lone iambic stream: "As idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean" seems like a long sentence, but the strong stresses of "The fair breeze blew/ The white foam flew" break the stanza into short, fast-moving phrases. In addition, the alliteration moves us forward: from 25 �breeze, blew, burst (from the air) and foam , flew , free (from the waves) to the deflated sibilants of ~ilent sea. A similar pattern energizes this stanz~: v ,,- _, " V/ / ,- The sun's rim dips, the stars rush out: °""' " / V / At one stride comes tlie dark. V/ /; v / v/ With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea, I./ / V It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek Like a meadow-gale of spring It mingled strangely with my fears, Yet it felt like a welcoming. /V~ Off shot the specter-bark. The first line breaks into two fast-moving lines of three stresses each; the next line pitches three stresses together to counteract the tendency of a four-line stanza to sound symmetrical, and the fourth line metes out four stresses such that the line still strikes the ear as trimeter. All the way the stanza fights regularity and symmetry. It is a stanza of wind-gusts rather than waves; inspired matter, not dead. No wonder we can go from "The fair breeze blew" to "day after day" in a few short lines. As the rhythm is apt, our emotions keep pace. And so we learn to hear. Rhythm buttresses surface meaning and subtly complicates it; it is like another voice muttering behind the stage voice. It is difficult to hear, much less make m~aning o~t of it. But doing so constitutes a second epiphany, without which the overall meaning of a poem is incomplete. V - The Final Epiphany The Mariner endures still more suffering after his epiphanies. The Polar Spirit gives his ship one last kick, the dead men still wear a curse in their eyes, two daemons visit the ship while the Mariner lies paralyzed; they reveal the motive of the Spirit: He loved the bird who loved the man Who shot him with his bow. ~ter the ship reaches the "line" for the third time, it is driven on wmdlessly by angels. The Mariner is in a state of great uncertainty and isolation; meanwhile, "The dead men stood together." All stood together on the deck, For a charnel-dungeon fitter: All fixed on me their stony eyes, That in the Moon did glitter. Here the living dead seem to stand in condemnation of the Mariner; he seems utterly forsaken and alone. But without warning, "soon there breathed a wind on me." Nor sollild nor motion made: Its path was not upon the sea, In ripple or in shade. 26 This_is the Mariner's third and last epiphany: a life-giving breath or wmd that blows on him alone, even as the ship moves without a breeze. The Mariner, who has finally looked and seen, listened and heard, is indeed being welcomed. It is the spirit world welcoming him. Indeed it ought to mingle with his fears; the life of a man divided between the human and supernatural realms is both a blessing and a curse. He is no longer wholly human. Even so the wind is like "a meadow-gale of spring," that time of year V:hen the air warms things to life. Thus the wind is both unsettling and comforting to the Mariner. Yet he is welcomed even as he is bid farewell by the souls who bring his ship into his home port. After the inspiration lifts him "sweetly," he turns to the dead men who filled him with dread and sees with shock: Each corse lay flat , lifeless and flat, And, by the holy rood! A man all light, a seraph-man, On every corse there stood. The spirits have bared themselves one last time for the Mariner to see before they depart. "Each waved his hand" to the Mariner. The inspiration he had enables him to divide spirits from dead matter, the angels from the corpses; he now is himself a hybrid: a human body with a supernatural eye. The Mariner is Wlequivocally exiled from the spirit world. His ship is sunk with all two hundred corpses. No physical evidence remains of his voyage; proof is impossible. No more does the Mariner belong to men, either. Rescued from drowning by three men in a skiff, he promptly drives two of them to the brink of madness. I pass, like night, from land to land; I have strange power of speech; That moment that his face I see, I know the man that must hear me: To him my tale I teach. Only one out of three may receive the terrible truths the ~ner knows: This knowledge of the larger world encompass- mg and governmg man's small and myopic one is taboo; it has the power of ruining man's order. Thus does the Mariner "pass like night:" night is also anarchic and taboo, and we would rather receive its witch's truths in dreams. "Say quick," gasps the Hermit who saves the Mariner, "I bid thee say - what manner of man art thou?" This, the question that silently accompanied the arrow to the Albatross, cannot be answered quickly or forwardly. It is answered with a riddle this poem. Plain language, simple and natural categories, are preposterous things to use to describe the plenitude of the universe. VI - The Reader's Final Epiphany How are we to speak of the third epiphany, L'le experience of a life-giving breeze, as it applies to the reader? This breeze is as individual, and inexplicable, as vocation. It is the breath upon the face of the deep prior to Genesis. It is inspiration. Let us return, briefly, to the gospel of Matthew, chapter 13, which began this essay. When asked by his disciples why parables were his method of teaching, Jesus replied: Because it is given unto you to know the mysteries of the kingdom of heaven, but to them it is not given .... Therefore I speak to them in parables: because they seeing see not; and hearing they hear not, neither do they understand. We can imagine the effect of "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" on the soils of various imaginations, some rocky, some thorny, and some fertile. Those who read hoping for an easy moral constitute shallow soil, where nothing grows. They leave the poem disturbed and dissatisfied with its ambiguities. Others might attain the epiphanies of sight or sound and yet not feel the breeze that bestows fertility or creativity: these are the readers who constitute thorny soil, where new life flourishes briefly, but withers from neglect. But how does one explain the fact that some fertile souls take the Mariner's seed to heart? In other words: Reading ''The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" will leave some of us confused and frustrated; some of us will pore over it till it yields its secrets, and some fewer of us will be compelled to make our way into the spirit world ourselves. We do so by setting sail, by putting ourselves in the hands of a larger power beyond the shores of the known. And there is no question but that we too must shoot the Albatross, succumb to Nature, pass through the initiation of the spirits, and live to tell the story. Our achievement of clairvoyance depends on our willingness to go to any length to penetrate mystery. So Coleridge seems to believe. The Mariner deliberately sails off into the unknown. Having gone beyond "the line" and to a realm bordering on the spirit world, he cannot make out the nature of things with his mortal eye. When the Albatross arrives to guide him, he cannot put his faith in it, and shoots it to answer his own inquiry into its soul. This violation incurs the wrath and reward of the spirits: on the one hand the Polar Spirit pursues him in vengeance; on the other hand Life-in-Death rewards his pursuit of knowledge with a knowledge of the order and plentitude of the cosmos. Thus he becomes a clairvoyant, cursed and blessed. Myopic man, the natural philosopher, shuns prophets such as the Mariner, perhaps because prophecy could drive him mad, or perhaps because there is no way to make a man see. Yet I do not doubt that sometimes it is well for the soul to contemplate as in a picture the image of a larger and better world, ~est the mind, habituated to the small concerns of daily life, limit itself too much and sink entirely into trivial thinking. But meanwhile we must be on watch for the truth, avoiding extremes, so that we may distinguish certain from uncertain, day from night. By the poem's end, Coleridge has made a mockery of his chosen epigraph. Here, the supernatural is presented as a tonic for the natural philosopher who has overdosed on prosaism: The academic mind is told to read a few poems once in a while. The warning against extremes seems especially fllilny to the readers of Coleridge, who said, "Grant me a nature having two contrary forces," and "Extremes meet." VII - The Wedding on the Periphery, Part Two What loud uproar bursts from that door! The wedding-guests are there: But in the garden-bower the bride And bride-maids singing are: And hark the little vesper-bell, Which biddeth me to prayer! Looking through the doorframe, we glimpse a singing bride enveloped in a protective bower. How frail that bower seems after such a tale! How vulnerable the bride, how deceptive the prettiness of gardens and the strength of human covenants like marriage! The daemonism of the cosmos lurks palpably near. At the moment that a bell rings, the Mariner utters a prayer: 0 Wedding-Guest! This soul hath been Alone on a wide wide sea: So lonely ' twas, that God himself Scarce seemed there to be. 0 sweeter than the marriage-feast, 'Tis sweeter far to me, To walk together to the kirk With a goodly company! To walk together to the kirk, And all together pray, While each to his great Father bends, Old men, and babes, and loving friends And youths and maidens gay! 27 �Farewell! farewell! But this I tell To thee, thou Wedding-Guest! He prayeth well, who loveth well Both bird and man and beast. He prayeth best, who loveth best All things both great and small; For the dear God who loveth us, He made and loveth all. This prayer, so seemingly sentimental that even Coleridge regretted ending the poem with it, is in fact not sentimental: it is a gesture of propitiation, an ancient display of piety that runs the gamut from human sacrifice to crossing oneself in a thunderstorm. The impulse to walk with a goodly company is that ancient impulse to ward off evil with sheer number. "Farewell," he tells his listener, but is it like the farewell of the spirits on the ship - that is, just another covert welcoming to the fold of the blessed and the damned? And why does he repeat "thee, thou Wedding-Guest!" as though he were mocking the fact that his listener will not cross that threshold, will not join the company, is no longer the Bridegroom's kinsman but the Mariner's? Why tell him to love, and to pray? This moral lacks power. We have seen what the real cosmos is like, and "God himself/ Scarce seemed there to be." The Mariner has come from the land of Cain to turn this wedding's wine to vinegar. It is fitting that a tale about the world outside the world is told through a frame within a frame. Herein lies the real moral: the Wedding-Guest never goes through those doors; he is sundered from his kinsmen. He rises the next morning "a sadder and a wiser man" and we feel almost as though another story is beginning. But it would only turn out to be the same story in the end. Untitled Rakesh Brennig 28 29 �Animals in Motion: the Flattery of Becoming in Plato's Timaeus Peter Kalkavage ...it has appeared to me more fitting to go directly to the effectual truth of the thing than to the imagination of it. And many have imagined republics and principalities that have never been seen or known to exist in truth ... Machiavelli, The Prince XV Towards the beginning of the Timaeus, Socrates articulates a most unusual desire. He tells Timaeus, Critias, and Hermocrates that he wants to see the just city go off to war. Socrates describes his feeling - his mx0o~. as he calls it - through an image. Here is what he says: It's as if someone who gazed upon beautiful animals somewhere, either fashioned by the art of painting or truly living but at rest, ~ived at the desire to gaze upon them moving and struggling m some contest that seemed suited to their bodies. (19b4-cl) Socrates' desire gives rise to a barrage of questions. Why does he want such a vision? What is there about it that would gratify him? Is an animal more beautiful- or more of an animalwhen moving than at rest? And where is this someone to whom Socrates compares himself? Is he in the wild looking at real animals or only at the movies looking at their images? That is, is he in the sunlight or in the cave? Apparently, it makes no difference. It is the motion that counts, the motion as such that is the object of desire. Socrates wants to gaze upon, to contemplate, beautiful animals in motion. He is resting from his customary passion for inquiry. With the desire for such contemplation, the Timaeus moves us from the serene realm of being to the troubled and turbulent world of becoming. It moves us away from the speeches of the dialectician and towards those of the historian, statesman, poet, and physicist. The man who gazes upon beautiful animals is the central image of the Timaeus. If only we could understand it, we would then understand the entire dialogue. This essay is an attempt to see how the famous likely story of Timaeus responds to Socrates' curious desire. The Timaeus presents itself as a sequel to the Republic. And yet it is far from clear why a sequel is at all necessary, still less clear why the sequel should have a physics as its centerpiece and jewel. What is abundantly clear is that the Timaeus is above all a political dialogue. Whereas the Republic moved from the practical-political question of justice to the transpolitical nature of philosophy, the Timaeus returns us, with a vengeance, to the passionate concern for the political as such. We see this in a number of ways: in the opening "summary" of the Republic, which concentrates on the political nature of that dialogue to the exclusion of the higher life of philosophic virtue, in Socrates' 30 desire to see the best city brought to life in the arena of mortality and war, and in the eminently political nature of Socrates' three hosts. Of these three, it is perhaps He.. nocrates, the least talkative of the group, who best exemplifies what the Timaeus is really about - the transition from mere speech to living deed. Hermocrates is one of the most illustrious heroes in Thucydides' account of the war between Athens and Sparta, the Syracusan statesman whose rhetoric unifies Sicily and plays a central role in the ultimate defeat of the Athenian forces. In the Platonic drama Hermocrates plays a similar role. His two brief speeches - one in the Timaeus and the other in the Critias - are both intended to beget action, specifically, to goad Critias into telling his story about the once glorious Athenians, to draw Critias out, as it were, into the battlefield of speech. Critias is the focal point of the dialogue. It is he who claims to have just the speech to satisfy Socrates' desire, a story about an Athens grown young and beautiful. Critias makes it very clear that for him the just city in speech was nothing but a fairy tale. He tells Socrates: "the city and citizens that you went through for us yesterday as in a myth, we shall transport back into the truth" (26c7-dl). Critias identifies the truth with what the politically-minded call "the real world," the world of body and motion. In this he agrees with Machiavelli that the truth is to be found not in the imagined republics of the philosophers but in the deeds of history. Critias is the dialogue's radical spokesman for the claims of becoming, for the claim that truth is fact. Through the character of Critias we see how the project underway in the Timaeus, far from attempting to complete the Republic, is in fact an attack upon that dialogue' s praise of philosophy. Nothing is more characteristic of Critias than his lack of imagination. The story of Atlantis is as far-fetched a tale as we are likely to hear, and yet Critias insists that it is "true in every way" (20d8). He refers to it repeatedly as a A.6ruc; rather than a µueo~. In short he confuses history and poetry. The author of this confusion seems to be none other than Solon, the famous poet-lawgiver, who brought the story back from Egypt. No sooner does Solon get his hands on the story in praise of Athens than he proceeds to compose a poem about it, a poem which, if only Solon had completed it, would have made him more famous than Homer (21c4ft)! In contrast with Critias, who scorns all images only to fall victim to their power, Timaeus comes forth as one of the greatest defenders of images and imitation in all the Platonic dialogues. The account he will give Socrates is not "true in every way" but a likely story. Timaeus gives two reasons why physics must take the form of a likely story. The first is that becoming, the object of physics, is inherently unstable. Whereas being is always what it is, becoming is always ceasing to be what it is and coming to be what it is not (27d5-28a4). The second reason is human nature. Here is what Timaeus says: But if we provide likenesses inferior to none, you should be happy with them, remembering that I who speak and you my judges have a human nature, so that for those who are receptive to the likely story, it is fitting to search for nothing more beyond it. (29c3-d3) The like!y story emerges from the context of human imperfection and vulnerability. As Timaeus says later, when he mixes up the natural order of soul and body, "we who have a great share in the chancy and random do so also when we speak" (34c2-4). We recall how the dialogue opens. Socrates' ability to count the human order also allows him to know that something is missing: "One, two, three - but where, dear Timaeus, is the fourth?" Timaeus' answer is the very first likely story he gives. "Must be some infirmity," he conjectures (17a4). The dialogue opens, in other words, in a way that playfully mimics the world as Timaeus sees it - _ athematically ordered but at the same time imperfect. m Socrates' count mirrors the inescapable togetherness of strength and weakness, calculation and the incalculable, in all matters pertaining to the physical world. It is a prophecy of the drama to come. When Socrates asked for a speech about the just city at war, he was not asking to be informed. It was not as though the Republic left something out. What Socrates wanted was to hear his city and citizens praised. He wanted, as he says, an encomium and confessed his inability to supply it (19d2). Now an encomium is just what Critias provides, namely, an elaborate flattery of his own city's glorious ancestors. But Timaeus too fits into the drama of praise. The word Kocrµo~ means not only order but also ornament. It suggests the heightening and embellishment of looks, a beautification and flattery. This is just what Timaeus does with the cosmos - he makes it look beautiful. The cosmos of Timaeus is not just an ordered whole but an animal, and not just an animal but a god. It is, he says, a happy god (34b8-9). Timaeus goes so far in his beautification of the world as to deify it. The whole likely story is a hymn of praise to the god Kosmos, who, as we hear in the dialogue's closing lines, is "the greatest and best and most beautiful and most perfect" of all generated things (92c7-8). Clearly, Timaeus intends not merely to speak about the cosmos but to arouse our love and admiration for it. In the prologue, Critias refers at one point to the Koureotis (21 b2), the festival in which Athenian youths were welcomed into the fold of the city. The youths compete in the recitation of poems, among them the poems of Solon. We must imagine that the impressionable souls of these youths, through the music of Solon's poetry, become knit to the fabric of the city, rooted in the v6µot of their fatherland. Something similar is happening in the likely story. In being receptive to Timaeus' speech, we are assimilating ourselves to the cosmic regime that transcends our more narrowly conceived political communities; we are enacting the proper and respectful relationship between the human soul and the divinely established order. Socrates, it seems, was being prophetic when he called the likely story a voµ0<;, a word that means both "law" and "song" (29d6). He seems to have divined that the music of Timaeus, while extolling an order that goes beyond all cities, would nevertheless have a quasi-political end - the instilling of piety towards our cosmic fatherland. The entire likely story is a grand act of imitation. Timaeus imitates the divine work by which the unmelodious chaos became an artfully arranged whole (30a2-6). In the first part of the story, he imitates the construction of the highest visible things - the cosmic body and soul, the circular motions of the heavens, time, and all the stars and planets. This whole first part is ruled by the supreme goodness of intelligence. Such goodness manifests itself for Timaeus in the objects of mathematics, particularly in the binding power of 'auaA.o)'La or proportion. The mathematical objects have a primarily political function; they are appointed as the guardians of all decency and good character. In their provision of boundaries, they are to the world what laws are to the city. They make the cosmos just. The moral and political goodness of the whole is rooted, mythically, in the moral goodness of Timaeus' demiurge or craftsman. This craftsman, we are told, lacked envy (29el-2). He did not cling to the perfection in himself but wished to pass it on to his offspring. The divine craftsman thus comes to resemble a political founder like Solon or Lycurgus. The world for Timaeus is an altogether noble poem written by a morally wise and generous poet-statesman. And yet, like any human poet-statesman, the divine craftsman must surely be filled with the love of begetting, with the l£pmc; wu ')'EWW which Timaeus describes at the end of the dialogue (91b4). Why else would his passion turn from seeing to making? As the craftsman gazes upon the world's intelligible archetype, he must be longing to see it become a beautiful animal in motion, an animal that will, in being generated, reflect his own good looks. The lack of envy sounds suspiciously like the human desire to beget beautiful images of oneself. Timaeus is out to praise imitation. The method of the astronomers gives him an excellent opportunity to do so. Referring to the astronomer's attempt to plot the heavenly motions, he says: "to speak of these things without looking at their imitations is vain labor" (40d2-3). Timaeus is referring to the astronomer's mathematical hypotheses, to something like Ptolemy's eccentric circle and epicycle. Such hypotheses are not meant to be taken literally, as the actual mechanisms by which the stars accomplish their motions. Ptolemy himself calls them "likenesses manufactured by us" (Almagest XIII.ii). To construct such likely stories about motion is precisely what it means to "save" the appearances. But more is being saved here than just the appearances. The human good for Timaeus is our assimilation to the divine order. It is through astronomy that this assimilation is brought about. In Timaeus' words, "through learning and sharing in calculations that are by nature right, by imitating the absolutely unwavering motions of the gods, we might stabilize the wanderings within ourselves" (47cl-4). By giving the heavens a divine soul, Timaeus gives the world interiority and good judgement. Circular motion becomes an outwardly displayed image of thinking as a turning inward upon oneself. The fact that we sometimes refer to thinking as a reflection, that is, as a bending back, reveals the implicit connection between thoughtfulness and circularity. The circles of Same and Other are the motions of good judgement (37a2-c5). When we look up at the stars at 31 �night, we are gazing not outward but inward; we are looking at the best and most precious part of ourselves. Since we originated in the stars, we are also gazing into our own glorious past. What Critias is doing in his praise of the ancient Athenians, Timaeus is doing for everyone in the likely story. Astronomy is the true homecoming of the human soul. It returns us to what Timaeus calls "the look of our first and best condition" (42d2). As long as Timaeus stays with the heavenly things, he is in a realm that is virtually problem-free. To be sure, the heavenly motions are very complicated in how they appear to us. But in themselves they are divine motions, good motions, and are therefore friendly to mathematical inquiry. We must never forget how successful Ptolemy is in accounting for all the motions that can be seen with the naked eye. All this changes once Timaeus descends from the heavens, once he enters the realm of becoming and mortality, the realm of being-at-war. But he must enter this world; he must descend from the heavens or the heavens themselves will be incomplete (4lb7-8). The descent of Timaeus begins with the construction of human nature. The human condition reminds Timaeus that the whole account so far has been one-sided in its devotion to goodness and beauty. There is another principle or beginning, another hpxfi without which the world as a whole could not have been made. This principle is necessity. Timaeus calls it "the look or form of the wandering cause" (48a6-7). Necessity is the unpredictable realm of power, expediency, and war. It is the realm on which Machiavelli so likes to gaze, and indeed Timaeus' wandering cause in part resembles what Machiavelli refers to as "fortune." Timaeus has tried to build the world from the top down. Now he must try to build it from the bottom up. In his new beginning - the most interesting and most problematic moment in the whole likely story - he will give us a more accurate portrait of what it means to imitate. Socrates' desire was for a vision of beautiful animals in motion. He wanted to see what would happen in taking the leap from the serenity of being to the turbulence of becoming. With the excursion into necessity, Timaeus encounters becoming in its strict meaning, becoming as process. Here, more than anywhere else in the dialogue, Socrates is treated to the vision he desired. Now beauty is king of the likely story, not beauty as that which incites erotic love, but beauty in its political aspect, as the fine or noble which restrains the notorious disorder of erotic love. This political good is made to shine forth in the guise of beautiful mathematical structure. For Timaeus, beauty is always connected with stability. To be beautiful is to be solid, that is, dependable. Indeed, in his first founding, Timaeus crafted the world as an image of changeless being, not to ground the world in a truth available to the intellect but to make the world as stable as possible (28a6-b2). Timaeus strongly disagrees with the poets who would have us believe that a rose is all the more beautiful for being mortal. But becoming is pure process, pure flux. How in the world can such a thing be rendered beautiful and stable? It seems to be like trying to grab hold of Proteus, the old man of 32 the sea. Timaeus knows that here he is up against an especially elusive problem of saving the appearances. He calls on the help of Zeus, the Savior (48d4-5). Timaeus uses an image to capture the fleeting look of becoming; the image is that of a new demiurge. Becoming, he says, is like a man who molds all possible shapes out of gold (50a5 ff) . The man does not stop when a figure is completed but continually transforms every figure into every other figure. In the process of a figure's coming to be what it is, the figure is already passing away. What Timaeus is describing here is the transmutation of the four elements of body - earth, air, fire, and water. To give an account of becoming is to say how these four elements are involved in the continual process of turning into one another. The problem of becoming is this: to save the restless look of becoming as process while at the same time saving the distinct and quasi-stable looks of earth, air, fire, and water. The problem is that of knowing how to harmonize motion and form. That the medium of becoming is likened to gold, a beautiful and precious metal, is important. It expresses Timaeus' unremitting passion for adornment. The flattery of becoming is already underway. Timaeus first tackles the problem of the fluid medium. He refers to this medium in a variety of ways. He calls it the receptacle, fntoBoxil, and space, xropa (51a5, 52a8). Its nature consists in its exquisite receptivity to form,.its power to capture the looks of earth, air, fire, and water. It is like the shiny surface of a mirror or better - since Timaeus endows it with motion (53a3-4) - like the surface of a rippling pool. In order to reflect the looks of the elements, the receptacle must itself be pure, void of all form. We might say that the only real looks that the receptacle has are the ones it steals from somewhere else. The receptacle is like any human imitator, any poet or sophist. Again using an art that aims at flattery and beautification, Timaeus compares the receptacle to the neutral base used by the makers of perfumes (50e4-51al). In his first account of beginnings, Timaeus had distinguished two factors involved in imitation-the original form or archetype and the image that was patterned after it. He made no mention of the reflecting medium. In his new beginning, he revises the account of imitation by introducing this third and necessary factor. The whole truth about imitation is that imitation requires three things: the image that comes to be, that from which it is likened, and that in which it comes to be. Once again Timaeus uses an image to clarify his meaning, only this time the image is that of sexual generation rather than craftsmanship: the original e'tooc; is like a father, the receptacle like a mother, and the resulting image like their offspring (50c7-el). With this simile, we are being reminded that sexual generation is, among other things, a form of imitation. We are also being reminded that the word for becoming, ,,Evecm;, is also the word for generation and birth. The receptacle not only provides room for all things; it also gives them their fleeting life. It is the womb in which all mortal things live, move, and have their being. In descending from the stars to becoming, we are passing from one region of life to another, from the intellectual cycles of the heavens to the biological cycles of organisms. We are descending from astronomy to embryology. Timaeus braces us for his account of the elements. He calls it "strange and uncustomary" (48d5-6). At this point Timaeus shifts from the phrase "likely" µue0<; (29d2) to "likely" AO)Ut (48d2). Story has become account. Timaeus is starting to sound like Critias! He tells us that the "account" will be even more likely than what has come before (48d3). What this means, however - as we shall see - is not that the account will be closer to the truth, but that it will be more imitative, more mythical, more removed from the truth. Apparently, Timaeus' speech at this point will be even more like a beautiful animal fashioned by the art of painting, life-like but not truly living. The construction of body is one of the two most impressive architectural feats in the likely story. The other is the composition of the soul out of the musical ratios. Now the soul is an intelligible being, not a body. It makes sense that an intelligible being should have an intelligible structure. What, then, are we doing when we turn our intellectual gaze to body? What does it mean to think body? Is this not a contradiction in terms? In Book IX of the Republic, Socrates commands Glaucon to mold an image of the human soul in speech. Glaucon responds: "since speech is more easily molded than wax and the like, let it be molded" (588dl-2). In his account of body, Timaeus takes full advantage of this demonic power of human speech, this capacity for imitation. He reconstructs body, founds a body in speech, so as to make body thinkable. He treats physical body as though it were a mathematical body in motion. The "as though" is the most important thing here. Timaeus is being playful. He knows full well that sensed bodies cannot be built up literally out of mathematical objects. He warned us beforehand that the account of body would be strange! In mathematicizing body, in making it a fit object for gazing, Timaeus blurs the distinction between two senses of body - body as geometrical solid and body as physical solid. He defines body as that which "has depth" (53c5-6), thus locating the solidity of body in three-dimensionality rather than in impenetrability. Armed with this slippery definition, Timaeus can shuttle back and forth between the properties of geometric body and those of physical body, between the body in speech and the body in deed. Mathematical physics in this way comes to be founded on a pun. It is this pun that allows body to shine in the mind's eye. In Timaeus' earlier account of body, the four elements were beautifully arranged in a double mean proportion: fire: air:: air: water :: water : earth. They did not interact and waged no wars. They held fast to the integrity of their own forms. Most interesting was fire. In the first account of body, fire was not violent at all. It was put in its best and most serene light as the source of the world's visibility, just as earth was defined not in terms of its stubborn resistance to change but as the cause of tangibleness (31b4- 32c4). Air and water came on the scene there only for reasons having to do with orderliness, because the cosmos is solid in shape and because a solid requires the presence of two mean proportionals. Their physical properties were completely suppressed on behalf of their mathematical function. In this first account of body, body is altogether noble; it is the natural friend of intelligence. In the second founding body changes its character. The receptacle is not by nature a friend of intelligence, although it can be persuaded, as Timaeus says, to take on beautiful forms (48a2-5). Apparently, the mother of becoming is susceptible to flattery. This persuasion of necessity seems to be none other than Timaeus' mathematical construction of the four elements. Timaeus' account, like the divine intellect of the story, aims at persuasion. It will attempt to elicit our trust in beautiful images, to win us over to its poetry. The eliciting of our trust begins with the selection of the regular Platonic solids. Four of the solids are assigned to the four elements: the pyramid to fire, the octahedron to air, the icosahedron to water, and the cube to earth (55d6-8). The regular solids are chosen because of their consummate beauty; they are "the most beautiful bodies" (53el). Next to the sphere, these bodies are the most regular of three-dimensional objects, the very picture of lawfulness. In English the adjective "becoming" sums up Timaeus' dual use of the beautiful. When someone says, ''Those earrings are becoming," he means both ''They suit you" and "They flatter you." This is exactly the function of the regular solids in the likely story: they are designed to fit the appearances and also to flatter them, that is, to make them more beautiful than they really are. The regular solids are, as we say, becoming. The fifth regular solid, the dodecahedron, has an extremely suggestive use in the likely story, especially when we recall Socrates' desire for a vision of beautiful animals in motion. The god uses it in making the zodiac or, as Timaeus puts it, "in decorating the whole with paintings of animals" (8ta~roypa<J>rov, 55c4-6). The dodecahedron is given scant attention and would seem to be superfluous: since there are only four elements, we presumably need only four of the five solids. The god takes the fifth solid and- gratuitously, almost whimsically- tosses it in the sky, aligning its twelve pentagonal faces with the twelve "animals" of the zodiac. But this gratuitous use of the dodecahedron really brings out what Timaeus is doing throughout the likely story and especially in his elaborate treatment of necessity - he is attempting to persuade us that the only world worth contemplating is one that goes beyond the merely useful, one that has been beautified by the mathematical arts. Now Timaeus discovered that he needed necessity when the gods were making our eyes (45b2 ft) . Vision exists for the sake of a noble end the contemplation of the heavens (47al ft). But without the mechanism of the eyes - without the necessary powers of earth, air, fire, and water- vision cannot come into being. The noble end requires necessary means. Now why spend so much time beautifying the elements if all that really interests us are their powers and functions? The beautiful comes to light precisely in the gratuitous, that is, in the luxurious, in what goes beyond the useful and necessary. The dodecahedron tells us loud and clear that neither Timaeus nor Timaeus' god would have been at all 33 �happy in the city of sows, the city of "utmost necessity," in the Republic (II.369dl 1, 372d4-5) . Quite apart from how useful the receptacle and its four powers are, the receptacle's plain but supple face is simply begging for something unnecessary that would "complete its look." No wonder Timaeus gets carried away in his extensive treatment of necessity. He has made necessity as such beautiful, necessity apart from the noble ends that necessity was supposed to serve. Earlier we noted that the problem posed by becoming was to save the phenomenon of transmutation while also saving the quasi-stable looks that entered into this process. Timaeus finds his solution in the regular solids. The elements can change into one another because, unlike the atoms of Lucretius, they are not simple uncuttable bodies but have parts. A given arrangement of parts may be said to define a given element. The pyramid is a certain arrangement of triangles that now, in speech, defines the element of fire. Change the arrangement and you change the element. In this mythical mathematics of body, the intelligible . look or effoc; of an element is being located in its geometric shape. The thing's being now lies in its structure. When that structure changes, the being or whatness changes; the element turns into a new element with altogether different properties from what it had before. This structure gives each element the integrity of a highly distinctive look, in fact, a flattering look. At the same time, the structure is mortal, vulnerable, in so far as it can be taken apart, decomposed. The fascinating transmutation of the four elements has been rationalized as a reshuffling and displacement of structural parts. Timaeus' method of construction is highly interesting. It shows us the precise sense in which Timaeus is an imitator and poet. First he constructs the geometrical analogues of the four elements. Only afterwards does he show how the various affections and motions of the elements could be conceived, imagined, as the result of mathematical structure. The same procedure can be found in the Almagest. Ptolemy first constructs his mathematical hypotheses and afterwards fits the appearances into them. It is almost as though the appearances exist so that we might see in them the beautiful painted animal of our hypotheses. Once Timaeus constructs the regular solids, he proceeds to establish a correspondence between the geometrical properties of the one and the physical properties of the other. All proceeds by way of analogy. The whole account lies in this playful construction of a mathematical analogue and the establishment of correspondences between this analogue and the appearances. Here is what happens in the case of fire. The pyramid, Timaeus says, is "the element and seed offire" (56b3-5). He reminds us in passing that fire, although conceived as a mathematical object, is nonetheless part of a living whole. Fire is the Achilles of the elements; it is the swiftest, most penetrating, and most terrible. The reason or cause - Timaeus would have us believe - is found in fire's pyramidal shape: the pyramid has the smallest base, the smallest volume, and the most acute or "sharpest" angles (56e7 ft). The pyramid is fire in speech, the painted image of a beautiful animal in motion. By displacing our passion for the truth with our love 34 of beautiful animals in motion, Timaeus has fashioned an image of becoming on which it would be a pleasure to gaze. At one point Timaeus tells us that w ,enever we look towards space, that is, towards the receptacle, we become dreamy or, as we would say, "spaced out" (52b6 ft) . But as mortals we are constantly looking towards space. Dreaminess is our human condition. We are constantly thinking, quite unreflectively, that bodies are real and ideas are fairy tales, that bodies are "concrete" while ideas are "abstract." We fail to distinguish the dreamy and evanescent nature of body from what Timaeus calls "the truly sleepless nature" (52b7), by which he means the ungenerated and purely intelligible e1ooc;. Bombarded by images, rocked to sleep by the swaying motions of Mother Becoming, we become anaesthetized to the difference between images and originals. Because of this powerful and ceaseless anaesthesia, we do not know what it means to be truly alive. We confuse life with motion and wakefulness with being excited. We come to resemble the man in Socrates' image who does not seem to care whether life is real or imaginary so long as it is motion. The anaesthetic power of space has a special relevance for the likely story itself, which, after all, is constantly directing our intellectual gaze towards space. Does Timaeus want to wake us up, convert us to the "truly sleepless nature?" To answer this question, we note what Timaeus tells us about space. Space, he says, is not apprehended through the senses, nor is it an object of reason. It seems to hover between the senses and reason, to be in a sort of twilight zone. Timaeus says that space is apprehensible "by a kind of bastard reasoning with non-perception" (52b2). It is "barely to be trusted." The word for non-perception here is CxUat09TlcrtCX, the word from which we get our "anaesthesia." By non-perception, Timaeus seems to mean simply the imagination. Through the power of the imagination, we "see" things that are not presented to our senses. The geometric construction of the elements was non-perceptive in the sense that it generated beautiful pictures in the imagination. Indeed, the account of how space came to be mathematically ordered is really the beautification of our own imagination of body. Timaeus begins with the truly sleepless nature - that is, the purely intelligible form - but it is not his intention to lead us back there. That would be at variance with his praise of the god Kosmos. The mathematical disciplines in the Timaeus are not being used, as they are in the Republic, to turn us towards dialectic. They are being used instead in their political capacity - to order the unruly cosmos and the warped imaginings of the human soul. Timaeus is attempting to persuade us of the goodness of mathematical order, but he is also telling us to be happy with this conception of goodness and not to search beyond it. One must not step beyond the laws of one's fatherland. In being receptive to the likely story, we are still asleep, but at least we are having better dreams. As we saw earlier, the likely story of becoming is based on a noble lie. To render body thinkable, Timaeus cooks up beautiful geometrical models and then shuttles back and forth between the two senses of body. He reasons about physical body as though '· it were geometrical and about geometrical body as though it were physical. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that Timaeus manufactures a new theoretical object that illegitimately combines the conflicting natures of the sensed and the intellected, the body in deed and the body in speech. This is a technically refined version of the bastard reasoning that for Timaeus characterizes our relation to the poetic sophistry of space (52b2). Even the noblest mathematical physicist is subject to the conditions of the world on which he gazes. In his noble beginnings, Timaeus is always very careful to draw a sharp distinction between image and original. But as he goes on, as he descends from those beginnings to the various particulars, he seems to become increasingly caught up in the pseudo-explanatory power of his bastard triangles. His disturbing playfulness takes the form of treating these triangles more and more literally, as though they actually were the cause of physical body. As the likely story unravels, the distinction between image and original is more and more blurred, the painted animal more and more confused with the truly living one. Timaeus is the poet lost in his own poem, the sophist persuaded by his own bastard reasoning. The sophistry of Timaeus' account of body is a mirror of the sophistical nature of space itself. Space seduces us into thinking that to be is to be spatial (52b3 -5). Let us see how Plato dramatizes this seductiveness of space in Timaeus' account of dimensionality. In his first founding , Timaeus informed us that the cosmic body was three-dimensional. It befitted the All, 1tPOmlKT\V, to be, as he said, "solid-looking," oi:EpEoEtofl (32bl-2). Had it been fitting for it to be two-dimensional (apparently a real possibility for Timaeus!), the god would have needed only one mean proportional rather than two (32a7-bl). The second founding seeks to remain true to the the solid look of body, to body's appearance of having depth. It constructs geometrical solids. But what is the origin of their depth? When we examine the inception of the solids as Timaeus constructs them, we see that their origin is the plane: "it is a complete necessity that the plane-nature comprehend depth. And the rectilinear plane is put together out of triangles" (53c6-8). Timaeus' solids are built by stitching together their two-dimensional faces. The construction seems harmless enough, yet it is worlds apart from the one we find in Euclid's Elements. Euclid begins with the sphere and proceeds to construct the solids within that sphere. That is to say, Euclid postulates a naturally existing three-dimensional space of which the plane and all plane figures may be said to be abstractions. For Timaeus, on the contrary, the nature of two-dimensionality is prior to, more natural than that of three-dimensionality: the plane, strange to say, is more comprehensive and in that sense more real than the solid. It is very important to remember that in the likely story, body is not "given;" it must be constructed. This means that the third dimension of depth, too, exists by construction, by art rather than by nature. When Timaeus introduced us to the receptacle, he compared it to gold. This flattered becoming in two ways: first by making the kinetic material of becoming sound and look like a precious metal, and secondly by making the receptacle sound and look three-dimensional. Looking three-dimensional and "solid" is, after all, more beautiful than looking two-dimensional and "flat." To stick with Timaeus' gold simile, solid figures are simply richer, worthier, more valuable than flat ones. The demiurge of this simile sounds at first like a sculptor rather than a painter. But what are the shapes that appear in this golden medium? Timaeus' example is -the triangle (50b2). Here he betrays his preoccupation with the plane as opposed to the solid. He as much as tells us that the receptacle is by nature flat, that it is all surface and no depth. Bodily depth, then, is an illusion, the cunning product of artfully arranged perspectives within the plane, and Timaeus' flattery of becoming is the technically beautiful accomodation to that illusion. The regular solids merely seem to give depth to the receptacle. In fact, these solids appear to be no more than a cosmetic re-arrangement of the naturally existing plane. Indeed, as we see from Timaeus' account of the human body, it is the triangle rather than the solid that dominates and grounds all the motions and affections that pertain to body. In the warfare between inner and outer that defines metabolism, it is our triangles that defend the body from invasion and corruption, just as it is the collapse of our triangles' structure that spells our death (8lb5 ft). The triangle is Timaeus' beautiful animal in motion. Contrary to all appearances, the receptacle is not at all a three-dimensional container but a movie screen that captures the beautiful appearance rather than the being of depth. In its natural two-dimensionality, the receptacle sounds very much like the cave wall of Republic VII, the medium in which the cave-dwellers, fascinated and "held" by the spectacle of animals in motion, locate their exciting and solid-looking "real world." The confusion between plane and solid had been prepared, in fact, invited, by Socrates' opening image. The man who gazed on beautiful animals did not care whether these animals were painted or truly living, that is, two-dimensional or three-dimensional. Socrates underlined a distinction only to erase it. Now what does it mean to be happy with the plane, to rest content with the appearance and not the reality of depth? It means to be superficial, to be content with surface and with opinions undeepened by inquiry. In the Timaeus, this contentment with surface appears as the love of praise and the concomitant suspension of dialectic. To praise something or someone is to dwell at the beautiful-seeming surface and, to quote Timaeus, "to search for nothing more beyond it." In the Symposium, the dialogue whose dramatic form most resembles that of the Timaeus, Socrates tries to break through the surface preoccupation with the praise of eproc; in his cross-examination of Agathon. In the Timaeus, he not only does not break through the surface but encourages and even compels his hosts to be superficial, to engage in flattery. When Critias accused Socrates' city of being merely mythical, he was saying in effect that it was two-dimensional and dead, that it lacked the solidity of a really existing bodily city. Ironically, what appears in Critias' own story is the flattest, deadest city of them all - the Egyptian city in which the 35 �depth of philosophical inquiry has been squashed down into the plane of unreflective v6µrn; or custom, and in which a materialist physics replaces the "vertical" inquiry into cause with the mere observation of the whale's customary motions, the whale's surface (22clff). Perhaps it is only fair that those who accuse Socrates of being a two-dimensional animal be challenged to produce what they take to be three-dimensional, solid, and truly alive, that in doing so they be compelled to reveal their own lack of depth. The deepest and in a sense truest part of Timaeus' story is his description of the receptacle apart from its mathematical ordering, the part in which Timaeus is not trying to flatter becoming with the illusion of depth but simply tries to tell us what the receptacle is. As we see, the receptacle is not just the unstable context for the four elements. It is, more importantly, the medium and cause of all mortal life. Our humanness inheres in and grows out of the receptacle. It is thanks to the receptacle that individuals, families, cities and even whole civilizations come to be and pass away. It is here in the play of powers that animals fight and cities make war. In Socrates' opening image, someone gazes upon beautiful animals somewhere, nou (19b6). This somewhere is the receptacle. But where exactly is this "somewhere?" As we have seen, Timaeus' ordering of space is virtually indistinguishable from the ordering of our imagination of space. Within the mythical context of the likely story, the "outer space" of sensed body is effectively replaced by the "inner space" of the imagination. Crudely stated, it is the body in speech that counts - not deeds per se but stories about deeds. Now it is typical of the likely story to recreate the outer as something inner, to cause the surface of body to seem imbued with the depths of soul. According to Timaeus' first founding, the heavenly motions are only apparently outside us, "up there" in the sky. But in the meaning conferred on them by the likely story, they become the inward thinkings of the whole. The entire realm of outer body, the so-called "external world," is actually within the all-embracing contemplation of the soul (36d8-e5). The cosmos in speech is an altogether inward world, the world as contemplated world, or more accurately, as the world reconstituted and flattered by the mathematical arts. The receptacle must be seen in light of the likely story's attempt to transform the outer into the inner. At its very deepest level, the receptacle is the soul in its receptivity to images. In its turbulent and eminently plastic nature we are being invited to contemplate the excitable and highly impressionable part of our own souls. One can even go so far as to see in the four elements a bodily projection of our emotionally charged nature: we are ambitious like fire, faithless like water, as light-minded as air, and as incorrigible as earth. In short, the four elements are bodily µu0ot about the human soul. When Socrates fashioned an image of his desire and affection, he was gazing upon the just city as though it were a body capable of motion and rest. But he was also gazing within himself, contemplating the very part of the soul that desires and is affected by images of body. The "some- 36 where" of Socrates' image is this inner "somewhere," the emotional and unreflective "space" within us that longs to be filled with moving images. The more deeply we examine the likely story, the more we see that its true object is not the cosmos but the human soul in its relation to the cosmos. Timaeus prepared us for this fact when he reminded Socrates that "I who speak and you my judges have a human nature." We recall that human nature was the goal of the likely story as announced by Critias. Timaeus was to generate the cosmos down to human nature, to make man a citizen of becoming so that Critias could then make him a citizen of ancient Athens (27a2-b6). Timaeus celebrates the Koureotis for man's cosmic indoctrination, after which Critias celebrates this same festival for his full-fledged political one. This is the drama of the Timaeus-Critias. In Timaeus' flattery of becoming, human nature is given a decidedly unflattering portrait. The demiurge does not set out to make man. Man is not a natural end but rather a necessary means by which the cosmos attains its perfection (41b7 ff). The god washes his hands of the whole business at this point, goes into retirement, and bequeaths the unenviable task of making man to his dutiful sons (42e5-7). Timaeus defines the invention of man through an oxymoron: the gods are described as O'E~6µeuot µtat VEtv 'tO 0Eiov, "being reverentto pollute the divine" (69d6). The self-contradictory phrase captures man's ambiguous place within the whole, not to mention the ambiguous character of the whole itself. Man is a desecration of the divine who, for that very reason, accords with and even fulfills the divine plan. With the story of human nature, Timaeus reveals his most central paradox: the cosmos cannot be beautified, flattered to the hilt, without a descent from the beautiful to the monstrous and the grotesque. The gods put us together piece by piece, starting with our heads and working their way down to the sexual organs. The whole account is meant to impress us with how much forethought and artistry went into our being. But at the same time, it tends to remind us of Dr. Frankenstein stitching together his new man. Timaeus takes human nature as he understands it and does something extraordinary. He concocts an outrageous pseudo-scientific myth that compels the depth of soul to show its true colors at the surface of the body. He does humorously with the whole body whatErwin Straus does more seriously with our upright posture. In bringing depth up to the surface, Timaeus shows once more his connection with the art of painting: he projects the "deep" or "three-dimensional" soul or principle of life into the two-dimensionality of body's surface. Simply stated, he wants being to appear. In the account of human nature, the tone of the likely story suffers an erosion: the noble poetry of the astronomer gives way to the black comedy of Aristophanes in the Symposium. This is especially evident in Timaeus' funny and yet not at all funny treatment of our sexuality (90e6-91d5). Timaeus' cosmos, we recall, has two'apxaL, two principles or beginnings. The good pulls the world up towards the starry life of intelligence; the necessary pulls it down into the "mighty river" of becoming (43a6). The likely story dramatizes, in its two beginnings, this fundamental tension and incoherence within the cosmos. It mimics its object through a pun on the word hpx~. Now man, for Timaeus, combines the good and the necessary in his nature and his outward shape. He is the whale's necessary incoherence rendered visually explicit. His sphere-shaped head contains the circles of Same and Other, the divine circles of reflection and sound-mindedness. The rest of him is elongated, the outward sign of his exile from the spherical heavens. In an unmistakable reference to the receptacle, Timaeus calls our lower passions "terrible and necessary" (69c8-dl). They are housed in the torso - spiritedness in the chest and the desire for food and drink in the belly. The pollution of the divine is this joining of the divine and the bestial. To mitigate its bad effects, the gods cook up an invention - the neck. The neck, by far the most striking example of our radically artificial nature, is the only thing that holds us together. It anchors the head to the body while at the same time sequestering the head for its divine life of astronomy. The neck is our constant reminder that our being is the sacrilegious togetherness of two things that should not be together but must be together if the cosmos is to be complete. The mouth is the clearest expression of our contradictory and profane nature. It was invented for the sake of the noble stream of speech that flows out and the necessary stream of nutriment that flows in (75d5-e5). Human nature is caught in the middle of two streams flowing in opposite directions, pulling human nature simultaneously towards its two cooperating yet conflicting origins. The fact that we cannot eat and speak at the same time shows how profoundly incoherent we are. For Timaeus, to be human is to be altogether tragic. The only cure, short of death, is the study of astronomy, the study in which we tum away from our monstrous nature and seek refuge in the act of noble imitation, in the life of the head. The truth about Timaeus' cosmos is not contained in any of the things he says about it. It is revealed in the motion of the likely story, in the path of the construction by which the cosmos is made. The being of the cosmos lies in its becoming. This motion is downward; it is tragic motion. If Timaeus' godKosmos had a voice, he would say with Shakespeare's Richard II, "Down, down I come, like glist'ring Phaethon" (III.iii). The whole likely story is one grand descent from deathless being down to the stars and from the stars down to human nature. As the likely story moves towards its end, human nature degenerates into all the various beasts. It gives birth at last to all the animal possibilities that sleep within it. The hierarchy of beasts, born of human degeneracy, completes the whole and causes it to be in full agreement with its intelligible archetype. As the cosmos degenerates, it becomes more perfect. This is the paradoxical truth about Timaeus' cosmos. Like man, the god Kosmos, in spite of his beautiful ordering, is in the end a tragic hero. When Socrates announced his desire, he warned against the deficiencies of poets and sophists (19d3 ff.). Poets are too rooted in their own cities. That is, their tendency to imitate the familiar and conventional holds them back from contemplating a city that is good by nature. Sophists, on the other hand, wander too much. They transcend the poets' attachment to place but end up utterly placeless, that is, lacking the experience of being political ani- · mals. Their failure to be political is exposed in the Gorgias, where the sophists are portrayed as teaching technique without the proper use of that technique. The sophists show us that being outside the city is not necessarily to be above it. Neither poets nor sophists, it would seem, know how to move vertically into the third dimension of "depth;" they are rooted ultimately in the "flatland" of conventional cities. The center of the likely story is the treatment of the receptacle and the four elements. It is there that we come to see what a likely story really is. We see that it shares in the natures of poetry and sophistry. It is µuern; masquerading as A-6'){)<;. As poetry, it begets .beautiful images of animals in motion. As sophistry, it uses a pseudo-science to get us to believe that its images are real. But Timaeus' relationship to poets and sophists runs deeper than his scientific methodology. It enforms his whole perception of the human good in relation to the intellect and the city. Timaeus is a combination of noble extremes. On the one hand, he is immersed in conventional political activity: he runs his city and enjoys its honors (20al-5). On the other hand, as an astronomer, he soars high above all political regimes... or does he? As the likely story shows, Timaeus seeks to ground our being in a new and higher regime. He seems to want to redirect our political spiritedness and piety away from conventional cities and towards the natural "city" studied by the astronomers. Instead of Solon's political poetry, we now have Timaeus' political poetry. It seems that Timaeus, even when he soars, cannot escape his political perspective. Just as he apparently cannot get beyond the love of honor, he cannot transcend the noble opinion that the highest human good is stability of character and obedience to law, political qualities eminently displayed in the stars. Coming from a city with excellent laws, Timaeus "imitates well the things on which he has been reared" (19d5-e2). This is the poetic deficiency of his soul. It helps us to see why Socrates calls the likely story a v6µrn;, thereby suggesting that Timaeus, no matter how much he seems to be the lover of natural order, is still bound by the right opinion of conventional cities. The astronomical side of Timaeus is sophist-like: it wanders through the heavens with no thought for political rootedness. All cities are banished from the likely story: there is no fellowship or community among men but only the individual and the cosmos. In the character of Timaeus, Plato has painted a moving picture of the poet-sophist at his best and most magnificent, a poet-sophist who seems to be a combination of philosopher and statesman. Timaeus is at once apolitical and ultrapolitical. His noble extremes do not temper one another. There is missing that mean position in which the soul, in leading the philosophic life, soars above the political perspective without losing sight of its political rootedness. The Timaeus inevitably brings us back full circle to the Republic, the dialogue that the Timaeus had pretended to surpass. Socrates' desire was for a sophistic poem. He wanted to see beautiful animals in motion. He wanted to be fooled into thinking that these moving animals were truly alive, to lose himself in the 37 �beautiful image in the way that we all tend to lose omselves in a truly great poem. Socrates stressed the irrationality of his desire by repeatedly using words related to feeling and being affected. He presented himself as "pathetic," as a man at the mercy of poets and imitators. What is Socrates doing here but imitating the souls of his hosts? articulating the desire and the 1t6:0o~ that is theirs? What is Plato doing through Socrates but painting a moving picture of our own nature in its love affair with moving pictures? What, then, is Socrates' true desire? Perhaps, it is to see in what precise ways the human souls before him will show their true colors in the act of being painters. The silence of Socrates is really the contemplation of Socrates. It is the philosophical and ironic distance at which Socrates places himself with respect to the realm of all doings and makings. In being entertained, he is placing himself outside the "real world" of his hosts. As Socrates himself tells us, he is "at peace'' (27al) while his hosts go off to war, gratifying the desire that is really theirs. They are the turbulent object of his serene contemplation. In the Timaeus, Socrates is gazing, as usual, upon the human soul. He is reflecting on the animal that beautifies itself in order to forget that it is a monster. Time the Dominant John Dunn 38 39 �Origami "The" Exponential Curve David Ruy Henry Higuera The swan comes to life. A paper-folded splendor. The wings flap slowly with a rhythm that could only be life. The wings flap with caution; a babe-like vanity prevents it from grace. But the wings flap with a careful wonderment. Suddenly, a winged flutter; a fluttering sound echoes through my room. I can only shudder with a blaze of paranoia. I run to the door and tum the lock; chain the door. There is interested motion outside the door... What was that noise? It was me. What are you doing? I am dancing. Dancing, as is usual. Why are you dancing? I dance because I need to. Let me in. I wish to see you dance. ... can only back away. I am not dancing. I have never danced. I s.it inside this room and fold these pages into swans, only to wait for them to come to life. I have been waiting for a long time ... Tell me if you need anything. ... I need nothing now. The swan flutters. It turns its head from side to side. Does it see? Does it smell? I sit and watch the paper-folded swan. I am nervous, pricked by a thousand needles of crazed anticipation. The.swan is flying. It took the air with such nimble agility. I am excited. I watch the swan. It is beautiful. It is flying. . I ~m looking through my drawers; I look for string. Once I f~d It, I shall be able to tie the swan down. I am going to keep this swan. I am catching the swan; I hold it in my hands. It struggles. This paper-folded swan. I am tying the string around the neck of the swan; I tighten th~ noose. I tie the other end to my own wrist. I am going to keep this swan. The swan circles ·the room counter-clockwise. Continuously. The room is about ten feet by ten feet. A cage. A sheet-rock cage. For the bird. For me. But I am delighted. I have the object of my childhood fancy tied to my wrist. I sit down and watch the beautiful thing as it flies. I remember seeing a child yesterday. I find much in common with the memory of that child right now. 40 The child was sitting on a park bench with a wonderful red balloon tied to its wrist as his parents were walking about the paths somewhere in the park. The child stared with joyful wonderment at the red balloon - bouncing it up and down with the string; it was a tantalizing feast for the child - the balloon so close to escape; it was ready to soar towards the heavens, to crush the finnament- saved by the subjugation of a child's jealous fancy. I find myself in the memory of that child. The swan is getting stronger. And stronger... Please, let me see you. ... stronger. The string starts to cut into the flesh. The pain grows strong ... Please, I want to see what you've made. ...stronger. The flesh starts to rip. Blood, dropping by droplets, splashes and stains a wooden floor. And the swan is growing stronger... Why won't you let me in? ... stronger. I frantically search for something to cut the line. My blood is dropping by droplets onto the floor. And the swan is stronger... Those who have taken Sophomore Mathematics may have come across the fact that all pru·abolas are similar - identical in shape, differing only in size. This is very easy to prove once Apollonius establishes that every parabola has an axis, and every so often a Sophomore Math Tutor will ask the class to try and prove it for themselves. Recently, I discovered, much to my surprise, that "exponential" curves have exactly the same property: they' re all similar. Stated algebraically, all equations of the form or x'= x +Ina (see Fig. 1), so that x = x' - Ina. Now, a= elna, so that y =aex =(elna)ex' =ex+ Ina. Now substitute for x: = e(x' - Ina) +Ina =ex. define similar curves for all values of a and k. This surprised me because different exponential curves certainly don't look similar near the origin, but hey, proofs don't lie. I'm first going to establish this fact algebraically. I don't consider these proofs especially pretty, and (in the typical way of algebraic proofs) they don't give much intuitive insight into why these curves are indeed similar. So, I will follow my algebraic proofs with a geometrical discussion which, while not quite rigorous, helps one see why it is that all exponential curves are similar. In fact, unless you like algebra, you might consider skipping ahead to Part II. Are you alright in there? ... stronger. The blood streams from my wrist. The string becomes singed of redness and the redness slowly climbs the length of the string as the cotton string slow1 absorbs y the redness of my blood. Chairs are being overturned. Drawers are being pulled from the desk and thrown. Piles of papers are thrown. I am searching desperately for something to cut the line. As I frantically search, I notice many paper-folded swans, come to life, flying within the room, as if they can feel the opportunity, building to a climax, to escape from this sheetrock cage. I finally find a razor. As I take it to the line, I hesitate for a moment and remember the child. But the pain finds me. Someone is banging on the door as I cut the line. With a crash of glass, the fluttering sounds build to a din as the swans fly through a window. The fluttering echoes from the distance. From a greater and greater distance, a fainter and fainter echo catches my ear. The blood flows quietly from my wrist as I walk to look beyond the smashed window. I can only vaguely remember the words that were written on the pages of those paper-folded swans as they fly towards the town over the landscape that I see beyond my broken windowa landscape composed by some loving hand, so barren and subjunctive. Then Part I. Algebraic Geometry Prop. 1. Every curve y = aex is identical for all positive values ofa. For, let a new origin be chosen on the x-axis, defining new x-coordinates, x-, and placed a distance of Ina to the left, if a is greater than 1, or right, if a is less than 1; keep the size of the xand y-units the same. >"leW ]-y.I y- t\X is And this means that in relation to the new origin, with identically-sized x- and y-units, this curve is simply an ex curve, identical to the ex curve which was relative to the old origin . Q.E.D. In other words, trying to vertically "stretch" or "flatten out" an ex curve doesn't stretch or flatten it out at all, it just moves it over! Prop. 2. The curve y = ekx is similar to the curve y =ex for all positive values of k. For, let a new origin be placed on the x-axis and new units be defined: y' = ky, that is, the new y-units are 1/k as big as the old; while x' = kx +Ink, that is, the new x-units are also 1/k as big as the old, and the new origin is at a distance of Ink from the old (to the left or right depending on whether k is greater or less than 1). new l"---1 y- 0ixis J ! I I 1. ~K::o x'-;. In°' new LA nit FIG.1 Ink FIG.2 41 �Then y=t_ k and 1 x = k (x' - lnk). Now substitute for x and y in order to describe y = ekx in terms of the new coordinates. Y =ekx v' L.=e k ~(x' - lnk) k y' = kex' - Ink = (elnk)ex' - Ink = ex' - lnk + Ink =ex'. Therefore, in relation to the new origin and measured in the new units, this curve is simply the ex curve. Q.E.D. Now, I haven't shown that such curves exists; there might be a hidden impossibility in the definition. Even if they do exist, I haven't shown that they're continuous, there might be gaps in them. But let's assume such curves exists and are continuous. I also haven't shown that this corresponds to an equation y = aekx; but in fact with suitable choices of a unit length and an origin, you can set up coordinate axes such that the curve will correspond to this equation. An illustration of how to do this is given, without proof, as Appendix I. Let's also assume that the perpendiculars or ordinates increase continuously too. That is, let us assume that as one ordinate gets closer to a second without limit, the two will differ by less than any given length. Not assuming this would amount to allowing "jumps" in an exponential curve: for if the difference between the smaller and the larger were always greater than or equal to some finite length, no matter how close together they were, there would have to be a jump up to the larger - see Figure 4. So in effect what we 're doing is ruling out jumps in our curves. . N_ote that ekx = (ek)x = Kx, where K = ek. Thus this proposition is also about changing the base of the equation: changing the base of ex both moves the curve over and blows up or shrinks down the entire picture, but it doesn't alter the shape of the curve. Prop. 3. The method used in Prop.1 shows that aekx is simply the ekx curve moved over either to the left or the right. Prop. 4. Finally, if a or k are negative, that merely reflects the curve around the x- or y-axi.s, respectively, so no new shape occurs. Part II. Geometry DEF!N1TION. An exponential curve is one with the following relat10n to some given straight line, called the axi.s: perpendiculars erected until they meet the curve from any set of equidistant points on the axis will form a series of continuously-proportional lines. In Fig. 3, if A,B ,C and Dare equidistant, then The proofs that such "corresponding parts" actually exist run to a couple of pages, so I have relegated them to an Appendix. If the claims seem obvious to you from your impressions of exponential curves, you might skip Appendix II entirely. If you have doubts, however, or love rigor, I do try to give real proofs. AB: CD :: AE: CG :: BF: DH (see Fig. 5). AE: BF:: BF: CG:: CG: DH . FIG.3 42 FIG.6 the same ratio, as Euclid never proves but Heath does; and the general case is clearly true, even though I don't know of a general proof. Anyway, since this is so, in our two series of continuouslyproportional ordinates that constant ratio which every ordinate has to the next is the same for both series. But there are also exactly as may lines intervening between DH and LN as there are between BF and KM. Therefore you have a huge ex aequali: the ratios BF: KM and DH: LN are both determined by the same ratio compounded with itself the same number of times. Therefore they're the same: BF: KM :: DH: LN or BF: DH:: KM: LN. Q.E.D. Thus far I've only handled a special case, ordinates situated at commensurable distances. But now let there be ordinates at K and L, and let BK and DL be proportional to but incommensurable with AB and CD. I say that KM and LN are still proportional to BF and DH. For, 0 and P exist on the axes such that the distances BO and DP are proportional to and commensurable with AB and CD, and also such that the ordinates OQ and PR are closer to KM and LN than any given distance. (See Figure 7.) Therefore OQ and PR can be chosen closer in length to KM and LN than any given length. Now OQ and PR can be chosen closer in length to KM and LN than any given length. Now OQ and PR, as I've just proved, are proportional to BF and DH. If KM and LN were not proportional to OQ and PR, then one or both of the former would have to differ from one or both of the latter by some finite length. But this is impossible, since for any finite length we can find an OQ and a PR closer in size to KM and LN. Therefore they must be proportional. Q.E.D. BK: DL :: AB: CD; AE: BF:: CG: DH and also C D KM: LN :: BF: DH , which will show the similarity of the curves. It is actually rather easy to prove this, at least in a special case: let there be two exponential curves, with "corresponding ordinates" AE and BF on the first curve and CG and DH on the second, and let K and L be two other points, one on each axis, situated so that AB and BK are commensurable, CD and DL are commensurable and (see Figure 6) Having made these assumptions, this in brief is how I will go about showing the similarity of all exponential curves. I will first set up "corresponding parts" of any two curves, as follows. Let us assume that on any two exponential curves there is a pair of ordinates on one which are proportional to some pair of ordinates on the other, and also that the distances between them are in that same ratio. That is,·corresponding to A and B on the first axis let's say that there are C and D on the second such that T?e purpose of this section is to provide intuitive clarity, not A 8 then FIG.4 full ngor: we want to understand enough about these curves to get a feel for why they are similar. I'll start by defining them. {~xis Now, given these corresponding parts, I will show that if any other points are similarly placed along the axis, then the corresponding ordinates will be proportional as well - that is, if in Figures BK: DL :: AB: CD , 1 A B K L FIG.5 then I say that KM: LN :: BF: DH . For, since they are commensurable, AB and BK have the ratio of some number to some other number (Euclid X. 5), and so do CD and DL; but they're in the same ratio, so they are to one another as the same number is to the same number. Therefore, a unit exists on the first axis which measures AB and BK, and another unit on the second which measures CD and DL, and AB contains the same number of its units as CD does of its units, and BK the same number of its units as DL of its units. Therefore on each curve we can set up a series of continuously-proportional ordinates including all our ordinates, with the same number of new ordinates intervening between the corresponding original ones. AE: BF and CG: DH are the same ratio. Each of these ratios is produced by a smaller ratio (the one between any two adjacent ordinates) compounded with itself the same number of times. Now, if two ratios which are compounded with themselves the same number of times give the same ratio, they too must be the same ratio. For example, "subduplicates" of the same ratio are M Q c. D LP FIG.7 I hope that this treatment, especially the device of imagining a crowded series of continuously-proportional lines, will help you visualize what it is about exponential curves that makes them all similar. 43 �By the way, it is easy to see why ex and aex are not only similar but identical if one uses some things proved in Appendix II. As a bonus for those of you who read that Appendix, I include as Appendix III a proof that those two curves are identical. I'd like to close with a remark about the significance of the famous number e, 2.71828 or whatever. As we have seen, there is absolutely nothing geometrically unique about the ex curve, as opposed to 2x or any other base. The ex curve is not a special case in a family of curves: it's exactly the same curve as all other exponential curves. Consequently e has no geometrical significance whatsoever, as the base of a special exponential curve. As a special base, the importance of e is entirely an artifact of algebra, and above all the calculus. On the other hand, e does have a geometrical significance, and in fact one which extends over the exponential curve as such - so that e is both more and less important than one might think at first. That significance has to do with the tangent. On any exponential curve, the segments cut off on the axis by the tangents at any points and the ordinates to those points are all equal, no matter where the points are on the curve. I give proofs of this in Appendix IV. That segment can be taken as a fundamental measure of the "size" of the curve, like the parameter to the axis of a parabola or the diameter of a circle. Well, it turns out that on any exponential curve, any two ordinates that are just that constant distance apart are in the ratio e : 1. Thus, in its own way e is as indissolubly linked to all exponential curves as pi is to all circles. Now it is obviously convenient, in algebraic analysis of exponential curves, to pick that length as the unit; and so it is this geometric fact which underlies the immense convenience of the number e in the algebra and calculus connected with these curves. Appendix II: Auxiliary Proofs PROOF 1: Proportional pairs of orc. J nates exist on any two exponential curves. For, in any series of increasingly long, continuously-proportional lines, each increment is longer than the last (in fact each such pair of increments is in the same ratio as the lines themselves, by Bue. V. 12). Therefore, since you're adding ever-increasing increments without end, the longest line can be made longer than any given length, no matter how small the shortest line is. Thus the ratio between some two of these lines can be larger than an~· given ratio. Furthermore, we are assuming that on our curves the ordinates increase continuously, so that you can get any ratio in between. Therefore, all you have to do is pick a reasonably large ratio on the first curve, and you 're assured that two ordinates exist in that ratio on the second. PROOF 2: On any two exponential curves, there exist proportional ordinates which are situated at proportional distances. One way of seeing this is by first establishing a preliminary fact. Indeed this fact will be so important in understanding these curves that I'm going to call it a theorem. THEOREM I. On any exponential curve all pairs of ordinates that are at equal distances are proportional. I must first restrict myself to commensurable distances. That is, given an exponential curve and random ordinates AB and CD, pick ordinates EF and GH, such that EG=AC and also such that AE is commensurable with AC. That being the case, I say that N B_~ ---1r, t[_ ± A AC= EG- E C. G- Case 1- overlappin!J se9»unts y-t).X/5 FIG.8 FIG.10 Now we can prove that somewhere on our two curv~s we c~ find proportional ordinates which are also at proportional di~­ tances. For on each curve, given a pair of ordinates in any ratio whatever, other pairs of ordinates exist in that same r~ti~, getting longer and longer without limit as we move to the ngh~, but all at the same distance from each other. Therefore, smce the ordinates increase but the distances between them do not, by suitable placement the ratios AE: AB and CG: CD can be i;nade as great as we please. Thus, picking a reasonably large rati~ on our first curve, we can be assured that on the other curve pmnts can be found such that AC.= EG- FIG.6 bis Appendix III: That ex and aex are the same curve. For, for given any numbers a, p and q, and so ex and aex can be described geometrically as curves which have the same axis and for which any two pairs of ordinates from the same two points on the axis are proportion~. Consequent!!, however, any two ordinates on one curve are m the same rat10 as any two ordinate at an equal distance on the other curve, by Theorem I. fun' Now the ordinates on both curves get longer without It, as also ~roved in Appendix I, so that for any ordinate AB on the higher curve there must somewhere be an ~qual ordi.nate CD on the lower curve, as in Figure 11. But now if any ordinate on the lower curve is at the same distance from CD that another o~ the higher curve is from AB, these two will be in the same ratio as AB and CD, again by Theorem I. Therefore they're e_qual: all ordinates at equal distances from AB and CD, respectively, are equal. AE: AB :: CG: CD Ct1se 2- Non-overl11p;iir19 5egr'Ylenf-s AE::CGor, alternating, ( aJ< : J< : : (). : 1 ) rl AB: CD:: EF: GF. Appendix I: Fitting an equation to the exponential curve. Call the axis as defined above the "x-axis;" pick an origin at random; pick a unit length at random. The numerical value of a is then determined by the ratio between the unit and the ordinate to the curve at x = 0. Now go out one unit to the right. The ratio of the ordinate there, at x= 1, to the unit, then determines the numerical value of aK (or aek). By suitable choices for both origin and unit you can get any values for a and k. For because of the commensurability there is a unit of length whi~h measures the whole interval AG and the smaller intervals AE, EC and CG (or AC, CE and EG). Therefore there exists one series of continuously-proportional lines, which includes our four ordinates and a bunch of intervening lines. But EG = AC, so each pair of our ordinates has the same number of ~ontinu­ ously-proportional lines between them. So the tw~ ratios AB: CD and EF: GH are compounded of the same ratio the same number of times. Therefore, ex aequali, they're the same ratio. The same is true of any other equidistant pair in this series. Thus far I have only proven this for commensurably-situated ordinates. But these can be found as close as we like to the location of all pairs of incommensurably-situated ordinates the same distance apart. So, if EG = AC but AE and AG are not commensurable with AC, it is possible to place Kand Min such a way the KM is commensurable with AC, it is possible ~o place Kand Min such a way that KM is commensurable with AC, KM= AC= EG, and KE and MG are smaller than any given distance. Therefore KL and MN can be chosen closer in size to EF and GH than any given difference. Now KL and MN are proportional to AB and CD; and ifEF and GH weren't proportional to KL and MN (and thus to AB and CD), they'd have to differ from them by some finite lengths. This is impossible, however, for given any finite differences we can find a KL and MN closer in length to EF and GH than them. Therefore EF and GH must be proportional. Q.E.D. AE: CG :: AB: CD , which is what we needed. FIG.11 FIG.9 44 45 �Appendix IV: That all tangents and ordinates cut off equal segments on the axis. Algebraically, this follows from the famous fact that the derivative of ex equals ex. Recall that the derivative gives you the "rise over run" of the tangent, while the function itself give just the "rise," i.e. the height of the point of tangency, above the x-axis. So for all x, the "rise over run" equals the "rise" from the x-axis: therefore the "run" along the x-axis everywhere equals 1. A geometrical proof can also be given. This, too, depends on Theorem I from Appendix II. Let EFGHefgh be an exponential curve, with ordinates AB, DF, ... ae, df &c. as in Figure 12. Let AB equal ab. Let the line AGK touch the curve at G, so that it and the ordinate CG cut off AC on the axis. Let ac equal AC, and draw the line agk. I say that agk is tangent to the curve. so that DM: DF :: dm: df, Euc. V. 9 and alternating. Similarly BN:BH::bn:bh, and so on for all ordinates at equal distances from A and a, respectively. Therefore, if DM is less than DF, then dm is less than df; if BN is less than BH, then bn is less than bh, and so on for all such pairs of ordinates. Therefore the line amgnk is below the curves everywhere except g, just as AMGNK is below the curve everywhere except G. Therefore amgnk touches the curve at g; and it cuts off, with its ordinates cg, ac on the axis equal to AC cutoff by AMGNK. Therefore &c. Q.E.D. Actually, I haven't proved that the line AMGNK is indeed everywhere between the curve and the axis, but if you go back to the definition of the curve and use Euclid VI, it's pretty easy to see for yourself. k FIG.12 For, by Theorem I the ordinates at equal distances are proportional, i.e. AB : ae :: CG : cg :: BH : bh ; but now by Euclid Bk. VI (I'm not going to go through all the steps; they're quite easy) AGK and agk, as they cross ordinates at equal distances, cut off proportional segments on them, all of which are in the same ratio as CG: cg. For example, if D and d are placed so that AD = ad, then DM: dm :: CG : cg . But since AD= ad, Theorem I also applies, and DF: df:: CG: cg , Balance Jeff Seidman 47 46 �Two Humors Ellen M. Myers Machiavelli opens a chapter on the creation of the Roman tribunes with the remark, "All writers on politics have pointed out, and throughout history there are plenty of examples which indicate, that in constituting and legislating for a commonwealth it must needs be taken for granted that all men are wicked and that they will always give vent to the malignity that is in their minds when opportunity offers" (Discourses 1.3). This sounds as though Machiavelli has decided to dismiss the populace as worthless and dangerous. But a few lines later, he summarizes the _history of the offenses of the nobility against the plebeians, saymg, But, no sooner were the Tarquins dead and the fears of the nobility removed, than they began to vomit forth against the plebs the poison hid in their hearts and to oppress them in every way they could. This bears out what has been said above, namely, that men never do good unless necessity drives them to it; but when they are too free to choose and can do just as they please, confusion and disorder become everywhere rampant. (D 1.3) It is clearer in this second passage that when he refers to the men who "never do good," he has primarily the offenses of the nobility in mind; although perhaps the aristocracy and the masses are jointly guilty of causing "confusion and disorder." These remarks open an extended discussion of the difference between these two groups, here beginning in sections 1.4 through 1.6, but recurring throughout The Prince and The Discourses. He makes this one of his themes very early in Discourses 1.4 when he writes, "Nor do they [readers of Roman history] realize that in every republic there are two different dispositions [due urrwri diver si], that of the populace and that of the upper class and that all legislation favourable to liberty is brought about by the clash between them." But what are these two different dispositions, that is, what is the character of each group? Surprisingly, it turns out that rather few generalizations are made about the nobility apart from contrasting them to the masses. A number of specific examples are given of the behavior of the nobilities of Rome, Athens, Sparta, Venice and Florence in different events, but they are not much discussed in the abstract. The nobilities of two aristocratic cities, Venice and Sparta, are singled out for further consideration in Discourses 1.6. The oligarchy in Venice was "due to chance rather than to the prudence of its legislators," in that it was based on early residence in the city; latecomers became the general populace, and could not dispute established custom. In Sparta, the nobility was also defined early, and was distinguished by its equal distribution of (and comparative lack ot) luxury. In both cases, however, the oligarchical government could be maintained because, first of all, the plebeians did not engage in warfare, and hence never became dangerous; and secondly, the number of foreigners admitted to the city was strictly limited. So in no fashion were 48 either the numbers or the ambitions of the plebeians augmented. In Venice, this was possible due to a certain geographical isolation and continued numerical superiority: "Besides, there were not many who came later to dwell in Venice, nor where they so numerous as to upset the balance between rulers and ruled; for the number of gentlefolk was either equal to, or greater than, that of the newcomers" (D 1.6). In Sparta, this isolation took more the form of a cultural separ~tion from the rest of Greece. Thus, in history, the most successful oligarchies are isolationist and conservative in character. Sparta and Venice are used throughout The Discourses as examples of successful, long-lived, and relatively benign oligarchies. Far more instances are quoted of foolish, wicked, and self-destructive groups of nobility; for example: For since such a state [an oligarchy replacing a formerly free city] has been created by that prince, it knows it cannot stand without his friendship and power, and it has to do everything to maintain him. And a city used to living free may be held more easily by means of its own citizens that in any other mode, if one wants to preserve it. (P 5) That is, a formerly free city may be held by the treachery and sycophancy of its nobility. On the whole, however, there are rather few general descriptions given of the upper classes, except of their tendency to oppress the masses. So it is easiest to consider the two groups by examining the differences Machiavelli points out between them. Machiavelli's "populace" is seen in a surprisingly favorable light, when all is said and done. They may be sheep, they may be gullible, and he may say rather less than the average political writer about the Common Good, but a close reading reveals quite a number of times in which he assumes and counts upon their essential decency. They exhibit, collectively, a baseline level of common sense, tolerance, and enlightened self-interest that could stand as an example to their wealthier counterparts. They are sometimes fickle: " ...the nature of peoples is variable; and it is easy to persuade them of something, but difficult to keep them in that persuasion" (P 6). On the whole, though, they can be counted on to acknowledge good sense and act on it: "And though, as Tully remarks, the populace may be ignorant, it is capable of grasping the truth and readily yields when a man, worthy of confidence, lays the truth before it" (D 1.4). This common sense and good judgement are what often save the city in times of trouble, and should be the desiderata of any good ruler: "I will conclude only that for a prince it is necessary to have the people friendly; otherwise he has no remedy in adversity" (P 9). Not only is the populace a bulwark against adversity (hostile nobles, external invasion). In some sense it is also the standard against which successful government is measured: " ...I look upon those rulers as unhappy who, to make their government secure, have to adopt abnormal methods because they find the masses hostile" (D 1.16). Machiavelli has a great deal to say about these abnormal methods, the dictatorial authority necessary to reform a state or lead it in time of war. He speaks approvingly and at length about the leader who has the virtu and audacity to take command in such a situation. Yet here he acknowledges that, after all, such methods are abnormal and unhappy to the one forced to make use of them. The basic difference between the humors of the people and the nobility is in their ambition, of which the populace has relatively little: "The demands of a free populace, too, are very seldom harmful to liberty, for they are due either to the populace being oppressed or to the suspicion that it is going to be oppressed ..." (D 1.4). And, says Machiavelli, the impression is rightly founded, because as he has already said, the nobility will only do right by the masses under the force of necessity. Or, as he says in the Prince, For in every city these two diverse humors [umori] are found, which arises from this: that the people desire neither to be commanded nor oppressed by the great, and the great desire to command and oppress the people.... Besides this, one cannot satisfy the great with decency and without injury to others, but one can satisfy the people; for the end of the people is more decent than that of the great, since the great want to oppress and the people want not to be oppressed. (P 9) It is true that, if sufficiently provoked, the masses will attempt to avenge themselves on their oppressors: " ...What I say is that he [a prince] ought first to ask what it is that the people desire, and that he will always find that they desire two things: (i) to avenge themselves against the persons who have been the cause of their servitude, and (ii) to regain their freedom" (D 1.16). This vengeance can be bloody, as when Cesare Borgia had his minister sliced in half in the city of Cesena: "The ferocity of this spectacle left the people at once satisfied and stupefied" (P 7). But it is Cesare's action; to the people, it is a spectacle that overwhelms. This look at the difference between the two humors of populace and nobility, I hope, will shed some light on some similar contrasts which Machiavelli draws in other areas. On the level of states, for example, there are two major considerations: what the city itself desires, and what it believes its neighbors desire. In large measure, it is its own disposition and its perception of others' dispositions that will control how aggressive it is. "For war is made on a commonwealth for two reasons: (i) to subjugate it, and (ii) for fear of being subjugated by it" (D 1.6). If a state appears fearsome, it will trigger the same fear of oppression in its neighbors which the plebeians feel in the face of their opponents the nobility. Machiavelli warns against giving this impression unnecessarily, as it invites attack. On the other hand, the attacking city may simply be of an expansionist disposition; in which case, the only defense is to appear strongly defended, or not worth conquering. Similarly, independently of its neighbors, a city can have one or both of two general goals: " ... a city in which freedom prevails has two ends in view. One is to enlarge its dominions; the other is to keep itself free. In both it can err by excess" (DJ .29). The excesses and dangers of expansion are obvious, and Machiavelli spends a number of sections discussing them. The excesses of freedom are harder to imagine, and Machiavelli is not especially persuasive. His major point seems to be that one can be unnecessarily suspicious; this would seem to be related to his discourses on ingratitude: ''The vice of ingratitude arises either from avarice or from suspicion" (D 1.29). Avarice, a greedy desire to enrich oneself at the expense of someone to whom a debt of gratitude is owed, is far more a failing of the prince or any small ruling class, where the personal impact will be felt, than·it is of the people as a whole. Suspicion can be a failing of either a prince or the populace, though it is more likely that the prince will be guilty of it. But in either case, more than avarice, suspicion is an essentially conservative and defensive trait. One fears that the successful general may become the oppressor, like the aggressive neighboring state, or like the nobility against the plebeians. In summary thus far, Machiavelli posits two different sorts of temperament to be found within a city, and two sorts of interests in the city as a whole. In both cases, one is essentially conservative, isolationist, and negatively defined: the city wishes to remain free, and fears its expansionist neighbor. The populace wishes only not to be oppressed. As Machiavelli describes it in The Discourses, this is "the possibility of enjoying what one has, freely and without incurring suspicion, for instance, the assurance that one's wife and children will be respected, the absence of fear for oneself... " (D 1.16). This impulse is to preserve the status quo in a peaceable fashion, whenever possible. In opposition to this live-and-let-live attitude is the equally universal one of aggrandizement. The nobles are ambitious; they wish to expand their privileges at the expense of the masses. States, in general, keep one eye on the weakness of their neighbors and exploit it as soon as it becomes evident. It's a dog-eatdog world, and the meek are likely to have the worst of it. The very nature of life ensures that. "Nor have I the least doubt that, if this balance [the status quo] could be maintained, there would be genuine political life and real tranquility in such a city. Since, however, all human affairs are ever in a state of flux and cannot stand still, either there will be improvement or decline, and necessity will lead you to do many things which reason does not recommend" (D 1.6). We would somehow expect, from what we've seen so far, that the expansionist city would be found in tandem with an expansionist form of government, i.e., an oligarchy. At this point, Machiavelli's analysis is astutely based on experience rather than reason and similarity. In The Discourses 1.4 - 1.6, he points out that this is exactly the opposite of the real situation. A city, even an empire such as Venice's or Sparta's, which has an oligarchy in charge generally assumes a defensive character. Its acquisitions are strategic, designed to protect the existing interests of the city; and it poses no threat to its immediate neighbors for at least long stretches of its lifetime. On the other hand, for a 49 �republic to expand, it should be governed in large part by the people: Should, then, anyone be about to set up a republic, he should first inquire whether it is to expand, as Rome did, both in dominion and in power, or is to be confined to narrow limits. In the first case it is essential to constitute it as Rome was constituted and to expect commotions and disputes of all kinds which much be dealt with as best they can, because without a large population, and this well armed, such a republic will never be able to grow, or to hold its own should it grow. In the second case it might be constituted as Sparta and Venice were, but, since expansion is poison to republics of this type, it should use every endeavour to prevent it from expanding, for expansion, when based on a weak republic, simply means ruin. This happened both in Sparta's case and in that of Venice. (D 1.6) An oligarchy may prove to be expansionist, but will probably prove too weak, as Machiavelli's later image of trnnk and branch illustrates. But in order to expand, a large, armed and active populace is essential. "In the first case it is necessary to do in all things as Rome did. In the second case it is possible to imitate Venice and Sparta... " (D 1.5, emphasis mine). A large populace is essential to expansion, and expansion will prove essential to a large populace. Though they individually desire only "not to be oppressed," the simple pressure of population growth will force them to grow larger; and the example of a large, active, and growing city will probably encourage at least some of its neighbors to choose alliance or union over enmity and defeat. Still, it seems perverse in some way that the nobility, which has expansionist tendencies within the city, should be essentially conservative in dealing with outsiders. This is explained, however, by the Hobbesian remarks Machiavelli makes in his section on the "haves" and the "have-nots:" There arose considerable discussion as to whether the 'haves' or the 'have-nots' were the more ambitious, for the appetites of both [l' urw e l' altro appetito] might easily become the cause of no small disturbance. Actually, however, such disturbances are more often caused by the 'haves', since the fear of losing what they have arouses in them the same inclination we find in those who want to get more, for men are inclined to think that they cannot hold securely what they possess unless they get more at others' expense. (D 1.5) So we realize that, although property often becomes ours through an acquisitive instinct, it remains ours through a conservative one; in fact, it is the very occasion of a defensive posture. How can we defend what is ours if we have nothing to lose? On the other hand, if we have nothing because we are essentially peaceable and unambitious, then we are almost certain to need and want something that isn't ours already, even if it is only freedom from oppression. Thus, the two humors of the city are not only in tension with one another, but in a real sense, they create one another. This reminds us of a phrase in The Prince. In speaking of these two dispositions of the city, Machiavelli talks about their results: "For in every city these two diverse humors are found, which arises from this: that the people desire neither to be 50 commanded nor oppressed by the great, and the great desire to command and oppress the people. From these two diverse appetites one of three effects occurs in cities: principality or liberty or license" (P 9, emphasis added). This is very similar to what he has already said about the Roman republic, that its liberty wasn't threatened by the tumults of the populace; in fact, liberty was the very result of the constant quarrel between the nobility and the people. "All legislation favourable to liberty is brought about by the clash between them" (D 1.4). Nor would Rome have been outwardly successful if this had not been the case. If Rome had preferred internal peace, then "in seeking to remove the causes of tumults, Rome would have removed also the causes of expansion" (D 1.6). Rome obtained the happiest of the three possible outcomes, liberty rather than license or principality. The liberty is the result of a balance between the two humors. Excessive domination by the people would lead to license; by the nobility, to principality. But is this true? Perhaps, on the other hand, excessive domination by the corrupt nobility is what can lead to license, since the people are rather conservative in comparison. As he writes in Discourses 1.3, " ...when they are too free to choose and can do just as they please, confusion and disorder become everywhere rampant." Or, perhaps the increasing license of a democracy would cause a revulsion into tyranny, as Machiavelli suggests in Discourses 1.2. How confusing these two dispositions are! Every time we seem to be in a position to apply labels to two oppositions, the answer eludes us. It is interesting that a third option, liberty, is available within the city, and that it derives (in the case of Rome) from hammering out the differences between the nobility and the plebeians through the public institutions. Liberty, or at least stability, is also possible through the intervention of a strong man with a clear vision of the reforms and balances he wishes to institute. It seems that the two dispositions within a city can arrive at a useful compromise if there is some common authority to which they are both accountable. In the case of Rome and many other republics, this authority lay in the agreed-upon institutions with their dynamic balance. In other cities and during transitional times, the authority generally lies with one person. But some control is exerted on both dispositions. Why doesn't this work in the relations between whole states? Because they have no common authority. If they did - if two or more cities could appeal their disputes to a higher authority, they would not be independent states, but parts of a larger whole, and the dispute would be an internal one that would fall into the natural jurisdiction of the common ruler. In the terminology of Hobbes, the men of a city are in civil compact with one another, but cities are in a state of nature or (frequently) war among themselves. Let's consider another instance. Machiavelli spends a tremendous proportion of both The Prince and The Discourses on Livy's discussion of the methods of foundation and reform. One of his primary concerns is the consideration of when, whether, and how change should be introduced, and on what principles a city should be organized in the first place. One of the institutions necessary to a city is the ability to reform itself within law, so that extraordinary measures will not be required. Change is seen as inevitable, and so it must be accommodated. Ideally, such change could grow out of the inherent tensions between the two humors of the city, as it did in Rome's case. Very often, however, drastic change will require the intervention of some strong individual (whether inside existing institutions, as the Roman dictatorship, or outside when the institutions are inflexible or the populace is corrupt). The degree of authority that Machiavelli is willing, indeed eager, to bestow on this individual is quite extraordinary: One should take it as a general rule that rarely, if ever, does it happen that a state, whether it be a republic or a kingdom, is either well-ordered at the outset or radically transfonned vis-avis its old institutions unless this be done by one person.... Wherefore the prudent organizer of a state whose intention it is to govern not in his own interests but for the common good, and not in the interests of his successors but for the sake of that fatherland which is common to all, should contrive to be alone in his authority .... It is a sound maxim that reprehensible actions may be justified by their effects, and that when the effect is good, as it was in the case of Romulus, it always justifies the action. For it is the man who uses violence to spoil things, not the man who uses it to mend them, that is blameworthy. (D 1.9) We will come back to the question of a ruler's severity later. For now, it's interesting to note that Machiavelli is actually talking about two sorts of change, foundation and reform. And when we examine reform itself more closely, we find that a portion of his comments apply to renovation, while others apply to innovation, and that there is a considerable difference between the methods of the two, though both aim at promoting stability. Innovation is both easy and difficult, because men are both attracted to and worried by novelty: " ... Men are by nature inclined to look with favour on new enterprises; a favour which is likely to be bestowed, above all else, on enterprises which seem to have in them a certain virility and which are taken up by young men" (D 1.33). Current interests drive out considerations of the past: "For a new prince is observed much more in his actions than a hereditary one; and when they are recognized as virtuous, they take hold of men much more and obligate them much more than ancient blood. For men are much more taken by present things than by past ones, and when they find good in the present, they enjoy it and do not seek elsewhere ..." (P 24). On the other hand, the novelty value (which appeals to men's expansive, audacious nature) can wear thin when faced with the fears and suspicions of man's natural conservatism: Those like these men, who become princes by the paths of virtue, acquire their principality with difficulty but hold it with ease; and the difficulties they have in acquiring their principality arise in part from the new orders and modes that they are forced to introduce so as to found their state and their security. And it should be considered that nothing is more difficult to handle, more doubtful of success, nor more dangerous to manage, than to put oneself at the head of introducing new orders. For the introducer has all those who benefit from the old orders as enemies, and he has lukewarm defenders in all those who might benefit from the new orders. This lukewarmness arises partly from fear of adversaries who have the laws on their side and partly from the incredulity of men, who do not truly believe in new things unless they come to have a firm experience of them . Consequently, whenever those who are enemies have opportunity to attack, they do so with partisan zeal, and the others defend lukewarmly so that one is in peril along with them. It is however necessary, if one wants to discuss this aspect well, to examine whether these innovators stand by themselves or depend on others; that is, whether to carry out their deed they must beg or indeed can use force. In the first case they always come to ill and never accomplish anything; but when they depend on their own and are able to use force, then it is that they are rarely in peril. From this it arises that all the armed prophets conquered and the unarmed ones were ruined. (P 6) This long quotation spells out very neatly the problems of introducing "new orders." Men are unable to believe what they have not yet seen, and they continue to anticipate and fear the powers of the old order. Despite their attraction to the opportunities offered by novelty, their essentially conservative fears usually win out and they hold back to see the outcome of the confrontation. This resistant passivity, and the tendency of the people to be won over to new ideas but not steady in these new convictions, means that the ruler must use whatever force is necessary to accomplish his ends. Reason and persuasion are not enough; good intentions are not enough. He must enforce his vision on a reluctant population. That is, in order to overcome the passive, unaggressive humor of the people, he must employ his own active virtu to force the innovations he sees as necessary. If effectively done, the results will be praiseworthy - regardless of the means. In contrast to the innovation of new institutions, whether as part of founding a new society or as a much-needed reform, the renovation of a state is essentially a conservative process. The need is to return to the virtues of one's ancestors: " ...Those changes make for their conservation which lead them back to their origins .... The way to renovate them, as has been said, is to reduce them to their starting-points" (D 3.1). In this section, Machiavelli does not even point out that the starting-point must have been a sound one; the assumption seems to be that any lasting institution was originally founded on good principles, and these need only be rediscovered. Often enough, these principles are either explicitly religious or, at very least, moral in nature insofar as "moral" in Machiavellian terms means "not corrupt," that is, neither effeminate nor bribable nor devoted to selfish pleasures and luxuries. The reason for this return to origins seems to lie very close to Machiavelli's appreciation of history- at least, of the great and successful examples in history: For since men almost always walk on paths beaten by others and proceed in their actions by imitation, unable, either to stay on the paths of others altogether or to attain the virtue of those whom you imitate, a prudent man should always enter upon the paths beaten by great men, and imitate those who have been most excellent, so that if his own virtue does not reach that far, it is at least in the odor of it. (P 6) 51 �Imitation becomes a reasonable substitute for active virtue of one's own. If a prince hasn't the type of brain which sees for itself, he must at least have the sort which can judge the reports which others bring to him. From examining the two humors and the two goals of the city, as well as innovation versus renovation, we seem to have arrived back at Machiavelli's perplexing use of the word virtu. At times, Machiavelli uses this term as if it implied nothing more than strength and audacity, for example when speaking of Agathocles (Prince 8) or Cesare Borgia. At other times, he talks as if it has what we would term a moral connotation, as when he finally concludes of Agathocles: For, if one considers the virtue of Agathocles in entering into and escaping from dangers, and the greatness of his spirit in enduring and overcoming adversities, one does not see why he has to be judged inferior to any most excellent captain. Nonetheless, his savage cruelty and inhumanity, together with his infinite crimes, do not allow him to be celebrated among the most excellent men. Thus, one cannot attribute to fortune or to virtue what he achieved without either. (P 8) There are thus at least two sorts of virtue for Machiavelli. He writes of whether a ruler should prefer being loved or feared, whether he should rule with mercy and sociability or cruelty and severity (Prince 17; Discourses 3.22). He praises Romulus and Tullus for their warlike nature, but Numa who came between them for introducing religion. There are two forces at work here, both of them important and valuable, and each having its function. In Discourses 3.9, he speaks of adapting to the times. Piero Soderini, that decent man, failed because he did not exercise sufficient virtue (audacity). Pope Julius II, who succeeded because of his audacity, would have failed had the temper of the times changed. Both things need to be kept in mind. "Very rarely do Men know how to be either Wholly Good or Wholly Bad" is a shocking title for Discourses 1.27, but it summarizes his view that both are necessary and effective if applied in turn, at the right time. It is the attempt to compromise between the aggressive and the peaceable, the active and the passive, the cruel and the tolerant, that leads to disaster. Balance must not be construed as wishy-washiness. Even Fortune itself has aspects of both the conservative and the audacious. On the one hand, he says that "it is bette1 to be impetuous than cautious, because fortune is a woman; and it is necessary, if one wants to hold her down, to beat her and strike her down. And one sees that she lets herself be won more by the impetuous than by those who proceed coldly" (P 25). On the other hand, in the letter in which he writes to his friend Vettori that he has just completed The Prince, he praises the quiet and disciplined life his friend is leading: "And because Fortune wants to do everything, she wants us to allow her to do it, to remain quiet and not give trouble, and to await the time at which she allows men something to do; and then it will be right for you to give more effort.... " An amazing contrast in the images of Lady Fortuna! Yet it makes sense when we begin to realize that, in 52 fortune, as in cities and in individuals, there are two humors. We cannot ignore either except at our peril. Sometimes these two humors are in constructive competition. Sometimes they tear one another apart. In some respects, each begets the other. At times audacity is called for; at other times, a cool head. Sometimes the two dispositions are so confused (in the literal sense, fused together) that we cannot be sure which is which or what the outcome may be. "So that this is just one of those things in which evil is so closely associated with good, and so bound up are they one with the other, that it may easily happen that he who thinks he will get one, gets the other" (D 3.37). Given all these difficulties, it seems we can only summon both our courage and our wits, draw on the examples of history, and do the best we can to balance the two humors: Nor should any state ever believe that is can always adopt safe courses; on the contrary, it should think it has to talce them all as doubtful. For in the order of things it is found that one never seeks to avoid one inconvenience without running into another; but prudence consists in knowing how to recognize the qualities of inconveniences, and in picking the less bad as good. (P 21) The Wrath of Aeneas Donna Schueler Near the beginning of this poem that sings of a man and his fate, Virgil wonders, in horror, about the gods - are their minds moved by unrelenting wrath? Aeneas, sings the poet, is a man remarkable for goodness; by poem's end, he will have become a man of whom it can be said, his wrath is godlike. Pious Aeneas, hounded by the wrath of Satumian Juno throughout the poem, is, at its end, caught in the unyielding grip of Saturnian rage, a rage which fills the poet with horror. The wrath of this good man will be as unrelenting as that of the goddess. It is a redoubtable transformation the poet gives us; why does he give it? A man remarkable for piety, and his fate - does fate require of this man more than piety; is piety insufficient to his hard fate? Our first encounter with Aeneas in fury is not in the present tense; nor does his fury play itself out. He is recounting for Dido the tale of his city's fall. In his narration, he has come upon Helen. She is crouched in terror beside an altar, the altar standing among the fifty bridal chambers of Priam's daughters. Seeing her there, a fire bums in Aeneas' mind, anger spurs him to avenge his falling city. He knows that he is mad, that to kill a woman, even the Laconian woman, is at best a dubious thing. But the bitterness in his heart drives him after her. And then Venus comes between them; the fury of this man remarkable for piety gives way. The poet has not made us witnesses; we hear, with Dido, an account of forestalled violence, of a fury that relented. What can happen, so that by poem's end, pious Aeneas comprises a rage equal to the rage of High Ones, equally relentless? Aeneas remains with Dido for a full year. What could make him so heedless, knowing what the future holds in Hesperia, for him and all his line? The need to resupply stores and revive his weary men would not want so long a time. Such needs as these would not keep him the whole year at Carthage, building Dido's walls, heedless of his own great walls, which have still to be raised in Aussonia. This is pious Aeneas, son of Venus by Anchises; he bears with him the household gods of Troy, entrusted to his keeping by great-hearted Hector, and he is not building the walls which are his fate. It will want much to make this man stray so far from his fate that Jove must send Mercury with high remonstration. It will want much, and yet Aeneas' lingering, his role in the love-story, is not the result of divine machination. Did~, on the other hand, has been seduced by a power larger than herself or Aeneas. It is necessary that she abandon her pious vows to the dead Sychaeus, and this has required the intervention of Venus. The goddess has sent Cupid in the guise of Ascanius: Dido has dandled him on her lap, kissed him tenderly. And all the while Cupid/Ascanius invades her body with the fiery poison his mother has prescribed. No such inflammatory measure has been taken with Aeneas. When he comes to their encaved 'marriage,' Apollo to her Diana, (see N, 172-210) no god has impassioned Aeneas. What Venus wakes up in Dido is present in her already, waiting there susceptible of arousal, ready for the divine ruse. But it has wanted the divine nudge. On the other hand, what Dido's beauty arouses in Aeneas is wakened solely by her. It has not been necessary that Juno devise the infiltration of his soul when he mates with Dido, he is entirely his own man. It is true that Juno and Venus have brought them to the cave, but to Aeneas himself they have done no more than this. We take new measure here of Aeneas' greatness; for all nature attends this marriage. Primal Earth aids Juno, fiery lightning flashes, and the upper air is witness when Dido and the son of Anchises mate. To achieve this, Dido has been inflamed by Venus, but the psyche of Aeneas has needed no divine push. It has not required the gods' contrivance to rouse Aeneas to so great a passion, but it will want divine intervention to recall him to his reason. Jove must send Mercury to rebuke him, to recall him to his fated walls and the glory waiting for Ascanius. When he is mindful once again of who he is, Aeneas burns for the onward-going, burns to be underway. This is the first time we have seen him impassioned for the walls he must raise in Latium. But before he can go, there is Dido. Who knows. She lashes out at him in fury, denouncing him as a deceiver and breaker of vows. Aeneas' reply to her is heart-wrenching; we see his heart wrenched. He protests his love for her in a way bitterly ironic in light of what is to come; and yet what more could a lover who is compelled to leave behind him his beloved ever say? These are his words: "I never shall regret remembering Elissa for as long as I remember my own self, as long as breath is king over these limbs." (N, 451-54) Strange words. For this is Aeneas, a man for whom (despite his Carthaginian exile) self and fate are inextricable: To remember himself is to remember his fate; to remember his fate is to leave her; remembering his fate he will remember Dido - what do they mean, these words? He tells her that Apollo's oracle, and Mercury and his father's anxious image urge him; Lycian prophecies tell him that Italy must be his love. It is not his free will, says Aeneas, that leads him to that other love. Dido reviles him. Growing more and more delirious, she says that truly this is the work of High Ones. In fury she tells him to go; heaping curses, she says she will not keep him back. She leaves Aeneas groaning, "shaken in his mind because of his great love." (IV, 542-43) She leaves him hesitating, in fear, and longing to soothe her. But his piety turns him toward his ships, toward that other love, to Italy. When Anna comes to him to make Dido's plea for empty time, even in his great strength, Aeneas is shaken. He stands as a great oak, its crown touching the stars, its roots reaching to Tartarus, the poet says. But Anna's assiduous words are like north winds. The great oak shakes in this wind; it does not fall. Dido wakens in Aeneas for the first time in the memory of the poem an elemental, even a bestial, passion. When he leaves her, he can say for the first time that he loves Italy; for the first time he burns to accomplish his fate. Virgil makes Aeneas tell the reader, in his reply to Dido's accusations, how this has come about: love for Italy derives from love of Dido, love of Dido is 53 �transformed, to love of Italy. That irrational energy which she has aroused, the passion which love of Dido sets loose in his soul is now set toward Italy, transferred to his hard fate. Now Aenea~ has what it talces. I believe this is what Virgil signals when he says in Book VII, "Sing Erato." Sing not the passion of your ~sual song, sing rather what such passions can become. Sing that m some fundamental way it is all one. Without the unfated, uncivilized marriage with Dido, the fateful and lawful marriage with Lavinia might not come to be. Aeneas has begun to learn the significance of the not-good, of the irrational. Until his time with Dido, all that Aeneas has known comes ':ithin the scope of civilization. When he arrives at Carthage he fmds scenes of Troy, splendidly wrought scenes of his greathearted city that fell. When he looks back on Carthage from his ~eeing ship, he sees a sight which can only look to him like Troy m flames. Between the two simulacra of Troy lies a space of time he ~o~~d nei~er tame, no~ prevent, a time unfated and utterly unc1~ihzed. Like the mamage of Paris and Helen, the marriage of Dido and Aeneas - bestial, elemental, pointedly uncivilized - has destroyed civilization. Does Aeneas need to live the violence of such passion himself before he can know that while it has nothing to do with civilized ways, it is yet ge~uinely human, and so, ineluctable as any fate? He arrives at Carthage knowing all there is to know about pious ways and civil man. Does his uncivilized marriage say to us that this is insufficient to secure his long line's fame in the great city he will raise? Does Aeneas need to know that elemental passion is always latent, even in the most civilized breast? Must he know, before he can father great Romans, that which can never be sanctioned in a great civilization, yet is never separable from it? It is as if, before Anchises can inflame the soul of Aeneas with love of Roman glory, Dido must set the kindling. In Book VI Aeneas, obedient to Anchises' command, descends to the Underworld - to seek a meeting with his father, to learn of his coming race, of his walls in Latium. Anchises directs Aeneas to Avernus, to the Sybil; she will guide him past Tartarus to Anchises in the Elysian fields. She will turn out to be a wildly irrational guide. The temple over which the Sybil presides is housed in a cave; the poet has shown us already what irrationality is housed iri caves. When Aeneas and his company are at the threshold, the Sybil's wild heart heaves with frenzy, and .she cries out to him: "Are you so slow with vows and prayers, T~oJan Aeneas? Are you so slow?" (VI, 73-4) Tartarus, she raves, will never open its jaws without his vows. We think of Dido, raving about broken marriage vows. We remember that Aeneas denies having made such vows. . Now the power of the god closes in on the Sybil. His breath ts upon her, but she cannot yet speak, she has not yet yielded to Phoebus. The lines in which she does yield are lines of sexual innuendo: She tries to drive Phoebus from her breast but "he tires out her raving mouth, he tames her wild heart, he shapes by crushing force." (VI, 112-13) He "urges the reins as she raves on; he plies the spurs beneath her breast." (VI, 139-41) Would the pious Aeneas have been willing to consign himself to the 54 guidance of this madwoman if he had not known Dido? Until the point at which he submits to the Sybil, his piety has not been one of access to the inner workings of di vi.Le madness, his piety has been, with a single powerful exception, one of good and proper observance of the rites demanded by household gods - his pious ancestors at Troy. But with submission to the Sybil his piety grows more complex. He is coming to know the value, the sanctity, of this kind of wild irrationality, of high passion. Aeneas' submission to the Sybil's guidance is linked still more directly to his submission to his passion for Dido. After he has retrieved the golden bo•1gh, Aeneas and the Sybil stand at the opening of Avernus; she calls upon Hecate, queen of heaven and hell, and he sacrifices to Night, the mother of the Furies. We have heard Hecate invoked before this - when Dido placed on the pyre their couch, and Aeneas' effigy, clothed in his clothes and armed with his sword. At that moment, she called upon Hecate and the triple-shaped Diana, triune goddess of female initiation to marriage, of whom Hecate is one third. She called upon Hecate, night fell, and Dido was consumed. Her death, like the Sybil's possession by the god, is given to us in lines of sexual innuendo. Dido lay upon the couch that was their bed and, pressing her face into it, murmured endearments to the Trojan's clothes, while she took his sword into her body. The goddess called upon to witness this deadly consummation is the goddess upon whom the Sybil calls to open the way to hell. The Sybil his guide, Aeneas proceeds. At the middle of Book VI, in the Fields of Mourning, he sees Dido. He swears by the gods above and by whatever there is of trust in this netherland, his unwillingness when he left her. Brutally consumed in brutal waste, Dido will not raise her eyes to him. Nothing he can say will move her, though he so clearly wants to move her. When she turns from him he follows with tears and pity. He will at last "struggle on his given way again." (VI, 627) His guide brings him to the Blessed Groves - to his father, who had feared Sidonian Dido, feared that the kingdom of Libya might do so much harm to Aeneas. In the course of the poem we will not hear again that Anchises is frightened for his son's fate; only the Sidonian passion scares the great father. Aeneas catches sight of the river Lethe, and the swarms of heroes flocking to its banks. He wonders. These, says Anchises, are the spirits to whom fate owes a second body, they have gathered here at the river to drink deep drafts of forgetfulness before returning to the upper earth. Aeneas is shocked. Who so mad to long to leave these fields, to long for the light of earth? For answer, Anchises tells his son a tale of the human soul. In the soul, he says, are fiery seeds whose source is heavenly. But these are housed in a dark prison of mortal members and earthly limbs; the body is a plague to the soul, causing sorrows and fears, and joy. Even in death these bodily plagues do not relent, "for taints so long congealed cling fast and deep in extraordinary ways." (VI, 973-75) And here below, each must pay with fresh torment the price of his old taint - each suffers his own shade, the shade his life has merited. It requires the cycle of ages to anneal a soul's stain. When this has been accomplished, shades are summoned by Dis to a great Lethian assembly, where they drink deep and forget the plight of the soul in the flesh, its longings and pains - its joys. Forgetful, they long to return to upper earth. This purification through loss of memory is at the middle of the poem; and it is what Aeneas, not dead but living, must accomplish in order to emerge again to the light of day. Moreover, Aeneas, a living soul, has begun already this arduous purging of the longings and joys of the flesh. In the upper air of Carthage he renoWlced Dido, stood like an oak in the face of their mutual love, her entreaty, his own longing to remain. Alive, he has paid already, in the manner of shades below, a great price of torment for his stay with Dido. Aeneas will forget, in the way of shades departing Lethe, the name. of Dido, but unlike the shades, he will not have been granted a cycle of ages in which to cleanse his memory. Because he lives while he forgets, something will remain. Anchises will fire his son's soul, but it is Dido who has laid this fire. His tale of the soul's cycle complete, Anchises reveals to Aeneas "the fame to come from Dardan sons," (VI, 1000) the Trojan shades who will become the great Caesars of Rome. These names too, he forgets. When he sees the history of Rome bossed on the shield his mother brings to him, he is moved, greatly, but does not know what it is he sees. Anchises brings Aeneas and the Sybil to the Twin Gates of Sleep for their departure from Hades. Through the gate of horn true shades rise to earth. Through the gate of polished ivory, Spirits send false dreams to the world above. Anchises sends Aeneas back to his fate through the gate of polished ivory. Why, why? His departure in this way is almost more harrowing than his descent. Two possible explanations come to mind; but they do not relieve the reader's uneasiness. One: We remember that Aeneas seems somehow to have to do what the shades by the banks of Lethe must do, he too must forget. But he is alive. He will not utter Dido's name again in the course of the poem; and when he sees the scenes on his Vulcanmade shield, he is moved with wonder, but uncomprehending. Aeneas forgets, but something irrational remains with him, something to which he could not put a name, some vague intuition moves his soul. It is true that Aeneas emerges from hell a new man, annealed and ready. But he is not, like the Lethian shades, a clean slate. Though he cannot say what it is that moves him, Aeneas remembers. And we remember his words when he abandoned Dido: for as long as breath moves his limbs, when he remembers himself, he will remember Dido. Does Aeneas rise to earth through the gate of false dreams precisely because some stain oflonging for Dido even now "cling(s) fast and deep?" (VI, 974) Two: In showing the great Romans to his son, Anchises does point out to him the elder Marcellus, but he hopes to pass over Marcellus the younger; Aeneas must persuade his father to name the young man and say something of him. Anchises does so in tears. Marcellus will be but shown to the upper air, fate will not allow him a full lifetime. For ''The line of Rome, o High Ones, would have seemed too powerful for you, if his gifts, too, had been its own." (VI, 1161-63) Anchises' purpose in exhibiting for the soul of his son the future of his long line is to fire his soul for the exigence of that which, shortly, he must do. And to that end, Aeneas must believe that the city which will come from the labors of his progeny will be the proper place for such a one as Marcellus, that it will be such a place and, that the High Ones will not harrow it with their ferocious passions. He ascends, believing in the pious greatness of Rome, through the Gate of False Dreams. He comes to Latium, to the fated place. His arrival there has been safeguarded by Neptune, who has guided the ships safely past Circe's island. (The Trojans are not men to be transformed to raving beasts.) And here it happens that, the men hungry and rations short, they consume their tables. With this, Aeneas realizes where they are. He rouses his men to pour their cups out to Jupiter, the High One, and the household god of Troy, father Anchises. And Jupiter grants them omens: thunder out of a clear sky, a cloud flashing great light and gold. Here the Trojans will raise their new walls. The next morning, Aeneas sends to the king of Latium an embassy of one hundred men, led by Ilioneus. He himself remains behind. At last in the place where he belongs, he stays behind to lay the site of the Trojans' first Latin settlement. We should note that it is not a logical landfall. That is, Aeneas is, at last, in the place that is his, fundamentally his because fated to be so. Yet it is not his. Latins live here. This place that belongs to Aeneas, must be conquered. The embassy comes to the Laurentian palace, a place, it turns out, of great irrationality. It is now the palace of Latinus, but it is called the palace of Picus, Latinus' grandfather, whose father was Saturn. And before Virgil permits Latinus to speak to the Trojan embassy, we hear about Picus - that his bride, Circe, in the clutch of lust, transformed him into a speckled bird. Latinas welcomes the Dardans, saying to them that they have come to a people who need no laws to guarantee their righteousness, for they are sons of Saturn. The Latins hold themselves in check by their own will, he says. The Trojans shall have what they ask of Latinas, but he wants one thing first, to clasp the right hand of Aeneas. He is remembering the oracle of Faun us, that his daughter Lavinia must not marry from among her father's own, but marry with a stranger, for great things await her. He regales the Trojans with gifts, sending to Aeneas a chariot with a pair of fabulous stallions, horses bred by Circe on a mortal mare with seed she stole from her father's stallions. Strange bastard horses, they come to Aeneas from a palace which has seen strange · things. Juno cannot rest. Aeneas is in his place, but she will not rest, for she hates his race. She sends Allecto to break the peace, to "let sudden quarrel spur young men to want, demand and seize the sword." (VII, 449-50) These peaceful sons of Saturn, who need no laws to restrain them, are to be waked to the fury of Juno by the stratagems of Allecto. It is significant that for the most part, as she goes about her hideous task, Allecto does not need 55 I �to implant violent passions, she needs only to rile them up. The snake that winds its way between the breasts and dress of Amata, into her bowels, breaths its serpent breath into a frenzy Amata feels already. Allecto can inflame Ascanius so that he is over avid in the hunt because of his own inherent love of honor. The farmers who respond to Silvia's loss, the young men who rally to Turnus, the mothers who rally to Amata, all have in them something waiting to be stirred. Only Turnus resists. Although he knows that Trojan ships are in the Tiber and is aware that his betrothal is endangered, he laughs at the Fury in her disguise as an old woman. She must assume her full furious strength to rouse him, she must cast a torch of fury into his breast. This torch does not burn brightly there; it smolders with a murky light. But it has its effect. At the Laurentian fortress Turn us lifts the flag of war. Meanwhile, back at the camp, Tiberinus appears to Aeneas and exiles his cares. He gives Aeneas further proofs: the white sow with her sucklings, the sign Hellen us had said to watch for, is nearby. The very earth and all her waters have awaited Aeneas - his household gods are secure. This is his home. But he must set out from home, he must now fulfill the words of the Sybil and seek a Greek city. Tiberinus says he will tell Aeneas what he must do to conquer this land that is his home, this land that has waited for his arrival. He must journey to Arcadia, to Evander's great city, to Pallanteum. What Aeneas will find there are deeper, even more ancient roots and, his future. Aeneas and his men arrive at Pallanteum on the feast day of Hercules. The son of Evander leaves the ceremonies to confront the strangers; he asks to hear who they are, of what tribe? Aeneas tells the young man who he is, and Pallas clasps his right hand in fast welcome. Pallas brings the strangers into his father's city, where Evander will reveal to Aeneas still more about who he is. He tells him that they are relations through Atlas, who props the stars. The king relates for Aeneas the history of the Arcadians, and we who have been guided along the way by Virgil see that Evander is telling Aeneas still more about who he is, that their relation is still closer. Evander says, these groves once were inhabited by a race of men sprung from sturdy oaks, men who had no civilization. We remember that when Aeneas' soul was buffeted by the entreaties of Anna, the strength he found was the strength of an oak. We remember, too, that the great and remarkable piety of this man, who bears with him what remains of a great civilization, was interrupted by a fierce and heedless passion; that, for a time, Aeneas and the queen of Carthage lived outside the bounds of a civilization; that their love destroyed Carthage. The analogy with Paris and Helen is obvious. What is not so obvious is why Aeneas, in the haste and urgency of fleeing a Troy that was burning and falling all around him, should have carried away with him the gold-worked tunic and saffron-fringed veil that belonged to the hated Helen. Was something inexplicable moving in him even then, even as this man remarkable for piety preserved what he could of his great city? Who are you, Pallas asked? 56 The history of Arcadia includes Saturn, who found sanctuary here when he was driven from Olympus by his son. The exiled god came to this land and made a natim. of its untamed men and gave them laws. But Saturnian law is notlike theJ avian law Dido gave at Carthage, not like the law Aeneas gave at various settlements along the way. The law of Saturn is a law of revenge and passion, its guardians are the Furies. Will Evander and Aeneas turn out to be related through Saturn as well? Evander explains to Aeneas how it is that his people honor Hercules with such solemnity, lest he think that the Arcadians neglect the older gods. On ~e, their land was ravaged by the monster Cacus; the ground was always warm with the blood of slaughtered Arcadians. Hercules smashed the monster in his own cavern, opening up that foul place to the light of day, delivering the Arcadians from ferocity. Above all, the Arcadians celebrate the slaying of Cacus. Aeneas is permitted to witness the holy rites in honor of the hero who accomplished every labor set him by the Saturnian Juno. · Evander offers Aeneas an alliance; he will make him chieftain over thousands of Latins. A new Cacus is on the scene; the king Mezentius devises particularly foul and inhuman tortures for his victims. His subjects have driven him from his city, and now Turnus gives him refuge. Augury has revealed to Evander that a successful force against Mezentius must be led not by an Italian, but by a stranger. Like the husband of Lavinia, the deliverer must be a stranger. When he has delivered Latium from Mezentius, Aeneas will have conquered the land that is his, the land that has awaited him. And like Hercules before him, he will have delivered Evander' s people. Aeneas will conquer this land, he will bring the rule of Jovian law into Latium. But he is kinsman, through Atlas, of Evander, whose Arcadia is ruled by Saturn, by that older law which erupts with sudden fury. And now, Aeneas has made an alliance with his kinsman. Evander sends his son, Pallas, with Aeneas. As their galley glides through the night, Pallas clings close to him, and asks to hear his history, his deeds and trials on land and sea. He clings, we have a picture of the young man hanging on every word the great Aeneas says. Like Dido before him. It may be disputed, but in what follows I shall assume that Pallas is the beloved of Aeneas, that the love of Aeneas for Pallas is not only the pious love of father Aeneas who has given his right hand to Evander, but the passionate love of the lover. It is at this point that Venus brings to her son the great shield forged by Vulcan. It is the offspring of a night of love: his wife takes Vulcan into a "soft embrace," (VIII, 509) instantly he catches "the customary flame." (VIII, 510) And in the morning, early, he sets to work. The shield of war born of love has at its center the battle to come at Actium: Antony faces Caesar, his Egyptian wife close behind. The shield's center pictures a man who turned his back, for love of a woman, on Rome - as Aeneas himself, for a time, has done. Sing Erato, of passion and the irrational, Sing the link of love with war. When she presents Aeneas with the shield, Venus, who throughout the poem has held herself aloof from him, shows herself freely and reaches out to embrace her son. Why has she held herself from him before this, and why does she now open her arms? What has changed? Aeneas has allied himself with Evander; he has found that force by which he will conquer Latium. His alliance turns out to be, at some level, an alliance with the law of passion and revenge, that law older than the law of Jove. Because Arcadia is the land of Saturn in exile and the land delivered by Hercules, Aeneas has pledged his right hand to the adamantly passionate. Has Venus found Aeneas, before now, wanting in filial devotion? (Harsh as this sounds! ) Now Aeneas has begun his approach to the rage of the High Ones now, she may embrace him, now he is worthy of this mother's tenderness. Moreover, Venus knows that he has clasped the hand of the boy who will become his ·lover, and be the occasion of rage. She opens her arms. The battle will rage this way and that. Pallas will be notorious in battle, dealing terrible slaughter to the Latins. But he will be killed by Turnus. As he faces him, Pallas calls on Hercules to let the dying Turnus see him, Pallas, strip the bloodied weapons from his enemy. It will not be so. It will be Turnus who takes bloody spoils from Pallas: the fateful belt, on which are engraved fifty slaughtered bridegrooms, an image resonant with the defamation of the inner chambers of Priam's palace. When Aeneas learns of Pallas' death, time slackens its pace: "Pallas... Evander... all are now before his eyes ...." (X, 710-11) The pious hero is infuriated. Before this he has been dutifully valiant, now his warrior's rage is something more than human. In Book XI, Turnus will say to Latinos that he would go boldly to meet Aeneas, though he be "as tremendous as Achilles." (XI, 580-1) By virtue of the huge force that the death of Pallas has for him, Aeneas has taken that name, that rage. Like the death of Patroclus, the death of Pallas sends into battle a ferocious warrior. We turn to the poem's end, to the slaughter of Turnus. Turnus has been defeated in single combat, the fate of Aeneas is accomplished, land and bride are his. Now, as he dies, Turnus implores Aeneas for that which piety cannot deny. He asks the return of his body to his father, saying to Aeneas, remember Anchises, your father - which is to say, remember the household gods of your piety. Aeneas in his goodness wavers, moved in his soul by Turnus' words. But he is moved two ways. His eye falls upon the belt on Turnus' shoulder, and he is enraged; not by the guile of a god, but by the sight of fifty bridegrooms slaughtered there on the belt of his beloved. And it must be that everything at once rushes into his mind: Priam's hundred daughters, the bridal chambers near which Pyrrhus slaughtered Priam, the brutal murder of Deiphobus at Helen's hands. And this: Pallas, son of Evander, Pallas killed by Turnus, Pallas his beloved, Pallas' plundered belt. Frenzied, he butchers a man already dying, attacks the already vanquished in a rage like the rage of High Ones. His fate already accomplished, Aeneas butchers needlessly. Acting outside his fate, and once again, outside the scope of civilization, Aeneas is as a god-like Hercules before him. We remember it is not any young man who has aroused his ferocity, it is the son of Evander whose death Aeneas avenges. He grants the impossible dying wish of Pallas, who called upon his father's guest friend, upon Hercules, to let him slay Turnus. The god heard Pallas' plea, and wept for its impossibility. It is a plea Aeneas could not have heard, and yet, slaughtering Turnus, he cries - Pallas does this! When he kills Turnus, the protector of Mezentius, Aeneas is the new delivererofEvander's people. He is the new Hercules, who grants the dying wish of his beloved Pallas. If such fury waited even in Aeneas, how shall Rome sustain a Marcellus? Rome will not be the place to exclude such gods as Virgil has figured here, they will not have cause to fear that their vengefulness and cruelty will be excluded from the Roman empire. We might even say that with the establishment of the Jovian, the Saturnian is restored; for if Aeneas brings the Jovian into Latium, he does so by overt alliance with the king whose people received Saturn in exile. Moreover, in Book XII, we see Jupiter himself recourse to the Saturnian in order that Aeneas and Turnus face each other unaided by any divinity. He calls on a Fury to terrify Turn us' helpmate, his sister Juturna, into quitting the battle. It is Jupiter who does this. Pious Aeneas as Rome, as the Rome Anchises says they will build together, is not simply pious; he has within him a great store of passion. Because one face of that passion is furious, impious and cruel, Aeneas has had to depart the underworld through the gate of False Dreams. The glory of the Rome to come with which Anchises has inflamed the soul of his son is not unequivocal. When Anchises says, "My sons, do not let such great wars be native to your minds ... cast down the weapon from your hand!" (VI, 1105-1109) and exhorts Aeneas, "Remember Roman ... to teach the ways of peace to those you conquer," (VI, 135-6) the irony is bitter. The shade to whom Anchises speaks, before he returns to earth's upper air, must forget all that he has learned below. By the poet's own device, Anchises' words are as ciphers to the forgetful shade, are like the leaves of the Sybil blown by the wind. And yet his words are necessary. For Anchises must inflame his son not with any fire, but with appropriate fire. To temper, to steel the soul of Aeneas for his arduous fate it must be pious flame Anchises fans. For when Aeneas leaves his father, he does not yet know that he is capable of a violence which ordinary piety could never condone. He must ascend through that gate passionate for what his piety can approve. He must ascend through the Gate of False Dreams. When he drives his blade into Turnus, the wrath of Aeneas is like the wrath of Hercules when he killed the monster Cacus. It · is like the wrath of Juno at the beginning of the poem. Can the mind of pious Aeneas hold such wrath? To ask this is to paraphrase the horrified wonder of Virgil at the beginning of the poem. How can a man remarkable for goodness be made to endure such torments as Juno will devise for Aeneas? "Can such wrath hold the minds of gods?" (I, 18) By the end of the poem the poet will be constrained to ask which god is it can help him to sing the bitterness and the butchery in the minds of Turnus 57 �and Aeneas. He asks Jupiter, can it have been your will that, despite the fact that these two nations were destined to live in peace, they unleashed such brutal, indiscriminate fury - so many men dead? At the close of the poem, Virgil will ask no question to help us with the horror he has presented us. Upon the flight of Turnus' resentful life to shades below, Virgil is silent. Even as our horror is shrieking at us, Virgil is silent. The only words the reader can find to give expression to his shock are a paraphrase of Virgil's opening question. Can such wrath hold the mind of pious Aeneas? It can. And when it does, when Aeneas' piety is coiled round with fury, when he is still plunging his sword into Turrms 'chest, the poem closes. The song is finished. The poet has shown us Rome will rise. what we need to see. 59 58 �Ricardo J.H. Beall The Other Face of Darkness -for Harry Golding J.H. Beall Her hands, the saddened darkness touched once. The future is history: her hair, the curve of her neck gently following spaces held between muscle and bone as though tension were the only metaphor for love. Look back. The mind is filled with shards of glass green of their own volition, or her eyes in a moment's repose before sleep, bruited of that color which sits above the horizon, culled from a litany of distance and blue. Of the future's hue, that opalescence we confined in, nothing serves but the tin-cup smell of water, warm on a dry, hot day, as it parts our lips like another's tongue, without words. In beginning, the trees mimic the colors of the fall. Though subtler, shades conspire and cut the throat of the bud's reticence. Then green is poured into the flagon of the air. Our eyes swill the mind's declension of the tongue's delight - green as a liquor. Thoughts hold tightly the fact that green is poured into the flagon of the air. All of this - the meridians' convergence, the circumstance of the sun's other motion into summer - like arteries pump green liquid into the flagon of the air. And we see the other face of darkness - light penitent for the winter' s sorrows, and with spring become contained by an emerald light poured into the flagon of the air. 60 61 I I �If you are not currently working at or attending St. John's, and you would like to continue receiving Energeia by mail, be sure to return this slip to: ENERGEIA St. John's College P.O. Box 2800 Annapolis, Maryland 21404-2800 Your name: Angel and Quill Nathan J. Humphrey 62 Address: � 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. 62 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 1992 Description An account of the resource Issue of the Energeia, published in Spring 1992. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Dennis, Douala (Senior Editor) Seidman, Jeff (Junior 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 1992 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 1992 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. 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. 75 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 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