1 20 15 https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/4e162e6a5f099cd691d558192a021ad3.pdf c4472aa7c5a8a8bc6b23e70059c8ce4c PDF Text Text COLLOQUY A Journal for the Graduate Institute Community St John’s College Annapolis (colloquy: see Erasmus) Issue #1, May 2017 Comments/Suggestions? Want to volunteer? Contact colloquy@sjc.edu photo by Joshua Price �CONTENTS Telling Our Stories 1. 2. SYMPOSIUM ON the Opening Question: Opening Remarks by Ms. BRann 3. INTERVIEW with Ms. brann & an Insight on reading from Mr. Zeiderman 4. Spring 2017 Toast to the Graduate Students by Mr. Zeiderman Ms Eva Brann, who shared her insights for the symposium on the opening question, sponsored by the graduate council committee on instruction. see pages 22 - 24 2 �1. Telling Our Stories Dear Readers - We asked ourselves and our fellow GI students to “tell our stories” - how we learned about the SJC Graduate Institute and then why we applied to the program. Thank you TO ALL of you WHO took the time to share your STORIES. In April we hosted a GI community “Tell Your anecdote / Story” gathering around the table in the Hartle Room to celebrate this theme. We hope to offer this gathering anew each semester. Thanks to Mr Wampler, first semester GI, for suggesting the “in person” gathering on this theme and thanks also to Mr. McIntire, current GI student, for his encouragement and counsel throughout. FOR THE NEXT ISSUE WE ASK FOR your vignettes ON THIS THEME: My First GI Semester: 1) A Moment of Realization, 2) or an instance of what I’d have done differently, if I could do it over… Please send your stories to colloquy@sjc.edu yours truly, the Graduate Council, May, 2017 3 �Matthew Dean, GI Alum (2016) When I was in college, majoring in philosophy and the classics, my boxing coach and Ancient Greek teacher told me, as an aside, during a discussion of Euripides' Trojan Women, that SJC was the last bastion of western civilization. Then he went right on talking about Euripides, but I knew his most important teachings were contained in his asides. I remember thinking - well, I'm already a sophomore, so it's too late to go there now. After graduation, I spent three years teaching English in China. I returned to the college's website and learned about the GI program and submitted my application while I was still in China. It signified all that my teacher had offhandedly suggested; I therefore applied with great fear and much trembling. Nor did I apply before I visited in the summer of 2014. Jet lagged from a 13 hour flight, I drove to Annapolis to visit as a prospective student. The college was formidable, I remember thinking. Ms. Pincus sat answering questions while I fumbled through a list in my notebook. She was and is patient and kind. I doodled to stay awake in seminar, and then drank beer and asked questions at ASG. Sensing that I was in no condition to drive back to D.C., Dakota Fuller offered me a blanket and a place to sleep in the dorms. I woke before the birds and walked the campus. Summer morning at dawn gave an account of the town and college with which my wakefulness agreed. Haley Prickett, current GI student As a lover of learning, I was auditing one of my colleague's classes my second year of teaching. It was Classical Civilizations and I was reading many of the myths of Ancient Gods and Heroes along with teenagers in a boarding school in New England for the first time. I loved all of it. My colleague, the teacher Mr. McDonough, would often sit in silence while we (the students) would try to piece together the legends of Heracles, the craftiness of Prometheus, the fickle actions of Hera, and so on. He would, in a very tutor-like way, ask a question, or point us to a passage that might help us make sense of what we could not. I found so much joy in the process of piecing the stories together, finding parallels and connections, and one day when I lingered after class to ask him what his thoughts were about--the scales of justice, and the relationship between appearance and reality. He did not answer me directly (or so I thought) when he said--"you should apply to St. John's for your Master’s degree--you'd love it." I felt dissatisfied. But, I did some research, and saw you didn't need a GRE score— I figured, why not. 4 �I applied and was accepted. I ordered my books and had no idea what to expect, but then, does one ever know what to expect when walking up to the seminar table? No. That innate unexpectedness is what makes St. John's what it is-there are no two classes that are the same, each is unique, each is organic, and each has made me feel as if I've spent my time well. Jeremy Sheeler, current GI student I ended up at St. John's like, I think, pretty much all GIs--by fortuna: chance or fate. For the last ten years, I had been reading philosophy and history in my free time, and recently began writing for various websites in relation to these studies. One day, I received an email from someone who saw a comment I left on a blog about a book he and I both admired very much: The Closing of the American Mind by Allan Bloom. Apparently, what I had written resonated with him, and he googled my name and came across my writing. As luck would have it, he was also about to be visiting his cousins in two weeks, who just so happened to live in Baltimore, the very city in which I resided. To make a long story short, when we met up, he informed me he would be attending a school just 45 minutes down the road the following fall, and welcomed me down to hang out whenever I'd like. So that following fall I took him up on it and began attending Friday night lectures and other activities on campus. As a result, he kept encouraging me to apply to the school, but I was hesitant, for two reasons: 1) I was still hoping that shouting into the abyss of the internet would somehow translate into a career; and 2) I only have an Associate's Degree. As time went on, he finally convinced me to at least sit in on classes to see how I liked it. Within the first ten minutes of the tutorial, I was sold; and then having that followed by a precept on War and Peace, I was enthusiastic. I applied immediately, although I was worried because I did not have the necessary degree requirements. But thankfully St. John's is the most amazing/strangest school on earth, and the only real requirement is a love of learning. (Although I'd like to think my application essay had something to do with it, since, in my humble opinion, it is the best piece I have ever written.) Or perhaps it was just Fortuna continuing her work. John Felis, current GI student In the fall of 2016 after a long and much welcomed hiatus from formal education, I began looking into masters programs in my native Michigan, thinking it would be a good idea to study philosophy, which has always been a favored pursuit of mine for its own sake. 5 �At the time, I worked at an optical supply company and while the people were good it not only left much to be desired, but seemed, at first sight and probably last, like a cheap satire from a 90's's movie. You know - the sort where the main character is perpetually unfulfilled and other such dribble that itself is unfulfilling to the viewer. Yet, art does imitate life or is it that life imitates arts. I don't rightly know. If only there was a place where strange people would care to discuss such things until they found the fulfillment that is lacking in almost all current art. It was not so much that I didn't want to continue working at what we have thought to call for some reason a "grownup job" (because it is certainly the case that mothers who work in diners are mere children themselves); it was more so the absurdity of preforming successive task after task with no discernable end in an ugly little building where all sunlight is replaced by florescent lighting. If I had not had the misfortune of reading Aristotle, I could have slept soundly with the fact that money was the end itself and by repeating this to myself in the fashion of modern psychology I could have probably gotten along fine for quite a while with full knowledge that I and those around me were, in truth, happy people. What bewildering paradoxes have been dumped on us in the wake of our five hundred year enlightenment. Supposed Knowledge had first set us free from many oppressions and then enslaved us to depression and finally it is in knowing that we find the latter out only to be too isolated by the fruits of the former to do anything about it. But what luck! One day a friend of mine informed me that a place called St. John's College exists. I went online that night and read nearly the entire website, conducted other research into the program and the next day I began work on my admissions essay. Although I had never set foot on campus, I imagined it the perfect place to look for this new sort of knowledge, which does not know at all, but continues to think over it to one's betterment. In this, I have found no disappointment. Patrick Anderson, current GI student I don’t remember when I first heard of SJC or the GI. It wasn’t before I decided to attend the University of King’s College as an undergrad, nor was it after I graduated. At eighteen I left New Jersey, where I anomalously grew up, and moved to Halifax, Nova Scotia. I spent six years studying the classics and philosophy, and being confused, less by these than by the vexations of early adulthood. I hoped by the end that the answers wouldn’t come from a text or even a library, but from time and experience, accompanied perhaps by manual labor. 6 �I put formal education on indefinite hold and moved to BC and later to Toronto, in pursuit of technical knowledge, friendship and love. Traditional graduate programs having long since lost all appeal, the satisfaction of spending another four semesters reading and discussing enduring texts was for a long time impractical, not least because I knew that St. John’s was the only place where that was still possible for me. Although the past seems to have more stability than the present, I can say that these days I farm near Toronto during the summer and fall of each year and attend the GI in the spring, which gives the theoretical time to engage the practical in a way I’ve long felt it should. Andrew McIntire, current GI student If I was to tell this story a year-and-a-half ago it would be a simple tale: I attended the St. John’s College Naval Academy croquet tournament with a journalist friend who was writing a story about the event. It was there that I met recent alums of the Graduate Institute and learned of the program. At the time, I was considering leaving my corporate job, despite not having a firm sense of what was next. I had a lingering feeling that I had not yet received an education (whatever that means), and the GI seemed like a good way to spend my time while exploring options of what would follow my career as a government consultant. Simply put, many of the books I wanted to read were on St. John’s College’s reading lists, and exploring them in a classroom environment seemed like an enjoyable endeavor as part of an enriching community. As I saw it, my life would unfold as it would, and this would be a nice stop on the path. Another equally true way to describe the motivations that led me to apply to the St John’s College GI program begins much earlier than my 2014 attendance at the croquet tournament. An English teacher in my third year of high school had a framed piece of needlepoint on his wall that was crafted by his wife. It depicted what I thought was a simple enough phrase: “You are responsible for your own education.” Now, this may seem tangential but it’s quite important to the story: I am privileged in the sense that as a child I was immersed in culture, science, art, history, and literature. There were relative experts around me who shared their passion and knowledge of their respective areas of interest. I absorbed ideas from them to the degree that I could seem intelligent and cultured, and yet my own curiosities remained dormant. My adult life choices were largely informed by what I perceived those close to me thought was best; where to attend college, what to major in, where to pursue work, what career to choose. 7 �In a practical sense, my opinions and choices that emerged led me to productive endeavors, and professional and personal successes. I could, however, never really answer the question, “Why?” Said another way, I was clueless as to what caused me to take the paths I took. In some sense, I had not taken responsibility for my own education. I do not know if I was pushed or pulled towards the Graduate Institute. While working and reading with others who have amazing insights and impassioned minds, in this place, I still remain, and a familiar question followed me: Is what I truly want available to me here? If I am doing it right and if a St. John’s College education serves as a guide in the acquisition of knowledge about myself and the world that I do not already possess then I made the right choice to apply to the program regardless of my initial motivation. John Richard Moore, GI alum (2015) It all began on a Saturday afternoon in the mid-1990’s while I was mindlessly channel surfing in search of a baseball game. I came across something called “Book TV” and on that channel was someone named Eva Brann being interviewed as she sat in a room surrounded by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that were bursting with books. Naturally, I paused, and listened as she described a school that sounded remarkable, but almost certainly out of reach of someone with my engineering background. Several years later I found myself out for dinner with some work colleagues and one of them had invited a friend who was a tutor at St. John’s to join us. Over a meal and a not insignificant amount of wine our conversation meandered to the way mathematics and science were taught at St. John’s. Apparently these folks thought it best to learn these subjects using “original” texts and to read about the topics in chronological order. By the time the tutor got to the story of how some early physiologist proved that blood circulated in the body and how shortly before that discovery was announced a number of dogs went missing in his neighborhood, I found myself intrigued with this school, though a bit put off my meal. Several years later, increasingly frustrated with my job and desperately needing some kind of intellectual stimulation, I recalled the interview with Ms. Brann and my dinner with the St. John’s tutor. By this time there was an Internet, so I found the St. John’s website and learned that they had something called “Saturday Seminars” that could be attended by anyone. 8 �I felt confident that I could pass myself off as “anyone” so I decided to sign up for a seminar on Book I of Plato’s Republic given by Bill Pastille. That was all it took. It turned out that St. John’s conducted a variety of community seminars, and that I could attend Weekend Seminars and something called Executive Seminars, of which I quickly availed myself. But it turned out that all the Weekend and Executive Seminars being offered were not enough for me. The books, the conversations in the seminars, and the people participating in those conversations were like a powerful opiate – I needed more and more to satisfy my craving. And just like an addict, the craving eventually forced me to stop working (fortunately I was close enough to retirement that this was not as grave as it sounds) and enroll full time in the Graduate Institute. Celine Healey, current GI student My first experience with St. John’s College was after I moved to Annapolis with my family in the early 1990s. Whenever I had the chance, I would walk the campus and wonder about all of the people who had been there before me. Becoming a student was only a dream at the time, and I used to tell myself if I had to do it all over again, this was the place that I would choose, but I was a working mother with two sons, and returning to school didn’t seem to be in my future. When the economy declined, I lost my job working as an institutional investor for a corporate credit union. I looked for work for over a year without success. It was a tough time for me, personally, to go from having a career to no longer having a sense of purpose. My husband Dan suggested that maybe it was time for me to go back to school. I had not completed my undergraduate degree, and it had always been a stigma for me. Finally, this seemed like the perfect time. After I earned my undergraduate degree I wanted to continue with graduate school, but I could not find a single program that was interesting to me. I was tired of taking a bunch of required classes that I had no real interest in. Once again, I found myself at a crossroads. One day I was looking at the SJC website to determine when the croquet match was taking place. It was something I had always wanted to attend and never took the opportunity. While I was looking around the website, I noticed the Graduate Institute. I had no idea that the college had a graduate program. I read the reading list and I could not find one thing I did NOT want to read. I was over the moon. I quickly contacted Mr. Crouse, went for a visit, and attended a few classes. I applied, and thankfully I was accepted. My experience has been more enriching than I could have imagined, sometimes I still can’t believe that I am a student here. 9 �I only have a few classes to finish before I graduate. However, I will always maintain my ties to SJC. It is my academic home! Elizabeth Janthey, GI alum (2015) I regularly attend theater productions in the DC area. In 2009, as I waited for a play to begin at the Olney Theater, I browsed the program and discovered a tiny ad for the GI program at St John's College. I had heard of St John's and vaguely knew that they read books, but I had no idea the college had a graduate program. At that moment, I decided that attending this program was exactly what I wanted to do when I retired. In 2012, I finally notified management that I was leaving, and only then decided to visit the school. I did the readings and sat in on a tutorial and a seminar. Yes, I concluded, attending the GI program is exactly what I wanted to do. My last work day was in August of 2012, and the very next day I started to write my application essay. My subject was Plato's Meno. I had absolutely no idea that was the first dialog each incoming GI student reads with his cohorts nor did I know it was the first and most important dialog discussed in the Philosophy/Theology segment. Luckily, I centered my paper on the dialogue's dramatic structure and I don't think I made any sweeping and silly pronouncements. I was so young and naive in those days that I never even considered the possibility that I might not be accepted. But I was accepted, and I began my career at St John's with the 2013 Spring Semester in Politics and Society. Classes were much harder than I expected, and the reading much more difficult and time consuming. Three weeks into the semester, I was questioning my sanity and thinking perhaps I had made a mistake; everyone was so much better prepared than I was and so much more articulate. But this is really where I wanted to be, so I would not allow myself to wimp out and quit. And it was the best decision I ever made; I met inspiring and dedicated tutors along with thoughtful and insightful classmates. I read authors like Aristotle and Hobbes, whom I never expected to ever read because I was sure they were too difficult or out of date or inaccessible. I will never forget the satisfaction I experienced upon understanding a difficult passage or finishing War and Peace or delivering a labored-over preceptorial paper. I graduated in May of 2015 after completing all five segments; receiving my diploma that day was the proudest moment of my life. Oh, by the way, Mr. Crouse told me the notice I saw in the Olney Theater's program was the first and only time St John's ever ran such an ad for the GI program. So, I ask you, did fate draw my eye to that tiny bit of text in the back of the play bill? 10 �Bonnie Naradzay, current GI student I learned about programs at St. John’s College in Annapolis because I attended a summertime week-long session that was housed at St. John’s in Santa Fe, though the session was not connected with the college. My first encounter with St. John’s tutors was when I met some who gather weekly in a courtyard there to play music on the fiddle and other musical instruments, including a washtub bass. I myself was learning Irish fiddle tunes at the time, so I was captivated. And in line at mealtimes, I chatted with St John’s students – undergraduates and those in the GI program who were attending summer semesters there. The stories they shared, and the joy they felt, stayed with me. One student told me about the legendary Eva Brann. Curious to learn what might be available at the Annapolis campus, since I live in Silver Spring, Maryland, I wandered into the SJC Santa Fe administrative offices to find out how I could learn about events back East. Months later, I received an email about seminars on various stories to occur one winter morning on the Annapolis campus. Too many choices! I signed up for Dostoevsky’s “The Dream of a Ridiculous Man.” The textual, communal way of abiding with the story, starting with a guiding question, was new to me, and I was hooked. So, I started signing up for “community” weekend seminars with Mr. Pastille and Mr. Townsend. GI alumni sometimes participate in these seminars, and I began to learn about the GI program, still a mystery, from them. Although Mr. Townsend mentioned the Executive Seminars, and said he’d been leading them for at least twenty years in Washington, D.C. at the Cosmos Club, I assumed these were for, well, Executives. But that was a misnomer, because I got in. Around this time, after I’d participated in a four day Piraeus discussion of Dante’s Inferno, I got wind of the free Friday Night Lectures in Annapolis and learned there would be a lecture on Ugolino’s tears. I can’t explain it, but that evening, despite a blinding rainstorm, I had to go. Getting there was a nightmare; I could scarcely see to drive, and the Beltway and Route 50 are never easy. Arriving, I felt a huge relief. The lecture was worth the trip. Then one day in late August, 2015, just before starting my second year with the Executive Seminar (with the other non-Executives), I had an overwhelming urge to apply to the Graduate Institute. Sitting in my cubicle at work, I found the website, called the number, and, as fate would have it, Mr. Crouse picked up the phone. Thinking the program might start in mid-September, I asked him when the next semester would begin. “Next Wednesday,” he said. “If we get your application by then, and you’re admitted, you can start.” With no time to spare, I assembled the required materials. 11 �Almost as an afterthought, while calling Mr. Crouse to check on details, I asked him, “How much is it?” When he told me, I laughed with disbelief and said, “That’s the exact amount I’ve saved up to replace my heating and air conditioning system!” Mr. Crouse replied gravely, “This is a much better use of your money.” Nathaniel Booth, current GI student During my later years in college, I was granted an internship at the Census Bureau. I worked there for three summers and was on course to receive a job when I graduated. The summer of my senior year in college, in the last week of the internship, our higher ups invited us to a career and opportunities meeting to let us know – that there were no careers or opportunities available. The program had lost its funding and was not able to hire us when we graduated. So, after I graduated, I hustled hard to find a job, an internship, heck –any kind of opportunity. I started to wrestle with the idea of going back to school to get my masters, but I knew I didn’t want to get a “trade masters” such as an MBA, or study law or public policy, but I knew I wanted to study and learn. I started looking up programs on philosophy and liberal studies and in 2012 I stumbled across St. John’s College’s Master’s Program. I looked at the Great Books and the type of study and became instantly excited. That same week I scheduled a visit, got a tour of the campus, and sat in on a tutorial on Aristotle’s Ethics. I loved my visit, but something inside of me was not quite settled. I didn’t think it was practical to just sit around and read books; what was I going to do with that? Because it didn’t make sense, I pushed the idea of St. John’s out of my head, although never far from my mind, but I needed to make money and start my career, right? I ended up getting a job for a nonprofit in DC as an Assistant Project Manager. I got raises, got promotions, was sent to training courses and got all sorts of professional certifications but I was FAR from satisfied. I hated the monotony of the day, the three-hour daily commute, pretending to be interested during meetings about procedures. I was completely unfulfilled. I picked up a book called The Defining Decade, and one of the main premises of the book was about not putting off your passions, or “dreams,” in hopes of the “right time” because now is the right time. It resonated with me greatly, and no matter how far I pushed St. John’s out of my head, I couldn’t shake that THAT was all I wanted to do, read those books and learn. So, after four years of professional work, I quit my job, used my savings to pay off my bills, and came to St. John’s in the summer of 2016. Truthfully, it has been one of the greatest decisions I have ever made. 12 �Nothing is better than engaging in this community and diving into the depths of the texts, surrounded by follow divers. I am a proud G.I. Johnny (Term credited to JOHN TOMARCHIO). Amy Bittner, current GI student In high school, I excelled in mathematics, a skill which led to pharmacy school and a career as a pharmacist. As such, I never imagined myself at a liberal arts school, despite the appeals of my high school friends regarding the benefits of a parallel literature and history class which we were offered. Years later, while determining that a classical education was what I wanted for my daughter, I discovered a book entitled Well-Educated Mind: A Guide to the Classical Education You Never Had. I was hooked. A few friends and I read Don Quixote and discussed it at the park while our preschoolers played. My enchantment with the classics had begun. A few years later, our homeschool tutorial began its Great Books program with the help of a St. John’s GI student. He held lunchtime discussions for moms on Plato’s Meno and The Republic. Although other moms dropped out, I was there until the end, taking in every word and asking lots of questions. The next year I started tutoring high school Great Books classes. After reading works of the Ancient Greeks and Romans for several years, I knew there was more after Augustine’s City of God. I also knew that there was more to learn about how to approach these books. It was like looking out a window, hungry to go outside and explore what I knew was there but hadn’t experienced. In a restless state, I rediscovered the St. John’s Graduate Institute that I’d all but forgotten. After studying the website, I requested information, which sat next to my bed for two years. Eventually, after sticking my toe in with a weekend seminar on works of Joseph Conrad and then a Saturday session on the Federalist Papers, I knew St. John’s had what I was looking for. With my oldest child graduating high school, the time was ripe. There was a lot of hand wringing about whether I could pull this off at my stage in life, but once I enrolled, I knew St. John’s GI program was what I had been looking for. Graduation is right around the corner, and the experience has been everything I hoped it would be and more…challenging, enlightening, fulfilling, and life changing. 13 �Sean Hutzell, current GI student My undergraduate degree was in Humanities and International Studies, and my theses were on two unlikely topics: a reflection on how photography impacted the civilian perception of death during the American Civil War, and a study of Scotland’s whisky industry, which was an attempt to understand connections between tourism, culture, and theories of alterity. Courtesy of my alma mater, Washington College, I was given a grant to go to Scotland, conducting interviews, touring distilleries, and of course, drinking my way across the highlands. As a photographer myself, I used the opportunity to continue my work with landscape and natural photography, while increasing a portrait portfolio of interviewees, capturing the location and the people who creating the water of life. After college, I worked as a professional photographer, both independently and for a photographer based in Baltimore. My photography had already been used for advertising programs at Washington College that I had participated in – a trip to the Native American Reservations in the Southwest, where I heard stories of First Man and First Woman at sacred Navajo sites; a trip to Tanzania, where I taught at schools and hunted with native tribes; Study Abroad experiences across Europe, with a home base of study in Milan. I finished my education by representing Iran at a Model United Nations Conference in Seoul. To subsidize my fungible schedule and income (not to mention an acquired taste for whisky), I worked at a liquor store. There I put my theoretical knowledge into practice as customers tested my knowledge on what kind of red chardonnay they should buy, oir where the six packs of Blue Moon wine were. I enjoyed the company of my coworkers and the knowledge I gained, which helped me independently pursue both a sommelier certification and whisky ambassadorship, but I was not intellectually stimulated. I wanted more and began my search to return to higher education. I had already rejected a chance to study history at St. Andrews, so I was prepared to start from scratch. I had just two initial requirements: • I would look locally, so I could continue my photography work. • I would not take the GRE, which would not accurately reflect my liberal arts education and the adventures I’ve had so far. After a few misses, I stumbled across St. John’s College. The program was diverse, and it appealed to my sense of wonder and distinct interests. 14 �I applied in October of 2015 and was accepted. In November, I visited the college for the first time. I started the program in January, 2016, and graduate in May. I look forward to continued textual readings and many more conversations with friends, this time with a dram or two as we share our thoughts. Donald Antenen, current GI student I dropped out of high school in Cincinnati, Ohio after my sophomore year and shortly afterwards earned my GED. I did not plan on attending college because I thought higher education was corrupt and corrupting (I was right: it is).  After briefly living in a tent in New Orleans, I moved to Kentucky and worked in a series of low-paying jobs. In Kentucky I met my wife, and we moved to Philadelphia so that she could earn an advanced degree in social work. I decided that I wanted to learn ancient languages, so I studied Greek, Latin, and Biblical Hebrew at the University of Pennsylvania and graduated in 2015. I liked being in school and wanted to read and learn more, so we moved to Annapolis so I could continue my studies at St. John's. Like everyone who likes to read old books, I had heard of the College and envied its reading lists. I also befriended a few Johnnies in Philadelphia. It turns out that St. John's is even more interesting than I thought it would be; it is less a place for reading old books than it is a place for experimenting with new ways of thinking. While the opportunity costs of pursuing a vocationally useless masters degree in my late 20s are high (and I should have been thinking about how best to support my family), I have no regrets. Now I am managing the office of a small marketing firm, translating Genesis from Hebrew prose to English verse, and trying to figure out a career that will allow my wife to stay home with our daughter. Over the coming decades I hope to help discover or create new modes and orders of thinking to replace the collapsing scientific and philosophical epoch that began in the 17th century. However unhelpful my time at St. John's has been to the pursuit of a career, it has been pivotal for my thinking about the future(s) of thinking. And the contemplative life is the best life, right? Joseph Keegin, current GI student I was 19 years old in 2006 when I dropped out of college and devoted myself to extremist leftist politics and radical environmentalism. I spent four years hitchhiking and riding freight trains to various protests and conferences and such 15 �before moving to a small mostly-off-the-grid farm in southern Kentucky to escape the insanity of it all. I passed two years making plants grow and reading books until a friend did some bad things and ended everything. I moved north to Lexington and spent a year preparing expensive breakfast foods for money and using my free time to write poems, record music, and read voraciously and omnivorously. At the end of 2011 my best friend died, and I moved to Louisville. In response to those years of tumult and loss, I felt desperate for permanence, so I decided to go back to school to study philosophy. I also studied German because I liked how Kafka’s despair and melancholy reminded me of my own, and I wanted to read his books in German rather than in translations. It didn’t take long in my philosophy program to realize that I didn’t care much about logic beyond its influence on crafting coherent speech and writing and its use in making fun puzzles to work through. Nor did I share the enthusiasm for grand philosophical systems that was demonstrated by so many others in my program. My teachers all seemed to think that philosophy in our time consists primarily of research essays about great thinkers or logical analyses of their arguments, but I wasn’t convinced. I read Plato’s “Meno” and learned that philosophy has something to do with living and involves asking way weirder and more fundamental questions than anything I had been reading had dealt with. A seminar on Aristotle’s “Nicomachean Ethics” left me bewildered and amazed and gave me a taste of what it’s like to engage in a search for truth with others. All the while, I became ever more aware of the deficiencies of my education. I noticed that for every one book I encountered written by a great and visionary thinker, I read a dozen essays by professors in academic philosophy departments whose names I will never remember. My German studies didn’t fare much better. I enjoyed puzzling through the Althochdeutsch of the Nibelungenlied and memorizing poems by Andreas Gryphius and Neidhart von Reuenthal, but my classmates were always too afraid to sound stupid by speaking clumsy German, so they remained silent as the moon. Most of them had no real interest in German beyond the language’s being a whimsical and novel curiosity or maybe an eventual gateway to a job. The class sessions were passionless. I devoured Schiller, Lessing, Goethe, and Brecht but could never find a willing interlocutor with whom to discuss them. It became clear to me that there was something I was trying to find in my education that I wasn’t getting, though at the time I could not have elaborated what it was. 16 �At some point my old friend Don Antenen moved to Annapolis to enroll in the Graduate Institute at St. John’s College. I’d never heard of the school, but he regularly sent me dispatches from his time in the program and it all sounded wonderful. Reading wonderful old books themselves rather than articles about the books; class meetings based on discussion, not lectures and note-taking; classrooms filled with people from a wide range of backgrounds, all engaged on the search together. I visited over a summer when classes weren’t in session and Ms. Pincus took me on a rainy tour of the campus. I visited the next spring, talked with Mr. Crouse about his life, and sat in on a class about Hegel with Mr. Zeiderman and a seminar on Augustine. I felt very intellectually at home. I moved to Annapolis in August and started classes shortly thereafter. I am beginning to understand what I have been looking for. Robert Tonucci, current GI student I was first exposed to SJC in a Summer Classics seminar in Santa Fe in 1993. We read the Iliad in six days, and the lead tutor was John Agresto, then the President of SJC Santa Fe. After that experience, I wanted to attend the GI program, and I longed for the chance to do so.
 
 In 2009 I lost my security clearance. In April 2011 I paid off my house. In November 2011 my father died. I decided to turn post-mid-life crisis into post-midlife renaissance, so in June 2012 I quit my job and decided to use my GI Bill benefits. After two years at the U. of MD, College Park for a library science degree, I applied to the GI in Annapolis (writing my entrance essay on Quentin Crisp's 1984 self-help manual Manners from Heaven). Since then, it's been one miraculous moment after another: learning to read a clause at a time rather than a sentence at a time, and learning from Hobbes and Aristotle to shake off pusillanimity and small-souledness (not to mention tuck in my shirt and not wear sneakers and socks after 5 PM).
 
 I’ve now been shown the door (i.e., I’m graduating). I’d love to do the four year undergrad program, but my GI Bill benefits have almost run out---although I’m considering starting a GoFundMe page to raise money for the tuition…. Michael Birdsell, current GI student I found St. John’s College via Bangkok, Thailand, where I landed in 1997, after a promising career in San Francisco left me asking, “Is this all there is to life?” I set out to search for answers, literally. My goal was to explore the world 17 �and then attend graduate school. My journey started by teaching English on Japan’s southern island of Kyushu, which led to a history teaching position at the International School of Bangkok (ISB). It was there that I first learned the Socratic method. The humanities faculty at ISB encouraged this style of instruction. Ironically, I tried to push through Plato's Republic shortly after college, yet its message was not resonating within me at that time, so it went back on the shelf. That said, it was indeed this rich experience at ISB that led me to St. John’s and to rediscover the Republic, 17 years later. After teaching in Bangkok, I returned to the U.S. committed to teach, to grow, and live a multi-cultural life. I worked with Native American students of the Navajo and Tohono O’odham Nations in the desert southwest. I slept in ancestral Hogans, took part in Navajo spiritual ceremonies, sheared and butchered sheep and made “home calls” down never-ending dusty roads to visit students who lived in mud-walled, dirt-floored "modern" Wickiups. I also taught at international boarding schools in northern California and Arizona that focused on outdoor education, and I made a home in the beautiful Sierra Nevada mountain setting of Lake Tahoe. Life was good. All I needed was to start working on a Master’s degree in something – most likely, history. Instead, I accepted an opportunity working with university researchers and eventually joined a team promoting an inexpensive breakthrough in cancer detection. This team included a researcher from nearby Georgetown University, yet this was not my connection to St. John’s. No, this would occur via a beach bench in San Diego. I sat on this bench in 2015 to study for an offshore sailing certification, and there I met my future wife. She crews on a sail racing team here in Annapolis and asked if I sail. A little over a year later we married, and I moved to Annapolis. But wait, what about Bangkok? Well, this is a wonderful story of the long and winding road that often takes us directly to where we want to be in the first place! If we rewind 17 years to my time in Bangkok, she was teaching at a nearby International School in Singapore. A mutual friend decided we should get together, yet the only contact we ended up having was a tour of Bangkok I gave her and her family one day during a visit. They took lots of pictures, and I ended up in their family photo album. So after a 45-minute conversation, 17 years later, on that beach bench in San Diego, she recognized me and asked my last name. She then proclaimed, “You toured me around Bangkok!” Shortly after we arrived in Annapolis, and just as casually as she asked my last name on that bench, she turned to me and said, “you should check out St. John’s Graduate Institute. I think you would love it.” She was absolutely right. 18 �I finally read the Republic, and it is the best book I’ve ever read, so far… I couldn’t have imagined the intellectual stimulation, community, and sense of belonging that awaited me here at St. John’s College. It’s the most enriching experience of my life, and I’m just getting started, again. Staci Hill, current GI student Because I enrolled in the GI program soon after I graduated from college, my route to St. John’s may seem fairly straightforward - but to me, it feels just as circuitous as others’ stories. I went straight to college after high school without thinking about why I should be in college in the first place. Moreover, I was guaranteed admissions to USC’s Pharm.D. program if I completed my undergraduate degree with a sufficient GPA, but I had no idea what pharmacy was. I knew it would be lucrative and demand a knowledge of chemistry (a subject I am very fond of). After my first program meeting, I realized I wanted nothing to do with pharmacy. And after three months into my freshman year, I realized USC was not the right place for me. I transferred to Middlebury College my sophomore year and could not have been happier. I was beginning to taste what it meant to be liberally educated (although in retrospect, I realize just how far away I was). At Middlebury I majored in chemistry, and in my senior year my professors were encouraging me to apply to Ph.D. programs right away. But that did not feel right. In December of my senior year, I was sitting in a room full of books in my friend’s apartment and stumbled upon Eva Brann’s Paradoxes of Education in a Republic. After reading the first few pages, I needed to learn about the author. I found out that Ms. Brann is a tutor here, and so it was through her book that I discovered St. John’s. I browsed the college website and found the GI program, and I became hooked. The fact that I wanted to come to St. John’s to earn a Masters in the Liberal Arts before pursuing a Ph.D. in chemistry was a difficult thing for me to articulate. So I played it off as a joke for a while. But I could not shake the idea that the program was what I had to do - what I needed to do - before I did anything else. The following fall, after an internship abroad, I applied both to Ph.D. programs in chemistry and to St. John’s Graduate Institute. I started St. John’s the subsequent spring as I began to hear back from chemistry programs. I was fortunate enough to be able to defer my acceptance to a Ph.D program in order to finish St. John’s. I will forever be grateful that it worked out so well and that I could complete the program here. St. John’s is the perfect program for anyone interested in the sciences. The curriculum - while not overtly scientific - teaches 19 �you the key to doing successful science: how to ask a question and how to start exploring an answer. It seems simple enough, but after four years of college and four years of high school where scientific truths were presented as such, it becomes difficult to ask yourself why? or how? or when? Often I felt all the questions I was asked had answers, and the answers were in the back of books or behind the professor’s desk. But once I ventured into a research setting, questions were unanswered and sometimes not even formulated. As a scientist, you need to know first and foremost how to ask a question and then how to go about answering it. St. John’s is perfect preparation. For this reason, I could argue that attending St. John’s was a good decision. But St. John’s would be just as important to my life even if I were not to go on to a Ph.D. program after graduation. My experience here has shown me just how much I want to read and learn and the lengths I can take to pursue my goals. For instance, I am currently writing a master’s essay on Euclid’s Elements. To enrich my understanding of this text, I have been auditing an undergraduate math class. Finally, St. John’s has shown me how to read a book well while endowing me with the Sisyphean aspiration to continue reading great books. Because of this, I will never be bored for the rest of my life. And for that I am most grateful. Leland Ellis, GI Alum (2016) In the mid-1990s, I accompanied my wife on a visit to Kenyon College (Gambier, Ohio), where she was awarded an honorary degree. She had entered Kenyon in 1969 (the first year that women were admitted) thinking that she wanted to be a writer, but graduated three years later (the first woman to graduate from the college) as a biologist, and went on to MIT for graduate school. In her remarks during the commencement ceremony, she spoke of her interest while a student in forging new linkages across ‘Middle Path’, the brick sidewalk that separates the beautiful idyllic campus into the liberal arts and humanities on one side, and math and sciences on the other, a divide which few students in her class dared to cross. As I had majored in chemistry at a large state university, and had the opportunity for very few electives in the non-sciences, we discussed at length during our walks on campus whether it might be possible some day for me to return to academic studies and explore any number of ‘paths not taken’ while in college and graduate school, and a small liberal arts campus setting was certainly appealing. 20 �About a decade later, I did manage to go back to school part-time while now a federal employee, initially for a ‘mid-career’ masters degree in international public policy (international economics, South Asia Studies), followed by additional courses in applied economics, computer science, and systems engineering. After ~7 years of study in the social sciences and engineering at Hopkins, I retired from federal service and was again ready for a change. But what next? Looking around the web in the spring of 2013, I stumbled upon a SJC Annapolis web page announcing the Summer Classics, and was immediately drawn to an offering on the Federalist and Anti-Federalist Papers. And it was at the opening reception on Sunday evening that I first heard that there was a Graduate Institute, where an AGI alum (don’t remember who) said that if I enjoyed the week on campus, then I should really think about applying to the GI. And so on Monday I dropped by the BBC to visit with Mr. Crouse and learn more about the program, and he arranged for me to sit in on a tutorial (Augustine) and preceptorial (Zarathustra) while I was on campus that week. And the week’s experience was indeed all that I needed to return home and organize my application, and then begin in the fall of 2013 with the Segment on Mathematics and Natural Sciences. And the contrast between the earlier professional masters programs and the GI could not have been more dramatic. Rather than nondescript urban and suburban buildings and classrooms, endless blizzards of powerpoint lectures, all too rare in-class discussion, and written exams (even blue books), here at last I was on a small liberal arts campus, where I immediately gravitated to my favorite benches in front of historic McDowell Hall, conveniently situated for forays into the bookstore, library, and coffeeshop before class, and the unforgettable experience of SJC-style conversations around small wooden tables. And no ‘middle path’ to navigate, as math and science is integral to the liberal arts at the college! So, in sum, how did I find the GI? Purely by chance! Jerome Dausman, GI Alum (2011) St. John’s College is different because learning is first. When I showed up as an incoming freshman at my well-known engineering university, the first thing I was required to do was visit the Registrar’s Office to make sure they had all the money in hand they said they required. Only then did I receive: a dorm key, an orientation schedule, and the list of classes for which I was registered. Not so at St. John’s: the first thing we do is attend a seminar on a Platonic dialogue. And not just any dialogue, we discuss The Meno, a dialogue on what it is to learn. And in that discussion we learn (or I should say we begin to learn) what a real discussion 21 �of ideas is all about. Only after that introduction to learning do we return to the mundane tasks. But my Johnnie semester started even before that. Less than a minute after parking on King George Street, the first person I encountered on campus was a short older woman dressed in a light blue jacket and skirt walking toward me as I head toward Barr-Buchanan for The Meno. She looked lost in her thoughts, and though I knew she noticed me, she was not looking at me. So I took the liberty of asking “Are we having a good day?” With enthusiasm she replied “Oh yes!” and gave me a smile much bigger than her size would suggest. Well, after The Meno, registration, lunch, and other details, I took a seat in my first regular class, a literature tutorial in McDowell Hall. Our tutor was a few minutes late, and we all turned when the door opened and a short older woman dressed in a light blue jacket and skirt entered. Since that day and that smile Eva Brann and I have been good friends. So why did I sign up for the GI program? When my son Daniel started his freshman year at St. John’s, I was delighted, in part because I knew all the assigned readings were posted online and I could read along with him, year-by-year. Well, that’s what I thought. My problem with the curriculum became evident immediately. You see, the College only assigns about half of Herodotus – and a lot of good stuff is skipped! And then came Thucydides with the same partial reading. Well, I had to read both of them cover-to-cover, but as Daniel finished his freshman year, I was still doing readings from January! And I realized that I wasn’t getting to discuss them with anyone. This had to change. What was the solution? Sign up for the GI program! In May of 2011 graduation was held indoors because of the threat of rain. I didn’t mind sitting on stage with my fellow GI’s. Why? We were all seated in a semi-circle, and across the stage from me I got to see my son in cap and gown. Some of the icing on the cake was his receiving the prize for the best senior essay. The final icing on the cake? We moved to New Jersey shortly thereafter and, since I had gained the habit of discussing things I’d read, I started the New Jersey alumni chapter. So you see, St. John’s and the GI experience don’t need to end. If you are reading this, you can join SJCConnect.com and find out about discussions in your area. If none are nearby … start your own alumni group! JFDausman@alumni.StJohnsCollege.edu 22 �2. GI COUNCIL ON INSTRUCTION’S SYMPOSIUM on “The Opening QUestion” (OPENED by Ms Brann) On May 4th, over twenty-five people from the GI community, both current students and alumni, gathered around the table in the Hartle room to partake in an hour-long conversation - the term Ms. Brann prefers over “discussion,”- on the allimportant Opening Question. After some initial remarks, including the idea that a question should point towards the possibility of an answer, she talked about various categories of opening questions and asked us for examples of memorable questions. A lively conversation ensued, ranging over a variety of topics: sometimes a person may ask a question in an effort to shine rather than to wrestle with the text; how does one ask a question about Euclid when all one wants is to nail the proof; what happens if, at the end of a session, most of the questions are never addressed… At one point Ms. Brann indicated the importance of visualization, particularly in talking about literary texts. Her example was seeing Homer’s placement of the ships on the beach in the Iliad: the ships of Achilles at one end, of Ajax at the other end, and of Odysseus in the middle. At the end, Ms. Brann shared her optimistic view of the future growth and increasing importance of the GI program (see Colloquy’s interview with her, below). It was a wonderful beginning to a GI tradition: a symposium each semester on a topic, not a text! 3. INTERVIEW and Insights from Tutors COLLOQUY INTERVIEWS EVA BRANN On a sunny spring day in April, Eva Brann paused from preparing for her senior seminar and seniors’ orals to talk with us about St. John’s Graduate Institute. COLLOQUY: What are your thoughts about the future direction of the Graduate Institute? 23 �Ms. Brann: I see the Graduate Institute program as the future of St. John’s College. Four year undergraduate programs in the liberal arts are at risk because increasingly, students out of high school seek a job-oriented education. High school graduates attending the College are more technically adept, and the program reflects this. Yet job opportunities in some sectors are diminishing because of the changes wrought by technology, including job replacement by robots. Even though classical liberal arts educations may fade, people arriving at the middle of their lives want to examine their experiences through engaging with these texts. Graduate Institute students certainly benefit from their life experiences as they work with the readings. The GI program may expand to resemble the current undergraduate program more closely, and vice versa. Just a few years ago, the history segment was added to the four semester choices, and many GI students choose to complete a fifth semester. Now there is talk of adding a music segment, a sixth semester opportunity. COLLOQUY: What are your suggestions for GI students when they graduate from the program? Ms. Brann: Now that you’ve read and discussed a text once, you can see that you will want to read and discuss it again, even ten times more. Form a reading group! COLLOQUY: Thank you! NOTE: Ms. Brann co-leads Summer Classics seminars at the Santa Fe campus. This summer, from July 3–7, 2017, she and David Carl will lead a seminar on Socrates’ Forebears: Two Presocratics, Heraclitus and Parmenides. During the second week, Ms. Brann, with Janet Dougherty, will lead a seminar on four classic Western Novels: The Virginian, Shane, True Grit, and Valdez is Coming. Tutor Insight: Mr. Zeiderman’s approach to reading a text for class –(Not a recommended approach for all. You need to find your own.)  1. I read the entire text through a first time, without underlining: Whatever time it takes me 2.I read it through a second time, this time underlining or marking the margins, as I notice items I wish to remember.  The time is generally about 1/3rd of the time of #1 3. I read it a third time, reading only what was NOT underlined or marked.  Quickly, only 10-20 minutes. 24 �4. Mr. Zeiderman’s Toast to the Graduating Students Spring 2017 A few weeks ago, there was a meeting in the Hartle room. It was advertised as an occasion to share anecdotes: what brought those present to attend the GI. I hadn’t meant to attend the meeting because I was never in the GI. I therefore had no legitimate anecdote. I was on the way to check the M & M supply when I was seen. So, I couldn’t sneak away and was trapped. When it was my turn to offer one, I had no idea what to say. So I told the truth. I said I had avoided any connection with the GI for many years. How could I read and discuss a specific text with students who lacked a familiarity with the crucial texts that preceded it? I came to the GI as a tutor because I was separating from my marriage, and I needed some extra pay. So I couldn’t then offer that as an anecdote. However, as a faculty member in both the GI and the undergraduate Program, I felt I could at least offer a brief account of how I felt GIs and Undergraduates differ. Since then that incident has been on my mind and I think it supplies what I then lacked. With the undergraduates I feel we are primarily investigating the genesis of ourselves. We undertake this through examining in discussions a chronological sequence of canonical texts. Instead with the GIs, though these same texts play an important role, I now feel we are always more or less explicitly exploring the boundaries of our current categories and therefore the boundaries of ourselves. These boundaries are in fact captured in the very names of the five segments that are offered here. With the undergraduates we focus on the tension between us and the text. With the GIs what is always at issue is the location of the text within this set of rubrics. Is Hegel’s text Philosophy or History or is it more like a weird Science or even Theology? Is Euclid’s Elements Mathematics or somewhat like Literature, like a Petrarchan sonnet sequence? Since then, as I mentioned, I have been reflecting on my role as a tutor through what jumped out unthinkingly at that get together. In this toast, I offer it as the anecdote I didn’t then have. With the undergraduates someone in the class might notice a subtle point or an oblique reference in a text and we all might see something we overlooked. With the GIs what is crucial is not in a tiny detail or a Greek word, or a surprising adverbial phrase. Rather what is crucial is becoming explicit about the way these 25 �very rubrics and categories are spread through the world and how they shaped our vision and our previous lives. In short it is our experience as adults of our various false starts, you might even say our very failures, that are crucial. It’s the memory of a wrong turn we once made, or a career that was unsatisfying or that is ending that brought us here. What brought you here is the sense that your very identity is threatened and at issue. It stems from a sense of incompleteness, from a barrier, you had run into, in your route through these very rubrics and categories that shape our world. In other words, I now see more clearly what is essential in the GI. It is the uniquely and painfully hard won but very deep and profoundly personal sense that these very rubrics, these categories, are inadequate to account for what we should become. And you came here to discipline yourselves to explore these categories and together with us perhaps create new ones. The undergraduates often imagine they are in Paradise, as a journalist friend who never attended St. John’s once called it. But also as those, like myself, who did actually attend as undergraduates realize: undergraduates are just as frequently in Hell as in Paradise. This descent often results from a frustrating blind date with Plato, Newton, or Kant. However, GIs are neither in Heaven nor Hell. Instead you are inbetween, you are in Purgatory. You seek with the help of discussions of these textual landmarks to chart an entirely new way for yourselves through the world. And as I thought more about this since that day in the General’s room I realized that you and I are not different. From that incident I realized that I too am finally attending the GI exactly as you are. For I too am seeking a path through our assumptions and categories, a path through the gaps of our world. We are here therefore truly peers and fellow pilgrims. By pooling our perspectives we seek a path through what might lie between and perhaps beyond all these current categories. We are venturing into a completely unchartered landscape in which all of us will have to place landmarks. With the undergraduates I can at my best be a guide. With you I am at my best when I and my fellow tutors are your consciences to keep us all looking when we falter and begin to replay our habitual pasts. We need one another to avoid the behaviors and platitudes that we have all inherited and employed and that we all came to the GI to go beyond. I therefore toast you and all of us not as faculty members or students, but as fellow GIs. So I ask you all to break tradition and a boundary. Please all raise your glasses to us all as fellow pilgrims as we wend our way together to a possible Canterbury. 26 � 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 Colloquy Description An account of the resource A student-run journal for the Graduate Institute community of St. John's College in Annapolis, Maryland. The issues feature essays, art, poetry, interviews, and more. 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 Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 26 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 Colloquy, May 2017 Description An account of the resource Issue No. 1 of the Colloquy, published in May 2017. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource The Graduate Council Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2017-05 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 Colloquy May 10 2017 Graduate Institute https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/10bb7904adfa5806f48ff767db36fb47.pdf 350295aa16d8f6d0a86fbfa5e59d97dc PDF Text Text continuing the conversation A Journal of the St. John’s College Annapolis Graduate Institute Volume II: Fall 2017 �Table of Contents Letter from the Editors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 Moments of Realization . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 Eva Brann: Tips on Writing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16 Reflections from Deans on the 50th Anniversary of the GI Geoffrey Comber on the Beginning . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .18 Emily Langston on the Present . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .21 Interview with President Kanelos . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25 Staci Hill (AGI ‘17): Toast to the Tutors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .33 Colloquy Editorial Board Damon Hatheway, AGI ‘18 Joseph Keegin, AGI ‘18 Toni Lambert, AGI ‘20 Photo by Teresa Krone, AGI ‘20 �Note from the Editors Dear Reader, Thank you for picking up a copy of the Fall 2017 edition of Colloquy! Our second issue has two major themes: first, a moment of realization that speaks to the essence of the Graduate Institute. We are grateful to all the GIs present and past who submitted stories of their time in Annapolis. The second theme is a celebration of the 50th anniversary of the GI. We are honored to include the eloquent addresses of Associate Dean Emily Langston and former Director Jeffrey Comber. We also owe an enormous debt of gratitude to President Pano Kanelos and Ms. Eva Brann for sitting down with the editors of Colloquy and sharing their wisdom with us. Finally, we are deeply indebted to the work of the journal’s founding editor, Ms. Bonnie Naradzay, whose tireless commitment and inexhaustible creative energy made this issue and all future issues possible, as well as to the GI graduate council for graciously agreeing to provide funding. We hope that Colloquy accurately reflects some part of our wondrous experience in Annapolis. The strength of the journal lies in the input and submissions we receive from students and in the support and participation of the faculty and administration. We eagerly anticipate publishing our third edition during the spring 2018 semester. We will be accepting suggestions about the theme of the next edition over the winter break—please address all comments and suggestions for future issues to colloquy@ sjc.edu. Sincerely, The Colloquy Editors 3 �Moments of Realization Toni Lambert (AGI ‘20) School was not easy for me; I found school fun, but never easy. I loved learning new things, but from as early as I can remember, I never liked reading. I was told the speed with which I read dictated how good of a reader I was, rather than the questions and ideas I developed. This idea convinced me that I hated to read; however, I never doubted my love of learning. When the time came, I searched for a college or university that would allow me to learn the most and grow into my adult self. What qualities in a school was I looking for? My main priorities for a school were that it would be large (more students to learn from) and be in a different part of the country, so I could find new environments and political ideas to engage with. I followed neither of those things, but with much luck ended up at a small liberal arts college not far from where I grew up. It took less than a week for me to discover that I do in fact love to read. How so? I encountered great books for the first time. I was reading Plato, Aristotle, Nietzsche, Marx, Weber, Durkheim, Mark Twain, and others. It was thrilling. I wanted to read, think, and discuss this way for the rest of my life. I took my education head-on. I never took a second to breathe, I wanted to keep learning, keep gaining experiences. Every course, discussion group, research opportunity, leadership position I came across I took on. This drive led me to St. John’s. It is the GI, however, that has taught me the importance of leisure, of taking my time with a text, of resting, and attending Friday night lectures. Knowing exactly what I want to do left the idea of slowing down completely foreign to me. I so pleasantly and gratefully learned that the best way to spend my life with these great books is to do just that, spend my life with them. There is no rush. Brandon Wasicsko (AGI ‘20) I felt more relieved than accomplished when I graduated high school, but the thought of four more years of formal schooling was a storm cloud casting a shadow on my 4 �future. All of life had been preparatory: do well in primary school to get into a good high school; do well in high school to get into a good college; do well in college to get a “good” job. Usually that’s where it stopped, that funnel we toss children into and wonder why they come out listless on the other end. Schooling was never conceived of in a broader sense than this, and there wasn’t anything after getting the “good” job that one had to prepare for—except, perhaps, a promotion. Marriage and children just sort of happened for some, and it was equally fine if they didn’t. Reaching the end of that fixed funnel, in nearly unrestrained freedom, I found myself asking, “What now?” Up until that point, everything had been constructed for me in a sort of system. The goal of high school, for example, was set by others: get good grades. To do so, one simply had to follow the rules of the internal logic of the system. There was no room to think about our own ends. We weren’t taught that we should want to think of such things, nor had we been equipped with tools to do so. The plethora of choice encountered on leaving that system was therefore overwhelming without a why to guide us. Sophomore year of college, after I’d reluctantly decided to enroll in school rather than enlist in the military, I wrote that I felt I had lost something I once had. Something like a passion, a zest for life, motivation—something I couldn’t quite put my finger on, let alone figure out where it went and why. I could plot out an infinite number of paths forward—I’d always been a planner—but I had no desire to follow any of them in particular. When I came to read the chapter on “Eros” in Allan Bloom’s The Closing of the American Mind in a study group this semester, I finally found a name, robustly considered—and perhaps even a hint at a cause!—for that something that was missing. The chapter read like a diagnosis of the modern soul and its frustrated longings, our current crisis of purpose that is widely felt yet rarely discussed. Recognizing, if only tacitly, that something is missing, we grasp at anything to fill the void: militant politics, will-o’the-wisp fads, raves and their drugs—all of which fade, until another placebo can be substituted in. It’s especially heartbreaking to see the fire die out in the eyes of the young as they come to maturity, those same eyes that just years before were so bright and so wide when they got something, when something clicked. Any parent or teacher knows that spark. 5 �I wonder if it is too late to repair the broken eros of my generation, one so heavily dampened by years of the wrong sorts of experiences. Even here, enrolled in a program that speaks to the best and the highest in man, there are still mornings when returning to the world of dreams appeals more to me than waking to do what I know in my mind I love, but struggle sometimes to feel. Are we too far gone? Nevertheless, there is joy in striving, and in those rare and beautiful (if fleeting) moments of communion with the gods. And there’s cause for hope: that we may constitute a new wave of teachers who, by grit and will, can nurture the souls of the next generation with the knowledge and experience we gain at St. John’s, that they might regain the promise of humanity and live fully and deeply. Julia Shiller (AGI ‘17) Each of us, Graduate Institute students and alumni, has our own way of arriving, but our roads have intersected in one place—St. John’s College. Were we attracted by the charm of the library, or by the curriculum that resonated in our hearts? Perhaps it was the authentic spirit that original texts can reveal to seekers. What is the hidden essence of this magical place? My moment of truth here emerges from my personal transformation and from reevaluating my fundamental views. The Graduate Institute symbolically introduces us to Meno, who is in search of defining virtue. I thought I could tackle the questions about the nature of knowledge and truth with ease. I retrieved all information from the assigned readings, including the Merriam-Webster definitions of virtue, truth and knowledge; I simply memorized them. My strategy had never failed before—the more I memorized, the better my test score. After a few more classes at the Graduate Institute, though, I realized my strategy would not work— there were no tests! Swamped by anxiety, I shuffled files with information like a “dumb” file clerk, who was Richard Feynman’s metaphor for a basic computer system. I learned that only my own reflection glided over the surface of this ocean of information. Before St. John’s, I related my life to a chess game; it was composed of a multitude of possibilities that I compiled from past experiences. I would then project these experiences into the future to achieve a result in a system of established rules. I never tried to step out of the system even after my first encounter with Wittgenstein’s fly that has been shown the way out of the bottle. I instantly reached for the fly-trap but never thought to recycle the bottle. Alas, I felt threatened that the reexamination of my fundamental views could destroy 6 �who I really was. But the collaborative atmosphere among students and tutors gave me courage to overcome my fears and to embrace this program. At first I was deaf to the abundance of opinions of my fellow graduate students, who added the richness of color to my black and white systematic world. I was thrown into a new, unfamiliar place in which creativity can comfort the anxiety of the uncertain. I learned to listen, to hear, and to unchain my cognitive thinking. My GI experience gave me the wholesomeness of Socratic irony. Didn’t Socrates warn that we easily can turn into a non-thinking but fast computing “file clerk” that pulls files from one shelf to put into another without any understanding of content? This file clerk can pull the meaning of virtue from Merriam Webster in no time; however, it might be not be the definition that Meno should look for, but the process of becoming virtuous. Could this process of becoming endow meaning to the limited time we have before us? Or would we instead choose to quickly pull someone’s answers to someone’s questions that were saved for us in the “dumb” clerk’s file? Maybe Socrates was wrong to say he knew nothing but the unknown. Hailey Prickett (AGI ‘18) This past summer, I was having a conversation with my dear friend Mr. Bukheister at ASG (After Seminar Gathering) one night. He had been reading the Phaedrus in his preceptorial. We were talking about the metaphor Plato gives for the soul, of the charioteer and two horses: the dark, impulsive horse seeks its own pleasure, and the light, obedient horse seeks to please the charioteer, which is reason. Mr. Bukheister shared with me his mid-class realization: that he had a soul. He wonderfully reenacted his internal monologue: “I was sitting there and thought, ‘Oh my god, I have a soul!’ Then I started looking around the table: ‘He has a soul! She has a soul! I have a soul!’” It was one of those really wonderful conversations at ASG that you wished could continue forever, but alas! There will always be more things to wonder about— like the cicadas, for instance! After I returned to my dorm room that warm summer evening, I found myself unable to fall asleep. Naturally, I turned to my dear love and friend, Plato. One thing I’ve decided in my relationship with Plato is not to be in a hurry. I have still so many dialogues to read and re-read, and I know they’re going to be there waiting for me throughout life. It was much to my delight that I chose to turn to the Apology that evening. In one sitting, I devoured it—flipping the pages quickly and impulsively, unable to slow down. I was so struck by many of his thoughts that I wanted to pause 7 �and let myself process them, but I suppose my dark horse was pulling more strongly than the white. Anyway, the true moment of realization was when I finished, noticed the tears streaming down my face, and knew (maybe felt) the soul was immortal. I was changed by the words I had read; that, for me, is what the GI is about. We can read and discuss books that are unchanged, and in turn be changed by them. That’s pretty awesome, in the real sense of the word: awe-inspiring. Staci Hill (AGI ‘17) I must give credit to Euclid. In classes other than the mathematics tutorial, it is difficult for me to see the trajectory of a conversation. How did comment X relate to comment Y, and how did we get here from the opening question?...What was the opening question? I often feel like I’m missing the rational thread. Nonetheless, I am along for the ride. When I took the math tutorial, the meanderings of a conversation and their value became more clear. The standard question remained: How did comment Z relate to comment Y, etc. As I would begin to piece together the chain of reason, another peer would react to the seemingly irrelevant comment with a moment of realization or a clarifying question. I could see the class trying to piece together our individual understandings, trying to create one conversation. This might sound trivial to those of you avoiding or awaiting the math tutorial. Perhaps you think the Elements does not lend itself to the same kind of conversational trails as a work of prose. That may be true, but the conversations are no easier; they are just as indefinite as the conversations you have had to date. But I found that conversations grounded in something I could (maybe) see also illuminated the conversation itself. What I saw is one of the greatest achievements of a St. John’s conversation: communication. It’s ironic, but true, that seemingly peripheral and unrelated comments—i.e., the signs of a lack of communication—are the steps to achieving true communication. The math tutorial gave me faith in the musings of my peers and gave me the courage to sometimes utter my own. I realized this thanks to Euclid and my other friends in Ms. Langston’s math tutorial the Summer of 2016. 8 �Joey Keegin (AGI ‘18) When seen from afar as a dim light on the horizon of my future, the GI seemed like a boot-camp version of a Classics program. This excited me. Trimmed of all the dull scholasticism and unnecessary proceduralism of your average university Master’s program, the Graduate Institute—so I thought, or at least so I think now that I thought then—would educate us in the tradition of Western thought through a direct encounter with its most venerable and significant texts. We would start in the ancient world and crawl our way toward the present, holding seminars along the way to pool our collective brain-power and figure out what all of these smart people were saying. The sayings of the smart people being, of course, the primary focus of our education. However, though the method may be different, the end goal would be—I thought—roughly the same as other higher-level philosophy programs: figure out what Aristotle (or whoever) says about such-and-such, how Kant (or whoever) later overturns what the ancients said, learn an intellectual history of our world by memorizing the succession of ideas that has gotten us to where we are, and then pick one of the characters in the story and insist that they got it all right and nobody should have ever disagreed. I thought these things because I came to St. John’s from a rather typical academic philosophy program, and typical academic philosophy programs train people to think in these ways. Expecting the unexpected is extremely difficult. In order to survive at all in this world we have made, we must make plans. And in making plans we tend to build ourselves an image of the future that looks roughly like the present but with a few exaggerated features (maybe more people, differently-shaped cars, larger hard drives on our computers, and so forth). Developing a truly historical habit of mind that is open to completely new things and surprises is a challenge that is rarely met. Regardless, all of these presuppositions were obliterated my first day of class. Completely oblivious about what was in store, I had signed up for a preceptorial with Mr. Zeiderman billed as an exploration of Heraclitus, Parmenides, and the supposed “ancient struggle” between philosophy and poetry. I assumed my undergrad class on “pre-Socratic” philosophy had prepared me sufficiently for this exploration. I was wrong. One of my classmates—Mr. Von Kerczek—offered an opening question that utterly baffled me: “Do we think in words?” Mr. Zeiderman later suggested that our obsession with logic has nothing to do with an interest in “truth” but an interest in being right and asked us whether it was possible to find a way around the principle of non-contradiction, to find a way of thinking that sidesteps it. I was in over my head. I felt crazy, scared, excited. In my natural science seminar I read Aristotle’s concession 9 �that nature was not provable but rather must be believed, and I felt my thinking blossom like a rare flower. Phil Richmond (AGI ‘17) In May 1974, I was doing research in grad school at the University of Maryland—and not liking it very much, either. I was meeting with my professor one morning when one of the Zoology professors in our building barged in. He interrupted our meeting to bemoan that his summer research mission to Norway had just lost a team member due to a family emergency. He was at a loss to fill the position. It was a fully funded trip to the northern reaches of Norway. I volunteered. Ten days later I found myself on a month-long camping trip in the outback of a Norwegian national park and up beyond my ankles in tundra foliage, miles from nowhere, studying certain features of the Norwegian lemming. Masses of these furry little miscreants emerge from the snow in the millions, often eating the surrounding tundra bare and generally making a howling nuisance of themselves. Only the arctic foxes appreciate them—and then, only as a food source. In any case, our encampment of six researchers turned out to be about only four to five kilometers away from another group from England, who were there to study aspects of the tundra flora. Since we were each other’s only company for miles, we sometimes trudged the distance to enjoy meals and camaraderie together at night. (Night is another relative term, since at our latitude at that time of the year, we didn’t really get any—the sky just goes gray for a few hours.) On one evening’s excursion, I happened to be conversing with one of my English counterparts and we both lamented a lack of fresh reading material. I traded him my copy of Philip K. Dick’s Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? for his well-worn and dog-eared copy of the Odyssey. He had received it as a bon voyage present from a fellow graduate student. The book was filled with underlines and margin notes from its original owner, which were a bit annoying to contend with at first. But as time went on, the notes became fascinating to me: I began to feel as if I was reading a “book within the book” and regularly experiencing the thoughts of the initial reader. In the inside cover of the book was an illegible name. Underneath it was the reference to Saint John’s College and the number—presumably the year—1969. I spent the next several weeks reveling in the adventures of Odysseus while trapped in my tent, surrounded by hordes of vermin. After returning to the University of 10 �Maryland, I decided to leave the program and move to Annapolis to start a business in financial services. I did not think of St. John’s until decades later when I was encouraged to sit in on an Executive Seminar session. I liked it, so I signed up for a full year’s session. When we read the Odyssey, I remembered my first experience with the book—and rediscovered on my bookshelf the dusty copy that I had read decades before in the chilly outback of Lapland while trying to endure my weeks with the indigent rodent population, unaware of the enduring Siren song of our academic enclave and its own love of the Odyssey. Such was the beginning of my own odyssey to St. John’s. Sometimes our experiences feel less the result of a chance epiphany and more like the relentless rotations of the wheel of fate. Maxwell Anthony (AGI ‘15) The last day of class, fall semester 2014, two friends and I wanted to reminisce about our time together. It was a chilly late afternoon. We got some drinks and went to the Octagon room of McDowell Hall—the highest point on campus. We sat up in McDowell and started talking. And at some point in our discussion the room flooded with a deep purple-red. The walls seemed to have been painted without our noticing. We got up and looked out of the windows at the horizon draped with red. We had to get going so we drew ourselves away. When we got to the quad the three of us looked up expecting to see that same red. But we couldn’t see the sunset. The sky was grey and dull. We were too low. Terry Walman (AGI ‘16) It was the morning after a seminar I had attended at the Annapolis campus. I had only recently become aware that reunions at St. John’s College were different than other experiences from my past. It seems old habits die hard. When Johnnies get together for something like Homecoming, we don’t hang out at tailgate parties before the big game. Instead, a reading is chosen, and a time and place agreed upon. About ten of us recent grads and current GI students, together with a tutor, gathered in the Graduate Institute to share in conversation a reading from Going to Meet the Man by James Baldwin. We had read a short story entitled “Sonny’s Blues” about two brothers who had travelled very separate paths after growing up together in Harlem. Over the years they had enjoyed little contact with each other, ultimately becoming distant and estranged. 11 �Each had experienced devastating loss in their lives, and their individual suffering had brought them back together as adults. It was a powerful story by an author previously unfamiliar to me, but his writing was vivid and alive, and the theme deeply captured my imagination. So there I was the morning after seminar, reading the Sunday newspaper about the previous day’s Grand Opening of the new Smithsonian Museum of African American History and Culture. The unique architecture of the building and its many thoughtful exhibits were described in glowing detail. I was drawn into the building and the story of its conception, when suddenly what I read moved me to burst out in a combination of hearty laughter and streaming tears. In large letters spread out in an open three story stairwell of this beautiful new monument to our nation’s complex past appears the quotation: “The great force of history comes from the fact that we carry it within us, are unconsciously controlled by it in many ways, and history is literally present in all that we do.” -James Baldwin, “The Price of the Ticket” Cynthia Barry (AGI ‘05) When I was considering whether or not to apply to the GI, I sat in on a class on Descartes taught by Ms. Brann. I had read the assignment, but as I entered the classroom to listen to the discussion, I had not the slightest idea of what I had read. I was feeling very glum and hopeless. But then the most amazing thing happened: In the course of that two-hour discussion, listening to the conversation as led by Ms. Brann, I began to get an inkling of what Descartes was on about. Also, there was somehow created in the room a feeling of kindness and encouragement. In that two-hour time frame, a metamorphosis occurred. I realized that people could learn—I could learn—through close reading and thoughtful conversation. Learning wasn’t like a telegram: send and receive; learning was more like an adventurous expedition—moving forward, sometimes retreating, poking around, and happening upon something new and wonderful, at once intricate and expansive. I signed on for the adventure, and the quest for knowledge has been a thrill ever since. Wherever I go now, the Graduate Institute is in my backpack. Andrew McIntire (AGI ‘17) 12 �Rather than describe a single moment of realization, I’d like to characterize a series of moments of realization that I experienced in many classes. These were moments when I was pushed up against the boundary of my way of thinking. Often it was something said by a classmate—an interpretation of the text that was very different from my own—that came into friction with my patterns of thought and ideas. I discovered in exploring these moments of friction that it seemed best to remain kind to oneself and also to one’s classmates. The boundaries that have limited me will remain mine unless I am generous to the texts and the author and remain open to the alternative interpretations of my classmates. The recurring challenge I face in these moments— and something it seems I constantly have to re-realize—is to remain humble yet confident in my preparation. Bonnie Naradzay (AGI ‘17) During my first semester in the GI program, I learned that Mr. Nelson and Ms. Axelrod’s study group—which met around noon on Mondays, and was almost entirely made up of a pantheon of current and retired tutors—was considering all of Plutarch’s Lives, one by one. That semester my preceptorial was on Shakespeare’s Roman plays, in conjunction with the Lives that gave Shakespeare his material. This was my introduction to the fascinating Lives, and I wanted more—so I inserted myself into their weekly study group. Being an uninitiated first semester student, I knew not the St. John’s way. That is, I had always been most comfortable taking copious notes, pen in hand. During the study group, while I was bent over my notebook writing as fast as I could to preserve what everyone was saying, something caused me to glance up at those luminaries sitting around the Hodson Room seminar table. Nobody was taking notes. Nobody had a pencil in hand. What’s more, with few exceptions, nobody’s book was open. People had read the material enough times to know what was there. They were paying full attention to the lively conversation involving the text. Note-taking was distracting me and cutting me off from this opportunity. I put down my pen and shut the Moleskin, edging it off the table onto my lap. Thus began my journey towards being more attentive and fully present. I’ve tried to take note of the ways that tutors and fellow students take notes. Increasingly, I’ve tried jotting notes and indecipherable codes in pencil in the margins of the texts (a reason for owning the texts, as Ms. Brann has suggested). One day, when feeling bold, I will ask certain tutors (after class) what they are doing when they write something 13 �tiny in their tell-tale green Loebs or in the ancient, yellowing, paperback texts that they hold together with rubber bands. One night, a year after my “Plutarch Moment,” I looked over notes I’d written during that evening’s preceptorial on the Pre-Socratics. Wanting to capture an ineffable moment in time, or perhaps to better understand the readings (or myself), I arranged those provocative comments into a poem titled “Heraclitus Mon Amour,” and chose an epigraph from Parmenides that seemed to fit. Heraclitus Mon Amour “And it is all one to me where I am to begin; for I shall return there again.” Parmenides, Fragment 5 Why can’t we uneat the apple or reinvent the wheel? Forget about the fifth postulate. Lobachevsky discovered a different way of seeing space. There are benefits in fragments. Should the analysis of error? What resides within makes the connection between Priam and Achilles possible. Am I closer to the person or the logos? My paper will address the shortcomings of this approach. I want to keep the thread of metaphor alive – It’s wrapped up in the thunderbolt. Is fire a metaphor for Heraclitus or for us? Yes. Just don’t get trapped in it. Do I read Heraclitus differently now, for instance what he says about reflection? How do we bring Heraclitus to life and still remain alive ourselves? What happens to Aristotle’s Principle of Non-Contradiction? Courage is not just taking a risk. It’s performing an action while knowing its inherent goodness. Achilles is an uprooted sapling destined to die. Write about how quoting others makes you feel safer. Then give it up. Hume says…. I will walk out of my study. Can we do this? 14 �Eva Brann: Tips on Writing (Excerpts from the Fall 2017 Colloquy Symposium) 1. I can’t resist this, though it is not to the point exactly. It’s something more about how to read than how to write. How many of you have read the Republic? Those who have read it and those who expect to do it, do the following. The numbers in the margin are called Stephanus numbers. First calculate how many Stephanus pages the Republic has, then find the middle page, which you can do by a little arithmetic. Then open to the middle page. Look at where you are and marvel at how this book is written. 2. There is only one moral injunction, one might say, about writing: The way to write a paper is to sit down and write it. 3. Don’t drivel. What do I mean by driveling? Freshmen will write a paper that says, “Euclid was the greatest mathematician that ever was.” That’s drivel. If you’re inclined to write a sentence that’s bombastic or too general, don’t use it. Throw it out. 4. Have a colleague or friend read your paper. Let that person correct your spelling and your punctuation, as long as you do the following thing: if there is a correction which you accept, think about it. This is a great way to learn to spell and punctuate correctly. 5. Use the word “I.” I used to startle students in paper conferences by saying, “Did you write this paper?” They’d look at me as if I were accusing them of something. I’d say, “It’s all in the passive, there aren’t any personal pronouns. You don’t take charge.” Use the word “I.” You are writing the paper, and it engages you in the writing in a very immediate way. Your personal experience should appear. You don’t have to give it in personal terms. You could fictionalize it, or you can give it as an anecdote, but there’s no reason why you and what you’ve learned in life shouldn’t appear. It seems to me a good paper will often show that our personal experience bears on what we are thinking about. One can have personal experiences that bear on Lobachevsky. I know that for a fact, and it takes imagination to discover that. 6. Here is a practical thing to do: Make an outline. Outlines are good not because you’re going to use it as a constraint—you can throw your outline out before you’re finished—but because it means when you get up in the morning or sit down in the evening or in the afternoon or whenever you have time to work, you know what to do next. And in writing a paper, it’s very important to know what to do next. 7. Never finish writing completely. If you’re working late at night, when you find that 15 �you’re one paragraph before having said all you mean to say, stop. That means when you next get to it, you know how to start. And you know how difficult starting is, even if going on isn’t all that difficult. 8. When you’ve completed the paper, whatever the outline may have been, use its parts as subheadings. Papers with subheadings are just easier to read, and clearer for you to see whether you’ve written something reasonable. 9. If you can, wait for the Muse to descend and welcome it. In other words, wait eagerly for the Muse to descend—and it will come—to give you the opening sentence. Find a really good opening sentence, not: “Euclid was the greatest mathematician, but Lobechevski showed that he was wrong”—which is of course nonsense in any case, but find something that will capture the reader’s attention right away. 10.Here is something I believe in, but this may not work for you. I think you should be absolutely preoccupied by the paper you’re writing. Think about it wherever you happen to be. That way it gets a certain ripeness, and when you sit down you know what you’re going to be doing. So it really makes sense to devote yourself to this task, on the one hand. On the other hand, don’t make too much of it. This is kind of tricky, and most advice of this sort has two sides to it. One the one hand, I’ve just said, “really concentrate, spend the week devoted to this.” On the other hand, “don’t let it overwhelm you or scare you. After all, it’s only an exercise.” Find some way to combine being involved and not being overwhelmed. You could say to yourself: “I really want to do this well, but if it doesn’t work out—next time.” 11.Start early. If the paper assignment was made today, start thinking about it tonight. Don’t do anything at the last moment. Writing is not something you can do quickly. People think they can, but it takes time. It’s got to ripen. So give it time, start right off, and be finished sometime before the thing is due, so you have it in front of you. By giving it a last reading, you make it perfect. Another way to put it: trying for perfection simply takes time. 12.And now, the most important tip: write on something you care about. It could be a problem or a question. A problem is something you can solve; a question is something you can clarify. It could be a book you love; it could be a book you hate; it could be a passage you don’t understand. But whatever it is, try to find something that grips you. Don’t do it in a bureaucratic sort of way. Do it with passion. And I think most of you probably know this, but passion doesn’t have to be first. You can rouse it in yourself. When you’ve got something that interests you, you need to focus on it. And if you don’t care about it after dwelling on it for awhile, chuck it out and try again. Choosing something that is of personal interest to you is the most important kind of advice one can give. 16 �Geoffrey Comber: on the Early Years of the Annapolis Graduate Institute First, I want to thank Emily Langston for inviting me to speak on this 40th anniversary of the Graduate Institute on this campus of St. John’s College. As I’m sure you all know the GI began 50 years ago on the Santa Fe campus in the summer of 1967. Since then, a large number of you have attended the GI at one or both campuses, often against a lot of adversity—some of you against financial problems, some who’ve had to make major readjustments to your family schedules, and all for some gruelling reading assignments. It is now clear to everyone that the GI is alive and thriving. But, as you might expect, it was not always so. I believe it is important for all of us to have a sense of our various kinds of histories—personal, national, ethnic, and also the history of the institutions that have formed us. I want to tell you just two vignettes from the early formative years of the GI so you will see how far we have traveled. We started the GI on this campus in 1977 after a tough two-year struggle with some of our more conservative colleagues here who were not sure whether to undertake an exciting and radical change on this campus. As you know, change of any sort in either people or institutions is often viewed as a threat or painful or both. But after a two-year struggle, the great adventure of the GI in Annapolis was undertaken with excitement and a degree of trepidation: 17 students, four tutors, the brand new History segment, and no air conditioning during a hot, humid summer. Well, from 17 students in 1977, we went to 35 in 1978 and to 51 the next year—but still no air conditioning. In 1979, our third year, we enrolled a student who had been living in Mexico for a while. He had several diplomas and certificates of study from several places in the U.S. and in Latin America, but no standard BS or BA degree. I noted on his application form that he was 84 years old. So I certainly didn’t want to insist he take two or three more years to complete his undergraduate degree. I felt time was not an ally in this case, so we accepted him as is. He arrived in Annapolis a day or two late, having driven from Mexico to us in five days. He mixed well with everyone here, and added a richness to his classes. 17 �But I was told that he often looked tired, and that he dozed off in some classes. Knowing he was 84, I looked on him as elderly and needing special dispensations. I was only a youngster in my forties at that time. But after two weeks, I found out that the poor man was sleeping at night in his ancient car, because he didn’t have enough money for a room on campus. Suddenly, my whole view of him changed. I saw him as resourceful and younger. He didn’t seem a day over 65. So of course, we gave him a special “room” scholarship, and I’m sure he slept much better after that. Certainly, his grades were good. My second story concerns age differences. Again, in this third year of the GI one of the students was a 16-year-old boy whom I admitted as a fully qualified student, though not as a student for the Master’s degree. He and his mother made an appointment with me a few months before classes began. The boy spoke well and clearly, and he had several excellent comments from his teachers here at Annapolis High School, so I admitted him. That same year, there was a 72-year-old man who had been a federal bureaucrat and later a successful businessman. Within two weeks, tutors and students noted with admiration that these two argued with mutual respect, each gradually seeing more value in the unique viewpoints youth and age bring to a subject. They learned and demonstrated how to cooperate and found that discussions—properly conducted— don’t produce winners and losers, but only winners. The very act of discussing makes you see other points of view more sympathetically and your own more clearly. But of equal importance is the skill you can learn here to ignore or translate the enormous difference in time between us and the authors we read, bridging hundreds and thousands of years. Whereas in most other institutes of learning, those differences would be stressed and pointed out with some arrogance, here you have learned to treat them with respect, and above all, to bring their way of looking at the world into the orbit of your experience. I happened to meet the 16-year-old boy about eight years later in a supermarket and he remembered his GI experience with great appreciation. By then, he had a PhD from the University of Pennsylvania. Between 1979 and 1985, we offered a number of what were called Middle East Fellowships, sponsored by grants from the U.S. State Department. We acquired these largely by the help of Burch Ault, vice president of this college for several years. He helped a great deal by putting me in touch with many of his wealthy contacts (and he 18 �had many). This took me to several countries in the Near & Middle East to recruit students. The scholarships came for one or two summers from Syria, Iraq, Morocco, Turkey, Jordan, Egypt, Israel, and Palestine. To say their presence on campus disturbed our Western complacency is a wild understatement. But I believe both they and we found it an enriching experience—socially and academically. So, my friends, I hope these little tales from the past and the start of the Graduate Institute have given you a glimpse of how we started, and what we regard as success. Now, 40 years old, with a regular year-round program, a smart, permanent office, and a fairly steady enrollment of students—not very young nor very old as in our formative years—the GI can look forward to a steady future. The GI aims to give a set of discerning skills which I hope we can take into the world outside St. John’s College. There is still a danger of becoming insular, coming from this college. Recently, a graduate from here told me that a friend of his was critical of our students, saying, “You people only seem to be able to talk to each other.” I believe that is a sad and unnecessary accusation—even though it’s sometimes true. But we have the ability of saying we we believe—translating what you learn here—into a language familiar to your listeners wherever they come from. So I give you my final recommendation: Go forth, speak the language available to the company you are in, and may all the discussion you have in the future, wherever and with whomsoever you find yourself, bear the imprint of all you have learned here. Thank you. 19 �Emily Langston: Convocation Address (Spring 2017) Living in the In-Between The year 2017 marks the 50th year of the GI. We’ll be celebrating this anniversary at events through the year, so it seems appropriate to say something today, at the beginning of this year of celebration, about the beginnings of the institute, especially as its beginnings reveal something of the community you are about to join. As those of you doing the mental math have figured out by now, the first GI classes were held in 1967. To be precise, the Institute came into being in the summer of 1967, on St. John’s brand new campus in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Then-president Richard Weigle obtained a grant from the Carnegie Foundation offering support for five summers to found a summer graduate program in the liberal arts. The initial sketch of the curriculum was drawn up by Lawrence Berns, in consultation with many of the members of the Santa Fe faculty at the time, for a program originally called the “Teachers Institute in Liberal Education.” That initial summer saw an enrollment of 33 students. It wasn’t as many as the founders had hoped to attract (though it seems to me like an impressive accomplishment!). But aside from that the program was regarded by all as a great success and every student who enrolled for that first summer elected to return in subsequent summers, there was no attrition. To quote a report by Robert Goldwin, the Institute’s first director, students were: “Like [people] too long in the desert suddenly transported to an oasis. This was just what they had always hoped for but had never really seen.” Even in that first year, there was some surprise at the variety of students to whom the program appealed. At the end of that first summer, Goldwin suggested changing the name from the “Teachers’ Institute” to the “Graduate Institute,” to make it clear that this education was for anyone who desired to undertake it. That first diverse group of 33 did include a number of teachers: nine from inner-city schools in Baltimore, as well as various residents of Santa Fe, Los Alamos, and places further afield. Some came straight from college, but most already had some graduate work in their backgrounds; many even had advanced degrees. Which is to say, that the first GI student body looked in many ways like the student body we have today—a substantial number of teachers, but also retirees, recent college graduates, people working in other professions, in the military, government agencies, and NGOs. They were also like current GI students 20 �in another, more significant, way: they, like you here today, were willing to make a deliberate and unusual educational choice at a time of life when it is neither expected nor convenient. Such a choice must arise from a real and serious desire for the activity we engage in together at the college. At its core, this activity is the same in the Graduate Institute as in the undergraduate program. We are all engaged in liberal education, in an education that we believe will render us more free. But making the choice to undertake this education—in medias res as it were—necessitates a different relationship with or stance toward your studies than that of the typical St. John’s undergraduate. Very few undergraduates here attend part-time, and most of them live on or very close to campus. They are able to separate themselves, not entirely but somewhat, from the world—forming a tight-knit community in what you will sometimes hear called the “Johnnie Bubble.” But members of the Graduate Institute can’t live in a bubble. (No matter how much some of us might wish to from time to time!) Whether you come in the summer or during the academic year, you have commitments—careers, families, the multitudes of obligations of adulthood—that can’t and shouldn’t simply be put aside. Of necessity you find yourself living in the in-between, engaging with these texts and this community as you remain engaged also with what is called, with greater or lesser degrees of irony, the “Real World.” This in-between-ness puts demands on you, and in turn on the educational program. Some of the differences between the forms the program takes at the undergraduate and graduate levels—such as the ability of GI students to take a preceptorial, which is to say an “elective,” every semester—I think can be simply put down to a sense that students who are older and more experienced may be offered a modicum more choice. Other differences, though, were originally the result of rethinking the program in light of what it meant to offer a program of liberal education, that would be rigorous and true to the mission of the college, to students with unavoidable ongoing commitments. A couple of these differences have become defining features of the Graduate Institute program today. The most significant is certainly the division of the program into segments. The founders of the GI considered this a concession—not so much to an academic culture obsessed with marking out territories of expertise, as to the fact that they needed to divide the program into coherent chunks that could be offered in eight weeks of intensive summer study to students who would have a substantial break between terms. Evidence that it is a concession is found in the very term we use for each of these chunks; we call them “segments.” The word segment comes from the Latin, secare, to cut; a segment is something cut off. So “Politics and Society” 21 �for example, the segment that some of you will be taking this semester and that was offered during the first GI summer, is not considered to be a subject-area unto itself but instead something cut off from a larger, integrated whole. The fact, again, that although we adhere to a strict order within the segments, the segments themselves may be taken in almost any order was also a concession—this time to the fact that we can’t offer every segment every term, but we need to bring in new students every term, and so students need to be able to start with whatever segments are being offered. And this again has necessitated that we focus less on technical subjects such as mathematics and foreign language study where a certain amount of expertise must be developed cumulatively and in order. The majority of our students earn the Master of Arts in Liberal Arts degree without engaging in any foreign language study—and it is possible to do so without taking any mathematics. (Although I urge you not to! Many GI students, and especially those who were most hesitant to take it, find the Math and Natural Sciences segment the most freeing of all.) What emerged from all this necessary adjustment, however, was not simply a cut-up, truncated version of the undergraduate program; rather, as my predecessor in this role Jeff Black made clear in an address entitled “Liberal Education for Adults,” it is a version of the St. John’s program with its own integrity and distinctive features. For instance, reading the books organized into segments means that certain questions arise more persistently over the course of a semester, and it is easier to trace a strand of thought or a question from an ancient to a modern thinker. The fact that both new and returning students are likely to be present in any class means that the discussion of the class remains more focused on the books in that particular segment, rather than ranging widely over a long list of books that everyone can be presumed to have read. The fact that we do less math, science, and foreign language study means that we have more time in tutorial to devote to a close reading of key texts within a segment. These differences help make a program in the liberal arts that is particularly appropriate for older students living between worlds. Finally, though, no educational program—however well-conceived—could ensure the success of this endeavor. What sustains the community of learning in the Graduate Institute year after year, as students and faculty alike negotiate the tension between engagement in liberal education and engagement with the world? It’s a pressing question not only for students of the Graduate Institute, but for all of us. For (assuming that we remain engaged in learning at all after leaving school) the space within this tension is where most of us spend our lives. I won’t attempt to answer this question fully in my remaining few minutes, but I think even to begin to answer I must return to what 22 �I was saying about you, the students of the GI, and the unusual choice that brought you here. As I said earlier, it is a choice that evidences a strong desire to undertake the project of liberal education. What can we say about such a desire? The desire to become more free through learning already requires both the self-knowledge to admit that we are less than fully free and at least the hope that we might become more free by pursuing knowledge about essential things. We admit that there is something about this undertaking of being human in the world that we don’t fully grasp. But of course, realizing that there is something we don’t grasp is only the first step. To know that we only have to look at Meno—rich, good-looking and well-connected, certainly engaged with his contemporary world—who, when his ignorance about virtue is exposed, responds with bluster and threats, then throws up his hands as he makes the debater’s argument that it is not even worth trying to know such things. I think I can safely say that most of you, unlike Meno, at some level already believe that it is worthwhile to seek what we do not know. But the task is not easy. It requires that we be, in the words of Socrates to Meno, “energetic and keen on the search.” Without a continual recommitment to the search this life in-between would be impossible. We rely on this quality in you, this resolve to resist the claims of the immediate and return again and again to search with us for what we do not know; we rely on it, and I think as a community we can encourage it in one another—but as the example of Meno again makes clear we can’t simply instill it where it isn’t present. Socrates tells us that this belief and this search will make us “better, braver and less idle.” It is something very close to virtue; and as with virtue, it is hard to say where it comes from. Maybe, as is suggested regarding virtue in the second half of the dialogue, it is a gift from the gods. May we for the next 50 years continue to be blessed with students so gifted. 23 �Conversation with President Kanelos on the Graduate Institute C: You said in a recent interview with Historia that the telos of education should be education of the soul. Given that, do you see a difference between the GI and the undergraduate program? PK: Yes, I think there is a difference between undergraduate education and graduate education by definition. Graduate education presumes a kind of preparatory experience at the undergraduate level—it presumes that it’s building upon a foundation that’s been laid, but that foundation is different for every person. Many people enter the GI in the same position that they would have were they to have come here as an undergraduate— kind of new to this world, this particular approach to liberal education. So it’s different than if you’re, let’s say, an English major and then you go on to get a Masters or a PhD in English. What that does is presume that you’ve done these 12 classes and now you’re going to do the next set at the graduate level. We don’t make that presumption in the GI. We presume that the kind of experience that you’re going to have may align with experience you’ve had in the past or it may be totally new to you. Liberal education is evergreen: if you’ve already read Plato as an undergraduate, several times over on your own, or in many different contexts, you can come to it again at the Graduate Institute and it still has all this stuff to teach you. And that’s I think what allows the Graduate Institute to be appropriate for so many different people at different points in their life. You could parachute into the Graduate Institute at 22 or at 92—and that’s wonderful because I don’t think most graduate programs offer the same kind of riches across generations. But the point of education is the education of the soul, and as far as I know we have souls the entirety of our lives, maybe even after—but that’s a different question. C: In your inauguration speech you made a note that there’s no liberal art in the singular—there are liberal arts in the plural. Can you say more about this? PK: The fundamental point that I was trying to make was that human beings are so complex and the world is so complex that there is no singular body of knowledge that can stand in for the whole. If you just study biology you could learn a heck of a lot about certain things, but it could never give you access to the total meaning of human experience—it just can’t. And neither can some disciplines that seem to some people 24 �to give that access. For example, some people feel like if you study literature you have access to lived human experience in a way that creates wisdom, but I think you still only have a partial view. I still think you need to understand the world as a biologist, a physicist, or a musician would. It’s important to realize that our experience of the world is prismatic, that there are all these different angles that we can see the world through, and we need to see it through as many angles as possible. Even then we’ll never have a full understanding of the human experience. But we have a human drive to understand as much as we can, and that’s education for the sake of education. The prisms we have in the undergraduate experience and the graduate experience are parallel, but there are differences. The undergraduate experience is set up as a four-year block of time where most undergraduates are essentially sealed off from the world. Each body of knowledge has a kind of throughline, most of them a four-year throughline: the study of languages, the study of sciences, mathematics, great texts. The image I would use for that is we’re weaving those together over four years. A student can study Euclid and think about geometric concepts and then study Aristotle and somehow those things start to weave together. The Graduate Institute is not constructed in that way: it’s constructed in sequential way. Each student goes through the GI in a different pattern depending upon how the segments move around together. It’s like a kaleidoscope—you can shift the thing and get different patterns. This compels our GIs to relate to the material a little bit differently than the undergraduates. We understand that the educational experience is blended together with life itself in a different way for GIs than it is at the undergraduate level. For most GIs—even GIs who are full time and going straight through—you are living your life more in the world and of the world than you would as an undergraduate. C: If you were to enroll in the GI, is there a particular segment you would start with? PK: I think I would roll the dice, I really do! Because I would be afraid of my own impulses. One of the things you need to do if you’re really going to educate yourself is to move outside your comfort zone. You can start with the things you’re most familiar with—my background, literature, theater, the arts, philosophy, politics, that’s my comfort zone—I would be drawn in that direction. On the other hand, I don’t know that it would be the best thing for me to just go the opposite way and start with all the things that I’m shamefully ignorant of. I honestly think I would just roll the dice and give the fickle finger of fate a chance. And the GI is constituted in a way that that would actually makes sense. The vicissitudes of fortune—sometimes you just need to 25 �jump in the river and let it take you. I think that kind of surrendering is really the first step in education, and that’s why I’d be reticent to engineer my own experience. I’d just say, “I’m letting go, I’m giving in, I’m not going to try to control this”—at least this kind of education. You’re not going to do that if you’re becoming an engineer—there are certain things that you need to do in a certain sequence. But in the liberal arts, you can just let it go. C: What ideas do you have for the future of the GI? PK: I think the GI is in many ways the future of St. John’s. Not that we would ever divest ourselves of the undergraduate program—I think our undergraduate program is the essential undergraduate program in the country, but we’re committed at the undergraduate level to staying exactly where we are in terms of size and format. But St. John’s should reach many, many more lives than it does and I think the Graduate Institute is the place that’s almost infinitely expandable. When you think about the flexibility of the program, the nimbleness of the program, the fact that there are so many different people it can appeal to in so many different ways—then we have to think about how we can multiply access to the GI without losing stability. One of the questions that I have is: How dependent is the GI upon the foundational undergraduate experience for ballast? Is part of the GI experience the fact that you come to Annapolis or Santa Fe and you’re plugged into this community that is there and thriving and you are a subset of that community? I think that’s important. But could we do the GI in New York, for example, separate from the campus? We’re looking at some options like that now, and I think there’s a lot of potential there for delivering the same academic experience with the same intellectual rigor while not necessarily being tethered to a home campus in the same way. C: Are there more places where the undergraduates and the GIs can meet where the two groups can come together and learn from one another? PK: My graduate experience was at the University of Chicago, and there are a lot of affinities between the two institutions: this program was largely inspired by educational movements out of the University of Chicago; quite a number of people in my graduate program were Johnnies; and quite a number of people from the University of Chicago end up teaching here—so there’s a kind of interpenetration of the institutions. Chicago is a very graduate student-heavy place. I may be wrong, but I think there are more graduate students than undergraduates at the institution—it really feels that 26 �way. And there were a lot of classes that were simply intermingled. I would need to take a class and often I would be in a class that was mixed graduate students and undergraduates—and there was no attempt to distinguish between the two—this is what was brilliant about it—you actually sometimes didn’t know who was a graduate student and who was an undergrad. And it was wonderful for the undergrads because the undergrads were really pressed. Here these are mostly PhD students in that setting who are studying things very seriously and want to talk very seriously about stuff and the undergrads were expected to keep up. And similarly, for the graduate students, the kind of freshness, the openness, the earnestness of undergraduates was really stimulating. So I would love to see more intermingling around the table. Could we do it in a curricular fashion? Maybe. Could we—I’m going to say this and then somebody’s going to hear this somewhere and then I’m going to hear about it—could we embed GIs in undergraduate seminars as a teaching assistant or something like that? Maybe that’s not the right word for it here, but as a kind of participant, an assistant to the process in some way? That’s something that we could at least think about. We would be doing it for very different reasons than most schools—most schools do that because they get cheap labor. Our motivation would just be adding another layer of complexity to the intellectual experience. I would welcome these kinds of things. My experience of having undergrads and graduates together was really, really rich. One of the things that was brilliant about it was it just broke what’s really an artificial mold, and this goes back to the original question—what’s the purpose of education? If the purpose of education is to do this thing called “an undergraduate degree” and then some people go on and do a PhD for a different purpose—the instrumentalized vision in each of those cases, that you get this credential to go on and do X, is kind of broken down when you have many people together doing it for very different reasons. C: What were the things that you were looking for in your education? PK: I was raised by wolves [laughs] so I didn’t have much direction when it came to undergraduate education. That’s a very ungenerous way to put my upbringing—but what I meant was my parents were immigrants and not educated people, and not wolfish anyways, but had no experience with education themselves. I was the oldest in the family and I knew I needed to do this thing called “college,” but I really didn’t know what that meant or how to discern the best possible path other than things people would say to me in arbitrary fashion about what a good college was or where you should go. I stumbled into my undergraduate education. I went to Northwestern, and in hindsight, I don’t think I had a particularly fantastic education there. I think it 27 �was mixed, even though it was a very so-called “prestigious” school. It taught me that prestige and quality of education don’t always match up. When I got to graduate school, at that point I was a little more attended to what I was looking for. My first graduate experience was at Boston University. I entered a program called the University Professors Program, which was an interdisciplinary graduate program. It is not around anymore; they pulled the plug on it a couple years ago. But it was the kind of program where the faculty were from a broad range of fields, but tended to be really high profile. The idea at BU was to get the Mount Rushmore effect: get really big important people in the world and put them into a graduate program and see what happens. And that really appealed to me, but I had had a relatively rigid and narrow undergraduate experience: pick a major, stick with it, pick a couple electives. So when I went to graduate school I wanted to be more free-ranging. St. John’s was not on my radar for graduate school—I had not heard of it at that point. But I thought [BU] was really great, I could take classes and study with these wonderful people, and I could read literature, and do philosophy and aesthetics, and all these sorts of things. It was fantastic, I loved every minute of it, probably for the same reasons you all love what you’re doing. It felt like an intellectual adventure. It was a PhD program, but towards the end of my first year there, I had lunch with Saul Bellow, and he and I were chatting about what I was doing. I said I was getting ready to write my Master’s thesis on Hobbes, and he said: “Why are you here? You should be at the University of Chicago in the Committee on Social Thought,” where he had spent most of his career teaching. To be frank, I had never dreamed I could get into the University of Chicago for a PhD—that seemed beyond my capacity—but he was persuasive. He made a phone call to the University of Chicago and said, “you should take a look at this kid.” I finished up my MA thesis at BU and then went on to the Committee on Social Thought for the PhD program. What I found there was something like that University Professors experience; the Committee of Social Thought is another interdisciplinary graduate program populated with high-powered faculty. You can take it in many different directions. I had been leaning towards the study of political philosophy, which is why I had written on Hobbes. In my heart of hearts, I was really most interested in language, aesthetics, and literature. Luckily, I landed in a program that let me move in any direction I wanted. I ended up focusing on Shakespeare, writing my dissertation on Shakespeare, and then going on to teach in English and theatre departments. There has been a lot of dice-rolling in my life where I think, “There is an appeal here—I 28 �don’t know where it is going to go or how it is going to end, but I feel drawn to this kind of intellectual adventure, to this particular kind of experience.” So I jump in the stream and see what happens. C: Is there a reason why so many tutors come from the Committee on Social Thought? PK: I think philosophically, the programs are in line with each other. In many ways the Committee on Social thought is the PhD version of the St. John’s program. It’s not structured in the same way, but the spirit of it is. You have to read broadly and synthesize. I’ll give you an example. The typical PhD program has you take exams before you go on to write your dissertation. Let’s say you’re doing your PhD in English—you would pick three areas of knowledge. So you’d say: “I’m going to do restoration literature, early modern drama, and philosophy of language.” Then you would create a reading list of 50 important secondary works in all of these fields. So you’d read and read and read and master the scholarly work on this, and then have an oral examination. When the committee was convinced that you had mastered the scholarly apparatus, then you would be permitted to write a dissertation. At the Committee on Social Thought, the exams are radically different. They’re called the Fundamentals exams. There are three broad areas: imaginative literature, philosophy and theology, and social sciences. You have to pick four primary texts for each of those categories, and they have to be divided so that there is at least one ancient and one modern text in each category. Then your job is is to study these primary texts as deeply as possible. And you have to take your list around to each member of the faculty, not just members on a small committee. They would talk to you about it; they’d say: “Why Genealogy of Morals? What do you want to do with it? What’s this about?” Once the entire faculty had signed off on it, then you prepared for your exams. They would give you a sealed envelope with three questions that had been composed for you based upon your reading list. You would take it home and have five days to write on two of the questions. You on average produce 50 to 100 pages of writing in those five days. It was all primary-text-focused and the idea was that you had to read from Plato to Nietzsche and beyond. So you can see how that is very Johnnie. It’s radically different than the way any other graduate program is structured. The Committee on Social Thought fosters an ability to see across boundaries, to accept different ways of knowing, to be broad rather than narrow. C: Which 12 books did you choose? PK: In literature it was Euripides’ Bacchae, Hamlet, Brothers Karamazov, and 29 �Gulliver’s Travels. In philosophy and theology, it was Cicero’s De Officiis, Aristotle’s Poetics, Hobbes’ Leviathan, Nietzsche’s Genealogy of Morals. In social sciences, it was Thucydides’ Peloponnesian War, Burke’s Reflections on the Revolution in France, the speeches of Abraham Lincoln, and Freud’s Civilization and its Discontents. I mean, come on: look at that list! It’s amazing to be able to study that way at the graduate level. C: The story goes that when you first got to college for your undergrad, someone asked you what your major was—and you responded, “What? What the heck is that?” Many of us in the GI immediately thought, “This is the guy for the job.” So many of us immediately recognized you as a Johnnie. PK: That is another reason why I am evangelical about the GI. Because people who learn to learn this way—whether they are directly involved in education or not—become advocates for this form of education and the value of a real liberal arts education. Part of the reason there is a crisis in the liberal arts is because there are very few schools that actually are liberal arts schools—even though they call themselves that. So people say that some squishy school somewhere is a “liberal arts” college, but it doesn’t really look any different from a non-liberal arts college. Maybe it’s a little bit smaller, maybe they don’t have a graduate school—but in terms of the core education, there isn’t much of a difference between going to a “liberal arts college” like Williams and going to the University of Michigan other than football teams and size. Both are great schools— but in terms of the experience, they are not very different from each other. St. John’s has not lost the sense of what liberal arts should be. In fact, St. John’s represents that in its purest form, and that’s why I want as many people as possible to have this sort of experience. I want there to be 1,000 people sitting around this table. So how do we do that? We have to be careful—we don’t want to lose the essence of St. John’s. C: So many GIs say they only heard about St. John’s by word of mouth. What kinds of outreach initiatives do you have in mind for the Graduate Institute? PK: Part of the outreach we’re working on is through established schools like Great Hearts. I think that many of the people we encounter in our undergraduate outreach— through classical and homeschool initiatives—are potentially GIs. You talk to someone who’s been working in this area and they say, “Well gosh, that’d be great to go and study there as a graduate student.” And I tell them, “Well, you can!” But I think we do need to be more intentional about this. We have a lot of irons in the fire right now, and they’re all really exciting. 30 �C: We are all thrilled to have someone with a clear vision of what liberal education means. PK: I still pinch myself every day. I mean really? I get to be president of St. John’s? This is crazy talk. It is just a joy to be somewhere where your values and aspirations align exactly with the institution. I have been a part of other colleges and universities and I have had a really nice career with wonderful people and great students, but things have always felt a little off-kilter to me. I was always trying to make every place a little more like St. John’s. Talk to my colleagues back at Valparaiso where I was a dean. It was a Great-Books-based honors program, but it didn’t have nearly the same kind of focus or commitment to liberal education. One of the very first things I did at that honors college was meet with Chris Nelson. I had never been on campus before, but I happened to be in the area and thought, “Okay, I am going to St. John’s. I am going to call up this Chris Nelson guy. He seems like he’s an advocate of liberal education at St. John’s. I want to get a tour of the school, I want to sit in on classes, I want to speak with the president.” I did all those things—Chris and I spoke about liberal education, and my intention in doing that was to be able to learn more about the way this place operated so I could bring those things back to my institution. I had no idea that the guy I was having lunch with at Harry Brown’s—that four years later I would be taking his desk. I didn’t even dream of that. C: So, as a final question: do you have a piece of advice you’d give to a student in the Graduate Institute? PK: I would say: immerse yourself as deeply as possible into the experience. Don’t do it part-time, half-hearted. I understand students in the graduate program have lives that must go on—but immerse yourself as much as you possibly can in the text, the discussion, and most importantly into a kind of shared intellectual life with your peers. As I’m sure you guys know, it’s a privilege to take a slice of your life, read things with others, read things in common, and talk about them. These are sacred moments in one’s life. They’re especially sacred at the graduate level. You don’t have much of a choice K through 12; you’re going to march along, that’s expected of you. An undergraduate experience is kind of a rite of passage—but what you are doing now is elective. You’ve selected to carve this space in your life, and remembering that this is primarily for you…You might have some kind of practical reason in mind, maybe you’re a teacher and you want to take some of this back, maybe you want to go on to a PhD, and that’s fine. But this shouldn’t be an instrumental experience. This should be an experience where you feel the muscles of your soul contracting and expanding as you’re going through this. And the only way to do it is to do it with all your heart. 31 �Staci Hill: Toast to the Tutors (Dean’s Reception, Summer 2017) The instructions for this toast were just as open-ended as all assignments at St. John’s. I am tasked with articulating what the program, classes, and tutors mean to us as graduating students. And like all assignments at St. John’s, what follows will not convey all that the question merits. In leaving such a strong community and stepping toward something new, we should ask what this education brings to what is next. I’m in the unique position of having spent my last semester as a student mostly away from the college. And as a result, I’ve already spent some time reflecting on what the GI has given me. I think there are many answers to this question, but my answer begins with habits. Many of you might have already had the weekly or daily habit of reading books. That is a habit of action—and it is important. But what I have in mind is more of a habit of temperament. The program calls for us to think a lot about the most important things. Class is where we examine those thoughts and where we have the discussions that help those thoughts remain with us. It is between the program and classes that we’ve been asked to develop a most important habit: the habit of listening both to the authors we read and our peers in class. By listening, I do not mean just leaving the space for others to speak, but the kind of listening that is demanding of the mind. The kind of listening that makes another’s thoughts consume your own head space. When we step off campus, we will all encounter people who have not been exposed to these books and who do not think much about what we may call the most important things. It will be easy to dismiss them. But St. John’s has showed me that listening intently reveals the value in whoever is speaking. Every individual has a soul and reason and experiences that speak to what we’re here for. Therefore, cultivating this habit of listening, so that we may carry it forward, is one of the most important gifts of the Graduate Institute. 32 �The tutors are models of worthy habits, but especially the habit of listening. The tutors have the difficult and significant job of doing this kind of listening every class. They have chosen to commit themselves to this habit. And they do so with the seriousness and focus required. Their listening, on the rare occasion that it does not make us feel understood, at the very least makes us feel valued and heard. This listening is an essential ingredient to a life of inquiry. Let us continue forward by emulating the tutors’ habit of listening— TO THE TUTORS! 33 �“I grew up in the back of Greek diners; my parents worked in the restaurant. I’d go to school, and home was this place where you slept. But during the day I’d spend time in the back of the restaurant because that was where my family was. We moved from Chicago to Phoenix, Arizona when I was eight. My dad bought a restaurant in Phoenix and moved us out there. It was attached to this hotel—a kind of seedy place, to be honest with you—in the run-down, old hotel strip in town. There was a coffee shop/diner there and a hotel. It was like a David Lynch movie The people who owned the hotel had a son named Frankie, who was my age. Frankie and I would spend our time drawing and coloring on restaurant placemats. I have such a vivid memory of these paper placemats: that was where we’d draw spaceships, play games. Here I am with this kid, in the back of a restaurant, and every once in a while one of the short order cooks would show up and give us a plate of French fries…such an unconventional existence! That sort of thing does not prepare you for a top 20 college. In fact, I never visited a college before I went.” President Pano Kanelos 34 � 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 Colloquy Description An account of the resource A student-run journal for the Graduate Institute community of St. John's College in Annapolis, Maryland. The issues feature essays, art, poetry, interviews, and more. 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 Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 34 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 Colloquy, Fall 2017 Description An account of the resource Volume II of the Colloquy, published in Fall 2017. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Hatheway, Damon (editor) Keegin, Joseph (editor) Lambert, Toni (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 2017-10 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 Colloquy-VolumeII-Fall2017 Graduate Institute https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/a4e2dbebf768a36eb1db228925577b65.pdf f635ca0a7075006d551d142783d32bfa PDF Text Text continuing the conversation A Journal of the St. John’s College Annapolis Graduate Institute Volume III: Spring 2018 �One day two members of an English university, a professor of science and a professor of literature, were walking along in some old town. Passing a very old gateway, the professor of literature said, “Chaucer once passed this way. And that fact alone is worth to me more than all the scienti c theories that have ever been elaborated.” And the scientist replied, “e fact that Chaucer once passed that way is of in nitesimally small importance to me for he will never pass this way again.” —William Weedon, Professor at the University of Virginia, as recounted by μῆτις �Table of Contents Colloquy: e Genesis. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 Letter from the Editors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 Living With the Great Books . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 Eva Brann’s Tips on the Oral Exam . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .18 Interview With Emily Langston: Parts and Wholes. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .19 On the Heart of the Graduate Institute, by Toni Lambert. . . . . . . . . . 28 2018 GI Master’s Essay Abstracts. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .30 Dean’s Reception Toasts, Fall 2017 To the Students: David Townsend . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31 To the Tutors: Nathaniel Booth. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33 Colloquy Editorial Board Toni Lambert, AGI ‘19 Damon Hatheway, AGI ‘18 Joseph Keegin, AGI ‘18 3 �Colloquy: e Genesis “You are Here for a Reason,” announced the banner draped on a building to my le aer I exited Route 50 and drove down Rowe Boulevard to the campus. I’d taken annual leave that day from my government job to register for my rst semester in the GI program, get my parking sticker, tour the library, and undergo the Meno experience, where I met my fellow rst semester students. Before we wrestled with Socrates that day, we introduced ourselves with brief stories of why we’d signed up. One, Roger Carstens, a military academy graduate and career Special Forces officer, said, “I’m here to take all those courses I couldn’t take at West Point.” Later that day I met Matt Dean, a second semester student then, who told me his college philosophy professor and boxing coach (the same person) encouraged him to look into St. John’s College. Aer earning his degree in philosophy and languages, Matt taught English in northern China for three years and then, deciding to follow up on his professor’s suggestion, he moved to Annapolis for the G.I. program. What were the stories of others? At the start of my fourth semester, I asked GI students and alumni whom I knew to write about how they learned of the program and why they signed up—so I could compile their stories and share them. My aim was to promote a community among current GI students and alumni. e stories could also be shared with prospective applicants, who could gain insights on what this unique program can offer. I called the nascent publication Colloquy, borrowing the name from the graduate publication for a larger graduate program (Harvard’s Graduate School of Arts and Sciences). If it was good enough for them, why not for us? Didn’t we deserve such a publication? Aer all, Erasmus published colloquies in the 16th century, so I knew we were in good company. It was a rocky start. It was hard to coax the stories out of classmates and others when they had other demands. My enthusiasm was more effective with those in classes with me, alumni I knew, and those whom I cornered in the McDowell coffee shop between classes. I kept moving the deadline and sending out pleas for stories. en a few more stories arrived, and some late entries came over the transom, so I decided to go ahead, worked with contributors, and ended up with 21 stories. In addition to the journal (as an electronic and print publication), we planned two inperson events. e rst was the “Tell Your Story” gathering for the GI community, which 4 �Ben Wampler suggested, based on his experiences at Williams College. e second was a GI “Symposium” that would focus not on a program text but on a key aspect of our program work. Eva Brann, Peter Kalkavage, and Eric Salem had just published their translation of Plato’s Symposium so calling our gathering a “Symposium” seemed ideal. I need to add here that the undergraduates have a “Committee on Instruction,” and I’d attended their excellent program on “writing the paper.” Consequently, I was inspired to form a GI Committee on Instruction, and Ms Brann’s “Symposium on the Opening Question” became our committee’s rst offering. e Graduate Council even rewrote its Constitution to provide for the continuation of this publication and of these activities. I was pleased that this Constitution, at least, was xed so easily. A note about Colloquy’s contents in Issue #1: Once I had the stories, I wanted to add more sections. I wrote up a few paragraphs on Ms. Brann’s Symposium on the Opening Question, and I added notes on my impromptu interview with her over lunch at Galway’s. ere was a section on Tutors’ Insights, as the tutors are the crux of the program! ere I added Mr. Townsend’s remarks on the opening question, which he offered during his preceptorial on Moby-Dick. And Mr. Zeiderman clari ed something he told us about “how to read a text” during his seminar on politics and society. I asked Ms. Hitz to write about “the bene ts of writing a Master’s Essay.” And Mr. Zeiderman said I could include his “Toast to the Graduating Students,” where he shared insights on the undergraduate and graduate programs along the lines of “formation and transformation.” e nal section, “Responses to Readings,” was an idea I had aer reading the student publication, Historia. I inserted a sestina I’d written on a Heidegger essay; it was a kind of placeholder for future “Responses” from contributors. My “Dear Readers” letter, following the Contents, identi ed the theme for Issue #2: “A Moment of Realization…”. I also included Colloquy’s official email address: colloquy@sjc.edu. When the document was nearly ready, I shared it with Jeremy Sheeler, who is good at designing documents. en I approached Mr. Pastille, who has produced the St. John’s Review for many years. While I was busy making last-minute changes, Mr. Pastille did a fantastic job of preparing both the nal electronic version and the print version. He then recommended the company that prints materials for the college, including the St. John’s Review. My nal step was visiting the printing plant to sign off on the printready copy. (In size, Colloquy Issue #1 is slightly larger than the St John’s Review; the font and binding are the same.) e electronic version was already out; I brought the print version to the 2017 Piraeus in early June, just in time for the 50th Celebration of the GI Program. 5 �Letter from the Editors Dear Reader, ank you for picking up a copy of the Spring 2018 edition of Colloquy! Our third issue opens with remarks from Colloquy’s founding editor, Ms. Bonnie Naradzay—to whom we are deeply indebted for her supreme efforts—on the genesis of this journal. In the pages following you will nd two major themes: rst, re ections from GIs on the great texts that have helped shape their intellectual journey both to and while at St. John’s; and secondly, a series of interviews and speeches that capture the essence of life at St. John’s. We are grateful for all of the GIs who submitted their stories and owe an enormous debt of gratitude to Assistant Dean Ms. Emily Langston and Ms. Eva Brann for sharing their wisdom with our community. To the graduate council, thank you for graciously providing funding once again. We hope that Colloquy accurately re ects some part of our wondrous experience in Annapolis. e strength of the journal lies in the input and submissions we receive from students and in the support and participation of the faculty and administration. We eagerly anticipate publishing the fourth edition of Colloquy during the Fall of 2018 semester. We will be accepting suggestions about the theme of the next issue over the summer break—please address all comments and suggestions for future issues to colloquy@sjc.edu. Finally, Colloquy is seeking additional editors! ose interested should email Toni Lambert at clambert@sjc.edu. Sincerely, e Colloquy Editors 6 �Living With the Great Books At rst, I didn’t trust Augustine. I’m not sure why, but I read the rst few books of his Confessions with suspicion and skepticism. Maybe it had something to do with the book opening with the author on a dogged quest to nd evidence of original sin in the most mundane memories of his own childhood, granting a moral dimension to the crying of a baby. Or maybe—as was discussed in seminar, and which formed the foundation of suspicion for many of my classmates—Augustine’s goal was really to position himself as a new Virgil, the Confessions a new Aeneid in which the founding of Rome in Italy becomes the founding of Christ in the life of a single man. Some took his study of philosophy and rhetoric as evidence of his cleverness and insisted that he was trying to get one over on us. Whatever the source of distrust, the class was nearly unanimous in feeling it. But as we followed Augustine in his journey—spiritual and otherwise—the skepticism gradually fell away. Everybody found something in the text that put Augustine beyond doubt, that made it impossible for each of us not to trust him. My discovery happened in book IV: Augustine’s close friend falls ill and, aer a short and ultimately insufficient rally, passes away. Anguished, Augustine writes: “My eyes sought him everywhere, but they did not see him; and I hated all places because he was not in them, because they could not say to me, ‘Look, he is coming,’ as they did when he was alive and absent.” I too have grieved for a beloved friend who suddenly le this world far before his time. Rarely had I ever come across such an exact depiction of what this grief felt like (and Augustine’s account was all the more gutting for its terseness). Nobody could have written such a passage without having experienced the sorrow of death rsthand. Augustine knew. And now that I knew that he knew, I could trust him. Or more accurately, I couldn’t not trust him. Toward the end of book IX, Augustine’s mother Monica dies, and he asks us to join him in prayer for her. In the middle of a busy coffee shop in New Orleans, I set my book down and stared silently at my hands. I never told anyone that I complied. —Joey Keegin, AGI ‘18 I have been aware of St. John’s College for almost half a century. I rst learned about 7 �the college in 1969, my junior year in high school, when I read How to Read a Book by Mortimer Adler. I was excited by the audacious notion of dispensing with textbooks and instead learning directly from the Great Books (learning geometry from Euclid, evolution from Darwin, etc.). However, scared off, I did not apply when I learned that Greek and Latin were required. Too audacious. I regret not applying. e misgivings came quickly. During my rst or second year in college, I met a St. John’s student who was visiting my campus. For her, the Great Books curriculum had proven to be as exciting as she had imagined it would be. When she told me that her favorite book so far had been the Bible, the thought ran through my head: I intended to read the Bible, but haven’t. More power to her and her St. John’s classmates. I had the opportunity to visit St. John’s in Annapolis at age 29, and I sat in on one or two classes. I was excited by what I saw. e books I aspired to read were getting read. And they were being savored, probed, debated. e discussions spilled out of the classroom and into the caféteria, dorms, and even some of the extracurricular activities. I knew I would have thrived at St. John’s. I regretted having been deterred by mandatory Greek and Latin. In my 40’s, my wife and I assembled a group of half a dozen friends to read the Hebrew Bible in translation. We read about 25-50 pages a month and then discussed them. e monthly meetings provided the discipline to do the reading, and over time, we completed the Hebrew Bible. For me, one of the temptations of parenting children was using my children to re-enact my life, but in a manner that corrected the errors and omissions of my childhood. In this way, I could live my preferred childhood vicariously through them. No doubt that explains why I started talking up St. John’s to my two children when they entered high school, put information about the St. John’s Summer Academy in front of them when they reached the requisite age, pleaded with them to read the section about St. John’s in Forty Colleges that Changed Lives, corralled them to go to the “Forty Colleges” college fair when it came to town, and kept encouraging them to add Annapolis or Santa Fe to the college-visit itinerary. At the “Forty Colleges” college fair I attended with my daughter three years ago, I made a beeline to the St. John’s table. If my daughter wouldn’t come with me to the St. John’s table, at least I could go and learn some tidbits or pick up literature that perhaps could be used to entice her later. 8 �at evening at the St. John’s table I made an amazing discovery. I learned about the existence of St. John’s’ Graduate Institute and its master’s-degree program. e program had my name written all over it. Suddenly, the pressure was off my daughter. I did not need to enroll in St. John’s vicariously. I could enroll myself. And here I am. —Lee Cranberg, AGI ‘20 Remember what Ms. McIntosh said about answering multiple-choice questions? Go with your rst choice. With that in mind, ll in the circle in your Scantron which corresponds with the best answer to the following question: 1. What should Greg’s next pursuit be aer reading e Closing of the American Mind by Allan Bloom and realizing his BFA in Musical eatre le him hollower than your last can of hairspray? a. Stick to a lucrative contract to perform for the next eight months. b. Run away to Seattle where his shallow friends and prying parents haven’t in ltrated yet. c. Farm. d. Attend a secular Great Books program in Annapolis, regardless of rst impressions. Easy. “a.” Eight months later, your test returns, marked in red: “0/1” You realize your mistake and con rm “b.” A year later, your test returns, marked in red: “0/1” Must be “c?” ree months later—all right, all right, you get it, you get it. You can’t regret what kept you, but you can’t help wishing you’d gotten here a whole lot sooner. —Gregory LaMontagne, AGI ‘20 9 �I rst heard of St. John’s College in the Eighties. My nephew had applied and told me about it. I have two distinct recollections of his words. He said he wrote thirteen pages for the application and that he was studying the Great Books. is all seemed quite wondrous to me, but his family insisted he stay near home in Texas and that was that. My nephew was far away and his education and other details of his life at that time fell into the background of my focus. I had on March 8, 1986 become a mother. And again on March 2, 1989. And again on December 6, 1990. ose were long days lled with the little ones and times of so many books. We read aloud every day and had favorites: Charlotte’s Web, Julie of the Wolves, Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH, Redwall, Winnie-the-Pooh, and hundreds of others. Even though we lived a short 47 miles away, Annapolis was just somewhere the children visited on class trips to the State House and Archives. St. John’s was year by year getting further away. My only connections were memories of my father speaking of the school and my sister doing lots of Great Books summer programs. Perhaps the poster had already been around when I started seeing it about, as the games of childhood slipped away and the children were in the tight grips of middle school and high school. e poster of the books. It was like a song you hear in Starbucks, then it’s on the gas pump t.v. screen, and then someone is asking you if you’ve heard it. e poster of the books keep speaking to me. Maybe I had minimal interest in excursions to Annapolis, but that poster was everywhere, including on the wall of my youngest child’s junior year English classroom. St. John’s just wouldn’t give up its hold. My rst trip to Annapolis, not as a doting mother on the big yellow school bus, was as a parent shepherding two high schoolers on a college tour. It was a June day and no Johnnies were about, but our tour guide took us to a room adjacent to e Great Hall and we talked and talked. No one walked backwards. My youngest child, omas Bonn, matriculated on a fair late summer day in August of 2009. He liked sharing his experience with his father and me. We became regulars at his orchestra concerts and parents’ weekend tutorials. I even went to Santa Fe for a summer seminar. What really called me to the GI, though was the conversations on the way home from campus for breaks. I always wished the 47 mile drive would just go on a little longer. In his senior year, Tommy wrote about Job. We spent some good hours talking about Job. Job accompanied us to family gatherings on walks and of course in the car. Attending Tommy’s senior oral knocked our socks off. 10 �On a March day in 2014, I wrote my application to the Graduate Institute. I am in my last semester. I’ve read and discussed some of the books from the poster. At home I have my own pile of which I am really proud. I’ve sat at the table and listened and spoken on the Republic, the Iliad, the Odyssey, the Inferno et alia and even e Book of Job. —Christina Garvin, AGI ‘18 In college, I double majored in philosophy and religious studies. With a full schedule every term to complete both majors, I rarely ventured outside these two academic disciplines. When asked what my favorite books were, I would respond with Lucretius’ On e Nature Of ings or Epictetus’ Discourses, two works of Roman philosophy. “I don’t really read ction,” I would say. I had not read a work of ction since high school and did not understand the allure of it. In fact, one of the reasons I came to St. John’s was because I wanted to gure out why people cared so much about literature. Fortunately, reading Dostoevsky’s Demons in preceptorial this semester has completely altered my view of the value of literature. e narrative is absolutely captivating and the eccentric characters provide a lens for the reader to evaluate their own behavior. ey almost demand the reader to ask themselves: do I ever act this poorly? Dostoevsky’s characters in Demons oen have exaggerated qualities so that one can more easily analyze them. He holds up the magnifying glass to apparently harmless character traits, showing how truly pernicious they can be. One character in particular struck me: a famous writer with his nger on the pulse of the intergenerational and ideological con ict that is driving the novel, who appears to be the most intellectually gied character in the story. But he uses these gis almost exclusively to gain admiration and reputational success. Describing a speech this character gave, the narrator writes that “the great European philosopher, the great scholar, the inventor, the laborer and martyr—all these...are for our great Russian genius decidedly like cooks in his kitchen. He is the master and they come to him, chef ’s hat in hand, waiting for orders...no, sir, he has already risen above these great minds of Europe; they are all material for his puns”. Despite his intricate knowledge of philosophy and the state of the Russian man, during his speech “his face simply said: I’m for you, only praise me, praise me more, as much as possible, I like it terribly.” To a person who values education and linguistic eloquence more than almost everything else, this characterization cuts deep. I feel within myself the impulse to turn an honest search for the truth into a petty popularity contest that seeks only the approval and admiration of my peers. Remembering how self-satis ed I was for 11 �using the word sanctimonious in class recently does not paint a pretty picture of my so-called purist search for the truth. One could read about this in a philosophy class—about how many of our motives are less noble than we would like to think they are. But to see it drawn out in a character somehow makes it that much more crushing. It does not happen only in the abstract, but affects real particular human beings much like myself. Analyzing Dostoevsky’s characters has been an illuminating look at my own occasionally dubious motivations. —Joey Hiles, AGI ‘19 roughout my whole life, I possessed a narrative containing: “my purpose is...”, “the meaning of life...”, “the reason..”, “It’ll all work out in the end.” I do not remember a speci c moment that put those kinds of ideas in my head, but even when I started to realize that I should not assume those things, I found it one of the nicer options— for life to have meaning, for my particular life to have meaning, to be an individual with purpose—and continued on holding it as the backdrop of my life. Nothing ever occurred that forced me to shake that feeling. Even when I’d force myself to ask “do I have a purpose?” I would cut it short because I failed to see a bene t in debating my existence, of debating what it means to possess individuality. at is, until reading Saint Augustine’s City of God and Kierkegaard’s Fear and Trembling simultaneously. For the rst time in my life, I was confronted with two very intimate conversations on the implications of Christian life—one with Saint Augustine and one with Kierkegaard. I was struck with: “what if this isn’t the case?” My two options from these texts are either there is a divine Creator and I was not granted with grace (or failed to recognize such grace) or there is no Creator. And then all these beautiful things—of being an individual in the eyes of the universe, of being created or made with intention, of things in the universe having a supernatural connection—disappeared. Just like that, my backdrop fell and the empty darkness behind it was exposed. It was not that I lost a belief in a God, I never had it, even though there were plenty of times I wished I did, I wished I could; but from reading these texts, for the rst time ever I felt like I really understood what the implications and possibilities are connected to being consciously created by an all Loving God. en from seeing these beautiful things painted in front of me, I then felt I could understand the implications of there being no Divine consciousness moving the cosmos. is alternate option le me feeling empty. Le me feeling lost within myself. Le me feeling small. I kept thinking: “Why live? Why continue on? If there is nothing to build or grow or develop in my time on 12 �earth, then why stay? Is there something I’m losing if I leave now?” I found myself debating my existence because of the rattling in my brain caused by these two books simultaneously, but I was not scared. Aer about ve weeks of re ecting every day all day on this new lack of a backdrop, I felt myself take a step away and look back on all the thinking I had done. In that moment, I realized I had been debating the extent and end of existence itself and was using myself as the medium. at moment was truly beautiful. —Toni Lambert, AGI ‘19 Love at St.John’s College I was asked by an editor of this publication, due to my abiding interest in Plato’s Symposium, to write on this text. Yet, in the spirit of both Socrates and St. John’s, I must humbly confess that, while I could spend all day conversing about the Symposium, I could only tell you what it is about with a single word: Love. is may seem obvious, and I’m sure many a publisher’s blurb has dubbed it “a dialogue on love” right there on the back cover. However, once you have read it over and over (sometimes slowly and methodically, and other times with a fast, feverish desire), you feel as if your oneword description should be expanded into at least a sentence-long description, but as it oen happens your feelings betray you. One word remains. Maybe, at the risk of saying, along with the poets, something as trite as “all you need is love,” I could form my sentence-long description into a question: “is the secret heart of all things Love?” Is this what Plato is saying? I do not know. Many thinkers have claimed that we English speakers are at a disadvantage in lovematters when comparing ourselves to the Greeks. We simply say “love” where the Greeks have their eros and agape and so on. True philosophy loves distinctions, and so we lovers of Love eagerly run to the Greeks, longing to broaden our oen monological conception—a worthy practice. I am not sure, however, if language did an ignoble thing reuniting what the Greeks had separated. For my second precept at St. John’s, in the second half of the semester, a tight, affectionate group of colleagues and I, under the gracious (and patient, very patient) tutelage of Mr. Black, studied this dialogue on Love in Greek. Several months later, I had the privilege of marrying the love of my life on a beautiful summer’s day. One could say that the midpoint of my time at St. John’s was punctuated by Love, informing all of my 13 �studies before and aer. Maybe these experiences have shaped my view of the texts and our conversations, but I have come under the presumption that not a single word we read here is completely unrelated to Love. Some have said that at the very depths of things, love binds the otherwise unwelding chaos, others that it is the very reason for our being and all bliss—the motivation behind the divine “let there be.” I cannot speak for these views, but must let them speak for themselves. I can only say that in our longing to know the difference, if any, we have already discovered a sort of love. I guess one could then say that love is the reason why we came to St. John’s in the rst place. —John Felis, AGI ‘18 I came to St. John’s with a lot of confused ideas in my head—a combination of too much American popular opinion and too many secondary sources about the books we read here. Upon my enrolling, I was overjoyed to see a preceptorial about the supposed “ancient quarrel between philosophy and poetry,” focusing on the works of Heraclitus and Parmenides that promised to get beyond the categories of experience that we have inherited from these two sources (popular opinion and scholarship). I had never read these two fellows before, and as most scholars of philosophy would have it, saw them as nothing more than sort of unserious precursors to real philosophy—as merely “Pre-Socratics.” However, as we began reading Heraclitus, I quickly realized, not only that something very real was going on there, but also something very different than anything I had ever encountered before. e story we are told about these two enigmatic characters is that Heraclitus is the “ ow” guy, Parmenides the “static” one—all is nothing but change (you can’t step into the same river twice), or all is one and unchanging. Yet, not only did I nd this to be a gross and unfair characterization, but an extremely limited and limiting one. It made me really realize the true value of what we do here—not submitting to others’ opinions about these authors, but going to the sources to experience them for ourselves. I especially found Heraclitus intriguing and far from the stereotyped picture that I had previously held of him. Reading him opened up a whole new perspective for me and empowered me with a new vocabulary for my experience of the world. For the rst time I nally possessed the words for which I had been grasping for at least the last ve years of my life to express how I saw the world. Although I had been moving in certain directions, I was 14 �still unable to fully articulate what I felt until being exposed to his strange, seemingly oracular and counterintuitive pronouncements. I have always been most intrigued by philosophers who are able to impose a détente on this war between the poets and philosophers—Rousseau, Nietzsche, Montaigne, Plato—but nothing prepared me for what I would nd in Heraclitus. In him, the world of seeming and being merge in the most wondrous and wonderful ways, allowing for a uni ed whole that has been lost in our modern abstracted world of science and pseudoscience. But as Heraclitus would say, don’t listen to me, but go to the logos itself, and see if you agree. —Jeremy Sheeler, AGI ‘18 e Cyclops and the Cave Before and aer I graduated from St. John’s I worked at a beer distributorship in Pittston, Pennsylvania. In the summers the greatest difficulty in my life was making sure the cooler was full. ere are few things more upsetting to the inhabitants of Northeast Pennsylvania than when the beer store doesn’t have the beer they want cold. Normally this isn’t a problem. Most people drink cheap, light beer, which can be put in by the cartload. e odium of the beer store employee is the proliferation of cra/micro/nano beers. Everyone wants something different and no one is ever satis ed. Consequently, in the summer a certain prudence is necessary for managing what cra beers are kept cold. is task fell to me—para bailar la bamba se necesita una poca de gracia. On a particularly hot day, one of my coworkers, a local college student, was having great difficulty nding a case of beer in the cooler. “It’s right by the rst shelf right when you walk in,” I said. “Not it’s not,” he said. Few things used to bother me more than having my ability to stock the cooler challenged. I escorted my coworker to the cooler and showed him the case of beer. “See,” he said proudly, “it was under another case of beer!” Later, aer the customer bought the beer and le, I asked my coworker, “How did Odysseus escape from Cyclops’ cave?” “Who?” he asked. “Odysseus,” I said. “Who’s Odysseus?” he asked. A noble question, I thought. “He’s the hero of Homer’s Odyssey,” I said. “He was trapped in the cave of the 15 �Cyclops Polyphemus and escaped with his comrades by hanging onto the shaggy bellies of the Cyclops’ sheep. e Cyclops felt only the tops of the sheep as they ran out of the cave.” My coworker stared at me. “What do you think the point of me telling you this is?” I asked. My coworker looked down for a few seconds then quickly up at me smiling, “You should always look under things?” “Unless you want to be a Cyclops,” I said. e point of this exchange was not clear to me until recently. —Max Anthony, AGI ‘16 I sometimes get weird looks when I tell people that my greatest mentor is someone who is dead, but it doesn’t take long before they realize that I wouldn’t be the person I am today if I hadn’t discovered the works of one of the twentieth century’s greatest authors, J.R.R. Tolkien. While I have read and loved most of his works, e Silmarillion continues to be the one that speaks to me most deeply and has had the most formative in uence on my life. My passion for Tolkien began with my introduction to e Hobbit at the age of twelve, and e Hobbit and e Lord of the Rings quickly became my favorite books. Aer devouring those four volumes, I needed to know if my new favorite author had written anything else. My search was not disappointed, and at the ripe old age of fourteen, I intrepidly embarked upon e Silmarillion. I can still remember sitting in a tattered old tripod stand in the middle of a late September deer hunt with my nose buried in this book, heedless of any deer that might have passed by. I was much more interested in learning about the music of the Ainur, the creation of Laurelin and Telperion, and the reckless ambition of Fëanor than the prospect of putting meat in the freezer. While the rest of me was bundled in many layers of eece and camou age, I barely noticed that my ngers were frozen, because who can turn pages with gloves on? I made it less than halfway through on that rst reading. It was captivating but also one of the most difficult things I had ever read. When I returned to it a year or so later, aer having only made it through the rst few thousand years of the history of Arda, I wondered how I could ever have been 16 �distracted from the beauty of these stories. e reading was still dense and difficult at times, feeling in some places more like a history textbook than a cohesive narrative, but I was determined to stick it out, and was rewarded with a book that became and remains my favorite. When I begin to think about the ways this book has changed me, I hardly know where to start. Do I begin with the beautiful prose and invented languages that have shaped my linguistic sensibilities? Do I consider the compelling narratives that have taught me how to recognize a truly good story when I see it? Or do I relate how the deep truths embedded so seamlessly into these stories have shaped my theology just as much—if not more—than any Bible college class? Each of those questions indicates something signi cant about me that this book has shaped, but each of those issues ultimately revolves around the compelling vision that Tolkien provided of the creativity that lies at the center of what it means to be human. I am an artist because of e Silmarillion, which teaches me that to be human is to be a sub-creator. —Ethan Pyle, AGI ‘20 Reading in community is powerful. Reading the Aeneid in the community of a preceptorial with St. John’s graduate students made the story sing to me in a new and mysterious way. We can read on our own, and I hope we always will, but the process of shared inquiry intensi es understanding as we combine our light. e song of the Aeneid will travel with me, as it has for years, even when I leave St. John’s. And I’m sure someday when I am grey and full of sleep, and nodding by the re, I’ll take down this book, and remember you all and our moments of glad grace. —Christine Mooradian, AGI ‘19 17 �Eva Brann’s Tips on the Oral Exam 1. On choosing an oral topic. Choose something that either got to you because you have a feeling that it was very important but you didn’t quite get it, something that you really care about, or something that you wished you cared about. 2. Be nervous. Coffee...might make it worse. But people say that if you aren’t nervous before going on stage, then you’re not going to give a good performance. On the whole, I think nervousness is a sign of caring—you might even say something to cherish in yourself. 3. ese orals were intended not to need preparation at all. e real preparation is having participated in seminar and in class, and that means that you’re used to expressing yourself and seizing on something interesting. 4. If you’re hell-bent on preparing, own your own books. If you are the kind of reader we would like you to be—because what I’m about to say, you can’t do with a library book—as you’re reading you are underlining. I make mysterious squiggles in the margin which mean something only to me, so when I come to review, I know where my interest got stuck. en you simply look at your own marginalia and you know what is of interest to you and you remember it. 5. Talk to your classmates or to someone who doesn’t have a clue what you’re doing, and to try to explain what interests you about the text in question. If you have an infant, you might even talk to the infant! en, having practiced, when it comes to the actual oral you will probably forget it all and say something entirely different. 6. I’m against taking notes in class. It really is hard to take good notes and at the same time to be there, responsively. But if you’re preparing for an oral and you have certain things that you don’t want to forget to say, it seems to me that bringing a little sheet of points is perfectly permissible. 7. Don’t forget that you can take control of an oral exam. If you nd yourself suddenly not knowing what to say next, either because you’re out of material or because you’ve lost your way, just say so. Say, “At the moment I’m stuck, could you ask me a question?” Make the tutor help you, and they will be very glad to do it. e oral is not really intended to evaluate or grade you, it’s intended to make sure that you’re participating directly with the tutor at least once in the term. 8. Do what you must. e worst thing I could possibly do is to make you worry about doing what works for you. 18 �Interview with Emily Langston, Assistant Dean of the Graduate Institute Parts and Wholes C: What do you think the role of the tutor is in the classroom? EL: Different tutors will have different answers about this. I think the role of the tutor in the classroom is to do everything she can to help the conversation along—to help it be as good and as deep and as penetrating a conversation as it can be, without making it my conversation. So there’s a balance there. You start thinking about what do I need to do to make this better: play traffic cop with some people who are impeding the conversation? Or is it to try to bring in people who are quiet? Or is it to try to ask a question that will hopefully draw people in a fruitful direction? I think it’s a combination of keeping an intellectual grasp of what’s going on along with a grasp of the social dynamics of what’s going on. at is complicated, and interesting, and a lot of fun and also very tiring, but really enjoyable—thinking about the balance of what’s going on in the classroom and in the community and in everyone’s encounter with the book. And trying to be actually involved in the learning, too, so that it’s not just a matter of watching other people have a good conversation, but it’s a matter of trying to be a part of it and feel the excitement of it yourself, but not in a way that dominates it too much. C: Do you have a certain strategy for asking opening questions? EL: My strategies are different for different types of classes. In the Philosophy and eology tutorial, which I’m leading now, we have texts that are building complex, cumulative arguments so I try to ask questions that are going to be helpful for people putting the argument together. For seminar readings where we’re reading something that is a whole I itself, like a play, then I go for something that would be an interesting, fruitful topic to talk about that could go in a lot of different directions and sustain a lot of different interpretations. C: What happens at the end of a good seminar—are people happy? EL: People keep talking. I think that’s the answer mostly. But they’re not always happy, no. Sometimes they’re frustrated—but they keep talking. What would be bad is if 19 �they’re frustrated and angry and close off and stomp away. I guess it could also be good if people are really, really intrigued but have to run off to do other things, but then think about things themselves later. But basically I think if the conversation continues either right there or later then that’s a sign of a good seminar. C: What do you think there are the responsibilities of the tutor beyond the classroom? EL: e most important thing is to be accessible to students who want to talk to you about the books and the ideas and other things in one way or another, whether it’s having coffee or getting together for a paper conference or advising an essay— participating in study groups would be another one that’s important, just reading things with people. at side of it is something that tutors tend to actualize in different ways depending upon who they are. Some of them are really involved in the sports program, others are involved in the musical life of the college. But part of the role of the tutor is to be involved in the life of the college as an intellectual presence who’s open to having serious conversations and thinking with students all the time and in all sorts of different ways however that makes sense for who you are and who the student is. at’s one of the criteria for tenure for tutors. One of the things that happens when someone is up for tenure, is that the instruction committee interviews all the seniors— not just the seniors who’ve had that person in class- because at that point they want to know how that person is a part of the broader community and not just real to the people that sit in class with her. C: A lot of people speak highly of the math segment—do you have a favorite segment? EL: is sounds cheesy, but I don’t think there’s a best segment. But I do think I know why people speak so highly of the MNS segment; it’s the segment that most oen takes people and shows them a whole new side of the intellectual world that they had thought they were shut off from in some way, or just not interested in, or scared of, or for whatever reason didn’t want to pursue. I think pretty much every time I’ve known people to take it, they have struggled through parts of it, particularly the tutorial, but they’ve been blown away by it and enthusiastic and have loved it. We say philosophy begins in wonder, and the stuff you see through studying Euclid, for example, is a kind of wonder that is easily enough accessible so that you don’t have to have a lot of background in higher math to get at it. When you think clearly and with him through the text, you suddenly see all of these things that are much more mysterious and interesting and beautiful than you thought they were going to be. So in that way I think it’s remarkable. I wish that everyone would take it. 20 �C: Do you have a favorite program book? EL: at’s hard, probably the book that I return to the most, that I would take with me onto the proverbial deserted island, is the Divine Comedy. It is a combination of so many things—beautiful, beautiful poetry, and really rigorous theological and philosophical thought. He even pulls in astronomy and all sorts of other things I have thought about in music and visual arts, through my time here, and makes them a part of the world he’s constructing. e grandeur of the whole vision that’s really allencompassing is so magni cent. I feel I could just read it again and again and would always be noticing new, wonderful things about it. If I have to choose one, that’s it. But if we’re talking about the books that have in uenced the way that I encounter the world most, some of the math and science books would be right at the top for me— Euclid, Lobachevsky, Newton’s Principia. I’m one of the people who was opened to a whole new intellectual world by the mathematics and science program here. Just the idea that you can sit on the earth and with your mind and a pen and paper you can gure out that what makes an object fall when you drop it is the same thing as what’s making the moon stay in its orbit around the earth and the planets do their orbits that’s such an amazing thought! And how one could build that and think that and show that to other people is beautiful. It makes me very happy to think about it. C: It sounds like what the Divine Comedy and the math segment have in common is an idea or view of the cosmos, or of the whole. EL: I think that’s certainly something I like about both of them, something that combines a view of the whole with some kind of wonder that shows me more than I could ever get to myself, but also reveals that there’s so much there that’s beyond what we’re seeing and leads to further questions. It shows in some way the ways that our thinking does and doesn’t line up with the really real. ose are all things I like thinking about with respect to those books. C: Does that mean that there are certain cosmic questions that are intractable—that can’t be answered in a way that makes them even more interesting? EL: Well, there are moments like the end of the Comedy when the pilgrim Dante looks deeply into the vision of God and sees the human image and can’t gure out how to t it in with the rest of what he’s seeing. So there’s something there about the mystery of the incarnation, and about love and God’s working in the world that overwhelms him and then he feels his will compelled by the love that moves the earth and the other 21 �stars. It leads him up to the place that is as far as he can go and there’s beyond that something that’s beautiful and good and true that he can’t cognize, but that he can see and that he can accept, but can’t gure out. C: Were these the kinds of questions or interests that were raised from what you studied during your PhD and dissertation? EL: My PhD is in theology and my dissertation is on Emmanuel Levinas, who is a French Jewish philosopher. His main question is about the role of ethics in philosophy. In the same way that Aristotle says philosophy begins in wonder, Levinas says that philosophy begins with ethics or with an ethical intuition, which has to do with the phenomenology of the face and an intuition that it would be wrong to do something like pick up a brick and crush the face of another human being. As with Aristotle you don’t see everyone out there actualizing their desire to know in an obvious way, Levinas certainly acknowledges that there are people out there who would violate this ethical imperative, but still for him what it is to be human qua human is to have this ethical intuition. Whether or not you violate it is a different question. And then he shows that from ethics you can get to all of the other philosophical questions, about the nature of truth, epistemology—these all for him come from ethics, as opposed to the way that philosophy has usually proceeded, making ethics secondary to questions about being, etc. Levinas thinks you never can justify ethics on the basis of other things, but if you start with ethics you can get to everything else. I was drawn to him partly because I found that was one of the ways I tended to evaluate philosophical texts that I read anyway. I would read something and think to myself, “How does this cash out ethically?” And if it seemed like it cashed out ethically in a really bad way, then that made me want to distance myself from it but without having a place to stand in doing that. Levinas explained that impulse in a way that made sense to me. His thought also explains the kind of prioritizing we all do when we realize that there things I wouldn’t do in order to know something. For example, I wouldn’t do experiments on live human beings to satisfy my desire to know because there’s an ethical violation there that is trumping the desire to know, and justi ably so. C: What brought you to St. John’s, and what has kept you here over the years? EL: I was working on my PhD and some tutors from St. John’s visited the college at which my mother was a professor and le St. John’s material lying around my parents’ house, which I saw when I went to visit them. I looked at brochures and thought, “Oh, no! I should have gone to college here!” Not that I would give up the people and 22 �experiences I had in college, but I thought “I didn’t get this education, this is terrible!” And then it occurred to me that if I were hired to teach at St. John’s I would get to the whole program and I would get to do it again and they would even pay me to do it! It sounded too good to be true. So I applied the next year and I gured if I didn’t get the St. John’s job then I would go out on the normal job market the following year aer I had nished my dissertation. So I applied aer my dissertation proposal had been approved but before I had done a lot of my writing. And then I got the job! I was getting a little frustrated in graduate school—even though I very much liked what I was studying—with the idea of scratching out a smaller and smaller corner and writing papers that only a few other people were actually going to be interested to read. at’s not all that scholarship is, but certainly when you’re getting started in the normal academic world that’s what you do. I had always been interested in many things, and found it difficult to want to focus to the degree that you need to. Being at St. John’s has allowed me to explore all kinds of things. It’s amazing to me that people want me to explore the Principia, or Maxwell’s equations, or to learn Greek so that I can be in a classroom. And that I have people who are doing it with me, who don’t expect me to walk in and be an expert on Maxwell’s equations already, so when I learn it for the rst time I feel all the wonder and excitement that I think the students do. at seems like a fantastic privilege. In some ways I can’t be as authoritative as someone who really studied that stuff, but in other ways I think it helps me as a tutor, because I know what’s hard for people who are coming to this material because it’s hard for me, too. I get super excited about it because it doesn’t seem obvious to me. I love the way that teaching works here. I like being a part of a group of people working on something together, more than I like giving lectures. C: With your experience going through your PhD and at St. John’s, is there a piece of advice you would give to GIs who want to become teachers? EL: e main piece of advice I give people now who want to go into college-level teaching and into academia is that you need to love what you are studying. Don’t think that you want to become a scholar and then think of the thing that you want to focus on. You should have something you really want to work on because you are going to be doing a lot of it. Your excitement about it will be one of the things that is really important to the students that are working with you so you need to be able to share that and have that be very genuine. People recognize that. Sadly now you can get a PhD and there is no guarantee that you are going to be able to get a job in an academic setting, so that is another reason to be doing the PhD not as a career path but because there is something you really want to study seriously and in a lot of depth. 23 �You don’t want to end feeling like, if you don’t land an academic job, that it was a waste of 5-7 years of your life. For those students going into other kinds of teaching: it seems to be very helpful if you just like people. You have to be in front of a group of people and you have to be on, and you have to be the one who is not getting too discouraged or showing your frustration too much—and you have to bring things to life for other people. You need to love seeing people come to that moment of realization about something, which I think is a great feeling to see come to life. C: Surely Socrates felt the same kind of excitement in the Meno when he witnessed the slave boy’s moment of realization. e Meno is such an integral part of the program— is there something you have taken away from it having read it as many times as you have? EL: Mostly I notice more and more how beautifully put together it is. How anywhere people go into it there are things to see that tie it back to the whole and bring you to the central conversation about learning and how it is possible and how teaching is possible. I don’t get tired of doing it, partly because I don’t get tired of seeng other people encountering it the rst time and seeing how marvelous it is. But I do learn small things every time by seeing people jump in at a different place and seeing what is possible there. C: Is it clearer to you why Klein thought it was so important for the program? EL: It becomes clearer and clearer to me that he was right. I don’t think I would have changed any answer about why I thought Klein was right, but both the Meno and St. John’s are about teaching, learning, questioning, and the relationship of the people involved in that activity. ese are always the immediate questions about what we are doing. It is exactly the right text to be the central text for the school and graduate program because it brings to life the questions that are asked in every class—whether math or lab or music—whatever those questions are. C: e Meno is another example where math is the tool to bring about wonder in students. EL: I didn’t know when I started teaching here that there is no unit no matter how small that measures the diagonal and the side of a square. I had never thought about what it meant that if you have a unit square the diagonal isn’t a rational number, 24 �which is something that I kind of knew – but I had never thought about what it meant. at’s what actually induces wonder. When you do think about what it means it is abbergasting. Still. C: Was there a book on the program list that you hadn’t read before coming to St. John’s that you were especially looking forward to? EL: I was looking forward to almost all of them, but I will tell you an opposite sort of story. Don Quixote was a book I had certainly heard of, but never thought I was interested in reading. I had a vague idea of a musical, a knight and windmills, and I have to confess it sounded not very interesting to me. When I nally had to read it, I was overwhelmed by what an amazing book it is. And how “modern” or ”postmodern” it is in how it deals with narrative and narrative-on-top-of-narrative. e book is divided into two halves. ere is a whole introduction about nding a manuscript and transcribing it. en the premise of the second half of the book is that the rst half of the book has already been written and is in uencing things. So the second half of the book is a reading of the rst half of the book through Don Quixote’s ongoing adventures, as the rst half of the book is now out in the world. It is incredible. e questions that it raises are so profound—about language, narrative, ethical questions, nobility, and the beginnings of modernity—all those things are there. So that is one of the great things the program has done for me—it has made me read some books that I didn’t think would be interesting. C: What has it been like to have your daughter attend the school where you teach? EL: I feel like the luckiest mom! First off, I have my time in the GI while she’s an undergraduate—they would never arrange it that I had her in class—but still she doesn’t have to worry about her friends having me in class, for example. She knows where to nd me if she wants to see me, but if she doesn’t want to see me, I stay in my corner over here and she has the campus. e fact that she’ll pop by to talk about something with me is such a privilege and makes me so happy. I saw her the other day and just as she was walking out, she said: “You know, I really like Kant’s moral philosophy.” (Laughs) It’s great. C: Has that changed your perspective of the undergraduate curriculum and how learning happens at St. John’s? EL: A little bit. It has made me excited about the program all over again, to see her going through it and coming to talk to me about it year by year. I’m happy that this has 25 �happened aer I’ve already gone through it. It made me appreciate it even more than I already appreciated it intellectually. But what I am getting through her experientially is how the material of the different years is integrated. Freshman year you do nearly all Greeks in seminar and almost all Euclid in math, and a lot of say Aristotle and Archimedes in lab, and Ancient Greek in language. When you are a tutor, you don’t end up tutoring let’s say all sophomore classes, so I have never experienced being fully immersed in that way over the years. But when I talk to her and see how she is pulling things together and is getting excited about what is going on and the connections between her classes, I see what a good thing that is. I also see how hard the Program is, how hard the students work if they’re are really doing it right. C: Does the strength of the integration of the undergraduate curriculum re ect on the graduate curriculum at all? EL: I think the graduate curriculum in one way is more tightly integrated, and in another way less. We can’t do a whole year where everything we are doing has its origins in Ancient Greece; but on the other hand the segments take one question or type of question and follow it through in a very tight way that you can’t do in the undergraduate program. So it is great to read Kant in the same short period of time in which you have read Descartes’ Meditations and Aristotle’s Metaphysics. In the undergraduate program, those things are spread out over years, so it is harder to remember in detail what Aristotle was saying when you get to Kant. ere is also a tightness between the tutorials and seminars, which works very well. at is one reason tutors like tutoring in the GI as a sort of change. e structure of the program forefronts particular questions that can sometimes get lost in the undergraduate program because the texts that would raise those questions more pressingly are not juxtaposed in the students’ minds. C: Would the graduate program bene t by more closely resembling the undergraduate— perhaps by making Greek, or a language, or the master’s essay mandatory? EL: One thing that I think is wonderful about the GI is that there are so many different types of people: you have the teachers who are only doing it in the summers, older people who are coming with all their experiences, and younger people who have recently le college. I think requiring Greek or a masters essay would not make sense for everyone. For the teachers to write a master’s essay when they are here only in the summers would be almost impossible. And requiring Greek would be a barrier probably especially for some of the older students. Some of them may want to learn it, 26 �but more oen I think they want to read the books and ask questions about them and life and experience. Also, of course, as we are currently structured requiring Greek would mean cutting down the number of preceptorials students could take since the Greek preceptorial goes for two terms. We do need to think about whether there are ways that we can provide more of this sort of structure and demanding work in language for students, particularly like those who are coming out of college and are probably going onto some kind of academia or other endeavors, that would still allow the GI to work for other kinds of students. ere are people in the GI for whom writing a master’s essay just wouldn’t work, but for all the students who plan to we will start having an information session in the fall and spring semesters about the master’s essay, so that the information gets out in a regular way and to encourage people to do it and to set up a timeline. And we are starting to offer Latin in the summers. C: at seems to be one of the things that’s great about St. John’s—different parts of the program appeal to different people, but everyone loves being here. EL: Right, just like the conversation we’re having here. We have each been so excited about what we have to say. I suppose that that doesn’t happen all over the place. St. John’s is a community of people that believe that genuine, passionate, and joyous learning, whether you are learning Greek or studying Lobachevsky, is glorious. 27 �On the Heart of the Graduate Institute, by Toni Lambert When someone asks me to describe the Graduate Institute, I start with the bones— seminar, tutorial, preceptorial—but I can never stop there. It is Aer Seminar Gathering; it is Galway Bay; it is study groups; it is Friday night lectures; it is boathouse gatherings; and, I have learned, it is the McDowell coffee shop. Having begun the GI in the fall of 2017, I had never even entered McDowell Hall. e building was merely an obstacle in my path from Mellon to the BBC, the two places I did all my work. I did not know that the campus even had a coffee shop until my spring semester. Tutorial was where I would hear classmates speak with anticipation of McDowell’s reopening so we would nally have a place to talk together and share a meal. One of the most adamant students on the matter even tried to have the café relocated temporarily during the renovation. We shared a tutorial and seminar, and when arriving early to class it was oen a topic of conversation. One of my favorite parts of the GI, not even knowing about the coffee shop, is how so much of the experience has nothing to do with the segments themselves: there are true friendships cultivated with tutors and fellow students. I wanted to get a piece of the action for Colloquy and approached my fellow GI about writing on why he thinks the coffee shop is “the heart of the GI,” thinking that he must know much more about the GI community than I do. Fittingly, he refused, but asked me to have lunch with him to talk about it instead; this was so much better than words on a page, spending an aernoon with one of my classmates in activity proved to be exactly the thing I was hoping to access. We started our journey by sitting on a bench outside of the BBC looking over the croquet eld. We discussed what we wanted to achieve that day, then started to walk around campus. We walked by McDowell and he pointed out the different colored bricks, which distinguished the ones that had been replaced aer the re in 1909, along with other characteristics that make the building unique. He told me to look around and to see where we were; all paths led to McDowell Hall. He con rmed the building’s centrality using a diagram of the campus from a book detailing the history of the structure, which he brought to assist in my thirst for understanding. We went to lunch in Randall Hall, which happened to be my rst time ever going there. We talked about our seminar and tutorial, both of our experiences in the GI, goals I have for my future, and went through the book on the history of McDowell. e 28 �conversation was genuine and thoughtful, one I am extraordinarily thankful to have had. He explained that McDowell is not only at the physical heart of the campus but is the focal point of the St. John’s community. Further, the coffee shop is the heart of the GI because of what it represents and what has always taken place there. He explained that there is something “numinous” about McDowell and the café. He stated: “You can smell the humans. By that I mean, in a way you can feel all the people that have gathered here to discuss and learn over the hundreds of years, it has been in use.” ere is a recognition of being a part of something greater. Aer lunch we walked through McDowell. Standing in the center of the coffee shop, he pointed out that this location is the crossroads of all of campus. ere is uidity to the café that does not exist in other places on campus. It is a place of “meeting, greeting, and acknowledging.” Having not been exposed to the tradition myself, he explained to me that it is the place GI’s go from 6:30 to 7:30 on Mondays and ursdays. We gather to drink coffee, eat dinner, and discuss. People come and go, conversations shi, and no one enters with an agenda. ere is something distinct about the kind of listening and communicating that takes place in this kind of setting rather than entering, say, tutorial. e conversations that take place in the café are pure choice, in that their beginnings and endings and subject matter are spontaneous, unlike class where there is a beginning and ending point and the subject matter is chosen for you. He made an analogy to the marketplace. He said Socrates never had his many “students” lined up, sitting still; people came and went. In a Platonic dialogue, the conversation oen starts when the two parties run into each other as they are out and about. is coming and going creates a uidity in the conversation and the atmosphere. In the café you may not know who you will see, but you know you will see someone. You may not know what you will discuss, but you know that there will be a discussion. During our walk around McDowell, although not during the classic between-tutorialand-seminar time of day, we ran into a fellow GI in the History segment. We explained what we were doing—he said he was doing that very thing. He knew that by hanging out in the area he would run into some classmates and was hoping for a conversation. At the end of our walk, lunch, and conversation we concluded that perhaps “the place makes the community, and the people make the place.” If the café had never existed, ideally the community would have found a different place as a hub for the polity. When McDowell closed for renovations, however, the GI lost its “marketplace.” Now reopened, I look forward to even more spontaneous café discourse, shared meals, shared conversation with my classmates and, participating in such activities, being fully a member of the GI community and the larger St. John’s polity. 29 �2018 GI Master’s Essays Maxwell Anthony: Hitherto one man understood the Euthydemus! at most ridiculous, silly, and perplexing of Plato’s works. But why, Cleinias, did you laugh at such beautiful and serious things? e Euthydemus is a playful allusion to the trial of the Arginusae generals in 406 B.C., and the profanation scandal in 415. It suggests thinking without rules is as dangerous as living without them, and that nothing better prepares a city for ruin than the failure to make distinctions. To read the Euthydemus with Homer, Andocides, and Xenophon in mind is to enter a world of tensions, characters, and questions. Imagine you are sitting between Socrates and Euthydemus in the Lyceum’s ἀποδυτήριον as you read the Euthydemus and I am sure you will judge it well. Joey Keegin: e problem of surface and depth is the problem of thinking, and one that is at the surface of Herman Melville’s Moby-Dick. Beginning as a story told by a lonely, depressive New Yorker about joining a friendly Polynesian harpooner on a whaling voyage, Moby-Dick expands to become, in large part, a book about thinking. e two central gures of the book—Ishmael the narrator, and the Pequod’s captain Ahab—are deep, thoughtful men who long to grasp the reality that lies beyond the mere appearances of the world. ey strive for the depth beyond the surface. eir personalities, however, could not be more different—nor their approaches to thinking. And given the sinking of the Pequod in the book’s nal chapter, precipitated by Ahab’s maniacal insistence upon continually battling the seemingly-invincible White Whale, we should ask ourselves whether Melville is leading us to a not-too-subtle judgment on the relative worth of these characters’ approaches to thought. My paper, then, explores three aspects of depth in Moby-Dick—depth as a problem (surface vs. depth), the depth of persons (biography, personality), and the depth of the world (meaning, truth)—and strives to discover how Ishmael may serve as a new, distinctly American model for how one should go about the task of thinking. 30 �Toast to GI Grads: David Townsend Presented at the Fall 2017 Dean’s Reception Congratulations to the graduates now holding a St. John’s College Master of Arts degree. is is an accomplishment that no one can ever take away from you. It is also an honor and a privilege. However it confers upon you the responsibility of a mission. e founders of St. John’s program intended to build a corps of initiates who would go forth into the world and spread the dialogue of democracy. ey envisioned that this labor would be carried out among all of us in common as friends, in our neighborhoods, in our cities, in our states, in our nations, and as Citizens of the World. What does this citizenship entail? First, it is a responsibility to be free individuals. To follow your own life-task and duty to yourselves. To risk con ict with current morality and convention. To take personal responsibility for all we say and do. And to share our questions and thoughts freely with others. We are as ready as Socrates to talk in the marketplace, ready to question, to seek, to interpret, and to value the true, the good, and the beautiful. We are never alone. We have learned that texts are our friends, which enable us to build these relations, nd common ground, and join in a tradition of respect for those who disagree with us, even those who disagree profoundly. From whom we can learn. With whom we can practice civility. We have learned that both the past and posterity are here now. Secondly, you are initiates in a collaborative mission of building solidarity and community in your neighborhoods, cities, and schools. ere is altruism in the human soul as fundamental as the growth and survival strategy of a biological entity. It is our right to say we. It is possible to be one people. We are deeply and individually charged to be morally and actively present in community by conversation, love, and action. As Mortimer Adler once told me, “Reading alone is like drinking alone. You can do it, but it’s much better with other people.” ird, you Masters of the Arts are enlisted to be Citizens of the World using all of the arrows in your quiver. A dynamic technological revolution greater than any prior change now creates possibilities for a new kind of citizenship and a deeper kind of 31 �political activity. Politics is not merely an academic specialty. Politics is not something to scoff at. Politics is fundamental. We are political and social animals. Politics is the resolution of legitimately con icting interests. We resolve these in speech, in distributing scarce resources, in our stewardship of both our posterity and our planet. Now as never before, we must be Citizens of the World. e St. John’s method of dialogue is a fundamental way for legitimately con icting interests to be discussed fully and resolved reasonably. It is our dialogue of democracy that is the greatest present need. You have been given a competitive advantage in whatever work you now set off to do. Strengthened with the wisdom of a great conversation among the ages, with a powerful dialectic of the ideal and the real, and with a practice of active listening, we have the way to prevent war, limit violence, and mitigate unjust inequalities. ere is no other way to seek these goals. Do not believe those who ask you to achieve them by yielding to the grim seduction of violence. Like Aeneas in another trying and revolutionary time, we must pluck the golden bough and go down among the dead with the guidance of the Cumaen Sybil. We can talk with our progenitors and learn what must be done. Like Aeneas we are given a permanent mission: “to establish peace through law, to spare the defeated, and to battle down the arrogant.” We believe this is achievable through the dialogue of democracy. You, Masters of Arts, are now initiates into this classic mission. I hope you will pursue your own way and in so doing, nd a common way to establish peace through law, to spare the defeated, and to battle down the proud by your reason, love, and work. e eyes of the past and of posterity are on you. Go forth, practice, lead, and take the dialogue of democracy to the world, a world that needs most, exactly what you have to offer. To the St. John’s MA Graduates! 32 �Toast to the Tutors: Nathaniel Booth Presented at the Fall 2017 Dean’s Reception ank you for allowing me to roast the St. John’s tutors. Oh excuse me: that’s a different speech, which will probably happen later with beer and wine at an ASG. But we are here celebrating our commencement. Man, time ies—four segments down and one more to go (I’m coming back for you, History). I remember my rst, coming out of the gate swinging with Philosophy and eology. Reading Aristotle, Plato, Kant etc.—man, biggest mistake of my academic career. My tutor had a PhD in metaphysics and it was like drinking from a re hose. I demand a re-do! But I pressed on to Literature, then Politics and Society. And in the Politics segment, Mr. Zeiderman, in all of his in nite wisdom, decides to let a student lead a class. With Mr. Zeiderman in the class, I volunteered, secretly thinking, “How hard can this be? All I have to do is make sure we don’t dri too far off course and make sure everyone’s opening question gets answered. Piece of Lobachevskian Pie!” Upon personal re ection I wondered why the class I led felt so lackluster, why it seemed as though a piece was missing, what was absent—besides Mr. Zeiderman at the helm. I realized what was missing was insight. Yep, insight. One of my favorite occurrences in a class is a good ol’ tutor-student shout off—not because of the drama or the ability to share the story at some later Johnnie gathering, but because I noticed the tutor is usually arguing when a student has latched themselves to a perspective and has decided not to open themselves up to other perspectives concerning the text. In the argument, the tutor is usually trying to wrestle away the student’s decided sense of “Certainty,” and is usually trying to offer insight which could enhance the reading, alter the established perspectives, or offer guidance from a possible misreading, all through the tutor’s insight. So I raise a glass to our tutors that aren’t passive observers of classroom tangents— they encourage us to keep our heads to the ground, our feet towards the sky, and to always question our orientation. ank you, and cheers! 33 �[Genesis 2:18-23] It was not good that I should be alone To tend so great a garden in the east, But neither Mockingbird nor Wildebeest, Not one of any creature I was shown, Could ease the throbbing ache still in my bone. Each time I rinsed my brow the pain increased; Each time I heard my screams rebound; the least Cast shadow of my form, malicious clone— When did I fall asleep? And for how long? And what is this beside me, eshy too? My ache is gone! What happened yestereve? And then it turned and asked me what was wrong. Immediately, I knew my cure was you: My sick’ning bone got buried in my Steve. 34 �Now that you’ve read Colloquy, sign up to be an editor! Email: clambert@sjc.edu � 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 Colloquy Description An account of the resource A student-run journal for the Graduate Institute community of St. John's College in Annapolis, Maryland. The issues feature essays, art, poetry, interviews, and more. 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 Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 35 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 Colloquy, Spring 2018 Description An account of the resource Volume III of the Colloquy, published in Spring 2018. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Hatheway, Damon (editor) Keegin, Joseph (editor) Lambert, Toni (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 2018-05 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 COLLOQUY3 Graduate Institute https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/3594de41b34f9283c71e5baa844b4f8d.pdf 6b6bc4adabbb70a5b32444eefa820c24 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 Colloquy Description An account of the resource A student-run journal for the Graduate Institute community of St. John's College in Annapolis, Maryland. The issues feature essays, art, poetry, interviews, and more. 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 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. 54 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 Colloquy, Fall 2018 Description An account of the resource Volume IV of the Colloquy, published in Fall 2018. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Dorchester, Andrew (editor) Marquez, Jaime (editor) Poyner, Jordan (editor) Trovato, Jenifer (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 2018-11 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 Collquy-Volume IV-Fall 2018 Reduced Size Graduate Institute Student publication https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/eb46bd946dda54dec85c3c9375f4c0eb.pdf ff002e00789a96ac73c9d585e56f72b7 PDF Text Text Volume V Spring 2019 2017 Alumni Association Award-Winning Essay Joseph M. Keegin Conversation with Paul Ludwig Zachary N. Greene The Joy of Recognition Moral Intuition in War and Peace In Defense of the Literature Segment Emily Langston Joseph Hiles Patrick Burley Louis Petrich Five Poems Three Essays on Euclid Master’s Essay Précis Conversation with Jim Phillips A Journal of the Graduate Institute at St. John’s College �COLLOQUY St. John’s College, 60 College Avenue, Annapolis, Maryland Volume V: Spring 2019 Editorial Board Jordan Poyner, Editor-in-Chief Andrew Dorchester Zachary N. Greene Jaime Marquez Colloquy is a biannual publication of the Graduate Institute at St. John’s College in Annapolis, Maryland. Subscriptions are free. To subscribe or update your subscription, please send an e-mail to colloquy@sjc.edu with the subject line “Subscription.” Address correspondence to: Colloquy, The Graduate Institute at St. John’s College, 60 College Avenue, Annapolis, Maryland 21401. Students, tutors, and alumni of St. John’s College and the Graduate Institute are encouraged to submit manuscripts in PDF or Word format by email to colloquy@sjc.edu. Writers are encouraged to discuss proposals with an editor prior to submitting their work. The journal also accepts submissions of poetry, artwork, and photography. Please include your name, contact information, and the title of your work with your submission. Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in essays or interviews do not necessarily reflect those of St. John’s College or Colloquy. ©2019 Colloquy, St. John’s College. All rights reserved. Reproduction in whole or in part without permission is prohibited. �TABLE OF CONTENTS Letter from the Editors .................................................................................... 3 MATHEMATICS The Joy of Recognition Emily Langston, Tutor ............................................................................... 5 A Student’s Apology: Confronting Myself in the Study of Geometry Jaime Marquez ............................................................................................. 10 The Architecture of Reductio ad Absurdum Alejandro Ehrenberg .................................................................................. 17 Does Euclid Start with Axioms? Derek Foret .................................................................................................. 22 LITERATURE 2017 Alumni Association Award-Winning Essay: “Home” Joseph M. Keegin ........................................................................................ 45 In Defense of the Literature Segment Patrick Burley.............................................................................................. 71 Moral Intuitions in Tolstoy’s War and Peace Joseph Hiles ................................................................................................. 101 MASTER’S ESSAY PRÉCIS On Education: A Reading of Hegel’s Phenomenology of Spirit Sean Foley..................................................................................................... 75 Hope in Paradise Lost Samuel Peregrin ........................................................................................... 79 The Flaying of Marsyas Maxwell Anthony ........................................................................................ 81 �CONVERSATIONS Paul Ludwig, Tutor .............................................................................................. 30 Jim Phillips ........................................................................................................... 84 POETRY Louis Petrich, Tutor .............................................................................................. 59 Maxwell Anthony ................................................................................................. 83 Patricia Harden .................................................................................................... 112 Artwork by Andrew Dorchester, Patricia Harden, Adam Hurwitz, Jaime Marquez, and Brandon Wasicsko Jaime Marquez �Letter from the Editors Dear Readers, We are thrilled to present the fifth issue of Colloquy. In this issue we have attempted to represent a portion of the serious thinking and questioning that goes on in the Graduate Institute. As has been demonstrated in previous issues, there are many ways to make that attempt. It seems worth noting that while essays predominate in this issue, this may not follow in the long term. Colloquy is so new a publication as to admit of trial and experiment. The goal—ambiguous though it may be—is to continue the conversation. In that spirit, much of the writing in this issue relates to the conversation which is held every fall at the Graduate Institute in Annapolis. Our essays address the subjects of the courses offered for the fall semester: literature and mathematics. Our hope is that this issue might serve as a companion to conversations past and a catalyst for conversation in the future. For our next issue we are soliciting writing from students, tutors, and alumni that make use of the Great Books to investigate questions of political, philosophical, and theological import. Conversations change of course—yet the form of education one participates in at St. John’s suggests that the greatest conversations are peculiarly perennial. –The Colloquy Editorial Board 3 �Jaime Marquez 4 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 The Joy of Recognition Emily Langston Emily Langston is Associate Dean of Graduate Programs at St. John’s College in Annapolis, Maryland. The following is excerpted from her welcoming speech to the new class of Graduate Institute students starting in spring of 2019. It’s been my practice to write these addresses based upon something that I’ve read with Graduate Institute students over the past semester. And so, this afternoon, I find myself giving a convocation address based on what we read together in the tutorial of the Mathematics & Natural Science segment of the Graduate Institute program. I’m happy to have a reason, even if self-imposed, to address this topic. First of all, this tutorial is one I love to lead, and it raises questions that I enjoy thinking about. Secondly and perhaps surprisingly, it often ends up being one of the favorite tutorials even of students who initially approached it with some trepidation. It’s this second point that is the starting point for my reflections today. I’ll start my investigation with the name, specifically with the word “mathematics.” Our English word “mathematics” comes from the Greek noun, ta mathemata, which in turn is related to the verb manthano, meaning “I learn, I perceive, I understand, I know.” Ta mathemata, then—or in English, “mathematics”—are the most characteristically knowable things. But, as I have already suggested, this is certainly not everyone’s experience of math. I often have conversations with students who tell me that they are “not math people,” that they “just don’t get math.” They are frustrated because they have encountered this subject that still today is seen as a model of the knowable, as unknowable and even alien. Still—thanks to the intellectual curiosity without which you wouldn’t be here—most of those who are initially hesitant give it a try. And, as we begin working our way through Book I of Euclid’s Elements, students almost invariably begin to 5 �Emily Langston / The Joy of Recognition find that somehow these things are “knowable” after all. As I suggested, seeing the joyful response of students to this realization is one of the reasons I love leading this tutorial. So can we say more about how this great thing comes to pass? The fact that mathematics claims to be about the “knowable,” and the fact that we (and I do mean all of us!) can experience it as knowable, begs one of the most profound questions that we confront in every segment of the Graduate Institute curriculum. What is it to know? What do we mean when we say something is “knowable?” The question is placed squarely in front of us by Plato’s dialogue Meno, the one text I know we all have in common; at the very heart of this dialogue we find a mathematical example functioning as a case study in what it is to learn and to know. The specific demonstration is hard to follow without my drawing lines in the sand for us to examine, though I assure you it repays every bit of attention you can give to it. In the absence of any sand, I will lay these details aside and move to what I take to be one of the important lessons Socrates would have us glean from the example; the myth he recounts claims—and the demonstration involving the slave boy is meant to illustrate—that learning is really recollection of something that was already within us. We see it in the dialogue as, at various points, Socrates asks the boy questions about the diagram he is drawing. And the boy, though he has never been taught geometry, is somehow able to look at the diagram Socrates sketches and then turn to something within himself to make a judgment about what has been proposed. The example makes the case that learning involves something like recollection and recognition. Let’s take this suggestion back to the material of the Mathematics tutorial, to our reading of Euclid’s Elements. Perhaps the place where Euclid most explicitly demands that we check something within ourselves and give our assent is in the postulates. The very word “postulate”—which comes from the Latin postulare, meaning to ask or pray—makes the case clear. The claims made in the postulates are not proven to us; we are simply asked to 6 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 accept them. Like the slave boy, who consults something within himself when questioned about various candidates for the side of the double square, we consult something within ourselves when confronted with Euclid’s fifth postulate. The postulate tells us that two straight lines angled so that they are sloping toward one another will eventually meet. Now it’s hard to say exactly what within ourselves we consult when we are asked to assent to the truth of this statement, or where it comes from. Whether it is there due to some previous experience or there inherently I will not here speculate. But surely it is not something that Euclid taught us; it was there already. I will venture a bit further and claim that it seems to be something in the structure of our visual imaginations; and that the act we perform when we ask ourselves whether this postulate is true is more an act of visualization than of reasoning. If I sweep my inner eye far enough along these straight lines that are angled toward one another, I seem to “see” that they must meet. Our recognition of the congruence between what Euclid proposes and what we see with the inner eye is very satisfying and feels like a type of knowledge. “But wait!”—those of you who have taken the tutorial may object. This emphasis on recollection and recognition may work well enough with the postulates, which are a special case. But what about the material with which we actually begin the Mathematics tutorial—not Euclid’s postulates, but his definitions. To take the first definition, it doesn’t seem true to say that we “already know” a point is that which has no part. Going on to definition two, I certainly can’t visualize a line that is “breadthless length.” Does it make sense to say that in seeking to understand these we refer to our spatial imaginations? Based on my own experience, and on conversations with students over many years, I’ll try to describe part of what happens in the encounter with Euclid in the math tutorial: somehow—as we examine the possibilities determined for us by the definitions, common notions, and postulates, and move proposition by proposition through book one of the Elements—a spatial world is described which seems to coincide with our 7 �Emily Langston / The Joy of Recognition own lived and intuited experience of space. By this I mean that the clumsy attempts at straight lines we draw on the chalkboard, and the only somewhat more precise ones that mark the edge of the board, behave (always within the limits of their gross imperfections) like Euclidean “breadthless lengths” would behave. The love affair that almost every student has with Euclid springs partly from the fact that Euclid takes our own sense of interior and exterior space and re-presents it to us for our delighted recognition. I’m making everything overly simple, of course. There are elements to understanding a Euclidean proposition that even analogously are not “seeing.” And even in Book I, Euclid presents me with truths that are confounding to my visual imagination; for example, in Proposition 36, we learn that the two longer sides of a parallelogram can approach each other indefinitely, yet never meet, as the shape is stretched between two parallels. In the end however, contemplating such unexpected truths does not violate our sense of space; rather, it adds an additional element of satisfaction to our reading of Euclid, as we realize that we can learn more about the structure of space than we would ever have seen ourselves by moving step by step through the propositions. Our intuitions about space, and our reason, can inform each other. I hope you all now have at least an inkling of what I’ve been trying to describe; these moments of recognition and increased understanding— when we “see” what Euclid means and agree that space we know really is like that—are moments of exhilaration. These things were in us all along, even in confirmed non-math people! It’s hard to know why we never realized this before. Perhaps it’s simply that no one asked us the right questions. But one of the defining characteristics of Great Books, in the Mathematics & Natural Science segment and in every part of the program, is that they do ask the right questions, and by doing so engage us on many levels. 8 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 As I draw this talk to a close, I’ll note that the coherence we sense between the space Euclid describes and the space we perceive within us, and within which we perceive, is not simply a source of joy—it is a source of wonder, wonder that this should be so. Many students confront this wonder most directly when, somewhat more than halfway through the tutorial, we leave behind the world of Euclid and enter the world of the Russian geometer Nicolai Lobachevski. In ways I won’t attempt to describe, he disrupts entirely the easy alliance I’ve sketched between our study of geometry and our intuitions about space. And yet, this doesn’t keep us from moving forward with Lobachevski, reasoning carefully from one step to another in a sort of space which feels like it is quite definitely not my own. The fact that we can do this opens the door to a host of new questions: about space; about the relationship between knowing and seeing; and about the nature of knowledge itself. I won’t begin to explore these questions here, but I look forward to exploring them throughout the program with many of you. Welcome to the conversation; Welcome to the Graduate Institute! Jaime Marquez 9 �A Student’s Apology: Confronting Myself in the Study of Geometry Jaime Marquez1 Listening to Ms. Langston’s convocation for the Spring 2019 term,2 I felt an unsettling nostalgia about my introduction to Euclid’s geometry. Ms. Langston noted that students “are frustrated because they have encountered a subject that, though still today is seen as a model of the knowable, seems unknowable and even alien.” She also notes that “one of the defining characteristics of Great Books, in the Mathematics and Natural Science segment and in every part of the program, is that they do ask the right questions, and by doing so engage us on many levels.” Furthermore, she asks “What is it to know? What do we mean when we say something is ‘knowable’?”3 Hearing that I realized that to ask what are the right questions is precisely the right question I need to ask: what have I learned from studying geometry at St. John’s? And what does Ms. Langston mean when she says that the Great Books engage us “on many levels”? I would have been more successful dealing with aliens than dealing with my insecurities. Indeed, prior to taking the Math & Natural Science Tutorial, I saw myself as having a solid training in mathematics (calculus, real analysis, statistics, matrix algebra). So I figured that a bunch of triangles would not pose a challenge to me. But in my initial dealings with Book I of Euclid’s Elements, I failed miserably to understand the life of Euclid’s propositions: if we’re just dealing in lines without equations, why is it so hard to get the point? To be sure, the steps, when considered individually, 1 This material is based on an essay that I prepared for Ms. Leah Lasell’s Math & Natural Science Tutorial, Summer 2018. 2 Ed. note: the relevant portion of Ms. Langston’s address precedes this essay. 3 Italics are my own. 10 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 are not difficult to understand or memorize. To me, the problem was that the proofs lacked a mathematical flow: why is the first step in the proof this one and not that one? I saw alternative first steps and I could not discern why they were deemed irrelevant. It felt as though Euclid had tried several starting points, found one that worked, and discarded the others without giving a sense of why. So my initial perception of the propositions in Book I was akin to opening a cookbook with recipes for increasingly elaborate dishes. Proving that I could “cook” such dishes involved memorizing the steps and the sequence. But asking why do I mix this ingredient with that one in this order seemed beside the point: follow this recipe and you will get the dish. All of this changed with Proposition 37 [Fig. 1] Proposition 37: Let ABC and DBC be triangles on the same base BC and in the same parallels AD and BC. I say that the triangle ABC equals the triangle DBC. That these two triangles are equal to each other is not obvious. I could visualize moving points A and D along line EF and not being sure about whether the proposition was correct. Furthermore, the proposition Fig. 1 rests on the assumption that the line EF is parallel to the line BC. So? Did we not prove that already in Propositions 27 and 29? I asked myself. But I chalked my confusion up to the lack of equations or something similar. As we continued proving the rest of the propositions, the fragility of the proof for the parallel postulate became part of our daily conversation: did Euclid actually prove this postulate? I would be lying if I were to say that Postulate 5 was suspect the first time I read it. To me, the postulate said that water is wet. 11 �Jaime Marquez / A Student’s Apology We were not the first to be exposed to this fragility. The Greek philosopher Proclus, who lived in the fifth century CE, noted that Euclid’s fifth postulate was “plausible but not necessary.”4 Indeed, Proclus’s second guessing of Postulate 5 was based on his being aware of the “relation of the hyperbole to its asymptote.”5 Furthermore, as Florence Lewis indicates, there are drafts of the Elements in which Postulate 5 appears as a proposition immediately before Proposition 29 and it is possible that Euclid decided to state it as Postulate 5 because “he could neither prove it nor proceed without it.”6 This observation is not about nitpicking or semantics: if Postulate 5 is incorrect, then much of the subsequent architecture of Book I becomes plausible but not necessary. One may ask: so what if this proposition is just plausible but not necessary? For a mathematician, that is the difference between being alive or not. Indeed, Lewis notes that: In the course of centuries the minds of those interested became clear on one point: they did not wish merely to know whether it was possible to substitute some other assumption for Euclid's, though this question has its interest; they wished to know primarily whether exactly his form of the postulate was logically deducible from his other postulates and established theorems. To change the postulate was merely to re-state the problem.7 Having read these views, I began to wonder why Euclid was included in the program: it must be a mistake. So with my arrogance in full swing, I began crafting mental emails to someone in charge with suggestions about changing the curriculum. And to bolster my case, I went through the Greenfield Library’s archives to check the arguments that were used in the design of the curriculum. And I found a transcript of the discussion at the 4 Florence Lewis, “History of the Parallel Postulate,” The American Mathematical Monthly 27, no. 1 (1920): 16-23. 5 Ibid., 16. 6 Ibid. 7 Ibid., 18. 12 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 curriculum meetings in 1965, a discussion that is fresh, enlightening, and humbling. Yes, there are arguments against the inclusion of Euclid but the counterarguments from Ms. Brann and Mr. Klein are compelling: Ms. Brann: Most of our students have some sort of vague notion of, to use a technical term, an "axiomatic system," when they come to us. When we begin to study Euclid, one of the interesting topics to discuss is whether this is what they had heard rumors of in high school, whether Euclid's "system" is intended to be an arbitrary axiomatic system in the sense they imagined. Well, three years intervene, and we finally come to the senior year when we begin to study modern axiomatics, and it turns out that in fact there exists a world of difference between an Euclidean axiom and an axiom of Hilbert. And though it is in fact the case that we don't do justice to the ramifications of modern axiomatics, I think that we do do justice to the difference between the approaches. And this does make many students feel that they want to go on with the modern side.8 Mr. Klein: I would like only to interject one thing. Euclid is not only a great mathematician. He is also a compiler. There are certain things in Euclid which are incredibly valuable for the student. For example, the simple thing that he hits upon at the very beginning: the fifth postulate. Why is it a postulate. Why is it not a definition? This is of incredible value. To make a student understand that this is not a definition, that on this is based nonEuclidean geometry, the possibility of non-Euclidean geometry, is a great thing.9 Notwithstanding these observations, I kept reading Lewis, who notes that: Gauss's meditations were leading him through tedious and painstaking labors to the conclusion that Euclid's fifth postulate was not deducible from 8 “Seminar Discussion on the Place and Extent of the Teaching of Mathematics in the Liberal Arts Curriculum,” Saint Mary’s College, March 25th–March 27th, 1965 (REF LD 4821.S277), 34-35. 9 Ibid., 41. 13 �Jaime Marquez / A Student’s Apology his other postulates. The minds of those not conversant with the intricacies of the problem might easily rush to the conclusion that Euclid's geometry was therefore untrue, and feel the whole structure of human learning crashing about their ears.10 I wanted to know more about this crashing. So I took Proposition 47 to be the Queen of Book I and worked my way backwards, identifying the chain of propositions that supported it and are connected to Postulate 5 [Fig. 2] My rendering of that chain is as follows (where P stands for postulate and I stands for Proposition):11 Whether Proposition 47 is merely plausible matters not just to mathematicians, but also to anyone who makes a living out of measuring distances on flat surfaces. Indeed, Proposition 47 is one of the most elegant proofs of Pythagoras’s theorem. So if Postulate 5 is unnecessary, then Euclid’s claim to relevance would vanish. This exercise allowed me to visualize a potential mathematical crash and gave me comfort: if it is tough for Gauss, then it is tough for everyone, especially me. Relief came finally when we moved on to Lobachevski’s work. I liked this portion of the curriculum the most because the proofs of his theorems rely on logic with a compelling and selfsustaining flow, instead of the memory that Euclid’s proofs require. Furthermore, Lobachevski’s work relies on conventional mathematics: operators 10 Fig. 2 Lewis 19. To be sure, Proposition 29 influences propositions not shown here and, as a result, they too become plausible instead of necessary; I ignored these other propositions to focus on Proposition 47. 11 14 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 (+ and =), negative numbers, and notation for angles—my kind of thing. But how does Lobachevski’s work relate to the life of Postulate 5? By allowing it to be “uncertain.” Specifically, his Theorem 16 shows that, in his new geometry, the definition of parallel lines does not demand the angle conditions of Proposition 29: lines that are “pinched” need not cut.12 And as Lewis indicates: The question, Is Euclid's fifth postulate logically deducible from his other postulates? is answered by showing that the denial of this postulate while all the others are retained leads to a geometry as consistent as Euclid's own. […]Thus was Euclid "vindicated" in an unexpected manner. Knowingly or not, the wise Greek had stated the case correctly, and only his followers had been at fault in their efforts for improvement.13 Not content with what Lewis says, I consulted Hardy. This is what he has to say about Greek mathematics: The Greeks first spoke a language which modern mathematicians can understand: as Littlewood said to me once, they are not clever schoolboys or ‘scholarship candidates’, but ‘Fellows of another college’. So Greek mathematics is ‘permanent’, more permanent even than Greek literature. Archimedes will be remembered when Aeschylus is forgotten, because languages die and mathematical ideas do not. ‘Immortality’ may be a silly word, but probably a mathematician has the best chance of whatever it may mean.14 Alright, I accepted that I had to suspend whatever arrogant image I had of myself and read Euclid’s propositions as though I was in front of him—all else absent. 12 Lobachevski, N., 1891, The Theory of Parallels, Proposition 16. Lewis, 19. 14 G. H. Hardy, A Mathematician’s Apology (Cambridge University Press, 1967), 81. 13 15 �Jaime Marquez / A Student’s Apology I try to apply this lesson to all the other courses I take at St. John’s, but, needless to say, I always fail. There are moments, however, in which the very act of trying brings unexpected moments of intense joy that are too brief. In a study group on the economist John Maynard Keynes, I came across the following observation from Keynes: The classical theorists resemble Euclidean geometers in a non-Euclidean world who, discovering that in experience straight lines apparently parallel often meet, rebuke the lines for not keeping straight—as the only remedy for the unfortunate collisions which are occurring. Yet, in truth, there is no remedy except to throw over the axiom of parallels and to work out a nonEuclidean geometry. Something similar is required to-day in economics.15 Keynes is as central to economics as Euclid is to geometry. And being the Keynesian that I am, my study of geometry at St. John’s gave me an appreciation for the depth of Keynes’ view that I never had and, via a curriculum discussion about the parallel postulate held more than fifty years ago, I joined a conversation that has lasted more than two thousand years. In the process, I was also given an inkling as to what Ms. Langston meant about by being engaged on many levels (I hope). Jaime Marquez is a Senior Lecturer at the John Hopkins School of Advanced International Studies and a student in the Graduate Institute at St. John’s College in Annapolis, Maryland (AGI’19). He was a Senior Economist on the Federal Reserve Board from 1983 to 2013. 15 John Maynard Keynes, The General Theory of Employment, Interest, and Money (1935), Book I, Chapter 2, Section IV. 16 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 The Architecture of Reductio ad Absurdum Alejandro Ehrenberg If we were to imagine Euclid’s mathematical system as a medieval cathedral, reductio ad absurdum proofs would primarily play the role of flying buttresses. They provide vital support to the whole edifice, and do so from the exterior, where the absurd gargoyles and chimeras live. Why does Euclid use this kind of reasoning instead of restricting himself to direct argumentation? What do reductio proofs contribute to the system developed in Book 1 of the Elements? In order to explore these questions it is pertinent to begin by observing how a specific reductio proof works. Proposition 6 is the first one to be demonstrated in this manner. It is the converse of the immediately preceding proposition. Proposition 5: In isosceles triangles the angles at the base equal one another, and, if the equal straight lines are produced further, then the angles under the base equal one another. Proposition 6: If in a triangle two angles equal one another, then the sides opposite the equal angles also equal one another. These can be expressed more schematically thus: Proposition 5: If a, then b. Proposition 6: If b, then a. It is tempting to assume that, once Euclid has demonstrated the truth of Proposition 5, Proposition 6 only exists for the sake of a complete exposition, but is really redundant. However, after some thought, we can 17 �Alejandro Ehrenberg / The Architecture of Reductio ad Absurdum see that the fact that a entails b does not automatically mean that b entails a. But it is important that it does entail it. Euclid is building an edifice where each level rests upon the previous one: if any given part is weak, the whole is liable to collapse. As an illustration of this, consider the following definition: a square is a four-sided equilateral figure. That this statement is true does not imply that its converse is also true. A definition like this would not do for Euclid’s system of truth, which cannot be built on definitions that read one way are true but read the other are false. Reversibility must be explicitly established. Thus, by way of reductio, Proposition 6 proves that if in a triangle two angles equal one another, then the sides opposite the equal angles also equal one another. The foundation is now firm; the mason can build on. The following question arises: could Euclid have achieved this end through direct argumentation? Put differently, must the reversibility of a proposition be proven by reductio? In this regard, looking at Book 1 as a whole is helpful. A pattern is discernible: almost all converse propositions are demonstrated by reductio. Nevertheless, there are notable exceptions— for some converses, like Proposition 48, are proven directly. If the pattern suggests the existence of some kind of necessity between converses and reductio, the exceptions point to the possibility that argumentation by reductio is, rather, a deliberate choice by Euclid. But surely there is another way to explore the question at hand. By turning our attention once again to Propositions 5 and 6, we will find support for the view that the use of reductio is in fact a carefully considered choice. Proposition 5: If a, then b. Proposition 5 Absurd: If not a, then b. Proposition 6: If b, then a. 18 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 Proposition 5 Absurd can only exist when its converse is proven by reductio; direct argumentation is incapable of bringing it out. By means of this intermediate step, Euclid shows that the negation of a does not entail b. This reaffirmation of Proposition 5 is important. If b were the consequence of a and also of not a, then the system as a whole would lose consistency and become weak. Therefore, proving converses through reductio achieves, economically, a double end: to establish reversibility and to ensure consistency. Euclid goes outside the structure he is building, into the region of absurdity, and creates a flying buttress—Proposition 5 Absurd—with which he reinforces the cathedral. Having examined how a particular reductio proof works and perceived the double-end it serves, we are now able to explore more generally the use of reductio throughout Book 1. But first, a word on the book’s structure is in order. There seem to be two parts to it. The first deals mostly with lines, angles, and the relations between them; the universe where this first half takes place is triangular. Then, quite suddenly, at Proposition 29, a change occurs. From here on, Euclid’s focus is directed at parallels and, specifically, parallelogrammic areas. It is worth noting that Proposition 29 is where Postulate 5 is first employed. This proposition is the peak of the first part of Book 1; the second peak, the whole book’s climax, is Proposition 47. Taking this separation into account, we can see that most reductio proofs in Book 1 appear before Proposition 29, which is itself a reductio. Out of a total of 11 such proofs, 9 belong to the book’s first half. Now, if it is true that the purpose of the first half is to be able to enunciate Proposition 29, and that Postulate 5 is required for this purpose, then the following speculation becomes plausible. Euclid knows that Postulate 5 is especially hard to accept: we have no way of knowing, for sure, that the two straight lines in question, when produced indefinitely, will really meet. It is a shaky supposition. He therefore invests a considerable amount of his energies 19 �Alejandro Ehrenberg / The Architecture of Reductio ad Absurdum reaffirming Postulate 5 before actually using it in Proposition 29, which in turn is used copiously in the second part of Book 1. It is worth remembering what Postulate 5 begs the reader to accept: That, if a straight line falling on two straight lines makes the interior angles on the same side less than two right angles, the two straight lines, if produced indefinitely, meet on that side on which are the angles less than the two right angles. In the first half of Book 1, there are 4 propositions that refer directly to Postulate 5: 17, 27, 28, and 29. With the help of Proposition 13 and Definition 23, we can reformulate and reduce them as follows: 17. If two straight lines cut by a third straight line meet, then the interior angles on the side on which the lines meet are less than two right angles. 27. If a straight line falling on two straight lines makes the interior angles equal to two right angles, then the lines will not meet when produced indefinitely. 28. If a straight line falling on two straight lines makes the interior angles equal to two right angles, then the lines will not meet when produced indefinitely. 29. If two straight lines cut by a third straight line do not meet, then the interior angles on the side on which the lines meet are equal to two right angles. The table below presents them in a schematized fashion; it also notes each proposition’s relation to Postulate 5, and whether it is a reductio proof: Postulate 5 Proposition 17 Proposition 27 (reductio) and Proposition 28 Proposition 29 (reductio) If a, then b If b, then a If not a, then not b If not b, then not a Converse Negation of the premise and conclusion that compose Post. 5 Negation of the premise and conclusion that compose the converse Proposition 27 in the process of being proven by reductio reads thus: if b, then not a, which is demonstrated as being absurd. This flying buttress 20 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 reaffirms Proposition 17: b entails a; b does not also entail not a. Not as clear is the statement conjured up by the reductio in Proposition 29: if a, then b, which, in effect, is Postulate 5. In the context of the demonstration, it is absurd because it contradicts the given. Why Proposition 29 goes back to Postulate 5 and not to a previous proposition is a question to be explored in a subsequent essay. For our present purposes it suffices to observe how Euclid has thoroughly reinforced Postulate 5. It has been firmly laid, and supported by a flying buttress. Hereupon the book’s mood changes markedly. Before Proposition 29, Euclid proceeds cautiously, laboriously, even tediously. Now the author seems much more at ease. In the second half of Book 1, Euclid is concerned with the upper part of the cathedral: he is dealing with stained glass and clerestories and spires. Sometimes it seems he is almost doing magic. He cuts up parallelograms into smaller figures and shifts them around to prove things amazing and counterintuitive. In Proposition 47, the two upper squares simply pour into the hypotenuse square; it can only happen thanks to line AL, parallel to BD or CE. And it Fig. 1. Illustration of the proof for can only be described as Proposition 47. beautiful. A native of Mexico City, Mr. Ehrenberg (AGI’19) will offer an oral defense of his Master’s Essay on Don Quijote in spring of 2019. 21 �Does Euclid Start with Axioms? An Attempt to Not Confuse Circles for Lines Derek Foret I can still vividly recall my favorite picture book as a child. It was a story of a little girl, Lily, who said one thing, and one thing only: why? To the frustration of her father, she never felt satisfied with any answer given, forcing him to always resort to saying some variation of “it just is.” One day, while they are at the park, a UFO lands, and aliens announce that their leader wants them to destroy the planet. Lily, of course, asks why. Eventually, the aliens can only say, “he just does.” They realize this is not a satisfactory answer and go back home to think things over. Lily saves the day. However, it is unclear if she even understood that she did. First of all, her dad has to put his hand over her mouth once the aliens announce they are letting the humans live. And at the end of the book, her dad tells her that he was proud of her at the park today. She says what she always says, and he replies, “I just was, Lily. I just was…”1 Euclid brings out the inner Lily in all of us. He compels us to ask why whenever he makes a claim, and we expect an answer from him based not on faith but on what has already been proven. By referring to previous statements, logical inquiry both assumes and guides us towards some sort of beginning. However, herein lies an inherent problem, as a beginning, by definition, has nothing previous to it. According to our modern conception of mathematics—by which I not only mean the technical conceptions of modern mathematicians, but also our popular conception of mathematics 1 22 Lindsay Camp, Why?, illustrated by Tony Ross (Anderson Press, 1998). �Colloquy / Spring 2019 today—we generally think of this beginning as the axioms given. We see these axioms as similar to the definitions, postulates, and common notations that we find at the beginning of Euclid’s Elements2 (what this essay will refer to as the “prelude” for shorthand). We do not want to “have to trust [Euclid’s] word” (10/25/18)3 that any of his steps are justifiable. But simply writing down the prelude does not justify the parts of the prelude, at least not in the same way as Euclid’s propositions are justified through proof. Some great mathematicians have attempted to address this issue. Famed logician and philosopher Bertrand Russell perceived it when he first encountered Euclid. He described encountering the Elements as “one of the great events of my life, as dazzling as first love,” yet, further clarifying, called that love “not unalloyed. I had been told that Euclid proved things, and was much disappointed that he started with axioms. At first I refused to accept them unless my brother could offer me some reason for doing so, but he said: ‘If you don’t accept them we cannot go on.’”4 This bothered Russell so much that it “determined the course of [his] subsequent [mathematical] work.”5 This work culminated in the Principia Mathematica, an attempt to at least reduce mathematics to assumptions made by logic itself (if not to de-axiomatize the field completely). Due to Kurt Gödel’s incompleteness theorems, published a quarter century after the Principia, the mathematical community today now considers Russell’s desire to be 2 All references to Euclid are from the following edition: Euclid, Elements, ed. Dana Densmore & trans. Thomas L. Heath (Green Lion Press with Sheridan Books, 2017). 3 These dated references refer to my personal class notes: Math & Natural Science Tutorial, Fall 2018, Emily Langston, tutor. 4 Bertrand Russell, The Autobiography of Bertrand Russell, vol. I (George Allen & Unwin, 1967), 67. 5 Christopher C. Leary & Lars Kristiansen, A Friendly Introduction to Mathematical Logic, 2nd ed. (Milne Library, 2015), 44. 23 �Derek Foret / Does Euclid Start with Axioms? tenable for smaller systems that make up parts of mathematics6 but not the whole of it. However, modern mathematicians appear to be at peace with this fact. My textbook defends axiomatic mathematics as a way to be “up front about our need to make assumptions […] [acknowledging] our axiom set in every deduction that we write.”7 This is a proper, respectable, and true concession, and it does appear to solve the issue for mathematicians. However, I do not see how this concession would solve the issue for Lily. If concessions satisfied her, her dad would not have had to cover her mouth when the aliens announced they were not going to destroy the planet. As Lily appears to be the personification of logical inquiry itself, this points to a fundamental problem: Gödel may have proved that Lily cannot be fully satisfied, but Gödel does not make Lily go away. Whether or not we are able to truly satisfy her remains a question. Euclid, for his part, gives off the impression that he possesses less of a care for rigorous axiomatization than modern mathematicians. The rest of this essay will explore the question of whether or not this impression is tied to a method for satisfying Lily that differs from (and so may satisfy her more fully than) the modern approach. The assumption that Euclid starts with axioms includes the assumption that mathematical logic is linear. By that, I mean that it travels from a beginning (the axioms) to an end (a final proposition). In this case, the postulates of Book I become different points on a unidirectional line. We tend to think of this structure as logical, which obscures the fact that it is also natural: its linear sequentiality is analogous to how we see the events of our own lives as a narrative throughout time. This is the assumption my 6 For the sake of intellectual honesty, a version of Euclidean geometry is one of these parts. For the mathematics, see: Marvin Jay Greenberg, “Old and New Results in the Foundations of Elementary Plane Euclidean and Non-Geometries,” The American Mathematical Monthly 117, no. 3 (March 2010): 198-219. 7 Leary, Introduction to Mathematical Logic, 44. 24 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 class made when we began our final discussion on Euclid, where we seemed to agree that “we have gone from a point that has no part [Definition 1]—or at least from describing an equilateral triangle [Proposition 1]—to the Pythagorean theorem [Proposition 47]” (10/25/18). If a set of axioms is a foundation of admitted assumptions to which all logical inquiry eventually leads back, then Proposition 1 is certainly not an axiom, as it is both proven and seems to rely on prior concepts (specifically Definition 15, Postulate 1, Postulate 3, and Common Notion 1). So our candidates for what Euclid’s real axioms are lay in what we commonly agree is his beginning: the parts of the prelude. The very fact that we were unsure if we started with Definition 1, the beginning of the prelude, or with Proposition 1 reveals that we were uncertain if the former is an axiomatic starting point. Part of this uncertainty stems from Densmore’s editorial preface, which provides a helpful, although limited, historical argument against treating the prelude as axiomatic: she casts doubt on the authenticity of the prelude due to inconsistencies between the early printed editions in both form and content. However, we do not even need to turn to scholasticism to see that “Euclid may not have been trying to cover the foundation exhaustively in these sections.”8 Putting aside the postulates for now, this is clear in various ways from the content of the definitions and common notions. First, the definitions do not seem to be intended to be a potential student’s first encounter with geometrical ideas. While we may be able to agree that we can understand what it means for a line to be “breadthless length” (Definition 1), it is nigh impossible to explain that understanding without referring to concepts we learned before Euclid. Similarly, the common notions (unlike the postulates) do not read like rules being agreed to but general knowledge being drawn upon. For example, the notion that a part cannot be greater than the whole feels stronger than the claim that if the 8 Dana Densmore, editor’s preface to: Euclid, Elements, xvi. 25 �Derek Foret / Does Euclid Start with Axioms? interior angles on one side of two lines cut by a transversal add up to less than two right angles, those two lines will meet on that side (Postulate 5). The fact that we find potential definitions and common notions in the propositions that are not listed in the prelude (i.e., “parallelogram” in Proposition 35 or the Common Notion 2 equivalent for greater things in Proposition 17) only makes this feel more likely. Most importantly, Euclid never explicitly cites the prelude. While he certainly refers to the concepts found in it, he never refers to them as if they had already been agreed upon. He never writes anything along the lines of “let us draw a circle according to Proposition 2,” or, at the very least, “let us draw a circle as stated in the postulates.” A modern reader naturally supplies this kind of thinking: if one does not remember why one is able to assert something, one can flip back to the relevant earlier proposition or part of the prelude. There is a difference, however, between modern readers justifying a logical step to themselves and said logical step being justifiable as such. Logical justification seems to speak to what Socrates says in the Meno, that “true opinions […] for so long as they stay put, are a noble thing and accomplish all [manner of] good things. Yet […] they aren’t worth much until someone ties them down by means of a calculation of cause.”9 However, true opinions are not made true because they have been adequately tied down; we know this because we are able to tie down false opinions as well. Euclid makes no indication that he thinks of the definitions and common notions as rules that we agreed cannot be broken. Perhaps this stems from a realization that this does not make them Lily-proof: one could easily ask why they cannot be broken. Euclid appears to take a different approach by making the question of why self-answering. For example, he implicitly uses the notion of a circle in Proposition 1 to argue that two radii are equal. If 9 26 Plato, Meno, trans. Robert C. Bartlett, 97e-98a. �Colloquy / Spring 2019 Lily were to ask why this were true, she would either be confused as to why they are both radii, which a good tutor could clear up, or she would be asking why are the radii of a circle equal? The question answers itself: because they are radii of a circle. Asking why again creates an infinite regress, an absurdity. Euclid explicitly uses another concept of absurdity in his arguments by reductio ad absurdum (as we refer to them). In Proposition 6, for example, he gets to a place where he seemingly violates Common Notion 5, as, due to his assumptions, his logic has lead him to say that a part (the triangle DBC) is equal to a whole (ACB) [Fig. 1]. He does not explicitly argue something like ‘this goes against Common Notion 5, which we agreed to, and so we have a contradiction’. Instead, he simply says: “the less [is equal] to the greater: which is absurd.”10 Now, whether or not Common Notion 5, as written, could be violated without absurdity is a question that would require an exploration of mathematics that deals with infinity.11 However, if one only looks at the notion as it is referenced in Proposition 6 specifically, a violation would always be absurd: “the less” (DBC) cannot be equal Fig. 1. Triangle BAC from to “the greater” (ACB) due to the nature Proposition 6. of the two triangles. Turning to what we previously put aside, our final candidates for axioms are the postulates. While I do not have the space to offer a full analysis of 10 Euclid, Elements, Book I, Proposition 6. One might be able to argue, for example, that there are “as many” even numbers as there are counting numbers, as (2, 4, 6…) can be listed next to (1, 2, 3…). So a part of the counting numbers is equal to its totality. But whether or not infinity can be a whole is unclear. 11 27 �Derek Foret / Does Euclid Start with Axioms? them, we can compare them with the definitions and common notions. Like the definitions and common notions, they are never explicitly referenced. Unlike them, however, they do not seem Lily-proof in the same way, as they do read more like rules being agreed to,12 and absurdity cannot be invoked. Lily could ask why, if the interior angles of two lines cut by a transversal add up to less than two right angles, those two lines must meet on the side of those angles—Lobachevski certainly did. Yet the way Euclid implicitly invokes the postulates may share a similar self-answering character as seen above. He states logical claims that rely on the first three postulates in the same way as he states claims that rely on previous QEFs:13 by using the Ancient Greek third person imperative, translated as let x be.14 This is a complicated notion as the third person imperative does not have a precise equivalent in English.15 Other than Euclid, God uses it in the Septuagint translation of the Bible (e.g., “let there be light”). The connection it offers is that “the mere act of speaking suffices to bring about the truth of what is being said.”16 This points to a notion of selfexplanation: that the why of the action is found in the action itself. If fully achievable, this would allow Lily to be completely satisfied by virtue of doing the proposition. Is there a similar notion underlying the last two postulates: Postulates 4 and 5? Euclid does not use the third person imperative when referring to their 12 Proclus defines a postulate as a “statement [that is] unknown and nevertheless [...] taken as true without the student’s conceding it.” Robert B. Williamson, translator’s introduction to Selections from Nikolai Lobachevski’s Theory of Parallels, published by the Graduate Institute at St. John’s College. 13 Euclid uses two different kinds of proofs: QEFs (i.e., quod erat faciendum) when something is being constructed and QEDs (i.e., quod erat demonstrandum) when something is not. 14 For example, Euclid invokes Postulate 2 by saying “let the circle BCD be described” in Proposition 1 and invokes Proposition 1 by saying “let the equilateral triangle DAB be constructed” in Proposition 2. 15 Cf. Alfred Mollin & Robert Williamson, An Introduction to Ancient Greek, 3rd ed. (University Press of America, 1997), 69. 16 Ibid. 28 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 concepts, but perhaps Postulates 4 and 5 somehow relate to the QEDs in a similar way to how Postulates 1–3 relate to the QEFs. But how do the QEDs differ from the QEFs? Last semester, it appeared that my class had our greatest moments of clarity when discussing QEDs. For example, after we went through Proposition 21, we not only felt like we knew how, logically, the proposition was true, but also why, in a way, it was true. We felt like we could see why an interior angle like BDC would be greater than an extreme angle like BAC [Fig. 2] for any triangle we considered. These moments are exciting and pleasurable: they feel similar to an encounter with something overwhelmingly beautiful. Fig. 2. Triangle BAC from Proposition 21. Turning back to the Meno, Socrates labels the process of tying down as “recollection,” which he previously identified as “searching and learning as a whole.”17 In these moments, logic seems to shift from a line to the commonly used metaphor of a circle.18 We remember something that we already knew: our searching, or asking why, becomes our learning, or our answering of why. It is here, then, that we can perhaps imagine Lily fully satisfied. It is as if she could ride a Euclidean carousel round and round again, eventually both asking and answering in the same place. Derek Foret (AGI’20) is a student in his second-semester at the Graduate Institute and a Senior Resident for Student Activities on campus. He is a Kenyon College alumnus interested in ancient political philosophy and its clash with science and mathematics. He can be reached at dforet@sjc.edu. 17 18 Plato, Meno, 98a & 81d. Cf. Aristotle, Physics, Book VIII, Ch. 9–10. 29 �A Conversation with Paul Ludwig Zachary N. Greene Zachary Greene: Where did you go to graduate school? You went to a couple different places, right? Paul Ludwig: I graduated from [The University of] Tennessee– Chattanooga in 1987, and then I went to Oxford, England, studied English and Italian literature. You could do both in a weird combo. In one way it was not graduate school, because it was a second bachelor’s, which at the time was not so unusual. Oxford was considered so much greater, on a different plane, that a lot of North Americans would go to do a second B.A. Partly it was a bit of an indulgence too. But it was considered a pretty good degree. Actually at the time—I’m not sure if they are still doing this, but their B.A. turned into a master’s if you waited for three to five years, or something like that. If you went through another ceremony, it automatically converted as if it were so great to begin with. The education was better than what I was used to, though some Ivy League students complained about it. It was a really good overview of English and Italian Literature. ZG: Complained in what sense? PL: Well, they hated the weather and called Britain “Fantasy Island,” a TV show at the time—Mr. Roarke and Hervé Villechaize. They thought what they were getting was not as sophisticated as at Harvard, although I think they got a lot more personal attention because it was pretty much one-onone with your tutor, usually two different tutors once per week each. Other than that, there wasn’t too much supervision, you just got two stacks of books and were told to write an essay on each stack, and that’s what you did each week for two years. 30 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 ZG: Was there less emphasis on dialogue at Oxford comparatively to St. John’s? PL: Yes, you didn’t tend to talk to your fellow students except outside of class. Now, there was good dialogue, but it was a bit more like the Higher Gossip [documentary film series] that you guys are pursuing now. It was not quite serious discussion. They used to joke that you shouldn’t talk shop. The joke was that you didn’t want to show you were making any effort at Oxford. Very aristocratic in that way, it was a holdover. I’m sure it has changed, I hope it has changed. The really smart people didn’t have to study at all, they got a first-class degree without any effort whatsoever. I suppose there really were some people like that, but most people who did well had to study fairly hard. My tutor told me this at the time—I don’t know if I really knew anybody that did this, so perhaps it was a holdover from a holdover, but what you would do is study late at night when no one knew. After the partying was done and you had already hit the bars, you would do your studying and you would do something to your face to look like you hadn’t been up all night, a hot pack or a cold pack or something on your head. Then you would surprise everybody at the end because there was just one exam at the end—no continuous assessment. So when you scored really high on that, everyone would be like, “Wow, he did no work at all,” and that would blow people’s mind and it would be the gold standard. — My conversations with tutors were wonderful and conversations with fellow students were very good. There was a lot of leisure, it was more leisurely than St. John’s or any American university. Although I didn’t do the party thing at a state school, despite going to a state school, so perhaps I wouldn’t know. Most people at Oxford were studying their pleasures, and pleasing themselves in rather sophisticated ways. I didn’t do everything everybody did, but there were odd things. The students would want to have a ball, and they would get money to have a ball, which is a dance as I 31 �A Conversation with Paul Ludwig thought of it. But as part of the ball, they would pay for a festival of rides to come into the quad of the college with roller coasters and such. Drinking was pretty intense, but they seemed to have been at it longer. At Tennessee–Chattanooga, people would get utterly smashed. At Oxford they would drink slowly, and get more and more smashed as the night went on, but this could go on for quite a while. You could ride these things for hours, so I don’t think they were doing so badly overall. It wouldn't be the lifestyle that I would choose for myself in perpetuity, but at the time it was great. — After Oxford, I did Social Thought at Chicago for the Ph.D. In between I got a master’s because I realized you can’t get a job in social thought. As my advisor put it, “You didn’t come here because it's the best social thought department in the U.S., you came here because there are no other social thought departments in the U.S.” I realized I wasn’t going to get a social thought job, and decided I would major in classics. I retroactively applied for a master’s in classics because I had taken a lot of classics classes with those professors. So I had a B.A., B.A., M.A., Ph.D., and that was finally it—it was enough. ZG: What was your focus when you were at the Committee on Social Thought? PL: Greek and a little bit of Latin was a focus. I had really gone there because I was very interested in Allan Bloom’s book The Closing of the American Mind, and I really wanted to study with him. That meant political philosophy, whatever that is. Not every political science department would even consider it a thing. I had those two foci, and neither one was a hot ticket to any professional life post-graduation. I got interviews at both political science departments and classics departments, so it wasn’t utterly self-destructive. From the pure learning point of view, both were fantastic. The classics department was very interesting indeed. Although I didn’t get 32 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 a whole lot out of political science as a department, there were Allan Bloom, Nathan Tarcov, and Ralph Lerner, who was my initially assigned advisor. And I never took proper advantage of all he had to offer, which was just idiocy on my part. There were wonderful visiting people like Clifford Orwin, who did Thucydides one year, which was the best course I really ever took. Then Leon Kass was there, and he taught the book of Genesis and the Nicomachean Ethics. These were two or three quarter-long courses, kind of line by line, wonderful philosophizing about those things. You, Mr. Interviewer, happen to be in my Nicomachean Ethics class right now, and a lot of what you are hearing is partially digested, regurgitated stuff I got from Leon Kass’s wonderful teaching. I probably can’t even express it properly, I’m probably feeling it more than you’re hearing it. ZG: Our Nicomachean Ethics class is probably the best class I’ve taken at St. John’s College. How in-depth we go into the text and how much we go to the Greek, which provides such a valuable context. This is actually one of the questions I wanted to ask you about. Why should a Graduate Institute student take Ancient Greek? Many of our [students] are out of school now. What is the point of taking an ancient language? It’s somewhat impractical to a certain extent. PL: Right, most aren’t going to grow up to be classicists. Well, a few of you are, people have been getting interested that way. ZG: There are some students in our class that are incredible at the language… and there are others that are not. But we see the value in going to the original language of a text, and considering it in that form, which provides something important to the conversation. PL: It feels strange for me to be an advocate plugging Greek [in the Graduate Institute] because I spent so many years as a tutor neglecting it. Not really knowing—well, I guess I knew on some level [that] the Graduate Institute did something like freshman language. It was odd: it was taught 33 �A Conversation with Paul Ludwig by tutors I didn’t know well, who were themselves part-time tutors that did not always teach in the undergraduate program and were not well known to their colleagues. There tended to be a little anti-Graduate Institute prejudice, that somehow it was a lite version of the Program, and we didn't always put the very best tutors in the Graduate Institute. There might have been real reasons for that, it started out as a way to offer accreditation to teachers in the Annapolis area. You guys who are from someplace else who move in here to do the [graduate program]—I think there were always some like that, but you guys have become a majority. In a way, you’re the students I’m most focused on at the moment. I think that prejudice against those kind of teachers was a little silly, and the classes were always very mixed. In Jon Tuck’s Higher Gossip interview, he mentions he got to the Graduate Institute somehow early in his tenure here, and he was teaching a poem by Matthew Arnold or some such poet, and one of the students was the Andrew Dorchester 34 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 leading expert in this poetry who had just wanted to come out of retirement to do St. John’s. That was pretty early in the history of the Institute, and so my sort of prejudice was just ridiculous. I hope all that is safely in the past. I got interested in teaching Greek [in the Graduate Institute] many years after I taught other [classes there], I had taught several. My best friend at the college, Mrs. Mera Flaumenhaft, was teaching it quite recently. She told me, “You've really got to think about this because these students really want to be there. They come an extra night each week.” Maybe you guys have put a number on it, can you quantify how much harder it is to do the Greek preceptorial? ZG: I started the program in the summer, which was fairly intensive. I did the Republic with Mr. Pastille, and I had to put in a lot of hard work. The Republic is not an easy text. Comparative to starting Greek in the fall and now finishing it in the spring, I’ve had to put in at least twice as much effort. The second class per week adds quite a bit, especially when you consider translations, exercises, and trying to do some more on top of that to try and cement things. How easy is it to cement Ancient Greek in a semester? Well, it’s not. It’s quite a bit of extra work. PL: To have students with that kind of dedication, as opposed to the undergraduates—all freshmen have to take ancient Greek—I’ve had wonderful undergraduate students of Greek, but to have the dedication of a small cohort of four or five great graduate students who really want to be there makes a very different sort of conversation. I think in some ways tutors don’t realize what’s out there. You guys all come with an undergraduate degree, and for a lot of you this is a stepping stone to something else. A blind tutor might think, “Oh they’re just stepping on us to get to something else.” But come on! That’s the kind of thing we want. That we are your springboard means there’s something really good here that you’re not going to get somewhere else. It shows in the quality of discussions, and the speediness in which you go through Mollin and Williamson. You do as much or more philosophizing about language as the 35 �A Conversation with Paul Ludwig freshmen do, but getting through it in a semester as opposed to a semesterand-a-half or even longer, or not getting through it... I’ve actually finished all twenty lessons in the two cycles I’ve taught it, which is very unusual. Even when Mrs. Flaumenhaft taught the Greek preceptorial, she never got past twelve or fourteen lessons. For us to be able to do twenty, and have the better part of a semester to just concentrate on one book—at last, we can actually see it in the original, not every passage, but the important ones. It makes a big difference. — I’m now teaching classics at the graduate level, in a sense, which I wasn't doing before, which makes me better from a professional point of view. In addition to just learning a heck of a lot more because you guys have more experience in the world. Very important in a work like the Ethics: young people can’t learn it. Aristotle himself would say you’re wasting this on the freshmen, that's just a necessary glitch of the Program. A difference in the Graduate Institute is that you study things topic by topic, so you remember Aristotle while you’re reading Hobbes. As opposed to the chronological way the undergraduates do it. In a way, they've forgotten more than you’ve ever known. What would be the right way to put it? There’s a balance there, both ways have their virtues, but each also has its vice. So for me, it has been wonderful, I can’t imagine a better way of spending two nights per week. ZG: Currently, we are in the second semester and we are reading the Nicomachean Ethics, as we’ve mentioned. You are currently working on a piece on civic friendship, which is towards the end of the book. We haven’t actually gotten there yet. Would you care to tell us about that? PL: It’s weird I got started on this almost sixteen years ago. I had done my dissertation, which became a book, on eros and political philosophy, and whether they had anything to do with one another—I claimed they did. It seemed like a natural move to go on to another type of love, from eros to 36 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 philia. It also seemed like a quick kind of thing—I know a lot about emotions already, this could be a quick rip-off. It became much more involved very quickly. I’ve gone through many phases of feeling I knew something, then realizing I was ignorant, then scratching my way back to thinking I knew something, and realizing “wow, talk about ignorance, glad I didn’t publish that!” Learning remains a dialectical process, even if you’re doing it by yourself with either dead or distant interlocutors. — The whole need in America for civic friendship, the terrible polarization in a way and really hostility that we are living through now—all that came later. I joke that if I had been smarter about this and got this out earlier, I could have prevented all that and we would be fine. So in a way, events have caught up with the book and made it more relevant than when I first started. I think political communities are forms of friendship. They don’t look like it because they pale in comparison to personal friendships, which have the sheer emotional affect you feel for your close friends. I think we feel something analogous to that with fellow citizens without realizing it. In a way it’s comparative or contrastive: think about how you feel about fellow citizens compared to how you feel about foreigners, even if they are living in our country. We aren’t quite as worried about what they are like. Various hatreds have arisen against immigrants, and that's unfortunate. In that regard, people are currently worried about what they are like. But, in general, we are much more worried about what our fellow citizens are like, we want them to be a certain way, we want them to have certain attitudes— pro-liberty, pro-equality—because these are assumptions of our regime. We share our regime, a shared cooperative scheme, and if people don't believe in equality, they don't fit into our regime as well—same if they don't believe in liberty, and I realize these are in tension in the current liberalconservative divide right now between valuing one more than the other. But if you don't value both, you make an odd fit in America. To that degree, 37 �A Conversation with Paul Ludwig worrying about immigrants who maybe don't share those regime assumptions is legitimate. — Mostly I think we are worried about each other though. We wouldn’t worry that way if we didn't favor each other. That’s the kind of worry you have about your brother, he’s not holding up his end. “Dad, he’s not doing his part! I’m doing the mowing every week!” That's a kind of favoritism—you aren’t worried about your neighbor, you’re worried about your brother. From that, I think there is room to build and see each other as sisters and brothers, which is what Aristotle said too. It’s natural, there’s something natural here, but there’s also something artificial, especially the modern state. Within the modern state, there are tons of things that are still natural. It’s very natural to feel concerned about your fellow citizens, what they believe, what they ought to believe, how they are faring, who is persecuting them. A test case of that would be the pathetic story of someone’s job that has been outsourced, you immediately feel outraged. “You did that to an American!” I think we all feel that. I think it’s time for theorists, especially, to admit that, not just to concentrate entirely on self-interest, which is great, it motivates us, it does a lot of things. I would never think that self-interest is not a great political motivator. Civic friendship is another, and they are in some forms of tension. When people pursue their self-interest utterly, to the detriment of their fellow citizens, a price is to be paid and they lose the political support of their fellow citizens. I think cosmopolitan elites have lost a little political support recently, that’s what we call populism. Really a lot of the passions that I see as being out there, and somewhat misguided or even debased today, are civic friendship that doesn't know its name. At an earlier stage, it dared not speak its name. — Liberalism wanted to get us away from civic friendship. Classical liberals— such as John Locke, Thomas Jefferson—they lived through an era of robust civic friendship, both in theory and practice. I think the wars of 38 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 religion had already showed them that it was very dangerous, civic passions can be fanatical, especially when connected to religion, but in other ways too. Geography, maybe? We have a little bit of fanaticism about our border right now, on both sides. Those passions needed to be defused, so liberal theorists stopped talking about civic friendship for very good reasons, but we might now be ready for another corrective, moving back in the other direction slightly. ZG: Can a city without civic friendship be just? PL: We seem to be trying that experiment, don't we? “Let’s forget about civic friendship and just try to focus on justice.” As conceived as equal freedom, equal opportunity, or equal result, that would be the basis for justice. But I think the answer is “no.” Maybe it can be just without recognizing that it’s a civic friendship and without talking about it. I think liberal societies have always been civic friendships without recognizing it, without knowing it, and without calling it by its name. I certainly believe justice has undergone a manifold improvement since the liberal revolution, since Locke, Montesquieu, and give Hobbes his credit, and especially Machiavelli. That justly decried name! Without that revolution, the kinds of justice we enjoy today wouldn't be possible. — I think all through that period, civic friendship was always there, but people just slowly forgot about it as a thing and began to redescribe it as morality—therefore fitting [it] into justice itself, or even as patriotism. It just got redescribed. We may have now hit a limit on what we can do with a civic friendship that no one knows about. It’s just there, in the air, where people are breathing it without thinking about it. Maybe to move on from where we are now, we would need a more self-aware civic friendship. It seems we are pretty unlikely to associate it with religion again. I think maybe we’ve made that distinction. I hope religion stays private. I’m religious myself, but my hope is that it will remain a private issue and not 39 �A Conversation with Paul Ludwig become a political issue. Civic friendship could be just political, and not have to have that fatal connection, which is why I think it faded in modern theory to begin with. But I’m not sure if I’ve given you a strict “yes” or “no.” ZG: I think that was rather sufficient. Congratulations on the book, do you have a release date? PL: Thank you, about a year from now. Hopefully it’s all blown over by then, and it will be dated before it comes out. But somehow I doubt it. ZG: I’d like to ask you a question that we’ve been asking other tutors. What makes a great book? PL: Oof! ZG: I know, that’s a big question. PL: I think we’re so spoiled here with not having to set curricula the way all academics in all other departments are constantly battling about what makes a book worth reading, battling against other competing visions. We tutors have a lot of agreement because we are quite conservative of the canon. Though you guys may not realize it, tutors do deliberate endlessly about the Program. We are worried there might be better stuff out there, that we aren’t using or reading, or some stuff might have lost its zing or not be appealing to people. Since we have so much that's great, we want to make sure the things we are reading makes that connection for students. I think a great book often has a surface that will grip you. There’s also a certain authority it carries. For whatever reason, you usually know that other people think it's a great book, and therefore it has a claim on your attention. But each tutor definitely thinks he knows some books are great that other tutors don’t realize are great. ZG: What would those be for you? 40 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 PL: My favorite books are the comedies of Aristophanes, of which some are on the Program—The Frogs and The Clouds. People just don't know about a play like The Acharnians, that even most of my colleagues haven’t read. Each one of these plays displays something about Athenian democracy. The Assembly of Women—more people know about it. The Acharnians are mentioned by Thucydides, they were a faction—pro-war, and opposed to peace because their land was destroyed first when the Spartans invaded. The Spartan King Archidamus would destroy some crops when the Athenians retreated within the walls, but leave others undestroyed purely to create factions. It’s all there in Thucydides but in a nutshell, and then you see it played out dramatically in Aristophanes. It’s just marvelous. All of his plays are like that. The Knights is an oligarchic revolution, the knights being a higher class than the heavy armed [soldiers] or rowers. The highest of the three orders. They of course need a demagogue. It’s very relevant to today’s populism, where elites make compromises by using the demagogue to get their own way. — Leo Strauss has a wonderful lesser-known book—but very long and involved—of studies called Socrates and Aristophanes. Ostensibly to find out more about Socrates by reading Aristophanes’ take in The Clouds: partly fictionalized, but probably some type of trick mirror that's supposed to exaggerate features that are truly there. In order to understand The Clouds that well, with his usual thoroughness, Strauss reads every extant play with his wonderful political eye. Just reading that book in tandem with the plays is a political education of the highest order that I’ve ever come across. You can’t really understand what’s in Aristotle if you don't have that kind of cultural background, that kind of give and take, the street speech that's present throughout Aristophanes. I think a great book has to speak to us at our most profound levels. It has to tell us about something we really want, or [that] we come to learn through the book itself that is something we were really wanting all this time without realizing it. It has got that odd 41 �A Conversation with Paul Ludwig surface-to-core dialectic where there’s something superficially attractive about it beyond any cultural authority that it might have. But as you get deeper into it, there are these amazing turnarounds that happen. You think you’re going down a path, and it’s like, “Oh my gosh! That was at the end of this path, and I feel like I’m back at the beginning.” ZG: Is there anything you would like to see added or subtracted from the curriculum? PL: I obviously think it’s very good. I feel like the Math & Natural Science segment is the weakest, and I would probably subtract the social science at the end of it—the Freud and Jung. My own feeling, and I’m not sure I share this with a lot of tutors, is that psychologists have moved beyond Freud. There were intentionally fraudulent aspects of his work. He wanted a moneymaker and he found one. Some of those case studies, though they have incredible intrinsic interest (he knew how to interest me)—I think they weren’t well documented. I think he made some stuff up. I don't think there’s any reason to think that social science is truly related to math and natural science. If you really want to have a math and natural science segment, then you have to leave social science out, because to the extent it’s mathematized, it’s no longer true of politics, and to the extent it’s social, it can’t be scientific. Nature does play a role in politics—I guess I, more than others, am saying that when I say civic friendship is natural. There’s a big difference because you can’t be empirical in the same way about social matters. It would be nice to have a separate segment, but then it just becomes our Politics & Society segment. I would add more math and natural science, and create the space for it by taking out Freud and whatever else we do at the end. ZG: Do you think we should introduce more American authors into the Program? That’s one thing I’ve noticed that's rather lacking. You don't see many American thinkers in the Program, it’s very German influenced. 42 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 PL: Yeah, I think that's fair. Graduate students—but especially undergraduates—do go through this very long American saga, which isn’t quite the right word for it. But to truly call these “great books”—a collection of Lincoln speeches or the Supreme Court cases—they aren’t great books. We read them because of who we are. It's a little bit more of the American identity. It's a concession, I think, to the kinds of things that departmental academia has made vast concessions to. They’re way beyond an American identity, they want to read about a smaller identity, conceding that students should read more black authors because they have been kept down all these years, or more female authors. So, in a way, the Program concedes we have an American identity, and today we have to try to interest more and more people from all of the world in it, since we are getting a much more international student body than ever. It's a concession and a tension—you have to think: to what extent are these great books or just our great books. — There have been recent ideas bandied about, like having a whole American segment of both literature and politics for the Graduate Institute. It would be like the History segment: an option not everyone took. I might be in favor of something like that if it stayed optional. Everyone has to take their own path. Like you and I, who grew up in middle America, an American path to greatness is a true path to greatness. If I can come through the Lincoln–Douglas debates to understand something about greatness of soul, I’ll recognize it better when I come to Aristotle. We can bypass the Germans entirely. It's a little bit weirder to ask a Korean student to move through that, or get interested in American Civil War issues. That Korean student might say, “I’ve never discriminated against anyone on the basis of race anyway. The Japanese discriminate against me, but I like them,” or something like that. “Why should I have to go through it? Let me read Hegel so I can go to the fuller stuff directly.” There is a tension here, I’m not sure if I have any great answers. I wouldn’t change the Program just to add a bunch of Americans, by switching out Kant or something. 43 �Adam Hurwitz, Cosmic Petri Dish #1, 2018, Black ink and 24k gold leaf on heavyweight cotton paper. Color inversion with Adobe Illustrator. 44 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 The Alumni Association of St. John’s College funds a prize for a distinguished graduate preceptorial paper to be awarded at spring commencement. A prize committee, composed of tutors, will consider papers submitted by tutors of preceptorials in the previous spring, summer, and fall terms for this award. Award-winning essays are kept in the Greenfield Library. “Home,” by Joseph M. Keegin (AGI’18), is the 2017 award-winning essay. Home Joseph M. Keegin At the beginning of Virgil’s Aeneid, we find the surviving remnants of Troy floating across the Mediterranean in a mere handful of vessels after suffering defeat at the hands of the allied Achaean army. Waves toss the Trojan ships like a petulant child having a temper tantrum. The goddess Juno, angry about a prophecy foretelling the destruction of her beloved city of Carthage at the hands of the Trojans, petitions Aeolus to loose violent winds upon the already-tattered fleet. He complies. Violent gusts batter the Trojan galleys, breaking several against rocks jutting up from the sea floor. The sea-god Neptune notices what is happening in his domain and rages at the other gods encroaching upon his sovereignty: he dispatches the winds back to their mountain home, rebuking Juno and Aeolus for their impetuousness. The winds calm, the seas still, and the Trojan exiles drift ashore near Carthage. They sprawl out in exhaustion on the beachhead, run an inventory of their remaining equipment and rations, and start fires for their first meal on land since being forced from their home. Aeneas goes on the hunt, killing seven huge bucks: one for each vessel destroyed in Aeolus’ storm. The Trojans—“a remnant left by Greeks, harassed by all 45 �Joseph M. Keegin / Home disasters known on land and sea, in need of everything”—sorrow at their condition.1 However, there is hope. Aeneas, sensing the dejection gnawing at his men, makes a rousing speech: “You have neared the rage of Scylla,” he reminds them, “and her caves’ resounding rocks; and you have known the Cyclops’ crags; call back your courage, send away your grieving fear.”2 Then he reveals a second prophecy concerning the future of the Trojan people: “Through many crises and calamities we make for Latium, where fates have promised a peaceful settlement. It is decreed that there the realm of Troy will rise again.”3 Though driven from their homeland, the Trojans are fated for a new home. A new home is a strange idea. For us modern, twenty-first-century Americans, “home” is often merely a euphemism for “where you happen to live”: it is not uncommon to see billboards along highways advertising “New Luxury Estate Homes,” “1 & 2 Bedroom Apartment Homes,” “New Homes For Sale.” But for most of human history, home has been something familiar, old, and beloved—it precedes us, produces us, and remains a permanent part of the background of our lives even if we leave it for somewhere new. “You can take a boy out of the country,” they say— you know the rest of the story. Like Ithaca for Odysseus, home awaits your return, because one belongs to one’s home as much as one’s home belongs to oneself. Which is to say, home is as much a place—a fixed, bounded geographical zone with specific, identifiable qualities and details—as the stories, feelings, things, and—perhaps most importantly—people associated with it. Home is the place where you exist as a midpoint between a succession of generations into the past and a procession of generations into the future. “There’s no place like home” may be a cliché, but the saying 1 Virgil, Aeneid, Book I, lines 841-843. All citations refer to Allen Mandelbaum’s translation, published 1961 by Bantam Classics. 2 I.279-282. 3 I.284-286. 46 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 is common for good reason: home is a place and no two places are identical. No two homes are alike—maybe not even for the people who share them. What happens, then, when one’s home disappears? Not mentally, mind you: not as if the place that was once considered “home” is no longer thought of in those terms. What happens when home is destroyed? Where do you go when homecoming is impossible? Unlike many peoples whose names have been wiped off of the map and out of the register of human memory for all time, the Trojans are not simply homeless: they have a great destiny, foretold in prophecy. The destruction of their city provides them an opportunity. They are bound for a new home—not for an alreadyestablished, foreign city into which they will assimilate, but for a new place entirely. They will make a new home: Rome, a city fated to blossom into an empire. Aeneas will “establish a way of life and walls for his own people,” Jupiter reveals to Venus. And as for the following generations of Romans, the father of the gods will “give them empire without end.”4 This essay will explore home: what it is, how one comes into being, and what happens when home and world become identical. Troy and Beyond Troy was one of the richest and most beautiful cities in the world. The beautiful face of Helen was not the only thing that brought the Greeks to Trojan shores: the possibilities of plunder to be won from Priam’s city and well-wrought armor to be stripped from the bodies of dead Trojan soldiers were not overlooked. Even before Helen’s name is mentioned in the Iliad, Apollo’s priest Chryses relays to Agamemnon and Menelaus that “the gods grant who have their homes on Olympos / Priam's city to be plundered and a fair homecoming thereafter”—treasure was always part of the deal.5 4 5 I.369, 390. Homer, Iliad, trans. Richmond Lattimore, I.18-19. 47 �Joseph M. Keegin / Home Aeneas and the Trojans, even, did their best to rescue as much wealth from their city as they can: after landing in Carthage they draw from this collection to thank Dido for her hospitality. All the more horrible, then, to see it burned and pillaged. But along with some of the city’s riches, the surviving Trojans also escape with the city’s “household gods.” The night after leading the infamous wooden horse inside the city walls, Aeneas is approached in a dream by Hector: the dead warrior reveals the treachery of the Greeks to our sleeping hero, urging him to wake and flee the flames of his burning home and entrusting to him Troy’s “holy things and household gods.” “Take them away as comrades of your fortunes,” he urges, “seek out for them the great walls that at last, once you have crossed the sea, you will establish.”6 Aeneas wakes, arms himself for battle, and charges into the streets to make vengeance. There he meets Panthus, son of Apollo’s priest, desperately leading his grandson to safety while “in his hand he carries the holy vessels and defeated gods.”7 But the existence of these peculiar deities is also mentioned in the first stanza of the poem: once he founds Rome, Aeneas will have “carried in his gods to Latium.”8 And after landing at Carthage, as if to clarify just what “carry” means in this context, Aeneas announces to his disguised mother Venus: [...] I am pious Aeneas, and I carry in my ships my household gods together with me, rescued from Argive enemies; my fame is known beyond the sky.9 6 Virgil, Aeneid, II.400-404. II.437-438. 8 I.10. 9 I.534-537. 7 48 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 Unfortunately, the poem does not provide any direct description of what these “household gods” are. We learn about them only by way of what happens to them—in their being held, carried, transported across the ocean in the galleys of ships. We learn that Juno is horrified by their fated arrival in Italy. While leaving Troy, Aeneas—hands soiled with Grecian blood— begs his father to carry them. And much later, after landing on Italian shores, we see Aeneas make a tribute to the household gods of his friend and ally Evander. Every home has its gods, it seems: homes are not just where you and your family live, but also where your gods reside. And unlike the gods of Olympus, the gods of one’s home are fragile, transportable, and require a great deal of care. It is unclear what kind of role they play in the lives of mortals: we do not see any children of household gods, they never take human form, they do not intervene in human affairs. Rather, they are quiet elements of city life that seem to grant a sense of the sacred to affairs both domestic (Panthus and Evander seem to have their own household gods) and political (Aeneas carries the gods of Troy). When home is the home of your family and your gods, it could never just be a house—which is why none of the places the Trojans stop on their way to Italy could have been their new home. Many of the places are selfevidently unfit for consideration as the location of a new Troy: Thrace is a poisoned place, the site of an ancient crime; Buthrotum is a sad and hollow replica of the once-great Troy, now shot through with sorrow and anguish. Others, however, are less clear. When the Trojans found the city of Pergamum on the island of Crete, it seems a fitting enough locale for longterm habitation—that is, until a plague befalls the island. Aeneas, sleeping in bed one evening, has a vision of his household gods standing over him: they speak to him, reminding him of the promise of Italy, Rome, and the eventual empire over which his descendants will rule.10 Clearly, the gods 10 This is the only occasion in the Aeneid in which the household gods are personified and take on an active role. 49 �Joseph M. Keegin / Home are not happy in Crete. Aeneas orders the ships loaded and the sails raised, though a small group of Trojans stay behind. By the time they arrive in the comparatively hospitable Actium, it seems they have internalized the lesson taught at Crete: the Trojans spend a year there without founding a city, experience no hardship beyond the coldness of winter, and raise their sails for Buthrotum. What ruled out Carthage, however, is initially much more opaque. Though initially met with resistance and suspicion, the Trojans are welcomed with open arms by Dido and the Tyrians. Their fame has been preserved in a series of murals—whether painted or etched is unclear—at a shrine to Juno in the heart of the city, depicting both the heroic deeds and the suffering of Trojan warriors in their battle against the Greek invaders. Carthage has built a monument to Trojan courage. And with the heroes themselves suddenly landed upon the shores of their domain, the Tyrians are happy to offer them a home. “[Should] you want to settle in this kingdom on equal terms with me,” Dido promises them, “then all the city I am building now is yours. Draw up your ships. I shall allow no difference between the Tyrian and the Trojan.”11 So why did this offer not last? The simplest answer is that the gods would not allow it. Indeed, when Hermes approaches Aeneas to remind him of the prophecy, “he sees Aeneas founding fortresses and fashioning new houses.”12 Assimilation seems to be underway. It is only once the god reminds Aeneas of the promise made to his son that the Trojan leader’s mind changes. To remain in Carthage would mean to rob Ascanius of the glory for which he is fated. Carthage would provide a happy home for Aeneas and his people—but it could never allow for the glorification of Aeneas’ true heir. 11 12 50 I.805-809. Emphasis mine. IV.347-348. �Colloquy / Spring 2019 People in a place with their gods and their families: this is the basic recipe for a home. But if a people cannot simply assimilate with another to have a home, how do they make a new one? A New Troy When Jupiter reveals the fate of Aeneas to his mother Venus, the first item in his list of events is that he “shall wage tremendous war in Italy and crush ferocious nations”—only after which he will “establish a way of life and walls for his own people.”13 Rome will happen, but not without conflict. Prophecy does not imply simplicity or ease. But what is the function of war in the founding of a new home? Is it the whim of the gods? Or might conflict be a necessary part of founding a new home? The Trojans do not simply invade Italy. When they land at Latium they are initially extended a warm welcome by King Latinus, who just recently received a prophecy that his daughter will be married off to foreigners. “For strangers come as sons-in-law,” the voice of his dead father tells him—and as if to assuage any doubt about who these strangers might be, he recites the fate of the Trojans: “their blood will raise our name above the stars; and their sons’ sons will see all things obedient at their feet, wherever the circling sun looks on both sides of Ocean.”14 Rome, then, will begin with a wedding—but the wedding is the first source of conflict. Princess Lavinia has been all but promised to Turnus, the handsome and young king of the Rutulians, but Latinus’ prophecy inspires him to break off the engagement. Juno, furious at the prospect of a Trojan marrying into the Latin royal family, sics the Fury Allecto on the Latins: Lavinia’s mother 13 I.363-369. VII.123-127. The ghost of Creüsa, Aeneas’ wife who died at Troy, had told him of this fate before he and the survivors had escaped the burning city: in Hesperia, “days of gladness lie in wait for you: a kingdom and a royal bride” (II.1056-1057). 14 51 �Joseph M. Keegin / Home Amata and Turnus are roiled into bloodlust. The Rutulian king begins to muster an army against the Trojans. Allecto also helps sow the second seed of conflict, by leading Ascanius’ hunting dogs to the beloved stag of Tyrrhus and Sylvia. Ignorant of the stag’s privileged place among the Latins, Ascanius sends an arrow into his gut, killing him. It is a grievous betrayal of custom, but a custom that the Trojans could never have assumed—and which the Latins, being “a race of Saturn, needing no laws and no restraint for righteousness,” would never have told them.15 Sylvia and Tyrrhus rouse the Latin farmers to battle: wielding whatever sharp implements they can find—“anger makes a weapon”—they march against the Trojan encampments.16 First blood is drawn: Almo, son of Tyrrhus, is struck by an arrow from an unknown bow. Latinus rebukes Turnus and the Latin mobs and refuses to open the city’s Gates of War—but Juno does it for him, making the war official. War, however, requires alliances—and while the Trojan encampments are under siege, Aeneas sails down the Italian coast making pacts with friendly kings. The most notable of these is Evander, king of the Arcadians, who entrusts his son Pallas to Aeneas’ tutelage. By the time Aeneas returns to assist the Trojan ramparts, he has assembled thirty ships with ten generals from different regions of Italy. It is a motley crew, including gods and mermen, all willing to put their lives on the line for a Trojan victory. Marriage, the breaking of custom, and alliances: these are the preconditions for the Trojan-Latin war. The marriage of Aeneas and Lavinia, if carried out, would result in the union of two peoples—but beneath the kingship of one: the Trojans. Aeneas and his people would inherit a city, a place to live while raising the walls of Rome, and the Latins will become collaborators in Rome’s greatness. And as Rome is destined to be an 15 16 52 VII.268-269. VII.670. �Colloquy / Spring 2019 empire of law—one that is destined to “teach the ways of peace to those [they] conquer, to spare defeated peoples, [and] tame the proud”—the flimsy, ambiguous rule of custom must be overcome.17 A civilized people must be able to articulate the rules, especially to guests—a tradition of inexpressible cultural habits is no way to teach the ways of peace to others. Furthermore, the alliances crafted in battle set the terms of who will possibly be victor and who the conquered: not only do the Trojans win if Aeneas leads his army to victory, but so too would (for example) the humble and rustic Arcadians. The winning party will determine the character of the peace that takes shape afterward. The conquered will be subject to the laws and customs of the conquerors. Or so it seems, but the arrangement arrived at by Jupiter and Juno complicates this outcome. “For the Ausonians [Italians] will keep their homeland’s words and ways,” Jupiter promises his wife: ‘[...]their name will stay; the body of the Teucrians will merge with the Latins, and their name will fall away. But I will add their rituals and customs to the Ausonians’, and make them all— and with one language—Latins. You will see a race arise from this that, mingled with the blood of the Ausonians, will be past men, even past gods, in piety; no other nation will pay you such honor.’18 Jupiter turns this expectation on its head: the conquerors will take the name and language of the conquered. In a set of circumstances unique to the Trojans and Latins—and brought about only through divine authorship— Trojan and Latin customs will exist peaceably alongside one another. 17 18 VI.1136-1137. XII.1107-1117. 53 �Joseph M. Keegin / Home Neither will dominate. But again, customs are not laws, and the Latins are a lawless people: one may assume that the laws established by Aeneas will be binding for this whole new race. Which is, of course, a curious and new term. From the union of these two peoples we will get one: no longer understood as members of family groups (Teucrians descended from Teucer, Dardaans descended from Dardanus, and so forth), the people will comprise a unity of plurality—a many that makes one. And this transformation of peoples into a race is a reflection of another transformation that Rome will effect: that of home into world. World Before meeting with the Latins after landing on the Italian peninsula, Aeneas visited the Sibyl. A deranged priestess of Apollo, the Sibyl was granted the ability to presage the future by writing the fates on a collection of leaves, which are then frequently scattered by the wind. But Aeneas is not here to hear the future from the Sibyl. Rather, he requires her assistance in descending to Hades to visit the soul of his dead father, who will tell him the whole story of Rome. The Sibyl agrees, but Aeneas must first complete a few tasks: so Aeneas picks the golden bough, performs the required sacrifice for Persephone, and the two climb into the bowels of hell. When they reach Anchises in the Fields of Gladness, he is positively glowing: he stands in the middle of a grassy meadow, telling the story of his bloodline to the souls of his descendants. Aeneas tries to embrace him, but his arms pass through his body like a beam of light through a window. They share tears. Anchises then takes Aeneas on a tour of the blessed part of the underworld, the place where great souls live out their afterlives in joy and gaiety while waiting for the moment of their resurrection—when, a thousand years after death, they will drink from the river of forgetting and return to a bodily form on earth. Then he reveals to him the destiny of Rome: the events that will shape its legacy, the greatness it will win, and the men who will lead it there. “Rome will make her boundaries as broad as 54 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 earth itself,” Anchises says, “will make her spirit the equal of Olympus, and enclose her seven hills within a single wall, rejoicing in her race of men.”19 Rome, it seems, will be founded as a great city by great men—but then will become something different. Rome will eventually become the whole world. If what was said earlier about home has any validity—that home is a place— then this poses a strange problem. Just as home is a place, world is a space. Rather than being defined by boundaries, specificity, and uniqueness, the world is that space which transcends all places and inside of which all place loses its place-ness. A place is defined explicitly in opposition to the world: in full knowledge of the vastness of everything and the infinite array of possibilities, I settle myself in a small corner of existence whose contours become as familiar as the backs of my hands. I always live in a place, though I may have knowledge of the world: I can study astronomy, oceanography, and the histories of distant empires without ever leaving my home. Somehow, however, Rome will collapse these category distinctions: it will be an empire that spans the whole world, while remaining the home of a people in the form of a race. How does a transformation of this kind take place? It seems to involve two factors: people and history. World-as-home-forrace carries with it a different set of categories than place-as-home-forpeople: as seen before, the category “race” transcends of particular family groupings to constitute a higher-order unification of people. The Trojans and Latins will retain their separate customs and rituals, but will become one inasmuch as they are members of the same race—only this arrangement of people is capable of inhabiting a world-sized home. No longer will separate peoples inhabit far-flung cities ruled by hereditary kings: the boundaries of Rome and those of the world will become 19 VI.1034-1038. 55 �Joseph M. Keegin / Home identical, uniting all people under one banner. The whole world will have an order, then—and he who rules Rome rules it all. It is no accident that Anchises’ prophecy takes place over the course of many generations. The founding of Rome will not be like the creation of the heavens and earth (or even, perhaps, like the transformation of the Trojan and Latin peoples into a single race): it will not go from being a city to encompassing the entire earth in a single instant. Rather, though its destiny is already written, the transformation must play out in time. Successive generations will make their contributions to this transformation: specific human beings—people like Tullus, Numa, Romulus, Mummius, and Caesar—will be the agents of the change. Fate does not preclude active human participation in its execution. Gods may author what will happen, but humans must effect the execution. And inasmuch as human beings are beings in time, their actions are events in time—and the memory, or story, of these events constitutes history. At the end of the Aeneid, however, we do not see the founding of Rome. The bleeding body of Turnus does not provide us with a vision of Roman greatness that we expect after reading numerous instances of prophecy: it is hard to see how the merciless, vengeful slaughter of the Rutulian king is a beginning-point for the eventual Roman mission of teaching peace to the conquered, sparing the defeated, and taming the proud. Perhaps the execution of prophecy often plays out like the opening of the poem, where a band of confused refugees float around the Mediterranean, unsure of where they may land. But though we all long for a home, perhaps only a few are called to inhabit their own—and even fewer to see theirs to greatness. 56 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 Adam Hurwitz, Moon Graph #3: Star Birds, 2018, Black ink and 24k golf leaf on heavyweight cotton paper. 57 �Adam Hurwitz, Cosmic Petri Dish #3, 2018, Black ink and 24k gold leaf on heavyweight cotton paper. Adam Hurwitz’s work combines nature with mathematics using a distinctive minimalistic and playful technique. “We are all at once large and small, connected through the depths of our skies and seas, hearts and spirits,” Hurwitz suggests. Using Micron Pigma black ink, vivid colors, and negative space, his work explores the miracles of nature, love, and music under the lens of an artist microscope. 58 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 Five Poems Louis Petrich Waking I get how Love makes choice, her friends to mate: she sees and hears and touches them— directly. The man on words dependent, senselessly kept distant, wiser though than these, dispenses himself vainly, present not to please. Teach him to care— (his letters archives fill, to glory hers) and not to care— to face her sideways, lean of appetite and shoreline straddling— uncommitted. From sea come sounds to measure his up-heaving. 59 �Louis Petrich / Poetry Let’s see . . . he’ll write his Dear infrequently, applaud more circumspectly, too, hereafter, to make himself Love’s equal, sporting free, and take close by her beauties, satisfied. Yet still he wonders much the fitting thing to do with all the waked words fine that passed so nearly true between them heretofore, for light, you know, it bends through human mediums, too. Who thinks that — buy them, someone would— like new?— Give everything she treasured once before? Are women—covetous so—of their dreams, as twenty-thousand times would men try proof? If only such another he could meet, rehearsèd mettle, richly hers, he’d keep. 60 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 Love Lesson #5 Unshaped the things your words once licked adorn. Now what impression must I pray be mine? Give arrows lips to drink me, salt afloat . . . . Tap wat’ry cheers, no! Nails and teeth, my shore! Your thirsty arms in rainbow stretch between the world I’m in and yours! Untangle shy spurred feet from stirrups, horse let fly on wet stones, cobbled vain-discrete for leg-gripped ride! Not wont were you to be obtuse so. What? Must, like a leaf-blower, I speak? To pile for binding pages torn by heart’s fell winds? Yes, it pains me witness cast of smiles from mine on faces tilting rapture, yours to win, as entered at the wrong cue for my scene, I ever after play the man upstaged. Straight I’d give and hazard all that I do dream for one good go with you, and summon rage if going faints, as Shylock fills with hate, yet greedy less for years than lusty spill. No, I must not think you worse than those before, to slide rings back and forth ‘twixt present mates, or tricked to swallow, urged by absent core. Goal— keep heart-strings taut to penetrate the storm— writ arrows marry minds, spite bodies torn. 61 �Louis Petrich / Poetry Love Lesson # 7 You laugh— as if it shouldn’t matter, touching friends like us, that homeward heart lets absent body make defection: “Odysseus, thigh-scarred, mends goddess beds— his love’s not home removed.” As I flip eggs in bacon grease (no doubt, for breakfast, bacon’s good), I think about the fact you would a vegetarian become, if bacon were not blameworthy. So taste of tongue does matter make of life, and earth disfigures, even stars, which though God promised counted could not be, in time we learned to spy them out, and later, how to trace the infinite diagonals, which painters ply as energy that flows through arms and legs to guide eyes pleasured home. So when you smile that others matter not to bold partakers sharing breast of deep Athena’s confidence, yet hear confess of tangent doings that deserve a place in stories 62 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 trying matters no and yes. I’ve fewer owls to feather lettered night. I drink, still thirsty, morns their skimmed-off milk. Sun-freckled skin, yours, I’d have honeyed spread, unwrinkled shores for golden clime to taste!— Instead, by hornèd moon, your hairs uncurl with cries throat-pulled from deep pale stores of time laid waste. Your waves, strong manly bent, head home towards me on what’s not matter— ethereal laws, which go by other names, when convenient, for none knows really what explains how pain or pleasure alters cause or fate removes. Dark light misshapes the matter in my brain. A shot is heard in distant space: a duel for love is fought. One man drops down, his tall proud rival stands his ground, though she won’t style him now, and probably would never have, while the dead one she’d already tak’n, though without love. So why’d it matter them, to kill? 63 �Louis Petrich / Poetry Whose rift? What difference does it make to one who hears the shot far off, for he cannot remember if the woman he adored once loved him dear— or to what purpose— married she was then— and moreover, she died before she could of life make mess— hers, his, and others, when. So many reasons things that matter, like love, should not— it’s Chekhov who’s my master here— you must recall his Sisters Three, who would’ve died to get to Moscow, home, but making love before the way, they found—too late—they had to stay. He’s always letting fire somewhere a shot, whose bullet carries passions deeply fraught toward breasts that feel the same. Oh, doctor-taught, let’s exercise in friendship all the difference it makes to keep the sunny side up smart. 64 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 No stabbing turnings, then. No breaking heart. No yoke of misery to tear apart. (How gods at us have laughed.) No . . . oh wait, please, how could I have forgot, from Chekhov, his negative craft: if cheer you take from matters not, then life, your only, lacks the means to make a plot— much tease, but no end— except the stop of memories. 65 �Louis Petrich / Poetry Looking Back So why’d you drag us, of all places, here? If Egypt was your hole, why plains gone dry? You like to sit at gate and catch the cries, afraid to enter, marking faces dear. You look for beauty worthy all the rest. And now you hasten family God knows where, and all you say is this, “Don’t look back there!” If you had only stayed for old man’s test, you might have gotten all the herds and slaves, and we’d be looking at each other kind. At least they kept to what they wanted blind. How wonderful feels fire that bad behaves— it takes by force the strangers newly lacked— what guts—to know! For that—one last look back . . . 66 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 He makes faces she answers He’s stuffed with faces, works his head with practiced hands— some wonder wrought inside must perplex out —it’s born! Cute secrets smile in smooth text voice . . . Look there: your said beloved— ‘s come under the man-babe’s morn. To satisfy the day’s new cravings, I spy on screens for words she leaves behind, of plot turns— fear and sorrow kind— Now really! Here now! His-my-love-is-yours! Present laughter take, and all else becalm. She words you—with here’s and now’s— she words you ply time’s surface balm. Night-mined words make rough return: confess me the force who crushes your heart that feeds your green eyes with pulse mine to yearn. Sharpened steal, your dreams! Facts, like gun-start, wake! 67 �Louis Petrich / Poetry We stand the faceless man, the nameless occupier whose deft hands knead and staff lifts higher the sky, that loneliness stead less inside our friend’s fair spirited mess. Yet faces, friended ours, who friend to bed, our thoughts imperil, eyes intern. Still, friends in common hold all things. What? So mated round, do heads each turn look up? So gripped between, will hearts not reprehend? Let’s make compare: in speaking, cooking sup, at doubles tennis, drinking, watching feats, the Holy One in worship, fighting free, these things partake most well in common, yes! so why not make love better— best!— by three? Try her, he can—the sweetness of life— since none can taste her long. Yet pause: no wife or children’s voice to smother in pretended kiss, there’s stuff to fear, in ear his song. The students slake him, all agree, 68 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 and lover does he claim his specialty, whose course of music much he plays in order (motion tossed) to find behind irreverent borders women ever to and fro across, obeying no ruled mind save dancing hearts come hither faces, parts moral, bowing— of course, in time. She asks me to reflect her distant light his way, belike the moon she reckons by— another picked god’s creature, spelled: her altar, phasing bright, inscribes before the fixèd mark of stars— amazing me thus far: to bastardize—as if I could—our sky! Biology— this only word she leaves behind, undeleted mine, this underlying risk of life, as brief as red, and masterful— but listen . . . logic, kindly towing: Don’t you know, dear friends, I place you top my list nearly of missed things? Oh, do not forget facts! If she’s the mind to sport for flings, 69 �Louis Petrich / Poetry and wants us kept in view’s collection, while court she pays to body’s pacts, remain you may, who feel not racked, so keep she far away from me— to make believe her days and nights turn like the moon’s in monthly circuit, that I may dream the features of her face— just like the moon’s— come round to shine in pace earth bound— one mind, to trace. In darkness lies far-sided face . . . Obsessive watching! Tell me why I waste. The skies bejewel emptiness apropos the piercing holds her wand’ring eyes patrol. Louis Petrich is a tutor at St. John’s College in Annapolis, Maryland. 70 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 In Defense of the Literature Segment Patrick Burley When St. John’s graduate students meet, there is a question that seems to be commonplace after the initial introductions are made: what segments are you going to take? St. John’s does, of course, encourage graduate students to take all five segments—and many students do—however, it is not uncommon that other students only take four. Although options each semester are limited, the Literature segment is presented as an option each fall. During my time in the Graduate Institute at St. John’s, I have heard mixed reviews regarding the Literature segment. Some students seem eager to pursue it, while others appear to be completely disconcerted by the prospect of reading Chaucer, a Shakespeare play, or English romantic poetry. Many students say that the Literature segment lacks the rigor that other segments provide and feel as if literature is mere child’s play compared to an intense text on metaphysics. Other students claim that they have read many of the materials before and are not sure what else they could gain from revisiting them, especially if their focus is philosophy or politics. I focus on the Literature Tutorial, for the Literature Seminar is looked upon with less aversion as the Greek tragedies and epics are foundational for any student of the liberal arts. I recall sitting in my undergraduate dorm room in late spring, determining if I wanted to begin my St. John’s education with the Literature segment or the Mathematics and Natural Science segment. I had just finished studying English literature so, with a strong bias, I chose the former. I had experienced many of the texts for the Tutorial before, however I had yet to experience them so intimately with other individuals who possessed such a passion for education, a dedication to the liberal arts, and a drive for 71 �Patrick Burley / In Defense of the Literature Segment truth. I was eager to take on literature within a St. John’s environment, yet I was also nervous, as I was so used to reading scholarly articles concerning literary theories and criticisms that shaped my thoughts more than I wished to admit. However, I entered McDowell with a fresh mind—a mind ready to examine the assigned literary texts for what they meant specifically to me, and not concerned with what they meant to scholars or critics. We laughed and wondered about Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, debated about King Lear’s passions, and then we moved into lyric poetry. There was one poem that, I felt, successfully relayed an idea that encapsulated the nature of studying and experiencing literature. That poem was “Ode on a Grecian Urn” by John Keats. The poem follows the thoughts of Keats as he examines an ancient Grecian urn. In the last two lines, Keats writes, “‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all / Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.’” These two lines boldly describe the truth that accompanies witnessing beauty and our innate drive to understand the feelings such beauty elicits. When we witness beauty, we are engulfed with a surge of feelings—whether it be passionate love, sublimity, or darkness. These indescribable passions are, simply, truth. For Keats, truth is what you feel and, in the Literature segment, there is a litany of beautiful works that provokes such truth from within ourselves or from the text itself. When you engage with a piece of literature, whether it be a play, a novel, or a poem, you are guided through the reality created by the writer and are called to discern the principles and truth of the characters and, subsequently, of one’s self. We find truth in what we feel and our experiences call us to examine why we felt a certain way, or why we now possess vastly different emotions than the ones we had in the midst of an experience. This engagement brings one closer to the reality of one’s own condition and emotions that hold truths, which cannot be described without the use of a narrative from a novelist or a profound metaphor from a poet. 72 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 The stories that are read in the Literature segment will arrest you and insist that you consider your own narrative and story. Doing so will allow you to examine how your narrative fits in the macrocosm of reality and how it is to be defined by yourself alone. For example, in reading the Canterbury Tales, one is called to examine the relationship between the tale and the teller of the tale. Doing so draws one to contemplate one’s own narrative and perception of self, and how this perception of self is effectively or ineffectively portrayed to the external world as we wish it to be. Such an exercise is integral for understanding how you present yourself to others, whether that be how you act, speak, or treat others. The urn that Keats is describing and the variety of characters and their narratives in the Canterbury Tales reflect this idea and relate to the reader the way art or poetry, which has been immortalized, can remind us of our own mortality. This creates a paradoxical dilemma—for art reflects our uniform, perennial passions and truths, while also reminding us of our finite nature and how we are to use such truths in an effective fashion. I have ventured to briskly examine Keats’s poem and this major theme from Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales in order to express the illuminating doors literature can open to folks in the program who are considering skipping the segment—for literature provides just as much perplexity and wisdom as the other segments. Politics, math, science, and history are all very noble and essential, but literature provides vehicles for connection to our most intimate passions and truths. These connections bring us closer to a deeper understanding of our experience as beings with a faculty for emotion. Therefore, we should engage with the beauty found in literature, for there is truth to be sought in the passions that accompany beauty. Mr. Burley (AGI'20) is a student in his second-semester at the Graduate Institute. He is a recent graduate of Warren Wilson College with a bachelor's degree in English. He currently works in the Greenfield Library and serves as Treasurer on the Graduate Council. 73 �Brandon Wasicsko 74 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 Students at the Graduate Institute who elect to write a Master’s Essay undergo an oral examination upon completion of their essay. Each examination begins with the student reading a précis of their work. Colloquy asked those students who underwent their examinations in the spring semester of 2019 to submit a copy of their précis, and received the following three pieces. On Education: A Reading of Hegel’s Phenomenology of Spirit Sean Foley As Johnnies, our common experience is enmeshed in an educational institution. If you are anything like me, most of your life has centered around institutions that claim membership to that same category, but you never inquired seriously after what an education is or ought to be. I, for one, relied on intuitions and normative influences. During my time in the Graduate Institute, I began to feel uneasy about my lack of reflection, especially in light of my career as a teacher. Therefore, in my Master’s Essay, I endeavored to form a clearer and more rigorous conception of what it was I had devoted my life to, and what it was I did at St. John’s for four glorious summers. In what follows, I will sketch the arc of my essay, which is on record in the Greenfield Library. I begin said essay by delineating two general models of education: the type offered by a research university, like the one I attended as an undergraduate, and the type Plato’s Socrates seems to advocate. The former I call acquisition, the latter calling-into-question. At research universities, you acquire a body of knowledge. Socrates, on the other hand, often calls into question what his interlocutor posits as the truth. Upon examining these two models of education, I identified three ways in which they are fundamentally opposed: First, acquisition is positive, while callinginto-question is negative; second, acquisition is for the sake of society, 75 �Three Précis while calling-into-question is for the sake of the individual; and third, for acquisition truth is in an alien object, while for calling-into-question truth belongs to the thinking subject. I then propose that Hegel’s Phenomenology of Spirit can show us how to reconcile these seemingly opposed models of education. Furthermore, I propose that this is not a one-way street, and reading the Phenomenology as a book that is at its deepest level about education can help us understand Hegel’s project. The Phenomenology presents us with a drama of education; it shows us what an education looks like. It also presents us with a theory of education; the theory functions as the organizing principle behind the drama—giving it a form—but it also comes to the foreground as Hegel explains what we see in the drama. Hegel’s theory is that education is neither acquisition nor calling-intoquestion, but formation. This formation happens through our lived experience, which challenges our conception of the truth and therefore fundamentally changes our way of knowing the world. When our way of knowing is proved inadequate, we gain perspective on ourselves through reflection. Formation therefore entails self-relation, and, specifically, selfalienation—experiencing oneself as an other. Education is complete when life no longer leads to our self-alienation. This means the telos of education is to recognize in the world the full expression of our innermost selves. One side of the problem is to understand what that innermost self is. By means of the drama and theory of education presented to us in the Phenomenology, Hegel intends to shed light on this side of the issue: he intends to lead us to know ourselves as what he calls Spirit. The Phenomenology is the description of the historical coming-to-be of Spirit, and is also intended to help effect the full actualization of Spirit by giving the reader theoretical insight into her own formative experience. The other side of the educational problem is that the world—which includes other 76 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 selves—must confirm our self-concept. Education therefore is a cultural activity, the completion of which requires a cultural reorientation. Standing in the way of this ultimate end of education is what Hegel calls edification. Edification makes us feel more at home in our current, spiritually destitute self-conception and spiritually defunct world, but is a mere palliative to the feeling of alienation that exhorts us to identify with Spirit and engage in the reorientation of culture. Education, by contrast, is truly therapeutic, but requires great cognitive labor so that we can hold onto the lessons of experience. Not only that, but it requires sacrifice. Identifying oneself as Spirit means that one must, like Christ, knowingly relinquish one’s current self so as to be reborn. Hegel makes this self-sacrifice more palatable by showing that one is not obliterated in the process, but purified. What is true in the lower self-concept is preserved in the higher. Any educational project that does not demonstrate this preservation will not prevail against edifiers. This is where history’s first self-conscious and culture-wide educational project, the Enlightenment, went astray. The showdown between faith and reason in the Enlightenment occurred because Enlightenment took umbrage with the mysterious and seemingly superstitious elements of religion. Enlightenment accounted for Faith in terms of its own profane paradigm, and in so doing was blind to what was true in Faith. Enlightenment did not seek to raise up or cultivate its pupils into maturity, but to destroy their faithfulness as if it were a disease. The success of Enlightenment’s hostilities leads to the spiritual destitution that leaves us prone to edifiers. But the legitimate fruit of the Enlightenment’s myopic and misguided educational project, Hegel tells us, is the Reign of Terror. Educators in the Enlightenment tradition might think of themselves as the purveyors of insight into the absolute truth, and set up a system of education that leads to the acquisition of that insight—which insight is, that truth is a matter of method rather than content. However, Enlightenment is really an unbridled calling-into-question that is hostile to life. It privileges the individual over the social situation in which she finds 77 �Three Précis herself, but simultaneously conceives of the individual in such an abstract way, that those who subscribe to its ideology become hostile to anything and everything actual and positive. This is why the revolution devoured its own children. Hegel’s characterization of Enlightenment advises both urgency and caution in our quest to reconcile acquisition and calling-into-question. The apparent reconciliation offered by Enlightenment—that is, calling-intoquestion elevated to the level of knowledge—is both unsatisfying and dangerous. And yet, this is the very substance of the knowledge tradition enshrined in departmental disciplines at research universities: the truth of research is ultimately grounded in its methodology. The heart of Hegelian education is, by contrast, its therapeutic effect—the subject’s complete reconciliation to the world. An education that leaves us unsatisfied is hardly consummate. I close the essay with reflections on what a non-Hegelian could learn about education from reading Hegel. In my understanding, this is especially pertinent because we cannot take part in the cultural project Hegel had in mind; even if we subscribe to the fundamentals of Hegel’s System, we, as non-Germans, cannot execute his educational plan. I therefore focus my energies on discussing the way in which careful and principled study of Great Books can effect a radical transformation of the reader’s way of knowing, thereby mirroring a fundamental feature of Hegelian education, and offering some pedagogical advantages of close reading and attention to particulars—which distinguishes the type of reading we do at St. John’s from the type of reading Hegel espouses—given our cultural and technological situation. I believe this examination helps clarify and justify a central activity we all take up at the College. Yet, I leave off there, and another pressing question about St. John’s remains untouched: what is the role of conversation in our education? I have some thoughts, but I will save them for a tête-à-tête. 78 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 Hope in Paradise Lost Samuel Peregrin In choosing my essay topic, I knew I wanted to try a text that I had no previous experience with and that I wanted something both poetic and of a certain scale, also I wanted the original to have been written in English. Suffice to say this led me to Paradise Lost. In my first reading of it, not knowing what I wanted to explore, I was struck by the comparison made between Eve and Pandora. And I was particularly taken by a part of the Pandora story that was left out by Milton, that hope was left stuck inside her jar of suffering. It is here that I must apologize to the committee for having thrust upon them the Hesiod reading,1 but it felt dishonest to exclude the seed of my thoughts. From this point on I began to wonder what opinion Paradise Lost had concerning the nature of hope. I never found it to be strictly or explicitly defined in the way other virtues or passions were, and began to doubt whether or not there was some concept working behind the many mentions of hope at all, or if it was nothing other than colloquial and semantic. I began to find that hope was as much defined by its opposites, auxiliary powers, and perversions as any of its own attributes, but perhaps this should not have been so surprising. From here I did find some ways of understanding hope as a virtue. Firstly, it became obvious that hope was connected to suffering wherever it was presented. That seems a part of how I would define it now: a comfort felt presently to alleviate a present pain, found by looking to the future. And yet, it has its restrictions. So secondly, it must abide by proper reason lest it fall into vanity. This then leads to its two big determinants, faith and love. For, in order to be a hope 1 Hesiod, Works and Days, lines 58-128. 79 �Three Précis more than secular, and then purportedly fulfilling to a person, it must seek confirmation with the will of God. Thirdly then, we become witness to the negations of hope referenced in the poem; ambition and despair, these perversions of hope, abound. This then can tell us hope is not impatient, unbounded attempts to grasp power, nor is it a complete reservation to fate. Rather it is but a piece, one of passive fortitude, in the harmony of virtues needed to achieve a life of righteous obedience. But the fact that hope appears most often in its diminished state makes me wonder whether there is a great danger hope may yet pose. That when divorced from its associates, love and faith, it is empty; to keep hope within these boundaries is no small challenge. So perhaps this is why there is no exposition of hope for us in the poem, because it is simply too easy to fall into vain expectations. Although, a life without any reparation to hope would be one incapable of surmounting the daily sufferings cast about us. I must thank Mr. Haflidson, my essay would not have come to fruition without his counsel and encouragement. Also, thank you to the committee members, and all those in attendance, for your time and interest in this difficult topic. I do hope we all gain from, or at least enjoy this discussion as it begins. 80 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 The Flaying of Marsyas Maxwell Anthony I would not like to have my précis published. Anyone who wants to know about my Master’s Essay is welcome to review the copy entrusted to the Greenfield Library’s care. However, I would like to use this opportunity to expand on a topic inadequately addressed in my essay—the contest of Marsyas and Apollo. In the Euthydemus, a passionate young man, Ctesippus, says that two sophist brothers, Dionysodorus and Euthydemus, are welcome to skin him, so long as they turn his hide into virtue, not a wineskin like Marsyas’ was made into. Marsyas, a satyr, challenged the god Apollo to a musical contest. Whoever won could do whatever he liked to the loser. Marsyas played the aulos and Apollo played the lyre. Stories differ as to how the contest proceeded and was judged, but the consensus is that Apollo won and flayed Marsyas. I have a general suspicion that something is important about the aulos, a double reed instrument, and the lyre, a harp with two arms united by a crossbar and chords, in respect of being images of duality. The music of the aulos differs from the music of the lyre in that the aulos is a wind instrument, so playing it prevents the player from speaking. Also, it can be tuned only insofar as it is well made, whereas each chord of the lyre might be tuned to precision. Playing the aulos leads to a certain wanton indulgence—the breathing associated with it recalls sexual panting. Something about the aulos is more passionate and something about the lyre is more rational. Calling the aulos the most “many stringed” (πολυχορδότατον) of instruments Socrates and Glaucon refuse it admission to their city.1 1 Plato, Republic, 3.399d. 81 �Three Précis A general suspicion I have been entertaining is that the aulos connotes the principle of otherness—the wild indeterminate principle of multiplicity. I associate this principle with imprecise multiplicity, the sort of slurred and passionate windy music of the aulos—whereas I tend to associate the lyre with precision and exact multiplicity—the sort of otherness when one thing is a clear image of another. Given the constraints of my essay I did not get to explore this topic but am comfortable voicing my suspicion that Plato associates the aulos with the principle of otherness and the lyre with being; one might call the former the indeterminate dyad and the latter the eidetic two. The aulos encourages dancing and passionate movements opposed to speaking; perhaps for this reason the flute players are sent away in the Symposium. Writing the essay, I was given to the view that such dancing and immoderation would be alien to the god Apollo. This god, I thought, would be possessed of such cold bright deliberation that he could flay a hubristic satyr like Marsyas with clinical charm. This opinion, and over reliance of well know artistic representations of the episode, tempted me to a static view of the flaying. Recently it occurred to me that the flaying itself would be a sort of dance. The point is not simply that Marsyas was punished but that the bound satyr would writhe and contort as the punishment was administered. Even the god Apollo would be unable to prevent himself from participating in this bloody spasm. To perform the punishment Apollo would have to embrace, if not, let’s say, enwind, Marsyas’ trashing body. Thinking about this “dance” in relation to the Euthydemus, I realized that the point of the story is not simply that a hubristic satyr was punished for challenging a god, but that even a god can be corrupted in the administration of justice. A shocking but unannounced dramatic detail of the Euthydemus is that Socrates is able to remember and relate what is said and happened although the narrated events occurred in an environment of public ridicule and indignation. Socrates, unlike his interlocutors, has amazing self-control that permits him to pay extreme attention to slight 82 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 and seemingly insignificant details and motives of almost all who surround him, while understanding nuances of argument and formulating prudent responses. Socrates’ moderation is more than godlike. In respect of the musical contest the brothers Euthydemus and Dionysodorus pose, Socrates supplants Apollo. The following poem and picture are intended to accompany Mr. Anthony’s thoughts above: The Bloody Aulos Quiver body bound taut skin folds; blood whets blade and bark. These bright hands that twist the tuning pegs pluck jumping flesh. "Writhe, pant, wail, Dance, satyr, As you are flayed!" Maxwell Anthony, The Bloody Aulos, 2018, digital art. 83 �A Conversation with Jim Phillips Kelly Custer Kelly Custer: Probably a question all students in the Graduate Institute end up being asked at one point or another—as it seems appropriate to say of the Graduate Institute itself that it is the speakeasy of academia—is: how did you come to find out about the program? And along with that, what piqued your interest in it and how did you finally say, "Yes, that's for me?" Jim Phillips: I graduated from the Naval Academy in 1975 with a Bachelor of Science in electrical engineering. The books we read at St. John's are the books they told me I did not need to read to make a living. So, I never read them. But also, I've been a student of the Bible [for] the past fifty years and a teacher of it for the last thirty. As a teacher, I've tried to learn from other teachers and I discovered it seems like the teachers that understand [the Bible] best were teachers that had a good grasp of the classics. So roll the clock [back] ten years ago. My wife and I move to Annapolis to found the C.S. Lewis Institute and a couple of guys from St. John's knock on my front door when they saw the sign on it that reads “Aslan House”—Aslan from the Chronicles of Narnia. And they said, "Does this have anything to do with C.S. Lewis?" And I said, "It does." 84 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 And they said, "Can we have a study group? We study all these great books down the street, but we would like to be with other followers of Jesus to talk about the teachings of the authors of our books in light of the teachings of Jesus.” I said, "That sounds great." Now I didn't have any knowledge of the classics, but I did have a lot of knowledge of scripture. So I said, "Okay. Maybe together we can do this. — So for the last ten years I have been hosting young men, and my wife and another young lady host the women at a different time. We have, on average, twenty to thirty young people a week participating in those discussions. And the last ten years I have been surrounded by these young men with a passion for understanding the classics and understanding the questions that every author of the classics is trying to address. The questions like: how did I get here? Why am I here? There seems to be something broken in the world. There seems to be something broken in me. I understand Descartes as saying [that] there is an imperfection within me. Plato says there seems to be an instrument in me that needs to be reset. They are all wrestling with the same idea. And these young men would come into my home and read these things to me, and I would point to a spot in scripture where it says we have a fallen, rebellious nature and there is this thing within us that causes to do things we don't want to do. So we would have great discussions, but I longed to know what they knew. I longed to read what they were reading. For eight years of the last ten, I hungered to understand these classics, but I was also a full-time employee working in the IT industry. — Two years ago I retired. The minute I retired I said to my wife, "I need to get a couple of things together that I would like to focus on because I'm not ready to fully retire.” She said, "Oh I know what it is." I said, "What?" 85 �A Conversation with Jim Phillips She said, "You need to go to St. John's." And I just lit up. I said, "Yes! For ten years I have been wanting to do this.” So, I just lit up and began two years ago. And the other night was so wonderful. I'm with these young men and one of them says, "Do you think Socrates deserved the persecution in Athens that he received from the culture, especially the leadership of the culture at that time?" I was able to engage in this discussion with text. And we started laughing. [Ten] years I've been with this group, now they come and go throughout the years, but I still have some young men helping me today that were in that group six, seven years ago, and we were just laughing that, finally, I was able to participate. That's what brought me to St. John's. KC: That's really wonderful and hearing your path to St. John's, and a little of your background, it often appears that Christianity and, perhaps more specifically, many strands of American contemporary Christianity appear to have a great deal of skepticism toward any secular texts, including the classics. And I find what you just said very interesting because, if I am hearing what you said correctly, it’s in fact a sense of understanding, an understanding of the classic works and authors of Western thought that becomes and perhaps enriches the dialogue around Christianity. And allows, to an extent, for a common language to be shared where two people, who might not have read the same texts, can interact with one another in a very meaningful way. JP: To your point, there is a passage in scripture that says, "Don't be taken captive by hollow and deceptive philosophy that depends on the principles of the world and traditions of men rather than the teachings of Jesus." And a lot of people read that and throw all philosophy out. It doesn't say throw all philosophy out. It says examine it to see if it also aligns to the teachings of Jesus, and there are so many things where we see, beginning with Greek philosophers, them weighing thoughts that if you look, you will see thoughts that also Jesus himself taught about. So there's this great synergy in the thinking. And here's where the learning comes to play. The passage of scripture doesn't say to throw it out. Rather you examine the thoughts. 86 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 And I've been able to talk to a number of parents whose sons or daughters were coming to St. John's, and they were concerned that their children were going to be exposed to all this philosophical thinking [and] that all philosophy is bad. And it's just the opposite. I would always say: this is a wonderful place for young people to come and get grounded in the teachings that have shaped our civilization and culture, and they will discover that a lot of the things they have said and a lot of the things they have proposed are very much in line with the things Jesus taught. So, it's a wonderful place to begin to examine these things. KC: As I hear you saying this, I am reminded of St. Paul in the first letter to the Corinthians saying: "If anyone among you thinks to be a wise man in this age, let him become foolish in order to become wise." I find that so interesting because most of the things we read at St. John's were very much considered folly in their own age, condemned as folly, or at least were not very popular. And certainly challenging of the going wisdom in their own time, which then really makes me think that St. Paul is not being dismissive of reason, but challenging [on behalf of] a perennial wisdom. We could probably agree that many of [the] philosophers we read greatly challenge the wisdom of the day, but do so, in many cases, by raising the same questions and posing similar thoughts to previous ages going back to early Greek philosophers, which in a way, seems to bind much of their thought to perennial questions that—when neglected—become the folly of an age. JP: Yes. St. Paul was brilliant and very effective when speaking to the Greeks. He clearly knew Greek literature and he understood the Greek pantheon of gods. And he went and he sat with them, he started there, with their understanding of things, to start with things that had begun in Greece and show how they compare to the teachings of Jesus. He did amazing work in Greece. 87 �A Conversation with Jim Phillips KC: I know that you were a graduate of the Naval Academy and of your work with the C.S. Lewis Institute. Could you speak a little more to your background professionally? JP: I was raised in Louisiana and Arkansas. I went to the Naval Academy right out of high school. I then went into the Marine Corps after graduating from the Academy and flew AV-8B Harriers. I was one of the first rookies to fly a Harrier. That means the first people they took directly from flight school to fly the Harrier. It was a brand-new airplane. It hovers. Instead of a conventional take-off and landing, it can hover like a helicopter. And the Marine Corps decided they needed to demonstrate that a rookie could fly the airplane or they didn't want it. So they took four of us right out of flight school into that program. It was a very dangerous time and I lost a number of friends in the four or five years I was flying Harriers, more than ten in that period of time, and this was peacetime. So, I lost a lot of friends. That also caused me to really take a look at the questions: who am I? And why am I here? And am I doing what I was created to do? So it really made me take a close look at my life. — I left the Marine Corps after six years. Went to IBM for twenty years and a smaller company, which was like IBM, and worked there for almost twenty years. All in information technology and hiring software engineers to maintain large computer systems that the likes of AOL or FedEx use. So that's what I did all that time. But in the middle of all that I was an avid reader of books that really tried to answer the hard questions in life. Books that really tried to answer the questions of origin, meaning, morality, and hope. I call that a worldview. Everybody has a worldview and how you answer those questions defines it pretty well. I love sitting with people and exploring their worldview. It's fascinating. So that got me interested in trying to understand the philosophy that shaped Western Civilization because that shapes peoples' worldviews. 88 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 KC: At what point did you discover C.S. Lewis? Has he always been an author whose works you engaged with, or is there a particular time or work that enkindled a passion for all his writings? JP: Other than Screwtape Letters, which I probably read in high school and couldn't appreciate at that time, it really wasn't until ten years ago, when I went to a one-week summer institute at Oxford. It was hosted by an organization that had a great partnership with the C.S. Lewis Institute, and it was there that I met the president of the C.S. Lewis Institute and discovered he lived in Washington D.C. We got to know each other. He said: let's have lunch when we get back. We did. He said there are a lot of people in Annapolis that would like to take advantage of some of the offerings of the Institute, but it's too far to commute to D.C.—would you start an Institute in Annapolis? And actually, it was one of the first cities besides D.C. to do this. Today there are about 14 to 15 cities that offer the C.S. Lewis programs. So over the last ten years I've tried to catch up with my readings of C.S. Lewis. And I've come to appreciate him greatly. KC: One of my professors in undergrad was very attached to the C.S. Lewis Institute and I had the pleasure of taking a course in which we simply read works by Lewis. It was a great course and I had, and still have, great admiration for that professor. JP: I see [that] you're reading The Abolition of Man. [Right] now I am in the Politics and Society Seminar, and we've spent a great deal of time talking about Aristotle and his questions and thoughts on ethics. And he talks about natural law—that there is an eternal law and natural law. Natural law—it doesn't need to be written down, we just all know these things, it's the ways in which we interact with things. Well, Lewis called that absolute morality: that we all have a sense of a right way to behave, we know a right way to behave, and if you were to look across cultures, all the cultures that have ever been, you will notice some commonalities like: no one appreciates a coward, no one thinks it's ever okay to abuse a child. And this 89 �A Conversation with Jim Phillips is one of my favorites: if you look at the different cultures throughout history, they might disagree as to whether you can have one wife, two wives, or more, but they all would say you can't have any woman you want. And what Lewis does: in the back of The Abolition of Man is an appendix and he lists things that he thinks are examples of absolute morality, and you could see Aristotle saying that's natural law. KC: That's really interesting that you've directed us [to] The Abolition of Man, which has been a very significant book in my life and, throughout the years, a text I continue to revisit and certainly one of the books I give out the most as a gift. I brought The Abolition of Man to read a short passage as a preface to a question I have for you with respect to the program at St. John's and your familiarity with Lewis. The passage I wanted to direct us to is very similar in spirit to what you just mentioned, and this is where Lewis introduces the Tao and the Tao as being—whether we call it natural law or first principles of morality—what one always appeals to whenever one makes a challenge or claim about morality. I always find this passage striking where Lewis writes: There never has been, and never will be, a radically new judgment of value in the history of the world. What purports to be new systems or (as they now call them) ‘ideologies,’ all consist of fragments from the Tao itself, arbitrarily wrenched from their context in the whole and then swollen to madness in their isolation, yet still owing to the Tao and to it alone such validity as they possess.1 That's just one of those passages that purely in style is profoundly and succinctly beautiful. In thinking about the passage and St. John's, I really have two questions for you. One, in many ways I do not think the texts we read purport to be new systems or ideologies in the way Lewis here describes: do you think they all in some way point to what Lewis has in mind with the Tao for their appeal? And two, has your experience in the 1 90 C.S. Lewis, The Abolition of Man (Macmillan Publishing Company, 1947), 56. �Colloquy / Spring 2019 program at all resonated with the texts you've read pointing to something like the Tao? And to add a little to that, would you say that perhaps the only way we can truly understand these texts and put them in conversation with ourselves, and one another, is to presuppose and accept such objectivity, regardless of our ability to define it or even agree upon its name? JP: Yes. Right now in the Politics and Society segment it's been all about what is the best form of commonwealth beginning with Plato's Republic. And right now I'm reading Hobbes’ Leviathan where he advocates for a strong sovereign as the best form of commonwealth, and he talks about religion and all the various forms there can be and he says something very similar to what Lewis says in that passage, that when you take away things you come down to a common set of things or principles that seem to survive in all the variations. So, religions may have started in the same place and branched out, and there may be varieties of religion, some less or more true than others. But at the end of the day, if you bring them down by reduction to the common roots of each one of them, you find a lot of similarities. I think that's exactly what Lewis is saying. KC: I find it so interesting that many of the texts within the St. John's curriculum presuppose something like the Tao from which to start, which seems paramount to even have traction in discourse. If you didn't, it would almost be as Aristotle discusses in Book IV of the Metaphysics, where if you can't agree at some point and are demanding a demonstration of something like the Tao, there's just no having a conversation. And I find that to be such a stark juxtaposition to our contemporary society. Particularly when you talk about ethics or morality, you tend to hear people wanting to say something like the truth is subjective, relative, and as long as what you do doesn't hurt anyone, it's okay. Or some other variation of a golden rule with the caveat that telling anyone else what they should or shouldn't do is at odds with the relativism lurking about. But yet, that always ends up in contradiction, as if there are no grounds for normative ethics, there are no 91 �A Conversation with Jim Phillips grounds to prescribe to anyone why they shouldn't harm other people. In the same vein, in what I would consider a secular society, there is a kind of crude scientism lingering with very positivistic tendencies that demands empirical demonstration of anything before discussing truth— JP: Just stop right there: demonstrate that last statement empirically. KC: Exactly. KC: That's all to say that I think St. John's, as an institution, ends up presupposing something like the Tao and that's part of the reason that all these marvelous conversations you are able to have with folks—even if you radically disagree—can take place. JP: I'm glad you brought that up because that is one of the most beautiful things about being at St. John's. We sit every Monday and Thursday evening together with twelve to fifteen peers. Around that table are different worldviews, different answers to the questions: how did I get here? Why am I here? What's wrong with the world? And how do I fix it? Many different worldviews. The beauty of St. John’s is civil discussion. We are able, because we are centered and agree to talk within a text, and we agree to stay within the text, we are able to discuss what the author might be saying about the questions going on in our minds. And it is lovely. — The world, our country, every talk show on TV every night, could learn from the civil discussion that's being exercised at St. John's College. I wish somebody could put lights over the campus and say, "Look. You want to return to civility—you hear that term often in our culture—come sit here and see how people so different from one another discuss these things." You just think about it. The next thing you know, after being in classes with people: you're sitting down having a beer with somebody you would never have the opportunity otherwise because of the disparity in 92 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 worldviews. And yet here you are sharing something beautiful and in common and you realize you arrived where you are because you are a rational creature and you have some rational presuppositions, and so have I. Though where we arrive may be different, we are rational creatures with rational presuppositions that are capable of arriving at some rational conclusions. Now we can have a discussion. Nobody needs to label anybody with anything derogatory. Let's have a rational discussion, because I want to understand the presuppositions you have to arrive where you are. That's where learning occurs. KC: I couldn't agree more. And it reminds me, as a first-semester student and having “Notes on Dialogue” freshly on the mind and being struck by the observations Stringfellow Barr is making: Wow! What would he think now of our contemporary climate watching the news—or whatever we might call the unceasing barrage of polarizing media that has become so increasingly hard to escape—in which people swing at one another in disagreement only to go back to their respective corners without hearing a single thing the other has said? It seems that one of the things Barr was suggesting is that the model of conversation we engage in at St. John's, while not rendering definitive answers that remove the presence of the questions we start with, raises a middle ground in conversation that allows people to understand the people they are conversing with and the texts upon which the conversation is grounded. — One question that I would really like to ask you is: have there been any texts you've read in the program that you had already read? And, if so, what was that experience like for you? JP: I read Augustine before as he is an early father of the Church. But, Descartes said, there is this imperfection in me. Why would God make me with this imperfection? He could have made me perfect? Now I go back 93 �A Conversation with Jim Phillips to Augustine—and this actually happened in the same evening during the Philosophy and Theology segment—an hour later we're reading in Augustine's Confessions, and Augustine says something like this: without imperfection in the world we would never know a virtue. What? How do you become a reformer unless there is something to reform? How can you be brave unless there is something to stand bravely against? How do you forgive unless there is something to be forgiven? And all the sudden a saying that I have heard many times came alive because of the enlightenment of new reading and that was: we certainly don't live in the most perfect world, very few people would disagree with that, but we might live in the most perfect world to prepare us for the most perfect world. And here I see Augustine and Descartes agreeing, though they are hundreds of years apart, and wrestling with the same issues and coming up with similar conclusions. KC: Yes. As someone currently in the Philosophy and Theology segment, and having just had the overlap of readings you brought up this past Thursday, those two readings together are fantastic, because in a very different way than Augustine, you see Descartes posing the question why should error be in him at all—and I think that's sometimes overlooked in the text. It is very important to Descartes’ conclusion. It is very similar to Augustine claiming he would not know virtue if it weren't for imperfection: I see Descartes saying he would not know himself, what he truly is without error. JP: Love it. KC: Are there any texts in the program that you had not read, and were perhaps skeptical or indifferent about, but after encountering the text it became something that really made an impact on you? JP: Most theists would have an aversion to reading Darwin and would discourage others from ever reading him. I read him for the first time at St. 94 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 John’s. I had previously read a lot of quotes by him, but I never read him. I loved his style. I fell in love with a man who was a great thinker. I fell in love with a man who really drew conclusions from the presuppositions and evidence he had in front of him that were rational. Darwin stated that if there was ever the discovery of an organism [and] you could not explain its existence by a number of incremental, successive, progressions; he would need to rethink his whole project. Since he said that we've seen some discoveries that challenge his conclusions. And I believe if he were still alive, he would be one of the most vocal advocates for modifying his conclusions because I found him winsome and intellectually honest. Even though I disagreed with some of his conclusions, I was in love with the man for his pursuit of truth. So to answer your question, that's the beauty of something like St. John's: you can disagree with someone's conclusions, but you come to discover that they are rational beings and really trying very hard to get answers to the same questions you have, and are providing you some insight along the way—whether you end up agreeing with their conclusions or not. KC: Is there any work or text that you did not encounter in the program that you wish you would have? JP: That's like asking me if I would like a flavor of ice cream I have never tried, it is hard to desire what you have no familiarity with. All I know is that three or four months into the program, about where you are now, I was walking to class and the thought hit me: I am going to graduate in a year and a half. And my next thought was: darn. And I thought [this is] the first time I can remember that I was pursuing a goal and not counting the days until I achieved it, but rather enjoying the days of the journey. It's just been that kind of experience. So if there are other texts that would have enriched this, I wouldn't know. I am just so grateful for the ones I have encountered. 95 �A Conversation with Jim Phillips KC: I think you really hit the nail on the head in that it's such a different experience. No one I have talked to in the program is looking toward its end—only lamenting that it should end at all. — I wanted to ask you a question given your background and your life. Given your commitments, I am very interested in your response. I'm currently reading Nietzsche's later works in preceptorial. We are reading The AntiChrist right now and throughout that work there is an overarching theme that Nietzsche takes Christianity to be dishonest. It's also very nuanced in that he seems to have a certain appreciation for Christ, but very much wants to take away anything miraculous and separate Christ the man from divinity. And I guess my question is—Nietzsche seems to see the attractiveness of Christianity to the many as rooted in the fear that this life is it. And that Christianity is driven by denying this life in hopes of another life. As someone with your worldview and background, what would your response be to that? JP: Nietzsche is another thinker that I find intellectually honest, let me just state that up front. In other words, honestly, the despair that one reads in Nietzsche is the despair one would expect if you truly believe that this life is all there is. So I find him intellectually honest. For that I respect him. But if I were sitting here with Nietzsche and he said to me: "You know, I think Christianity is something conjured up in order try to extend your life, [to] try to bring about immortality that doesn't exist"—I would ask him if it is possible that his atheism is something that he came up with in order to avoid or not face something that might exist. The question always needs to be asked both ways. Very similarly, I often get asked as a follower of Jesus, "Why, if God is a good God, is there so much pain and suffering in the world?" And after I spend some time on that, I turn the question around saying, "I'm not sure what your worldview is, but you need to answer the same question within your worldview." 96 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 Because one thing we can all agree to is that there is something broken here. Different people with different worldviews will call it different names: wrong desire, misplaced affection, brokenness. We all agree that something is wrong. Now we all need to answer the question: Why? And what hope do we have to remedy the brokenness we see? So, I really respect Nietzsche. He is true to his convictions and the demeanor of his writings demonstrates it. Quite frankly, my heart goes out to him and I would have loved to have spoken with him. KC: Similar, in many respects, in addressing the brokenness in the world and the task of answering it, living within it—another thinker, one of few that Nietzsche extends praise and withholds scorn from, is Dostoevsky. Dostoevsky's characters all confront and stand at the threshold of what he calls the "crucible of doubt." That has been so important in my own life and struck me in many of the conversations I have been a part of in the Philosophy and Theology segment. It really seems you can only doubt something you take seriously, a presence that confronts you as potentially real enough to doubt. In other words, doubt is not at play for me with respect to the existence of unicorns, but it is very much at play when I am confronted by the existence of God or the life of Jesus. For you, as someone who has lived very much convicted of a worldview, is there a way in which coming to St. John's, reading authors that lay open questions of doubt—have those experiences made you question in a deeper way the reality of your beliefs? JP: Yes, because all of the authors we read at St. John's ask really good questions and provide wonderful insights. You know doubt and faith are not exclusive. And faith is not, as many people think, believing something that may not be true. If that were so, then a strong faith would be believing something you are pretty sure is not true, while a perfect faith would be believing something you're absolutely sure is not true. Faith is not that. Faith is reason informed by evidence. You have evidence that something may be true, the distance between the evidence you have and the ultimate 97 �A Conversation with Jim Phillips truth you are trying to embrace is doubt. Reason examines the doubt and [the] evidence, and says: I think the evidence outweighs the doubt, and I am going to trust my reason and its conclusion to where the evidence points—that is faith. KC: At this juncture within civilization, faith gets used as an immediate contrary to reason, contrary to evidence. A thinker that very much discusses faith is Kierkegaard. The leap of faith found in some of his pseudonymous works has gained a degree of infamy as divorcing faith and reason. But reading Kierkegaard proves a far different experience. Faith and reason are not treated as dichotomies within the leap of faith, or in many instances the leap into sin, but very much as embracing the limits and finitude of being human, living at the threshold of the crucible, the tensions of doubt and reason. Once we make the leap, grace is on the other side. Grace is very hard for us to understand, to see, to allow ourselves to experience. But part of that leap of faith is not an abandonment of reason, not an abandonment of doubt, but is very much trust. This strikes me as so profound because it is very difficult to speak of trust independent of reason, independent of there being evidence that there is something or someone that is trustworthy. Such ruminations on faith have been indispensable in my own life. Does that accord at all with your experience of faith? JP: To me, faith is reason informed by evidence. And it is where that reason, informed by evidence, points. Every one of the authors we read exercises some measure of faith. None of them are absolutely certain of their conclusions. They all offer you the presuppositions and rationality of their conclusions. I am trying to think of who it was—Hume?—who appears so skeptical about everything and tears just about everything down, but then says something at the very end perhaps allowing room for something like divine revelation. What? Why didn’t he insert this at the beginning of the work? I would have read this in an entirely different light. But no, he put that at the end because he wanted me to experience all of 98 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 the skepticism before he left room for divine revelation—and I just loved it. All of our authors—and all of us—exercise faith regarding the questions of why we are here and who we are. We have reasoned the projection of evidence and exercise faith to where it points. KC: Yes. I couldn't agree more. Speaking of pointing toward things—as I know your time, lamentably, at St. John's is coming to an end and directing you to other things—I've caught wind that there might be something pointing you toward Oxford. Could you share what the next adventure in life is for you? JP: Well, a year ago I was enjoying this program so much and so stimulated by the authors we discuss, and I said to my wife, "I can't help but to think this is pointing to something." And she immediately said, "Oxford." And, of course, she knew that I had Oxford in my heart and almost attended there right out of the Naval Academy. And when I say Oxford, I mean an Oxford type of education, which by the way, I think St. John's is. And that's in part why I came here: thinking I have an Oxford in my backyard. But anyway, my wife was really the one to say, "You should go." So I've really spent a lot of time thinking about this and received a lot of affirmation from friends and tutors. So, as I sit here right now, I have been accepted to Oxford for post-graduate work in theology starting in the fall. — I will just tell you this. There is no way I would have had this type of opportunity in my life without St. John's bridging the gap between an engineer, and then a software engineer, and one who really wants to pursue theology. There's no way I could have bridged that gap without St. John's College. I'm truly grateful to St. John's for opening this door that I have always wanted to go through, and it looks like now I will have the opportunity. 99 �A Conversation with Jim Phillips KC: That's wonderful. In wrapping up, is there anything you feel compelled or would like to say about the Graduate Institute here at St. John's that you think people should know, whether they are prospective students or current students, or anyone else in the community? JP: I have to praise the tutors. And I would like to list them, but I am sure I would forget one and that would be tragic, because every tutor I have had in these four semesters has been lovely, winsome, gifted, concerned about the classes having meaningful discussions, and concerned about me as an individual receiving from this short period of time the most I could possibly receive. And through the personal interviews, through the seminars, feedback on papers, through conversations in the hall or after class, they have been just so encouraging. I cannot say enough about the tutors I have enjoyed. I will just say this: literature was my hardest subject in high school and as an undergraduate. I left both of those experiences with a total lack of appreciation for literature. But through the Literature segment at St. John's, I love literature. Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, the great classics, the plays: I have got a whole new love and appreciation for literature. And I owe that to the tutors. 100 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 Moral Intuitions in Tolstoy’s War and Peace Joseph Hiles Leo Tolstoy’s novel War and Peace combines an intimate portrait of Russian life during the French invasion of Russia with a strikingly original philosophical analysis of history. Through this wartime struggle, many of Tolstoy’s characters grow and learn how to live meaningful, moral lives. Yet how exactly one can live a moral life according to Tolstoy is never explicitly spelled out in the novel. Accordingly, this essay will be an attempt to better understand Tolstoy’s moral philosophy. The essay will use three vignettes from the novel as lenses through which a better understanding of Tolstoy’s moral philosophy can be seen. The scenes in question are: the moment when Nikolai Rostov strikes the French officer with his sword, Rastopchin’s order to kill Vereshchagin for the abandonment of Moscow, and the execution of the Russian prisoners by the French. Through analyzing these scenes, the essay will explore Tolstoy’s views about moral intuitions and their role in guiding moral actions. These intuitions, for Tolstoy, are heavily impacted by our proximity to the people our actions affect, and supersede the place of reason in evaluating the morality of an action. Strong Moral Intuitions In each of the three vignettes outlined above, the moral intuitions of the characters kick in either immediately as—or within seconds after—the action is committed, alerting them to the fact that they have violated some hard to define moral code. For example, despite years of wishing for glory in combat, at the very moment when Nikolai Rostov bravely chases down the French dragoon officer and strikes him with his sword, “all Rostov’s animation suddenly vanished...some unpleasant feeling wrung his heart. 101 �Joseph Hiles / Moral Intuitions in Tolsoy’s War and Peace Something unclear, confused, something he was unable to explain to himself, had been revealed to him” (653-654).1 What was this unpleasant, unclear feeling that was wringing Nikolai Rostov’s heart? It is likely that he feels guilty for striking the officer, despite the fact that this is the very kind of action he would have hoped for earlier in the novel. He finally gets the thing he wanted—glory—and yet it makes him feel unpleasant. Indeed, further indication of Rostov’s guilt comes after the moment of action, once he has had time to think it over. There Tolstoy writes that “Ostermann’s flattering words and the promise of a reward should therefore have been a joyful surprise for Rostov; yet the same unpleasant, unclear feeling nauseated him morally” (654). It is significant that Rostov’s feeling of guilt is just that, a feeling. From the first moment to the last, it is a feeling that wrings his heart, a feeling that he cannot understand, and a feeling of moral nausea. These feelings are not the result of a calculation or philosophical analysis of his actions, but instead spring from inside of him organically. The language of feeling and moral guilt is mirrored after Rastopchin heartlessly orders the Russian peasant mob to attack Vereshchagin, blaming him for the fall of Moscow. In the aftermath of this event, Tolstoy writes that “fresh as that memory was, Rastopchin felt that it was now deeply, bloodily engraved in his heart. He felt clearly now that the bloody trace of that memory would never heal, but that, on the contrary, the longer he lived, the more cruelly and tormentingly that terrible memory would live in his heart” (893). Like Rostov, Rastopchin feels as a result of his actions; Tolstoy uses this word twice in these two sentences. Although the word guilt is never used explicitly, the fact that the memory would live “cruelly and tormentingly” inside of him is a clear signal that he feels guilt for what he did. Much like Rostov, this guilt comes not from a calculation of precise moral reasoning, but rather from a feeling deep inside of him. 1 All parenthetical citations refer to page numbers in the following edition: Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace, trans. Richard Pevear & Larissa Volokhonsky (Vintage Books, 2011). 102 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 Lastly, in describing the execution scene where French soldiers are commanded to shoot Russian political prisoners, Tolstoy writes that Pierre looked upon the “pale, frightened faces of the Frenchmen, who again were doing something by the post, pushing each other with trembling hands” (966). The Frenchmen who were carrying out the execution, and not at all in harm's way, looked frightened, their hands trembling. What then was frightening them, causing their hands to tremble? This look of terror must be an unintentional response to what they are doing, a kind of involuntary disapprobation of their own actions. Further evidence of this comes when Pierre recognized that “on the faces of the French soldiers and officers, on all without exception, he read the same fear, horror, and struggle that were in his heart...‘They’re all suffering just as I am’” (966). The executioners appear to be suffering because they are being forced to carry out an order that feels unnatural and immoral to them. Finally, this feeling of moral failing is expressed most explicitly when Tolstoy writes that the executioners “all obviously knew without question that they were criminals, who had to quickly conceal the traces of their crime” (967). The perpetrators of the execution “knew without question” that they had done wrong. Where did this knowledge come from? There is no suggestion that they needed to think hard and reflect to come to this conclusion about their own moral failing. They knew their guilt from the moment of the crime, in a kind of intuitive and unambiguous way. In all three of these cases, feelings of guilt and shame arise mere moments after the actions they follow. No mental reflection occurs to bring these emotions about. The most plausible explanation for these feelings is that Tolstoy gives these characters strong moral intuitions that instinctively recognize immorality and flare up—in the form of feelings of guilt—when those intuitions have been transgressed. One final piece of evidence corroborates this assertion: Tolstoy references the heart as the place of anguish and struggle in each of these three anecdotes. For Rostov, “some unpleasant feeling wrung his heart”; for Rastopchin, his memory of the 103 �Joseph Hiles / Moral Intuitions in Tolsoy’s War and Peace event was “now deeply, bloodily engraved in his heart”; and for the executioners, Pierre “read the same fear, horror, and struggle that were in his heart” (653, 893, 966). In literature and in life, the heart is considered to be the realm of feeling, while the head is considered to be the place of thinking. Almost no thinking occurs in the minds of these characters during their respective actions. Yet they still know “obviously...without question” that what they have done is wrong. This knowledge comes from the heart and does not require logical reasoning. While the circumstances of these situations are quite different, the responses of the characters to their own transgressions and Tolstoy’s descriptions of their resulting feelings are remarkably similar. These analogous responses suggest to the reader that Tolstoy is making a claim here not just about the characters in the story, but about all people, about how all humans would respond to striking someone with a sword or being forced to shoot a prisoner in cold blood. Further evidence that Tolstoy is making a universal claim is that these three situations involve characters of dramatically different social classes and upbringings. These feelings of moral failure, for Tolstoy, are not dependant on an education in the Classics of Western philosophy. They appear to be present both in educated upper class officials like Rastopchin and privates in the military like the French executioners. Now that the presence of strong, heartfelt moral intuitions in these characters has been identified, further investigation is necessary to show how they operate and what qualities they have. Proximity In War and Peace, the moral intuitions of the characters appear to be deeply affected by proximity to the ethically questionable act. Something changes when they are up close and personal, and can see the faces of the people they are hurting. For instance, in the episode with Nikolai Rostov, Tolstoy writes that “Rostov sought his enemy with his eyes, to see whom he had 104 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 vanquished” (653). At this moment Rostov does not yet feel guilt; he only wants to see who he has overcome. But something significant happens when he looks upon the poor soldier, who is “glancing up at Rostov from below with an expression of terror. His face, pale and mud-spattered, fairhaired, young, with a dimple on the chin and light blue eyes, was not at all for the battlefield, not an enemy’s face, but a most simple, homelike face” (653-654). This line directly precedes the line about how an “unpleasant feeling wrung his heart”—consequently the reader can infer that observing these attributes of the officer is the proximate cause of Rostov’s guilt. Rostov feels guilt once he sees that this person he has harmed is more like an innocent child than the menacing enemy he likely imagined. The reader gets further confirmation of this through Rostov’s thoughts a few days later, when he thinks: “‘they’re even more afraid than we are!’ [...]‘And what harm had he done, with his dimple and his light blue eyes? But how frightened he was! He thought I’d kill him’” (655). While again expressing surprise at the innocence of the officer with his “dimple and light blue eyes,” Rostov further observes that his enemies are “even more afraid than we are!” In this moment Rostov realizes that this particular enemy and, by extension, the whole French army are equally or even more frightened than the Russian army is. This realization could be boiled down to a simple phrase: they are just like us. Whereas before he had evidently imagined the French to be terrifying and aggressive, unlike the young and disorganized Russian forces, the recognition that they were just as afraid as the Russians obliges Rostov to see all that they have in common with the enemy: their common humanity. It is in the observation of the enemy’s face and his fear that these conclusions are reached. It is noteworthy that, by this point in the narrative, Nikolai Rostov has been in the Russian military for years, and has presumably shot at enemies many times before this event. But given his surprise when he realizes that the French troops are just like the Russian ones, it is clear that this is a new revelation for him: this shows the role proximity plays in Rostov’s moral 105 �Joseph Hiles / Moral Intuitions in Tolsoy’s War and Peace intuitions. Before he could clearly see the faces of the people he was fighting it was easier to dehumanize them and think of them as monsters. But his nearness to the dragoon officer precluded his ability to frame the situation in this way. If he had killed this officer, he could see that he would be killing a young, scared Frenchman who likely had no interest in fighting in the first place. This is not to say that Tolstoy believes it is somehow more ethically justifiable to kill people from far away with a gun or a cannon than it is to kill them up close with a saber. Proximity does not change our moral obligations. Rather, it clarifies them, cutting through our proclivity to redirect our attention to something less appalling. As a test of the morality of an action it is not enough to ask: will you feel guilt at having done something? This test is insufficient because it fails to take into account that we can trick our moral intuitions by looking away, or being far enough away in the first place that we cannot see the damage we have done. The real test of the morality of an action that Tolstoy seems to be advocating for would be the following: will you feel guilt at having done something while you stare into the eyes of the person you are doing that thing to? Henceforth, this will be called the proximity test of morality. This test, or something that closely resembles it, actually occurs in the pages of War and Peace. Before the execution scene, Pierre is questioned by the French general Davout, “a man known for his cruelty” (963). Davout contends that Pierre is a Russian spy, an accusation that, if borne out, would almost certainly lead to Pierre’s execution. Yet while Pierre is frantically attempting to exculpate himself, something remarkable happens: Davout raised his eyes and looked fixedly at Pierre. For a few seconds they looked at each other, and that gaze saved Pierre. In that gaze, beyond all the conventions of war and courts, human relations were established between these two men. In that one moment, they both vaguely felt a countless number of things and realized that they were both children of the human race, that they were brothers (964). 106 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 In this touching moment of human contact, the proximity test of morality is inadvertently thrust upon Davout. In attempting to evaluate Pierre’s guilt, Davout is forced to look him in the eyes. He is forced to recognize who exactly he will be killing if he orders his execution: a brother, a child of the human race. This is something that they both “vaguely felt” rather than precisely reasoned. Without a doubt, Davout would have treated Pierre differently if they had not been in the same room, if a human connection had not been established. But now that Davout has stared into this man’s eyes, he understands that he will feel guilt if he sentences him to death. All of this is spelled out by Tolstoy in the next line, where he writes that: At first glance, for Davout, who had only just raised his head from his list, where human deeds and life were known by numbers, Pierre was only a circumstance, and Davout could have shot him without taking a bad act on his conscience; but now he had seen him as a human being (964). When Pierre was “only a circumstance” and existed only on the pages of Davout’s list, he was as removed from Davout as the enemy soldiers Rostov shot at earlier in the novel. But once Davout makes eye contact with Pierre, and Rostov looks at the young face of the dragoon officer, the certainty of a guilty conscience compels them to have compassion. Further, by pointing out that Davout is famous for his cruelty and then showing him soften once he is face to face with Pierre, Tolstoy is undoubtedly suggesting that this is the universal human reaction to the proximity test of morality and that these instincts are present in everyone, even the most brutal of generals. The means of clarifying the morality of an action which Tolstoy appears to advocate for—the proximity test—raises interesting questions about the efficacy of another test of morality that is more typically used to decide the ethical ramifications of an action. The next section of this essay will deal with the place of reason in Tolstoy’s moral framework. 107 �Joseph Hiles / Moral Intuitions in Tolsoy’s War and Peace Reason As was noted earlier in the essay, in each of the three chosen vignettes, the morality of an action was decided not by a calculation or the application of a philosophical system—rather, characters were overcome by a feeling of guilt after they acted wrongly. Nowhere in these scenes does Tolstoy show characters—at the point of action—thinking hard about their moral obligations, or attempting to weigh the pros and cons of various actions. In other words, the evidence from the story points to a view of morality that relies entirely on moral intuitions, discrediting the place of reason in morality. The reader can infer this assertion from Tolstoy’s depictions of these scenes. If only the executioners had followed their intuitions, they would not have killed the prisoners. If only Davout had been face to face with all the people his orders harmed, he might not have been famous for his cruelty. But the force of these inferences pales in comparison to the strength of the rebuke against reason that comes after Rastopchin commits his crime of ordering a peasant mob to vent their anger over the fall of Moscow by murdering a political prisoner. Tolstoy writes that in the hours after the crime, “Rastopchin calmed down physically and, as always happens, simultaneously with physical calm, his mind also devised causes for him to be morally calm” (891). Right off the bat the reader can tell by Tolstoy’s word choice that Rastopchin is doing something dubious and problematic here. The word devise implies that he is inventing reasons to feel better that are not actually true. What are these causes to be calm that he devises? The thought that calmed Rastopchin was not new. As long as the world has existed and people have been killing each other, no one man has ever committed a crime upon his own kind without calming himself with this same thought. This thought was le bien publique, the supposed good of other people (891). 108 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 Rastopchin convinces himself that his actions were justified because they were done for the “supposed good of other people.” In other words, he is using a rational consideration, something like a utilitarian calculation, to pacify himself and attenuate his guilt. By positioning himself as someone who is working for the public good, Rastopchin can absolve himself of responsibility by conceiving of his crime as an action where the ends justify the means. Continuing in this way of thinking, he even reflects: “‘I didn’t do it for myself, I had to act that way. La plèbe, le traître...le bien publique’” (893). He is instrumentalizing reason itself to feel better about what he did. Much like the list that Davout had, where “human deeds and life were known by numbers,” the application of reason in this way is a means of creating mental distance from the criminal action, to get around the proximity test of morality. Tolstoy undoubtedly views reason used in this way to be quite sinister. At this point, the reader might ask: clearly Tolstoy denounces the use of reason after a crime to justify it, but what about if reason is applied before the action has been carried out, as a way to evaluate the consequences of the act? Tolstoy responds to this question conclusively, putting the final nail in the coffin of morality by way of reason when he writes that: “for a man not gripped by passion, that good [the public good] is never known; but the man who commits the crime always knows for certain what that good consists in. And Rastopchin now knew it” (891). By saying that the public good is never known to man, except when he is in a fit of passion— in other words when he is not reasoning—Tolstoy is telling the reader that a truly rational system of morality is inaccessible. When man is abstractly reasoning he can never know what is in the interest of the public good. For Tolstoy, man does not have the capacity to arrive at moral truth through the medium of reason. 109 �Joseph Hiles / Moral Intuitions in Tolsoy’s War and Peace War The primary implication of Tolstoy’s far reaching moral analysis is that war, and especially modern war, is the worst of human evils because it takes away our only standard of discerning between right and wrong, and replaces it with the standard of obedience to authority. Almost by definition, every act of war goes against our moral intuitions. Regardless of how noble the cause we are fighting for, it will always be contrary to human nature to wound and kill our fellow man. At every turn, war systematically tricks and erodes these moral intuitions. For example, all of the long-range weapons that are used in modern combat eliminate the need to look the enemy in the eye as you attack them. The proximity test of morality never comes into play when the people you are shooting at are hundreds of feet away. At this distance, the strength of our moral intuitions is greatly reduced. At the same time, repeated contact with death and violence desensitizes combatants to the horrifying acts they are carrying out. One particular moment in the execution scene perfectly illustrates this point. While Pierre is gazing upon the frightened French executioners, all but one of them rejoins their companies. One soldier is too paralyzed with horror to carry on as normal: A young soldier with a deathly pale face, his shako pushed back, his musket lowered, went on standing across the pit in the place from which he had fired. He was reeling like a drunk man, taking a few steps forward, then back, to support his falling body. An old sergeant ran out from the ranks and, seizing the young soldier’s arm, pulled him into the company (968). “Reeling like a drunk man,” this young soldier has responded how any normal human being who is not accustomed to the violence of war would respond to being forced to execute people. The reader can infer by his 110 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 young age that this soldier is intended to represent a person uninitiated in the art of war. Yet while this young soldier is crippled by guilt and fear, the other soldiers attempt to rejoin their units as if nothing happened. The young Frenchman is saved from embarrassment and punishment by an old sergeant who runs out and pulls him back into the company. In this moment, instinctual human feelings like guilt and horror that arise out of our moral intuitions are either deliberately inhibited by the other soldiers so as to not appear weak, or they have been unwittingly attenuated over time through constant contact with violence. Either way, the process of being a soldier in war gradually degrades the effectiveness of our intuitions in clarifying and motivating ethical action. War perversely incentivizes soldiers to forget their intuitions and do as they are told. In the pages of War and Peace, Tolstoy weaves together a compelling and complex moral system that relies on the moral intuitions that he evidently sees in all human beings. These intuitions can be invaluable tools for clarifying how we ought to act. But unfortunately they can be deceived and eroded, and, as a result, precautions must be taken to preserve their effectiveness. To address this concern, Tolstoy implicitly suggests a standard of moral evaluation that hinges upon proximity to the person one’s actions will affect. In this proximity, where one must stare into the eyes of one’s adversary—and see firsthand what will be lost if lethal action is taken—right and wrong become clear through our feelings. All we must do then is act according to our heart. 111 �The Cliffs of Moher Patricia Harden What is it about the Cliffs of Moher? Where carboniferous ridges Of shale and flagstone rise A steep seven hundred feet Above the Atlantic roar Where the rhythmic flight of birds blends With the ebb and flow of the waves, As seagulls drift and dive, and shorebirds skirt The swirling sea foam bath Where century after century, Irish folk and foreigners Wander, watch, and wonder Awed by Time’s imposing sculpture Where musicians play and passersby Throw a pence to a fiddler’s case, For sad sweet tunes resonating feather light On the breeze of salt sea air It is but this, my friend: Where stone and sand and sea Command each soul’s repose— A moment to reflect on one’s immortality Safe within the harbor of eternity. 112 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 Patricia Harden Cliffs of Moher 113 �Jaime Marquez 114 �You can find more work by the artists featured in Colloquy at: Adam Hurwitz: spacewaves.me Jaime Marquez: jaimemarquez.com This issue of Colloquy is made possible by the generous support of: The St. John’s College Office of Advancement The St. John’s College Bookstore The Colloquy Editorial Board is sincerely grateful to Ms. Emily Langston, Mr. Paul Ludwig, Mr. Louis Petrich, and Mr. Brandon Wasicsko. If you would like to participate in the mission of Colloquy, consider donating. Checks may be mailed to the following address: ATTN: Colloquy The Graduate Institute St. John’s College 60 College Avenue Annapolis, MD 21401 �The Graduate Institute 60 College Avenue Annapolis, MD 21401 � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Colloquy Description An account of the resource A student-run journal for the Graduate Institute community of St. John's College in Annapolis, Maryland. The issues feature essays, art, poetry, interviews, and more. 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 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. 114 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 Colloquy, Spring 2019 Description An account of the resource Volume V of the Colloquy, published in Spring 2019. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Dorchester, Andrew (editor) Greene, Zachary N. (editor) Marquez, Jaime (editor) Poyner, Jordan (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 2019-05 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 Colloquy Vol 5 Spring 2019 Graduate Institute https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/dc57d8444bd60cf16142c6dfa5592dc1.pdf 2313c9f0c7e826b854728ebc02c246da PDF Text Text Volume VI Fall 2019 Understanding and Freedom in Descartes’ Meditations Paul Tsavoussis The Fellowship of Learning William Pastille Plato’s Parmenides: An Erotic Romp Maxwell Anthony Conversation with Michael Dink Colloquy Editors Four Poems Louis Petrich The Truth of Fiction in the Odyssey Elusive Gods and Esoteric Philosophers Jordi Rozenman Ryan Shinkel Conversation with Sheba Delaney The Epidamnus Affair: A Verse Translation Photography by Jaime Marquez A Journal of the Graduate Institute at St. John’s College �COLLOQUY St. John’s College, 60 College Avenue, Annapolis, Maryland Volume VI: Fall 2019 Editorial Board Jordan Poyner, Editor-in-Chief Andrew Dorchester Charles Green Dimple Kaul Jaime Marquez Colloquy is a biannual publication of the Graduate Institute at St. John’s College in Annapolis, Maryland. Subscriptions are free. To subscribe or update your subscription, please send an e-mail to colloquy@sjc.edu with the subject line “Subscription.” Address correspondence to: Colloquy, The Graduate Institute at St. John’s College, 60 College Avenue, Annapolis, Maryland 21401. Students, tutors, and alumni of St. John’s College and the Graduate Institute are encouraged to submit manuscripts in PDF or Word format by email to colloquy@sjc.edu. Writers are encouraged to discuss proposals with an editor prior to submitting their work. The journal also accepts submissions of poetry, artwork, and photography. Please include your name, contact information, and the title of your work with your submission. Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in essays or interviews do not necessarily reflect those of St. John’s College or Colloquy. ©2020 Colloquy, St. John’s College. All rights reserved. Reproduction in whole or in part without permission is prohibited. �TABLE OF CONTENTS Letter from the Editors........................................................................................ 3 ESSAYS The Fellowship of Learning: Address to the Graduate Institute, July 19, 2019 William Pastille, Tutor .................................................................................... 4 Descartes on Understanding and Freedom Paul Tsavoussis ............................................................................................... 9 Thoughts on an Approach to a Study of Plato’s Parmenides Maxwell Anthony ............................................................................................ 31 Elusive Gods and Esoteric Philosophers Ryan Shinkel .................................................................................................... 52 The Truth of Fiction in the Odyssey Jordi Rozenman .............................................................................................. 74 CONVERSATIONS Michael Dink, Tutor ............................................................................................... 15 Sheba Delaney .......................................................................................................... 66 POETRY Four Poems Louis Petrich, Tutor ....................................................................................... 39 The Epidamnus Affair: A Verse Adaptation Gregory LaMontagne ..................................................................................... 61 Her, because of and despite Matt Ely ............................................................................................................ 88 Artwork by Jaime Marquez and Samuel Hage �Jaime Marquez �Colloquy / Fall 2019 Letter from the Editors Dear Readers, Conversation is the vital function of St. John’s and its approach to education—and we understand that essays and lectures cannot replace it. However, it is our belief that some ideas deserve elaboration and deserve to be considered in their elaborated form. It is in this spirit that we have approached the Fall 2019 issue. For the sixth issue of Colloquy, the editors have tried to curate an issue that comments on the principal subjects of the courses available this spring. The essays here are provocative, carefully articulated, and discuss the nature of understanding, truth, and the philosophical approach. We hope these essays—and the journal itself—might serve as companions and catalysts for conversations to come. Colloquy is a unique space where students in the Graduate Institute may share their intellectual and artistic labors. It is a space maintained by GI students and, more or less, for GI students. By spring of 2020, nearly all of the current members of the editorial board will be graduated. If you appreciate what the journal does—or could do—we encourage you to join the editorial board. –The Colloquy Editorial Board 3 �The Fellowship of Learning: Address to the Graduate Institute, July 19, 2019 William Pastille The Fellowship of Learning here at St. John’s has been bustling, what with the Graduate Institute working through its intense new summer schedule, the Summer Academy delivering us two small hordes of high school students, and many study groups meeting as well. Until last week I was in one of those study groups discussing Virginia Woolf’s novel called The Waves. The book is a tour-de-force of early twentieth-century modernism, with six main characters speaking in an indistinguishable mixture of interior monologue and external dialogue, all with the same mostly dispassionate voice, the same diction, and the same vocabulary, distributing their speeches over a plotless series of vignettes. Despite these severe technical restraints, Woolf manages to pull off a remarkable feat of literary prowess: she tells a mesmerizing story that helps the reader who is willing to keep re-reading the book to see ever more deeply into life. Now I know there is nothing more tedious than listening to a book report on a book you haven’t read, and that most of you haven’t read The Waves. But I’m willing to risk a little tedium because Woolf’s book brings out two important truths about life. The first is that our identities, the hard shells that protect us from the world’s darts, are permeable to the smallest words and deeds of others. The second is that everyone suffers from the world’s darts and we often have no idea whether those around us are suffering. In regard to the first truth, Woolf demonstrates the permeability of identity by having elements of the characters’ personalities flow from one to another through images and word-patterns—what the book calls “phrases.” One character needs to feel stability in the dizzying whirl of daily activity. The 4 �Colloquy / Fall 2019 phrase “fix the moment” arises to express that need. Another character needs to preserve the sense of completeness that emerges when close friends gather. The phrase “a chain whirling round” arises to express that need. These phrases pass from character to character, enter into their souls’ storehouses, and graft themselves onto their personalities. And this, it seems to me, is really the way it is. Thousands of “phrases” broken off from the being of others comprise much of our identity—perhaps much, much more than we know. One of my phrases, for instance, is the one I started with: the Fellowship of Learning. I first began to hear myself saying it some three decades ago. I don’t know whether it started as my own invention, or as something I heard from a colleague, or something I read in a book. But today it steps forth of its own accord from the soul’s storehouse to meet an appropriate occasion—like this one. What does it mean? It stands for all of us who know that learning has made us what we are and that it can remake us to be better than we are. It is the community of all those who, both as students and as teachers, try to keep learning alive in themselves and promote it in others. We are all of us members of the Fellowship of Learning or we would not be here. Now on to Woolf’s second truth, that we generally do not know what others are suffering. The Waves contains many encounters among the characters that show this only too clearly. Here is one involving two of the main characters when they are young adults. Neville goes to Bernard seeking validation of his career choice: he wants to be a poet. Bernard seems to suspect Neville’s need, but he cannot support Neville because he has no inner stability himself. He is painfully distracted because he is in love and frantic about what sort of persona he must project to impress his beloved. Neville ultimately bolts from the room in frustration, throwing a poem at Bernard’s head. Bernard quickly, and regretfully, identifies complexity and confusion in our inner lives as the 5 �William Pastille / The Fellowship of Learning cause of such painful events. “We are not simple,” he says, “as our friends would have us to meet their needs.” And this, it seems to me, is really the way it is. Everyone struggles internally with life’s frustrations. Unless we are told about those struggles—and there are many reasons why even our closest friends would not tell us—we cannot know the suffering that someone standing right in front of us may be enduring. Nevertheless, Bernard immediately follows up with this remark: “Yet love is simple,” he says. Hmm. We are not simple, yet love is simple? What does he mean by “simple”? In the History Tutorial, we have been reading authors who try to find meaning in the succession of historical events. Augustine sees the City of God shining through the excrement spattered upon the world by the misuse of free will. Hegel smooths over the pointless waste of life in history with a story in which Spirit is the protagonist who redeems all losses through selfactualization. Marx transforms Hegel’s story about Spirit into a story about the transformative forces of inanimate matter working their effects on human matter. Those of you in other segments have encountered other authors trying to attain similar ends. Plato’s world of Forms contains the clear originals of the confusing images we encounter here in the sublunary world. In Homer’s poems, the Fates weave a cohesive tapestry displaying a clear picture that links together the seemingly haphazard actions of gods and men. In all these attempts to find meaning, the authors look through what presents itself as disorder in the hope of seeing order in the distance behind. When they succeed, the bewildering chaos reveals itself to be foreground; the order behind the chaos reveals itself to be background, the relatively simple skeleton that supports the apparent complexity. 6 �Colloquy / Fall 2019 Something like this is what Bernard meant by “Love is simple.” The complexities of life are foreground—a continual succession of apparently disordered events that either run smoothly or grind with friction. But love is background—the stable, if not always apparent, canvas on which all our life activities are painted. Bernard and Neville may be at odds in this moment, they may misunderstand each other and subsequently come to mistrust each other in some ways, but behind it all stands love, love that makes meaning of both trust and mistrust, cooperation and competition, closeness and reserve. There is foreground and background also in the Fellowship of Learning. The foreground is the Learning—the facts to be mastered, the ideas to be comprehended, the lesson plans to be covered. These keep coming at us, crowding up our days, rushing past at breakneck speed, and, sadly, disappearing quickly into the past, mostly without effect. But the background is the Fellowship. In the knowledge that suffering occurs, the essential act of fellowship is consolation. In all our learning, whether we are playing the role of student or teacher, we ought to keep our eyes on the deepest concerns of human life, some of which are no doubt distressing our fellow learners. We ought to direct our efforts toward deeper understanding that may lessen the suffering. Calm rationality, mutual respect, good humor, openness, offers of assistance, willingness to take up others’ questions as our own—the ways we treat one another as we engage the Learning in the foreground aids us in seeing through to the background. In the Fellowship of Learning we console one another through repeated acts of intellectual charity, solidarity, and sympathy. And in the knowledge that anything we say may enter imperceptibly into the storehouse of another’s soul, we should try to send out the very best of ourselves to our fellow learners. When we speak, either as teachers or as students, we should make our words as straight and as honest as we can, so 7 �William Pastille / The Fellowship of Learning that they will work no harm if they should take root in someone else’s personality and become their “phrases.” Does this sound difficult, like it requires a laborious artifice that will curb spontaneity and truthfulness? I assure you that it is not. Only one thing is required—love. And—as Bernard’s phrase will now, I hope, always step forth to remind you—love is simple. William Pastille has been a tutor at St. John’s College in Annapolis since 1986. He has also served as Assistant Dean and Director of the Graduate Institute. 8 �Colloquy / Fall 2019 The Alumni Association of St. John’s College funds a prize for a distinguished graduate tutorial essay written during the summer semester, which is awarded at summer commencement. An ad hoc committee of tutors teaching in the summer term will consider papers submitted by summer tutorial tutors. Award-winning essays are kept in the Greenfield Library. “Descartes on Understanding and Freedom,” by Paul Tsavoussis (AGI’20), is the 2019 award-winning essay. Descartes on Understanding and Freedom Paul Tsavoussis Where does the faculty of understanding reside in Descartes’ Meditations on First Philosophy and what does it elucidate in reference to free will? Men are decisive creatures. From the moment we wake to the moments before we fall asleep, we are inundated with stimuli that we must respond to: What to eat? What to wear? Whom to love? How to act? What to believe? Inevitably, we make bad decisions, but it is only through reflecting upon our decisionmaking process that we can limit the number of mistakes in the future, or at least not make the same mistakes twice. In his Fourth Meditation, Descartes attempts to discover how man errs. He concludes that man errs when his will outpaces his intellect, deciding unilaterally, without instruction from the intellect, what to affirm or engage. Throughout the meditation, Descartes relies heavily on the faculty of understanding to demonstrate this point, but at times it is not entirely clear where this faculty resides—in the domain of the will or that of the intellect? Descartes defines the intellect as a capability concerned exclusively with perception. He states: “For through the intellect alone I only perceive ideas on which I can pass judgement, nor can any error in the strict sense be found in 9 �Paul Tsavoussis / Descartes on Understanding and Freedom it when considered from this precise viewpoint” (40).1 The intellect is not the active decision-making faculty of man, rather, it is the domain of perception derived from God and therefore unerring, in the sense that what it does understand is correct (42). For Descartes, the intellect is limited in that it can only know what it knows, whereas the will is “unbounded by any limits” (41). Through this distinction, it becomes evident that Descartes believes that the faculty of understanding resides within the domain of the intellect. He claims: “For if, for example, I consider the faculty of understanding, I immediately recognize that in me it is very small and seriously limited” (41). Thus, given that the will is unlimited and the intellect is limited, it makes sense that the faculty of understanding, which is also limited, resides within the intellect. This understanding is supported further by Descartes’ definition of the will: “moved in relation to that which the intellect presents to us as to be affirmed or denied, pursued or avoided, in such a way that we feel we are not being determined in that direction by any external force” (41). The will does not seem to engage in any understanding of what is affirmed and denied, but rather is tasked with executing what the intellect has understood to be good and true. This passage places the will in a somewhat subservient stature to that of the intellect. Consequently, the faculty of understanding seems to remain exclusively within the domain of the intellect. Does the Will Understand? This clear distinction (with the faculty of understanding on the side of the intellect) is complicated by a discussion of man’s ability to recognize his relationship to God. Descartes states: “it is chiefly on account of the will that I understand that I bear a certain image and likeness of God” (41). This sentence seems to contravene what was previously laid out. Based on our prior reading, all ascertainable knowledge should be understood in the intellect and the will should simply engage it. However, Descartes seems to posit that it is “chiefly” through the will, and not the intellect, that man is capable of understanding that he bears a certain image of God. It is important to note 1 All parenthetical citations refer to page numbers in the following edition: René Descartes, Meditations on First Philosophy: with Selections from the Objections and Replies, trans. Michael Moriarty (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008). 10 �Colloquy / Fall 2019 that the text does not say that the will enables man to judge that he bears a certain image of God, but even more so, that it is the will that enables man to understand that he bears a certain image of God. The import of this is that naturally there must be understanding before there is judgment, and if the faculty of understanding resides in the will then it would be nonsensical for judgement, which trails understanding, to be reversed back to the domain of the intellect. Consequently, the will would be the exclusive decision maker of man. It would appear from these definitions that the intellect simply perceives the ideas, and it is up to the will to assess the information and decide on how to proceed. Through this lens of the will, as the enclave of understanding, the weakness of the intellect becomes more apparent. Descartes’ simple definition of the intellect as perception, seems to be materially different from “understanding.” When one perceives something that does not necessarily entail that they understand it, in the same way that a man can perceive a hidden figure in the shadows, but not necessarily understand what is there. The Understanding Intellect Although confounding, Descartes tacks back toward his original conception of understanding, as related to the intellect, when he posits his reasoning as to how man errs. He states: The range of the will is greater than that of the intellect, I do not confine it within the same limits, but extend it even to matters I do not understand; and since it is indifferent to these, it easily falls away from the true and the good, and this is both how I come to be deceived and how I come to sin.2 The most significant aspect of this passage is that Descartes seems to state that all understanding occurs within the intellect. What surpasses the intellect exists in the realm of the will. Additionally, what is understood by the intellect is true and good. If the intellect does not understand a certain proposition, then that proposition cannot be true and good; and the will is indifferent towards it. Nevertheless, given the previous passage concerning the will’s capacity to understand, it seems feasible that the will is more than just a subservient tool 2 Ibid., 42. 11 �Paul Tsavoussis / Descartes on Understanding and Freedom of the intellect but also engages in a degree of agency. Support for this theory is evinced when Descartes claims: It clearly followed that I existed, I could not indeed refrain from judging that what I so clearly understood was true. It was not that I was compelled to this by some external force, but that a great illumination of the intellect was followed by a great inclination of the will; and in this way my belief was all the freer and more spontaneous for my being less indifferent.3 Here, Descartes delineates between judgment and understanding. Judgment is an act separate from understanding and what is understood to be good and true is not necessarily judged to be so. The significance of this is that judgment seems to be a faculty of the will, whereas understanding is a faculty of the intellect. In the same way that understanding precedes judgment, so too is the intellect “followed by a great inclination of the will.” Descartes believes that man has a natural inclination to that which the intellect deems correct and the more correct it is, the freer it is, since we are not indifferent to it. Indifference can be understood to mean the absence of a directive from the intellect. Essentially, we are indifferent to matters we do not properly understand because no perception or understanding of truth exists to attract the will to one view or the other. On its face, this conception of freedom does not seem all that free. If man can ascertain the truth through the natural workings of the intellect in a “great illumination” and then act upon it, where exactly is the choice? Wouldn’t it seem like there is more choice or more freedom if the answer was less obvious, and more choices were available to choose from? I may be conflating quantity of options with freedom, yet the point still stands that the intellect (which does not err when it does understand the truth) will not exactly create the conditions in which choice is necessary. Freedom Descartes makes clear that the will is synonymous with freedom of choice. He claims: “It is only the will, or freedom of choice, that I experience in myself as so great that I can form the idea of none greater” (41). The primary implication 3 Ibid. 12 �Colloquy / Fall 2019 of this is that, for Descartes, the intellect is not a constituent aspect of freedom of choice, rather it is solely within the bounds of the will that individual freedom for man exists. Nevertheless, Descartes seems to believe that the will, even if it chooses the true and the good, is misusing free choice if it does so unilaterally without the intellect. He claims: But if I either affirm or deny, then I am not making the right use of my freedom of choice; and if I adopt the view that is false, I shall be altogether deceived. Yet if I adopt the other view, although it happens to be the true one, I shall still be at fault, because it is manifest by the natural light that a decision on the part of the will should always be preceded by a perception on the part of the intellect. The privation in which the essence of error consists lies in this wrong use of free choice.4 Descartes maintains that the will is synonymous with free choice, yet if the will or free choice does not follow the intellect, then it is less free or a “wrong use of free choice.” Although this is a thought experiment and exists to a certain extent in the vacuum of Descartes’ mind, the belief that the intellect should always precede the will, especially to be the “right use of freedom” seems untenable. If the intellect is not able to provide an understanding, and the will still moves forward with a decision, how is this a perversion of freedom? Necessarily, it is best to know what is good through the intellect and engage it with the will, but matters of love and life oftentimes do not provide our intellect with enough understanding and the will must compensate. Is this still not a proper use of freedom? A possible reconciliation is tenable when we consider Descartes’ previous mention of the will as understanding our likeness to God. Descartes’ characterization of the will as understanding, and not just as a faculty of judgment, makes possible the idea that in judgment there must be at least a modicum of understanding in order to ascertain how to judge. Judgment is predicated upon understanding the options available and the merits behind those options. Therefore, maybe the will also has a faculty to understand. 4 Ibid., 43. 13 �Paul Tsavoussis / Descartes on Understanding and Freedom Descartes’ main point when claiming something is less free or more free is that the ideal form of freedom is that in which the will does not need to understand through judgement, but is pulled toward the truth of whatever the intellect is claiming without any hesitation. It is an emotive, natural freedom, where there is no consternation or debate, but rather the will is moved simply by the blatant obviousness or “natural light” of the understanding of the intellect. Paul Tsavoussis (AGI’20) is a second-semester student in the Graduate Institute. He is a Georgetown University alumnus interested in political theology and existentialism. Jaime Marquez 14 �Colloquy / Fall 2019 A Conversation with Michael Dink, Tutor Colloquy: How does somebody—a young man no less—decide to leave Harvard and go to St. John’s? Michael Dink: Fortunately, this is a story I’ve rehearsed many times. As a high school student in Cincinnati, I had an English teacher who had attended Notre Dame and had done the Liberal Studies Program at Notre Dame. So he was an advocate of great books liberal studies programs and thought of St. John’s as the best program, and so he would often try to get his students to go to St. John’s. So that’s how I heard about St. John’s in the first place. But I thought it wouldn’t be so different to go to another school and major in philosophy. So I applied to Harvard and managed to get in, so I thought I may as well go there. In fact, I didn’t even apply to St. John’s I’m ashamed to say. So I went to Harvard and I discovered that, first of all, their philosophy department had little or no interest in the great books of philosophy. They took, by and large, a 20th Century analytical problems-oriented approach to philosophy, so that they didn’t usually offer courses that were focused on the great books of philosophy. So this was kind of a rude awakening and a disappointment for me, and I wasn’t quite sure what to do about that. And I also, I think, did not find fellow students who shared the interest that I had in reading and studying and talking about these things. — So at the end of freshman year, we were required to declare a major and having been deprived of philosophy as my effective major, I wasn’t sure what to do. I spoke with two St. John’s alumni—one was Rogers Albritton, who was a professor of philosophy [at Harvard] and I had actually sat in on a class which he taught called “Humanities Five,” which was a general education class, not a philosophy class. So he did actually assign and talk about some of the great books of philosophy in that class. He was an alum from the 40’s. The other was a graduate student in the history of science, who was a recent St. John’s alumnus (Bruce Collier). What I was considering was trying to make up my 15 �A Conversation with Michael Dink, Tutor own major, which is something you could petition to do at that time at Harvard, and that would try somehow to imitate St. John’s. So Professor Albritton said that is the one thing you don’t want to do: that would be the worst of both worlds. He said: “fish or cut bait.” I don’t know if you know that expression—choose one thing or the other, don’t temporize. The other guy said, “what do you want to be at Harvard for? It’s just another mediocre university with a lot of very bright people walking around.” — So, nonetheless, I retreated a little bit. I got into this major called History and Literature, which was a special major that allowed you to take courses in different departments toward your major, although it still required some kind of concentration—either in a particular country or in a time period. So I sort of randomly picked Early Modern, because it seemed to me to be sort of in the middle—maybe I should have picked Medieval. And I returned [to Harvard] for my Sophomore year. But on the way back from home, from Cincinnati to Boston, I decided to go through Annapolis and visit St. John’s. So I did a prospective visit and I met a student there who was at St. John’s under duress, because his father made all of his children go to St. John’s and he wanted to be at Princeton. So here I was a Harvard student thinking about going to St. John’s and he was a St. John’s student wishing he were at the Ivy League. So I did my prospective visit, I was intrigued, I was interested, I was thinking about it, but I went back and did another semester at Harvard. And things weren’t really getting better. — So I went home for winter vacation and on the very last day of winter vacation I called up this old high-school English teacher and asked to talk to him. We had a long talk and when I left I decided I’d apply to St. John’s for what used to be called the February Freshman Class, which was a class that started in February and did the first semester of freshman year during the second semester and the second semester over the summer so as to catch up. I would thereby lose only one year starting over. And at that time both St. John’s and Harvard didn’t finish their first semester until the end of January. That’s why there were February freshmen then. Harvard had this thing called Reading Period for three weeks after you come back from winter vacation, unless you 16 �Colloquy / Fall 2019 were in math and science classes—in which case your classes went on. But for other classes, classes were suspended and you were writing papers and preparing for exams. So I took the first week of Reading Period and wrote my St. John’s application, which at that time required five essays, and sent that in. After a little while I heard back from them that I’d been accepted and they told me what the financial aid offer was. So at this point I finally decided to tell my parents. CQ: So they were completely in the dark ‘till this time? Wow. MD: And it was the case that we were needy, so that at Harvard they were not paying anything. I had a contribution from summer work and [an] on-campus job and there was a loan, but there was not a parental contribution. The offer from St. John’s was not so generous, so there was a gap that they would have had to fill. They were very understanding and did not object to my leaving Harvard to come to St. John’s, but they said “we have no money to contribute, so we can’t help you with this.” So I called St. John’s back and said, “sorry, I’d like to come but I can’t do it financially.” So a couple of days later, half a week later, they called back and got in touch with me and said: “we found a little more money to offer you.” It still wasn’t quite a complete filling of the gap, but I thought that I would be able to manage, I would be able to work enough—if I earned more by working than I was getting from my on-campus job at Harvard then I could fill the gap. So I came. — There was one other complication: this was January of 1972. My entering college class or graduating high-school class was the last class to get student deferments from the draft at the time of the Vietnam war. And the lottery had been instituted so that you got a number which gave your likelihood of being drafted if you didn’t have a deferment. So there was one number for each birthdate and my number was 38. So if I lost my student deferment, it was almost a certainty that I would be drafted. There were plenty of draft counselors in Cambridge at the time as you can imagine and I spoke to some of them, but nobody knew what to predict because in order to keep your student deferment you were supposed to make normal progress. So one can 17 �A Conversation with Michael Dink, Tutor easily imagine that a draft board would regard going from being a sophomore to being a freshman as something other than normal progress. So I took a leave of absence from Harvard, so I had not burned my bridges. I went ahead and took all my exams and I arrived on campus a few days after the first classes, so I missed my first few classes and my first Seminar. I think pretty soon I was convinced that I had done the right thing. I waited about a month and wrote to my draft board. I got a letter back saying: “what’s going on Mr. Dink?” So I asked the Dean here at St. John’s—it was Robert Goldwin at the time—to write to my draft board and explain my situation and he did. I didn’t know what he said. He was someone who had some political connections: I didn’t know whether he had used them or not. But I did then get a letter from my draft board saying “ok, you can keep your student deferment.” Left to right: Michael Dink, Dimple Kaul, Jaime Marquez 18 �Colloquy / Fall 2019 CQ: When did you get [the letter]? MD: I don’t remember how long I had to wait. CQ: That period must have been like “Oh My God! What’s going to happen?” MD: Yes, it was a little worrisome. But the funny thing is that later when I was dean—from 2005 to 2010—they were cleaning out some of the old correspondence and they came upon the letter that Dean Goldwin had written to my draft board. And it was just perfectly straightforward explaining, you know, that everyone has to start over at St. John’s and that Mr. Dink was doing very good work academically here, and they thought he deserved to keep his student deferment or something like that. Still don’t know if he could have done anything else. CQ: How did you know when you began at Harvard that you wanted to pursue philosophy? At that age, how were you so interested? MD: Well I went to a Catholic parochial school in Cincinnati and part of that was you had a religion class every year. So [in] the religion class in maybe it was just senior year—I’m not sure whether it was junior or senior year—we read some existential philosophy. So that’s what piqued my interest and I said “well this is what people are talking about now, but there’s a whole history stretching back—I should figure out how they got there, what other people had to say about these questions.” CQ: Were you a voracious reader as a child? Were you into reading? MD: Yes, I was a pretty active reader. Mostly things like mysteries and sports books and things like that. CQ: So school influence brought philosophy into your life—at home what was the whole environment like? Would you discuss books with your dad and mom or your siblings? 19 �A Conversation with Michael Dink, Tutor MD: Not so much. My dad did have a college degree: it was in agriculture. And he had a blue-collar job working for the Postal Service. My mom did not have a college degree and was a homemaker—four kids. But they were concerned that we get a good education. So they scraped money together to send us to parochial school. And sort of made sure we did our homework, and monitored our grades and everything. So they were concerned that we get a good education. And they did take us to the library, the public library, but there were not a lot of books in the house. CQ: I don’t have nowhere near the amount of time that you have devoted to the great books. One thing that I have experienced while here at St John’s is that I have read [the] Meno more than once. My attitude, my understanding of it has changed with every subsequent reading. And so that is the question: have your views on what makes an eminently great book great changed for you over the years? Did that make sense? MD: Yes, although I was surprised—I thought you had shifted a little bit. I thought your first question [was]: “Do I change my readings of particular books from one reading to another?” That’s what I thought you were going to ask. CQ: Say that the first time you read The [Theory of] Moral Sentiments—okay, I think this book is great for the following reason. And then you read it again and now, well, I still think it’s a great book, but it’s for a different reason. So then not only your engagement, your interaction, your perception of the book—pick any book—how has that changed? Or has it changed? MD: I am not sure that I change my idea of what makes makes it great. I think I am sort of flexible about that. There are different ways of being great. Although, by and large, I think it’s mostly raising fundamental questions in a deep, complex way that is carefully articulated. So I think probably for the most part I think what happens is that I refine my understanding as I go through. It is probably not so frequent that I have a radical reorientation of how to read a book, but that may happen to some extent, from time to time, 20 �Colloquy / Fall 2019 although I don’t know that I have a great example off the top of my head to give you about that. CQ: What I had in mind. This is going to be a silly example, but when I hear musical pieces from Bach or Beethoven and you hear it repeatedly and suddenly you say “God! I never heard that note before and it was there all along.” Then that’s the sense in which to what extent the great books have done this for you. MD: Again it seems to me differences, right? You could say that I hadn’t heard it before and it changes everything. That’s one thing. Another thing is: “Oh, I hadn't noticed that before.” That shifts a little bit or adds something. So my sense is adding, refining is more the normal response and that radical reorientation is less common. But I wouldn't say it never happens, but I don’t have a good example of that happening to me. CQ: This is not exactly like a subsequent question, but I was wondering: when tutors come here, they would come as specialists—like a PhD in something— and then over a period of their stint at St. John’s, I would like to believe they are more of generalists. I’m told they take all courses and no tutor is there who is not taught almost all subjects. So how does this transformation happen? MD: You just learn by doing. I think most tutors come from roughly a humanities background where the focus is reading books and thinking about them. So for most of us the challenge is learning to do the math and science classes. But you know, we’re doing them from original texts, so part of that is just another instance of careful reading. And the program is structured so that things build upon one another, right? So you start with freshman math: it’s Euclid, it’s not fundamentally more difficult than high school geometry. It’s done with an emphasis on proofs and the rigor of proofs much more so than high school geometry, but it doesn’t presuppose anything. So doing Euclid you can just read the book and follow the logic, and it doesn’t presuppose any prior preparation in mathematics. 21 �A Conversation with Michael Dink, Tutor CQ: So stick to the text is what helps basically? MD: Yeah and start from the beginning in some way. And then Ptolemy builds on Euclid. There are elements of observation and familiarity with the skies and so forth. So there’s a bit of supplementing that we try to do with that. But again it’s basically intelligible building on Euclid. Roughly that’s the way it works: if you go sequentially through the program, what you need for the next step—the foundation has been laid down in the previous steps. So Tutors work their way through, learn along with—or slightly ahead of—the students. And again it’s crucial that the students don’t expect us to be the experts telling them how it works, but they have accepted the situation that it’s a group enterprise and we’re trying to figure it out together. And, in general, I think they are more likely to be upset with a Tutor who tries to tell them too much than with a Tutor who admits that he doesn’t understand something and needs to work it out with them or go to a colleague and get help. — Now all this said, I have to make a shameful confession, which is that there is a class I have not taught and that’s the sophomore Music Tutorial. And I feel particularly intimidated at that prospect, feel particularly—it’s an insufficiency of my childhood education that I never learned to play an instrument, did not have much instruction or experience with music. And I feel like I have no ear. I did the St. John’s Music Tutorial as a student. I spent a sabbatical auditing it, being a full-fledged student, writing papers and everything. So I have some familiarity with what it contains and what the issues and questions are. I just feel that I, myself, do harmonic analysis very slowly and painfully, and without any facility and without [the] ability to translate very well what I’m analyzing into hearing. So I feel all these things are an obstacle to my doing what I ought to do, which is to teach the Tutorial. CQ: Do you think that soon anytime you might remedy that situation? MD: I don’t know. I won’t promise it! I toy with the idea, but I might have to be semi-retired and clear the decks of everything else if I were to take it on. 22 �Colloquy / Fall 2019 CQ: That’s a formidable task it seems. Music is formidable—can you imagine?—for somebody who thinks philosophy is so obvious. This is so interesting. MD: Yeah, philosophy, math, and science—those are not so hard. CQ: This is really a very different insight into human psyche, thank you for being so candid with us! I was just wondering if there’s a difference in the approach with the undergrad students and the GIs because I’m sure at both levels you’re dealing with a different level of maturity and the emotional quotient is different. So even though the undergraduates could have a higher IQ, so how does one do that? And how does the Tutor cultivate this entire persona, aura, and demeanor of being a participant while at the same time being in control? So two questions. MD: That’s a lot. Let me take the second one first. The important thing is that the Tutor really see him or herself as a fellow inquirer, right? That we’re all trying to figure something out. You may be farther along the road, you may be more familiar with the material—you may have read it before, come to certain conclusions before or noticed certain things before—but you always are open to learning new things from it and from the class. In a certain way, the more you’ve worked with a book, in some ways, the more open you can be to different possibilities coming from the students. So you can say, “Oh yeah, that’s interesting, we could pursue that. I see what you’re getting at, I see a path we could go down there: let’s work on it together.” I think, again, there are different styles. — As I get older and become a more experienced Tutor, I am probably not as good at stepping back and just letting the conversation go. I find myself drawn to intervene more, though I try to tell myself that I’m [intervening] with a positive response to what the students are saying. I’m trying to follow up the line of inquiry they are initiating, not driving it myself away from what they want to talk about. There is an interplay: the students set an agenda by the questions they raise, I might then influence the way it goes, because I see a 23 �A Conversation with Michael Dink, Tutor way in which that line that they have raised could be pursued. And maybe it’s not exactly the way they were thinking of pursuing it—I don’t know. Other Tutors may be better—maybe I was better when I was younger, maybe not— at sitting back and letting the class go, especially in Seminar. — Now as to the difference between undergraduates and Graduate Institute students: undergraduate students have four years, so one can afford to give them some time to learn from their mistakes in a way. And there’s a definite process in freshmen classes whereby they are learning to be St. John’s students. They need to learn it by experience in some way and to find out what things do and don’t work. And you can help to show them, rather than tell them for the most part. Sometimes you have to tell people some things. But show them that certain ways of being in class are productive of good and interesting discussions in class, and other ways of being in class are counterproductive. I think there are some problematic tendencies that are more common in freshmen than in Graduate Institute students. There’s a kind of student who kind’ve wants to show off and is most eager to tell people what they’ve already figured out, rather than to engage in a common inquiry. Occasionally one comes across that in a Graduate Institute student, but I think it’s not quite as common. This is not [just] an age difference but a structure difference: you have a mixture of new students and continuing students in every Graduate Institute class. So there are some people who have experience with it and they can help to model behavior. CQ: In terms of the students, either GI or undergraduate, has there been a been a significant change since you have been here? MD: That's a hard question. Partly because any change that would happen would be gradual, over a long career, and you're seeing, you’re observing from year to year, it's hard to go back and remember what it was like thirty years ago. CQ: In terms of, say, your enthusiasm? 24 �Colloquy / Fall 2019 MD: I incline to the opinion that Johnnies are pretty similar through time and space. Other than appearance, once you're in a class that kind of drops away. I don't know if I could tell what decade I was in if you put me in a time machine and plopped me down in a class. CQ: In the Hartle Room, when we look at photographs of the students, they look different, if nothing else in the outfits. MD: Right, right. CQ: I was just wondering if they were more serious in general—in their attitude towards life or concerns for society. And, you know, they dress the part. Whereas if you were to take pictures of today's students, we would look very different than the ones from those pictures. MD: I would hesitate to draw that conclusion. I would hesitate to correlate the mode of dress with the seriousness of the student. I had a friend, as an undergraduate at St John's, who was kind of notorious for going around campus in his sock feet: shoeless, but not sockless! A very serious student. CQ: We as students, our degree of excitement and engagement towards the great books has not—from what you’ve seen—has not changed in any appreciable way. MD: No. CQ: Do you find any difference between the domestic and international students in both undergrad and [the] GI? MD: Well, not really in general. There's one specific area where I've noticed something which I think has been a good thing. I taught sophomore Seminar— three out of four years in the past five or six years. And this was during a period when we had a larger proportion of international students than we had in the past. In the past, it was [often] a kind of issue in sophomore 25 �A Conversation with Michael Dink, Tutor Seminar—where we read biblical and other religious texts—of people bringing their religious convictions to bear in a way that, you know, means they don't listen to each other as well as they could. They can be defensive and sort of polarized, and so forth. I think having a larger proportion of international students, who don't come from a Judeo-Christian or even Abrahamic background, has been helpful in that respect. They are more of an impartial spectator to these disputes. They can read the Bible more naively, openmindedly, and say: “who is this character, God, and why is he behaving this way?” I think that really helps the other students to see: “oh yeah, we don't have to read this the way we learn to in Sunday school or we don't have to be hostile because we've rejected all that.” So that I think has been a great benefit that I've experienced in sophomore Seminar from having more international students. CQ: So you have also been a part of the Santa Fe campus for four years. MD: Yeah, a long time ago. CQ: But if you were [to] just compare your initial years there and your initial years here, [is there] any perceptible difference or do you think it's just the same thing? That St John's is the same everywhere? MD: I think the sameness is more fundamental than any differences. It's very hard to separate—you tried to set it up so there was my youthful years in Santa Fe versus my youthful years in Annapolis, right? It's also complicated because I was a student in Annapolis, so there were still tutors that I had been a student under here Annapolis, where it wasn't so much the case in Santa Fe. So I really don't want to go there, to try to draw comparisons. CQ: But now Annapolis is home, almost? MD: Yeah, I certainly still enjoy visiting Santa Fe. When I was dean, I was there a lot for meetings and my son went to the Santa Fe campus partly 26 �Colloquy / Fall 2019 because I was dean in Annapolis when he was a student. And I was there this summer to teach Summer Classics for the first time. I think I will go back. CQ: I think the reason I also brought up Santa Fe is because they have that Eastern Classics program—have you taught any of those books? MD: I have not taught the Eastern Classics, no. I’ve done a few little things in what used to be called the Executive Seminar and now the Year of Classics. The Bhagavad Gita and some Confucius, but not with as serious of an approach as they do with the Eastern Classics program. CQ: You have a Western civilization [program] and an Eastern civilization [program], but are we ever going to, in the future, look at an overall Human Civilization program, which is integrated and comprehensive and chronological? MD: How many years do you think this will take? [Laughter] CQ: That’s my question! Is it possible? MD: I think it's very difficult. I think it's difficult to do justice to any of these traditions, even in four years. So that's the tough question and the tradeoff, right? Would you do no justice to either of them—or any of them—by trying to do all of them in some limited space of time, like four years? I think, although I haven't taught the Eastern Classics: it looks from the outside like it's a pretty serious program. It's pretty good, it's doing something like what we do here: going sequentially and building up the traditions. But I don't know. You know, what we do is just a slice of the Western tradition. What they do is just a slice of the eastern traditions, right? There’s more: there's the Islamic tradition, which we don't do justice to, we don’t do anything from. So there's a lot. Yeah, there are a lot more great books worth studying, but they do tend to be parts of traditions that it's—I think it’s important to read them in the traditions or conversations in which they flourished or were written. To just pluck 27 �A Conversation with Michael Dink, Tutor something out—pluck things from different traditions and juxtapose them— I think is not the best approach. So, I think it's a very great problem. CQ: You don't think it's feasible because of the context? MD: Yeah, I mean we don't have an academic mode set up to accommodate this. If you spent eight years—if you did four years in the Western great books, four years in the Eastern great books, I don't know, four years in the Islamic great books, but no: there isn't an academic structure to do that in. And because of the distinction that people make between undergraduate and graduate school, if you go on to graduate school, they're not going to want you to start all over again with another tradition. They want you to specialize within a tradition. There’s an Islamic undergraduate great books college that's called Zaytuna College in California, where that's being developed. And I think there’s also an eastern, maybe Buddhist-based one whose name I forget. I think probably in California too. And I think Ms. Brann is interested in getting us all to talk together about doing these different great books programs. So, you know, if somebody wanted to go sequentially through these three colleges it would take twelve years and a lot of money. [Laughter] CQ: Is there any particular book that you feel could have been a part of the curriculum, but is not because of certain reasons? MD: That's a difficult one too. We make choices. There are authors who wrote more than one book that could well have been included, and some have more than one book, but others don’t. I mean, obviously, I think Adam Smith’s [The] Theory of Moral Sentiments is a worthy book. Maimonides is read in [the] Santa Fe undergraduate curriculum, but not here. We just switched from Spinoza’s Theologico-Political Treatise to his Ethics. I would like to have both of them. And the whole question of what to do with—I mean, senior year now has some things from the 19th century, some things from the 20th century, and now we're in the 21st century. So I think there is, again, a difficult question about what are the great books of the 20th century. And how do we select them? How would we find a place for them, how do we fit them in? I think we’re 28 �Colloquy / Fall 2019 starting to think about that, but it’s a difficult question. I'm sure there are 20th, and maybe even 21st, century books that we should be reading, and [we] haven't figured out which ones are the right ones and how to fit them in. CQ: I just wanted to get your reaction to something that I think I perceive. And it has to do with the extent to which the orientation of the GI emanates from [the] Meno: this issue of recollection—Meno loves the allegory of the cave, Meno loves dialectics—and the extent to which my sense is that what St. John’s offers, or has done for me, is not just the great books. I mean, I can go and read them on my own. So, it's a combination of the great books and the conversation. MD: Exactly. CQ: And I wouldn’t say that all of it stems from [the] Meno, but if we wanted to go and trace the books that shaped, at least the GI, I think [the] Meno has to be in it. And then I say: “why is the GI introducing all the students through [the] Meno, if not to expose us to—to be curious about questions that seem obvious?” MD: It seems to me a couple of things about the Meno: one is just the fairly obvious thing that teaching is not just handing something over, not just transmitting something. And therefore it's not something passive that the learner suffers at the hand of an active teacher. But that activity is required of the learner, so that learning is more fundamental than teaching. Teaching is— if there is teaching, it's kind of assisting learning, right? Or trying to set up the conditions for learning. So, you might say, the priority of learning over teaching or teaching is ancillary: whatever teaching there is, is ancillary to the fundamental activity which is learning. And then, of course, secondly: that realizing that you don't know what you think you know is the precondition of learning. So those things seem to be the kind of obvious takeaways. And I think the doctrine of recollection as something specific is relatively less important. But there are those lurking questions about incommensurability in 29 �A Conversation with Michael Dink, Tutor the mathematical example that maybe not everyone sees at the first reading. So that’s something that takes a little more Euclid to get at. CQ: If you were to describe the crux of St. John’s and why you think a learner should come to St. John’s, what would you say? MD: I think it's the opportunity to think about fundamental and important questions with other people who are concerned with those questions and want to think about them and talk about them. It’s hard to find such people, so part of it is just bringing together those people. Mr. Dink was born in Louisville, Kentucky and raised in Cincinnati, Ohio. He attended Harvard College, earned his BA at St. John’s College, Annapolis, and earned his MA and Ph.D. in Philosophy from Catholic University of America. He has taught on both the Santa Fe and Annapolis campuses, and has served as Athletic Director, Graduate Institute Director, and Dean of the College. He has lectured on Homer, Plato, Aristotle, Rousseau, Adam Smith, Milton, and Molière. 30 �Colloquy / Fall 2019 Thoughts on an Approach to a Study of Plato’s Parmenides: An Erotic Romp Maxwell Anthony Since finishing my Master’s Essay on Plato’s Euthydemus1 a string of associations has led me to this only half-flippant hypothesis: the Parmenides is Plato’s most erotic dialogue. Here I will first present the string of clues from Plato’s dialogues that led me to this conjecture and then offer some thoughts about the Parmenides’s dramatic presentation that I think corroborate my suspicion. In my Master’s Essay I explicate the central image of the Euthydemus: Socrates and his interlocutor Cleinias appearing like children chasing after larks. A point that occurred to me after finishing the essay is that the obvious goal of chasing after a bird is to capture it. I remembered how, in my freshman year of college, a sparrow was loose in the halls of my dormitory. One student attempted to take the bird into her hands and deliver it to safety. Somehow she managed to charm the bird into her clutch, but, being held, the little sparrow let out such a scream that I never again doubted the evolutionist’s claim that dinosaurs are the ancestors of modern birds. The girl let the bird go, and the bird went. Children chasing after birds do not intend to catch them. They enjoy the play of chasing without the goal of acquiring. Although such chasing does not aim at acquiring the thing it plays to seek, it does acquire something—the pleasure and play of the activity itself. Socrates says that he and Cleinias appeared like children chasing after larks. Is there a mature way to chase after larks? This question led me to think: does mature bird-catching involve learning to mimic 1 Maxwell Anthony, “Chasing After Larks: the Justice of θυµός in Plato’s Euthydemus,” (2019), available at the Greenfield Library. 31 �Maxwell Anthony / Thoughts on an Approach to a Study of the Parmenides the bird’s song? However, if in Socrates’ metaphor the birds represent knowledge of particular arts, how could a bird ever be fooled by something it is not? It occurred to me that the purpose of chasing after larks might not be to capture the bird, as if philosophy were simply an acquisition of external ‘knowledge’ or ‘ideas’ or ‘things’ out there, but that by imitating the bird’s song we draw out of ourselves and make ourselves into the thing we pursue. This point led me to consider the image of the soul growing wings and taking flight in the Phaedrus but also caused me to wonder: how is it that the brothers’ imitation of Socratic philosophy in the Euthydemus does not strike us as an image of children “chasing after larks?” In the Euthydemus my favorite Platonic character, Ctesippus, dismisses the brothers as cold stiffs. This aside caused me to think that somehow Ctesippus sees a parallel between the brothers’ abstract sophistry and their being cold, which reminded me of Plato’s Seventh Letter and the sudden kindling of a soul by the flame of another. Plato’s language of catching fire (πῦρ2) in the Seventh Letter reminded me of Socrates’ famous description of himself taking the flame (φλέγεσθαι) as he glimpsed under Charmides’ cloak. This connection led me to see that the Euthydemus is, in a certain way, an image of the Charmides. In both dialogues Socrates talks with a beautiful youth encircled by a crowd in a public space. However, in the Charmides, Socrates is explicitly a young man, and in the Euthydemus he is explicitly an old man. So, I wondered, what is different about Socrates’ interaction with Charmides and his interaction with Cleinias. Although Socrates’ interaction with Cleinias in the Euthydemus occurs in the Lyceum’s changing room—recalling Chaerephon’s suggestion that Charmides strip—Socrates does not report to Crito in the Euthydemus that he “caught the flame” (Charmides 155d). Is Socrates any less erotic as an old man in the Euthydemus than he is as a young man in the Charmides? Thinking about this question, I remembered the following statement by the Athenian Stranger in Book Seven of the Laws: “May a seductive, erotic love of bird 2 All Greek is from Perseus.tufts.edu. 32 �Colloquy / Fall 2019 hunting, which is hardly a liberal pursuit, never come over any of the young.”3 Well, Socrates, in the central image of the Euthydemus, chases after larks, and the apparent drama of the Euthydemus is Socrates’ effort to get Cleinias chasing with him. We see the tension starkly and playfully between Socrates and the Athenian Stranger in comparing these two passages. The Athenian Stranger is obviously talking about philosophy and Socrates, in the Euthydemus, is just as erotic chasing after larks, like a child, as he is catching the flame in the Charmides. Socrates chasing after larks with Cleinias is the image of philosophic eros. How does this erotic aspect bear on the memetic quality of chasing after larks? This question drew me to the Parmenides. In its most basic look, the Parmenides is most similar to the Symposium, Theaetetus, and Phaedo, as these four dialogues appear to us as inherited narrations. The Phaedo is closest to the events depicted as Phaedo himself relates what he witnessed at Socrates’ death, and the Theaetetus is mediated by Socrates’ narration to Euclides, Euclides’ writing, and the slave boy’s reading. Simply as objects of inherited gossip or memorized speech, the Symposium and the Parmenides are the most similar of Plato’s dialogues. This similarity is the initial clue that now draws my interest to the Parmenides. We should approach the Parmenides with the same excitement and anticipation as someone asking for the story of the Symposium from Apollodorus. However, whereas in the Symposium there are apparently varied and garbled versions of the speeches on love, there is something of a clean and direct transmission of the conversation in the Parmenides. Although both dialogues reveal something erotic behind the oral transmission of events, the different transmissions seem to suggest something different about the content of each conversation. This likeness to the Symposium suggests that the Parmenides must be approached with the question of its form as an inherited narration, and the motivation behind that inheritance in mind. The Symposium is one version among other garbled narrations, whereas the narration of the Parmenides is 3 Plato, The Laws of Plato, trans. Thomas L. Pangle (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1988), 823e. 33 �Maxwell Anthony / Thoughts on an Approach to a Study of the Parmenides exact and explicitly demanding. The motive for the transmission of each, and the effect of that motive on the transmission of each, seems to be a clue about the erotic nature of philosophy. Given the extremely abstract and awesome majesty of the Parmenides, both as it appears to us and in its Neoplatonic legacy, I wonder: is the Parmenides an example of philosophy? What even is the Parmenides? The dialogue announces itself to us with the heading Cephalus. Just as there is something apparently “heady” and reverently senior about the Cephalus of the Republic, there is a similar duality with this Cephalus of Clazomenae. Both Cephaluses are loathsomely pretentious. The Cephalus of the Republic puts forward a moral pretense of escaping from sexual desire and advances the disgustingly dull view that the best we can hope for is a moderately burdensome old age.4 Something about the orderly and wellcontented view of life presented by the Cephalus of the Republic is mirrored in Cephalus of the Parmenides’s narration. The head abstracted from the body is a perversion and degradation. Plato’s challenge seems to be for us to see how and why this “image” of philosophy is distorted. So we must ask: what do we know about the character of Cephalus of Clazomenae and what does his character suggest about the drama of the Parmenides—the drama of the form and content, the dialectic of the human and the things humans say. The first thing we know is that Cephalus came to Athens with a group. He meets Adeimantus and Glaucon in the marketplace. Adeimantus takes Cephalus’s hand and says, “Welcome, Cephalus. If there is anything you want here that we can do for you, please tell us” (126a-c).5 Cephalus asks that Adeimantus show him to Adeimantus’ and Glaucon’s half-brother Antiphon, who is also Plato’s half-brother. Cephalus explains, “These men are fellow citizens of mine (πολῖταί τ᾽ ἐµοί εἰσι), keen philosophers, and they have heard that this Antiphon met many times with a friend of Zeno’s called Pythodorus and can recite from memory the discussion that Socrates and Zeno and Parmenides once had, since he heard 4 Plato, Republic, 329d. All quotations of the Parmenides are from: Plato, Parmenides, trans. Mary Louise Gill & Paul Ryan (Indianapolis, IN: Hackett Publishing Co., 1996). 5 34 �Colloquy / Fall 2019 it often from Pythodorus.” We are confronted with the duality of Cephalus’ pretense and his actual activity. His pretense is that he and his troop are “keen philosophers” and that they want to hear this famous conversation. Desiring to hear the speech is certainly a philosophic impulse. But, there is also something suspiciously unphilosophic and repulsive about Cephalus’ request. First, to include oneself in a troop of “keen philosophers” (µάλα φιλόσοφοι) is suspicious. If Cephalus and his troop are such keen philosophers, why do they have to travel to Athens to hear a speech? Their own conversation and friendship must be so insufficient that it requires going all the way to Athens. While there is something searching and erotic about this going out, it disguises a deeper flaw and pose. I suspect that Cephalus, although deeply invested in the conversation he requests, also wants to impress his “keen philosopher” troop by dipping into the string pool of his prior association with Plato’s family. Cephalus cannot remember Antiphon’s name but asks that Antiphon recite from memory the conversation. Cephalus’ memory is insufficient and he wants to supplement his insufficiency with the inheritance of a memorized speech. In short, Cephalus’ desire is that he be a philosopher by simply memorizing arguments. Just as the Republic is a critique of political idealism, the Parmenides is a critique of “heady” formalism. Adeimantus says that, “When Antiphon was a young man, he practiced it [the conversation] to perfection (εὖ µάλα διεµελέτησεν), although these days, just like the grandfather he’s named for, he devotes most of his time to horses” (126c). So, somehow we have it that a troop of self-proclaimed philosophers, who are really “citizens,” are going to hear a recitation from someone who spends his time with horses. Antiphon’s preference for horses leads me to a series of associations: Socrates as a gadfly biting the horse Athens, Hippias’s political service as an ambassador,6 and Ctesippus acting as guardian of Socrates. The horse and the city go together. Something about Cephalus’ 6 Plato, Greater Hippias, 281a. 35 �Maxwell Anthony / Thoughts on an Approach to a Study of the Parmenides expectation and Antiphon’s careful practice of the conversation go together and suggest the relief of philosophy. The group goes to Antiphon’s house and finds him “engaging a smith to work on a bit of some kind” (127a). He initially “balks” at reciting the conversation. “It was, he said, a lot of work,” reports Cephalus, “But finally he narrated it in detail.” According to Adeimantus, Antiphon, as a young man, practiced the speech with great care, seemingly bringing his recitation to perfection as though it were the poetic object of a craft like horseshoes or bridles. However, Antiphon turned from this care to the political concern for horses, following his grandfather’s ancestral example. Evidently recitation, no matter how profound, careful, precise, or perfect is not sufficient for turning one’s attention from the gentlemanly political concerns of “engaging a smith to work on a bit of some kind.” Moreover, Glaucon’s silence throughout this episode reminds us of Socrates’ apparent preference for conversation with him over Adeimantus, the more assertive and political of the brothers in the Parmenides. Cephalus reports: “Antiphon said that Pythodorus said that Zeno and Parmenides once came to the Great Panathenaea. Parmenides was already quite venerable, very great but of distinguished appearance, about sixty-five years old. Zeno was at that time close to forty, a tall handsome man who had been, as rumor had it, the object of Parmenides’ affections when he was a boy (καὶ λέγεσθαι αὐτὸν παιδικὰ τοῦ Παρµενίδου γεγονέναι)” (127a-b). The provided English translation is an interpretative rendering of the more exact: “and it was said that he became Parmenides’ darling (παιδικός).” παιδικός is an erotic word, implying that, according to rumor’s distortion, the relationship of Parmenides and Zeno might have been pederastic.7 So, the first hint of the erotic we find in the dialogue, after Cephalus’ dubious introduction of his philosopher friends, is in the educative relationship of Parmenides and Zeno. Moreover, this sense is presented between speaking 7 Thanks to Jeffrey Ulrich for pointing out this implication. 36 �Colloquy / Fall 2019 (λέγεσθαι) and having become (γεγονέναι). I take this presentation as a clue to a general theme following from my thoughts on the mimetic character of the erotic “chasing after larks” in the Euthydemus. What is the relation of eros and the coming into being of speech? The Parmenides is perhaps the most mimetic of all the dialogues, and something about its coming into being is like Thrasymachus’ precise speech. But this precise recital and memorized speech is haunted by eros. At a deeper level, the dialogue’s arguments involve becoming in regards to unity. Recalling Aristophanes’ speech in the Symposium, we must wonder: what does the form of the arguments presented in the Parmenides suggest about unity and eros? The Parmenides, although perfected and rehearsed in its transmission, is broken in its content. Cephalus’ tyrannical impulse to the simple unity of rehearsed speech is at odds with the discussion of the one with the young character Aristotle. The Parmenides is itself an image of eros, of the togetherness of unity and difference, against the formal perfection of recitation. The only explicit mention of eros occurs when Parmenides, like Antiphon, hesitantly assents to give a demonstration (137a). The parallels of Parmenides’ journey across a “sea of words,” and Cephalus’ journey from Clazomenae, and Parmenides’ citation of Ibycus’ poem and Antiphon’s business with horses, suggest that the mere recital of speeches is not simply philosophical, but that there is a link between recital and rejuvenation, especially seen through Zeno, that is easily corrupted and mistaken. Perhaps the reflection of Zeno’s and Parmenides’ relationship in speech mirrors the recited transmission of the conversation itself. The Parmenides is, moreover, Plato’s presentation of Socrates at his youngest. As a start to a study of the dialogue, we have to consider the different routes that the conversation took. Whereas Socrates takes the route of an erotic life, “chasing after larks,” the conversation as presented to us took the route of Cephalus’ deadened imagination and gentlemanly unerotic reproduction. He is like the cold, monstrous “dual” of brothers in the Euthydemus. The Parmenides is Plato’s most erotic dialogue because it is the one most haunted 37 �Maxwell Anthony / Thoughts on an Approach to a Study of the Parmenides by eros. Plato’s challenge is for us to fall in love with it. I suspect that he presents the dialogue as he does in order to inspire rather than discourage our love, so that—overwhelmed if not repulsed by the presentation’s precision and abstraction—we recognize Cephalus’s temptation to an image of philosophy and re-approach the dialogue accepting error in ourselves and the world, asking questions. 38 �Colloquy / Fall 2019 Four Poems Louis Petrich Gratification I must act grateful, grab that greater self: so if as beggar I’m half-bent to burn the houses down that eat up hoped-for wealth, or reach for throats that down my thirsting turn, or curse the looks that once I thought were mine— I’ll taller stand to overcome my state and staff from underworld the thoughts I pine to spring, and though no bodied soul’s my mate, one fate enwraps us thankful for the sea that laps the shore, where life first dared to walk long stretches breathing air, becoming free. Just think: from water one day came this talk, these puffs that would like bolts illumine you, to gratify by your eyes green, mine blue. 39 �Louis Petrich / Four Poems Ode to the New Person Man’s partner at her making was no twit, and he consisted like of her, full store— no brows down-turned in standing boredom’s fit, no back looks baiting followers galore. Now palms turn prey to images on pods, new Bacchae!—trained for net of lightsome gods. The glut that glistens screens their eyes conscript. Hairs tingle, aired with electricity of nerves connecting all in committee. She speaks to me of this amazing age, affections sweeping, all the world engaged: “I pass my days in lovely tapping fingers— they are to me the only digits!—linger, dear friend, they never do— diminished yours perforce, yet ever true to here while there now then shared one turned two (in novels three) yet so much more of me to thin—that when dim words leave you desponding, consider prefab motives— trickling colored corresponding!— mine’s higher than normal all the time, I angle but to dangle, language mangle, . . . maybe tangle! 40 �Colloquy / Fall 2019 So bow attention, service options grow, and you will love the lists, concocted dough, whose yeast inside us rises anxious news— these buttons tilled make darling fecund stews— click slick machine, come twitter, fill the pews!” I must have blenched like Adam at the fall. “For shame no—link, don’t blink— skim scroll lap looks and buy something delivered— (get the shipping free!)— bloodless hooks, these multi-windowed tubes— you peer in private—handmaids hind the stairs— or boys, no bias—so eeaasy makes it good, but there’s no doing without our secret-kept identities that every few months change— (security)— this flushes craven parlor purity!” She sees me stead her, makes clean breast of it: “O why receive I never revelation that tells me I am loved in all creation so I can stop this wanting more of mention this losing of attention and my mind? When will some god please message me? I pine.” ......... “Please stimulate me more now, leash me kinder the whirligig of time goes faster wider 41 �Louis Petrich / Four Poems deep cave me—four-walled stories to the point— and bind my sedentary balling joints to virtually what—I do not know— no circling stairs we once were meant to go and now that God yields rule o’er His creation all times and places don’t suffice the nations America retools for paradise.” All this she says in person, born again. Yield souls to gadgets spooning orifices of want with rivers emptying as fast in oceans churning senses bloated dumb. The shield Achilles only could uphold, containing all the world as glory’s price, now sized like apple, skittish little hands keep flourished—since we’re equal, says the man. The sporting games have just begun their fires, to celebrate the funerals— every buyer’s. 42 �Colloquy / Fall 2019 Samuel Hage, oil on canvas, 9.5”x7”, 2019 43 �Louis Petrich / Four Poems Words and Things How many weary months, by thoughts alone lives man for shining eyes, and forgets home. Winds crack open hues as wet streaks agonal cut cheeks in palette smeared of words and things —up rise remembered words: impediments, halt not, nor turn by them differed, on tempests look unshaken starred, fool bear doom error, prove love you let me recall your list above all missed, sweet seekers after golden clime where marriage of true minds outedges serrate time. Found dangersome, said ascent! 44 �Colloquy / Fall 2019 fallen from the sky red and black to earth, low horizon eyes bent uprooting mirth —stick deep semantic things: necklace lifted on me shining shoulders waving luster lent suitors dogging stakes down picnic tumblers emptied thirst unquenched telltale vibes my sun eclipsing hats off baby moon braves tan call it fate which stay late— burn up wrongs writ in me sign old names duty’s haste— say no more gone to sea. Son’s wild despair hied him afar from faces that he loved. Come home awhile more lean and sad in school of verse he’s shoved. Too much for me how things make words outdo themselves, how words make things undo themselves. Obtuse am I? Pour on, she says— I do, so vet. It gives us thrills— both grateful, sure. Still, five of me to one of her is not so good arithmetic. 45 �Louis Petrich / Four Poems Lear summons experts: speak love’s quantity— All my love —let ring to two undoes the thing. Those loving hers who serve fat words take fangish turns fordoing king. In wind and rain love’s quality comes clear: Nothing —true spoke to one outdoes all things. Who screens his love like stocks to vest centurial nights cracks vault of being. Without equality there’s similarity or probability maybe, but mostly neither place time ‘til feeling ‘til feeling mined neither place nornor time equalequal mined coinciding, we toe-plow common sands, forfor coinciding, we toe-plow common sands, broken lines incom-our fingers our fingers intertwined broken lines andand incomintertwined patibilities, round sifting treasured hands. patibilities, round sifting treasured hands. Must she augment? Or I diminish? Darcy sized his Lizzy up by one tremendous letter reaching perfectly the finish: God bless you! She felt in time the very man was He. 46 �Colloquy / Fall 2019 Great authors can make water wine, seem true. The greatest begged us ending, set me free. Our French sage teaches freedom and equality possess together under God, with much enlightened work committee spent by citizens accomplishing desires while motioning towards higher ends. Can lovers that way steer in currents strong as seas? Our lower ends to leisure volunteer— he worried much about their tyrannies. Our words do bodies want, we actors know and how to risk bereft our hands, impeach impossibles to make them real, addicted yes to loosely named applauded love— me! for I give you, you! 47 �Louis Petrich / Four Poems He took her air in greedily, she charged him keep its sounds to catch his falling paces. Excellent the breathing there! No running out—her speech, her buoyancy— at first; thereafter, sought he them in poems, their shadows followed everywhere, not her, to teach him how to curse and bless, same words, all things, promiscuous. Her image—lithe, enskied—but bears this sting. Take vow of silence, stern ascetic trust, so must we keep integrity from rust. Against my mediated banishment to portholes, runways, squeezed-in in-betweens— I wonder—how could such diminishment become us ever decent to assume, we full-paged, bound together, handsome wholes? So why diminish—at all—in the roll? Abatement theirs, live still largesse my soul! Odysseus much practice took from storied cares and beds, ‘till beggar suited, youth forsook, he wandered home to stead— love her, diminish not, of blood make theirs forgot. His goddess exercises mind of noon as anxious teaser plots his dead by hand; 48 �Colloquy / Fall 2019 on him shines glory phasing like the moon’s, its bastard light the fames he once full-manned. His wife for comic plot will overlook some things, and with his image marriage make to rear up life again for telling sake. In tragic plot he overreaches want, their tested oneness, rooted deep, defers as death transfixes memory in words— oh why could he not keep her standing by in rising river, holding fast the line? This present plot . . . I know not what to call, betide some author to untie its knots, free yes and no to straightway touch the goal. But since the waiting is the readiness, is the ripeness too, is the all-in-all this present must the bowstring bend to slay all thronging swilling arrogating longings— so wrath diminish not ‘till fires make cries forgot. I must feel grateful to my heart for not yet killing me, though designating mind as enemy, whose rightful state it occupies as suitor climbing high in peril tree, in wait for leave from her upstairs in years to plow new fate. Now given how I’ve given self away— 49 �Louis Petrich / Four Poems as long my care for her became my learning— what would be left she gone away, no greatness booked would make me stay, to practice going traveler-like, my journey almost done. Fare well, oh former Dearest Mine of Me, your needed here-now atoms, gone a spree. Oh, bother!— still wonderful against all currents other though stars scribe err put barks at variance I’d reign my chariot yours soft hairs fist strong low gentle words my shores. 50 �Colloquy / Fall 2019 Confused and Certain You pulled off there a coupling rare to see. Descartes let senses go for certainty in counting thoughts, but you feel surety turned upside-down and need no purity of math to graft with pleasure new mind’s mates. Old Socrates gave up Athenian life for much confusion spreading: and his bait?— questions—tyrannical in appetite for shrugging wisdom, Sisyphus’ stone. Not so your lithesome shrugs that hearten hands to touch the light on hunch-less shoulders toned by hairs spread warm as lips wine-drunk for man. I wonder if your skeptic brush can fix green eye and fleece me black . . . oh, to know your kicks! Louis Petrich is a tutor at St. John’s College in Annapolis, Maryland. 51 �Elusive Gods and Esoteric Philosophers Ryan Shinkel None may see the face of God and live to tell the tale, or so God likes to tell his prophets. The Lord, it turns out, likes to hide from his seekers. The stranger Jacob wrestles asks to be let go as the sun rises, but Jacob refuses until he receives a blessing. Renamed Israel, he proclaims, “I have seen God face to face, and my life is preserved” (Gen. 32:24-32).1 This blessing—which must be spoken—is not recorded, nor is it said if it was before or after daybreak, when light reveals what is hidden. Jacob is left seeing things anew, as he tells Esau, upon receiving his hand: “for therefore I have seen thy face, as though I had seen the face of God, and thou wast pleased with me” (Gen. 33:10). While this Patriarch sits in the front row, the prophet gets to go backstage. Having found grace before Yahweh and being known by name, Moses asks to see “thy glory” (Ex. 33:17-23). As God bestows grace and mercy as he wills, not as men will, he shall instead “make all my goodness pass before thee” as a proclamation. Moses cannot see his face, “for there shall no man see me, and live.” As a substitute, “while my glory passeth by,” God will shield Moses with his hand: “thou shalt see my back parts: but my face shall not be seen.” Yahweh is a hidden God who discloses his glory at his pleasure. Here, God acts esoterically. Moses and Aaron have heard the word of the Lord, but the people see Moses and hear Aaron (Ex. 4:27-34). Even when God appears as a fire to the people—as he did to Moses—it is from far away, not in a nearby bush, but “like devouring fire” on the mountaintop as seen by the children of Israel (Ex. 24:17). Yahweh is an esoteric deity, open to the few and hidden to the many. Tickets are not publicly sold. 1 The Bible: Authorized King James Version with Apocrypha, with an introduction and notes by Robert Carroll and Stephen Prickett (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997). 52 �Colloquy / Fall 2019 Tradition reflects this phenomenon in scripture of noting distinctions between those to whom God is exoteric or esoteric. When St. Augustine, being troubled by a Manichean literalism, heard St. Ambrose preach, he “judged the Catholic faith” could “be maintained without being ashamed of it.” This case especially concerned “various passages in the Old Testament explained most frequently by way of allegory, by which same passage I was killed when I had taken them literally.” The letter kills, but the spirit gives Augustine life: “when many passages in those books were explained spiritually, I now blamed my own despair” at deeming “the law and the prophets” defenseless against their critics.2 The literal reading of scripture is a basis for allegorical readings as well. One levels supports another. The records of divinity are, in a sense, veiled by letters on the page. The letter protects the spiritual. This textual clothing for the gods occasions for pagans as well as Jews and Christians. In his Metaphysics, Aristotle presents his argument from motion for the existence of the Unmoved Mover, but this being is without any providence which is usually ascribed to deities. The eternal mover originates motion as the primary object of desire and thought. As pure actuality, God is a changeless and living being who is perfect, transcendent, and simple. “On such a principle,” he writes, “depend the heavens and the world of nature.” The whole imperium of heavenly spheres move towards this Mover whose contemplation constitutes pure idea: thought thinks thinking, “for this is God.”3 This cosmological argument extends to the stars: “since there cannot be an infinite regress, the end of every movement will be one of the divine bodies which move through the heavens.” As there is one prime mover, there is one heaven where all movements are for the sake of the divine stars: an ancient secret. But what hides, shall be revealed. 2 St. Augustine, The Confessions of St. Augustine, trans. John K. Ryan (Garden City, NY: Image Books, 1960), 5.24, 131. 3 Aristotle, “Metaphysics,” trans. W.D. Ross, in The Basic Works of Aristotle, ed. Richard McKeon (New York: The Modern Library, 2001), 1072a-b. 53 �Ryan Shinkel / Elusive Gods and Esoteric Philosophers Here, Aristotle discloses that, rather than a God whose revelation is in a hidden form, the poets kept secret within their embellished tales a secret knowledge of gods in nature. The forefathers of the remotest ages handed down to posterity a tradition disguised as a myth: that “these bodies are gods and the divine encloses the whole of nature” (1074b). The rest of the tradition came later—in mythical form—to persuade the multitude for the sake of expedient law and utility by giving human or animal form to these gods. The poets, in this account, were de facto philosophers. They disguised their teachings of natural philosophy in the guise of marvels and fables to protect their work and society. First came the discovery that the heavenly spheres are divine, and then came the noble lies to disguise this teaching for the many. Still, for Aristotle, the early wheat can be separated from the added chaff. Aristotle writes: “that they thought the first substance to be gods, one must regard this as an inspired utterance, and reflect that, while probably each art and each science has often been developed as far as possible and has again perished, these opinions, with others, have been preserved until the present like relics of ancient treasure” (1074b). Only this far is the opinion of the ancestors and earliest predecessors clear to the living. Aristotle rarely gives credence to the poets, but there is scientific truth in this kernel of inspired story, that first substances are divine, since the arts and sciences have progressed and perished, but this relic of ancient treasure has persisted. There is a further instance of poetic inspiration for Aristotle. Many other thinkers postulate many governing principles for the cosmos. However, against these confused views, he charges: “they give us many governing principles; but the world refuses to be governed badly. ‘The rule of many is not good; one ruler let there be’” (1076a). This Homeric quotation (Iliad 2.204) is an example of inspired utterance: Homer is a lyre of metaphysics. Within the poetry hides a revelation of divinity, one which even philosophers may appreciate. But the gods and their poets are not the only ones who can act elusively. Their critics, the philosophers, can play that game as well. René Descartes prefaces his Meditations with a contrast of two kinds of readers. Without 54 �Colloquy / Fall 2019 expecting “any popular approval” or “wide audience,” he urges nobody “to read this book” save “those who are able and willing to meditate seriously with me, and to withdraw their minds from the senses and from all preconceived opinions” (9).4 If many are called to read this book, few are still chosen, as “such readers” as these “are few and far between.” The few are an intended audience, while they who make no attempt to grasp the proper order and connection of the arguments—“but merely try to carp at individual sentences, as is the fashion”—will benefit little from the book. This many “might quibble in many places,” but will not be able to produce worthy “objections” (9-10). Despite the fact that “nothing is older than the truth,” nevertheless in “philosophy” it is believed that “everything can be argued either way” (5). Thus “few people pursue the truth, while the great majority build up their reputation for ingenuity for boldly attacking whatever is most sound.” A lover of wisdom is rare, but dialecticians and sophists are commonplace. Descartes waits for perceptive readers. He who has eyes, let him read with care. One example of perceptive writing is, on the very first page, a rewrite of scripture. As Aristotle reinterpreted Homer and company, so Descartes reinterprets the Bible. He says all theologians assert that God’s existence is naturally demonstrable and more knowable than most created things. As a prooftext, he claims: “in Romans, Chapter 1 it is said that they are ‘without excuse’. And in the same place, in the passage ‘that which is known of God is manifest in them,’ we seem to be told that everything that may be known of God can be demonstrated by reasoning which has no other source but our own mind” (2). Thus Descartes later inquires as to how it is that the knowledge of God is more certain than knowledge of the world. Yet the passage has very much the opposite meaning: “Because that which may be known of God is manifest in them,” St. Paul writes, “for God hath shewed it unto them.” The reason is that, he continues, “the invisible things of him 4 Citations of the Meditations refer to the original pagination of the Latin text as given in: René Descartes, “Meditations on First Philosophy,” in The Philosophical Writings of Descartes, Vol. 2, trans. John Cottingham, Robert Stoothoff, and Dugald Murdoch (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1984). 55 �Ryan Shinkel / Elusive Gods and Esoteric Philosophers from the creation of the world are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made, even his eternal power and Godhead; so that they are without excuse” (Rom. 1:19-20). In this passage, the visible works of creation show the invisible powers of God. It begins not with idealism, but experience elucidated by metaphysical insight. We know by natural reason upon creation that God is. What the Apostle says, as St. Thomas Aquinas comments on this scriptural passage, “would not be unless the existence of God could be demonstrated through the things that are made; for the first thing we must know of anything is whether it exists.”5 Instead, Descartes revises Romans 1. It is traditionally understood to mean the knowledge of the infinite creator God from his powers manifested in creation. With Descartes, it instead means a logical proof in the mind. But such a scholastic point, as is made here, is one of “the large number of falsehoods that I had accepted as true in my childhood,” showing “the highly doubtful nature of the whole edifice that I had subsequently based on them.” Thus, “it was necessary, once in the course of my life, to demolish everything completely and start again right from the foundations” so “to establish anything at all in the sciences that was stable and likely to last,” (Meditations 17). Descartes’ methodical doubt shall cleanse these impure opinions away, much like clearing away the anthropomorphic embellishments in poetry in order to find truly inspired utterances. One must doubt to believe. As St. Mark records: “And straightway the father of the child cried out, and said with tears, Lord, I believe; help thou mine unbelief” (Mk. 9:24). Perhaps one need not doubt in order to believe. This is shown in another example of elusive philosophy: David Hume. He doubts not for grandeur in belief, but for moderation in skepticism. The arguments of this Pyrrhonian skeptic have great force, even though their conclusions are blunted by the 5 St. Thomas Aquinas, The Summa Theologica, trans. the Fathers of the English Dominican Province, Second and Revised Ed. (1920), http://www.newadvent.org/summa/index.html, 1.2.2. 56 �Colloquy / Fall 2019 necessities of common life. Twice Hume begins a part of his Treatise with an epigram by Tacitus from his Histories (1.1): “Rara temporum felicitas, ubi sentire, quae velis; & quae sentias, dicere licet,” which is translated as, “The rare good fortune of an age in which we may feel what we wish and say what we feel.”6 Further, he begins his third part with an epigram by Lucan from his Civil Wars (9.562-3): “Durae semper virtutis amator, Quaere quid est virtus, et pasce exemplar honesti,” which means, “A lover of austere virtue, you should at least ask now what Virtue is and demand to see Goodness in her visible shape.”7 Only at this time is it possible for a philosopher to feel what one wishes and freely express it. Yet Hume published his Treatise anonymously, as he says in the Advertisement to his Enquiry of “that juvenile work, which the Author never acknowledged.”8 Hume did not find a large audience, but only a few acerbic authors. Yet even in such circumstances, Hume still takes measures to couch his criticisms of religion in terms of piety: the act of faith is itself a miracle – and thus a violation of the laws of nature as attested by the accustomed experience of conjoined events.9 Some would charge Hume and his ilk exhibit “a century-long degradation and devaluation of the concept ‘philosopher’,” lacking “real spiritual power, spiritual vision of real depth—in short, philosophy.”10 Human, all too human, is truly humean, all too humean. So Friedrich Nietzsche charges. Persons with spiritual power and vision are few and far between. “Every exceptional person instinctively seeks out his fortress, his secrecy, where he is delivered from the crowd, the multitude, the majority, where he is allowed to forget the rule of ‘humanity’, being the exception to it,” he writes of the free spirit in Beyond Good and Evil (26). Since only very few can achieve independence, “a prerogative of the strong,” the 6 David Hume, A Treatise of Human Nature, ed. David Fate Norton and Mary J. Norton (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 1, 179. 7 Ibid., 3, 290. 8 David Hume, “Advertisement,” in An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, ed. Peter Millican (New York: Oxford University Press, 2007), 2. 9 Hume, An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, 10.41, 95. 10 Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil, trans. & ed. Marion Faber (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), section 252. 57 �Ryan Shinkel / Elusive Gods and Esoteric Philosophers man who attempts it by right but not need is “probably not only strong, but bold to the point of recklessness” (29). This man, so far from the quarrels of human conscience, reaches the point where, if he dies, he perishes across a canyon from human pity and feeling, “and he cannot go back again!” This spirit of independence in philosophy is reserved for freer spirits on high. It is meant for the few, not the multitude. “Whenever our loftiest insights inadvertently reach the ears of people” not “constituted or destined to hear them,” these insights should “sound foolish,” if not sometimes “even criminal” (30). For “earlier philosophers”—from Indians and Greeks to Persians and Muslims, “people in short who believed in hierarchy and not in equality and equal rights”—had “distinguished what is exoteric from what is esoteric.” While “the exoteric philosopher stands on the outside, and sees, estimates, measures, and makes judgements from the outside rather than from the inside,” for “he sees things from down below—whereas the esoteric philosopher sees things from above!” Exoteric philosophy is distanced from what it observes, but is therefore beneath it, while esoteric philosophy is above it all. From the viewpoint of these spiritual heights, “even tragedy ceases to have a tragic effect” and this higher philosopher, “taking all the pain of the world together,” might decide upon “redoubling the pain.” From this outlook, things are topsy-turvy. One goes all the way down the rabbit hole. What nourishes and refreshes a higher type of person is poisonous to an inferior type. The virtues of an ordinary person are vices of weakness in an uncommon philosopher. What occasions ruin and degeneration for this overman would be, paradoxically, a state of affairs where he is “revered as a saint in that lower world into which he sank” (30). If the esoteric philosopher were to descend to the masses, he would be worshipped like a god. Shown here is an inverse relation of what is good and bad for higher persons, and good and evil for lower ones. Some books “have an inverse value for body and soul” if “they are used by the low sort of soul” or by “the higher and more powerful.” For the many, “they are dangerous, erosive, disintegrative books,” while for the few, “they are calls of a herald, challenging those who 58 �Colloquy / Fall 2019 are most valiant to attain their valour.” One can tell by the sense of smell: “Books for the masses are always bad-smelling books: the odour of little people clings to them.” This stink congregates “wherever the common people eat and drink, and even in their places of reverence.” As Nietzsche wryly comments, “Do not go into churches if you want to breathe clean air.” Among the children of Israel a higher being is denigrated, and among the multitude a divine fire is made anthropomorphic. Likewise, an esoteric philosopher in church would stink and have little room to breathe. One needs fresh air, on a mountain with burning bushes. This lesson is not necessarily a new one—as nothing is older than the truth. Do not be afraid of teachers, Jesus of Nazareth tells his disciples, “for there is nothing covered, that shall not be revealed; and hid, that shall not be known” (Matt. 10:25). Even so, the order of who knows what is inverse: “I thank thee, O Father, Lord of heaven and earth,” Christ prays, “because thou hast hid these things from the wise and prudent, and hast revealed them unto babes” (Matt. 11:25). Those who learn sacred mysteries are valleys exalted, while those who do not are mountains and hills made low. The few and the many trade places. If everything hidden shall be revealed, but what is made known is hid from the wise and prudent, then all things are made known— but in a veiled fashion. Thus St. Matthew writes: “All these things spake Jesus unto the multitude in parables; and without a parable spake he not unto them: That it might be fulfilled which was spoken by the prophet, saying, I will open my mouth in parables; I will utter things which have been kept secret from the foundation of the world” (Matt. 13:34-35). Here is a higher type taking on a human nature, one who is to be revered by a lower world into which he sank. How could it be otherwise? A higher being entering a lower level of being is not seen in full, but only in part. The pattern is akin to Dante writing his own person into the Divina Commedia as its protagonist narrator. We characters do not directly see the author directly. How may one approach He who was named by the angel to Moses as “I am that I am” (Ex. 3:14)? One cannot see the unveiled face of 59 �Ryan Shinkel / Elusive Gods and Esoteric Philosophers God and live without mediation. There is a tabernacle for that: “Καὶ ὁ Λόγος σὰρξ ἐγένετο καὶ ἐσκήνωσεν ἐν ἡµῖν” (Jn. 1:14). The Koine Greek translates: the Logos became flesh and tabernacled among us. Tabernacle is a verb predicated on the subject Logos. He who hath ears, let him hear. Ryan Shinkel is a historical researcher and writes from Annapolis. His master’s essay is to be on St. Augustine, and he is currently writing a book about how Achilles became Steve Jobs. Jaime Marquez 60 �Colloquy / Fall 2019 The Epidamnus Affair 1 Gregory LaMontagne [To the Athenians] CORCYRA: When neighbors reticent hail unforeseen, And not in haste collecting bounty due, They must needs qualify their audience Upon two points, advantage and reward. If should entreaties fail on both accounts, Or even if but one such argument Should lose support, then guest importunate Finds hosts alike aloof from his collapse. Therefore, we stand before you for we stand Secure in doubly reinforced request. But first, as honesty marks what is fair, As much, and only after, what is foul, We must our motivation model bare, So Athens first may mark how we did err. By Zeus, 'twas not in wickedness we camped Unyielding in our isolation thus; Instead, belike a stalk atop a hill, Allotting not the sunbeams nor the dew, Absorbing all for profit, we resolved To ally not was but to aid ourselves, And notice how our policy proved true When singly did we conquer Corinth's ships. Alas, success as fortune's evidence, Imprudently we kept our favored course, 1 In one of the incidents which ignited the Peloponnesian War, Corcyraean and Corinthian heralds meet to plead their cases in an Athenian assembly. This is a verse adaptation of Thucydides’ telling of the event (Thucydides, History of the Peloponnesian War, 1.32.1-1.40.6). 61 �Gregory LaMontagne / The Epidamnus Affair And thinking skies would e'er auspicious be, Late desert winds reprove our fortune's lack; For now, as Corinth and her cohorts surge, Fraternal drought yields none with which to merge. Abreast of all, advance we our request: Permit us solace in confed'racy. Our tardiness we said does much us taint, But ripe the bounty is for recompense: Because we call as victims full abused, Redeeming us endears you publicly, And wins you all which we have still to prize: Our naval power is best—excepting you— With ample store of men and currency; Indeed, was e'er alliance smoothly drawn, The power of pledging honorable guard, The pledge with power to guard the hon'rable? Now might be urged our gain is but in war; A rightly boon for nigh 'twill be in store. He's more than blind that sees no conflict near, Not even Corinth could perceive the less— Shortsighted though she be in state and arms— Must needs we mind you of her friend your foe? Why else would she send hasty envoys here Where only treaty will entreat her stays? By staying our united forces, she The better force our sep'rate forfeitures. Though known that Corinth is our motherland, Prefer you'd call us orphan than her spawn, For vilely did she perpetrate her claim, Enslaving kin, forgoing trial for war. If tyrant to those closest bound by seed, Beware ye, Athens, only bound in deed. Pursuing treaties, lest you fear a breach 'Tween you and Lacedaemon's thinning ties, 62 �Colloquy / Fall 2019 Our past indifference should embolden you; Provisioned neutral states may join whoe'er. And even if Peloponnesus smarts, The wiser you for doubling your defence. Conjoined, your navy first, ours just behind, Horizons four were bridled by but two; Third best at sea, yon Corinth—lately smote— Yet shunning victor's arrogance, take heed That fortified she'll bankrupt every bet, O'ertaking second's reigns, attaining first. Old counsel is the longest-lived advice: With foes of foes is friendship founded twice. Advantages discussed, hear our reward: No currency has yet been smelt than that Which could repay in drowning galley hulls The debt owed justly keeping freemen free. In truth, there is no recompense. Instead like dangling grapes to prunèd arms, All trophies we could mount were daises, Forever fruitless save in constancy. In sum, with much at hand, and more at stake, States worldliest as fit must bear the world. Encompassing all birds and bones and smoke, Your verdict will proclaim our prophecy: Recline, you forward our enslavement foul; Attack, we both promote the sovereign owl. CORINTH: 'Tis not our way to press with charm or stent, But let the blunted ram of reason sway. Corcyra, late concocting tragic scenes, Beguiling passions, hoped to win their case, And thus, though we prepared apology, Our precedent requires plural refute; 63 �Gregory LaMontagne / The Epidamnus Affair And as more argument usurps more time, What shortly planned proves long when unrehearsed. You heard tell crime of misabuse, a lie; You heard confession of a vice, a truth Befouled by counterfeit remorse, and last You heard a bugbear more befitting youths, That war is braced though long have treaties held. Now Corinth rights you what's been wrongly spelled. A colony is like a husband's heir, Bestowed with raiment, duly nourished, Entitled sanctuary, sure beloved, And asking in return just loyalty. When all such sons spurn father commonly, Indict the latter with mismanagement; But tribute honored barring only one, Lament the sire beset by selfish seed. In siege secure did they press then for trial; In fearful straits do they now beg acquittal; What further evidence must needs contemn? Bereft of friends—our other subjects sate— Corcyra flees to strangers ne'er'fore met, For previous pride seclusion did beget. By this they played their part with learned remorse, But tainted tears resoil where pure ones wash. The lonely weed they spok'st, all rain, all sun, It sucked, devoured, bares their nature true: They justified withdrawal as liberty; Yea, rapine free from guilt or oversight. Retreated, they, from every settlement, But not so far removed to lack a port, And thus they sat and drained each tired guest Whom fate would spurn and cast their woeful way, As much a host should run such hostelry To put all bandits out of busyness. 64 �Colloquy / Fall 2019 Are these the friends you trust contracted peace? Are these to trust when pleasant trade times cease? And cease they will if Athens votes for shame; Not Corcyra, but Corinth treaty binds, And planting hopes outside of bound'ries is The surest way to sew condignèd blight. They claim that war portends; fulfill their seers This same day by assenting. We'll see to't. For comrades close to foes are far from friends; Choose Corcyra, you herald us opposed, You rift war's net and spill his pinioned wrath. Our allies justly will attend our sides; Can you, oathbreaking, count on sim'lar vows? Distrust begets distrust, revolt, revolt; You'd gain a friend to lose a sundry more. The godless sacrifice no gods restore. So soon you'll vote what late we passed ourselves— Against the wishes of our allies—said We: powers are right to punish colonies, And thus was Samos, unassisted, quelled. Intruding not, intrude not, mark the law: Give like to like; if fairness moves you not, Be stirred what profits all: impartial wit, Neutrality's epitome, imparts That straightest paths lead swiftest to reward; Abet not wayward crooks who drag repute; Conduct yourselves but wisely, and you'll learn How kind shores kind more fast than any ship. Decision's simple when decisive's tough: Let leave us, Athens, and 'twill be enough. Gregory LaMontange (AGI'19) is a transplant from Houston, Texas who thwarts his natural desire to tell you everything about himself by way of keeping all autobiographical writings to a one-sentence minimum. 65 �A Conversation with Sheba Delaney Colloquy: We at Colloquy are really delighted to be having this conversation with you, Ms. Delaney. Thank you for doing this! Before we move into the specifics, it would be wonderful if you could, for the benefit of our readers, tell us something about yourself. Sheba Delaney: Hi! My name is Sheba Ross Delaney. I'm sixty-seven years old. I grew up in Houston, Texas. I've lived in New York City for about fifty years. I went to art school and had a career as an editorial illustrator for magazines and newspapers. I've also been a fine arts painter most of my adult life and still am. And now I'm also a sophomore at St. John's. CQ: Interesting! How did a sixty-seven year old fine arts student, who has had such a wonderful career, find St. John's? SD: I heard about St. John's when I was in art school. I was always a book person and I was intrigued by the idea of it. But I was on a different path at that time and didn't think about it seriously. But it was always in the back of my mind. Now I have other interests that I would like to pursue and I felt that a solid foundation in the evolution in Western culture would be a good thing to have. Where else but St. John’s? CQ: Being somewhat different from the average profile [of a student] applying to St John’s, how was the experience of the admissions process? SD: Well, we do have a fair number of students who are not eighteen-yearolds straight out of high school. In my sophomore class, we have someone in their forties, who's had a fantastic career as a musician, and people who are in their mid-twenties. But I'm definitely farther away from high school than most! — 66 �Colloquy / Fall 2019 So as far as the admissions process went, I was just as nervous as anybody else. I went through the process normally. I came to the school and interviewed, and I submitted my essays and my information. It was a little challenging getting high school transcripts. I had to go find an Ancient Cave of Transcripts from high schools that no longer exist... But I managed to track them down and I was really thrilled to be admitted. CQ: Was it easy for you to get into the groove, especially as the programme here at St. John's is a little different from the rest of the country? SD: Well, I don't have a comparison to make because I never went to any kind of academic college program. I [only] went to art school and left early to start my career. Putting myself into a structured environment where one is juggling several different and difficult tasks simultaneously was definitely challenging for me. I’ve always been a monotasker! CQ: You have been a voracious reader. Did that make the reading, which we are supposed to do before any Tutorial or Seminar, easier? SD: I’ve always read a lot, but reading critically in preparation for discussion is different from reading for pleasure. I wouldn't say it's a strain because I love to read, but reading carefully—and the volume of reading that has to be done—is a challenge. CQ: The format of discussions is such that you read the text, stick to the text, have questions and explore answers from the text itself—without any interpretation of your own. How has that experience been and how easily could you accustom [yourself] to it? SD: I've never read as a group activity before. So it took some time in the beginning. I think [that] for all freshmen it’s a process to learn how to listen and engage in the conversation. I mean, it's one thing to read and have your ideas and just come in with those ideas, but the goal is to be an active 67 �A Conversation with Sheba Delaney participant in the discussion. It took a little practice, but I feel pretty comfortable with it now. CQ: Do you think that the body of experience that you brought to the table gave you some confidence and reassurance, or did you go with an open mind, eager to learn from whatever everybody around the table could offer? SD: I didn't feel like I had any advantage. What we are doing, we were all new to. It was a learning process and I was learning along with everyone else. So I feel very much on the same level as my classmates and am really interested in what people have to say. I’m amazed at the insights people have that I would never have thought of. So, no, I didn't feel any advantage or a disadvantage. I just kind of felt we were all on the same level. CQ: You have shared that there are people across age groups and experiences in the College. What was the response of your classmates to your presence initially? Do you think that they were open to you? SD: Yes, I’ve felt very accepted. My classmates have been really kind and really accepting. Maybe a little startled at first! But after the first few weeks everybody was just trying to get their work done and get on with it. It’s a great community. It’s been fun. CQ: Have you [already] read any of the books included in your freshman year or sophomore year? How was the experience? SD: I’ve read pretty widely, so, yes, I have read quite a few of the books that we cover. But a lot of them I read a long time ago, so it’s great to revisit them again in this context. CQ: For any of the books that you have [already] read, did you ever feel that there was a change of perspective towards the text or a new interpretation of the text on account of the discussions that ensued in the classroom? 68 �Colloquy / Fall 2019 SD: Oh, I think the classroom discussions definitely enrich my understanding of the text. And I learn as much from my classmates as I do from the text. CQ: Do you think that you would like to pursue any other language—let's say Greek as an additional language—beyond the curriculum? SD: You mean after St. John's, or maybe even now? I probably will be too busy keeping current with the program going forward. I don’t know if I could study two languages at once. But what I do feel is that I've had an introduction to Greek that gives me a good foundation to continue with later if I want to. CQ: In addition to reading, reading, reading, and discussing, is there any other activity on campus that you've participated in or been a part of? SD: Last year, I went to the creative writing group. I've gone to a few one-day study groups. There are so many things that look like fun! But to be honest, staying on top of my work is my priority. So I try not to get too involved in too many things. CQ: You mentioned attending creative writing club last year. You are already a columnist, aren’t you? SD: Yes, over the years I have written a number of columns on religion for The Episcopal New Yorker, which is a diocesan newspaper. CQ: We heard that you also wrote for a couple of college magazines. Tell us about that, please. SD: Well, one of the unexpected things that happened last year was that a lot of what we’re doing triggered my sense of humor. So I found myself writing humor pieces on the side. A couple of them went into The Gadfly and I had a comic strip on Greek pronouns in the last issue of Energeia. And a poem coming up in the next one. So that’s been fun. 69 �A Conversation with Sheba Delaney CQ: Would you like to contribute to Colloquy in the subsequent issue? SD: Sure, if I come up with something worthwhile! CQ: Let’s talk about essay writing. How easy or difficult has it been for you to write an essay on, say, mathematics? How did you go about it? SD: Writing comes pretty naturally to me, as long as it's something that I'm interested in. But I’m not very comfortable with math, and writing a math paper was a completely alien concept! So my first math papers were actually creative writing pieces using math concepts as characters. And that was a lot of fun and my math tutor, Ms. Ekholm (thank you, Ms. Ekholm!), was quite patient with me! But after we got well into the year and I settled into Euclid a little bit I was ready to write a proper math paper. And I did. CQ: Would you say that you have understood what a Johnnie essay is and what it takes to write one? SD: No, actually, I didn’t really want to learn to write a Johnnie essay. I think in the beginning I was a little worried because I thought I should write a Johnnie essay, whatever that is. And then I thought: “I better stop thinking that way,” because it was just completely intimidating me. So I decided to just think about what was interesting to me and go from there. The tutors are helpful in organising your thoughts. But, basically, I'm super interested in a lot of what we do here. And it's fun for me to try and turn that into a coherent piece of writing. CQ: Now that you're in your sophomore year, what advice do you have for a freshman coming to St. John's? SD: Pace yourself, show up for class, take it one day at a time, and get as much sleep as you can. And take time to have some fun! 70 �Colloquy / Fall 2019 CQ: Do you think that there is enough exchange or interaction between undergraduate and Graduate Institute students on campus? How was your experience been? SD: Actually I'm a gregarious person, so I tend to talk to a lot of people. So I have met some people in the Graduate Institute, but I think it would be nice for there to be more interface. Maybe some school-sponsored social event. We are one community after all, and it’s nice for people to get to know each other. CQ: I get that you're not from Annapolis, or anywhere close to this region. How was the change for you? SD: Big. After forty-five years of living in New York City coming to Annapolis was really a very big change, but it was a welcome change. I came here with a purpose and I have a reason for being here, and it's a lovely community. Definitely quieter and slower paced than New York City, but I like it. I'm enjoying my time here. CQ: Are you also juggling a career with your studies or have you taken a break from your full-time career? SD: No, I'm focusing on school right now. I am continuing to paint but it's definitely at a slowed-down pace while I'm in school. CQ: Do you think that we might have an exhibition of your paintings anytime soon in our own Mitchell Gallery? SD: Well I was honored to be part of the Community Art Show last year. The Mitchell Gallery does such a great job putting together interesting shows. I’d be happy to be part of anything they thought was appropriate. CQ: After the undergraduate program, do you have any plans for further studies or will you be taking it a little easy? 71 �A Conversation with Sheba Delaney SD: Well, I’m taking it one day at a time but am hoping to go on and do a Master’s in theology. CQ: That is brilliant. And would you be considering St. John's or do you have any other institutions in mind? SD: Not St. John’s, but don’t know where yet. That’s still down the road. CQ: What is it about theology that inspires you to pursue it academically? SD: Everything. CQ: Is it possible that one day you would write a story of your own—perhaps on your observations of life, a particular phase of your life, or even St. John's, for instance? SD: I never know what I’m going to do next. CQ: Is there anything else that you would like to share with people keen on starting afresh in life, probably wanting to pursue something that they thought that they could not do? We are asking because it takes a lot of courage, and your decision to go back to college after so many years would have taken a lot of thought and courage both. Do you have a message for people who want to do something of that sort in life? SD: I think people should do whatever they want to do, whenever they feel like doing it. We should always be creating the future for ourselves that we want. How long that future will be isn’t relevant. Ms. Delaney worked for many years as an editorial illustrator for many publications, including The New York Times, Time Magazine, Esquire, Money Magazine, and The Times of London. She has exhibited her oil paintings in various gallery and museum shows. She has written frequently on religion for The Episcopal New Yorker. 72 �Colloquy / Fall 2019 Jaime Marquez 73 �The Truth of Fiction in the Odyssey Jordi Rozenman The Odyssey overflows with life. Vitality sparkles from its pages as does the sun from the sea against which Homer sets his masterpiece. The work is as full to the brim with vim and vigor as is the man himself, loved, hated, unable to be ignored: Odysseus. But what does this mean, after all? What does it mean that a work of fiction—of lies—can be truer to life than some of the most earnest, and driest, attempts of the philosophers in our program? By the same token, what does it mean that a protagonist so full of fictions—of lies—can offer a different self, a different history, to different people, and can create the valuable effect of truth for his listeners through his lies? What does this teach us about the nature of truth itself? What is it that we are actually looking for when we are, we think, trying to get to the bottom of things? Part of the Odyssey’s depth of honesty and aliveness comes from the true-to-life, exquisitely intricate web it weaves around and between its characters, so that no one is ever moving in a vacuum—not of time, place, or people. They push and pull at strands of the web that connects them to each other, to gods and humans, to the past, to their home. They move in concert with or against each other and their own desires, but never in empty space. Even while they find themselves entangled in the web that Homer weaves, however, the characters themselves spin their own strands and add to the web in which they exist. They are held by it and they help build it; they are acted upon and active—and in the Odyssey some of the most memorable moments of agency come in the medium of lying. Where do we find truth, both in the story and in the mode of fiction itself, and how do we know when we’re getting it? The dazzling, dizzying array of stories that Odysseus, many-minded, reveals and fabricates about his past throughout the narrative can leave one gasping for breath, just as one might feel if one were Odysseus himself, tossed violently about on the sea over and over again until he has lost control over which way 74 �Colloquy / Fall 2019 is forward and which way behind. One sees the web at work here; it is a fitting mirroring of form and content every time Odysseus spins a new tale. When Odysseus, after many a literal and figurative maelstrom, finds himself washed up on the island of the Phaeacians, we see him eloquently attempt to regain control of his life by trying to control time: that is, by trying to effectively make the past past. How do we do this? How do we make an event into something we have been through, instead of something that we are going through? We turn it into a story. We tell the story that has already happened, and when we finish the story it is over. Before Odysseus can effect this transformation of his deeply lodged experiences, however, he knows instinctively that it will require a powerful trigger, and so he asks for help. Odysseus may not even realize until this very point—when all ears are politely, continually waiting for him to tell his story—that he has reached a turning point in his odyssey, and that he is, in fact, at a point where he can do some looking back instead of living through. Of course, these phrases (“make the past past” and “looking back”) beg quotation marks in one sense. The past does not leave us. It becomes an influence, sometimes consciously, sometimes unexpectedly (hence Homer’s web, and the narrative’s twists in and out of the present at every turn and through multiple characters). Nonetheless, there is a difference between enduring and reflecting, and this long-awaited, perhaps often-doubted moment affords Odysseus at least a temporary opportunity for rest and reflection. Still hiding, still unaware that he is no longer in the ordeal of a traumatic sea voyage but beyond it, yet “happy listening,” in the friendly society of fellow humans, Odysseus asks Demodocus to sing him his own song (8.368-369 & 8.487-499).1 We can’t be sure what Odysseus’s motivation is here, but the place and the timing suggest that on some level, subconsciously perhaps, he is looking for an emotional release. His request is to be reminded of his self prior to his misfortunes at sea, of the man that his friends and his family knew. He is looking, in this moment, to be known. He has not been known for such a long time. He has not been recognized in all his humanity— that is, his childhood, his adolescence, his marriage, his fatherhood—by any 1 All quotations of the Odyssey from: The Odyssey, trans. Emily Wilson (New York: W. W. Norton & Co., 2018). 75 �Jordi Rozenman / The Truth of Fiction of the mythical creatures he has encountered in his travels; he has not been familiar to them. So he asks for Demodocus to “‘sing the story / about the Wooden Horse, which Epeius / built with Athena’s help. Odysseus / dragged it inside and to the citadel[...]. / If you / can tell that as it happened, I will say / that you are truly blessed with inspiration’” (8.493-499). However, our master of disguises has bitten off more than he can chew in this moment, and the emotional release he experiences is of such force and violence that he is unable to praise the poet for the fact that he “was melting into tears” (8.521). The extraordinary simile that follows—which takes up nine lines of its own, switches to present tense and becomes its own full story—is stunning for its vividness and the depth of feeling it carries, enough to cause confusion as to whether we are still discussing Odysseus. So deeply felt is Odysseus’s grieving in this instant that Homer mistrusts our ability to grasp it without momentarily directing our full attention to a more immediately violent story. Conspicuously, like a woman whose life will forever be altered, “in that same desperate way, Odysseus / was crying” (8.531-532). Why? Why at this moment are his cheeks “wet with weeping, as a woman / weeps”? As she watches her fallen husband gasp and die: “She shrieks[...]. The men are right behind. / They hit her shoulders with their spears and lead her / to slavery” (8.522-529). Clearly it is not simply Odysseus’s crying that is of import here: it is how he is crying, and we must examine this catharsis. It is catharsis in the strictest sense of the word as Odysseus listens to a dramatic story artistically delivered and experiences it vicariously while safe in the palace of Alcinous. The difference is, of course, that Odysseus has also experienced this particular story in actuality, in reality, personally: he is, in this moment, being known. In listening to Demodocus, everyone else in the hall pleasantly takes part in the art of the devastation the “‘gods / devised and measured out[...] / to make a song for those in times to come,’” as both wisely and insensitively explained by Alcinous, distant as he is from any personal connection to the war (8.578-580). What everyone else present is experiencing as art, Odysseus is experiencing as truth. Perhaps we begin now to circle back to our earlier question: what is it we are looking for when we say we are looking 76 �Colloquy / Fall 2019 for truth, and how do we know when we have found it? We are, this episode suggests, looking to be known, or to know intuitively and personally what we have heard (not to learn, but to “recollect,” to put it in the terms of Plato’s Meno).2 Is this what is at the core of truth? Is Homer in accord with Socrates here? He seems to be suggesting an inverse of truth as offered in the Meno. Rather than posit that we know we have encountered truth when we recognize it deep in ourselves, Homer suggests that we know truth when we recognize ourselves in it deeply. To further consider this and to understand the remarkable sharpness and poignancy of Odysseus’s cathartic moment, we must contrast it with that of Penelope in Book Nineteen. The Odyssey, in its gorgeous, complex web, offers us more than one instance, more than one character with which to investigate any number of life’s eternal questions. And in the case of the nature of truth, fiction, and self, we would be remiss if we did not pair Odysseus’s desperate catharsis with the moment that mirrors it in his wife. It is hard to say which of these moments of emotional release is more fascinating, and when examined together they yield an incredible richness of possibility. Penelope, utterly faithful and continuously grieving for two decades, has not been able to manage the suitors without deceit because she cannot bear the thought of marrying a man of a lesser quality than Odysseus. She, like Odysseus in the example above, may not even quite realize by Book Nineteen just how deep a toll the years of selfimposed stasis and living simultaneously on both sides of an unknown have taken on her. She has been enduring her own odyssey, an odyssey of waiting and waiting for something and, in the meantime, never allowing herself to look one way (which would mean Odysseus is dead) or the other (which might mean remarrying, only to discover later that he is alive). She cannot move forward; in effect, she cannot move. And yet the days come and go, and come again: she is “‘weighed down by grief’” (19.96). The discomfort and pain of living this way is immense, yet, mirroring her husband, she cannot afford to reflect on this while she is in it. By the time Odysseus has returned to his home, Penelope has not had the opportunity to truly, consciously consider exactly 2 Plato, Meno, 81c-e. 77 �Jordi Rozenman / The Truth of Fiction how much she needs relief, nor of how small a word or event could break down the wall—offering the pain and relief of catharsis. Such is the context for one of Odysseus’s most important fictions. Disguised as a beggar and spinning sundry tales for all who are near, Odysseus sneaks into his home undetected and spends several days there gathering information before he wrests his household back from the suitors. In large part, he avoids Penelope altogether. On the night before the contest of the bow, however, Penelope requests the beggar’s presence. Eager to speak with him, partly because she has heard him mention Odysseus’s name more than once, she knows there is something he can offer her—though what it is she doesn’t know. What he offers her, what he feels he must, at this point, offer her are lies. In character as Aethon from Crete, he tells her that Odysseus and his crew stayed for twelve days with him because “‘A storm had driven him off course / [...]although he yearned for Troy’” (19.186-188). Eager though they were to reach the war, “‘a mighty north wind trapped them,’” giving this Aethon some time to get to know Odysseus (19.200). It is a lie, among Odysseus’s many other lies, with enough force to lure even the reader into forgetfulness that it is Odysseus who is speaking and that this never happened. In this stillness before monumental action, in this room with a curious Penelope and a disguised Odysseus, and the sweet pause that tension creates, it is easy to lose the thread of what’s really going on while trying to follow the thread of what Odysseus says is going on. In other words, Odysseus and Homer are working in perfect harmony here: Odysseus is in full control of the characters with his fictions, Homer in full control of the readers with his. The peculiar power of this instance may be due to the inclusion of a real event in Odysseus’s history (the Trojan War), or simply to the power required for Odysseus to deceive Penelope. Either way, it colors the narrator’s next comment with layers of meaning. In this instance, as nowhere else, “His lies were like the truth”—what impeccable placement for such a comment in a narrative full of lies (19.205). However, as in the scene with Demodocus, here it is not only the story which elicits catharsis, but Penelope’s reaction, which 78 �Colloquy / Fall 2019 heightens the whole scene and makes the narrator’s apt exposition replete with meaning. “His lies were like the truth” not only for their well-constructed detail and believability, but for the viscerally personal effect they have on Penelope, who, “as she listened, [...]began to weep” (19.205-206). “Her face”—exactly as Odysseus’s 200 pages earlier—“was melting.” Linguistically this is the exact same moment. Because Odysseus has lost more people and bears more of a burden, the simile that follows for Penelope’s catharsis is less violent and more pleasant (it is a reunion, after all, even if she remains unaware of the fact). It is less sustained than the gut-wrenching one before, but equally poignant: “like the snow that Zephyr / scatters across the mountain peaks; then Eurus / thaws it, and as it melts, the rivers swell / and flow again” (19.207-209). We are in the act of watching Penelope’s heart thaw and release, something it could not afford to do during twenty years of limbo if it was to survive at all. Thus, it is not so much that the lies themselves are “like the truth”; rather, the narrator more precisely could have related that the effects of the lies were the same as those the truth would have had on Penelope. Something very important is happening here: Penelope experiences an honest reaction to lies—a true emotional release. There is something true in her response, and, moreover, there is in fact something true in what Odysseus tells her. What can that be? We know that what he says never happened, he makes it up. There are no facts in the story with which he supplies her. We must now return to the question of fiction, of what we look for in truth, and what it is we feel when we think we have found it. The story Odysseus tells Penelope here is indeed a fiction, but there is truth in fiction regardless of whether there are facts. The truth that Penelope responds to in this moment is the truth of being known, the same truth Odysseus responds to in his own moment of release. The truth of this moment is not to be found in the story that is delivered, but in the deliverer himself, and probably in the nature of his delivery as well. Just hearing Odysseus’s name and any information about him may be emotional for Penelope, but she has heard many such references and many such stories since his departure, and 79 �Jordi Rozenman / The Truth of Fiction has mistrusted them. Penelope cries, lets down her guard when she hears this fake story about Odysseus on Crete, because the person telling it to her knows her and knows what she needs to hear, and how she needs to hear it. Truth in the Odyssey is an experience of being known, deeply. It almost does not matter whether Penelope in fact knows the truth of the identity of the beggar before her, because he knows hers, and this she feels genuinely, honestly. This particular set of lies, and only this set explicitly according to the narrator, is “like the truth” not because of what the teller says, but because the teller knows the heart of his listener. Having investigated the catalysts for each character’s catharsis (catalysts that seem opposed in nature, but in fact have their roots in the same source of truth), we must examine what these two moments can tell us together about the truth-as-being-known via their explanatory similes. It is nothing short of fascinating that Penelope’s moment of release is not that of a woman weeping, “as she falls to wrap her arms around / her husband, fallen fighting for his home / and children” (8.522-525). No—this is Odysseus, in Book Eight! Penelope’s catharsis is not a release of grief over death; hers is a release of pain in order to come back to life. In this lovely moment, “her lovely cheeks / dissolved with tears”—all the more stunning because “She wept for her own husband, / who was right next to her” (emphasis added)—we must ask what the author means by mirroring the two moments and by mirroring truth and untruth (19.209-211). What does it mean that Odysseus sobs in a way that would be perfectly appropriate to his better half at home, an actual wife who at all costs has been trying to avoid imagining herself wrapping her arms around her fallen military husband? What does it mean that Odysseus does this instead, for her, and that Penelope honestly, for the first time with relief, weeps for an absent husband only when she is actually in his presence? It is further evidence of the tie that binds both moments and the concepts of truth and fiction in the Odyssey. Odysseus cries in the manner we would have expected Penelope to, and Penelope cries—in truth—both for Odysseus and with Odysseus, both in mind of him and in sight of him. The analogies highlight brilliantly the fact that the pair’s honest emotions are not dependent on what they know (if Odysseus is alive, if Penelope thinks of him, that 80 �Colloquy / Fall 2019 Odysseus is right next to Penelope). Rather, they depend on how well they are known by the one who affords them their moment of truth. In fact, the effect Odysseus’s truth-delivering (without being truth-telling) has on Penelope is the same effect it has on everyone with whom he comes into disguised contact, from the suitors to Eumaeus, Odysseus’s loyal slave. Whether it is an audience listening with fear or affection, we can watch the same strange change begin to settle over everyone the beggar Odysseus encounters. It may be Amphinomus, “[pacing] around the house, / troubled at heart, his head bowed low,” after a disguised Odysseus gives him calm and serious cause to consider leaving (18.152-154). It may be, in a ripple effect of truth, Penelope laughing after “Telemachus sneezed loudly and the noise / resounded through the hall” (17.543-545). Eumaeus has explained the beggar’s ostensible friendship with Odysseus to Penelope, prompting her giddily to remark that “‘if Odysseus comes back / [...]he and his son / will soon take vengeance for [the suitors’] violence’” (17.540-542). What can Telemachus, still green in the art of concealment, do after hearing this except sneeze? And what can Penelope, under the influence of a powerful presence, do after the sneeze except laugh? It is a lighthearted gesture so wildly out of character for the Penelope we have known throughout the rest of the narrative that we may well believe it has been out of her character for the last twenty years. Accidental foreshadowing, sneezing, and laughing take place in direct sequence immediately after Odysseus walks back into his home. In this instance and in the several days that follow, not only Odysseus’s words but his very appearance are a lie; the physical lie he gives to all involved obscures the facts. Neither the suitors, Penelope, nor Eumaeus know the true identity of the man in their midst, but, as stated before, Odysseus knows theirs, and this is the experience of truth in the Odyssey. His presence alone, the repeated use of Odysseus’s long-dead name, the reference to home as “‘the palace of Odysseus,’” the beggar’s oddly brazen refusal to leave—all of these things begin to covertly breathe life (and laughter!) back into the thought of Odysseus in his own home, and the truth of his presence there, even as the inhabitants are being lied to overtly (18.27). This is possible only because Odysseus knows 81 �Jordi Rozenman / The Truth of Fiction “in his heart” with whom he is dealing and thus can give them the experience of truth in the way Penelope experiences it as she cries in the beggar’s presence (22.500). The truth of his presence is something the people around him feel, because they are being known, and their actions only become more heightened and dramatic as Homer progressively builds the tension that begins the moment Odysseus steps through his own door. Odysseus, in his web-spinning, shape-shifting glory, is a message from (and perhaps at times a stand-in for) his creator on the nature of truth. If Odysseus’s and Penelope’s catharses serve as specific examples of this message, we confront an overarching comment about it in pairing Book Fourteen with the story of the curious sea god Proteus in Book Four. When Odysseus arrives at Eumaeus’s home, having just recently experienced his own catharsis and told his complicated story to the Phaeacians, he knows he will not be able to repeat the experience in his own home, with those he loves. Entering in disguise, in deceit, he will not be able immediately to share his story, his self, with loved ones such as Eumaeus—at least, not in words or in facts. But we have now seen that for Homer, and for Odysseus, there are other ways to share oneself, other ways to deliver truth, as long as one feels deeply known. For this reason, the tale Odysseus spins for Eumaeus reads like a bizarre, distorted version of his actual odyssey, peppered with the truth of his character and his hard-won wisdom. He cannot speak facts, but he is compelled to unburden himself to this true friend. His men “‘indulged / their own aggressive impulses, and started / willfully doing damage to the fields / of Egypt,’” rather than the cattle of the Sun God or, perhaps, the Cicones (14.260-264). He stayed seven years in Egypt, instead of on Calypso’s island; a year in Phoenicia (instead of Circe’s island); and even, in this story, sends “‘Odysseus[...] off / to Dodona, to ask the holy oak / what Zeus intended,’” for “‘He had been too long / away from fertile Ithaca’” and “‘He wondered / how best to get back home—in some disguise / or openly’” (14.286-333). The Sun God, Calypso, Circe, Hades, and Tiresias (as Dodona) are implicitly present. And the similarities abound in other stunning ways, from Zeus’s plan “‘to destroy the crew’” to a kind king who “‘helped me without expecting recompense / because his son had found me all worn out, / chilled by the morning air’” (14.316-319). These details 82 �Colloquy / Fall 2019 correspond exactly with Alcinous, Nausicaa, and her discovery of an utterly “worn out” Odysseus emerging from under a pile of leaves. Shapeshifting just as the sea god Proteus when Menelaus holds him and waits for him to “‘change shape / to every animal on earth’,” before “‘At last he [assumes] again the form’” in which he must tell the truth, slippery Odysseus speaks to Eumaeus as different versions of himself (4.415-421). Notably, Eumaeus in his steadfastness is the only person who knows, or at least who verbalizes, that Odysseus is “‘telling silly lies’”—that is, not speaking facts (14.363-364). But also because of his steadfastness, this does not prevent Eumaeus from giving his home and full heart to disguised, deserving Odysseus for the next several days. There Eumaeus offers Odysseus the experience of being known, of truth as it exists in the Odyssey, exactly as Odysseus needs it in this moment. For here, Odysseus is not trying to give Eumaeus an experience of truth; he is trying to reap such an experience himself, testing Eumaeus in a way he was not testing Penelope when he offered and allowed her catharsis. Eumaeus succeeds with flying colors, and in the evenings that follow, shares with Odysseus the kind of truth and “‘magical’” knowing of character that he needs: “‘let us, you and I / [...]take some joy in hearing how much pain / we each have suffered. After many years / of agony and absence from one’s home, / a person can begin enjoying grief’” (15.397-402). This is exactly the kind of truth Odysseus needs right now. Eumaeus exists almost outside the web the author and the other characters continually spin for themselves. His integrity is such that he remains essentially untouched by it, and thus can refract back to Odysseus the kind of truth and knowing Odysseus is mining for in the telling of his own honest fictions. Like Proteus, Odysseus requires some pouncing on, some wrestling, some holding down before he can assume the most revealing (can we say most truthful?) version of himself. There are only a few characters capable of doing this and Eumaeus is among them. We must then, finally, ask ourselves which character can pull Odysseus’s truest self into the light, can give him his own fullest experience of truth. We have seen the kind of catharsis Odysseus, in secret, has offered to his loved ones 83 �Jordi Rozenman / The Truth of Fiction upon his return, and the influence of honesty he has exerted over all rooms he has entered since his return to Ithaca, regardless of his words or appearance. Does this mean that all versions of Odysseus, many-minded, are equally true, and that whatever he offers in each given context is appropriate and true to the moment? Is the self of Odysseus relative to his situation, or is there an absolute self and, if so, how will we recognize it? In one of the story’s most beautiful and most truly epic statements concerning being known, we will recognize that self at his core in the same way Odysseus himself recognizes it: it is at home. It is Ithaca alone which can give him his fullest experience of truth, his truest experience of self. If truth in Homer’s epic is an experience of being deeply known, then this is why Odysseus has to get back, this is why he turns down goddess after goddess, a life of perfect ease on lush, magical islands, immortality itself. He knows that he is turning down false lives and journeying back to his self, to his truth, where he left it twenty years ago. We see this most deeply reflected in Penelope in Book Twenty-three, and in the pregnant, textured silence, warm “in firelight,” of Penelope and Odysseus’s first reunion in which both of them know the other (23.88-90). “He sat beside the pillar, / and kept his eyes down, waiting to find out / whether the woman who once shared his bed / would speak to him” (23.90-93). What a wide distance, what a past and possibly future closeness expressed in one sentence. “She crossed the threshold / and sat across from him beside the wall, [...]in silence, stunned,” and neither of them could speak until Telemachus—who knows less truth than they do at this moment—broke this rich silence (23.8893). Words fail both Penelope and Odysseus in this instance, because Odysseus has found his way back to his home, where his truth and his self have been waiting for him. The experience of being known in this moment is of such a depth for both of them that no words are necessary, or perhaps no words are adequate. Slippery, sea god-like Odysseus gives way to his most authentic self, due to his most deeply being known in Ithaca. We see this brilliantly when Penelope elicits from Odysseus the strongest instance of shock and outrage in the Odyssey. She is the only one strong enough to make the great Odysseus forget himself, slip out of character and his tireless manipulation of the scene: 84 �Colloquy / Fall 2019 “‘Woman! Your words have cut my heart! Who moved / my bed?’” he sputters, and goes on to sputter for the next twenty-two lines (23.183-184). Almost frantic, he pleads, “‘But woman, wife, I do not know if someone— / a man—has cut the olive trunk and moved / my bed, or if it’” (our love, he might as well be saying) “‘is still safe’” (23.203-205). An Odysseus who has lost control of the dialogue, the situation, and himself, is an Odysseus we have never seen. He is shocked out of character and into his most honest self by the one who loves him best and most truly. A modern reader in particular might wonder how Penelope and Odysseus genuinely will slip back into a happy marriage, a happy ending, after twenty years of absence and suffering on both their parts. Odysseus has been through war, shipwrecks, captivity, loss after loss of loyal friends; surely he is not returning the same man he was when he left? Let us reframe slightly and say that the Odysseus that left Ithaca will find himself on Ithaca again, and this is thanks to Eumaeus, his nurse Eurycleia, Telemachus, but mostly to Penelope, who knows him best. Even if he is coming back changed, he is coming back to himself. What is it about Odysseus which allows him to accept truth without words, and to offer truth with untruths? What is it about his particular story to Penelope in Book Nineteen which is uniquely qualified as “like the truth,” which can qualify as fiction rather than simply as lies? What is the difference? What is noble in a work of fiction such that it can become a great book in the way that a work of philosophy or science can? The Odyssey makes an important point about the nature of fiction and why it can be (and usually is) more truly alive than its counterparts. Many of Odysseus’s and Penelope’s greatest moments of agency come when they lie. Or, we can say, when they create fiction to serve a purpose for the listener they know, in the same way that we write fiction and poetry. It is an act of love. What we are actually doing is giving sense, and giving order, to a world that on its own does not make sense. So we create myth in order to create truth and, when we read it, we are known. I used to imagine that our experience of encountering, to borrow a phrase from Salinger, “the rising of a truth” in fiction was the experience of the Meno, of recognizing something that was already deep within ourselves and which the book helped to elicit or remind us of. I think now, though, that truth in 85 �Jordi Rozenman / The Truth of Fiction fiction is more likely a case of Homeric truth: not an experience of knowing, but one of being known. We know we’ve stumbled across it when a sentence or a paragraph smiles up at us from the text and we stop, stunned, wondering how the author who has never met us knew this deep part of our nature or experience with enough familiarity to give us words for it. “If the learner is to obtain the truth, the teacher must bring it to him,” rather than bring him to it, affirms Kierkegaard.3 He must even do more: along with the truth, “he must provide him with the condition for understanding it,” as Demodocus does for Odysseus, as Odysseus does for Penelope, as Odysseus does as soon as he walks into his house. The condition is being known. Truth in fiction is an experience of being known, and it is this that gives the Odyssey its sparkling brilliance: this knowing that makes it pulse with life, rich ambiguity, and truth. Jordi Rozenman (AGI’20) is a former English teacher and college counselor who dreamed about coming to St. John’s for seven years, and can’t believe she’s almost finished. She is a dancer, baker, and published poet. But she’s got nothing on Homer. 3 Søren Kierkegaard, Philosophical Fragments, ed. & trans. Howard V. Hong and Edna H. Hong (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1985), IV 184, p.14. 86 �Colloquy / Fall 2019 Jaime Marquez 87 �Her, because of and despite Matt Ely That hair, like so much prairie grass, familiar with her shoulders. Her laptop on my lap, a secondhand groin encounter. Using my dollars for her train pass, her churro, her obligation. The thrill of hearing my first name, like something she kept in her closet for Easter. Her apologizing, eyes-askance; my not having to. Her tardiness. My timeliness. The unspoken threat of my fixation. Her smile, eroding with the tides, a coral reef face. My threadbare, unhelpful scarf, a Christmas gift from her among others. Her midday Sprite and pretzel breakfast; such coquettish insomnia! The diminishing weekends I have left to give her before I need some permanence in exchange. My insistence she doesn’t need to decide right now. The fact that she describes me as a friend, but mostly that she describes me. That hair, removed from her shoulders, removed from my expectations. My undelivered emails, all impersonation and id. My fear there is only one of every kind of connection, that no might not mean not yet. The unlikely hope that this is rising action, not denouement. Her indifference to my plans. My confidence she would change. 88 �Continue the conversation at colloquysjc.com, the official blog of the Graduate Institute. You can find more work by Jaime Marquez at jaimemarquez.com. The Colloquy Editorial Board is sincerely grateful to Ms. Sheba Delaney, Mr. Michael Dink, Mr. William Pastille, Mr. Louis Petrich, and Mr. Brandon Wasicsko for their assistance in making this issue of Colloquy possible. This issue of Colloquy is made possible by the generous support of: The Graduate Institute at St. John’s College, Annapolis The St. John’s College Office of Advancement If you would like to participate in the mission of Colloquy, consider donating. Visit community.stjohnscollege.edu/giving and designate “Colloquy” as the recipient of your gift. �The Graduate Institute 60 College Avenue Annapolis, MD 21401 � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Colloquy Description An account of the resource A student-run journal for the Graduate Institute community of St. John's College in Annapolis, Maryland. The issues feature essays, art, poetry, interviews, and more. 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 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 pdf Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 92 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 Colloquy, Fall 2019 Description An account of the resource Volume VI of Colloquy, published in Fall 2019. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Poyner, Jordan (Editor-in-Chief) Dorchester, Andrew (editor) Green, Charles (editor) Kaul, Dimple (editor) Marquez, Jaime (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 2020-01 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 Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived English Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Colloquy_Fall 2019 https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/fef65f90603df99d5e419135b73c53fb.pdf 3d425bc294c66710dfdf756b3496cc37 PDF Text Text �Table of Contents Letter from the Editor ............................................................................................................................. ...... 1 Reflections on Zoom Seminars at St. John’s College .......................................................................... 2 Bonnie Naradzay The Ancients Had It Easy ........................................................................................................................... 4 Jeanette Corey Artwork .............................................................................................................................................................. 6 Neha Gaddam A Conversation with Four Graduating GIs, Fall 2019 ......................................................................... 7 Jordan Poyner, featuring artwork by Jaime Marquez and Neha Gaddam Ode to the Void ............................................................................................................................. ............... 20 Patricia Harden On the Voluntary Nature of Virtue ......................................................................................................... 21 Brandon Wasicsko Artwork ............................................................................................................................................................ 25 Marley Crank On the GI and Online Seminars .............................................................................................................. 26 Winston Elliott, featuring artwork by Neha Gaddam Two Poems ............................................................................................................................. ....................... 28 Louis Petrich A Letter to St. John’s: On Creating a More Inclusive Learning Environment .......................... 31 Hayley River Smith Artwork ............................................................................................................................................................ 34 Jaime Marquez Two Poems .................................................................................................................................................... 35 Alexander Andreosatos A Toast to the Tutors .................................................................................................................................. 37 Sam Hage Rise Up and Come Away: An Ode to the Marriage of Friends ...................................................... 39 Ryan Shinkel, featuring artwork by Neha Gaddam Human Space Is Where St. John's Exists ............................................................................................ 41 Jordana Rozenman �Prizewinning Essays, Spring 2020: The Soul with Good Sense Guides Correctly ....................................................................................... 43 Sam Hage, featuring artwork by Neha Gaddam Love and Suffering in Joyce’s Ulysses ................................................................................................... 49 Christine Mooradian Editor-in-Chief Olivia Braley Editorial Board Alexander Andreosatos Leith Daghistani Folke Egerstrom Winston Elliott Andrew Graney Charles Green Mustafa Kamal Dimple Kaul Corey Sentz �Letter from the Editor December 11, 2020 Dear Members of the Graduate Institute Community, I'd like to start by thanking all the staff, students, and members of the community who contributed their time and hard work in helping to bring this issue together. Thank you also to our contributors and members of the editorial board. This issue would genuinely not be possible without each of you. As Editor-in-Chief, I am proud of the rigorous and wide-ranging array of writing and art that we have received and are able to put forth in our Fall 2020 Issue. I'd like to take a moment to recognize those members of the editorial board who have supported Colloquy in a time of transition: Dimple Kaul, Jaime Marquez, Charlie Green, and especially our former Editor-in-Chief, Jordan Poyner. Mr. Poyner's guidance even beyond his graduation has been an invaluable help to me in assuming this position and assembling this issue. Without their steadfast commitment to Colloquy, this issue would likely not be in front of you all today. There is no need to assign more adjectives to the year 2020. It's been called trying, unprecedented, uncertain, difficult— and yes, it has been those things. However, at this moment I'd simply like to highlight the abiding need for community, which has, in this year, become all the more pronounced. I hope that this issue of Colloquy may serve as a reminder of the strength and diversity of our polity, and the enduring spirit of the GI community at St. John's College. I hope that you all keep well, and look forward to seeing many of you on campus very soon. Sincerely, Olivia Braley Editor-in-Chief 1 �Personal Essay Reflections on Zoom Seminars at St. John’s College Bonnie Naradzay After a recent preceptorial session on Homer’s The Odyssey with Mr. Townsend, I was feeling disoriented by the Zoom format; it was as if conversations were flowing by me, and I was standing on the bank of a river, following what was being said, but finding it hard to wade into the conversation. I realized in that particular session I’d saved up the ideas I’d wanted to express but seemed unable to share, partly because I’d been muting myself and by the time I’d unmuted myself, there was a pileup of others who were ready to contribute. Finally, toward the end of the two hours, I blurted all out the comments I’d wanted to share at various times. Clearly, I’d not grasped how to contribute to an absorbing Zoom conversation among fourteen students and a tutor, so I asked Mr. Townsend for guidance. Mr. Townsend told me it’s better to ask a question than make a statement, and he recommended that I ask succinct questions directed to others in the class. He added, “Try to say only one thing when you speak so that others can respond. Build a conversation by addressing others. Consider what might be the objections to your claim and look at it from many points of view together.” Then I thought back to my first GI seminar, when I’d also felt like an observer rather than a participant. There were two tutors and close to twenty students. I recall times after the sharing of Opening Questions when I would sit back and wait to see if my topic would come up rather than finding something compelling in the topics being discussed and weighing in. Or if the seminar was near the end, and no one had brought up an issue I’d hoped to focus on, I would try changing the topic while neglecting transitional phrases that could link what was being discussed with what I wanted to contribute. Differences in being in a Zoom seminar include 1) the increased intensity of the Zoom format, since we’re all gathered into a single frame, 2) the disorientation of two-dimensional discourse, when communicative cues we could intuit in actual seminars are now hard to detect 3) the fact that Zoom technology moves us around, so when I look for someone who was in one place for an hour, that person is no longer there but somewhere else in the frame of faces, and sometimes a person will get up, leave an empty chair, and return at a later time; and, most disconcerting: 4) the distancing that comes from seeing one’s own face among the others, which leads to a fixation on how that face is connecting with the others, and where the eyes are focused. Distractions like this mean that one lacks real presence in the conversation. In the GI classes I had with Mr. Zeiderman, I remember he liked to involve us in questions of process. Before starting into our Opening Questions, he would often question us on the quality of our previous session. Were there issues that needed our attention? Did we feel successfully engaged? Any ideas for improvement? (This group assessment is a key part of the Touchstones philosophy.) Now, as we transition to a radically different way of pursuing rigorous dialogue, reflecting on our process seems even more vital. Before this semester started, I attended Mr. Braithwaite’s online talk one evening in June on how Plato’s “Meno” relates to the challenge of leading seminars on Zoom. Mr. Braithwaite noted, 2 �Personal Essay “Meno is in some radical sense not really present in the conversation with Socrates. He recites, like a ventriloquist’s dummy, opinions and arguments he learned from Gorgias, and he’s more attentive to what impression he can make on the audience than to the questions of what is virtue, and can it be taught.” In the appendix to his lecture, Mr. Brathwaite included a list of possible ways to enhance the Zoom learning experience; one is to divide students (part of the time) into smaller discussion groups of perhaps three or four per group. I tried his idea in a limited way. Because we can’t meet casually on the campus, in the coffee shop, for instance, to follow up on seminar conversations with others, I contacted a classmate in The Odyssey to explore a comment he’d made in class. We met on Zoom, which meant that the two of us were speaking side-by-side as well as face-to-face in the Zoom frame; this was certainly better than encountering him as one of the postage-stamp sized faces of fourteen of us plus a tutor, all looking out from a single frame. After our half-hour chat, I felt as if I’d gained a friend as well as insights into his comment and on the text. The impulse to meet with one other fellow student (in a virtual Coffee Shop) worked well. But the concept can be enlarged. We could form smaller groups – perhaps four people in each, in different configurations each time, and meet at set times. This way, we could fine-tune the larger group’s dynamics. Those who tend to distance themselves in the larger seminar setting could feel encouraged to formulate and explore possible text-based opening questions and theories. In addition, we could explore our paper topics with each other. Here’s another way to counter Zoom’s artificial formality: Mr. Townsend has been available on Zoom fifteen minutes or so before our class starts. For those of us who tune in early, this impromptu salon is a way to chat before class starts and before we proceed, in earnest, with our Opening Questions. And now we students have decided to hang out on Zoom after the class ends if we’d like to continue our Homeric journey (picture oarsmen rowing in rhythm). We can use this time also to step back and take a look at our group’s “process” during the most recent seminar. Think of it as being transported to Harry Browne's, upstairs, once the formal session has ended for the evening. To sum up the importance of engaging with the Zoom effect on GI seminars, I turned to Mr. Townsend. “Zoom is alienating and challenging,” he told me. “But otherwise we’d be isolated. So I’m grateful for it.” Mr. Braithwaite, for his part, asked me, “What is it to be present in a genuine, serious, meaningful, absorbing conversation?” He said we know “what it’s like to be physically present while our mind is elsewhere; we know this experience in ourselves and in others.” So we are challenged to find ways to achieve that presence. How do we bring the mind into alignment with what is now a postage-stamp sized representation of our presence? 3 �Poetry The Ancients Had It Easy Jeanette Corey The ancients had it easy with their ships, and quests, and bands of like-hearted searchers. And time, as heroes by trade, to search for god to have that be enough and a foundation of myth that proposed the divine as something to be happened upon or sought by way of trees and fountains, sheepskins, portals. I'm new: I'm now. No word on the exact coordinates of Jacob’s ladder just the hefty knowledge that the blue ceiling of my world is not, in fact, the underside of heaven but space only more and more. Otherwise I'd connive to throw my fists at it, long enough to maybe dislodge a floorboard or kitchen tile of paradise climb up through eternity like a child thief collapse into the presence of the creator as a stowaway. Instead: an increasingly closed system of physics and metaphysics deepening the image of the reality that only forms the negative space around the more-than-real. 4 �Poetry Literacy: unmitigated privilege of waterboarding myself with a treasure of accumulated theology in an attempt to understand what I must acknowledge a desperate wail of mind to soul to disclose a truth that’s clearly there WHAT WHAT WHAT DO WE BELIEVE TELL ME WHAT AND WHY AND HOW AND //NOW\\ and how I’d love to set sail in a long boat and fall off the edge of the world into God. 5 �Artwork Neha Gaddam 6 �Interview A Conversation with Four Graduating GIs, November 2019 Jordan Poyner, on behalf of Colloquy Colloquy: Let’s start by talking about our least favorite tutors. [Laughter]. Colloquy: I’m not really going to conduct anything. I may ask some questions— Lee Cranberg: An opening question? CQ: Yeah, an opening question: that’s very fitting. The most obvious thing that I’m curious to hear you all talk about is the imminent time to come post-graduation. We can talk materially first: what is everyone planning on doing after they graduate? Gregory LaMontagne: My goal is the military—I think most people know that. I will leave, go back to Texas— where I’m from—a week after the final day of class. And hopefully I'll hear something early January and then fly out to Rhode Island for Officer Candidate School in Newport and from there you move on with your military life. That's me. Andrew Dorchester: Well, I guess I'm following in the footsteps of: I don't know what I'm doing next. But I think the goal is to figure out in what capacity can I live [according] to the standards that St. John’s has set. And figuring out what it means to apply that to a day-to-day life. LC: I'm going to do the fifth semester and leave St. John's in May. I retired just before I started St. John's, so there's no job I'm going back to. I want to continue to enjoy retirement with different adventures. I'm not sure quite what the next one is going to be, but one thing I've considered is volunteering as a physician abroad. I did that once in my career, once in my life. As soon as I got my medical license, my first position was as a volunteer in Samoa in the South Pacific, where I was the only doctor on an island of 900 people. And I met other volunteer physicians there who were in my current age bracket, who had retired from their careers in the U.S. But they were still using their skills and their medical license to see the world. And there were people who had done volunteer stints, like six months at a time in like six different countries. And I filed that away in the back of my mind, that it might be a good thing to do when I reached that stage. And I'm lucky that I have the health and wherewithal to do it. Patrick Corry: I'll be leaving St. John's in May as well. I'm really unsure about what I want to do next. I’m fairly sure I want to be in education in some capacity. I’m applying to a master’s program in theology. It’s an interest I developed while I was here. GL: Where’s the program? Or is it classified? PC: At Notre Dame. Yeah, I think there's a big possibility I'll try to stay around here and do education at the community college or high school level, or even in more nontraditional forms. I want to be talking about literature in some capacity and I’m not sure what that is yet. Like you, Mr. Dorchester, I’ve been entertaining thoughts of dusting off old trades. I used to paint houses and other things, [and] St. John's has made me much more interested in how that can go on in a flourishing life. 7 �Interview LC: Have you ever taught before? PC: I taught high school for the first time this past summer: high school classes in history and economics. And I enjoyed it more than I thought I would. I disliked the school's administration more than I thought I would... [Laughter]. This is gonna be a recurring theme of my life. CQ: With the exception of going into education, it's not clear exactly what the relationship is between what you all have been doing here and what you're planning to do next. So maybe we could talk about that: what do we take with us? [To GL:] How does that factor into either your decision to go into the military or, if it doesn't, how do you think it changes the way that you can approach that stage in your life? GL: I'm curious about that myself. Because the military seems so antithetical to St. John's—the idea that [here] you're invited to ask questions whereas [there] you might be invited to never ask questions. [Laughter]. GL: One thing that I experienced at St. John's I think—personally and witnessing it in others—is an instability, a sense of doubt about all things, and like a reverence of doubt, and how that leads people to run towards tradition, [towards] orthodoxy of some kind, and run towards something stable, some belief of some kind. And I feel that perhaps I'm running towards a belief in the United States or something like that—a belief in the state, the nation, the republic that is the United States. And I’m curious about these different environments: I think St. John's fosters questioning and inquiry because it believes that maybe certainty, if it can be found, is hard to find. And I'm running to a place where one thing is certain, and that’s the U.S. Constitution. — I'm curious how I will react to that, and I'm curious what effect it has on people—if they want to talk about it. I feel like when I talk to non-Johnny people, I end up running into a lot of “this is how things are....” And so I've been really happy with the student veterans I've met here who seem to have a balance. Sometimes, if they've left the military, they say, “that's the reason why I left the military, because they were just like: this is how things are and you have to do that.” But for those that are still involved with the military, [and] are still supportive of it, I’m curious how they navigate that: those two scenarios, two worldviews. I'm curious how I will react to it and I'm curious why it is that I end up finding veterans of all types so fascinating when they have this separate worldview. There's some type of different reverence that they have—not for doubt, but for either patriotism, God, country, family—that I really respect, even though it is alien to me. But it won’t be alien to me very soon, I hope. — If I have to make a question out of my journey into the military, my question is: what does a certain faith do to my individuality and my behavior in society? I think I'll be taking with me the idea that I want to investigate things that aren’t certain, and that certainty is very hard to find, and I’m not sure I know what certainty is. So I'm taking that enquiring mind with me, but I'm going to take it into an environment that will combat that with a very strict faith in an ideal that is supposedly certain. And I might suffer turmoil because of that conflict, but I'm excited to see if I'll end up becoming like the student veterans I so admire, who seem to have navigated that conflict very well. So that's a very long way of explaining what I hope to take with me into a non-Johnny world. LC: Was it a hard decision to apply to the military? 8 �Interview GL: No. My parents were supportive. People were like: “really?” And I said, “yep.” And I guess it’d been on the back of my mind before this, when I was getting out of my original career path of performing. Back then I thought: “well, I know I don't want to do this. So I can either go back to school for something, specifically Great Books, or perhaps Peace Corps, or perhaps military.” So it was in the back of my mind. CQ: Why do you think that is? GL: I'm wondering if it has something to do with the fact that I came here to question things. And [that] I think there's an extreme to questioning. There's an extreme doubt, an extreme skepticism, that I don't like. Whether or not it's morally right, I have no idea. I find extreme skepticism to be toxic rather than helpful, and knowing that the military seems from the outside to be the extreme in the other direction—of extreme certainty or extreme dogmatism in regard to a kind of bureaucracy, [in regard to] following orders—maybe I'm hoping to find a balance in between the two. And rushing from one extreme to the other might help me find the balance. PC: How do you think questioning and extreme skepticism go together? GL: I guess questioning implies more active initiative on the part of the skeptic? Because I guess you could be extremely skeptical and not question anything: you just don't believe it. Maybe those are two separate faculties or abilities. One is to not believe something and the other is to ask why you don't believe it or why it's not believable, to actually inquire into it. So, you're right: I guess there are two separate things. It seems to me that St. John's inspires you, as in the Meno, to be very active in the search, to not give up, to keep asking questions. But there's a part of me that thinks: “I don't know. I read Nietzsche and there are some things I don't want to know, some things I don’t want to question.” So finding the balance between questioning everything and not questioning anything is what I’m searching for, but maybe they're two different types of skepticism. CQ: You were going to ask something earlier, Patrick. PC: I was thinking that it’s a weird tension at St. John's, where it seems like when you start to question something, you have to have some childlike thought about the possibility of finding an answer. From that point of view, it seems like it shouldn't be the least skeptical thing you do. But also, you have to suspend [already] having grasped the answers to do it, which does seem skeptical. So I wonder if that tension is what drives good things at St. John's and how it would express itself in the sort of balance you're seeking between firm ground and the activity of questioning. AD [to GL]: Have there been any texts that have guided you in your thought process? GL: Reading Nietzsche and reading Thomas Carlyle’s works, or even reading the Republic and talking about music and gymnastic—I feel like I've had a lot of music, not too much gymnastic. [Laughter]. PC: I know the feeling of being inspired by the gymnastic section. CQ: There's something demoralizing about the section on gymnastic and realizing that I'm almost thirty—I know that's young, all things considered—I'm not an undergraduate at St. John's. And in the Politics too, there's this discussion about when the proper time is for each of these forms of education to happen and realizing you can't go back and change the past. And it's not clear to me if, 9 �Interview at thirty, I'm supposed to go and learn natural science all over again. That probably would be helpful and attainable, but it's hard reading great texts sometimes, especially when they talk about education, because you become aware of how unlike the ideal education your own was. I don't necessarily despair of it, but I do wonder: what should I do? How should I take all these different teachings about how you need to have an education in music and gymnastic, and natural science. I can't go back and do all that, so I feel confused about what's the right thing to do, especially as a student in the Graduate Institute—someone who is definitely an adult. And it's different for every person. That's the nature of everything that has already been said, but I find it painful. Maybe I'm too fixated on the question of what the right thing to do is according to some authority. GL: It seems weird to me, I don't know—I haven't read Diogenes Laertius’s Lives of the Eminent Philosophers—but I imagine that Plato wrote his books without having the education that he prescribes in them perhaps. I don’t know if Plato had the type of education that he makes Socrates extol as the proper education, and yet he wrote very incredible things. I'm wondering about Rousseau, who wrote Emile, and John Locke, who wrote Some Thoughts Concerning Education: did they actually have the education they espoused? But there is a frustration that comes with being a GI especially, feeling that somehow we're tardy. And there are times when I think I'd be so brilliant if I had had these texts when I was four. If I could have just read Plato starting, you know, when I put my socks on for the first time—man, watch out world, I would have been the best scholar. LC: There is a fellow in Santa Fe who graduated from the Graduate Institute there. He's in his sixties and then he started as an undergraduate at St. John’s. PC: But what would that get you? We’re not here to become philosopher kings, or Plato? Plato isn’t a product of an institution that educated him; he’s a genius. LC: I think I'm here to learn the underpinnings of my culture. GL: I guess we're not supposed to graduate and be experts. Or maybe this goes back to the question earlier: what are we supposed to take away from this [our time at St. John’s]? Because we read all these texts and we're not necessarily supposed to graft them onto our skin. What exactly are we doing here? What are we at St. John's for? Is there a use to it, besides going to class and getting to talk to great people, and ask profound questions that anyone else might scoff at? I'm still wondering about that myself. AD: It’s not only knowledge that we're acquiring so much as it is a kind of mindset: the ability to grapple with perplexing questions. I think one of the best speeches I heard during my entire time here was Mr. Sinnett’s speech last fall for the graduating students, where he talked about the strength of the St. John's program being the ability to deal with perplexity, to be… PC: Perplexed, but not despair. AD: Thank you, yeah. And that's something pretty unique for our society. I think he was absolutely correct that the number of people in society that can be comfortable in perplexity is—it's a rare thing. And it is a strength of the Johnny: the ability to manage perplexity—not necessarily to resolve it, but to manage it. PC: Do we love it? Is it a delight? 10 �Interview CQ: I think it’s a fetish object for knowledge. PC: What? CQ: I’m just being perverse. AD: There are still those moments where I get extremely uncomfortable around complex issues, but I do feel that this experience has allowed me to manage that much better. I'm taking one of the drawing classes right now—and it's probably the hardest class I've taken here—where I'm being forced to draw on the basis of shadow, to see in terms of shadow: it's unbelievably hard, and it's perplexing. I'm slowly starting to see what the instructor wants me to see, but I think the underlying base of the St. John's education has allowed me to be more adaptable to what needs teaching. CQ: How? AD: I got to a point last Saturday where I wanted to just give up. I wanted to throw down my charcoal pencil and say, “I can't do this.” And I stuck with it. I worked my way through whatever the struggle was that I was dealing with. And I think part of the resilience that I felt within myself to go ahead and continue to manage that frustration is a type of resilience that—I don't know if it would have been there a year ago. CQ: But how did St. John's instill that in you or help you form that within yourself? AD: I think it's through the regimen of dealing with the constant perplexing questions that we are confronted with in these texts. And the fact that not only do we work our way individually through this, but we work our way through complex and perplexing questions in class. CQ: But didn't you do that before you went to St. John’s? You went to college before... AD: Certainly the complex litigation that I've been involved with—I've done that. CQ: And you had read some of these texts before you came, right? So surely some of the perplexing questions that the texts raise you had already encountered. So what's different? I know there's a different setting in terms of the seminar, the conversation... PC: I think it’s very easy to read a great text and not encounter any perplexity if you’re not doing it a certain way. AD: Especially if you’re not a specialist on the subject area. And I do think that one of the advantages that St. John's provides is that we come into some of these readings cold. So I'm doing Lobachevsky right now—this is a whole new world for me and for everyone in my class, and the world that he is describing is bizarre in some ways, but it's slowly starting to make sense. But it's the fact that I have no background in it! And I think the advantage of any sort of Liberal Arts program is that it should be broad enough that you're eventually going to run into a text or multiple texts that are going to be on a subject area that you have no background in. CQ: But we all took geometry in high school. So, you know, you may not have read Lobachevsky, but you’ve dealt with parallel lines. I realize that there is an immediate answer: first, the way we 11 �Interview learned geometry in high school might have elided all of the ambiguity out of it. You might have been told that this is how things are: it's fairly straightforward. We can explain satisfactorily, at least to you, a fifteen-year-old, how this works. But that's not always true when you take a class in college. I'm not sure how you read Hobbes, for example, and don't have a moment where you think: “no, this is weird.” — Someone could read the Republic and have an instructor tell them: “well, you know, this is fairly straightforward. It's an account of proto-communism or something else. This is how you'd have to set things up and that's what is being discussed.” And that might work temporarily. Or, to be somewhat inflammatory, I think that a person who's really thinking, even a young person, is not going to be satisfied with that account for long. Cracks are going to start to appear in the edifice. I am in total agreement with the idea that St. John's does something differently, but I don't think we've said exactly how that is. Maybe you can’t, but I’m asking. PC: The first thing that comes to mind is that you're going to have a teacher tell you: “Hobbes believes in absolute authority because the English civil wars were very, very difficult, and he was living in a very violent time. No wonder this man had such radical, absolute ideas! You don't have to ask: “is this in me? Can I believe this? Do I believe this? Am I living in this world or not?” I think it takes a community or a conversation, or the right question to pose the text to yourself in that way. CQ: You're not just talking about Hobbes as a historical thinker, you’re talking about writing for a historical moment and saying, “does this make sense to me?” GL: I came here, as LC was saying, to study the roots of my culture. And I’ve been thinking about Aristotle’s Metaphysics and how we desire to know—and we don't really know things unless we can pinpoint their causes. I like knowing—with the Politics & Society segment—how America came to be through other thinkers and writers who perhaps were the efficient causes. We're able to sort of lead Western culture on paths, and I like tracing those paths back. I find that fascinating. And I guess you can do that on your own. But the conversational approach here at St. John's and the decontextualization you [PC] were referring to also allows us to ask deeper questions of ourselves then I think other places would. — So it's not only a course in intellectual history— “Plato said that and then Locke said that, and then Hamilton said that”—but it's: “Plato said that—should we believe what Plato says? Is America wrong? Is Plato timeless? Is he bringing up something that is still pertinent?” And the answer is often: “yes.” Or let's assume it's pertinent: what would that mean? Having those intellectual premises to work with, I think, leads to the most liberating treatment of the most profound subject matters in life. Should I be free? Is there freedom? Is America right? That's a big thing, especially after reading Tocqueville. What is America? I don’t know if I want to live there. Maybe what St. John’s does differently or well is that they take questions that were asked millennia ago and treat them as if they were asked today. And I feel like that has really been the key for me: to have a less assumptive way of thinking, a more liberated way of thinking. And it's allowed me to put myself in a lot more shoes that I would have if I thought: “they can't speak to me; they said that a long time ago.” But having a diverse set of views, from ancient to modern, I really feel like I'm getting more out of life, purely just by considering another way of living. And maybe that's only possible through the St. John's approach where questions really elicit vulnerability and assumption-breaking. 12 �Interview LC: That’s something I would not have been able to do on my own. I decided to come to St. John's because these books have always been on my reading list, but I didn't have the self-discipline to read them on my own. Most people would not choose Aristotle as bedtime reading. And it's so hard that I would not have been able to understand it on my own, and I’m not able to understand it on my own. That's why the seminar is really great: because we're helping each other to try to understand a difficult text and pooling all of our different insights. Mr. Townsend is fond of quoting Mortimer Adler: “reading is like drinking. It's something that you can enjoy on your own, but it's more fun to do it with other people.”1 CQ: I hate this quote every time I hear it. [Laughter]. GL: Why’s that? CQ: Because the analogy doesn't make sense. PC: That’s what’s funny about it. LC: It makes sense to me. CQ: It makes it seem as if reading alone is pathological. AD: I also drink alone! CQ: I hope you don't drink alone as much as you read alone. I hope you read alone like an alcoholic drinks alone. PC: I thought it was a vindication of drinking alone. But you're right, it can be equally read as a pejorative comment about reading alone. AD: In many ways, I do feel like the Program has, strangely, taught me how to read. Taking the Modern Poetry Preceptorial right now I've learned how to read a poem in a way that I didn't know how to do prior to— LC: Is that part of the class? Explicitly talking about how to read a poem? AD: No, it’s a kind of culture that just comes with the class. To prepare for a discussion on a poem takes a lot of time, [it takes] really getting your hands dirty with the poem, reading it multiple times, becoming, as Eva Brann said, “preoccupied with the work.”2 To spend an entire day thinking about the poem that we'll be discussing in class on Thursday—that leisurely process of learning (leisurely in the Greek sense of the etymology of “school”), of really spending your time with something and allowing yourself the time with it, is something that I didn't recognize the importance of prior to coming to St. John's. The editor has not been able to locate this quote. An approximate aphorism can be found in Adler’s Harvard Lowell Lecture (April 11, 1990), “The Great Books, the Great Ideas, and a Lifetime of Learning,” where he says, “Solitary reading is as horrible as solitary drinking.” 1 2 See Eva Brann, “Tips on Writing: Excerpts from the Fall 2017 Colloquy Symposium,” Colloquy 2 (2017): 16. 13 �Interview LC: What's the etymology of “school”? CQ: “σχολή” is the Greek word that means leisure and it ends up informing the English word “school.” GL: It seems like the program asks for you to have the leisure. And it invites me to be more vulnerable and more profound, and not so superficial with my inquiry and my researches. And that leads to more rewarding results, regardless of whether I arrive at answers—there's something fetishistic about asking the deep, dark questions that don't often get asked. PC: Fetishistic? As in it’s being overly sought? GL: I think we get off on asking the deep questions. CQ: The fetish object is a substitute for something else: the non-fetish object. That’s what a fetish is. The fetish is the object of your misplaced erotic attention—it should be on something else, but it's on the fetish. So if it is that kind of a fetish, then what's the thing we're being diverted from? PC: That's why I wanted to push back on the word. GL: That makes more sense. Maybe I mean the erotic tendency of ours to be aroused by asking deep questions. But if it is fetishistic, maybe we should be committed to love of God, love of country, love of state, or something like that—and we're misplacing our desire by focusing it on whatever is not stable. CQ: Those all seem like good things: the love of country—a love of one's homeland seems like an unambiguously good thing to me, in the sense that I haven't added on to it any other qualifications—we should be able to pursue all those things. But maybe any one of them pursued to its extreme precludes the others. The way that most GI’s end up doing the Program, I don't see a lot of people who seem in danger of seriously undermining all their other noble or good civic aspirations or ideas. GL: Maybe they’re not reading deeply enough. CQ: Yeah, it was interesting that you said you had read Nietzsche and you took that as a warning, a shot across the bow. You read Nietzsche and you thought: “I don't want to do what Nietzsche does. I don't want to look into the abyss.” Do we all agree that we don't want to look into the abyss? PC: I agree, but I might have a different understanding of what the abyss is. Maybe this moves us closer to what the abyss might be: do we call the impulse to question a fetish or is there a genuine end of the erotic impulse? It’s a huge question. I think that St. John’s has to presuppose that there’s something natural and good about the desire being projected towards searching for truth by asking questions, and that that activity has meaning. CQ: Yes. When I brought up fetishes in my offhand remark earlier, what I meant, as a joke, was that questions might be a fetish object for knowledge. Knowledge in the sense that GL talked about having a kind of—I don't want to call it faith—a certainty that some things are inviolable. You’re 14 �Interview not going to question some things, and that's something that you could call knowledge or faith. It’s something that doesn't get penetrated or dissolved. But the constant seeking—and this is the tension that you [GL] brought up and are wrestling with—if the life of the mind involves constantly asking questions, where's the stability? Do we have something we can stand on to do that? I don't want to raise my family in the jungle or in some anarchic state. AD: Rousseau says it's great! PC: You're just not allowed to come along. Jaime Marquez LC: I was curious if people had any criticisms of the GI, or [noticed] weaknesses or things you'd like to see done differently. GL: Of the things that I think the Graduate Institute can control: there needs to be more of a variety of Preceptorial options. There are just literature Precepts and like one philosophy option. I want to take some math and science, I want to take another political theory class, I want a history Precept. I think they had trouble in the past getting people to sign up for math and science Precepts, so maybe that's why they stopped offering them, but I really think that I'm missing out when I look at the list [of Preceptorials] and have to choose either a piece of literature or an ethics text. Now obviously I think those choices are great too, but to get more variety in that regard—that's a criticism I’ve brought up before. 15 �Interview LC: Yeah, there have been semesters where I was not enthusiastic about any of the Precept choices. And some of them were on some rather obscure authors: it seems as if whatever the tutors wanted to devote their semester to ended up being the option. GL: It used to be the case that you had to have the Precept match the same subject as your segment. It used to be required. And so in the fall they would have to offer math, natural science, and literature Preceptorials, and then they would switch to political science, philosophy, and history in the spring. But I also love the idea that it's an interdisciplinary education: you can take [the] Math & Natural Science [segment], and then read Jane Austen and see connections. I love that idea, but by doing that they may have lost the sense of diversity. Perhaps they think: “literature applies to everything, so we're just going to offer that all the time—and that's what everyone wants to take.” I would be excited if I saw Darwin's The Descent of Man or even Descartes’ La Géométrie: I would be scared, but if I was ever going to study those texts, it would be at St. John’s. CQ: I still don't understand exactly what the Graduate Institute is—especially given who the students are. It still feels like an experiment to me. I am favorably disposed to it, but— GL: You don't feel like it has somehow settled into its identity? CQ: Yeah, I'm not sure if the Graduate Institute knows where its place is. AD: I don't know how you market it either. The identity of the people that come here—particularly people that are coming from a career—you couldn’t necessarily use Google Analytics to figure out who would be a suitable GI candidate. It doesn't work that way. CQ: They kind of have to find the Graduate Institute, right? GL: It’s very self-selecting. LC: Self-selecting is one thing, but finding something in hiding is something else! CQ: What do you guys think about the rigor of the Graduate Institute? On the one hand, there seems to be this standard, which is: “we don't expect more than this, because this is what we can expect an adult who is working full-time to be capable of. They're an adult, but we still want them to be able to come and do the Program, so we limit the scope of the writing, the oral exam, and— perhaps most significantly—the reading list.” But how do we determine what that baseline is? And do the students feel that more could be asked of them? For example, an oral exam that’s more than half an hour. I’m not suggesting we place more of an emphasis on grades or other formal academic qualifications, but perhaps the oral exam could be a little more serious. Of course it's nice to have a half hour conversation with a tutor, but I can take them to lunch and have the same conversation. I don’t think that’s being flamboyant; I don't know what your oral exams are like. AD: I think the rigor is what you put into it. And there clearly are students that do less than other students, and probably do just fine. But I feel like if you really want to get something out of the Program, the opportunity is there—and the reward is definitely there—to do the extra work, to spend more time reading the texts that are assigned. Most of these texts are pretty dense. Somebody with a job could probably do a couple of readings and come into class prepared, or you can spend all 16 �Interview day preparing for this and have a much richer experience. So I don't feel like I've necessarily lost out on the Program because we're not given more [work]. I can always go read more. And there are also enough students that are doing the extra work, so that I can always have a discussion with somebody who is doing the extra work, and we can confer outside of classes. GL: I think I agree that the opportunity is there to make it what you want, to make the experience be as rigorous as you want it to be. I think the best part about the student-tutor relationship here is how free the school makes the tutors be. They can’t have office hours. We’re able to approach a tutor at any time and say, “I need to talk more about this text; I have more questions.” And they might give you more assignments, they might give you an extra essay topic to write on—I'm not quite sure, I haven't taken that step. But I know it's there. And I think the library has plenty of resources. I think there are opportunities to make more of the Program, to make the Program even more intensive than it is at first glance. But there are times when I think I should probably be writing more papers. There are times when I think: “I didn't need to prepare as much for this oral exam as I needed to prepare for certain other things.” And I think: “is that actually a mark against the Program? Are the standards too low?” — There might be times when I think I really prepared for class, and then I show up and we talk about something that somehow slipped through my attention while reading Oedipus Rex five times and annotating—which I didn't do, but assuming I did. I think that the nature of the classroom—that it is so organic and unpredictable—doesn't lend itself to being something like a quiz on what happens in Oedipus Rex—where there's a pretty functional relationship between how much you studied the text and how you performed. As opposed to: I studied a lot and then I come to a discussion-based classroom where we can talk about something that doesn't interest me for two hours. That would lead me to think preparation and success do not go hand in hand at St. John's. Because you could read the text once and think, “well, I'm really not prepared for class,” and then the class focuses on your opening question. And then you think: “cool, I get to talk for two hours about something I'm really interested in, and I didn't really need to prepare!” Maybe there's something about the loose nature of the classroom that might lead to a sense of lack of rigor, but I still think that there are opportunities to make it as rigorous as you want. PC: I agree with a lot of what’s been said about the rigor being something you determine for yourself and I’ve been really impressed with the way that students are motivated to prepare outside of class. I think you notice fluctuations in the discussions according to whether a text invites really intensive preparation or wards it off by its nature. This is something I think about a lot with the Program: there's so much conversation that we have, but there's not a lot of forum for dialogue on things about the conversation. Part of that is what's really cool about the spontaneous nature of it: because there are no rules of etiquette for talking in a seminar, people become better at doing it. GL: What about the “Notes on Dialogue”3 though? PC: Right, but there's nothing that anyone is going to enforce. GL: Maybe that’s a problem. Stringfellow Barr, “Notes on Dialogue,” (address to the Fellows of the Center for the Study of Democratic Institutions, Santa Barbara, CA, 1968), https://www.sjc.edu/application/files/7614/9814/1117/Notes_on_Dialogue.pdf. 3 17 �Interview PC: Well, maybe the same could be said about practices for reading. I’ve noticed times when tutors explicitly encourage students to redouble their efforts, because they know that they're going to be more discouraged than usual, but that, if they dig in, there will be great profit in the seminar. I don't think it's only the tutors’ responsibility. We could build a culture around what it means to read rigorously and how it is that that’s going to help your growth, what the frustrations are and how they can be overcome. I think that could go a long way towards improving our culture of rigorous discussion. I think the current tutors do this already, but we, as students, could collectively encourage it and develop some sort of understanding. Maybe Colloquy is an organ for this type of thing—where the self-consciousness of the Graduate Institute can develop. GL: And the Graduate Student Council—although we haven't done the best job of promoting it—is supposed to be a sort of intermediary between the academic administration and the student body. There’s normally a forum that we invite students to come to and comment on the Program, on our classroom experience—they usually do that at least once a year. So that might be another avenue for critiquing the rigor and [generally] bringing up criticisms of the Program, because I do think that the Graduate Student Council should be another resource for students if the rigor is unsatisfactory. That should be one of their avenues for fixing that or discussing it. CQ: My first two semesters I had almost the exact same tutors. Which is really interesting now— being in my third semester and having entirely different tutors—because I have realized that there were things that I had taken for granted due to having the same tutors. One of the things that I had taken for granted was this idea of there being rules for dialogue. Both semesters I had Mr. Townsend and he opened each class by stipulating that there are some rules—or guidelines if you prefer. And I had gone forth and been talking to family members and friends about my experience, and telling them that St. John's has rules! They're not rules that people necessarily enforce, at least not in the sense that you get a demerit if you violate them. Rather, people will gently correct you. What would each of you say the rules are—if there are rules? Or, if “rules” is too rigid a term, what are the guiding norms for conversation in class? AD: During my summer semester, a lot of the students were new to the St. John's experience and I was in large seminars, and the first couple of classes were kind of chaotic. So I shared that sheet that Mr. Townsend gave us on the first day about rules or standards for discussion. Between that [sheet] and some comments that the tutors made in class, the students came around. But it can be tricky because the rules are not prescribed, they're agreed to in a social way. PC: I think the experience of having that realized spontaneously is so rich and so important for coming to terms with what learning is that I think it would be a very regrettable thing to try to impose a written law on a seminar—even if you thought you might save yourself some convenience and the growing pains GL: There are times when I think there should be rules—not necessarily about conversation—but there are times when I think: everyone should have the same edition, so you can save time. Invite students to have different translations, but for class I want this [edition] and I want us to be able to move through the text without spending thirty minutes on where a passage is. Regarding norms for discussion: even if they're suggested by “Notes on Dialogue” or the tutors, what seems to be a norm is just whatever is conducive to civility. I think if civility is the guiding principle then that would lend itself to: not interrupting, not hogging the conversation, and inviting people that haven't spoken to 18 �Interview speak up. That might be the principle I have in mind that leads to successful conversations about, [for example,] the rape and murder of this character, or whether or not society should be an absolute monarchy. It seems like if the classroom is devoted to civility, then all the norms work themselves out. AD: I definitely concur that if we had the same translation of Aristotle that would help—different translations for all of the other texts, sure, but Aristotle... PC: That's how the Middle Ages fell apart. [Laughter]. Neha Gaddam 19 �Poetry Once a Void Patricia Harden My mind, a wind-swept oasis, Craven and blind in the darkness, Lay wasted, huddled in An invariable nothingness. Thunder rolled and Lightning slashed the sky. From whence, the faintest cry Quickened my dry and dusty soul. And I, as ere Kant professed, Sought the light and then began to be. 20 �Essay On the Voluntary Nature of Virtue Brandon Wasicsko Why do some people become virtuous, others vicious? It is due in large part to their actions, says Aristotle in his Nicomachean Ethics. If we want to be virtuous, we must conduct ourselves in ways that comport with virtue, which is to say our actions must be of the same quality as the moral virtues we wish to embody (1103b14-21). For Aristotle, the order of operations is clear: we act, the power of habit operates on us, and our characteristics—virtuous or otherwise—come into being imbued with the same qualities as the actions we repeat time and again (1105b4). Because actions are central to Aristotle’s account of virtue, we should endeavor to understand precisely how they factor into his argument and how they function in ourselves. In particular, this paper will explore how and to what degree actions—and, by consequence, our characteristics—are within our power, with a focus on childhood. Let’s begin by laying out some of the key ideas in Aristotle’s account of virtue as a foundation for our inquiry. We know, first, that moral virtues are not present in us by nature: they are characteristics that come to be as a result of habit (1103a16). Characteristics, being that part of the soul “in reference to which we are in a good or bad state in relation to the passions,” admit of optionality (1105b25), a fact illustrated by the example of anger: feeling it too intensely or too weakly puts us in a “bad” condition relative to the passion of anger, but experiencing it in the proper, moderate way—i.e., feeling angry when one ought, at the things one ought, and in due proportion— puts us in a “good” condition. Similarly, an action becomes virtuous to the extent that the quality of the act and our condition in performing align with virtue. The “should” or “right way to act” or “good or bad condition” is a quality with origins in right reason or “practical wisdom” or “how the prudent person would define it” (1107a1). Habit is intimately related to action in the process of character formation. It is the operative power that combines the qualities of our repeated actions into characteristics. Though we do not understand precisely how it works, we do know that one-off actions come, temporally, before the development of characteristics, though both are determined in part by how we turn or conduct ourselves. The long-term result of habit is that we come to have “a certain disposition” (1106a6). This disposition flavors and guides our future actions. We become accustomed to responding one way rather than another in certain situations, e.g. through repeatedly cowering in the face of fear, we come to have a cowardly disposition and are inclined to act accordingly. Our characteristics, in this way, gradually move outside of our direct control. Nevertheless, Aristotle concludes that characteristics are voluntary or willing things “because it was once in our power to make use of [them] in this way or that” (1115a2). For Aristotle, an action is voluntary or willing if (1) the cause of the action is within the actor and (2) the actor has knowledge of the particulars involved in the action (1110a1). It is possible, according to Aristotle, for discrete actions to satisfy both of these conditions fully: if we are forced to act (violating 1) or are ignorant of the particulars involved in our actions (violating 2), our actions become involuntary (or nonvoluntary when awareness of our ignorance fails to produce regret). Voluntary actions, therefore, entail authoritative control over an action from beginning to end. But characteristics are only voluntary at the beginning. We lack the same beginning-to-end control over characteristics that we have over actions because the particulars of the process of habituation, by which our character is formed, are not known to us. Because we do not know how characteristics add 21 �Essay to themselves through the power of habit, we cannot satisfy (2) when thinking of character development as a whole. But because it is possible for us to satisfy both conditions in the case of particular actions, and because our actions, when compounded by the power of habit, result in our characteristics, Aristotle concludes that our characteristics are voluntary to the extent that we have causal control over our actions early on. When introducing the power of habit and its relation to moral virtue, Aristotle claims that “it makes no small difference, then, whether one is habituated this or that way straight from childhood but a very great difference—or rather the whole difference” (1103b24). If characteristics are voluntary, what is meant here by “the whole difference”? On the surface, these two ideas seem at odds because habituation in childhood seems to entail a great many external causes, whereas the claim that characteristics are voluntary rests on their cause being internal and “up to us.” Let’s consider, first, how we should understand “the whole difference,” then turn to the process of habituation in childhood to consider how and to what extent our actions are “up to us.” By “the whole difference,” two main interpretations seem possible. One is that habituation in childhood is fully and ultimately determinate of the characteristics one comes to have in adulthood. On this view, how one is raised solidifies one’s characteristics such that a person exiting childhood no longer has any control over the composition of their disposition. Though they retain authoritative control over individual actions, their characteristics are unchangeable. The other interpretation views an upbringing that accords with virtue as necessary but not sufficient to attain virtue. Being “raised right” endows the person with a fundamental predisposition upon which they can, through their own work and effort, ultimately attain virtue by identifying the mean and acting rightly many times, though there is no guarantee that they will succeed. Someone “raised poorly” is instilled with predispositions that are so antithetical to the attainment of virtue that reaching it is effectively impossible. A third interpretation, admittedly weaker than the main two, considers “the whole difference” to be directionally determinate. On this view, childhood habituation endows the person with certain inclinations or predispositions, but leaves open the possibility of alteration and development. The difference can be considered “whole” if habituation in childhood is responsible for creating a fixed “starting point” in adulthood. A person of reasoning age could, from this starting point, deliberate and choose to act one way despite having been habituated in childhood to act another and could, through repetition, thereby alter his characteristics. It is possible, on this view, for someone “raised right” to corrupt themselves in adulthood and for one “raised poorly” to attain virtue. What does habituation in childhood look like? Since the child is a being in development whose physical and mental capacities change over time, it seems, too, that the manner of habituation will vary accordingly. For a very young child, the first actions we can call “voluntary,” in Aristotle’s vocabulary, are basic motor functions. Such actions are voluntary to the extent their cause is internal to the child. But a greater share of causation at this stage of development belongs to the parents who decide what the child eats and when, how he is dressed, where he goes, etc. Indeed, the whole aim of parenting, at least in this respect, is to be the cause of the actions that a child is incapable of directing (or directing well) himself. As he grows and his capacities increase, he takes on a greater proportion of the causal responsibility of his own actions, his parents less. When the child can walk, he has greater command over where he goes, within the confines the parents set for him. When he is a teenager, the balance shifts even more. 22 �Essay In addition to the role of the parent, there is a complex web of other external causes impacting the child’s development, including the broader environment one grows up in, role models one can tacitly learn from, and random chance. The claim is not that all external causes constitute “force.” Aristotle makes clear that an action retains some element of the voluntary to the extent that we contribute to it (1110b16). Rather, we’re left with a picture of habituation in childhood that is a mixture of internal and external causes, and the task of deciphering the voluntary and involuntary. It will help to pause for a moment and say precisely what’s at stake in sorting out the voluntary from the involuntary. Since Aristotle ties praise and blame to voluntary action and forgiveness and pity to involuntary action (1109b30), knowing the difference is important if we care about justice. If we wrongly attribute a voluntary cause to an action that was indeed involuntary, we risk blaming when we should be forgiving. In the opposite case, where we think a voluntary action to be involuntary, we risk becoming suckers to the calculations of evil that prey on our sympathies. The distinction matters, too, in the case of law, where understanding the nature of voluntary and involuntary action is necessary for rendering appropriate judgement in particular instances. Regarding characteristics specifically, if we agree with Aristotle’s claim that they are voluntary or willing things, we have to understand how and to what extent this is so since the mixed nature of childhood habituation has proved nuanced. ### It may be instructive to think about character development in two distinct phases. Aristotle writes: “Neither by nature, therefore, nor contrary to nature are the virtues present; they are instead present in us who are of such a nature as to receive them, and who are completed through habit” (1103a25, emphasis mine). What does it mean to be “of such a nature” as to receive the virtues? The broadest interpretation reads “of such a nature” as human nature: our common human nature, lacking “completion” at birth, is nevertheless of such a nature as to find its completion in virtue. By contrast, a stone is not “of such a nature” because the quality that drives it downward cannot be altered no matter how many times it is thrown in the air. Man can become courageous, cowardly, or reckless, but the stone will always fall. And while only virtue, for Aristotle, is the right or full completion of a human being, a number of excesses or deficiencies are possible outcomes whereas the stone is not “of such a nature” as to admit of optionality in this way. True as this may be, it seems Aristotle wants to make a distinction amongst human beings rather than between humans and non-humans. A stricter reading of the quote says that there is one kind of “of such a nature” that is capable of attaining virtue and others that are not. What is this “second nature” and where does it come from? It seems to be a quality or set of qualities on top of “mere” human nature that one comes to possess prior to virtue which makes virtue’s attainment possible. We can understand this second nature in two main ways: as inborn tendencies or as initial conditioning. The inborn tendencies view says: “although nature does not furnish us with full-blown virtues, we are born with nascent proclivities or predispositions that incline us one way or another.” For example, an inherently skittish child may frighten easily and be more likely to act in a cowardly manner. It is not inconsistent to say all human beings share a common nature but are not born equal in all respects. We recognize this in cases where one is born with, say, a greater potential to achieve physical strength. On this view, the inborn tendencies are not ultimately determinate—just as a greater potential for strength does not guarantee that one will be strong—but they do give some children a natural advantage over others when it comes to the possibility of attaining virtue, all else equal. The internal and external factors of upbringing still play an important role in the outcome. 23 �Essay The other view understands this second nature as the initial conditioning that comes from one’s childhood. On this view, we are born blank slates who come to be “of such a nature” in this preliminary sense by our upbringing. Since childhood habituation is a mixture of causes voluntary and involuntary, internal and external, the outcome of our “second nature” is the result of this complex web of causation. This view gives children more of an equal footing by nature but places greater determinate power in childhood habituation since one who is “raised right” will be “of such a nature” as to receive the virtues, the one who is not, not. This understanding seems most consistent with the “necessary but not sufficient” interpretation of Aristotle’s claim that habituation straight from childhood makes “the whole difference.” Nevertheless, it remains an open question how and to what extent the child causally contributes to his childhood and therefore to the constitution of his “second nature.” ### We suggested before that at least a small part of a child’s development is “up to” the child and that the proportion of causal responsibility he shares relative to his parents and other factors increases as he matures. This framing gives us the chance to consider, if only in thought, a kind of social science experiment. What makes the difference between two people whose external factors are all the same but who turn out very differently? Of course, we cannot control for sameness of upbringing with true scientific precision—circumstances will necessarily differ, even for children raised in the same household. But for the sake of this thought experiment, let’s say we know that the parents, environment, and all other external causes were all the same for two children. One becomes prodigal in adulthood, the other liberal. What accounts for the difference? If we understand “of such a nature” as the inherent qualities infused by nature, then it seems clear that different inputs through the same process will yield different results. The parents in this scenario should seek to identify these inherent qualities early on and tailor each child’s upbringing accordingly. But if, having controlled for all external factors of childhood, we understand “of such a nature” to mean initial conditioning, we’re left with how each child, respectively, responds to his conditions and how he turns or conducts himself in action, to the extent he is able. Suppose the two children were brought up in poverty. At some point early in life, the prodigal child may have responded to a one-time excess of money by spending it wildly for fear of losing it, aware of the pain of not having it, while the liberal child responded to the same circumstances by spending some and saving the rest. The power of habit then gradually took hold and cemented the quality of prodigality in the one, liberality in the other. Now, as adults, it is effectively outside of their power to be otherwise. Whichever case may be true, the thought experiment reveals what it might look like for voluntary action in childhood to contribute to one’s second nature, and ultimately to one’s characteristics, even though habituation from childhood as a whole is a mixed bag of factors. A definitive framework for determining the exact proportion of causal responsibility a child shares in determining his own character at each stage of his childhood remains elusive. Does the two-year-old who accounts for, say, 15% of the causal control over his action in the face of a particular fear play a decisive role in determining his character (if such a thing is quantifiable at all)? At what point does he become aware of habit’s power, and how does this knowledge affect his future actions? To what extent should he be praised or blamed later in life for being courageous or otherwise? I do not think it is possible in this inquiry, or from the text of Aristotle alone, to answer these questions precisely. Yet their answers may indeed make “the whole difference” in how we conceive of justice and arrange our laws, how we relate to one another, and how we understand ourselves. 24 �Artwork Marley Crank 25 �Personal Essay On the GI and Online Seminars Winston Elliott What if we were to examine screen shots of my Graduate Institute online sessions (Summer and Fall 2020) and put an X through the faces of those who would not have attended if Annapolis residency was required? Many faces would disappear and their lives, and St. John’s College, would be the poorer for the loss. In person conversation is wonderful for people who live in the area. Or for those who can take summers (or Fall/Spring) off from jobs, and families, and move to Annapolis. Shouldn’t we continue to reach out to those who would love, and benefit from, the GI but aren’t retired, childless, or have summers off? Is it reasonable to let the occasionally nearly perfect (in person) be the enemy of the often excellent (Zoom)? Sadly, there are several new Johnnies who, having begun the GI online, will not be able to continue if relocation to Annapolis is the only option. It seems the College benefits tremendously from broadening the reach of the GI and expanding the beneficiaries of the St. John’s Program. Would it not be magnanimous to make the GI available beyond Annapolis area residents, teachers, and retired people? Many prospective GI students cannot afford to pay for classes and move for the four summers (or one year). The online GI option makes the GI possible even for those who take care of elderly parents, or special needs children, for whom relocation is impossible. I hope members of the St. John’s community see that those who cannot come to Annapolis still may partake of the treasure that is St. John’s. I think it would a great loss to deny prospective GI students a St. John’s College experience only because they cannot move to Annapolis. After all, the books, the people, and the conversation are the heart of the St. John’s College Graduate Institute and all are present in person and via Zoom. In my Seminar, Tutorial, and Preceptorial this fall I see that Zoom brings advantages (hearing participants well, seeing our faces regardless of where we sit!) and some disadvantages (mute buttons, while necessary, reduce spontaneity and shared laughter, no informal time together before/after seminar discussion). It helps me to keep in mind that during my last three decades of seminar participation (regardless of whether participants were teachers, undergrad/grad students, or academics) any particular conversation may be too slow or too fast, a bit flat or too explosive, too singular in focus or too often skimming along the obvious. I have seen that requesting our colleagues to explain their thoughts may slow the pace so that we may enjoy contemplating the questions deeply. Instant answers are seldom the richest. My Odyssey preceptorial has been a tremendous gift that transcends technology, speed, and distance. We often bring the joy of our days, or the anxieties of COVID-tide, with us each Thursday. However, we may always bring the overwhelming joy which is the beauty, adventure, and deeply powerful humanity of Homer’s Odyssey. Even when life conspires to wound any particular shared conversation, I endeavor to remember that the Odyssey is a gift beyond measure. Occasionally, when we are doubting the progression of any particular discussion, we are refreshed by rereading some favorites parts of the poem aloud. The poem is variably enchanting, fantastical, sad, joyful, violent, and full of loving tears. Often it is easy to ignore the shimmering surface while we submariners plow through the subtle complexities of the subtext of the poem. Simply, it is lovely, and loveliness is always worth savoring. 26 �Personal Essay As long as we are grounded in the text, polite, and present there is always the potential for great good to come about. Although that potential is occasionally left unfulfilled. Seminar may be messy, unpredictable, exhilarating, exasperating, enlightening and occasionally transformative. It may be what we humans are: dull, thrilling, entrancing, boring. My wife and I have participated in many seminars over the past three decades. Fortuitously, twenty-four years ago we met in a seminar discussing American political novels. Barbara and I were especially pleased to join the Annapolis GI in summer 2017. I am happy to share that my experiences with the online GI this past summer, and this semester, have been excellent. In fact, the online conversations have most often equaled, and occasionally surpassed, those we had in person in Annapolis in the summer of 2017. I am proud to be a Johnnie and grateful to be a member of the St. John’s community. Neha Gaddam 27 �Poetry Two Poems Louis Petrich At Wrist’s End Come round, I’ll wave away, my kindly hand, of course, as you pass by. What more? If in you want a look, think this: to book with me, from safe, part company. Unopened am unlet they’ll soon forget to miss. End good enough— at wrist? 28 �Poetry Tanned and Tided Over (A 2020 Conversation) Me— on this world— have you— like sure— if thought can have unreal turn real. I can no longer live by thinking— ‘tis purely by these manly words Orlando sure turns Rosalind woman, who liked as Ganymede, ifs love to school of clock or cuckoldry. The virus taught, worst ifs have virtues: like wilderness of quailing numbers on diet ontological has pillared fire obedient raw. Yet lunge they for Egyptian dishes!— dark touches— there’s the taste beats Law! We tried to lap up milk, sans tongues— say, what’s the sum of mounting credits? sapped soul adrift as clouds from seas. To stead, fill clefts and plaster walls, new paint them splashing, careless care, for nesting’s pulled loose knots of carpet— house bunny piles them, besting beds— so marries cornered jets of instinct. Our paradox: though tripping far by instinct, still by caution benched. ‘Tis hard, thought honest: sparks by night need lying room for air to stage ‘em. I smoke, while homing lost o’er roofs; you pray, to pose this wildness caged. What proof of plot, as looks rebook? the exodus, plague started, goes. 29 �Poetry I sought, years back, distraction’s lease from beauty’s case load--found others by to slant, diversify my peering and footing, threads and colors, Achilles knew to get out when, and when to put his all back in! O— It cost him, lacked. Dishonor me, and out I go, back in. This needs but taking being took, dark tactics. Don’t we prefer deep stirring black to weakly tanned, weeks tided over? Unsheathe your arrows, shoot home come and cream the throng, so sweet to die! God chums what’s wrong: wring longing’s turns!— spite topsoil masked as bottom stern, assign to plight of leaves kite words— than rather list this versing hand to con complicit, bodied off, and prop kind-faced old beaten cause. For living contact— fated yearning!— teach clay to risk its perfect cleaving, or Pilate hands will bleach haled roughs and gut the shells for shored defection. The soul intact ne’er breaches thus, but breathes blood buoyant seas, earth-welling! Pan-safe, safe-swelling, hearts go bust. 30 �Personal Essay A Letter to St. John’s: On Creating a More Inclusive Learning Environment Hayley River Smith As my time comes to an end, I would like to reflect on what the St. John’s College’s Graduate Institute has given me. I considered St. John’s because throughout my education I have felt within me a drive to think deeply and examine the world around me. So when the question of what I would critique about my education thus far was asked in the Graduate Institute’s essay application I knew instantly what I would say: I love the community I am a part of and I share many of the same values as my peers, but the lack of diversity of ideas can constrain, rather than build. It is not because other views do not exist here but because they are often silenced. That would be the main critique of my education hitherto. People are unwilling to converse when someone’s views go against their own. I want my peers to talk to me about information I have not heard before. I want my tutors to ask me questions that I do not have an answer to. But when we all believe the same things there is no room for transformation. We cannot circle back because we are not moving at all. The examining and reexamining of concepts is a part of how we come to understand them thoroughly. We stay the same and we do not do justice to our own identity. St. John’s was the answer to that in many ways. I am leaving with an abundance of knowledge that I otherwise would not have at this moment, a familiarity with texts that take me beyond the reaches of my undergraduate experience, and a better understanding of my own education. The reality is I wouldn’t change my personal experience within the program because it has brought me to a point of realization that I can no longer sit silently and allow for someone else to do the same. There is a need to reevaluate the true purpose of the Graduate Institute and if that goal is being achieved within the classroom; that may be considered in terms of the discussion itself, representation, the feedback given, and the needs of each student. During my first semester in the graduate program, I felt stupid and in certain moments I truly believed it. I often find myself listening and processing for a bit before I speak, but quickly I found that even though some say listening is enough it is not the case for everyone. So, I adjusted, as we must in new environments, and began to ease myself into the conversation, and I rarely found my ideas getting traction. In an environment that encourages extemporaneous speaking, occasionally ideas can fall flat, but I found some of my classmates glazed over my words as if they were but a whisper. And again, I found myself falling silent. It’s not to say I interacted with the text less than anyone else, but it became more solitary in certain ways. I’d still have moments of excitement about a text or idea and while feeling completely enveloped by it found myself speaking from a place of passion and maybe clarity. I felt that about the poem “Asphodel, That Greeny Flower,” by William Carlos Williams, which we read for a Preceptorial class on American Poetry. You see, we were talking about the way in which he is expressing love to his wife and it lit a little fire in me. I found the way he spoke about himself, his affairs, death, and loving her frustrating. I questioned if his words were genuine or his love was true, and as the conversation progressed, I became quite sure of a sort of selfishness lying between the lines. It didn’t feel too much like love to me, at least not a kind I would want. Some agreed and others didn’t, but one response still sticks with me. A man at least twice my senior laughs under his breath and says, “what would you know about love.” I pretended like I didn’t hear his words. 31 �Personal Essay Nevertheless, we moved on with the conversation and that was that. The issue here for me lies in the fact that his comment was not only patronizing but also irrelevant. Naturally, many people in the class brought up their own personal relationships in order to grapple with this poem. Why did his perception of my life experience thus far need to act as a mark against me, making my comments less legitimate or important than his? This has not been the most upsetting or only occasion this kind of behavior has been upheld and through conversations with my peers, I realize it is not an isolated issue. The toleration of comments like these points to the symptom of a greater problem and our inaction will only continue to allow for it to grow. I began to see again that my silence did not go unnoticed as I would enter into meetings with my tutors halfway through the semester, “we would love to hear you speak more” they said. Like clockwork, I would nod, try, and then feel exhausted once more. Most of the time I could get my ideas across through my essays and oral exams which I grew to love and look forward to, but it wasn’t always enough. Aware of it or not, each of us is perpetuating a problem at this college about the determination of who is heard. I did. Not in every moment but in many, I made a choice to say nothing because it was easier than feeling discouraged, unheard, or misunderstood. It has been in my last two semesters at the college that I have felt especially frustrated as I continued to wrestle with this feeling. Through conversation with peers that I trust I have realized the deep-seated issue that exists among us whether we can acknowledge it or not and I worry that the online classes as they are at this moment allow for this potential inequity to fester and grow. In my classes over Zoom, I have personally felt a rise in comments tinged with privilege and a lack of self-awareness. Maybe the distance that online learning allows, while essential, is also a part of the problem. Something that ties us together in the classroom is our common humanity. However, at this moment, we are not sitting arm in arm, instead, we stare at each other in little boxes on the screen. It is during these times I have felt most constrained in whose voice is valued or simply listened to. I have watched as some of my classmates try to pick apart my words as if they don’t make sense even though they barely listened to what I said in the first place. Then, others speak about things so far outside of the text that it becomes undoubtedly unproductive while those who couldn’t try to conceive of what I was saying nod and engage in this off-topic conversation. We talk about texts, like the founding documents of this country and court cases that for a long time decided who was considered human or who deserved rights and we speak about inequality while we stare at those boxes, of mostly (if not all) white faces. It creates a distance which in turn gives some people more liberty to say things they might not if they had to look in the eyes of their classmates or sit with them and eat a slice of pizza after seminar. It also appears that the voices that speak up against these comments go unheard. We all come to the table with different ideas of the world and that is absolutely valuable but in that, it also seems essential to recognize our own positions and privileges as well. If we cannot do that the community becomes a difficult and disappointing place for those who do not look or think like the loudest or most persistent voice in the room. Now, I come to this very moment at the end of my time in the program where I am writing to process what I will do with this knowledge I have gathered. So, in the very spirit of the college, I will ask a question: Is this an equitable environment? At this moment, my own answer would be no. I don’t want to sound as if I am asking for pity or some sort of apology and that is not what I am hoping for. What I would like is a movement towards what I wrote about in my application because if someone asked me if I would do all of this again, I would say yes. I’m aware that the world is filled with moments similar to this one. I know that many voices don’t even have the opportunity to make 32 �Personal Essay it into these conversations. I am also sure that not every mind feels free. The way in which the program cognizes the depth of student knowledge, the validity of each student’s voice, and the intention behind some comments made within the classroom demands acknowledgment and must be examined further. I believe that the perpetuation of this classroom culture, both through action and inaction, ultimately hinders the overall mission of the college and its philosophy. I know if I left without speaking up, I would regret a part of my time here and I don’t want to wish any of this away. I will end this letter with a few considerations for our community moving forward: How do we create an environment where the students listen fully and deeply to their peers? What responsibility do not only tutors, but students have in regulating one another? How can we empower students to recognize what comments are not helpful or even harmful? How can we create an environment that is receptive to constructive criticism? Are we given the resources and space to recognize inequity within the classroom? Ultimately, I think if we allow for this to continue without true consideration and change the program will lose touch with itself completely. It will no longer serve a purpose to many individuals who want to be a part of it but can’t because the feelings that deter them, while absolutely real, go unnoticed and unchanged. 33 �Artwork Jaime Marquez 34 �Poetry Two Poems Alexander Andreosatos K .Ø. He kept no sleep for me in Brooklyn. I wrapped the whole night around my shoulders, like it was fox fur—red, black, and white. A kind of heaven had come over us—something sure, but with awful eyes, and we were bent by the entrance of it, as wind bends a skirt, and knees bend to dirt, and I could hear the city bark at the intrusion—— I tossed my head in widening circles, my neck on the soft animal, and kept him close to the chest—my precious forest—and, after all, it was his dark hair, his stark thoughts, long, and sometimes cut, that I desired so much as to be forthwith for the first time in my life, and nothing is as beautiful as when the gloves come off—— I’d never seen such a proud moon before. He shed on the city his equal figure, and crouched on the steps of his apartment, smoking and listening to the dogs. He kept the whole night wrapped around his shoulders, feeling empty like fire must—— 35 �Poetry PRECIOUS Precious, mint, and honest sweet things, sweet ones, overrun. O how it is— they go by in the hard field. I’ve always wanted a brother. A kind of twin. He would know how it is. I know he’s there. Gone like a dolphin. Tissue paper sky—— Mint overcomes the wallflower. Being sensitive and shy is the family business, so I've studied the phenomenon closely. I wonder how much of it is just wanting to be picked. The sweet-story mint. It overgrows the head—— All shades under green to nurse the wound. O how easy it is to recreate— it goes by in the hard field with a wish. I miss him. My brother, the buried firework. He harbored colossal emotions. I know he’s still there. Paper beats rock. He’s underneath everything—— We drive out to Belfast in old sun. Two kinds of firsts in the front seats. I want the battle dug up and winged. Black fern growls on the shoulder. First thing we see is a mother. A too-kind darkness. Piano-feet sky. We kid ourselves. O how it is— she goes by in the hard field—— 36 �Personal Essay A Toast to the Tutors, Spring 2020 Sam Hage During the quarantine I’ve heard a lot of people ask, “What are you doing to keep busy?” This question strikes me as both appropriate and tragic. It’s appropriate because “keeping busy” is a tactic employed during all kinds of hardship— layoffs, breakups, the loss of a loved one. And this virus, no doubt, presents many real hardships. And yet “keeping busy” is not a strategy employed only by the bereaved— if anything, it has become our country’s dominant attitude toward life. “Keeping busy” is no longer just a means of escaping the extraordinary pain of unusual tragedies, but instead a constant refuge from existential dread and the terrors of inner life. The frenetic activity we rely on simply to fill up our lives keeps us from encountering life’s contemplative moments with pleasure and curiosity. We distract ourselves from thinking about what life really is. St. John’s has shown a lucky few of us an alternative. Reading The Stranger last month, I was struck by the parallels to our own situation in Camus’ stunning depiction of humanity. The book is subtler and less obviously relevant than the more conspicuous quarantine choice, The Plague, but there is at least one feature I find particularly germane. Camus’ protagonist spends a great deal of the book’s final section in solitary confinement awaiting his trial, and perhaps even his execution. We read many pages of his reflections. At first Meursault misses his work, his friends, and his routines, finding it difficult to pass the time in isolation. But he quickly adjusts to the new reality, learning how to live with only his thoughts and the changing color of the sky. Exploring the simple memory of the objects in his bedroom over and over in greater and greater detail, he muses that a man who had lived a single day in the world could easily endure 100 years of solitary contemplation. He realizes that his supremely unexceptional life really contained the most sublime joys in its most ordinary moments. Meursault learns this in isolation. St. John’s teaches us the same thing among friends. The pressures of solitude and austerity are less explicit for us right now than they were for Meursault, but I find myself thinking about them anyway. Most of the time, it’s easy for us to avoid looking at the question of what life is very closely; to assemble all the different pieces—work, school, hobbies, family time, socializing—and assume that life is more or less the sum of its parts. By disrupting these routines, the virus shows us that life is something else. It compels us to reflect carefully on what life is all about; a St. John’s education gives us the tools to do so. Rather than desperately filling up any quiet lacunae with diversions, we can look directly at the space itself. We might even come to realize that this space above all is what life really is. 37 �Personal Essay Before St. John’s I read lots of books like The Stranger, and even a few of the books on our program. But I never had thoughts like these. The books alone are not enough to teach us about life, let alone about the good life. We need each other, and most of all we need our tutors. Our tutors teach about what is good in life, but they also do something a book never could: they model the good life for us. Last Spring, I met my seminar tutor outside a Friday night lecture and asked if he planned to stay for the Q&A period. He told me no, since he had to go read freshman essays. I said something like, “Gosh, on a Friday night—being a tutor seems like a lot of work.” He smiled and said, “Not really—I love every minute of it.” His sentiment ought to be an aspiration for us all: not merely to fill up our lives, but to find a way to live life such that we love every minute. To embrace life rather than simply keep ourselves occupied until it’s over. By merely staying busy under normal circumstances we shirk that greatest of duties to live an examined life. Doing so while quarantined, we risk giving up a greater than usual opportunity for introspection. Only by taking a close and sustained look at what life really is can we actually live it. To do so took Meursault solitary confinement and the guillotine. For me all it took was St. John’s. This is what our tutors offer us: the ability to live, because we now know how to think. To the tutors of St. John’s College. 38 �Poetry Rise Up and Come Away: An Ode for the Marriage of Friends Ryan Shinkel My beloved spake, and said unto me, Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away. For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; The time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land; The fig tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with the tender grape give a good smell. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away. —Song of Songs 2:10-13 For ten years men fought at Troy for Her face. A thousand ships had set sail, to what end? For power, riches, wisdom, and strength, placed With honor, glory, and blessing to fend Against Trojans? Greeks warred to destroy Troy. Another motive these ancient heroes, Who gave so much, must have had, to have fought. Yet what more reason is needed, with joy In Love: he who can endure any blows Knows flame reasons enough for what hearts wrought. One Achaean knew there was one more war He had to wage, the fight to return home. Ten years at Troy, ten years wandering for A way back to take back Ithaca. He roamed, Odysseus, named at birth, Son of Pain. For his wife, Penelope, he withstood Barbarians, Lotus Eaters, the Cyclops, Man Eating Giants, Witches, Sirens, Storming Rain, Sea Monsters. Even Immortal Life offered With Calypso he swapped for her and swam. Immortality he exchanged to die. Naked, helpless, he begged kind Nausicaa. He wished her in supplication this blessing: For spouse, house, and lasting harmony, a Gift no finer or greater to be unfurled When man and woman possess their home, one Of a marriage with true souls, two minds, and Two hearts thinking and beating their own world. Despair to enemies, joy to friends, done like two souls merged into one flesh, they stand. The lovers who last must befriend truly, or So the poets report of marital bliss. That covenant like two wings or two oars Roves the waves to our true home to the kiss Of the Lamb and his bride, a cosmic feast Which beckons our lifelong odysseys. One bird with two oars, one boat with two wings 39 �Poetry Can sail to a celestial city fleeced With men sacrificing immortality to gain the everlasting homecoming. Arise, my love. Let us hear the birds together. Neha Gaddam 40 �Personal Essay Human Space Is Where St. John's Exists Jordana Rozenman originally published on Colloquy blog, April 2020 I’ve been, as we all have, on a cycle of heartbreak and of deep gratitude and hope the past few weeks, generally as we began to move into whatever this time period is, and then very specifically as news came from St. John’s. Because these feelings were solidified by St. John’s, there is a lot to say about the school. There already was a lot to say, as I am moving toward the end of my last semester in the GI, frequently thinking about what it has given me, what has come from it expectedly and unexpectedly, how the program and the people have come to mean what they have come to mean. In this legitimately unimaginable development, there are now even more things I can say about St. John’s. St. John’s is a small focus in the midst of a truly gigantic crisis, a small personal thing in a global event that is not about us, but to be sad and to be grateful I suppose is important at any time. To be told, four semesters in, and seven years into imagining attending, that you cannot return to the St. John’s campus after spring break to finish your time there in person is a punch to the gut. How can it mean so much, some of you first semester GIs might even be asking (and I perhaps would even have asked during my first semester here)? How much proverbial Kool-Aid have I drunk? As it turns out, I am so happy to report, the answer is none. No Kool-Aid at all. The marvel is (and this does not come through rose-colored glasses–how exactly did I end up in TWO semesters about sixteenth-century French writers?! I DO NOT LIKE THEM) …the marvel is that St. John’s exists as one of what must be a very, very few places that does what it says it is doing. No Kool-Aid needed. It might not do it immediately. It surely won’t do it in the way you are expecting. It might take three or four semesters for you to even see it happening. Because the texts work very slowly. But beyond that, the people working with you on the texts–students and tutors–require time together for the program to happen. To use the term “heartbreaking” for not being allowed to finish St. John’s at St. John’s might seem hyperbolic. But it is testament to the power of finding people who are about what they say they are about. A major, perhaps the main, reason that works is that the program is not, and cannot be, online. There is a reason that there are a disproportionate number of GIs who come to read and discuss the great books and who have flip phones, not iPhones. There is a reason we are specifically asked not to use digital versions of the text in class, but to use hard copies. Of books. This is probably one of the most important foresights in the program. It is only in small part about what (deep) benefits that kind of reading will have for the reader, and in much larger part about what kind of reader such a caveat will bring to campus. The intention of the community is to be found in people who want, and need, to gather around a text, in at least equal part as it is to be found in the texts themselves. I suppose I am talking about form and content. The content can be made available anywhere. The form is found only at St. John’s. If the form disappears, the entire meaning of the program is lost. To my mind the need to explain any of that doesn’t exist, because everyone who has ever been or will ever want to be a Johnnie, or who has been a tutor, understands this. It is why Pano was able to say at my Convocation that this is not a community, 41 �Personal Essay but a polity (and the undergrads went wild with enthusiasm at this). The particular idea of this polity can only live in classes and a campus that exists in real, not virtual, space. In case all this makes it sound like St. John’s GI is actually not a “real place,” or is an escape from the real world, a four-semester-long respite from what is actually happening out there in the digital age to which you will have to return when you finish, let me be clear about just a few other points. St. John’s is perhaps one of the realest foundations for being in the real world that I’ve found. It is the opposite of an escape. It is a stepping stone. Nothing has made this clearer to me than the pandemic. In a program that is so short and so special to begin with, I was not surprised to speak with more than a few people who shed some tears about losing everything that it meant to them in the home stretch. But in the weeks that followed the closure of SJC and the closure of everything in the world, and the abrupt cutoff from a million things we love, I could not stop hearing in my head the words of a wise tutor last semester as we discussed a character who couldn’t get something he wanted: “Good practice for death!” (A very Johnnie response to a minor problem.) I had laughed when he said it, because he did not mean it gloomily. He meant only, take a breath. Let go when necessary. Be graceful. We do not have control over when our most beloved things (people, experiences, lives) are taken from us. So–good practice. I thought also of Odysseus. (I’m not sure there will ever be a time post-SJC when I don’t think of Odysseus.) And I thought of the class when we discussed Odysseus’ long, long-awaited return to Ithaca. After 20 years, he is asleep when it finally happens. What can possibly be the meaning of his being denied the poignancy of seeing his home, his awareness of reaching it, as he sails into it after 20 years of imagining it? It seemed a cruelty to me. Our tutor suggested that the moments we think we are waiting for, the moments we anticipate and that take on utter importance in our imaginations, are perhaps not the important ones, as real life unfolds, at all. The parts of the future that we cannot possibly anticipate sometimes offer the realest moments, if we are open to them. I think of these as only two of the times that what has come out of St. John’s has been grounding for me, in a way that is the opposite of coddling. It is not an exaggeration to say that I feel better off in a pandemic having had St. John’s than I would without it. I am so grateful for it, to have something I feel so sad about losing the end of. We have adjusted pretty quickly to the flimsy, flimsy substitution for classes in this emergency. But we are missing deeply, even grieving, everything real and organic that grows, during the classes (“facing with each other the questions of the text in front of us,” as one classmate put it), in between the classes, outside of them, through the people surrounding the texts. Such a polity does not happen often. I do not want to oversell St. John’s. It is not nearly perfect. But it is real, which is better. It is for the real world, and everything that St. John’s is capable of accomplishing is only so because of the fullness of the program as it exists. I am so excited about the stepping stone it has provided me, and the other stepping stones it will provide me that I can’t even see yet. It doesn’t stop, I don’t think. 42 �Prizewinning Essay: Tutorial The Soul with Good Sense Guides Correctly Sam Hage “The natural road is from what is more familiar and clearer to us to what is clearer and better known by nature; for it is not the same things that are well known to us and well known simply.” Aristotle, Physics 184a19 —————— Doubtless every reader of the Meno has at some point asked the same question: What is a geometrical demonstration doing in the middle of a dialogue about virtue? The introduction of this lesson is abrupt, and the supposed teaching about “recollection” is difficult to take at face value. Now, it isn’t hard to see how a certain specific type of mathematical learning might help us understand, in general, the process of coming to know, and to feel confident in the truth of, a proposition that was previously opaque; but it is substantially more difficult to understand how this type of learning fits into the conversation about virtue in particular, and especially its teachability. Part of the trouble, I think, stems from a confusion about where exactly in the encounter with the slave recollection is supposedly taking place, and indeed about the status of recollection as opposed to teaching in the first place. This latter difficulty leads to two further questions: Why does Socrates insist, as a partial answer to the question of whether virtue is teachable, that nothing is teachable? And then, having done so, why does he collapse the distinction between teaching and recollection shortly thereafter? His coy reversion at 87c makes me think there is something in the nature of recollection that may be important for the reader to bear in mind even at points in the dialogue where Meno himself has obediently yielded to Socrates’ equivocation. I would like to look closely at the geometry lesson in order to better understand the type of learning that is being described. But first, some context may be helpful. The Good Things At 77b, well before Socrates brings the slave into their discussion, Meno attempts to identify virtue for a third time, offering the following definition: “for one who desires the noble things to be capable of providing them for himself.”1 Unlike the previous two attempts, Socrates doesn’t immediately counter the argument or point out the ways in which Meno hasn’t truly answered the question. Instead he turns to a single point of clarification around what it really means to “desire the noble things.” Socrates first asks Meno to affirm that not everyone desires good things—some, Meno wants to say, actually “desire the bad things” (77c). But from this, of course, arises the question of whether he who desires these things does so “in the belief that the bad things benefit him…or knowing that the bad things harm him” (77d). It quickly emerges that everyone who desires bad things does so in the mistaken belief that the bad things are the good things—that is, out of ignorance—and so everyone, in a sense, really desires the good things for himself (77e–78b). It is indeed difficult, knowing what it means to “desire” something, even to imagine Meno’s paradoxical 1 Plato. “Protagoras” and “Meno”. Translated by Robert C. Bartlett, Cornell University Press, 2004. 43 �Prizewinning Essay: Tutorial alternative, that some people actually desire to be “wretched”. But Meno is clearly onto something important: Most people, while desiring good things in the most general sense, in fact end up pursuing at the very least a mix of good and bad things, and often bad things simply. From here Socrates goes in a surprising direction. Having collapsed Meno’s twofold definition, “to want the good things and to be capable,” into the single criterion, “being capable” (78b), Socrates does not ask what to me would be the obvious next question: What is it that allows some people to correctly recognize the good things, while others are mistaken about the objects of their desires? Could such a faculty be the very virtue we’ve been seeking? I can guess why Socrates does not suggest this. These mistakes were identified at 77e as coming from ignorance; wouldn’t the opposite, then, have to be a form of knowledge? Since he never refuted Meno’s claim that virtue has something to do with pursuing the good things, Socrates is perilously close at this moment to admitting that virtue is essentially knowledge. Were he to make such an admission this early in the conversation, Meno would, no doubt, jump immediately to the conclusion that virtue is teachable—and indeed that the teachers of virtue are the men he has been going to for his lessons. Socrates still has other things to show him. Instead of investigating the faculty that might allow one to distinguish from among health, wealth, honors, offices, and “things other than those of that sort” (78c) which ones might be the “good things,” Socrates misdirects Meno in a way that seems intended to result in perplexity. He accepts Meno’s assertion that the things popularly held to be goods are in fact goods, and then introduces the nakedly circular argument that getting these things for oneself can be done both virtuously and viciously, and is only virtuous when undertaken with “justice or moderation or piety, or some other part of virtue” (78e). He then chastises Meno for relying on virtue in his definition of virtue, as though it hadn’t been his own idea to twist Meno’s argument that way in the first place! Meno’s definition seems internally consistent so long as we inquire further about the all-important ability to identify the good things. Instead, Socrates has chosen a line of questioning that makes the definition appear contradictory. But there’s a certain beauty in Socrates’ strategy—if virtue depends on a knowledge of what the good things are, and vice stems from an ignorance thereof, then surely a knowledge of one’s own ignorance would be preferable to a mistaken belief in one’s knowledge. Meno certainly is ignorant of some things, and by 80a Socrates has at least gotten him to admit his ignorance, even if he has done so rather duplicitously. The confusion also elicits a docility from his interlocutor that allows Socrates to direct the conversation in a way Meno had stubbornly resisted before. By Zeus, Socrates, For My Part I Don’t Know I will put off looking at the specifics of Socrates’ mathematical example for a moment longer, turning first to the description of recollection that comes right after his exchange with the slave. At 85c Socrates proposes, based on what has just been demonstrated, that even in someone who doesn’t have knowledge, “there are present true opinions about those things that he doesn’t know.” Recollection, it seems, is the process by which such a man, through questioning alone, may 44 �Prizewinning Essay: Tutorial come to possess knowledge, “he himself recovering the knowledge from within himself” (85d). Armed with this working definition of recollection, we may confidently return to the beginning of the geometry problem and follow Socrates’ exhortation at 82b to pay attention to whether the slave is “recollecting or learning from me.” Socrates beings with a series of four opening questions, none of which strike me yet as aiding directly in the process of recollection. They all pertain merely to the knowledge of what it means for a figure to be square and to the possibility for the image of a geometrical figure to represent a conceptual object of arbitrary size (82c–d). The next set of questions serves a similar purpose, this time testing the slave’s knowledge of arithmetic, which, though he stumbles a little at first, is sufficient for Socrates’ purposes. So far none of these questions seems to involve either teaching or recollection. Everything up to about 82e is of the same character as Socrates’ first question at 82b: “does he speak Greek?” They constitute a few epistemological prerequisites for conducting the real investigation that follows. Those out of the way, the process of recollection begins in earnest, I think, with the slave’s first incorrect answer to the question of creating a square with double the area of the original—that the lengths of the sides, too, would be doubled (82e). This is one of the opinions the slave already possessed; one that perhaps seemed so obvious to him that he thought it was his only opinion on the matter. Now we see the questioning at work that Socrates later identifies as crucial to the process of recollection. By drawing on two things the slave does “know”—arithmetic and the size of the original square—Socrates creates a sort of syllogistic middle term in the argument, showing conclusively in 83a–c that the supposedly doubled square actually contains four of the original square, making it not twice, but four times as large. This first opinion having been dispelled, the slave realizes he has another: that since the doubled square is (in a sense) halfway between the original and the quadrupled squares, so too must its side lengths be halfway between two and four. Socrates uses an abbreviated form of the earlier argument to disprove this opinion as well, relying this time on the simple arithmetical fact that three times three is nine, not eight (83e). The dispelling of the slave’s incorrect opinions is illuminating, but the real point of interest as regards recollection comes from the realization of the correct answer. Just before 84d Socrates again reassures Meno, “I’m doing nothing other than asking [the slave] questions and am not teaching him.” In what follows, I think this ceases to be true, a troubling fact that somewhat muddles the lesson about recollection. After guiding the slave through the entire construction of a new figure, this time of the quadrupled square with a smaller square rotated and inscribed inside it, Socrates asks him to perform a simple calculation to determine that the inner square is indeed double the area of the square they started with. This technique has much more in common with the method Socrates used to disprove the previous two opinions, and in the final analysis is not, I think, the best way to demonstrate recollection. He spoon-feeds every step of the argument to the slave, asking him only to verify the final calculation. But the truth being “recollected” might just be uniquely suited to Socrates’ kind of learning. The side length they have ended up with has a very important property: being the hypotenuse of the right triangle formed by two sides of the original 45 �Prizewinning Essay: Tutorial square, it is incommensurable to those original sides. Modern algebra tells us that it does have a numerical length, the square root of eight. But this bland description obscures something fundamental about what a number (as opposed to simply a magnitude) is—one that is important to understand if we want to take what Socrates calls recollection seriously. Though convenient in proving the truth of the proposition, the figure, in which we can count triangles and squares for ourselves, actually hinders the consideration of the nature of magnitudes that cannot be described with a number. I can truthfully say of such a magnitude “I know how large that is,” but it’s hard to meaningfully tell you how large it is. I must resort to ratios or to special symbols whose uniqueness renders them almost completely inert.2 Whole numbers do not work this way. They have the power to communicate meaning by themselves, even in totally unfamiliar contexts, because they represent a number of units that can always be directly compared. Absent such units, then, we might ask: What does it mean to “know” a magnitude? I think it may be this type of knowledge in particular that Socrates wants to draw attention to in talking about recollection. A more effective demonstration might have come at 84a, had the slave not failed Socrates’ injunction to say “what sort of line” would give the required square, which failure prompted Socrates to lead him through the construction of the second figure. Couldn’t the slave have indicated at this point that the new side must be somewhere between two and three, and perhaps even that it’s quite a bit closer to three than to two? Certainly he knows this to be the case—but how does he know it? It wouldn’t have been on Socrates’ authority, because the precise, authoritative answer comes after the new diagram. It also couldn’t have come from the type of arithmetic that has allowed the slave to understand certain parts of the lesson up until now. Even for a student who understands modern trigonometry and irrational numbers, the algebraic calculation hardly grants as pure an understanding as is available if she simply looks at a picture and allows her mind to grasp the manifest truth. To state the case more strongly: Because the new side length is irrational, I cannot constitute it out of discrete units representing the natural numbers. But I can draw the length precisely (to the extent that precision is actually possible in a drawing)—Socrates himself has just done so using his “diameters”. At the risk of stating the obvious, there is a part of my mind, then, that simply grasps what this length is, just not in a way I can easily and rationally describe. Teaching as usually understood, no matter how skilled the teacher or how exhaustive the lesson, cannot resolve the fundamental discontinuity between a series of factual statements and logical arguments, on one hand, and the intellect’s sudden comprehension of this kind of noetic truth, on the other. The student can be turned in the right direction, shown why initial opinions were incorrect, and perhaps taught certain subsidiary propositions that make use of previous knowledge—but the final act of learning consists in an active apprehension rather than the passive reception of knowledge like a vessel being filled from without. This, I think, is what it means to recollect. In other words, a symbol like √8 or π or e or ln(2) can have meaningful reference only to itself, or to fractions and multiples of itself. In all cases, knowledge of the original magnitude must come first. 2 46 �Prizewinning Essay: Tutorial Knowing Virtue Socrates’ application of a kind of rigid syllogistic reasoning throughout the dialogue to questions about virtue’s teachability feels at times like a deliberate obfuscation of a clear path through the argument. By insisting on statements like ‘if virtue is knowledge, it must be teachable’ (87b) and ‘if virtue is teachable, there must be teachers of it’ (89d) Socrates can disguise certain subtleties he might be omitting behind apparently incontrovertible logical propositions. This leads to what in my mind is clearly a circular argument. Meno wanted to know whether virtue was teachable, in response to which Socrates said that it would then have to be a kind of knowledge. But if virtue were knowledge, there would be teachers of it, which there are not, and so virtue is not knowledge and not teachable. I can easily forgive Meno and Anytus for their frustration. But Plato has provided the careful reader a way out. By allowing the slave to apprehend the truth of the geometrical principle behind the square problem, Socrates has shown that the soul of the learner may be turned toward a certain kind of knowledge, which it can then grasp on its own, merely by contemplating it. The demonstration gives the lie to his sophistical insistence that anything knowable must admit of teaching in the conventional sense. Spending much of the dialogue insinuating that the categories “knowable” and “teachable” are identical, Socrates’ lesson with the slave has demonstrated just the opposite; there is a category of abstract truths that may—in fact must—be known without being taught. These things may just be the most knowable of all. What if knowledge of the good, which Socrates and Meno have both identified as being so crucial to virtue, belongs to this category too? Could the recognition that good things are good and harmful things harmful come to the knower in the same way this lofty mathematical abstraction came to the slave? I’m inclined to believe that this is what Plato is pointing us to. The conjecture at least allows us to make sense of the inclusion of Socrates’ geometry lesson in the dialogue, and of the obvious parallels between the categories of knowledge and true opinion in both cases. And as previously noted, it also resolves the apparent stalemate of virtue’s being neither teachable nor inherent. The problem with this supposition, possibly a grave one, is that the virtue discussed throughout the dialogue, though simply referred to as such, clearly seems to be a specific kind of practical virtue related to matters of action and governing. Although individual character virtues like moderation and courage are mentioned a handful of times, the examples discussed are overwhelmingly of a practical nature—and Meno’s abiding concern throughout the text seems to be with ruling over others. Meno even assents at multiple points to the explicit equation of virtue with phronēsis—or at least the assigning of phronēsis to a kind of architectonic role, present in the exercise of all virtue—as at 88d, 89e, and 97a. Anyone asserting that the soul can apprehend the principles of right action in the same way it understands the archē of mathematics must overcome the objection that mathematical certainty in the practical realm is plainly impossible—and probably nonsensical. And yet it’s hard to deny the necessary existence of a faculty of our intellects, common to both cases, that is somehow able to assimilate from among disparate particulars the unified whole that we refer to when we say that we “understand”. What does seem clear is that self-rule plays an important role in the development of this faculty, something that Meno utterly fails to grasp. Socrates repeatedly chides him for his inability to rule himself, as at 86d: “you don’t even attempt to rule yourself—so 47 �Prizewinning Essay: Tutorial you can be free, I suppose—but attempt to rule me.” Meno appears to place self-rule in the middle of a kind of hierarchy, in which absolute freedom from any sort of rule is best, and being ruled is worst. He fails to take note of Socrates’ suggestion that self-rule is really a critical first step both in virtue and in ruling others. Why would this be, other than because it is a well-ordered soul that grants a proper orientation in practical matters, allowing one to see the good things and the bad things for what they are? Meno’s tyrannical nature and his desire to be taught simple techniques for rhetoric and politics thwart his understanding of Socrates’ important teaching: that some things come to be known in a very different way, and that the process of coming to know requires a type of soulcraft he would be unwilling to engage in. He is consumed by a desire to know and to be taught, but it is this desire that prevents him from seeing that the highest things are knowable without really being teachable. Meno will never be a virtuous ruler until he understands what it is to be a knower. No teacher can offer him the knowledge he seeks if he does not first look within himself. Neha Gaddam 48 �Prizewinning Essay: Preceptorial Love and Suffering in Joyce’s Ulysses Christine Mooradian “Why should I describe a sorrow which all have felt, and all must feel?” — Mary Shelley, Frankenstein The death of a child can bear down hard on a marriage, splitting couples apart and destroying intimacy, as can many of the accidents of life. The death of Rudy, Molly and Bloom’s son, at 11 days old created a pain between Molly and Bloom which turned into an alienation that continued 10 years later at the time Joyce provides an account of one day in the lives of several Dubliners, June 16th, 1904. Ulysses is a story about the human struggle between the desperate need for intimacy and the constant threat of alienation, a chronic condition of mankind. And not just for Molly and Bloom but perhaps even more so for Stephen Dedalus. While Molly and Bloom struggle with the pain of troubled intimacy, Stephen struggles to establish intimacy in his adult life. Intimacy is one of the most profound of human needs and among the greatest of human goods, a state of being deeply known and deeply knowing. To be known is a mystical or spiritual need. The Psalmist expresses awe at understanding God knew him before he was formed. My frame was not hidden from You when I was made in secret, when I was woven together in the depths of the earth. Your eyes saw my unformed body; all my days were written in Your book and ordained for me before one of them came to be. (Psalm 139 NIV) And the Apostle Paul said, "Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known" (1 Corinthians 13 NIV). While the Biblical concept of intimacy with God will only be complete “then,” as Paul says, human intimacy can reach its highest point of expression in the conjugal relationship between a man and a woman, and can also be found in its human completeness between a parent and child. It seems we swing between the alienation we fear and the intimacy we desire, and that fear and desire compel us forward from the moment we are born. An infant leaves the womb at birth, a place of the most complete intimacy between two humans, sharing the same flow of blood and water, and if fortunate, that infant is drawn into intimacy in his mother’s arms, feeding from her body on her life sustaining milk - an intimacy without words, but human desire and fulfillment mutually achieved. An infant who is not held will not thrive, and perhaps an adult who is not held will not thrive either. This intimacy and alienation as revealed in Ulysses will be explored through the two protagonists, Stephen and Bloom, with the following questions: What do we learn from Ulysses about this human struggle between alienation and intimacy? Why do unfortunate circumstances of life tend to drive us apart from the relationships we need the most? What blocks or confuses our attempts at intimacy or destroys established bonds? How do the images of blood, water, and milk 49 �Prizewinning Essay: Preceptorial help reveal this struggle? And does Ulysses offer any resolution for our characters or any hope for the rest of us? Stephen and Bloom Alienation dominates Stephen Dedalus’ life as he is cut off from nearly every type of human intimacy – he is cut off from God, from family, from friends, and even from himself. Once on a track to become a Jesuit priest, he has rejected the church and struggles with faith and doubt in the wake of his mother’s death. His refusal to grant her dying request, to kneel and pray at her bedside, is a source of recurring torment. He has no friends that he trusts. Mulligan harshly accuses Stephen of killing his own mother. Haines dismisses or is blind to Stephen’s artistic gifts, jotting down quotations from Stephen as if they are quips for a greeting card. For whatever reason, he refuses to acknowledge his biological father, and instead of drawing familial warmth from his sister, he fears her needs will drown him. Stephen is intelligent, well-read, sensitive, an artist - but he is paralyzed artistically. Like Telemachus in The Odyssey, Stephen is half boy half man as the book opens. As far as we know, he has not yet truly known the intimate love of a woman and is separated from the love of the mother. “Pain, that was not yet the pain of love, fretted his heart.” (1.102) The desire in Stephen for mother-love, an enwombing love, takes on special importance from the start and images of the nurturing mother are repeated. In “Scylla and Charybdis” Stephen states, “Amor matris, subjective and objective genitive, may be the only true thing in life.” (9.842) The image of mother-love, love that starts our journey in this world, is present in the milk maid and in the milk she brings in “Telemachus.” The milkmaid is a mysterious figure that brings the nurturing, praiseworthy milk. “An old woman came forward and stood by Stephen’s elbow.” (1.389) Her physical proximity to Stephen is important, and her presence is noted by Stephen as she stands close to him. He watched her pour into the measure and thence into the jug rich white milk, not hers. Old shrunken paps…Old and secret she had entered from a morning world, maybe a messenger. She praised the goodness of the milk, pouring it out…a messenger from the secret morning. To serve or to upbraid, whether he could not tell: but scorned to beg her favour. (1.397) The milkmaid is the first of many mystical experiences for Stephen, experiences outside his conscious awareness but experiences that have profound impact on him. Stephen has an odd but sensitive reaction to the milk maid. Why would it cross his mind that the milk is not hers? Of course it is not. But as a mother figure she is providing the nurturing milk that can make men whole, that can heal them. Stephen seems to sense, if only subconsciously, his need to be healed and made whole. Mulligan, surely unaware of the depth of his comment, confirms the power of the milk saying, If we could live on good food like that…we wouldn’t have the country full of rotten teeth and rotten guts. Living in the bogswamp, eating cheap food and the streets paved with dust, horsedung and consumptives’ spits. (1.411) 50 �Prizewinning Essay: Preceptorial Stephen is jealous for the affection of this mother figure as he feels she bestows her attention on the unworthy Mulligan. “Stephen listened in scornful silence. She bows her old head to a voice that speaks to her loudly, her bonesetter, her medicineman: Me she slights.” (1.418) He scorns the scientist, but he – the artist – is frozen in indecision. In “Nestor,” mother-love again surfaces as a pure and sacrificial love when Stephen helps an awkward, dull student with his lesson. Stephen imagines the boy’s mother, “Yet someone had loved him, borne him in her arms and in her heart. …She had loved his weak watery blood drained from her own. Was that then real? The only true thing in life?” (2.140) Stephen, for a moment, takes on the role of mother as he cares for, encourages, and nurtures the student. Stephen sees himself in Cyril Sargent, “Like him was I…Secrets, silent, stony sit in the dark palaces of both our hearts…” (2.170) In this moment with Cyril Sargent, Stephen shows his artistic gift for teaching and his ability for compassion and intimacy, but immediately shrinks back into his shell of despair as the lesson ends. Stephen’s walk home along the Sandymount Strand clarifies his state of alienation from self and others. As he walks on the beach, the half boy half man, Stephen longs for the touch of a woman and imagines the healing touch of a soft hand. Can he bridge the span from the motherlove to the intimate love of a woman? “Touch me. Soft eyes. Soft soft soft hand. I am lonely here. O, touch me soon, now. What is that word known to all men? I am quiet here alone. Sad too. Touch, touch me.” (3.434) But alienation from the self is Stephen’s deepest struggle expressed in his lack of self-awareness and his self-neglect. While still on the beach longing to be touched, Stephen either masturbates or urinates, or both; the passage is unclear, suggesting Stephen’s lack of attention to what he is doing and lack of self-awareness. “Better get this job over quick,” he says to himself. (3.456) What job? Stephen is out of tune with his body and with his sexuality. Instead, during the process, whatever process it is, Stephen’s mind floods with thoughts of despair, …My ashplant will float away…Vehement breath of waters amidst seasnakes…And, spent, its speech ceases…writhing weeds…sway reluctant arms…Lord, they are weary...To no end gathered; vainly then released… (3.454) Even his body has become a stranger. Care for his physical body is limited as he hasn’t eaten in two days though he has money in his pocket, he hasn’t bathed since the previous October (17.238), his teeth are rotting, and even his body is foreign to him, “Who chose this face for me? This dogsbody to rid of vermin. It asks me too.” (1.136) Although he clearly needs money, he abandons his teaching job and is careless with what little money he has, giving it away or losing it. Stephen hides at times inside a drunken stupor. And like a child without a parent nearby, he is terrified of thunderstorms. Bloom also struggles with alienation, but differently from Stephen. Since Molly and Bloom’s son died 10 years ago, the couple has been unwilling or unable to have sexual relations. This is a long time for a marriage to lie dormant and for two people to live without the embodying of intimacy in conjugal love, which should be at the heart of a healthy marriage. Bloom is obviously 51 �Prizewinning Essay: Preceptorial not impotent, but he seems to be with Molly. They share a bed, but Bloom sleeps with his head at Molly’s feet. Bloom muses on the liquid nature of human intimacy, I was happier then. Or was that I? Or am I now I? Twentyeight I was. She twentythree. When we left Lombard street west something changed. Could never like it again after Rudy. Can’t bring back time. Like holding water in your hand. (8.608) Bloom unsuccessfully attempts to fill the void of intimacy in his life. He carries on a trifling affair by letters with Martha, a woman he has likely never met and has very little fondness for. Bloom has been with prostitutes in Dublin, a slim attempt at intimacy. But he has no real friends, and he misses the son he should have had. He thinks about the intimacy of a father-son relationship that he longs for, If little Rudy had lived. See him grow up. Hear his voice in the house. Walking beside Molly in an Eton suit. My son. Me in his eyes. Strange feeling it would be. From me. Just a chance…I could have helped him on in life. I could. Make him independent. Learn German too. (6.75) However, in spite of Bloom’s alienation from other people and the lack of intimacy in his marriage, he maintains a connection with life and with himself that Stephen is unable to do. Bloom displays a hearty appetite for the sensory aspects of life, especially food. He feeds himself well, in fact he has several meals during the day of June 16 th, each of which he relishes. He drinks but with moderation. He bathes. Bloom notices all the smells and sounds and beauty around him and finds the world a wonderous place. Bloom, while timid at times, stands up for himself when he is pushed. And Bloom is kind. It takes great strength to be kind, and kindness defines Bloom; he is aware of other people’s needs, he remains open to people, and he is willing to risk being wounded for the sake of another - perhaps these are the prerequisites for establishing intimacy. While Stephen is guarded, cuts himself off from the world and drinks himself into a stupor, Bloom remains vulnerable and sober. “…Mr Bloom, who at all events, was in complete possession of his faculties, never more so, in fact disgustingly sober…” (16.61) Bloom is our hope for redemption from alienation. Alienation What draws us away from bonds and intimacy with others? Or renders us unable to establish intimate relationships initially? Joyce provides a day full of the occurrences of life that pull us away from intimacy with others, which can be summarized in the “Sirens” chapter. Sirens are all things that call us away from life, away from bonds, with false promises of sustenance, with offers of imitation intimacy. Whether the sirens come with intent or are accidental, the influence is the same. Miss Kennedy and Miss Douce, the proprietors of Ormond’s Pub, personify the sirens of life. While they are serving customers at the pub, the two are clearly singing, luring, unfaithful sirens, drawing men towards them with no good intentions, just for the joy of leading them low. “…miss Douce’s wet lips said, 52 �Prizewinning Essay: Preceptorial laughing in the sun…Her wet lips tittered: ---He’s killing looking back. She laughed: ---O wept! Arent’ men frightful idiots?” (11.72) Breasts that should provide the life giving milk, the kind of milk we see in “Telemachus,” instead lure and deceive. The breasts of the barmaids tantalize but disappoint and frustrate. Miss Douce reached high to take a flagon, stretching her satin arm, her bust, that all but burst, so high./ O! O! jerked Lenehan, gasping at each stretch. O!/ But easily she seized her prey and led it low in triumph. (11.360) For Boylan, who stops in Ormond’s pub as he is heading to Molly’s bed, the barmaid pours a glass of sloe gin, a blood red syrupy liqueur. Again, what should be life sustaining, the blood of the human body or the saving blood of Christ, is poured as an inebriant, confusing men’s minds. The “milk” the barmaid pours is a false nurture, a sickeningly sweet lugubrious wine, drunk by an imposter with bewitched vision. Boylan, eyed, eyed. Tossed to fat lips his chalice, drank off his chalice tiny, sucking the last fat violet syrupy drops. His spellbound eyes went after, after her gliding head as it went down the bar by mirrors, gilded arch… (11.419) Bloom is seemingly immune to these particular sirens. While he imagines or remembers an interlude with Lydia, or perhaps Lydia’s hand on the beerpull reminds him of some soft, soft hand, On the smooth jutting beerpull laid Lydia hand, lightly, plumply, leave it to my hands. All lost in pity for croppy. Fro, to: to, fro: over the polished knob (she knows his eyes, my eyes, her eyes) her thumb and finger passed in pity: passed, repassed and, gently touching, then slid so smoothly, slowly down, a cool firm white enamel baton protruding through their sliding ring. (11.1112) Bloom is not drawn off course by these sirens. “Get out before the end. Thanks, that was heavenly. Where's my hat.” (11.1122) The sirens for Bloom, which dash him on the rocks and widen the distance from Molly, are his own anxieties demonstrated in his shame and sadness. At the funeral early in the day and at Ormond’s bar later, he feels deep sadness remembering Rudy and a sense of shame for Rudy’s death. A dwarf's face, mauve and wrinkled like little Rudy's was. Dwarf's body, weak as putty, in a whitelined deal box. Burial friendly society pays. Penny a week for a sod of turf. Our. Little. Beggar. Baby. Meant nothing. Mistake of nature. If it's healthy it's from the mother. If not from the man. Better luck next time. (6.326) “Well, my fault perhaps. No son. Rudy. Too late now. Or if not? If not? If still? / He bore no hate. / Hate. Love. Those are names. Rudy. Soon I am old.” (11.1066) Bloom also seems to feel shame at growing old. 53 �Prizewinning Essay: Preceptorial Shame is a powerful force behind alienation, causing people to withdraw, to cover themselves, and feel unworthy. Stephen is described by Mulligan as a reverse Jesuit. Perhaps shame is reverse intimacy. Perhaps the opposite of intimacy is not alienation, but shame. Molly recognizes death and shame in the “Penelope” chapter, I suppose I oughtnt to have buried him in that little woolly jacket I knitted crying as I was but give it to some poor child but I knew well Id never have another our 1st death too it was we were never the same since…(18.1448) Molly speaks to the shame of all mankind in her allusion to the first death of the world. Adam and Eve give us the first example of shame when, upon the tragedy of sin, they knew the shame of nakedness, and futilely tried to cover themselves with “the trees of the garden” (Genesis 3.8 NIV). But God knew that more than leaves were needed to cover their shame, that only a blood sacrifice would do, and covered them in the skin of a dead animal, the first death on earth. “…God made garments of skin for Adam and his wife and clothed them.” (Gen 3.22 NIV) And nothing was the same after that, as shame took the place of intimacy. The Mystical Nature of Intimacy Does Joyce offer any solution for this chronic condition of swinging between intimacy and alienation? Is there hope for our characters, or for ourselves? If Bloom is our hope, how does Joyce develop this hope? Can intimacy be created, or must it be given like grace? Joyce suggests that something transcendent, something outside of our control, something even mystical is part of intimacy. In Ulysses, intimacy is found in the relationship that grows between Stephen and Bloom, a relationship that begins the morning of June 16 th, even though the two don’t meet until evening. A mystical bond begins between Stephen and Bloom, one a child – symbolically – without a parent and the other a man in need of a son, one seeking the word known to all men and one who knows the word known to all men, and both men relatively friendless and alienated from the intimacy they desire. This mystical bond is established in part in the parallel experiences of Stephen and Bloom during the day of June 16 th, experiences that later create a link between them that even they do not fully comprehend. Two of those parallel experiences are found in their reaction to sunlight and shadow, and in their experience on Sandymount Strand. Both Bloom and Stephen have similar reactions to the sunlight and shadow they encounter early in the day. Both experience a brooding and fear as a cloud covers the sun, followed by a restoration of spirit as the cloud passes. Stephen standing alone on the parapet after Mulligan has descended, looks out to sea. Something or someone seems to be present with him. Woodshadows floated silently by through the morning peace from the stairhead seaward where he gazed. Inshore and farther out the mirror of water whitened, spurned by lightshod hurrying feet…A hand plucking the harpstrings… (1.242) 54 �Prizewinning Essay: Preceptorial But as a cloud begins to cover the sun, Stephen’s spirit darkens, and he thinks of his mother’s deathbed. It [the bay] lay beneath him, a bowl of bitter waters. Fergus’s song: I sang it alone in the house, holding down the long dark chords. Her door was open: she wanted to hear my music. Silent with awe and pity I went to her bedside. She was crying in her wretched bed. For those words, Stephen: love’s bitter mystery. (1.249) Wracked with turmoil, he cries out, “No, mother! Let me be and let me live.” (1.279) Mulligan’s voice rouses Stephen from his darkness just as the sun reemerges and “Stephen, still trembling at his soul’s cry, heard warm running sunlight and in the air behind him friendly words.” (1.282) This is a profound experience animated with something living, and revealing of Stephen’s deep despair and deeper hope. Bloom has a parallel experience with the same cloud that morning from his own vantage point on his way home from the porkbutcher. “A cloud began to cover the sun slowly, wholly. Grey. Far.” He begins to have very dark thoughts of brimstone, death, and desolation, and “a grey horror seared his flesh.” (4.218-230) Bloom’s reaction is to head home. As he turns on to Eccles street “hurrying homeward” he reassures himself, “Well, I am here now. Yes, I am here now.” (4.233) and he thinks of friendly, mundane and sensuous soothing thoughts: that he must exercise more, that “number eight is still unlet,” that he longs for the smell of tea and sizzling butter and to “Be near her ample bedwarmed flesh. Yes, yes.” (4.236) And presently the sun reemerges and a presence of some kind is sensed, just as Stephen had noticed. “Quick warm sunlight came running from Berkeley road, swiftly, in slim sandals, along the brightening footpath. Runs, she runs to meet me, a girl with gold hair on the wind.” (4.240) Both men are visited by something beautiful, and it restores their souls, at least for a moment. Another parallel experience between Stephen and Bloom that contributes to this mystical bond is each man’s compulsion to masturbate, or urinate as the case may be, while on Sandymount Strand. These scenes take place at different times of day, but their parallelism is not coincidental. Stephen’s experience takes place in the morning and Bloom’s later in the day when, “the summer evening had begun to fold the world in its mysterious embrace,” (13.1) In addition to the same location, both men assume the same physical posture stretched back against rock with their hands in their pockets. Stephen, “…lay back at full stretch over the sharp rocks, cramming the scribbled note and pencil into a pocket, his hat tilted down on his eyes.” (3.437) And for Bloom, It was getting darker but he could see and he was looking all the time that he was winding the watch or whatever he was doing to it and then he put it back and put his hands back into his pockets…He was leaning back against the rock behind. (13.557,744) Both men are desiring the touch of a woman, but making do with their own, but the men differ in their cognitive impressions. Stephen, as described earlier on page 3, is cut off from himself and perhaps somewhat unaware of what he is doing, with confused and wandering thoughts. Bloom, on the other hand, is very focused and engaged. “Still, I feel. The strength it gives a man. That’s the 55 �Prizewinning Essay: Preceptorial secret of it.” (13.859) As with other sensuous aspects of life, he embraces his sexual desire with intention. Joyce presents numerous parallel experiences, some small and some significant, that suggest the potential for an intimacy between people might begin before they ever meet and might never be fully comprehended. Eummaus The “Eummaus” chapter establishes the relationship between Stephen and Bloom as father and son, resolving the tension of alienation for both men. Bloom initiates this relationship in the previous chapter “Circe” when he speaks to the two policemen who want to rough Stephen up for insulting the king. Bloom says, “I know him. He’s a gentleman, a poet. It’s all right.” (15.4485) I know him. To know and be known is the beginning of intimacy. And Bloom doesn’t just know him, he knows he is a gentleman and a poet. This is the only time all day (which is all we have) that Stephen has been known for what he is, or for what he is capable of becoming, the kind of knowing a parent has for a child. Eventually all others leave, and Bloom and Stephen are alone. The scene can be likened to a birth, and perhaps it is Bloom who has given birth to Stephen. This image is supported as Bloom is portrayed earlier in the chapter as both male and female. Dr. Punch Costello refers to Bloom saying, “Professor Bloom is a finished example of the new womanly man.” (15.1798) and Bloom replies, “Oh, I so want to be a mother.” (15.1817) Joyce seems to be establishing the enwombing relationship between mother and child that Stephen has searched for all day - the relationship of shared blood and water, and sustaining milk. Stephen, in his drunken stupor, resembles a newborn, curled on his side, stretching out his arms and curling his body. Bloom “(he bends again and undoes the buttons of Stephen’s waistcoat) To breathe.” (15.4937) Bloom calls out to rouse him, “Stephen! (There is no answer. He calls again) Stephen!” (15.4926) Bloom calls him by his name, or names him. Bloom stands over him with concern and “looks down on Stephen’s face and form” saying, “Face reminds me of his poor mother.” (15.4946) Bloom murmurs an oath or maybe a blessing over Stephen. The scene then moves to include a vision of Rudy. Bloom “(wonderstuck, calls inaudibly) Rudy!” (15.4961) The connection between Stephen and Rudy is strong, and perhaps Joyce suggests the metempsychosis of Rudy’s soul into Stephen’s body. During this mystical moment Stephen is mumbling in his drunken stupor lines from “Who goes with Fergus.” Bloom doesn’t recognize the words and assumes he is talking about, “Ferguson, I think I caught. A girl.” (15.4950) Joyce further develops this father/son relationship as Stephen and Bloom sit in the cabman’s shelter. Paternal behaviors emerge in Bloom in the form of admonitions, caring questions, and awareness of the similarities and differences between Bloom and Stephen. Their parallel experiences of earlier in the day begin to manifest themselves in a familiarity that Bloom doesn’t fully understand. Bloom notes, “Though they didn’t see eye to eye in everything a certain analogy there somehow was as if both their minds were travelling, so to speak, in the one train of thought.” 56 �Prizewinning Essay: Preceptorial (16.1579) Just as their parallel experiences established a commonality, differences between Bloom and Stephen are evident, and Joyce suggests the differences are as much a part of establishing this intimate relationship as the similarities. Bloom eventually asks Stephen to come home with him for cocoa, which Bloom will make with milk, Molly’s milk, “…the viscous cream ordinarily reserved for the breakfast of his wife….” (17.364) The pivotal passage of Ulysses, a point when the mystical becomes present with the natural, occurs late in “Eummaus” and can be easily overlooked, buried among chatter about sweeping the floors and the sleeping sentry. Bloom says to Stephen as they leave the cabman’s shelter, The only thing is to walk then you’ll feel a different man. Come. It’s not far. Lean on me. /Accordingly he passed his left arm in Stephen’s right and led him on accordingly./ --Yes, Stephen said uncertainly because he thought he felt a strange kind of flesh of a different man approach him, sinewless and wobbly and all that. (16.1719) Though hesitant, Stephen says yes to this sinewless, wobbly flesh. Who is this being Bloom has become? Joyce refers to him as “the unconquered hero,” “our hero” (16.1643), he is a father figure and a mother figure, and in “Cyclops” Bloom is revealed as Elijah the prophet. Or is he Fergus come to take Stephen in his brazen car? Or is he all of these? On the walk home, Bloom and Stephen demonstrate an intimate relationship that neither has been able to establish all day. They are parent and child, they are husband and wife, the two organic forms in which intimacy manifests itself in human relationships. “--…the two figures…both black, one full, one lean, walk towards the railway bridge, to be married by Father Maher.” (16.1886) -- and they are friends with arms linked. The subject of their conversation is the subject of Ulysses: “…their tete a tete … about sirens, enemies of man’s reason, mingled with a number of other topics of the same category, usurpers, historical cases of the kind…”(16.1889) The book, Ulysses, it could be argued, is the offspring of their union, written by the Stephen character, Joyce, which is strongly suggested in the ending line, “Trieste-Zurich-Paris/ 1914-1921.” (18.1610) Memory Steven and Bloom find metaphorical or mystical significance in each other and discover the friend each needs. While Stephen and Bloom establish an intimate bond, Bloom and Molly need to maintain or reconcile intimacy. And what can reconcile intimacy? If knowing and being known is a basis of intimacy, Joyce suggests that memories provide ongoing fuel for intimacy. Bloom fondly recalls Molly frequently during the day of June 16 th. He remembers her voice, her perfume, “Know her smell in a thousand.” (13.1024), her “bedwarm flesh”, he shares her picture with Stephen – all of his senses are engaged in remembering her. In Molly’s soliloquy in “Penelope” she fondly remembers details about Bloom “…if they only knew him as well as I do…the last time he came on my bottom… I could always hear his voice talking when the room was crowded…when he asked to take off my stockings lying on the hearthrug in Lombard street…” (18.45, 77, 182, 266) Molly’s memories are earthy and sexual. 57 �Prizewinning Essay: Preceptorial But shared memory might be the most powerful call back to intimacy and to maintained intimacy. Molly and Bloom, each in their own moment, relate the same memory of an intense physical and emotional encounter. Bloom’s memory occurs early in the day at Davy Burn’s as he has red wine and a cheese sandwich, waiting for 4 o’clock to pass, the time Boylan is to visit Molly. The imagery of wine and bread alludes to communion, which is a repeated act of memory designed to restore intimacy with God. “Bloom ate his strips of sandwich, fresh clean bread…Sips of his wine…” (8.818) Bloom seems to feel the memory coming upon him, something somewhat beyond his control, invoked by the wine. “Glowing wine on his palate lingered swallowed…Seems to a secret touch telling me memory. Touched his sense moistened remembered.” (8.897) And he remembers, …Ravished over her I lay, full lips full open, kissed her mouth. Yum. Softly she gave me in my mouth the seedcake warm and chewed. Mawkish pulp her mouth had mumbled sweet and sour with spittle. Joy: I ate it: joy…High on Ben Howth rhododendrons … Wildly I lay on her, kissed her: eyes, her lips, her stretched neck beating, woman's breasts full in her blouse of nun's veiling, fat nipples upright. Hot I tongued her. She kissed me. I was kissed. All yielding she tossed my hair. Kissed, she kissed me. (8.906-916) In “Penelope,” Molly recalls the same scene from her own point of view, …the sun shines for you he said the day we were lying among the rhododendrons on Howth head in the grey tweed suit and his straw hat the day I got him to propose to me yes first I gave him the bit of seedcake out of my mouth and it was leapyear…and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes. (18.1572-1609) The most common memory they share is Molly’s gesture of passing a bit of seed cake from her mouth to Bloom’s - an act of extreme intimacy. While perhaps a cultural symbol of marriage, Molly’s gesture came from her heart, her erotic being, her deep human desire to be one with her lover. To share a bit of masticated cake from one wet mouth to another is something only lovers, or a parent, will do. Molly and Bloom are deeply linked by this gesture and it provides a memory of strength. It is ritualistic and spiritual in the deepest sense. Hope Joyce does not offer us a plan for complete redemption from our struggle between intimacy and alienation. The relationship between Stephen and Bloom is based on very thin reeds of cocoa and urinating together, and the restoration with Molly is only hinted at by Bloom asking for breakfast in bed. But Joyce does offer hope. We are left with a wise notion I once heard, that to live is to love and to suffer. And the best we can do is hope to love more and suffer less. 58 �Prizewinning Essay: Preceptorial Appendix Who goes with Fergus? By W. B. Yeats Who will go drive with Fergus now, And pierce the deep wood's woven shade, And dance upon the level shore? Young man, lift up your russet brow, And lift your tender eyelids, maid, And brood on hopes and fear no more. And no more turn aside and brood Upon love's bitter mystery; For Fergus rules the brazen cars, And rules the shadows of the wood, And the white breast of the dim sea And all dishevelled wandering stars. Works Cited Joyce, James. Ulysses. New York: Vintage Books - Random House, Inc., 1986. Yeats, W.B. The Collected Poems of W.B. Yeats. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1996. 59 �� 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 Colloquy Description An account of the resource A student-run journal for the Graduate Institute community of St. John's College in Annapolis, Maryland. The issues feature essays, art, poetry, interviews, and more. 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 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 pdf Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 63 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 Colloquy, Fall 2020 Description An account of the resource Volume VII of Colloquy, published in Fall 2020. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Braley, Olivia (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 2020-12 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 Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived English Subject The topic of the resource St. John's College (Annapolis, Md.)--Periodicals Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Colloquy_Fall2020 https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/0883fdc25114c3017a270a8d96113f1b.pdf df56bfd24d5da50441cc7466136b4d87 PDF Text Text �Editor-in-Chief Olivia Braley Editorial Board Leith Daghistani Folke Egerstrom Andrew Graney Charles Green Gavin Laur Diana Villegas �Table of Contents Letter from the Editor Olivia Braley, Annapolis Colloquy Constitution The Editorial Board Three Poems Andrew Laurence Graney, Annapolis Excerpt from Argos’ Odyssey – Lost Years Winston Elliott, Annapolis - with art by Elizabeth Janthey, Annapolis 1 2 6 9 Dialogue and Understanding in the Seminar Oral Courtney White, Annapolis “Therefore etc”: Bang or Whimper? Jeremy Sheeler, Annapolis - with art by Jaime Marquez, Annapolis Why I Am Here Bonnie Naradzay, Annapolis A Conversation with Louis Petrich, Annapolis Tutor Charles Green & Jaime Marquez, Annapolis The Pandemic and the Iliad Will Harvard, Annapolis - with art by Neha Gaddam, Annapolis Excerpt from The Molting Eagle and the Shedding Serpent James Wheeler, Annapolis - with art by Jaime Marquez, Annapolis 14 Vico’s Poetic Morals: Forced into Philosophy? Akayla Lewis, Annapolis Nostalgia in February Kelsey Hennegen, Santa Fe - with art by Neha Gaddam, Annapolis On the Benefit of Virtual Learning for Our Community Leith Daghistani, Annapolis Uncovering the Lost World of the Black Classical Tradition Dr. Anika Prather, Annapolis Visiting Lecturer 37 16 20 21 29 33 42 44 48 �Letter from the Editor Dear Members of the Graduate Institute Community, May 2021 I’ll begin by thanking the whole of our Graduate Institute community at St. John’s: your unique presence enriches our program and the work we set out to do in our seminars, be they at a table or through a screen. I want to especially thank the members of the Colloquy editorial board, our contributors, and other community members who made possible the issue you have before you. I’d like to thank Ms. Langston for her commitment to providing Colloquy with the support we need for success, and Ms. Kraus, my mentor, for her guidance and encouragement throughout the semester. It’s an honor to be your Editor-inChief, but this title doesn’t encompass the totality of people that are essential to this process. Through our collective efforts, we have put forth a diverse and compelling issue of work that we can all be proud of. This semester, I had an eye towards the future of Colloquy. With collaboration from the board, we developed a Colloquy Constitution and other materials that formalize our processes and procedures. I do this in hope that Colloquy can continue to showcase the impressive work of our GI community long after my tenure at St. John’s. We also endeavored to solicit a broad range of submissions from students on both campuses and studying online. Each of us brings a fresh perspective to the program and our voices and ideas should be highlighted. It is my hope that these perspectives will develop as Colloquy grows. Regardless of geographic location or class format, we are united by the work that we do in this program. Let us celebrate that unity here. As we continue our studies from various places and slowly work towards a return to, or reinvention of, normalcy in many aspects of our lives, I hope Colloquy will augment the sense of community that is developed through our time at St. John’s and serve as a reminder of the strength and diversity of our polity. Thank you all for your talent, trust, and time. Sincerely, Olivia Braley Editor-in-Chief 1 �Colloquy Constitution The Editorial Board Preamble The mission of Colloquy is to curate a diverse journal that mirrors the unique work of the Graduate Institute community. The vision of Colloquy is to provide a space for all members of our community to continue the conversation. We will showcase the great breadth of the Graduate Institute’s work: our content will highlight the cultural elements and ideas of the Graduate Institute, such as visual art, creative writing, and personal essays that do not always have a natural place in our classroom, alongside our most attentive and compelling academic work. 1. Editorial Board Article I Staff a. Editorial board membership shall be open to all students and alumni of the Graduate Institute. b. Editorial staff are responsible for electing the editor-in-chief, spreading awareness of the journal’s calls for submissions, reading and reviewing all submissions, providing consultation on final publication pieces, and reviewing final drafts before publication. c. More specific roles, titles, and responsibilities may be granted to editorial staff as necessary in consultation with the editor-in-chief. d. Editorial staff may be removed by the board for misconduct following a motion and subsequent vote of no confidence. 2. Editor-in-Chief a. The editor-in-chief position shall be held by a degree-seeking student currently enrolled in the Graduate Institute. If there are no degreeseeking students on the editorial staff, the editorial board may elect any enrolled student or alumnus of the Graduate Institute to hold the position in trust until a degree-seeking student joins the board. b. The editor-in-chief shall be elected by the editorial board each year. c. Tenure for the position is two semesters and there are no term limits. i. There may not be vacancies of any length for the position of editor-in-chief. ii. The editorial board may allow single-semester terms for editorsin-chief when suitable. 2 �d. The editor-in-chief is responsible for recruitment to the editorial board, submissions management, board meeting management, journal administration, and publication and dissemination of the journal to the Graduate Institute community. e. The editor-in-chief shall ensure that geographically disparate editorial staff have access to board meetings and decision-making processes. f. The editor-in-chief may be recalled and removed by the editorial board for misconduct following a motion and subsequent vote of no confidence. 3. Internships a. Funded internships for students are occasionally offered by St. John’s College to students for positions on Colloquy staff. Coordination of internships is managed by the Office of the Dean of the Graduate Institute. b. The college shall identify a member of the faculty to serve as a mentor for the intern. c. In order to maintain student control over the journal and preserve a competitive internship application process, the board’s election process for the position of editor-in-chief and the college’s internship application process shall be mutually independent. d. Interns may concurrently serve as editor-in-chief if separately elected to that position by the board. For the semesters in which these positions are held by separate individuals, roles and responsibilities may be decided as appropriate between the editor-in-chief, intern, and faculty mentor. 1. Constitution Review Article II Administration a. The constitution shall be reviewed by the editor-in-chief every semester and disseminated to the editorial board at the beginning of each publication cycle. b. The constitution may be edited as necessary by the editor-in-chief in consultation with the editorial board. Consultation with the Office of the Dean of the Graduate Institute is required only for changes relating to Article I Section 3. 3 �2. Submissions and Publication a. Submissions shall be accepted from current students, alumni, and tutors of the Graduate Institute. Other submissions from associates of the college may be solicited and accepted at the discretion of the editor-inchief. b. Calls for submissions and deadlines shall be established and disseminated to the Graduate Institute community by the editor-in-chief for each publication cycle. The editor-in-chief may determine the nature, scope, and type of media called for each semester. c. Published material shall align with the mission of Colloquy. In general, content which was created for a different academic institution, Graduate Institute admissions essays, and submissions which are not reflective of the work of the Graduate Institute may not be considered for publication. d. The editor-in-chief shall consult with the editorial board in deciding the final disposition of all submissions. i. All submissions will be made available for review to all members of the editorial board. ii. Submissions will be made anonymous by the editor-in-chief before presentation to the editorial board for review. iii. Following consultation with the editorial board, the editor-inchief retains final authority in selecting which submissions may be published. iv. The editor-in-chief shall coordinate timely individual responses from the editorial board to all submitters following publication decisions. e. Graduate Institute prize winning essays shall be automatically eligible for publication in their entirety within the journal released immediately following selection of the prize winners. i. Submission of prize winning essays shall be coordinated between the Office of the Dean of the Graduate Institute and the editor-in-chief. ii. The editor-in-chief shall obtain permission to publish these essays from the prize winning authors prior to publication. f. Publications shall be released at least twice a year, one each at the end of the spring and fall semesters. g. Publications shall be made available to the Graduate Institute community in hard-copy and electronic formats. i. The editor-in-chief shall coordinate funding for publication with the Office of the Dean of the Graduate Institute. 4 �ii. iii. The editor-in-chief may select the press for hard-copy publication each semester. Electronic copies of the journal shall be made publicly available on the internet. 3. Documentation of Processes and Turnover a. The editor-in-chief shall be responsible for maintaining and updating the codified processes of the journal such as financial processes, press contacts, dissemination lists, formatting guides, social media, and any other information deemed necessary by the editor-in-chief. b. Codified processes shall be maintained separately from the constitution, and may be updated and disseminated by the editor-in-chief when required. c. The editor-in-chief shall meet with their replacement as necessary to conduct a turnover of the codified procedure materials and ensure a seamless transition of the role and associated responsibilities. 5 �Creative Writing Three Poems Andrew Laurence Graney Stand-up I wake up down because the woman who gives me gooseflesh didn’t call me back, then walk downstairs and am surprised to see my mother’s not at work: Your MRI shows signs of MS in the brain. Oh-kay. Finally. After all the fucking blood-work taunting me with negatives, pure diagnosis comes as a gift. Something physical to rip me out of swirling dark and back into daylight. Finally, a concrete reason for my dizziness, my numbness, and my limp. Something I can name. Scars in my brain. New material for my stand-up: my blood’s got so much work done it deserves a raise. If you know anyone looking for scars, I got multiple. So she didn’t call me back... George Carlin said death is caused by swallowing small amounts of saliva over a long period of time. Meantime, every swallow is a blessing. I’ll stand up until I don’t. Eventually, love must call. 6 �Creative Writing On Having to Take Daily Medication Because it makes me feel robotic, this blue-green capsule, which keeps my nervous system settled, unsettles me. I realize robots wouldn’t take pills, but the thing’s not food or drink, and yet, to function, I have to have it. Twice Daily. I could go longer without water. That can’t be human. But it works. I haven’t had a relapse since the first attack, when I learned what MS means: my nervous system fights itself. Now that’s human. Like it’s confused or mussed up with blues. If I could speak to my addled system I could say, I feel you, man, and it could fight fright with a joke, When they named me Nervous System, what did they expect? Foolish, I know, this exchange, but it helps to imagine my nervous system is just a friend who misses signals, mixes up the ones he does catch, who tries his best to keep me on my toes and says, Dude, MS drugs could win the ‘Most Improved’ award in Medication School, and you complain they turn you robot? Oh, the humanity. What’s really got you wrinkled? This medicine, in keeping me well, reminds me I am not in control, every time I swallow the blue-green pill. 7 �Creative Writing Boarding a Redeye in Phoenix, I Hear a Man Talking on his Phone - after Alexander Long He sounds tired, deflated. Still, he leaks hope, like he’s just discovered a sort of air pump for his spirit: I had such a good time with her today. She said, ‘Papa, are you gonna be able to play hide and seek with me again?’. I told her, ‘Yes, when I get back from my trip’. She said, ‘Papa, you hide and I count’. I said, ‘okay’. So. May he return to his child, may his home always be hers, may they laugh and laugh and laugh before and after problems inevitably rise again like vapor to form clouds over their common ground, may hide and seek be, once and for all, only a game, may she find him wherever. 8 �Academic Essay Excerpt from Argos' Odyssey - Lost Years Winston Elliott Odysseus was once like the young Argos. He was a noble boy who was trained to hunt and expected by his family to be strong and swift. We know this from the story told of Odysseus’ naming by his grandfather Autólykos and the boar hunt, where Odysseus wins the famous scar used to identify him when he returns home (Fitzgerald, Bk. 19, 460-550). This story shows that Odysseus, like the dog he bred and trained, was a hunter from his early days. With hounds questing ahead, in open order, the sons of Autólykos went down a glen, Odysseus in the lead, behind the dogs, pointing his long-shadowing spear (Fitzgerald, Bk. 19, 508-510). Of course, Odysseus was in the lead. This is his “pup” training analogous to the training he gave Argos. But he is also “behind the dogs.” This is the life he and Argos would have enjoyed if his allies had not called Odysseus to Troy. Even as a boy Odysseus is strong and resilient: “Odysseus…had the first shot…but the boar had already charged under the long spear…he hooked aslant with one white tusk and ripped out flesh above the knee…Odysseus’s second thrust went home…and the beast fell” (Fitzgerald, Bk. 19, 520). This character began early his telling of tales, for when he returned home his parents wanted to know how “he got his wound; so he spun out his tale, recalling how the boar’s white tusk caught him when he was hunting on Parnassos” (Fitzgerald, Bk. 19). Odysseus was always full of skill and luck, taking impossible risks and doing remarkable things. This is the Odysseus who was lost to Argos, to Telemachus, and to Ithaka for twenty years. In the absence of computer data bases and DNA testing, the people of Ithaca relied on other incontrovertible means of identification. Eurykleia recognized the scar, before she “saw” her master. Odysseus could not dispute it, but to guarantee success of his mission, he demanded her silence with threats of death (Fitzgerald, Bk. 19, 550). Eurykleia also uses the scar as proof of Odysseus’ identity in her conversation with Penelope, saying, “But there is one sure mark that I can tell you: that scar left by the boar’s tusk long ago” (Fitzgerald, Bk. 23, 80). Odysseus proves 9 �Academic Essay his identity to Eumaeus with “a sign that you can trust me, look: this old scar from the tusk wound that I got boar hunting….” (Fitzgerald, Bk. 21, 240) Finally, Laertes is shown the scar by Odysseus: “Oh, Father, I am he! Twenty years gone, and here I’ve come again to my own land!”.... “If you are Odysseus, my son, come back, give me some roof, a sign to make me sure.” His son replied: “The scar then, first of all” (Fitzgerald, Bk. 24, 350) Here the tears may flow, finally, after all the disguises and lies are put aside. These tears need not be hidden, as they had been for Argos. Odysseus’ adventure with the boar hunt as a boy shows us the true identity of Odysseus-- born to be Odysseus the adventurer, the master strategist, taker of risks, and man of courage beyond all measure. He was brave, skillful, and perhaps reckless enough to need luck, or the help of Athena. This scar will prove to be the only certain way to identify Odysseus, even for those who know him best. How remarkable, then is the single glance of “knowing” that is all Argos will need to recognize his master, despite all the years that separated them. But Argos ran out of luck when Odysseus left for Troy, and Athena apparently did not come to him on her visits to the household. And yet, twenty years is a long time for dogs to live. Athena’s blessings had been showering down on Penelope and Telemachus, and perhaps a few sprinkles reached Argos to extend his life until Odysseus returned. Argos’ story is linked to the story of Odysseus, for Argos owes his very existence to Odysseus. After all, Odysseus bred Argos. Odysseus wanted Argos to join him on the great hunts to come so he bred a dog that would be strong and swift. Argos would never lose the scent of the prey because he was a fine dog who had been trained by a skillful and wise master. Surely Argos was meant to be at Odysseus’ side. For Ithaka, Penelope, Telemachus, and Laertes, Odysseus did finally return. We are left with hope that Ithaka will be reunited and once again have its King. A loyal wife will once again be with her beloved husband. Our young prince is now guided by Athena and his father. A father is reunited with his long-lost son and may now rest in true peace. But Argos has no future with Odysseus, only a “last look, and having seen him, dies; So closed for ever faithful Argus’ eyes!” (Pope) I wish that Odysseus had let his guard down long enough for this to happen: 10 �Academic Essay My master takes my head in his hands and looks deep into my eyes. “Can it be that you still live? Truly the gods are good…. Now you may let go of your duty to me and hunt the wild stag and the fearsome boar on Mount Olympus. They wait for you on the other side, most loyal of all creatures.” This passage is not from any of the translations of Homer’s Odyssey I consulted. It is from a novel I recently discovered (Argos, Ralph Hardy, Harper Collins, 2016). This is the ending moment Argos deserved. Why wouldn’t Homer write this ending? I think for the same reason Odysseus doesn’t throw his arms around Telemachus, Penelope, Laertes, or Eurykleia. It does not fit Odysseus’ plan to be recognized before he is ready. Is this selfish or merely hardheaded realism? With Odysseus it is a mixture of both. In a way, Argos is like Simeon, who had waited many years for a glimpse of the baby who would be the savior of the world, which he had been promised. When the promise is fulfilled, he can die in peace. When the child was brought to the temple for a blessing, overjoyed, Simeon uttered these words, which were his last: Lord now lettest thy servant Depart in peace, according to thy word For my eyes have seen your salvation That you have prepared in the presence of all peoples. (Luke 29:31) This man waited for years, longing for the arrival of the promised one who would put right in the world all the things that are crooked. Finally, justice and goodness would arrive and reign with equity. Is it too much to say that in a secular sense, Odysseus was to be the “salvation” for his beleaguered wife, his endangered son, and lawless Ithaka? In this beautiful moment, in the last breath of Argos, he finally sees the promised one, who will put right all that is not so in Ithaka. And having finally seen him, Argos dies. Odysseus, although a mortal, had godlike characteristics that were given to him when Athena cloaked him in golden splendor, making him taller and younger, 11 �Academic Essay with hair like hyacinth blossoms. In crucial moments in battles, Athena deflected spears that would have killed Odysseus. At critical junctures she appeared in the guise of Mentor, to guide him with divine wisdom. Although Odysseus was a mortal, he had encounters with the divine often enough to reliably seek and find divine solutions. And Odysseus definitely had people who “believed in” him, in the sense of relying on him and trusting his capabilities. Penelope was one, robust enough in her faith to hold on for twenty years without a single letter or message, without news from people who had seen him or his men. Nothing. That is extraordinary faith. And Telemachus, although he remembered nothing of his father, and wasn’t even sure of his parentage, wanted to believe. When he finally talked with the war heroes who knew his father and recognized Odysseus’ characteristics in him, Telemachus became a true believer. And of course, there was Argos, who needed no proof whatsoever to “know” Odysseus, who believed that his master would finally come home. Homer’s Odyssey is a marvelous story offering exciting tales of goddesses, giants, six headed monsters, grand victories, and deadly defeats. In the midst of the epic adventures of the wily Odysseus, Homer artfully paints the doubt, despair, and disorder, which plagues a leaderless land. Those who are left behind for two decades pay a heavy price. Argos’ story is a delicately painted miniature offering the reader of the Odyssey a vibrant portrait of life in Ithaca without a master, a king, a father, a son, and a husband. Athena always aided Odysseus when he needed her most. Penelope never failed her husband. Telemachus, empowered and encouraged by Athena, grew to be a prince. Eumaeus remained steadfast. Argos? He was touched by greatness in his youth as he was bred and trained by the transformative spirt of his master. When Odysseus was gone, Argos was forgotten, abandoned, and cast away in disordered Ithaca. But Odysseus never left his heart. In the end, Argos was reunited with Odysseus and a salt tear from his beloved master quenched his parched spirit, as Argos sailed off on his final journey. May we, like Argos, always keep Odysseus in our hearts. 12 �Academic Essay "Here, Cyclops...now drink some wine" Odyssey, (Emily Wilson) Book 4. 345 Mosaic floor, Villa Romana Del Casale, Sicily photographed by Elizabeth Janthey 13 �Personal Essay Dialogue and Understanding in the Seminar Oral Courtney White When I think of good opening questions, “What's the point of it all?” is not one of them. That might be considered a question worthy of existential philosophy, but I chose it as my opening question for my literature seminar oral with Mr. Townsend. This type of question is generally thought of as too broad. In my previous orals, I brought an opening question that was specific, and prepared by looking over the texts, assuming that the conversation would be directed in specific ways. Despite all the preparations, the tutors seemed to take the conversations into unknown territory where I felt like I was hit by a torpedo fish. What led me to ask this question? I never quite understood the draw of literature, so I chose to take the math and science segment first, followed by the history segment. The scientific proofs invigorated me and the specificity of geometry gave an illusion of clarity in a chaotic world; this kind of analysis carried over well to the history segment. Emboldened by my newfound knowledge of ancient philosophy and Greek history, I felt ready to take on the literature segment, which was always a weak area for me. I read Homer through the lens of Vico, and Shakespeare through the lens of Plutarch. I attempted to analyse the texts with the same specificity of math and science, but literature resists such scrutiny. After some time, however, I was able to shed my need for finding historical accuracy, through being drawn to the emotional portrayals of the human experience. Still, despite being sympathetic to some of the various characters, I was repulsed by the horrible actions of pretty much every one of them. What values are these texts teaching us when we read that Achilles drags Hector's dead and bloodied body around? What are we supposed to believe when we read that Dionysus puts a spell on women who not only dance and drink but tear animals to pieces with their bare hands? I kept asking myself as I read, how do we know what a virtue worth pursuing is? Who sets the standard? Is it the gods or is it man? Who is a virtuous man? Can we justify revenge or murder for the sake of honor? Can we justify lying for the sake of storytelling? As a Christian, I take to heart when St. Paul says to dwell on whatever is good, noble, and pure. The content of the literature we read made me question if there was anything in it that was good, noble or pure. As my oral approached, I still had not gotten the 14 �Personal Essay illumination I was seeking. I was also starting to despise the texts we were reading. There really wasn’t a more honest or more pointed question for the oral than “what’s the point of it all?” With two semesters under my belt, I knew that the tutors were there to help me discover and grow. At this point I was grateful that St. John's puts so little emphasis on grades, emboldening me to take a chance. My question wasn’t rhetorical, rather it was a plea to truly get what I was seeking. Mr. Townsend had the patience and subtlety to draw out my thoughts and feelings and to expand my question. He asked me questions as if I were the author of a great book. Like Socrates, he helped me to discover and to see things in a new perspective. He was humble, patient, and deeply attentive. He was not afraid to get to the heart of the issues most people are afraid to broach. Mr. Townsend asked me if I was looking for a judge to determine what is right, like Athena in Eumenides. That didn’t seem to resonate with my deeper concern. When he pointed to Hippolytus as an archetype of a sacrificial figure, I began to see how I could find value in these texts. It seemed that my main issue with the Greek texts was that there was no guiding light of truth. A source of truth was what I was looking for, an anchor. Mr. Townsend assured me that, even in a secular college, it's acceptable to come in with my own religious convictions as a compass for interpretation. One way to look at it, he told me, was to believe that God providentially created all people in such a way that certain truths can be illuminated through their actions. So, is there anything good, noble or true in these texts? As I thought about it, examples flooded my mind: The desire to sacrifice oneself for a higher cause, in Hippolytus, the desire to forgive in the Iliad, an acknowledgement that revenge perpetuates violence in the plays of Aeschylus, the desire to conquer death in Antony and Cleopatra. Although my opening question wasn’t directly answered, the desire of my heart was. I wanted to find value in literature, and reconcile my emotional draw to the characters with my desire for a clear understanding of virtue. I am now in the Philosophy and Theology segment where I can explore the concept of virtue in more depth. My next opening question: “Can we even call something good or bad without evoking an externally derived moral standard?” 15 �Personal Essay “Therefore etc”: Bang or Whimper? Jeremy Sheeler I must confess, Euclid just does not speak to my soul. Despite understanding intellectually why he is so important (both foundationally for mathematics, and because so many thinkers whom I respect hold him in such high regard), I cannot help but find him boring. Somehow I doubt the beauty of an elegant construction will ever move me, nor, as in the case of an affected acquaintance of one of my classmates, will I ever shed tears of joy over him. I am certainly awed by Euclid’s god-like powers to create a world ex nihilo from the abyss of breadthless depthlessness. Yet, this realm lacking space or time, for me, also lacks life. Though apparently a later substitution by our esteemed translator Heath for the full re-enunciation intended by Euclid, I cannot think of a better way to sum up the feeling I get after working through a proposition than the underwhelmed, “Therefore etc.” Still, I cannot help but wonder to what sort of soul such a project does speak? As with Aristotle, there is a dry austerity to Euclid’s procedure: proposition following upon proposition, piece by piece, step by step, till this rigorously rational world is created. What I cannot decide, though, is if dry necessarily means arid? Heraclitus once proclaimed that “To souls, it is joy to become wet;” however, in his typical self-countervailing fashion, he also admonished, “It is the dry soul which is wisest and best.” While there is much joy to be found in the excesses of the Dionysian flood, the more delicate growths of reason and prudence tend to be drowned in the torrent. Yet so too, it would seem, is the aridity of the desert an equally inhospitable climate for life. The Dictionary of Scientific Biography opens its lengthy article on “The Geometer” by admitting, “Although Euclid is the most celebrated mathematician of all time, whose name became a synonym for geometry until the twentieth century, only two facts of his life are known, and even those are not beyond dispute.” It is postulated, however, that in addition to compiling the Elements, he also wrote treatises on spheres and cylinders, geometric optics, analytical problem solving, and, most-contested of all, a mathematization of music. Yet, despite our lack of any definitive knowledge of his life, perhaps, we could draw out some aspects of his soul merely from his work. As Nietzsche purports in his Philosophy in the Tragic Age of the Greeks, “Philosophic systems, even if completely erroneous, 16 �Personal Essay have always one wholly incontrovertible point: personal mood, color.” Though being far from qualified to judge the efficacy of Euclid’s enterprise itself, I feel at least slightly more comfortable formulating some hypotheses about the possible character traits one could deduce from such a painstaking attempt at systematization. What drives someone to desire this degree of order and exactitude? Is it really just for knowledge’s sake—a disinterestedness desire for the Truth, with uncompromising reason merely seen as the straightest path? It is certainly a noble image, and the prevailing one we continue to hold of the “Man of Science” today. But if one peers beyond this façade, there is no man who appears behind this scientist—only method. Euclid, the man, disappears in his work, no more material than the world that he has so carefully constructed. Still, there must be something there, something to this need that Euclid felt. For though a perfect circle can never actually exist, nor will a straight line ever sit at a perfect right angle upon a plane, there must be some sort of connection to the “real” world. But what if my inability to appreciate him is not simply a matter of personal preference, but instead a personal failure? If the effusiveness of so many of my colleagues is any indication, not only is the solemn reverence that I have so far managed to muster warranted, but a genuine excitement is possible. Their enthusiasm, however, seems to stem from two entirely different (and conflicting) sources: either his procedure accords with their nature; or it arises from a selfaware recognition of lack—either they already love order; or they are perceptive enough to know that they need it. What if Euclid, the man, did not feel the need to live in his work because the dryness of his intellectual pursuits was actually a counterbalance to the joyous overflow of his actual life? While unfortunately the details of his biography have been lost to the sands of time, there is another figure that perhaps can be justifiably put in his place to judge the soundness of the project. The renowned historian of mathematics Thomas L. Heath was born in 1861, in the small English village of Barnet-byle-wold. His love of the ancient world began early in life at the knee of his father, a farmer with a penchant for the Greeks, and would eventually lead him to a degree in both mathematics and classics from Trinity College Cambridge. After graduation, Heath became a civil servant in the national treasury, but his desire to continue living the “life of the mind” never faded. When not engrossed in official duties, he engaged in 17 �Personal Essay independent scholarship, and, despite never holding any academic position, is now revered as one of the leading authorities in the history of mathematics. Yet, in addition to these staid and scholarly pursuits, he was also an accomplished pianist, literature and train enthusiast, mountaineer, as well as a loving husband and father. Indefatigable to the very end, he climbed his last mountain at the age of seventy and left behind an unfinished work on Aristotle’s mathematics when he died suddenly of a stroke in 1940. Now this is hardly the image of a man living apart from life, rather of one engaged in all its fullness and multifarious offerings. He seems to be the very type of individual whom St. John’s wishes to midwife into the world: one who not just knows arête, but practices it; one not just locked away in a sterile laboratory, creating impossible worlds, but using the knowledge gained there for this one. Euclid’s imaginary world is then perhaps not in parallelity to life, but in harmony with it. But as Heath so acutely recognized: it is a means, not an end. In his essay The Abolition of Man, a reflection on the disintegration of the human soul under modern philosophy theories, C.S. Lewis contends that there are certain “qualities” in the world that “demand” certain responses from us— that is, whether we like it or not. To illustrate this, he admits that, although he does not particularly enjoy the company of small children, he sees this as a defect in himself, instead of a mere personal preference. The goal of his essay is to show that there are standards—goods—in this world that, by necessity, transcend an individual’s subjectivity—which if we lack, then there is something fundamental missing in our lives. He calls this sort of judgment, “Speaking from within the Tao.” Perhaps my failure to appreciate Euclid is of just this sort of deficiency. Perhaps, it is a refusal to become whole, an attempt to instead hide away as a selfcontented half-man. Yet so too would this be the case for the those who love Euclid simply because he comports with their inner nature—but for the opposite reason. The tallest growths, it would seem, flourish only in flush environments. But lucky for us humans this does not depend solely upon the lottery of birth or accident of location: it is a choice we are all given to create for ourselves. So, then, to attempt to answer my titular question: Is “Therefore etc,” as an end to Euclid’s propositions, a bang or a whimper? Maybe it is neither. Heath was just too busy living his life to tell you what you already know. 18 �Personal Essay The Eternal Kingdom of the Triangle by Jaime Marquez 19 �Creative Writing Why I Am Here Bonnie Naradzay Ibykos fragment 286, translated using only words from Martin Luther King’s Letter from the Birmingham City Jail (After Anne Carson in Nay, Rather) In Birmingham, on the one hand, early Christians, being willing to face hungry lions where a higher law was involved, while white mothers screaming on television were seen. On the other hand, for me an unjust law distorts the soul. Nay rather, like a code inflicted on a minority, creating with unjust methods parading without a permit, on its face, nothing wrong man’s tragic separation. 20 �College Ephemera A Conversation with Louis Petrich, Tutor Charles Green & Jaime Marquez, Colloquy Colloquy: How did you arrive at St. John's? Louis Petrich: That’s a long story. How far back should I go? I think the intellectual seeds for becoming a tutor were sown in college, by diverse studies at Northwestern University. I started out in “the integrated science program,” an intense curriculum for kids very strong in math and science, who did not want to major in any one science, but preferred to study all to become interdisciplinary researchers. I did that for two years. Almost all my classes were physics, chemistry, biology, and mathematics. But I took an elective my sophomore year, a survey of Western literary classics, most of which we read at the College. I fell in love with the great epics, dramas, poetry, and novels, and felt deprived that I wasn't getting more, to learn how to express that very love. The sciences do not teach you how to talk with the beloveds. So I switched majors to English, though first I took off a quarter to read on my own. (Northwestern is on the quarter system.) I mostly read the Romantic writers of the American tradition--Emerson, Thoreau, and Whitman. Students who have done zoom classes with me will recognize the portrait of Thoreau that hangs in my office. His book, Walden, had a tremendous influence on me. I went to Concord, Massachusetts, for a summer to study Thoreau and Emerson, who both lived there. I stayed in a replica of his hut. I got to know some estimable “Thoreauvians,” and wrote a one-man show on the life of Thoreau that I performed locally when I returned to Northwestern. I still maintained my studies of math and the sciences, by making them my electives. So I graduated college with (what felt like) a dissonant double background of poetry and science. I went immediately to the University of Chicago to harmonize that doubleness in the Committee on Social Thought, which allowed graduates to pursue their own questions with anyone who shared them. Owing to the influence of one of my mentors, David Grene, an Irish classicist and farmer, I became more and more interested in Shakespeare and the theater. I got involved in a local professional company at the University of Chicago, and I started writing a dissertation on Shakespeare and performance. This was all in the 1980’s. Then in the fall of 1989, the world changed as the communist countries in Eastern and Central Europe collapsed in a heap. The Soviet Union would as well, two years later. I learned through a friend that the Fulbright Scholar program, under the agency of the 21 �College Ephemera State Department, was having a hard time filling its slots for Romania, which had a bloody revolution in December ‘89. Conditions were very bad and few people wanted to risk the rampages of Romanian miners, who were making front-page news. I dropped right into those alien waters, like jumping off a cliff at high tide. By that time, I was tired of being in graduate school, preparing for a career in some American English department, most of which had enthralled themselves to political and sociological agendas that did not suit my tastes, which as I said were acquired in the knowledge-driven laboratories of science and the beauty-driven stagings of Shakespearean verse. So I up and left for Romania as a Fulbright Scholar to teach American studies--not my field, but that’s what the freed Romanians wanted. My only qualification--being American--was enough. I really loved it. The Romanians were very pro-American and eager to read our books, previously prohibited. If they were taught anything about us, it was through a Marxist-Leninist indoctrination. Though no one believed in that, they felt compelled to go along, until enough of them realized they needn’t, and there I was. I ended up teaching for ten years in several former communist countries of Eastern and Central Europe and the Soviet Union--until 9/11. Then the world changed again, and the borders, newly opened across the once half-forbidden globe, were closing because of terrorism and overstated fears. The resources that supported my work in education were redirected to fighting terrorism and keeping us all safe. By that time I was married and had a son. We were living in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan, north of Afghanistan, a Moslem country. It was deemed a precarious situation, though really there was nothing that warranted the closures and evacuations. I had tucked away in the back of my mind an idea I never thought would come to pass: to teach in the U.S. at the only College that fully suited my waywardness, St. John’s. I knew about it because there's a lot of crossover between St. John's and the University of Chicago. So I applied for a tutor position. The Dean flew me half-way around the globe for an interview in January of 2002, and by April the Instruction Committee had decided in my favor. So if not for Osama Bin Laden and 9/11, I would probably have remained a happy expatriate, teaching American studies to our former official enemies, who now number among my best and oldest friends. I do miss that life--the adventures and freedoms, not to be had now--but of course I’m grateful to tutor in Annapolis, for as long as the students want it. CQ: Do you do you notice any differences between teaching undergraduates and teaching at the Graduate Institute? 22 �College Ephemera LP: I get asked that a lot. I'm not sure why people are so interested in that question. There are differences, obviously. GI students are older. They tend to be more settled in their lives than the College kids. They're not living together in campus dorms like the undergrads. So they are not as dependent on the community for their well-being, and consequently they have adjusted better to the online medium than my younger students. One thing I do miss in the GI is the chronological program of the College. With any group of undergraduates, I know what they have read before. In the GI, students take the segments in any order. I'm often tempted to make a reference to another book in the program, but I can't do that in the GI as I can among the undergraduates, who share an enlarging common ground for discussion. But the GI students have chosen to come back to school, after an interim of some years spent in a world delinquent in the things we do; thus they’re all the more appreciative of the books and conversations and friendships to be made here, like nowhere else, they tell me. I have personal reasons (that aren't so interesting) for teaching in the GI, but I’ll mention them. I like getting a new group of students each semester. I like that there are smaller classes in the GI than in the College. And I've gotten to like being the solo tutor in seminar. I've learned a lot by having to carry responsibility for the seminar’s questions and conduct. I like teaching a preceptorial alongside the seminar, for there’s always a book I want to work on for sixteen weeks. So there are many things to please me in the GI. I’ve also done much teaching in the College’s continuing education program. A Friday night lecture I gave on Chekhov had its origin in a weekend community seminar, with people off the street interested in his stories, still students. CQ: I'm wondering if you could talk about your Friday night lecture on Falstaff which you gave in the spring of 2019. LP: That lecture was a joy. We were trying with difficulty to schedule it in April, a very busy month, with croquet, Senior Prank, and other activities that cluster at the end of the year. But it suddenly occurred to me that this would be a great prank lecture, because of Falstaff, who (among other roles) is a prankster. So I said to the Dean, “All right, let's schedule it right after Thursday’s senior prank, as long as certain conditions are met.” These included advertising the lecture so that people would not know what to expect: something prankish, but nonetheless serious? The occasion made me push quite far in vindicating Falstaff’s comic excesses, rooted in the body and a deep longing for dimly remembered paradise. 23 �College Ephemera In fact I rewrote the lecture with an audience of senior pranksters in mind, who’d be turning of the College into a kind of Boar’s Head tavern of Eastcheap. You see it was first drafted a couple of years before, while I was on sabbatical, on the shores of an island in the Caribbean, my little piece of paradise. Falstaff lays claim to paradise, in that he doesn't consent to death; he doesn't sweat at labors; he gardens pleasures and reaps what others sow, without guilt, without trepidation. I had a lot of fun releasing him as the center of meaning in Henry IV, Part 1. He’s the one attractive alternative to the ugly politics of Hal's father, and the excessive honor-loving of Hotspur, who, though beautiful, is too vulnerable to destruction by the politicians. I tried to offer Falstaff as a third way, whenever life presents itself in the form of two deadly necessary alternatives. CQ: What distinguishes Shakespeare's plays from those of his contemporaries, like Marlowe or Ben Johnson, such that he’s still read and performed today? LP: Well, if you read a late play of Shakespeare, say Henry VIII, on which he probably collaborated with John Fletcher, you can immediately hear the difference between Shakespeare's dramatic verse and his popular colleague’s. Marlowe is credited with introducing blank verse to the English stage. But his verse, great as it is, doesn't convince you the way Shakespeare’s does. Marlowe is more cumbersome and literary. Read the plays aloud and see for yourself. By the way, an interesting thing to note about Shakespeare is that even though he knew, along with everyone else, that he was the greatest writer of his time, and would remain a treasure forever, he didn't succor the kind of pride that forbade collaboration with others. He was willing to share the creative work, not only with his own company of actors, but also with lesser playwrights. I think that was part of his strength--not caring much about possessing and controlling his creations, his Ariel and Caliban loves. Think about that the next time you read or see The Tempest. Also wonderful, along these lines, is that Shakespeare never put effort into publishing his plays. He left them to chance, or to other people. I think they were, to him, a kind of ephemera, written one after another (about two per year) to entertain the high and low of London. And all the while he was reviving and directing old and new plays by others and co-managing the company. He wasn’t writing dramatic “literature,” and yet he struck such deep chords that the plays seem miraculous, such that many seek to assign them to an illustrious author. In 24 �College Ephemera the end, Prospero, the stage master, would have tossed the whole corpus into the sea. That’s worth thinking about, too. CQ: Do the techniques of acting and drama translate at all to leading a seminar or tutorial? LP: I think in some ways, yes, definitely. Actors must learn to be believable onstage, by delivering their lines freshly minted, even if they’re as old and handled as pewter. I’ll never forget an actor’s workshop I attended in London one summer, in which we were asked, one at a time, to stand up and recite Shakespeare’s sonnet 18: “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” We all took our turns, but not one of us got beyond the twentieth word or so before the Anglo-Irish instructor, from England’s top school of drama, precisely interrupted, “Stop, I don’t believe you just now. You can sit down, please. Next.” We had to believe ourselves that the words of that sonnet had never been writ or said before we pronounced them--that they were our original creations of the moment. In seminar or tutorial, tutors return to the same books over and over again, making believe, because it’s true, that they never grow old or stale. It should always be an original moment of creation in discussing them. Otherwise, it’s time to stop. Participants in seminar, like actors, must listen genuinely, not robotically, not waiting for the cue to say something expected of them. We need to appreciate being part of an ensemble, and not just a bunch of solo performers. Good timing is essential, along with a balanced facility for comedy and tragedy, something Socrates advocates, for aren’t we all fools, we brave-hardy fallen equals of the lettered great? In both capacities, a modulating voice that brings out the shifting meanings of speech is such a help. The books we read come from breathers like us. Often people forget that. So they don't modulate. Everything is spoken and heard in a deadly monotone. So having some background in theatre helps readers become co-creators, as I think they should be, now more than ever, to thwart the machines. CQ: Do you think live theater will survive this period of extended closures and quarantine? LP: Definitely. There've been plagues in the past and theater has survived their closures. You know not long after Shakespeare's death, the theaters were closed by the Puritans for twenty years! The real threat to theater is not disease, but righteous politics and purifications. Besides, what's the point of saving lives if you get rid of the things that make life worth living? If we’re going to keep safe, 25 �College Ephemera at least let’s do it Falstaff’s way, rising up to full cheeky liveliness, having counterfeited death for a while. You know, I recently streamed a very successful National Theatre production of Twelfth Night, my favorite Shakespearean comedy. But it's not nearly the same thing as being there, live. These streamed productions are missing the risk of spontaneity and contact with human bodies onstage, spitting heart and mind into the rapt audience. If streaming plays is the future, then we won’t keep funding theater, we’ll just have film. CQ: Would it be fair to say, by way of analogy, that streaming a play is akin to seeing video images of beautiful places, rather than visiting the actual sites? LP: That's the effect. I find it demoralizing, really, that all these travel companies, who have found me out, deluge me with cheerful offers of a “virtual travel experience.” Why should I enable the doctrine of the enemy? CQ: You’ve contributed many poems to Colloquy over the last several years. Could you talk a little about some of your poetic influences and favorite poets? LP: My main influence is blank verse, iambic pentameter, owing to all my drinking in of Shakespeare. I’d have to make the effort to avoid it, but why? I like rhyming, but not at the expense of sense, so I’ll often admit rhymes anywhere in the line, so long as the words say precisely what is wanted. I am fussy about rhythm. I count syllables and stresses, and fight against lazy irregularities. But laziness often gets the better of me. CQ: Can you talk more about the process you go through in writing some of the poems you’ve contributed to Colloquy? LP: My process is continual revision. In the morning hours, words that somehow were found in sleep, sound out and self-select. I’m learning to get out of their way. From whence they come, who knows? Formerly, the sources were called “muses,” a useful term still for the faces and voices that get inside you. I regret the fact that meeting deadlines requires premature parturition, which vanity assists, and later regrets. There’s much sense in Emily Dickinson’s process: keep working at your poems until you’re dead; let others see to their publication; and thereby keep the muses from feeling betrayed by missteps in public rehearsal. 26 �College Ephemera Another creative “process” I learned from performing in Othello. I’m sure that Shakespeare felt Iago as deeply as he felt Othello. He does not censure his capacity for the darkness that owns the light, and that’s a giant part of his strength. Theatrically and poetically, Iago is a power to be husbanded, as questions are. They make for a pleasing whole that contributes to knowledge. For hate knows its objects as deeply as love does, and questions them with like authority. Something else relevant to writing poetry I learned from King Lear: to speak from stirred lips that aren’t specific to the owner. Personal experiences are straw, to be spun into the silk that is simplicity itself. Lear gets there by the end. Shakespeare’s dark lady sonnets spring from personal experience of betrayal in a love triangle, but it would be vulgar-minded to read them primarily as autobiography. His Richard II supposedly drew from Queen Elizabeth the response that Richard (being deposed) was her; a dangerous identification to make, but Shakespeare must have trusted that she would not mistake a poetic character for her own history. It’s discomforting to treat life as scraps for composition, but each of us does this at night in dreams. Out of vanity we see ourselves there, though it is merely an elbow that is wanted by the poet, the dreamer, the lover. I might start a poem with some woman’s elbow, a catchy saying, a breakfast taste, a spasm of jealousy, but soon these things go roaming for words that live out there, where Cordelia’s lips have gone, and then I’m free of my dead-end self, to borrow breath from what’s forever stirring in the air. We’ve all had that experience, right?—when you read something and say, “That’s me, and I could’ve written it, if only I knew how to write!” We’re all out there, when smitten, like Orlando posting love poems on embarrassed trees. The poems I post may be like the abrupt body of Richard III, sent before his time into this breathing world, scarce half made up. But let the dogs bark, that hunchback knew how to get the girl and the crown, though he didn’t keep them long. CQ: If you could add any books or authors to the Program, which would you add? LP: James Joyce. I think his story, “The Dead,” is the greatest short story I've read. And Ulysses, my God, yes, yes, because there is probably no other College in America, or the world, that better prepares its students for the amazing feast that Joyce serves up in that book. I'd like to read more American authors: Frederick Douglass, his autobiography, I'd want to include with Ben Franklin's. Each of them solves the problem of life, as it faced him, and each still speaks to the question of identity that so occupies us today. Augustine’s shouldn’t be the only autobiography we read. We don't read any dramatists after the 17 th-century. I would at least add Chekov. His Cherry Orchard is about keeping a good thing 27 �College Ephemera going in a world opposed to that thing. It would make an apropos final reading for seniors and their tutors. CQ: Are there any books on the program currently that you feel are no longer helpful, that don't serve their purpose anymore? Or that don't excite you when you enter into them? LP: That's very rare. Carl Jung’s book on Freud, which we read in the GI, is an interpretation, and I’d rather read Freud himself and form my own interpretations. There’s been a fair amount of experimentation on how to end the senior year. What’s a fitting end to this chronological program of ours? We finish by going back to the Phaedrus, implying that the end is the beginning. I like that idea, but not by itself. I got to see, while living abroad for many years, something you hear said: that civilization, which takes a long time to erect, can be lost damn quickly. The way to keep it going is to return to the beginning, but with a conviction of how precarious it is. That’s why I would end with Chekhov, for he knew the fragility of that cherry orchard, which we hear being chopped down at the end of the play, to make money. Its caretakers did not take proper care. I think that’s where we always are in danger. CQ: What's your experience been leading online classes? LP: Going into it, a year ago, I felt the dread of exile to Siberia (which I’ve been to, in winter). It feels to me antithetical to community, humanity, and love. What we value at the college is learning from each other face to face--in person--getting energized from each other's actual company. Plato's word for that, as we all learn to appreciate, is eros. When you're disembodied online, you lose that erotic energy. This makes learning exhausting, and not much fun, either. Who looks good online? Whose words are not impeded by the removal of common breath? Who has not felt the urgent need to chuck the screens into the nearest river? But I have to admit, nonetheless, that my online GI classes have gone much better than I expected. Their success makes me want to say, like Polus, “I have to agree with the argument, but still, I’m not going to live that way.” Lab classes in the College suffer because there are no practica to perform with one’s own knowing hands. So lab ceases to be lab, and science becomes more authoritarian. Math tutorial also suffers, because we do need a real blackboard to give room to the beholding of truths and the gestural expanding of thoughts--spontaneously. That’s a synonym for life, you know. 28 �Personal Essay The Pandemic and the Iliad Will Harvard We all can look back on the past year and reflect on how we coped with the dramatic change and shift that Covid-19 brought to our individual and collected lives. Zoom became the world in which people went to work; school; even happy hours and family gatherings. It would be the place I would spend my final summer before graduating from St. John’s Graduate Institute. Four summers, this was not how I wanted to end my tenure. And yet, I could not help but think of the undergraduates who spent even more time than I did at St. John’s and their loss of a senior spring on the beautiful Annapolis grounds. People lost jobs, and relationships became strained for many communities living together. Screens and the information contained on them, be it print, or video, became a lifeline for a majority of people around the world. And although I count myself as one of those people, I also craved silence and reflection. Too much screen time left me fatigued and feeling even more distanced from people. By the end of the summer I had taught the final two months of the school year on zoom as well as attended my final St. John’s classes on it as well. I was averaging anywhere from two to six hours on it: I needed a break, and this break came in the form of rereading an edition of the Iliad I had had since college. My initial hope was to reread the epic poem in the original Greek with all the time I had to spare since most things in my community were still closed. However, no matter how far I read, I could not help returning again and again to book one and the opening of the work itself. What started out as a way to take my mind off the pandemic, quickly turned into a meditation on the world’s situation as well as the canon at St. John’s. For anyone that has read the poem, the opening line is one of the most famous in all of literature, “sing, oh goddess, the destructive wrath of Achilles, son of Peleus.” And while “wrath” deserves our attention at the outset, since it is what fuels Achilles to return to battle after the death of Patroclus and has him slay Hector, it was another word a few lines down that drew me in as if reading the poem for the first time: “χολωθεὶς- having been angered (ln.9).” This aorist participle describes Apollo and his anger at Agamemnon for keeping the daughter of Chryses, who is a priest to Apollo, as a war prize. As a result, Apollo sends a plague in the form of his arrows to punish 29 �Personal Essay the Greeks on behalf of his priest’s pain at not having his daughter returned by Agamemnon in exchange for spoils and wealth. Homer describes the result of this plague as “crowded pyres of the dead always burning (ln. 52).” Perhaps it is simply the time we are living in with restrictions, a national death toll, and trackers for those infected, but I simply could not move past this episode in the poem. It felt as though I was watching this very scene play out nationally before all our eyes. Here in this instance is Achilles, not the warrior and vengeful killer, but Achilles, the diplomat, who calls the Greeks to council at the behest of Hera, to whom the Greeks were so dear. Instead of wielding his sword, Achilles reasons it is time to return home, or at least consult a seer to understand why Apollo is so angry with them. Enter Kalchas, the greatest of diviners, who led the Greeks to Troy, and is described as being able to know “the things that are, the things to come, and the things that were.” But this matters not as he makes Achilles swear to protect him, because he knows that he is going to upset Agamemnon. He prudently addresses Achilles with the following: For a king is greater when he is angry with a lesser man, and even though on the same day he keeps his anger from rising, he still holds back his grudge, deep in his chest, until it is fulfilled. (l.80-83) And Kalchas is right. Agamemnon is furious with him as he replies, Seer of evil, never have you spoken a favorable word to me. Always evil things are dear to your heart to prophesize. You have never spoken a worthy prophecy, nor has it ever been fulfilled. (l.106-108) Despite Kalchas’ prodigious skills, and having his gift of prophecy from Apollo himself, Agamemnon uses the personal pronoun, “μοι-to me (ln. 106).” It is no matter to Agamemnon how truthful Kalchas is being or even how skilled he is, because Kalchas’ words are in direct opposition to Agamemnon’s personal wants and desires. And we know this because Agamemnon tells the council he prefers Chryseis to his own wife, Clytemnestra, in looks and work. From here Achilles fulfills his promise to Kalchas and stands up to Agamemnon. As both men trade 30 �Personal Essay insulting speeches, it is Agamemnon who gets the final say when he gives back Chryseis only to strip Achilles of his prize, Briseis. These actions have irrevocable consequences as this is the reason Achilles abstains from the war and sets in motion the future deaths of not only countless Greeks, but also that of Patroclus. Achilles even puts it to Agamemnon that “my hands have managed the greater part of this tiresome fighting (lns.165-166).” While it is tempting to draw parallels with the language and reactions between our country’s leadership with that of Agamemnon and Kalchas, as well as seeing Achilles as a frontline worker in terms of how much fighting he bore, there is a larger and more important question to ask: what does this episode mean for the great books cannon at St. John’s? Indeed, every generation will have its Agamemnon in one way or another. And time and again each passing generation of St. John’s students will experience a Kalchas or diviner who sees the truth with an Achilles willing to defend it. But what does it mean for us readers, those that have read before us, and for those future generations that will read after us, that the St. John’s curriculum chronologically begins with an episode of a pandemic, anger, and the dichotomy between personal and civic responsibility on the behalf of a king and a goddess born warrior? One may ask, especially of the Graduate Institute, “but how does this episode stand at the forefront of St. John’s?” While it is less evident at the Graduate Institute due to the opportunity to study segments out of order, the undergraduates embark on the Iliad and the Odyssey their freshman year. Perhaps sections of the Old Testament could be considered older than Homer, but regardless, St. John’s undergraduates begin their academic careers with a storyline that predates all the other Greek writers on the reading list for that year. Achilles’ wrath is so famous that even if one has not read Homer, she is certain to know it. And yet, before the invocation of the goddess to sing of Achilles’ wrath, she must first explain the anger of a god, a king, a warrior, and the balance of self-interest they have for themselves as well as others. Just like my time on the Annapolis campus, I am filled with questions more than with answers. During this past year I have experienced anger, frustration, and even compassion. While I count myself fortunate not to have lost anyone in my family to Covid, I have watched as coworkers and family friends attended virtual 31 �Personal Essay funerals. Reading Book 1 of the Iliad was not therapeutic. I did not feel a sense of perspective that the idea of a plague and the dissension it causes goes back to one of our earliest forms of literature. Instead I came to understand the adverb “αἰεὶalways (ln. 52),” as in every time someone reads or listens to Book 1 of the Iliad, the crowded funeral pyres of the dead are always burning, as if in perpetuum. And the result will always be the same: an assembly of leaders called forth, the consultation of an expert, and the resulting anger of those in attendance in response to the truth. “Always” does not make this epic linear, instead, it presents the work as continually existing, coming into being every time we pick up the text to listen to the goddess explain Achilles’ wrath, and to a no less important degree, a pandemic and its consequences. By Neha Gaddam 32 �Academic Essay Excerpt from The Molting Eagle and the Shedding Serpent James Wheeler Nietzsche does not give us any tidy answers. Like the Sphinx to Oedipus, he has presented us with a riddle. But for what purpose? Why not state his position clearly? One answer might be that Nietzsche, through Zarathustra, does not want to be understood by everyone. Maybe, he only wants those who read his words slowly, precisely, and with blood-dripping intensity to be able to unravel the bandages wrapped around this mummy of Moment. Perhaps he is telling us that there must be some demonstration of faculties before the keys to the kingdom of heaven and the gates of hell can be given. In that sense, it seems clear that Zarathustra’s position on the eternal recurrence is not meant to encapsulate everyone. Zarathustra is no savior for all of mankind. If he is a savior at all, he is only so for those who can solve his riddle and more importantly, once solved, can summon the courage to not wither before it. Zarathustra’s idea of the eternal recurrence demands, even from himself, a person unafraid to tie themselves to the tracks while the Train of All-Life hurtles forever and repeatedly toward their body. The eternal recurrence is the recognition and celebration of the idea that from those tracks there is no escape. One cannot free oneself from the moment, that which shackles one in place. The moment must be experienced in order for there to be a future and a past. Such a courageous moment-lover also understands that the Train of All-Life cannot move backward, only incessantly forward along the unalterable Track of Eternity, a track to be traveled time and time and time again with no deviation. But does the track proceed eternally in a straight line? Thus, the riddle continues, and Zarathustra further complicates matters by cavalierly dismissing a key element to the solution when he admonishes the dwarf for lazily stating that “All truth is crooked; time itself is a circle.” Zarathustra responds to the dwarf by stating that he is demeaning the thought of the eternal recurrence by making it less complicated. That is to say, the dwarf dilutes the entire concept into the simple, insouciant explanation that time is circular. In doing so, the converse of the dwarf’s comment provides the linchpin to the entire idea: if time wasn’t circular, and since it is self-evident that past events cannot be changed by actions in the present, that is to say that we can’t walk backwards in time, how could anyone or anything return to the same moment? The answer is that it can only be 33 �Academic Essay accomplished in a circular manner. As long as time is circular, the past can still not be changed but it can be experienced again. As such, it can be returned to eternally. *** Of course, venturing an attempt at solving the riddle of the eternal recurrence is only a part of the nut to be cracked, the hard coating protecting the seed within. As that shell is peeled back, two additional layers are revealed. To begin with, prior to even hinting at the eternal recurrence, Zarathustra presents as a statement of fact that God is dead. He mentions it in the prologue while walking through the forest where so many nuts hang from tree branches or litter the ground. Interestingly, Zarathustra, that nomadic nutcracker, seems to be the only person aware of this fact, as even the saint he comes into contact with in the forest is not aware of God’s death: “Could it be possible? This old saint in the forest has not yet heard anything of this, that God is dead!” What, then, does it mean for the Christian god to be dead; and how does that fact, if accepted as a fact, inform our understanding of the eternal recurrence? For one, within a group of believers reliant on God’s continued existence, the factual death of God would represent a loss of faith. No, not just a loss of faith, a loss of connection to reality, an untethering of the mind. Such a spiritual and metaphysical unraveling, if recognized as true by all investors in such holy stock, would be cataclysmic. It would be the apocalypse of the mind. God, as man’s most cherished creation, the most precious child of the mind of man, is supposed to be that which is beyond death and gives undying structure to existence. Additionally, the death of God signals to mankind that even their most deathless vision can go blind. In such dark fumbling, what are God’s followers to do? Now given a void, how does man choose the correct soil with which to fill the hole caused by the absence of the creator of all values and the provider of all purpose? Zarathustra has the answer: create once more and plant the seeds of man’s future in the soil of the eternal recurrence. That is to say, in one way, with his mind man created God; therefore, man, through his mind, is the true god and the sole possessor of all the power he needs to provide purpose and meaning to life. He only needs but to harness his creative desire to that end. In other words, it is a matter of will, of will to power. Which leads to the second layer of the riddle of the eternal recurrence: if we stipulate that will in this sense is consistent with desire, what kind of will to 34 �Academic Essay power is that which Zarathustra advocates? Throughout the book, he regularly speaks of the relationship between those in command and those who obey the commanders. In one sense, it is of course easy to conclude that power to Zarathustra is an imbalance of dominance: the person who wills more power into their possession than others and who lords that power over any and all who have less. In another sense, Zarathustra informs us, and therefore might be implying, that will to power can also take the form of a single-minded obsessive hunt for truth-knowledge and then hoarding that truth-knowledge so as to be swollen like a tick, on the verge of bursting with so much knowing and so much truth. In other words, it is a type of power sought so as to be conspicuously grand among all the cathedrals of the mind: to have more truth-knowledge than others is to have power over them due to the vacant pews inside their heads. Another, and I speculate more accurate, meaning of will to power, at least in the eagle eyes of Zarathustra, is dependent on the acceptance of the death of God and the primacy of the eternal recurrence. As previously mentioned, if God is dead, then there is no defender against the futility of life. If God is dead, then we are all passengers in a car with no destination. There is no driver at the wheel, and we have no direction home. However, if we have the strength and courage to stare eternity square in his endless eye, we would ourselves have the vision to see that all that can happen has happened and all that has happened will happen again. While we would realize that our lives have no off-ramp, we would also realize that we have the power to be the driver of our own car, not some god. And we would shout in the voice of our highest song, Yes! Give me this highway, this car, now and forever, over and over again! Consequently, we are left with a choice: in recognition of the death of God and the primacy of the eternal recurrence, do we throw our helpless hands up in the air and become the last men that Zarathustra warns us of; those joyless, purposeless, kings of emptiness, those owners of vacant, blinking eyes? Or do we, bodies bristling with infinite exuberance and a belief in the value and purpose of life that is deeper than the deepest well, infinitely and recurringly shout “Yes!” to the eternal recurrence? If so, then that eternal yes-saying requires us to desire, to lustily crave everything in our lives. We must, with our most irresistible hands, grasp each and every single moment of our lives with a drunken desire and rejoice in all that has happened, all that is happening, and all that will happen. 35 �Academic Essay Thus, spoke Life to Zarathustra: “For what does not exist cannot will; but what is in existence, how could that still want existence? Only where there is life is there also will; not will to life but—thus I teach you—will to power.” For Zarathustra, such an acceptance is the most human imperative. It is the definition of will to power. Our desire, our will to embrace the life we have and spend no energy or thought on the life we want to have or think we should have had is where true power lies. A person so equipped is a person as powerful as any god the mind of man has ever created. Such a thought, were it to take hold of humanity in a way that Christianity and other religions have, would be transformative for humankind. Perhaps the power of transformation is one reason why Zarathustra’s most beloved animals are the proud eagle and the wise serpent. They molt and they shed. Their willingness to do so is non-existent because they don’t have a choice. The eagle and serpent don’t question their molting or their shedding. They don’t try to fight it, to wish that it didn’t happen or that it would happen differently. They are in life and such transformation automatically happens in that domain. Life has deemed it necessary. In the face of such necessity, they focus only on what life provides and transform when and how life demands. At this, the serpent with split-tongue smiles, and the eagle, unweighted by the spirit of gravity soars above us all. The Geometry of Addiction by Jaime Marquez 36 �Academic Essay Vico’s Poetic Morals: Forced into Philosophy? Akayla Lewis In The New Science of Giambattista Vico, the author, G. Vico, makes a claim that I found peculiar and interesting. In paragraph 509, Vico says, “for husbands shared their first human ideas with their wives, beginning with the idea of a divinity of theirs which compelled them to drag their women into caves; thus, even this vulgar metaphysics began to know the human mind in God” (509). Of course, this sentence is in the context of a larger thought, but I think it still sounds jarring based on the context. Men dragging women into caves and forcing them to be wives and share in philosophy does not sound like a world familiar to me, but Vico argues that this practice was the way of the early humans. A few immediate questions arise for me: What is this idea? Why did this happen? How do I make sense of Vico’s claims in light of his work being a “history of human ideas” (6, 347, 391, 424)? Fear Forces the Hand In The New Science, one of Vico’s main principles is that human civilization began with three practices: religion, marriage, and burial. “From all that has been set forth in general concerning the establishment of the principles of this Science, we conclude that, since its principles are divine providence, moderation of the passions by marriage, and immortality of human souls [witnessed] by burial, and since the criterion it uses is that what is felt to be just by all men or by the majority must be the rule of social life…” (360). Vico also argues that marriage and burial precede from the human ideas of the gods. Ideas of the gods (or a god) is the driving force of the actions of the early humans. Where does this religious bent come from? Fear is the beginning of the religious bent for man. “Thus, it was fear which created gods in the world; but, as was remarked in the Axioms, not fear awakened in men by other men, but fear awakened in men by themselves,” Vico says (382). It is the human imagination of divinity that drives man to fear. The early humans were “children” (187) that did not understand nature or have reason to govern their views of the world. Vico posits that the human mind reflects itself on whatever it does not understand. Vico says, “when men are ignorant of the natural causes producing things and cannot even explain them by 37 �Academic Essay analogy with similar things, they attribute their own nature to them” (180). Vico uses lightning and flooding as his examples of how humans reflected their minds. When lightning would strike and people would fall, the early humans thought that there was a mind with intention behind this phenomenon which was perceived as a divine action. According to Vico, man’s natural curiosity put man on this path; he says “curiosity that inborn property of man, daughter of ignorance and mother of knowledge when wonder wakens our minds, has the habit, wherever it sees some extraordinary phenomenon of nature, a comet for example, a sun-dog, or a midday star, of asking straightway what it means” (189) Humans are inclined to ask what something means, and this is a very fascinating claim. The first response of man to something grand or rare is to ask what it means. There is not an explanation for this other than for Vico to say that it is inborn in humans. Either way, ascribing meaning to the phenomenon of nature is how all (gentile) religions start Vico claims this as the universal beginnings of the gentile world; every nation started this way. “Jove hurls his bolts and fells the giants, and every gentile nation had its Jove,” (193) Vico states. Sex Is Not Sexy The question of how early ideas of divinity fits in with women being clubbed and dragged into caves is still unanswered. How does religion compel these early humans to this strange and seemingly backward behavior? Vico says of these early humans, “Our treatment of it must take its start from the time these creatures began to think humanly. In their monstrous savagery and unbridled bestial freedom there was no means to tame the former or bridle the latter but the frightful thought of some divinity, the fear of whom, as we said in the Axioms is the only powerful means of reducing to duty a liberty gone wild” (338). The fear of a great power above is the first step in man restraining himself. It seems the early men thought they needed to control themselves so that they would not be struck by Jove’s lightning. “Authority was at first divine; the authority by which divinity appropriated to itself the few giants we have spoken of, by properly casting them into the depths and recesses of the caves under the mountains. This is the iron ring by which the giants, dispersed upon the mountains, were kept chained to the earth by fear of the sky and of Jove, wherever they happened to be when the sky first thundered” (387), Vico surmises. Thunder and lightning drove these men into the caves because they 38 �Academic Essay concluded that the phenomenon was the work of a god who was enacting violence against them. To escape this violence and consequence, men took cover in caves thus restraining themselves. The early men took this restraint of their bodies to be a moral virtue. Vico articulates that “moral virtue began, as it must, from conatus. For the giants, confined under the mountains by the frightful religion of the thunderbolts, learned to restrain their bestial habit of wandering wild through the great forest of the earth, and acquired the contrary custom of remaining hidden and settled in their fields” (504). These early men thought the right thing to do was to restrain one’s wandering, and thus one’s bodily motion. The motion of the body is under control of the will which was something that needed to be commanded instead of the motion of the body controlling the person. It was right to control these urges to move so that the gods would be pleased. As Vico puts it, “from this thought must have sprung the impulse proper to the human will, to hold in check the motions impressed on the mind by the body, so as either to quiet them altogether, as becomes the sage, or at least to direct them to better use, as becomes the civil man. This control over the motion of their bodies is certainly an effect of the freedom of the human will…” (340). The control and direction of the body through the will is one of the first steps out of bestial living for early man. From the idea of bodily control, the need to control one’s sexual urges sprang up. In a very literal sense, sex is bodily motion. The urge for sex usually drives the motion of men, so the early humans wanted to control this “bestial lust” (504). Just like other movements were constricted to the cave, sexual intercourse would be hidden as well. Violence and Self-Control The question of why these early men needed to enact violence in order to practice their self-control is still open. It seems strange that in thinking that bodily movements and sexual intercourse should be controlled and restricted that the early men would use violence and force to get and keep these women in caves as wives. Why did the men use violence to achieve their virtuous end? Vico does not give a direct reason for this practice; he only says that it was the case. He does however give a description of the early women when he says “…women, who in that state must have been wild, indocile and shy…” (369), and under this description it is possible to understand why the early men needed 39 �Academic Essay to use violence against these women in order to have them as partners. In order to propagate, these men needed to obtain these indocile women, but were these women truly indocile? Vico does not give an explanation of this synthesis of the early women, and I do not find myself satisfied. Although Vico does not give a concrete reason for this practice he does seem to be sure that it was a practice that happened. Vico seems to be convinced by the ancient fables and their depiction of women in marriage as he states, “the hieroglyph or fable of Juno hanging in the air with a rope around her neck and her hands tied by another rope and with two heavy stones tied to her feet, had signified the sanctity of marriage. Juno was in the air to signify the auspices essential to solemn nuptials, and for the same reason Iris was made her handmaiden and the peacock with its rainbow tail was assigned to her. She had a rope about her neck to recall the violence used by the giants on the first wives” (514). The ancient fables are the record of human ideas from which Vico draws his conclusions about the practices of early humans. It is quite possible that Vico himself thought this practice awful, but he simply describes it as the way the early humans interacted with each other. Therefore, this notion of the subjugation of women - a notion in which women lack autonomy and are seen as property - is founded within the fables, beliefs, and traditions of his time which he recounts. This belief is still present in some cultures currently. Forced Friendship Circling back to my original question: What is going on in the following statement? “For husbands shared their first human ideas with their wives, beginning with the idea of a divinity of theirs which compelled them to drag their women into their caves…” (506). The first conversations were between the man and woman in the cave, yet she was forced there by violence. What are we to make of this? Given the context of Vico’s conception of the world of the first humans and the consequent traditions and beliefs of ancient nations, we are led to think that men were unsociable creatures. Vico says, “For out of the passions of men each bent on his private advantage, for the sake of which they would live like wild beasts in the wilderness” (133). Thus, in this sketch of humankind, the early cave dwellers (or those men still living out in the forests) would have no one to share their ideas with. It follows that these men would commune with the women they 40 �Academic Essay captured. “Thus, marriage emerged as the first kind of friendship in the world,” Vico says (554). This is an interesting point because, perhaps these men thought that this force was necessary to save these women from the wrath of the gods and keep them safe. The need to communicate about the gods and important impressions upon their minds is implicit here. It seems that there was some sort of care and affection in this situation given that Vico highlights that the root word for friendship in Greek is the word love in paragraph 554. Vico has the underlying assumption that men have to need to communicate even in the face of being unsocial. Given the context of these “first friendships,” to call it such might seem foreign to my contemporary understanding; However, in this odd sketch of the first marriages (and thus societies via Vico) women are taught and share in their husbands’ ideas because they have the capacity to understand them. For Vico, these early men did not just force women into caves and did not speak to them, but they communed together (given the strange circumstance). These women learned, developed alongside their male counterparts, and possibly contributed to the ideas of the divine and of life as the species advanced. This possible interpretation gives me hope in this strange world Vico describes. 41 �Creative Writing Nostalgia in February Kelsey Hennegen First published in Narrative Magazine Jackets zipped against wind, we stand close, cupping hands to catch the light. I get it. My profundity problem. I want everything to mean. To have worth and weight. But it doesn’t. My desire verges on dire. I try to remember patience. I usually forget. With extravagant flair, Sam fans the match and declares all bad poetry is sincere. It’s nothing new, of course. It’s Eliot or Wilde, maybe. The trouble is, I’m too sentimental. I had my first cigarette last week. Now my body goes buoyant on just a few sips, doomed and irreverent. A little romantic. I buy Sappho in the original Greek even though it flummoxes me. I wear my mother’s wedding ring to bed so I can sleep. Oh, but I want to be greedy with beauty. Or— No. That’s not quite it. I want the past. A garden hose draped over the gate, backyard showers after sun-spoiled days. Bonfires, a poorly pitched tent in Joshua Tree. Strange, isn’t it? How anything will turn dangerous if you cling to it long enough. 42 �Creative Writing The last bellow of day drains. Scallop-edged and purplish, the cottonwood leaves fatigue. It was Hesiod who deified pain, now our -algia is named for the spirits of grief. And yet, Nostos means tribulations be damned, the hero gets home. Sometimes I stumble on a day so blue it blinds. I find a June within and I am everything righteous and thrashing and right. By Neha Gaddam 43 �Personal Essay On the Benefit of Virtual Learning for our Community Leith Daghistani From the preamble to the Polity of St. John’s College: Education is the making of men and women out of children by bringing them into the world of inherited customs, intellectual traditions, and spiritual ties. Institutions of learning are set up for this purpose. Beyond this they should also seek to develop the moral and intellectual powers of their students to enable them to fulfill best their freely chosen tasks and thus to take their own responsible part in shaping the future. St. John's College is a community of learning committed to holding these ends constantly in sight and to seeking the best means of attaining them. Many of our peers who were exposed to virtual learning over the past year or so have continued to convey to me some form of the idea that virtual learning is fundamentally incompatible with the GI because we lose some intangible element of the program hidden in in-person interactions or intramurals when it moves online. Even those who now defend virtual learning sometimes tacitly agree with the concern that the program is weaker online. Based on these conversations it often appears to me that the prevailing views of students and graduates of the GI are either that virtual classes should not be offered at all or that offering virtual classes is a worthwhile trade-off for a less rigorous program because it provides for wider access to students who ought to be in our community. I believe that maintaining the option for virtual segments offered alongside in-person classes and leading to the same degree is not a trade-off, and has great potential to improve the program for us all. In-person interactions and extracurriculars certainly make the program at St. John’s more enjoyable, but they aren’t essential or exclusive to the GI. Undergraduates approach a wider range of texts using the same method and have more access to the same extracurricular activities as the GI over a longer period of time, all in person. If one believes that the undergraduate program is not essentially distinct from the GI, then the GI is limited to be nothing more than an accelerated and inferior copy of the undergraduate program. I reject that view and say that the GI has merit in itself, and can support virtual learning. 44 �Personal Essay From my perspective, most undergraduate schools achieve the same basic educational ends regardless of their specific mission: they generally teach students how to learn effectively, to continue their education beyond the classroom, and to employ their education in a way that benefits the people around them in many contexts. Undergraduate programs generally require in-person immersion in the form of shared living and learning spaces, intramurals, or other extracurriculars to offset the students’ overall lack of experience. Experience empowers individuals to broadly apply their education in concert with other methods to improve themselves and the world around them, and in-person immersion in an academic program quickly develops a kind of experience. At St. John's College, intramural sports are an outstanding example of immersion because they provide students with a training field by which the elements of a good education developed in the program can be put into practice and safely tested with immediate feedback. The undergraduate program likely couldn’t exist virtually at St. John’s College because that program requires in-person immersion and indoctrination to really bring children into the world of inherited customs, intellectual traditions, and spiritual ties. But as graduate students we don’t need a practice field, and we are not children. Though we are still developing, we have already had a basic level of exposure to higher education. Before virtual classes were offered, GI students who worked full time or had other responsibilities received the same education and the same degree without involving themselves in any events outside of class whatsoever and without any question of their participation in the essence or rigor of the program. Participating during class hours is sufficient for us because we already actively seek and employ new methods and models of learning outside of the classroom to make ourselves better and to empower others to the same. At the graduate level we are perfecting rather than developing that habit. Our community’s standards and expectations should reflect that distinction. Our community is our unique strength, and good dialogue among the community is the only necessary function for our education in the GI. While the texts are an important part of our method of education, they are a tool for creating good dialogue among our community, which is the essential part of our program. The key group dynamics of good dialogue, namely balanced participation, active listening, and cooperation, are not impossible to achieve 45 �Personal Essay online, so GI students should be able to effectively learn virtually. Intramurals and after-seminar gatherings and everything else that requires in-person interactions are a bonus — welcome for some but unnecessary for others. If this were not the case, then we would be able to achieve the same education by reading the texts in isolation, or by joining a social club for classics enthusiasts. What makes effective virtual learning more challenging than in-person learning is that good virtual dialogue always requires balanced participation, active listening, and cooperation among the group along with a consistently high level of individual objectivity, courtesy, trust, discipline, and respect. The austerity of the virtual classroom means that students must develop these habits quickly to be successful. That is a good thing for the program. Conversely, we can probably get away with having good-enough dialogue in person despite not maintaining such a high standard by hiding behind so-called nonverbal participation or through other conversations which are easier to continue outside of class hours. At the graduate level, the reality is that we should already have expected excellence in dialogue as the standard from all members of our community before we were forced to move online in the spring of 2020. I do not mean to suggest that the move to online learning in the middle of a semester and as a result of a global pandemic was easy or welcome in any way. There were technical difficulties and growing pains great enough to dispirit many in our community, myself included. I prefer learning in person. But I won’t pretend that my personal preferences are essential to a good education or that the academic problems I encountered online were a product of the medium of the conversation and not of my own failures. It is clear to me that virtual learning works for students who choose to pursue it because they have already dedicated themselves to a consistently high standard of dialogue regardless of the medium. I observed as much in my final semester in the fall of 2020, which was online for all students. GI students who began the program virtually or who were only able to attend online due to their circumstances were capable of developing dialogue online at least as often and to as high a standard as any other in-person group which I have been a part of. I believe that virtual learning is troubling for our community not because it is incompatible with our program but because it exposes our collective and 46 �Personal Essay individual weaknesses. But an awareness of one’s weaknesses is a gift to be cherished, not ignored. If those of us who prefer in-person learning found virtual learning to be less rewarding it highlights that we should all should be more consistent in explicitly identifying, promulgating, and holding ourselves to a higher shared standard of dialogue as a community. My opinion is that no matter the reason or purpose for our enrollment, we should practically expect all students of the GI to be able to participate in consistently fruitful and equitable dialogue with any group in any medium. GI alumni should be able to naturally lead such groups, purely as a byproduct of sustained exposure to our method. That does not mean that dialogue or class meetings must always be rewarding for every participant, but as the community of the premier graduate liberal arts program, we should strive toward the highest standards for dialogue and be unafraid of collaborative reflection and criticism when we do not meet them. I think that an examination of the dynamics of good dialogue should play a more formal part of our education at the GI. We would collectively benefit from more direct conversations about dialogue itself, such as a mid-semester meeting dedicated to a conference-style conversation among the group in each of our classes, or a more robust orientation program that is revisited by all students every semester. In short, we should be looking to empower all members of our community to be successful and versatile in pursuing their education, rather than prematurely declaring the limits of the program when we briefly falter in the face of a new challenge. Our community remains strong because we draw on an extraordinarily diverse range of human experiences and vast depth of competencies to approach fundamental questions as equals and collaboratively develop a better understanding of the great books through good dialogue. If we focus on our improvement with that unique strength in mind, the GI will thrive in any environment. We should not shy away from serious reflection and frank discussion which has such enormous potential to both improve and expand access to the GI. Doing so based on a misguided belief that our program should exist only in the in-person interactions of St. John’s students in or immediately adjacent to the classroom is a disservice to us all. 47 �College Ephemera Uncovering the Lost World of the Black Classical Tradition Anika Prather I feel like I am Indiana Jones in Raiders of the Lost Ark. What an adventure I have had seeking to find the connection between Classic texts, Great Books and the Black community. I have literally dug through ruins, run away from dangers seen and unseen and felt fear and despair like you would not believe all in my journey to revealing to all that Classics are for everyone, especially the Black community. For the Black community the Classical tradition is actually a part of our heritage. When I say that, I am met with anger from both Blacks and Whites, Blacks not wanting any sign that our people are connecting to those who have oppressed us and Whites not wanting us to have access to “their” books. I have been met with perils of many kinds in my effort to uncover this lost world, where my ancestors were fully engrossed in the texts of the ancient world and beyond. It all happened by accident, actually with me finding DuBois’ essay “Of the Training of Black Men.” But that one text for some reason awakened an awareness that if DuBois was devoting so much passion to writing about the Black Classical tradition, it must be based on some common occurrence in the Black community. From that one essay, I found myself reading the other essays in his Souls of Black Folk and it was more of the same, that Classical education was the most effective way to educate Black Americans. From Souls of Black Folk I was led to his education essays, The Education of Black People, which provided more of his revelations about his views on Classical Education for Black people. DuBois gave me the eyes to see that there was a whole other world undiscovered, a secret place where Blacks read, discussed, wrote about, synthesized and embraced the classical tradition. They were learning and reading Latin. Engaged in rhetorical discussions about beauty, virtue and truth. Classical study was their gateway to cultural literacy, empowerment and equality. Many yearned for this type of learning even while enslaved and most ran for this type of education, once they were emancipated. One excerpt from “Of the Training of Black Men” has become an opus for me: I sit with Shakespeare and he winces not. Across the color line I move arm in arm with Balzac and Dumas, where smiling men and welcoming women glide in gilded halls….I summon Aristotle and Aurelius and what soul I will, and they come all graciously with no scorn nor condescension. So, wed 48 �College Ephemera with Truth, I dwell above the Veil. Is this the life you grudge us, O knightly America? Is this the life you long to change into the dull red hideousness of Georgia? Are you so afraid lest peering from this high Pisgah, between Philistine and Amalekite, we sight the Promised Land? (From Souls of Black Folk: Of the Training of Black Men) In this passage, I feel what DuBois felt, a feeling of being transported to a magical place where color lines no longer haunt us and we are able to dance with all people in harmony. This one passage was the turning point for me, and would be the catalyst for my continued journey to finding how the classics have played an integral part in the African American’s journey to finding their place in American society. Not too long after discovering DuBois, I took my high school students on a tour of the Frederick Douglass House in Washington, DC. I remember that day so clearly because my mind had been so blown away by what I was reading about DuBois. I felt mentally on a cloud. Up to this point, I was working on my PhD, researching the role of the arts in the K12 classroom, but Dubois took me off that path and his writings compelled me to continue this “archeological dig.” In other spaces I have shared the resistance I experienced in academia by making this detour and the danger of me not finishing was a constant presence. However, I pressed on and through the support of others in my department, I was able to continue the “archeological dig” enough to introduce my discovery into my dissertation. I had no idea that Douglass would be connected to what was starting to become an obsession of mine, but as soon as I walked into the front door of his house, where everything was preserved in time, I was greeted by the bust of Cicero. Instantly I thought, “Cicero? Why is Cicero in here? What does a former slave know about Cicero?” My heart began to race as I noticed so many items in his house that reflected this former slave was self-taught in the Classical Tradition. Leaving the foyer, I came upon a painting which showed a scene from Shakespeare’s play Othello. Revelation after revelation happened as I toured that house. He decorated the entire house with signs of his love for Classics and the Canon. The final clue that confirmed what I was already feeling internally, was when I entered his library. From floor to ceiling were shelves of books, all from the Classical tradition and the overall western canon. The tour guide went on to 49 �College Ephemera explain how Douglass would spend hours in his library reading the texts and practicing writing about them. This bit of information actually gave me the foundation for how I teach the texts at the school. We spend our time reading the texts, discussing the text and writing an essay on the text every week. This process Douglass engaged in was also how he studied the text when he was enslaved. When we left the Frederick Douglass House, I went home to further my research on Douglass and I learned that as a teenage boy he bought the Colombian Orator and would spend his free time sneaking to read the texts, focusing on the speeches of Cicero. The Colombian Orator was an anthology of excerpts from classic texts. This text was commonly used in schools during this time. In reading the excerpts of the Colombian Orator, Douglass unchained his mind well before his body was set free. One text involved Douglass analyzing the argument between a slave and his master, in which the slave did such an effective job showing his master why slavery was wrong, that the slave ended up being voluntarily emancipated. It was arguments like these that revealed to Douglass the importance of rhetoric and logic in presenting a case for ending slavery. Douglass said, “I read them over and over again with unabated interest. They gave tongue to interesting thoughts of my own soul, which had frequently flashed through my mind, and died away for want of utterance. The moral which I gained from the dialogue was the power of truth over the conscience of even a slaveholder...The reading of these documents enabled me to utter my thoughts and to meet the arguments brought forward to sustain slavery.” (from Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass) Douglass spent his time copying the texts, summarizing the texts and fully immersing himself in the texts. He even says that it was in reading Classics that he was given the words needed to communicate about the atrocities of slavery in a way that the White and Black community could understand and receive. Now two of my ancestors were flooding my mind with reflections on the Black Classical tradition. There was this pattern I was seeing of going from captivity or feelings of oppression or both to reading these texts that tell the human story and discovering that whatever the world may say about you, these texts reveal a greater truth. These texts actually cancelled out the lies of our 50 �College Ephemera inferiority and curse that says we were created to serve those with a lighter complexion. These texts confirmed our identity as an equal human being. My mind filled with these reflections was still floating on these clouds of revelations when I took on a new job as a principal of a private school in DC. The board was considering getting a new building and I had been looking at properties. One property was an abandoned building which at one time housed the Nannie Helen Burroughs School. The realtor and the property manager took me all around the building. It looked as if it had been just left as is. Everything was still in place from when the school had closed down. It was not in the greatest condition at that time and I wasn’t sure if I’d meet Mickey and Minnie Mouse and their friends in the process of touring the building, but somehow I felt a sense of awe as I walked the abandoned halls and I felt the spirit of the woman who desired to bring a quality education to Black students many years ago. The property manager brought us to a glass enclosed room that was a museum dedicated to Nannie Helen Burroughs. I asked if I could go in and he unlocked the door to let me in. So many artifacts were in the space that revealed her love for education, but one thing caught my attention more than anything in that little shrine to Nannie Helen Burroughs. On the wall, was a framed list of classes that students had to take back when the school first began in the early 1900s and on that list of classes was Latin. In fact, the other classes I saw reflected some type of appreciation for the Classical tradition. There’s another one. Another ancestor inspired by the Classical tradition. I was thinking about Dubois, Douglass, and Burroughs. How many of them are there? When I did more research on Nannie Helen Burroughs, I discovered a world of Black women educators dedicated to the classical tradition. Nannie Helen Burroughs had been a high school student at the famed M Street School, led by Anna Julia Cooper. Anna Julia Cooper used an almost totally Classical curriculum in educating the Black students that attended there and fiercely fought for this type of education for those students until the board of education fired her, because she would not stop teaching this way at their request. At M Street School, Nannie Helen Burroughs founded the Harriet Beecher Stowe Literary Society. Most students at M Street School took classics, which included the study of Latin and most went on to some of the top colleges in the nation. Anna Julia Cooper mentored Nannie Helen Burroughs and in a way, I feel like they are both mentoring me. Anna Julia Cooper is of great importance, because in discovering 51 �College Ephemera her, I find a whole community of Black female educators, dedicated to Cooper’s passion for providing a classical education. Anna Julia Cooper was born into slavery and remained in enslaved until emancipation. At around 10 years old, she attended St. Augustine’s School, which primarily taught freed slaves the classical tradition. Even though the school focused more on the rigors of classical education for the male students. Anna Julia Cooper advocated for herself to take the same classical courses. She excelled in Latin and became a scholar of classic texts. She eventually completed her college degree at Oberlin College, again advocating to take the rigorous classical program that was primarily for the male students. Anna Julia Cooper was one of two African American women to earn an M.A. (the other was Mary Church Terrell) in mathematics. Eventually she became the principal of M Street School in DC, again implementing a primarily classical curriculum for her students. As you walked the halls of the M Street School, you could hear her enthusiastically teaching the Aeneid in Latin. She would also teach the students the works of Cicero and many other Classical thinkers. Anna Julia Cooper was passionate about uplifting the African American people through education. She says, There is no social activity that more vitally concerns the life of a people than the problem of education. The Colored people of the United States...want for themselves and their descendants...all the advantages and opportunities of education as the term is interpreted and understood in the most favored groups in our American civilization. (from Uplifting the Women and the Race by Karen A. Johnson) What was this world I had found? And now with these constant discoveries of notable Black Americans who engaged in Classical study, how could I turn away? I knew that bringing this information to the light would be met with resistance from all directions. This seemingly mythical world had been kept so secret, almost undetected. I was right about my misgivings. As soon as I began to share what I was discovering there was resistance from all directions. This discovery I was making was not about Black scholars in classics, this was a bit different. If it was about Black Scholars then you could sort of segregate them to a space, sort of like DuBois’ “Talented Tenth.” You can say just this small group of people did this and then it doesn’t quite disrupt a system or misconceptions we have all held close to our minds and hearts. However, this discovery was 52 �College Ephemera about an entire educational system, that started while Blacks were in slavery and continued on until desegregation, revealing that the main way Blacks were educated in America up until desegregation, was Classical. Anna Julia Cooper was fired for refusing to stop teaching classically. Why do you think that is? Why was the Classical tradition taken from us? To reveal this, could upend all that we thought we knew about how education has been done and should be done. This discovery dispels the myth that Classics are the tools used to oppress Black people, when in fact history shows that Classics was a tool to liberate them. Black people fought to be educated this way, Douglass risking his life to steal it (through self-teaching) as an enslaved teenager. My journey continues. Constantly, I am uncovering more of this “lost city of the Black Classical tradition” and my most recent discovery is that Howard University was the first and only HBCU to have a Classics dept. The university was founded by General Howard who was a leader with the Freedman’s Bureau. The organization was responsible for setting up educational institutions for freed Black people after emancipation and the main educational philosophy they used in these institutions? Classical. The fact that Howard University still has a Classics dept is a monument to this now almost extinct world. It stands there as a flickering light, reminding us of a powerful time in the education of Black people. This flickering light at Howard University and what I am learning about the classical component to the early years of African American education, makes me wonder what the implications are for the current state of education in African American communities. If such great minds and powerful beings as Martin Luther King, Anna Julia Cooper, Frederick Douglass, James Baldwin, W.E.B. DuBois, Nannie Helen Burroughs, Thurgood Marshall and so many others came out of this tradition, what can that tell us about a possible need to consider going back to those roots in the present day? Even now as we celebrate the first woman, African American and South Asian Vice President in American history, being a graduate of a place Classically inspired like Howard University, we all should be wondering about this little secret within the African American community. The Classics dept at Howard is responsible for bringing the exposure to classical learning to all students who attend. Even as an undergrad who was not majoring in Classics, I remember having to read Medea and Agamemnon. I remember having to learn about Socrates in my required Philosophy class. Yet the beauty of this is that we were taught to read classics, but then how to connect it to our lives as African Americans. As a 53 �College Ephemera result of reflecting on this and learning even more, I am becoming aware of other early schools that educated Blacks. For example, St. Augustine’s School, which is now St. Augustine College is where Anna Julia Cooper attended right after emancipation. This school also used mainly classics as a part of its educational program. It is all such a long tangled history that I am seeking to unpack. My dissertation just barely touched the surface of uncovering this hidden world of Blacks in Classical study and even this article sheds little light on the richness of the Black Classical heritage here in America. Even though I have felt the resistance to what I am discovering and I have felt the walls surround me as I try to share what I am learning, I push forward, hoping one day people will hear me as I unpack the untold story of the history of the Black Classical tradition in the education of Black people. 54 �� 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 Colloquy Description An account of the resource A student-run journal for the Graduate Institute community of St. John's College in Annapolis, Maryland. The issues feature essays, art, poetry, interviews, and more. 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 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 pdf Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 58 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 Colloquy, Spring 2021 Description An account of the resource Volume VIII of Colloquy, published in Spring 2021. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Braley, Olivia (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 2021-05 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 Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived English Subject The topic of the resource St. John's College (Annapolis, Md.)--Periodicals Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Colloquy_Spring2021 Graduate Institute https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/d39edb7e905efe8ca964918d77defb9f.pdf 6d5a80ec509385f04c1c39ac0e093d54 PDF Text Text �Editor-in-Chief Olivia Braley Editorial Board Leith Daghistani Andrew Graney Charles Green Diana Villegas �Table of Contents Letter from the Editor Olivia Braley, Annapolis Purple Freckles Toni Lambert, Annapolis "I Feel, Therefore I Am?" Kayleigh Steele, Annapolis - with artwork by Bucca, Annapolis Toast to the GI Graduates Louis Petrich, Annapolis Tutor Annapolis Bells Joshua Laperche, Annapolis - with artwork by Jesse Clagett, Annapolis Genesis William Braithwaite, Annapolis Tutor Pap and Me Judith Wrenn, Annapolis - with artwork by Bucca, Annapolis A Conversation with Brandon Wasickso Charles Green, Annapolis- with art by Bucca, Annapolis “Equality” and the Tyranny of the Majority Drew Maglio, Annapolis The White Man Burdened Dimple Kaul, Annapolis - with artwork by Jesse Clagett, Annapolis Holy Sonnet XIV Vita Kudryavtseva, Annapolis - with artwork by Jesse Clagett, Annapolis About a Letter Louis Petrich, Annapolis Tutor - with artwork by Bucca, Annapolis Prize-winning Tutorial Essay: Meno Andrew Graney, Annapolis Prize-winning Preceptorial Essay: Thus Spoke Zarathustra Anthony Meffe, Annapolis - with artwork by Jesse Clagett, Annapolis 1 2 3 7 10 11 17 18 27 33 35 39 41 45 �Letter from the Editor Olivia Braley Dear Members of the Graduate Institute Community, As another semester comes to a close, I reflect on these last sixteen weeks with immense gratitude for our community. Thank you all for your dedication and commitment to the unique work and relationships we cultivate around our seminar tables, across our computer screens, and everywhere in between. Thank you especially to my fellow Colloquy editors, our contributors, and all others who dedicate their time and talents to helping this publication come to fruition each semester. Due to your efforts, we can showcase the various perspectives and elements of our community here. The issue you have in front of you today is a culmination of the thoughts and efforts of many people and, in that way, I believe is in keeping with the collaborative spirit of St. John’s college. The magic of the St. John's seminar is not hindered by distance or time. That is evident as we bring you an issue composed of past and present graduate students from both the in-person and low-residency programs. The fact that Prize-winning Tutorial and Preceptorial papers were awarded to an in-person and low-residency student respectively is but one apt example of the rigor and integrity that the St. John’s program requires of its students no matter the circumstances or platform. This Fall 2021 issue is of particular personal import as it marks my last semester as Editor-in-Chief of Colloquy and as a graduate student at St. John’s College. Neither departure is without a bit of sadness— but I am filled with hope for the future of this journal and the Graduate Institute. To have had the opportunity to integrate into this community in my two years here is an honor and I know that the lessons, connections, and questions that I developed during this time will be with me for many years to come. Let Colloquy be a reminder of these connections and of the diverse, attentive community in which each of us has a place. As always, thank you all for your talent, trust, and time. Sincerely, Olivia Braley, Editor-in-Chief 1 �Purple Freckles Toni Lambert Debris. Debris and remnants Of the gentle and no-longer-tall giants, Everywhere. The limbs of these strong beings Show the fresh flesh Of where they were snapped and torn. They couldn’t stand, So they flew. And now they’ve been flung, Pushed aside, Out of the way of where people pass By foot or by car. Inches from where we pass, But consuming our sight Of what happened just the night before. Did they catch our gaze, Or even our glance, When they remained attached In their proper place At home in the horizon line? Not in the same way. When attached They represented strength And growth, That we can stretch and reach To be just like the humble tree. Now, flung and displaced, They represent the terrific And tragic strength Of something harder to see. But what’s that? Underneath the carcasses Of the brutal storm, Purple freckles stand tall. Mere inches tall, But exactly as tall as they should be On a warm September day. They hold strong, Often over glanced in their simplicity. These tiny purple freckles Of flowers show us strength. Unfazed and perfectly placed Despite what the storm attempted to do. Even those standing under And holding the remains of gentle giants Hold strong, Their purple untouched. 2 �"I Feel, Therefore I Am?" Kayleigh Steele René Descartes, after having divested himself of his body and the sensible world in a thought experiment in the first of his Meditations, famously declares in the Second Meditation that he is merely a thinking thing, and that his thought alone can serve as proof of his existence. He asserts, “It is thought; this alone cannot be stripped from me. I am, I exist, this is certain” (27). In other writings, he states this central idea aphoristically as: “I think, therefore I am.” By the end of the Meditations, though, Descartes believes he has successfully proven the existence of the material world and has restored his body to himself. This prompts the question of whether we can now return to the Second Meditation and, with the body and access to sensation intact, ask if there are other possible proofs of our existence to be found. Could “I feel, therefore I am” be true? Intuitively, it seems true that if there is a sensation being felt, that is proof that there is something here existing to feel the sensation. The proposition does not feel so different from Descartes’ basic assertion that if there is something here thinking, there must be something here existing to think the thought. So now, stripped of our reason and using only our sensations, we test “I feel, therefore I am." Immediately, the question presents itself: is it possible for a merely perceiving being to form a “therefore”? It seems impossible that a feeling being would be capable of taking in sensory data and using it to form a conclusion; reason must be involved in this process. However, Descartes identifies sensation and perception as a form of thinking: “I seem to be seeing, hearing, getting hot. This cannot be false. This is what is properly meant by speaking of myself as having sensations; and, understood in this precise sense, it is nothing other than thinking” (29). To accord with his cogito statement, he removes sensation from the body entirely and assigns it to the mind: “Bodies themselves are perceived not, strictly speaking, by the senses or by the imaginative faculty, but by the intellect alone, and... they are not perceived because they are touched or seen, but only because they are understood” (34). With sensation now subsumed by the understanding, the proposition of “I feel, therefore I am” effectively becomes one and the same as “I think, therefore I am,” and must be true. As he works to reestablish the body in the Sixth Meditation, though, Descartes complicates his idea of sensation as a form of thinking: I find in myself faculties of thinking in various specific ways – namely, the faculties of imagination and sensation – without which I can understand myself clearly and distinctly as a whole. But the converse is not true – I cannot understand them apart from an intelligent substance in which they inhere (for they contain a certain degree of intellection in their formal concept). Hence I perceive that they are to be distinguished from me as modes are from a thing. (78) 3 �By identifying sensation as a mode or accident of thinking, he effectively separates it and makes it nonessential from the business of thinking. He can conceive of a version of himself existing purely as a mind without requiring the faculty of sensation, but not as a feeling being without his intellect. After this development in his conception of sensation, “I feel, therefore I am” cannot possibly be true. Or can it? In making an argument for mind-body dualism later in the Sixth Meditation, Descartes states: When I consider the mind, or myself in so far as I am purely a thinking thing, I can distinguish no parts in myself but understand myself to be a thing that is entirely one and complete. And although the whole mind appears to be united with the whole body, if the foot is cut off, or the arm, or any other part of the body, I know that nothing is therefore subtracted from the mind. Nor can the faculties of willing, perceiving by the senses, understanding, and so forth be said to be parts of the mind, since it is one and the same mind that wills, that senses, and that understands. (86) Descartes contradicts himself here. Where before sensation was identified as separable from his conception of the self, now it is contained absolutely within the whole. For “I feel, therefore I am” to be true, it has become clear that both the faculties of sensation and the understanding must be available to us: the former to perceive the “I feel”, and the latter to form the “therefore”. Between these two statements in the Sixth Meditation, Descartes has presented these faculties as either entirely divisible or muddled together, and sometimes it seems that they may even be the same faculty altogether. How is it possible to proceed in the face of a contradiction that makes the proposition to be tested both true and false simultaneously? The imprecision of Descartes has revealed itself during this exploration. Because he does not resolve the inconsistency in the Meditations, it appears we have encountered an insurmountable obstacle. Perhaps we can look to another, more systematic, thinker to resolve the confusion: namely, Immanuel Kant. In the Prolegomena to Any Future Metaphysics, Kant details his conception of the mind and its innate faculties: the faculties of sensibility, the understanding, and reason. He defines the faculty of sensibility as responsible for giving form to our perceptions through pure intuitions, transforming the raw data from sensation into empirical intuitions we understand in time and space. The faculty of the understanding then uses the pure concepts of the understanding to form our empirical intuitions into appearances, allowing us to make inferences and conclusions about the things that affect our senses. Reason, finally, is the faculty by which it is possible to know a priori, apart from any experience. 4 �Artwork by Bucca Now the roles and limitations of our various faculties are clearly defined. In the proposition of “I feel, therefore I am,” the “I feel” is now easily understood to pertain to the faculty of sensibility, and it seems the faculty of the understanding can use that information to craft a “therefore”. When Descartes states, “I am therefore, speaking precisely, only a thinking thing...” (27), he declares sensation to be completely separable from his conception of the self. This prompts the question of what the newly separated merely sensing self is capable of, and, with only Descartes to look to, led to the confusion above. In Kant, the question of whether a perceiving being can form a conclusion never arises because a merely perceiving being cannot exist within his system. The innate structure of our minds makes it impossible to separate sensation from the understanding. Nature has implanted within us the pure intuitions and pure concepts of the understanding. They exist in us prior to sensation; therefore if we feel, we are able to form an understanding from that sensation. But can this understanding form a conclusion of “I am”? Kant identifies the conception of the self, or the soul, as a transcendental idea, or a pure concept of the reason. These transcendental ideas, he says, cannot be understood empirically; they exist outside of all experience. “The transcendent cognitions of reason neither allow what relates to their ideas to be given in experience, nor their theses ever to be confirmed or refuted through experience; hence only pure reason itself can detect the 5 �error that perhaps creeps into them...” (4:329). The idea of the soul, like the pure concepts and intuitions, exists in us intuitively and innately. Kant states, “Now it does appear as if we have something substantial in the consciousness of our self (the thinking subject), and indeed have it in immediate intuition; for all the predicates of inner sense are referred to the I as subject, and this I cannot again be thought as the predicate of some other subject” (4:334). This “I am” can be concluded, but never through sensation or experience. For Kant, “I feel, therefore I am” is, consequently, impossible. Kant has proven, through this exercise, the immense value of the precision in his system for answering the metaphysical questions. When Descartes’ ideas became hopelessly entangled in the attempt to prove or disprove our proposition, Kant’s system provided a clear and firm groundwork for continuing the process of thought. In exploring this question, the ideas of Descartes quickly became a quagmire that one could not navigate safely out of without the use of interpretation or opinion, which are far too fickle for good metaphysics. Through Kant, it appears something rare and unexpected, and welcome, has occurred: we have seemingly discovered a certain conclusion to our question. While Descartes prompted only more questions, Kant provided what was sought: an answer. 6 �Toast to the GI Graduates Mr. Louis Petrich Delivered Spring Semester 2021 Socrates says, some place or other, that it’s good to be refuted--to suffer refutation-because then we cease to think that we know what we do not know. For that’s a troublesome condition, sometimes dangerous, even over elementary, physical matters. Let’s say you have to prepare the table for guests, and you think you know how to size it up or down to fit the occasion. But the table turns out too big or little—once the guests have come—and then, too late for proper hospitality, Zeus is angry. . . unless, perhaps, there’s a Socrates among the guests, persuasively game to undertake a second or third measuring, ever another round of getting to know us things and gods. Thus it’s fitting for Socrates to add that we should thank our refuters for delivering us from the human propensity to think we know more than we do. For consider how much that is, and how dear the objects, how costly the mistakes, when the accommodation of bodies around the table is for the sake of souls, too. Prompted by that word, “souls,” which is the real dynamite in our mining conversations, I would now say “thank you” to the graduates for practicing with my colleagues and me the soulful art of refutation for a few years, under physical conditions that have sorely refuted us--I mean our bodies, mainly, less so our souls, and not much your souls, for I’ve made particular comparisons. Yours have continued, under mandated refutations, elsewhere debilitating, to take the measure of things unknown in a spirit of wonder, and with an energy and commitment that frankly, have refuted me of certain hard opinions I held of the mediating mechanisms we have all had to depend upon for our fellowship. The efficacy of your refutation surprised me, for you know how attached a man can get to his own thoughts, as to his own hands. You got me wondering if, perhaps, I’ve been wrong all these years about not handling a cell phone. Who knows what new body parts I’ll acquire in future time, or what strange places we’ll occupy, in company we never imagined to enjoy, or feared to miss? Life is full of surprises, Emerson writes, and would not be worth the taking otherwise. Would it be to our present purpose to recall some recent history of surprises and refutations? After all, they’ve turned many lives, including mine, around and around again. Who could have thought, thirty-five years ago, that European and Russian communism would collapse in a heap, in a moment, with almost no violence? That surprise led to a decade of newly opened borders, unforbidden books, high hopes, dancing movements, and the liberalization of learning at much bigger, more inclusive tables than anyone thought possible. Those closed regimes had been considered permanent and inhospitable to us. Not so. Who could have thought, twenty-five years ago, that our proud gleaming towers, reaching to the heavens, uniting the world in awe, if not aspiration for like endeavors 7 �and rewards, could collapse in a heap, in a moment, not from earthquakes, but from passenger planes, taken over by secreted enemies of our towering powers? That refutation led to a mighty contraction of the tables of hospitality. Surveying the tables thence are cameras, ubiquitous and seeming permanent. So it goes. Who could have thought, two years ago, that we’d be measuring, painstakingly, our own Johnnie tables, classrooms, this auditorium, fields of grass, body temperatures, breath components, all that and more, to determine how many embodied souls can investigate in person, through friendly refutation, the truth of tables?--I mean by that what’s meet (as Hamlet says) to set down in our tables of memory (“there you are”) for present and subsequent pursuit; what’s meet to co-discover that lies secretive underneath the surfaces; what’s meet to venture jointly in towers of purpose that spy into heavenly, unforbidden things; and what is meet to know that stirs across continents and seas, around the tables of absent friends and plotting enemies. Our surprising, painstaking measurements sting the awareness of how meet it is to be here now, bridging the distances between us with words, gestures, and images, always grateful for the help we get to cross the divide, by thoughts going out to listeners and coming back home, never the same, like Odysseus when Athena brushes him up, to become his best, god-intended, homecoming self. Many American writers have admitted to doing their best work, going out dressed to claw their way up cliffs, when life is especially hard, and coming back in a shining guise. (Tennessee Williams wrote an excellent piece about clawing to success.) Ease and comfort, as Moses told the Israelites, about to enter the Promised Land, would make them go slack and forget God, who brought them there, thirsty. So let us cheer those who are about to enter academic masterdom, for clawing their way up the cliff, for life has been hard and deserted of late. But let us also charge them to refute those of the ease and comfort school. For haven’t we learned, from our clawing, that the convenience and resourcefulness of the medium of exchange is not the message?-For it does not dictate, as means, that mediation itself is to be learned as end. We thirst for being there, where words and gestures issue ripe from their sources. For we are proud to be a college of primary sources, and here’s to our looking now upon some of them, I mean us, who are present, we sources, high on the cliffs! I shall end my toast by looking to a source I mentioned earlier, on my mind because of a preceptorial coming shortly, on Hamlet. Some of you have probably heard the anecdote about the lady who went to see a production of Hamlet, which she had never seen or read before. When asked at intermission, “Madam, how like you this play?” she responded, “I’m so surprised at how many quotes it contains!” Yes, life is full of surprises--and goodly refutations (in her case, let us imagine it kindly postponed). Yet isn’t it good to know that the words we speak want to go somewhere, and be recognized sometime and again, even if we don’t know where the words originally come from? You graduates know a lot better than you did two years 8 �ago where many of our best words come from. Knowing that makes the question of “to be or not to be” much less anxious. For we’ve learned to keep good company, asking life’s questions, laying open the tables of the mind, expanding their contents for feasting. Hamlet, as you know, is not given to feasting; he prefers to keep alone, to talk to himself; in company, he almost always wears a mask (not this kind); for there’s lots of poison in Denmark; it kills him in the end, leading that lady to report, when asked what she thought of Hamlet the character, “During the play I kept wanting him to get it over with, but now that it’s over, I miss him.” Another goodly refutation there, about endings, after so many words along the way, alone or accompanied, with still so much more to say, before the final arrest, always ready to be surprised--by missing you. But there’s more to meet with in heaven and earth than dreamt of in our seminars and tutorials, which means there’s more for us to philosophize over at our tables round, and it’s a good thing the soul’s immortal, or the missing would really be impossible to bear, the “not to be” at our throats. Imagine our anecdotal lady attending a production of Hamlet knowing that it would be the last time the play would ever be performed or read, because at the end, it must all disappear, without a trace. What would that be like? She’d have to remember it, write it down, talk about it, and make it come back. Remember your time as students at St. John’s College, and make it come back, full face-to-face, to your unimpeded liking. To that end, I propose a toast to the graduates of the Graduate Institute, class of 2021, for the refutations they have turned to goodly account, able hereafter to profess to the dire and dooming, the being of true minds, and the oneness that comes in moments--the edges of eternity. 9 �Annapolis Bells Joshua Laperche Who installed these beckonersthese pardoners of the long day? Saint Mary keeps continenceEvery hour, The Prime Hour. Our Liberty Bell, Cracked as it is anchored. It too tolls. Saint John; his own tune plays. 7:22, he neglects the quarter hour. In the dark I swear I heard this once. To the hourTo the RepublicsTo the Soul. Three Tolls to the regularity of experience. Artwork by Jesse Clagett 10 �Genesis Mr. Braithwaite This paper was read September 7, 2021 to some students in my Sophomore Seminar. The first two chapters of Genesis tell two stories about the origin of Man, humankind, and of the male and female sexes. The first story, in Chapter 1, describes the six days of creation. The beginning of the second story, verses 4 through 7 of Chapter 2, is the text for my present inquiry. I have two questions. What is the relation between the first story and the second? What do the two stories taken together suggest about the Biblical understanding of the relation between the sexes? In Chapter 1, verse 27, it is said: “So God created man in his own image, in the image of God created he him; male and female created he them” (King James tr.). Is mankind, or humanity, as we might say, one or two; singular or plural? Are we human beings first and foremost a unity, or a duality of male and female? As a unity, we are one kind, one species, distinguished from other, different species. As primarily a duality of male and female, we confront the question whether our likenesses, as men and women, --or something in between, transcend our differences. Could our potential for unity and co-operation get us beyond the abrasions among the sexes which we know from experience? We can observe these problems every day in the world around us. They spawn endless conflicts, some trivial, others deep and wounding. Many of these conflicts seem irresolvable. Some are even violent. Very often, it is women and children who suffer most, along with those who may not easily fit our deeply-rooted traditional categories. In Chapter 2, verse 18, it is said: “And the Lord God said, It is not good that man should be alone; I will make a help meet for him.” In the following verses (19-23), we are told that Woman was made from Adam’s rib. This account seems to say that man/male preceded woman/female. But according to Chapter 1, male and female, man and woman, were created at the same time. Are the two stories consistent? Another question. In the first story, Man, human-kind, is “created,” as are the two sexes, male and female (1.27). In the second, man is “formed,” of the dust of the ground, and woman is “made” from one of Adam’s ribs (2.21). How does “create” differ from “make”? What does “form” mean, different from “create” and “make”? In the first story, what God creates, besides man/male, is “female,” not either “a woman” or capital-W “Woman,” as Adam names her, saying, “This is now bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh.” Remembering Aristotle’s Physics—that a maker needs material, we might wonder what material man and woman, as male and female, were made from. The first story does not say. Does this omission signify that the material is less important than that both sexes are created in God’s image? Later events in Genesis 11 �suggest that woman’s god-likeness is shown in her power of giving birth. God creates, woman pro-creates. In the stories of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, the emphasis on “seed” suggests that the god-likeness of man/male is shown in his power to quicken woman’s fertility into a living soul. In the second story, man/male is made from “the dust of the ground,” and woman/female from a bone near Adam’s heart. Here the materials, earth and bone, are ready at hand, and God is more an artificer, one who makes by art, than a creator, who perhaps can bring material into being out of nothing (cf. Gen. 1.1-3). Adam, the source of the material from which Woman is made, has a different perception of his new “help meet,” or as we might say, a different experience, than God, the artisan who “made” them both. To Adam, she is not only “bone of my bones,” but also “flesh of my flesh” (2.23). Together, bones and flesh constitute the living body, the primary habitation of every human being, including each one of us. If our greatest blessing is that we have souls, is it our greatest curse that our souls must dwell in a body? The question of how the body and the soul are related, and therewith the question whether the soul survives the death of the body, is grave enough to occupy the full attention of Socrates and his companions in the final hours of his life. The second story begins this way: “These are the generations of the heavens and of the earth when they were created, in the day that the Lord God made the earth and the heavens, And every plant of the field before it was in the earth, and every herb of the field before it grew: for the Lord God had not caused it to rain upon the earth, and there was not a man to till the ground. But there were up a mist from the earth, and watered the face of the ground. And the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living soul.” It is in this second creation story, in Chapter 2, verse 4, that the word “generation,” which is related in its root to the word “genesis,” appears for the first time. There is no reference to “generation” in Chapter 1. Man, like God, is a “maker”: he makes cities, as we learn in Chapter 4 (v. 17) and tall buildings, like the tower at Babel, as we learn in Chapter 11 (v. 9). Both God and Man are also makers of images. Man makes images in stories, such as the Book of Genesis, about how the world began. In doing this, he may, like Homer, call on divine assistance or inspiration. Is the poet’s power to make stories that image people and events akin to God’s power to make human beings in his own image? Although both God and Man are makers, in Genesis 1 and 2 it is only God who “creates,” and only Man is said to “generate,” although it is evidently implicit that 12 �many or most other living creatures do also. These first two chapters are about the beginning of all things, but Creation, in Chapter 1, precedes Generation in Chapter 2. There must first be a world before there are beings who will dwell in it. Some of these beings are male and female, who by coupling will generate their own kind, “to multiply, and replenish the earth” (1.28). As Generation pre-supposes Creation, so Creation anticipates Generation. We see this in Chapter 1’s references to “seed” and “kind.” “And God said, “Let the earth bring forth grass, the herb yielding seed, and the fruit tree yielding fruit after his kind, whose seed is in itself” (1.11). In Genesis, from not later than Chapter 4, “And Adam knew Eve his wife; and she conceived,” the story begins to leave plants and animals largely behind, and to focus on the generation of children, especially sons, through the conjugal coupling that unites the Father’s seed with the Mother’s power of procreation. Only one creature, Man, is said to be both “created” and “made.” God’s creating power is exercised through his speech. “And God said, Let there be light: and there was light” (1.3). God speaks, and light is. The speech and deed are one with the being of the thing. Is there some inner communion between divinity and speech and light? Certainly we know from our own experience that human speech is not always enlightening. Very often, it is intended to obscure, conceal, or mislead, like the speech of the Serpent in Chapter 3. The creation of man, on the sixth day, and the creation of light, on the first day, are described differently. Light appears immediately upon God’s utterance, “Let there be.” The creation of man, by contrast, happens in two stages. “And God said, Let us make man in our own image” (1.26). How is “Let us make” different from “Let there be”? Does “Let us make” suggest some sort of deliberation? Who is the “us” that deliberates? Is it God as not “him” but “them,” the duality of male and female? In bringing human-kind into being, God first announces his intention, “Let us make,” and then acts, but his action does not exactly follow his announced intention. “So God created man in his own image, in the image of God created he him; male and female created he them” (1.27). The announcement said “make,” what God did was “create.” What was to be made was “man”; what God “created” was “male and female.” The thing to be made was one, a unity, a singular; what God created was a duality, whose coupling is necessary for generating its own kind. Can this unity be reconciled with this duality? With respect to other living beings, fish and birds, animals and insects, Man, humankind, is given “dominion” (1.26, 28). But if both male and female are in God’s image, it would seem that man/male does not have dominion over woman/female. Rather, the two sexes share “dominion” and are co-prime. Among human beings, among their own kind, men and women are equals. In the Biblical account, as in Diotima’s account of Eros in Plato’s Symposium, man and woman, male and female, lover and beloved, are both needy and moveable. Each of 13 �them lacks, but also needs and desires, the other. “Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife: and they shall be one flesh.” This text, verse 24 of Chapter 2, appears very near the end of the second story, and immediately after Adam has named his new helper “Woman,” observing that her flesh is his own. But Woman’s flesh, which in some way yet to be explained is also Man’s, is no longer part of his body. His body was material for making her body. Is she some sort of image of him, as Man-kind is an image of God? If a man must leave home in order to cleave to his wife, it follows that man and woman are at first separate, at a distance from one another, before, as husband and wife, he can “cleave” to her. “Cleave” means “stick to,” but also “to cut in twain.” This is what a meat cleaver does. This double meaning of “cleave” invites comparison of the Biblical account of the origin of the sexes with the account given by Aristophanes. The least we can say is that Plato thought the question of Eros weighty enough to compose two dialogues about it. Is Genesis another account of how Eros shows itself in our lives? What does Genesis say about how man and woman come together? One element of this attraction we have already noticed: woman’s flesh beckons man because it is in some way his own. There is another element, mentioned in the concluding verse of Chapter 2. “And they were both naked, the man and his wife, and were not ashamed.” The Biblical author is here preparing the reader for what happens in the next chapter. We must begin, then, to parse out what is implicit in this nakedness that is without shame. In Chapter 1, God said several times of his work that it was good. The first mention of any opposite or antithesis to “good” is in Chapter 2, verse 9, “And out of the ground made the Lord God to grow every tree that is pleasant to the sight, and good for food; the tree of life also in the midst of the garden, and the tree of knowledge of good and evil” (see also verse 17). What sort of knowledge this is, and of what, is a question we can examine more fully when we take up Chapter 3. It is immediately after he commands the man not to eat of this tree that God says, “It is not good that the man should be alone” (2.18). What does God mean by “not good”? Man’s solitariness is not said to be “evil,” but simply “not good.” Would solitary man be neither good nor evil, but something in-between? Could he still be a human being, yet unable to become fully what a human being can become if he has a “help meet”? God brings the beasts and birds to Adam, and Adam names them, but none of them are found to be a “help meet” for him. In the King James translation I am quoting throughout these remarks, “help” and “meet” are two separate words, and I take “meet” to mean “fit.” Why are none of the beasts or birds a fit helper for Adam? In Chapter 2, verse 5, the plants and herbs are in the earth, but not yet growing because there has not been any rain, “and there was not a man to till the ground.” 14 �After forming man of the dust of the ground, verse 7, God puts him in the garden “to dress and keep it” (2.15). The work of the first man is to till the soil. He is a farmer, not a hunter, one who must shed blood in order to eat. If man’s solitude, or solitariness, is the reason it is “not good” for him to be without a fit helper, the help he needs isn’t an ox to pull a plow, or a falcon he can train to hunt other birds. Not as a farmer is the man in need, but as a kind of being not made for living alone. Man is a social animal, we might say; Aristotle says “political.” He needs a being like himself, yet somehow also different. The end of Chapter 2 spells out what sort of being this is. In three successive verses, the meaning of “female” is transformed. In verse 22, God made “a woman” and brought her to Adam. In verse 23, Adam names her “Woman, because she was taken out of man.” In verses 24 and 25, Woman becomes “wife.” After they eat the apple, “Adam called his wife’s name Eve; because she was the mother of all living” (3.20). “Female” is shared by all animals that reproduce by copulating. “Woman” specifically relates her to “man.” “Wife” relates her, in marriage, to “husband.” “Eve” specifies her as a woman-become-mother, conjugally joined to a man-become-father, for the sake of generating their own kind. Thus begins to come into view the Biblical author’s reason for the phrase “these are the generations of,” used for the first time at the beginning of the second story. Thereafter we find the generations of Adam, Noah, of each of Noah’s three sons, then again and separately, of Shem, the eldest down to Terah, the father of Abram, who will become Abraham. Later the generations of Isaac and of Esau are given. These lists are in Chapters 5, 6, 10, 25, and 36. In the Joseph chapters, there are several different lists of the sons of Jacob. With this clue, we are able to begin discerning one main thread of the Genesis story. It is generation, the human act of procreation, the activity of multiplying our own kind through the pairing of man and woman in the conjugal union of husband and wife. The pairing of male and female changes us, successively, into man and woman, husband and wife, father and mother. By duplicate ratio, mothers and fathers become grandmothers and grandfathers. This continuity in generations, a geometric progression, establishes the continuity of families, and so also of cities and nations. From Chapter 4 forward, another main thread of the Genesis story is the murderous jealousy and hatred between brothers—Cain and Abel, Esau and Jacob, Joseph and his brethren. Does the sequence of events in Genesis suggest that the disobedience of Adam and Eve is somehow the primal origin of the rivalries among brothers and sisters? If the right ordering of the man-woman relation, as husband and wife, is disturbed, is the right ordering of the next generation also likely to be deranged? Because Adam and Eve could not restrain themselves, we, their descendants, are now liberated—and cursed, with the knowledge of good and evil. If it is possible for men and women to re-discover the innocent nakedness without shame our first Mother 15 �and first Father once had, then we will have to search for it ourselves. The search will not be easy, or safe, since the place we must look into is that boiling cauldron of lust and rage—the family. Both the Hebrew and the Greek poets divined this truth, as we may see from comparing the stories in Genesis with Aeschylus’ Oresteia. Plato suggests, at the beginning of the Laws (626 D-E) that the conflicts in the family begin in the individual soul. Freud proposes, echoing Plato, that the source of unhappiness is a soul at war with itself. Might our dreams be one portal to this dividedness (see Aeneid, VI.1211-18)? 16 �Pap and Me Judith Wrenn Huckleberry Finn eulogises his father Pap warn’t much a man. He’d hurt my mam when I was young. He’d hurt me too, plenty, But what mattered He was my Pap, long and the short. Betwixt a drinking and a whooping showed me to borrow and cuss. Reckon a man ain’t more or less a man, we end up ware we ends. All we are is what we been Pap and me and everyman. Artwork by Bucca 17 �A Conversation with Brandon Wasickso, Associate Director of the Graduate Institute Charles Green, Colloquy Editor Colloquy: What brought you to St. John's? Brandon Wasickso: I don't remember how I first learned about the college. Looking back, did I get a mailer in high school? Did a professor mention it at some point? I really can't remember how I first heard of it, but it was something that I was aware of, and had always been floating around the periphery as an option, something that resonated with me. I was working in the D.C. area for several years in kind of ideological work. It was a very ideas-based sort of work, but at the same time, I felt that it was not the extent of the world of ideas and that there was some constraint in having that sort of bias toward action and a narrow, particular way of thinking about things, and I decided I didn't want to do that anymore. I went to Vietnam and taught for about a year and a half, and that's where I was when I applied to St. John's. Something put it back on my radar again. I had this view of the great books as if they had this kind of like mystical power. I didn't know what any of them said. Of course, I'd heard of Plato, I’d heard of Aristotle, right? I'd probably come across different excerpts here and there, maybe even read a few of the books on our list, but I really had no sense of what they were and just how diverse the kinds of things I would be reading would be. But anyway, I had this calling, this idea that drew me to the idea of the great books without again really knowing what the content of them was. I had the sense that by wrestling with these books I would find answers to some of the big questions about meaning and purpose and the like. So, one day, I applied and said, “You know, if I if I get in, great, the decision’s made, I'll move back and I'll do it. And if not, I'm happy here teaching, eating great food, and riding around on a motorcycle.” CQ: It's interesting that you speak of it as kind of a calling, because that’s the feeling I get when I talk with other Johnnies. BW: I remember remarking to a friend at the time, or maybe I wrote it in an email, that I both want to read the books and to be the kind of person who has read the books. It’s that sense of both the activity and also some kind of transformation that was supposed to come out of that activity, right? CQ: Of course. That sounds like a good way to describe it. Can you talk about your experience as both a student at the Graduate Institute and as an administrator? BW: Do you mean, what it's like doing both at the same time, or reflecting on each of them? Or both? CQ: Can you reflect on both. You were in an unusual circumstance to be both a student and helping to run the Program at the same time. 18 �BW: That's right. The position opened up quickly and unexpectedly. A few months before I had had lunch with Ms. Langston through the “take a tutor to lunch” program. I was curious about her being a tutor, but also an administrator. And she had written a convocation address at some point called “Life in the In-Between”, describing how in the GI program, people have feet firmly planted in two worlds: they're in the program, but they also have their own very full lives, careers, families, etc. The undergrads, in contrast, are just really so immersed in the program. There's no other world besides the College that they can occupy for long. So I had I asked Ms. Langston to lunch because I thought that being an administrator and a tutor was also kind of like having your foot in two very different worlds. And I was curious what that was like. My background was in higher ed and nonprofit administration. And I had an interest in continuing in administration perhaps in another form. So we had this conversation and a few months later, the job opened up. And I'm in the middle of my third semester when it did and said, “Of course I'm going to apply to this. This would be really cool.” And I had some skills I could bring to it. So I applied and finished out that semester and then took some time to just focus on getting into the job, doing it well, and making sure I learned what I needed to learn without having to divide my time too much between that and the classes. I wanted to focus on making sure I gave each the time they needed and deserved in order to do them well. But it was it was a strange transition, and I remember the moment that all the people who knew me first as a student, as their classmate, when they all started graduating. And then there's this whole crop of people coming in who just knew me as the guy in the office, the guy who sends all the emails and tells them “you didn't turn in your enrollment plan”, or “here's your conference schedule.” So that was a strange dynamic. Having to navigate the rules around privacy and confidentiality and things like that while still being very close friends with a number of people in the program, and having the primary thing that people knew about me be that I was the program administrator, rather than the fact that I was a fellow GI. So that was strange. It’s been a blessing in so many ways to be able to remain a part of the college. And of course, you know, a lot of people say, “Well, if I could just stay here, take another semester, another preceptorial, wouldn’t that be great?” I say that as well. But a lot of my education since joining the staff has been out of the classroom, learning as one does through the experience of the mundane day-to-day of working a job. There are things we can do better as an institution, and there are parts of the sausage-making process I’d have been happy not to learn, but at the end of the day this “job” has a lot going for it that others don’t. The college is first and foremost a community of learning dedicated to a particular vision of liberal education, and that influences the culture of the “office.” Employees are not—well, I should say not only—vehicles for productivity and a means to someone else’s end. The humanity of the program extends into the workplace. 19 �CQ: I can definitely relate to wanting to stay at St. John’s and the GI. I’ve felt incredibly lucky to take preceptorials as an alumnus. BW: Yes, there’s a dedicated group of returners that I’m happy to see every semester. CQ: I’m curious if since the pandemic and the transition to online learning, you’ve seen more alumni returning to take courses? BW: Well, in the middle of the spring semester of 2020, of course, we had to go online. And I mean, it was an unbelievable moment. Now we're so inundated with COVID news that it barely makes a dent on the mind. But then we knew nothing. We had no idea what was going on, how long it was going to last; this is even before masking was a thing. Everything was just shutting down and cases were popping up. The College had exactly zero infrastructure for doing anything online, right? There'd never before been an online class in the history of the College and we had about a week to get the GI classes up. They extended the undergrad’s spring break by an extra week to give them more time to set things up. But we had basically a week in the GI and a lot of the heavy lifting was from our great IT folks. To the extent I could, I threw myself into the process and it was a “we'll figure this out” attitude all around. I remember being on the phone with tutors evenings and weekends. I offered to help serve as a guide to walk them through how to set up Zoom and how to use it. We had questions about using headphones, and what is muting? I joke that everyone who graduated that year earned a minor in educational technology, with honorary degrees for the tutors. And we did it. I think there were a lot of fears about it, obviously. Partly because other colleges have had online options for a long time and we hadn't, and it was an intentional decision not to have it. So there were a lot of fears going into it. And I think the immediate reaction by just about everybody was, “Oh, OK. It's not sitting around a table being co-present with others, but it's not this terrible thing that we thought it was going to be. It actually kind of works. It's actually pretty good.” Your question was about alumni and folks coming back. I think a lot of people realized that this was an opportunity. We had people who had moved away because they got a job or got married or had to leave in the middle of the program. But now, they can do it from wherever they are in the world, they could finish that last semester in order to graduate, or they could take a precept. I mean, they're not going to move to Annapolis or Santa Fe for a semester to take a single class. So there were a lot of people who really came out of the woodwork and were excited about the opportunity that it presented. And it's funny the way that a crisis like that can reveal opportunities. But I think it's often the case that that they do. And there are people who attended, who otherwise would have never attended, people who graduated, who otherwise would never graduate. And I think that's a really positive outcome. CQ: I can say, from my own experience as alumni taking a preceptorial during that time that transition, it was remarkably easy. Of course, the folks taking three classes 20 �probably had a little more of a transition, but at least for me, given the situation, it seemed remarkably smooth. BW: You were taking a class that spring, right? CQ: Yeah, I was doing Ms. Kraus’s precept on T.S. Eliot. BW: Four Quartets, right? It's funny, I was doing my last segment that that spring. So, I'd just done eight weeks of in-person classes before spring break. And then both getting the classes up and running and then having to go through that experience myself of adjusting to the online mode of doing things as a student as well, which was completely different from the administrative side of things. I never really had a chance to reflect on what I was doing during that first week. It was just, you got to get this up and running. We’ve got to do it. So it was a week of very intensive work. And then I finally went to the classes thinking, OK, now I have to actually think about this and how it changes the experience for me and what's going to be different about it? It was helpful seeing both sides of that. CQ: Yeah, that's a really interesting perspective. And I'd forgotten that you were, you know, that you were finishing up then. Yeah. You got to see both the doing of it and seeing how it works from the student end. I know for myself, it was nice having that time on Thursday evenings away from current events and the uncertainty of the times. It gave me something else to concentrate on, you know. And at the same time, though Four Quartets felt eerily appropriate. It has the line, “This is the way the world ends, not with a bang, but a whimper.” BW: So that’s where that’s from? CQ: Yes. It was a comfort to discuss the poem with a group of like-minded people when everything else was unpredictable, even though at times it seemed to be about the current time. BW: Well, we always say, the texts are timeless and timely, right? CQ: Exactly, it was strange and good at the same time. I'm also wondering what’s been your experience with helping to develop the fully online, low resiliency track at the GI? BW: Like I was saying before, the crisis sort of thrust the online aspect on us out of necessity, but then I think it became an opportunity for us. I really don't think we would have an online low-residency program today without it. We might have had one in three or four years. There were other pressures and discussions about doing that. But we wouldn't have it today had it not been for the pandemic. And like I said, just the people that we were able to engage with, who were able to have this experience with the college, making lasting friendships across great distances and divides. It's been great to see those kinds of results come out of it. And I guess it's also been kind of doubly strange in a way, in that I'm also remote most of the time. I'm in Annapolis every other week, but most of the time I'm home 21 �here in Virginia and I'm working with people who are in Annapolis, as well as doing a lot more work with our Santa Fe campus because we now share the preceptorial in the online segment. So, Annapolis-based online students are meeting the Santa Febased online ones. Students are taking classes with Santa Fe tutors and vice versa. So there's a lot more college-wide community building that I think transcends some of the one campus loyalty kinds of things. So that's very nice. But yeah, being remote and serving remote students, I experience some of the same challenges that they do have, and ask some of the same questions, and also see a lot of the same benefits in working remotely that they see. They’re continuing to do their full lives without having to uproot things to do the program. Artwork by Bucca CQ: I think, the growing interaction between the two campuses, feels like a great opportunity. I realize I don't really know any of the Santa Fe tutors or administrators. BW: Right. CQ: I know Mr. Sterling from when he gave a lecture in Annapolis a few summers ago. And I appreciated getting to know him better when Santa Fe did lectures online last spring and summer. BW: Yeah, you're right. We ended up canceling several of our lectures and Santa Fe pushed ahead and really quickly transitioned to have a lot of their lectures online. And 22 �I sat in on a couple of those online reading groups they developed, like the all- college seminar. CQ: Right, and I think even this past summer Santa Fe had much of their lecture series online. So that was nice to be able to watch that from Annapolis. Do you see, you know, any challenges ahead for the College in general or the GI in particular? BW: Well, by the time this comes out, we'll have welcomed a new President. Not to say that’s a challenge, but a new President means new leadership. A new direction, new tenor to things. There are a lot of open questions right now at the College in general and the GI in particular. As much as I just talked about the benefits of having this online program, there are a lot of a lot of questions we still have to work out. And I think especially thinking about how the mix of online and in-person affects the culture of the GI as a whole, I think is still very much a live question. I’ve been listening to this podcast that we just produced with David MacDonald, a tutor in Santa Fe, interviewing Zina Hintz here in Annapolis where they talk about technology. They discuss the phenomenon of the existence or accessibility of some new technology making the morality or validity of doing a thing somehow more acceptable. The example they discuss involves reproductive technology, but in our case it’s, “well this technology has been thrust upon us out of necessity, so now using it for other things doesn’t seem so far-fetched.” The idea of an online GI program even just a year and a half ago was outside the Overton window. All this is to say, I wonder is there a risk to the life of the campus community of the GI because of the accessibility of the online programs? Are there people who would have and could have attended in-person, but choose online instead? Even if it’s, say, only a 45-minute commute to campus, they think, going online, I could spend more time with my family, or save on time and money, or keep normal hours at work, etc. They weigh the tradeoffs and say, as much as I would like to do the in-person, I’m going to be online, even though I reasonably could be in person and would have been if the online option didn’t. I wonder to what extent that that will happen. The other side of that question is how many students would never have been able to come to the GI if not for this new option? How should the administration be thinking about the answers to these questions? We really have to wait until the COVID-based restrictions are done to see what people are actually going to do in a normal set of circumstances, though. I’ll say also that there are a lot of nonacademic—by which I don’t mean not intellectual, but simply not connected to a college—organic, nonprofit learning communities popping up all over the place that I think are attractive to some people. People who are looking for an intellectual life, looking for stimulating conversation, looking to seek truth. They want to be in the world of ideas. These learning communities are less expensive, they’re more flexible. They’ll create classes and groups that run the amount of time that’s appropriate for the content; they don’t have this weird constraint of, “learning must take place in 16 weeks in the academic calendar,” right? As though somehow that’s the optimal learning arrangement, which 23 �is a little constraining on our part. And it's also, I think, really appealing to people who don't want or need a degree. That's not their primary motivation. And I think that's true for a lot of Johnnies, too. For a lot of GIs who come through, the degree is nice, but that's not why they did it. If they didn’t get it, they'd be equally happy, right? So I wonder what competition from these other groups is going to look like. They're not direct competitors in the sense of being other graduate programs in the liberal arts, but I think they are compelling opportunities that have some good things going for them. And so I'm curious to see how that plays out and how we might respond to those potential challenges. CQ: Definitely. You talked a little bit earlier about, the opportunity that going online has given the GI. Are there other opportunities that you see? BW: I definitely see opportunities in the sense that the GI program in particular, I think, can be a benefit to a lot of people who are thinking about and reacting to everything that’s happening in the world. You know, like I said before, coming out of a crisis often helps clarify priorities. People are talking about the relationship of economic life to the rest of life, they’re concerned about the nature of our so-called politics, they’re grappling with death and loss. St. John’s, of course, can be one helpful way of giving shape to and thinking through these questions. And I think people who have said to themselves, “Oh, I want to do St John's eventually, it would be great to do that eventually.” Well, they might see that “eventually” is now and that they now have the opportunity to do it. I'm glad that we have more ways than ever now for people to engage with us and to join our community. One of those other things, not directly related to the GI, is a new College podcast, which I edit and produce. We released our first two episodes in October. So by the time this is published, there will be three or four episodes of this podcast. It’s called “Books and a Balance: A Podcast on Liberal Education.” It’s hosted by two faculty members: Brendan Boyle here in Annapolis and David McDonald out in Santa Fe, who was previously the associate dean for graduate programs out there. So, it's the two of them having conversations with people who have interesting things to say on the topic of liberal education. Our first two episodes that are out now are with tutors Zena Hitz and Dan Harrell. One with Columbia professor Roosevelt Montás on his new book Rescuing Socrates is up next. It's an independent intellectual project, engaging with the contemporary discourse around liberal education, very broadly construed. Some of the guests that we have coming up are outside of the College, who have ideas very different from ours about what a successful liberal education would look, so I think it will be interesting to a lot of people. It’s an opportunity that I'm really excited for in a couple ways. One is, we are going to have some folks from the Graduate Institute, graduates and other people who've gone on to do other things, who will be guests on the show. And I think it's also a good opportunity for even more people to see the kind of conversations that happen at St. John's. Because if you listen to them, they're just archetypes of good conversation. And so I'm excited that that's going to be able to reach an even wider 24 �audience. You know, it's not meant to be a marketing tool, in the sort of cheap transactional way that we often think of advertising or marketing. It's a substantial intellectual project that I think is a totally new outlet for us. And I think there are potential Johnnies out there who, in listening to this podcast, may well have their first interaction with the College. I expect very soon a number of new folks coming to the GI from this project. CQ: Is there a book or an author not on the program that you’d include if you could? BW: Everyone loves asking this! You know, everyone's got their pet thing of note, so-and-so needs to be on the on the program. The short answer is, no, I don't have a book. And the reason is not because there are so many different books that could be included or excluded, but because I think it's a really hard question to actually answer in any serious way; it demands such a massive context to really answer that question. To do so, you would, I think, need a sense of the program as a whole from the perspective of a teacher. You’d have to say, “I have a sense of the effect of different readings and the combination of readings on the individual lives of students.” And with that context, then saying, “I think taking this one book out and substituting another would be beneficial.” And I don't have that context, right? I don't have the depth and experience to think about it that way, but I think that’s how you have to consider it, if you're going to answer that question in a serious way. A lot of times that question really means is that there’s a particular book that you really like and you really want to see it on the program. And that's one thing. But the real difficulty of weighing it is knowing the pedagogical or academic context. And then also asking the very difficult question of, well, if you're going to add that what are you going to take away to make space for it? That's the harder question. CQ: That’s the question I’ve always heard when people propose adding a book: what are you going to take away? BW: Really what I think this comes down to a lot of times, and it’s true for me in the times I’ve said, “why isn’t X on the list?”, is that I’m thinking here's this book that is very good or maybe even a great book that I want to read with other people who take reading and discussing books seriously. You want it in the program so you can have that discussion with other people right now. I invite anyone who has that feeling about a book to come back and host a study group anytime! But of course the program can’t contain and isn’t meant to contain everything; it’s the beginning, hopefully, of a deeper, richer, more meaningful life. 25 �“Equality” and the Tyranny of the Majority Drew Maglio I am a democrat because I believe in the Fall of Man. I think most people are democrats for the opposite reason. A great deal of democratic enthusiasm descends from the ideas of people like Rousseau, who believed in democracy because they thought mankind so wise and good that everyone deserved a share in the government. The danger of defending democracy on those grounds is that they’re not true. And whenever their weakness is exposed, the people who prefer tyranny make capital out of the exposure… The real reason for democracy is just the reverse. Mankind is so fallen that no man can be trusted with unchecked power over his fellows. —C.S. Lewis What Is Human Nature?: The Anglo-American Perspective There are two dichotomous views articulated by proponents of democratic government which the aforementioned passage from C.S Lewis’s essay, “Why I Am a Democrat,” succinctly conveys. These two distinct camps have been broken down into many classifications by various authors as early vs. late-Enlightenment or AngloAmerican vs. French/Continental. The former classification, advocates for democratic government as a makeshift, necessary evil, or least bad option. It holds and articulates that man is so fallen that no one man--or group of men (i.e. majority)—should possess such absolute power so as to legislate how others are to live their lives. The conservative camp, firmly grounded in the way things actually are, seeks to decentralize power (and production) via many checks and balances because absolute power corrupts absolutely, as Lord Acton presciently warned. Recognizing men “are not angels,” institutions and government must be varied and decentralized, in a manner where one entity is positioned against another with an opposing institutional interest, in order prevent any one entity from assuming too much power. J.R.R. Tolkien perfectly encapsulated the “constrained” view (to borrow contemporary economist, Thomas Sowell’s terminology) of government that is based on a negative view of human nature that hearkens back to Plato and Aristotle, when he wrote in a letter to a friend: “the most improper job of any man, even saints (who at any rate were at least unwilling to take it on), is bossing other men. Not one in a million is fit for it, and least of all those who seek the opportunity.” The French View In stark contrast to the early-Enlightenment, Anglo-American view of human nature which is firmly grounded in Christianity and owes a great debt to the Medieval Scholastics like St. Thomas Aquinas, is the Continental vision of democratic government that manifested itself most notably during the French Revolution. Without going too far afield, the defining characteristic of this strand of liberalism (spearheaded by Rousseau), is the rejection of the idea that man is fallen by nature that had long been held in the West. 26 �Rousseau famously declared that “man though born free, is everywhere in chains”—he may as well have said “man is born good and is everywhere corrupted.” In his Discourse on the Origin of Inequality, Rousseau wrote with impunity, Allowing that nature intended we should always enjoy good health, I dare almost affirm that a state of reflection is a state against nature, and that the man who meditates is a depraved animal. We need only call to mind the good constitution of savages, of those at least of whom we have not destroyed by our strong liquors; we need only reflect, that they are strangers to almost every disease . . . to be in a manner convinced that the history of human diseases might be easily composed by pursuing that of civil societies. [1] For Rousseau, it is in society that the “noble savage”—Rousseau’s archetypal man, becomes irredeemably corrupted as his vices are allowed to fester while his virtue grows weary and lethargic: "In proportion as he (man) becomes sociable and a slave to others, he becomes weak, fearful, mean-spirited, and his soft and effeminate way of living at once completes the enervation of his strength and his courage." [2] In this way, Rousseau may be seen as the antithesis of Hobbes who held that life in the state of nature—which for Hobbes was analogous to a constant state of war—is “nasty, brutish, and short.” Locke contrarily, occupied a sort of mean between the “totally-depraved” Calvinistic view of human nature that Hobbes held and the naturally benevolent view of human nature that Rousseau championed. The Genius of Tocqueville Hailing from France, Alexis de Tocqueville was simultaneously one of most ardent proponents and chiding critics of American liberalism as it was practiced during the 19th century. In his analysis, Tocqueville notes that Antebellum America was the most fundamentally egalitarian society that he had ever witnessed, in which both squalid poverty as well as extravagant wealth were rarities. Tocqueville noted that there seemed to be no great abundance of either uneducated or illiterate individuals, but on the other hand, there were few highly intelligent and exceptional individuals. As Tocqueville conveyed, the overarching motif of Antebellum America was a pragmatic and practical—if not restless and busy—virtue. Unlike the founding era that was made possible by the interventions of the learned, noble, aristocratic (in the proper sense of the term, i.e. in merit not merely land holdings), the burgeoning America that Tocqueville visited was fast at work becoming a blue-collar and middle-class republic, in which leisure and philosophical contemplation took a back seat to industry and action. Tocqueville feared however—in an increasingly egalitarian and average society—that a new tyranny was looming on the horizon: namely the tyranny of the majority, which was manifested not through despotism and 27 �autocracy, but rather by way of the public pressure of opinion and homogeneity: “In our day, the most absolute sovereigns in Europe cannot prevent certain thoughts hostile to their authority from circulating . . . The same is not true of America, as long as the majority has not made up its mind, speech is allowed; as soon as it has pronounced its irrevocable decision, speech is silenced.”[3] In this way, a new tyranny of mind exercised by the majority over minorities began to manifest itself in Tocqueville’s age. Tocqueville argued that this new “groupthink” (as moderns tend to call it),“leaves the body alone and goes straight to the spirit.”[4] When surveying the contemporary political order (or disorder), Tocqueville’s pertinent observations have unfortunately and undoubtedly intensified in magnitude and frequency. Democracy Changes Neither Human Nature Nor the Nature of Political Power Despite being a Frenchman, Tocqueville breaks from Rousseau and instead embraced Locke’s view of human nature, which holds that man has both the propensity for virtue and vice: which he shall become is the result of deliberation and habit. Locke held that the state of nature is not a state of license wherein each is entitled to everything as Hobbes held, but rather that natural law does not cease to reign supreme in the hearts and minds of men. Because of the gross difficulty in each individual protecting his property by enforcing the natural law himself, individuals (who naturally gravitate towards civil society anyway) contract together for the sake of the enforcement of contracts, in addition to establishing an impartial body by which to adjudicate disputes related to trespasses made by one party against another.[5] All of this must be said, in order to convey that for Locke (and Tocqueville), civil society neither drastically reforms (as in Hobbes) nor corrupts (as in Rousseau) the human being: instead, it may do either according to the arrangement of its structures and institutions which either accord with, or conflict with, the natural law. In other words, man is still man no matter the political arrangement, generally speaking. In this way, Tocqueville rejects both the notion that man is either benevolent by nature (and thus it follows that society corrupts him) or that man is so totally depraved that a Leviathan is preferable to a constant state of war that follows from unimpinged liberty: Omnipotence seems self-evidently a bad and dangerous thing. Its exercise appears to be beyond man’s powers, whoever he might be, and I see that only God can be omnipotent without danger because his wisdom and justice are always equal to his power. There is, therefore, no earthly authority so worthy of respect or vested with so sacred a right that I would wish to allow it unlimited action . . . When . . . I see the right and capacity to enact everything given to any authority . . . I say: the seed of tyranny lies there and I seek to live under different laws.[6] 28 �Tocqueville put it even more chidingly later in his work, “I believe that in all governments of whatever sort meanness will attach itself to force and flattery to power. I know of only one method to of preventing men from being debased and that is to grant to no one who has omnipotence (i.e. the majority as in the US) the sovereign power to demean them.”[7] The Lust For Equality: Mill, Marx, and other “Revolutionaries” The underlying source of the new tyranny Tocqueville conveyed is born of the democratic impulse and is the special scourge of democracy, i.e. a disdain of any amount of inequality. Tocqueville believed this state would create a condition of lethargy in relation to liberty, as equality became the most cherished ideal of democratic society (rather than liberty). As Rousseau—and later Mill, Hegel, and Marx became the dominant political ideologues for Continental Europe, equality supplanted liberty as the most vital and cherished ideal for civilization. Mill, for instance, went as far to argue that “the most happiness for the greatest number of people” should be the end of government. In this utilitarian view, the safeguarding of individual rights takes a backseat to “equality” and “progress.” Marx famously declared that “all history is class conflict,” and therefore goaded the proletariat class of workers to revolution in order to achieve greater equality. Marx adopted from Hegel a belief in historicity, or the notion that social values, standards, and mores are historically contingent and therefore not absolute and objective but, instead, malleable in order to suit the needs of any given epoch: The human essence is no abstraction inherent in each single individual. In its reality it is the ensemble of the social relations . . . To abstract from the historical process and to fix the religious sentiment as something by itself and to presuppose an abstract—isolated— human individual . . . the “religious sentiment” is itself a social product . . . All social life is essentially practical . . . The highest point reached by contemplative materialism, that is materialism which does not comprehend seriousness as practical activity, is the contemplation of single individuals and civil society. The standpoint of the old materialism is civil society; the standpoint of the new is human society, or social humanity. The philosophers have only interpreted the world . . . the point is to change it.[8] The Desire For Equality Will Undermine Liberty Tocqueville both anticipated and feared the way in which in those who wished to undermine American democracy could appeal to man’s insatiable lust for equality in all outcomes, despite the fact that each individual possesses different aptitudes and abilities which allow or inhibit them from making the best of their circumstances: 29 �The passion for equality sinks deeply into every corner of the human heart, expands, and fills it entirely. It is no use telling such men, as they blindly obey such an exclusive passion, that they are damaging their dearest interests; they are deaf. Do not bother to show them that their freedom is slipping through their fingers while their gaze is elsewhere; they are blind, or rather they can only see one advantage worth pursuing in the whole world . . . I think that democratic societies have a natural taste for freedom . . . but they have a burning, insatiable, constant, and invincible passion for equality; they want equality in freedom and, if they cannot have it, they want it in slavery. They will endure poverty, subjection, barbarism but they will not endure aristocracy.[9] Tocqueville saw a great danger on the horizon for American democracy, whereby a general distaste of learning and extreme wealth could and would create conditions of mediocrity in mind and spirit, i.e. an aggregation of individuals becoming a homogeneity and thereby silencing dissent through social pressure once the majority “had made its mind up.” Once equality (and security for that matter) supplants liberty as the foundation of democracy, it becomes obtrusive and destructive to both minorities and the individual who have but little recourse or redress: My main complaint against a democratic government as organized in the United States is not its weakness . . . but rather its irresistible strength . . . When a man or party suffers from an injustice in the United States, to whom can he turn? To public opinion? That is what forms the majority. To the legislative body? That represents the majority and obeys it blindly. To the executive power? That is appointed by the majority and serves as its passive instrument. To the public police force? They are nothing but the majority under arms. To the jury? That is the majority invested with the right to pronounce judgments . . . however unfair or unreasonable the measure which damages you, you must submit.[10] Tocqueville feared a sovereign majority—with a blithe regard for liberty and an insatiable appetite for equality in all matter of small things—could create conditions which would destroy the human essence, that revolutionaries such as Marx denied altogether, while simultaneously appealing to the yearning for equality: It (the tyranny of the majority manifested as a guardian rather than as a ruler) gradually blots out their mind and enfeebles their spirit . . . It will be useless to call upon those very citizens who have become so dependent upon central government, to choose from time to time the representative of this government; this . . . brief exercise . . . of their free choice will not prevent the gradual loss of the faculty of autonomous thought, feeling, and action so that they will slowly fall behind the level of humanity.[11] Tocqueville’s Democracy in America serves as a reminder that democracy is just as, if not more, prone to abuse than other systems of civil government. In order to flourish, democracy must be firmly grounded in principle in order to construct institutions that align with the objective and absolute reality of this world. In order to remain stable, power must be decentralized and therefore liberty and equality under 30 �the law must be valued over abstract and ambiguous ideals such as “equality” or “progress,” which are but generalities that amount to little more than mere slogans. As Tocqueville conveyed throughout his seminal work, liberty entails duty and obligation and requires a great deal of proper habituation, which cultivates the wisdom and virtue necessary for self-governance—even of the practical sort. All of these prerequisites must be met so that democracy does not devolve into tyrannical mob rule. In our age it seems that few of us have heeded Tocqueville’s admonition about the dangerous democratic impulse that is devoid of reality in so far as it fails to recognize the fallen nature of man and in particular the propensity for those in power to abuse it, which is most often made manifest in democratic society by the ceaseless, fruitless, and senseless pursuit of absolute equality which anesthetizes the exceptional individual in order to bolster the tyrannical majority. [1] Jean-Jacques Rousseau and Greg Boroson, Discourse On the Origin of Inequality (Mineola, NY: Dover Publications, 2004), 7. [2] Ibid, 8. [3] Alexis De' Tocqueville, Democracy In America, trans. Gerald E. Bevan (London, England: Penguin Books, 2003), 297. [4] Ibid, 298. [5] Property for Locke was—among other things—both metaphysical as in labor and the activity of the mind, in addition to physical as in the case of cultivated land. For Locke, the preservation and protection of private property was the impetus for the establishment of civil government. [6] Tocqueville, 294. [7] Ibid, 302-303. [8] Karl Marx, Friedrich Engels, and C. J. Arthur, The German Ideology (London: Lawrence and Wishart, 1974), 122-123. [9] Tocqueville, 586-587. [10] Ibid, 294-295. [11] Ibid, 808. 31 �The White Man Burdened Dimple Kaul While researching British Education Policy and its impact on indigenous knowledge systems, I was reminded of Rudyard Kipling’s exhortation of The White Man’s Burden! This poem is a response from a proud member of the community of indigenous people across the world. It is a reminiscence of pain and an attempt towards collective awareness, acknowledgement, and healing for harmony. It is also a sensitive caution against subconscious/unconscious supremacy that still appears to linger; it is not directed against any race or people. As a Hindu, harmony and mutual respect are intrinsic to my being. Sarve Bhavantu Sukhinah! The White Man burdened — Set forth the worst of his breed — blinded sons who were exiled To serve his crown’s greed; Plundering, causing heavy distress On folks he labeled wild — ill-treated the natives as sullen, calling them Half devil and half child. The White Man burdened — Treating himself to a free ride, Unleashed vile, violent terror And reveled in that pride; Not through stealth but loot simple, An hundred times made plain. He sought to make profit, From our labour and pain. The White Man burdened — Forcing us to fight his wars of peace — Causing full mouths of Famine And never let sickness cease; And when his goal was met His promises came to naught, He called us uncivilized, heathen Treated worse than cattle bought. The White Man burdened — Usurping the rule of kings, Through deceit and acting as keeper — Vaingloriously he sings. The ports he forced and enter, The roads he lustily tread, And made his entire living, Off our sweat- alive and dead! The White Man burdened — And reaped untold rewards: 32 �The lies and fallacies he’d better, Spreading hate for those he charred — The cry of hosts, the fake perfumer Would hide in plain sight — He sold our people into bondage, While calling himself just and right The White Man burdened — He kept stooping to conquer And called it an act of civilization To cloak his wickedness; Impoverishing us, he did prosper, By hook or crook, Through acts quiet and vocal Denigrated our Gods, reduced us. The White Man burdened — Having benefited in myriad ways — The self- proffered laurel, The lavish self-praise. Comes now, to teach us humanity After all the thankless years, Cold-hearted ravager of human civilization, Sits in judgment of us, he dares! Artwork by Jesse Clagett 33 �Holy Sonnet XIV Vita Kudryavtseva Upon reading this poem, I was immediately struck by the wave of angst and tsunami of violent rage felt in the wake of it. What kind of “holy” sonnet is that? Where is the Poet’s reverence for Higher Being? Where is humility and trust in God’s wisdom? Donne opens up with “Batter my heart” - a command or directive, but hardly an appeal. He marches on complaining that God’s gentle ways, “knock, breathe, shine” are not effective in helping him, Donne, to “rise and stand” and God’s viceroy “proves weak and untrue”. Donne’s request to God to “bend Your force” can be taken as outright blasphemous - merciful Christian God is no help, he calls upon Zeus the Destroyer, who can “break, blow, burn”. And after giving the account of God’s multiple shortcomings, Donne sighs - “Yet dearly I love you”. Why is Donne angry and who is he angry with, are the questions that I seek to answer in this essay. A couple of immediate observations spring on me - the prevalence of “me”s in the poem, 8 mentions total, and distinctness of “I” from “me”, as in “imprison me, for I...never shall be free”. In fact, the famous paradoxes of the last 3 lines - freedom through imprisonment, chastity through rape - are paradoxes only if “I” and “me” are conceived of as referring to the same entity. What if, by way of hypothesis, we look at them as related but separate? “I” and “me”, being personal pronouns, lead me to take a note of “you”, another personal pronoun frequently evoked in the poem. While the identity of “I” and “me” is not yet clear, Donne makes it explicit that “you” refers to “three-person’d God” in the very first line of the poem. Now that I identified three main characters at play in the sonnet - “I”, “me”, and “you” - the next step is to examine them individually and in relation to each other. “me” in line 12 both rhymes with and is consonant with “enemy” in line 10. The Poet would like “me” to be o’erthrowen, made new, imprisoned, ravished. “me” is the troublemaker, the antagonist in the story. Throughout the sonnet, Donne insists on “me”s distraction or subjugation. Interestingly, the only exception to this narrative happens in line 7: “Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend, But is captiv’d”. This is also the line in which “me” is stressed twice in a row. Who is it that Reason has failed to defend “me” from? One potential reading of this line is to go along with Donne’s poetic logic and to add a couple more “me”s - “Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend [from me], but is captiv’d [by me]”. These additions are consistent with the antagonistic treatment of “me” elsewhere in the sonnet and illuminate the fact that “me” is not inherently “bad”, rather left to its own devices “me” can become unruly and dangerous. If the current “me” could be returned to its original condition, “made new”, “me” will no longer be an “enemy”. On the other hand, Donne’s description of “you” makes me think of a powerful but gentle giant, who is slow to act because he is kind and aware of his might. The Poet’s choice not to capitalize “you”, “three-person’d God”, visually puts “you” on the same 34 �level as “me”, makes it more “human-scale”. “you” is lovable, “you” is unintrusive, “you” shines. “I” loves “you”. “you”s victory over “me” is also “I”s only hope for being free, chaste, and loved. “I” pleads with “you” - “Divorce me, untie or break that knot again, take me to you”. It can appear ambiguous whether “I” is referring to divorcing “me” from “you” or “me” from “I”. But the presupposed union between “me” and “you” does not make sense in light of the subsequent request to “take me to you” and multiple appeals for “you”s distraction earlier. Rather, it is the bond between “me” and “I” that “I” is asking to be severed - “Divorce me [from I]”! And we are told “you” have done it before and can “break that knot again”. This tells us that “you” has both the authority, experience, and expertise to straighten “I”s affairs. But who is that “I” that is making the appeals? The first thing we learn about “I” is that “I” is down, not doing well and the cause of “I”s condition is “me”. Donne’s metaphor for “I” as an “usurp’d town” is echoed throughout the poem. “I” is “betroth’d unto your [“you’s”] enemy”, making “I” a potential traitor. “I” wants “me” imprisoned, enthralled. “I” is suffering because “I” loves “you” but feels unsure of “you”s love - he may be, “would be lov’d”. “I” comes across as weak, powerless, vindictive, and angry. If the reader can suppress combat connotations evoked by the imagery of “usurp’d town”, the relationship between “me”, “you”, and “I” takes the character of a tragic romance story told from “I”s perspective. “I” loves “you” but is “betroth’d” to “me”. “you” is ambivalent or perhaps more reserved in his feelings for “you” and “me”. “me”, in the eyes of “I”, has taken “I” unjustly, by force, but without “you’s” intervention “me” is certain to prevail. While I found it helpful to designate “I”, “me”, and “you” as a kind of “stick figures” for the purposes of elucidating some of the “plot” lines in the sonnet, it is now time to attempt an interpretation of their meaning. Donne’s use of “three-person’d God” as an antecedent for “you”, as well as appeals to “you’s” powers throughout the poem, make it easy to see “you” as divine nature. In contrast, “me” can be thought of as a human nature - fallible, driven to horrid extremes when not governed by Reason. But even Reason by itself cannot be relied upon to control these animalistic impulses and urges. The question of who “I” is both the most obvious and the most difficult. On one hand, “I” is the narrator, the Poet, John Donne. But with this understanding, “I”s relationship to “you” and “me”, “divine” and “human”, remains obscure. 35 �Artwork by Jesse Clagett Donne may have planted a hint to answering this question in the opening line “three-person’d” is clearly a deliberate choice of descriptor for the Supreme Being that harks back to the Holy Trinity. Drawing attention to God’s multiplicity and oneness in the very beginning of the poem, Donne sets the stage for the multiplicity and oneness of “I”, “me” and “you”. The intentional parallelism between the God’s structure of Being and the Poet’s, “I”s, structure is further strengthened if we recall Genesis 1:27: "So God created man in His own image; in the image of God He created him". God’s creation resembles God by design. However, in the context of the sonnet this correspondence can only be taken so far - it is hard to envision that “I”, “me”, and “you” are meant to directly correspond to the “Father”, the “Son”, and the “Holy Spirit”. At a very minimum, the sonnet does not seem to supply enough evidence for such a direct mapping to be established unambiguously. Thus, while the multiplicity may be present in Donne’s concepts for both “I” and God, the relationship between “I” and “me” and “you” requires further clarification. Because of the prominence of “usurp’d town” metaphor taking over the entire second quatrain, I was drawn to conceive of “I” as a fortress, a container, a shell which under ideal circumstances can contain both “me” and “you”, “human” and “divine”. In the Poet’s case, “me” has overgrown, overflown, subdued Reason, and filled up "I"s entire interior. Like a cancerous growth, “me” needs to be lacerated to make space for “divine” to be admitted back into Donne’s being. 36 �An alternative interpretation of “I” occurred to me when I recognized “I” as a common symbol for a mathematical function, called “Indicator function”. This function can only have values of 1 or 0, “true” or “false”. It is 1 if a variable is a part of a given set, and 0 if it is not. If I substitute “you” for “x” and “me” for A in the above formulation, then an indicator function equals one if “you” belongs with “me” and zero otherwise. This conception of “I” better aligns with the extremeness and volatility of feelings expressed in the sonnet. “I” only has value when there is “divine” present in it, otherwise it is a mere “me”, a worthless animal. This would explain why the Poet cannot be loved, as in “valued”, in his current condition and “would be lov’d fain” only when “you”, “divine” returns to “me”. Donne is facing a stark, binary choice admit “you” to “me” and “raise and stand” as One or continue on as “me”, a Zero. Did any of these elucidations get me closer to understanding why Donne is angry and who he is angry with? I think so. Both a “container” and an “indicator function” concepts of “I” share an important feature - the potentiality for having Divine as a part of “I”, an internal part. The Poet is making demands of and airing frustrations not to an external deity but to the Divine within. The angst, the rage, the brutality Donne summons are both self-directed and self-inflicted. The remedy he seeks for his condition is not a violent rape but a self-flagellation. 37 �About a Letter Louis Petrich Dyed colors eye my star-took tan goodbye, and harking freckles, islets hitching waist, my home’s horizon, wane in vesting night. I hail them back, hot stabs: so bleeds away a summering care for hale and hearty having. One letter needs to convalesce, my ache. Then alphabetic whole, outfielding fate that kicked me forth her goal, like lightening grounded, shall sate farmed fires ‘tween legs that compass sky and sweat such poses, friction-bent, of limbs, that unquiet hips may cool on capering tongues that summon sounded midriff world of ends. And were those aches but featly trials of me to loose from earth and seas their titled stores lone Adam’s lips, spontaneous, once sprung? Go live bedrocked in paradise of questions; tell good and evil: hang yourselves. You’ll see. That always ache—it’s butting never never. With waves unbound around the earth forever, no breaking reef, sunk shores so answered, be. 38 �Artwork by Bucca 39 �Prize-winning Tutorial Essay: Meno Andrew Laurence Graney “Can you tell me, Socrates, whether virtue is something teachable?” Meno asks at the outset of Plato’s Meno. He continues, “Or is it not teachable, but something that comes from practice? Or is it something neither from practice nor learning, but something that comes to human beings by nature, or some other way” (70A)? Quickly, however, Socrates turns the dialogue away from Meno’s original question, whether or not virtue is something teachable, and towards the very definition of what virtue is. Socrates claims he does not know what virtue is, and can therefore not say, on any solid ground, whether or not virtue is teachable. He states: I share the poverty of my fellow citizens in this matter and blame myself for not knowing about virtue at all. And how could I know what sort of thing something is, if I do no not know what it is? Or does it seem possible to you that someone who has no cognizance of Meno at all, who he is, could know whether he is handsome or rich or well-born, or the opposite of these? Does it seem possible to you? (71B) Therefore, as soon as the conversation has begun, it has taken a turn. It is no longer, for the time being, about whether or not virtue is teachable, but what the thing itself is. Still, Socrates’s answer, saying that he does not know what virtue is and so cannot say whether or not it is teachable, implies that he does at least think that some things are teachable, that there is such a thing as the teachable thing, and he simply does not yet know whether virtue is one of those teachable things. Throughout the dialogue, neither of the interlocutors explicitly claim that nothing at all is teachable. In 87C, for example, Socrates and Meno seem to agree that knowledge, at least, if nothing else, is teachable. In this paper, I want to question whether or not anything it is at all, truly teachable. I am inclined to say yes. But, as Meno learns in his conversation with Socrates, what I am inclined towards is not necessarily the truth, for at the beginning of their dialogue, Meno is sure he knows what virtue is, and yet as the dialogue continues he becomes more and more perplexed. Therefore, I ask again, is anything teachable? Another way to ask this question might be: what is the relationship between teaching and learning? Surely, people do learn things. I could not be writing this paper had I not learned a multitude of things beforehand. I had to learn my letters, had to learn how to write, how to form cohesive thoughts, among other skills. How did I learn these skills? One might say that the obvious answer is that I had teachers in these subjects. In elementary school, teachers taught me how to read and write. As I got older, other teachers taught me how to write papers, ask questions, form my thoughts on the page in a manner that might be compelling to others. This does seem to be the case. I had those teachers. I learned those skills. But, a problem arises. When I was a child I had a violin teacher, and yet I never became a skilled violinist. My teacher had other students that did become quite skilled. From this example I can only conclude that the fact of having a teacher does not guarantee one’s learning. Therefore, I return to my question. How does one learn? Is anything teachable? 40 �In their search for what virtue is Meno asks a question that seems to imply that no one can actually learn anything. Again, from everyday experience, it seems obvious that people do learn. Still, Meno’s question is difficult a difficult one to answer. On how Socrates will find what virtue is, Meno asks: And in what way will you seek, Socrates, for that which you know nothing at all about what it is? What sort of thing among those things which you do not know are you proposing to seek for yourself? Or, even if, at best, you should happen upon it, how will you know it is that which you did not know? (80D) Socrates responds: I understand the sort of thing you want to say, Meno. Do you not see how inclined to strife this argument you are drawing out is, that it is not possible for a human being to seek either what he knows or what he does not know? For he could not seek for what he knows, because he knows it and then there’s no need of any seeking for this person; nor could he seek for what he does not know, because then he does not know what he is seeking. (80E) This argument, at first glance, might appear foolproof. Socrates has an answer, however. The soul is immortal, he states, and “Inasmuch as the soul is immortal and has been born many times and has seen all things both here and in the house of Hades, there is nothing which it has not learned” (81C). He then supposes that everything we are supposed to have learned is actually, truly, our souls recollecting that which they already knew. To illustrate this point, Socrates calls over one of Meno’s slaveboys. Through a series of questions asked by Socrates, the slaveboy comes to realize the line lengths that would be needed to double the size of a given square. Socrates claims that because he asked nothing but questions, this serves as evidence of the fact that the knowledge of the squares came from within the boy, from within his immortal soul. One could object that Socrates was asking leading questions, and that, perhaps, asking these sorts of questions is a way of teaching. Before starting on my own inquiry, in this paper, on the nature of teaching and learning, I would have been inclined to agree, and to a certain extent, I still am. Socrates knew what he was asking. He led the boy step by step, albeit through questions, through the geometrical proof. The boy could not have come to this knowledge without Socrates. Nevertheless, as I stated earlier in my example of having a violin teacher as a child, having a teacher does not guarantee that one learns something. Beyond Socrates questioning, how does the slaveboy learn the geometrical proof? That is, what makes him have an “aha” moment, a moment of realization, a moment, perhaps, of learning? Socrates’s exchange, if taken at face value that the boy, through questioning, came to recollect what his soul already knew, does, in a way, clear up Meno’s paradoxical question of how one can learn anything. That is, one can search for anything, “learn” anything, if it is simply, (though it may not be simple), a matter of recollection within his soul. Still, the soul’s immortality does not shed any light on what makes the ‘aha’ moment happen for a learner. 41 �After this exchange with the slaveboy, Meno and Socrates continue the dialogue on what virtue is and whether or not it is teachable, and something strange happens here to Socrates’s argument. Socrates, as I have stated, claims to have not taught the boy anything, and instead states that “true opinions will exist within him, which after being aroused by questioning becomes matters of knowledge” (86A). Again, Socrates’s argument is that the boy is recollecting, not being taught. Still, Socrates must think some things are teachable. If he thought nothing was teachable, he need not inquire about what virtue is in order to say whether or not it is teachable. He simply could have said, “No, it is not teachable. Nothing is.” Strangely enough, in apparent contradiction to the geometrical proof example with the slaveboy, Socrates seems to believe that knowledge actually can be taught, and is, among all things, the only thing that can be taught. He states: In this way then, about virtue too —since we know neither what it is, nor what sort of thing it is—let us look hypothetically at it, whether it is teachable or not teachable, speaking in the following way: If virtue is some sort of thing among those things that have regard to the soul, would it be teachable or not teachable? First, then, if it’s the kind of thing that is different from, or like knowledge, is it teachable or not, or, as we were just now saying it, is it recollectable?—let it make no difference to us about whatever name we use—but is it teachable? Or is this, at any rate, clear to everyone, that a human being is taught nothing else than knowledge. (87B-C) Meno agrees to this, that a human being is taught nothing else than knowledge, and agrees, when Socrates states, “And if virtue is some kind of knowledge, it is clear that it could be taught” (87C). The question then becomes for the interlocutors, is virtue a matter of knowledge? It might be that Socrates does wobble a little bit here in his argument, changing from nothing can be taught to knowledge can be taught, but for my purpose, it would not be productive to quibble with that wobbling. For my question still holds: How does learning happen? Is anything, strictly speaking, teachable? For Socrates, if virtue is a matter of knowledge, and can therefore be taught, there would be teachers of virtue, and one would do well to send his child to a virtue teacher. In the end, Meno and Socrates agree that there are no teachers of virtue. Furthermore, they agree that if there are no teachers, there are no learners (96C). Because they conclude that virtue has no teachers, and is therefore not something teachable, which, consequently, makes virtue not a form of knowledge, they then conclude that one who has virtue must get it from “divine dispensation” (100A). I disagree with Socrates that if there are no teachers there are no learners. One can learn through observation. One can learn to play basketball by watching professional basketball players. One can learn to skateboard by doing the same. One can learn to write poetry by studying the masters. This glaring omission, their leaving out that one can learn through observation, makes the conclusion of this dialogue, to my mind, unsatisfying, makes the jump to divine dispensation quite the leap. The more I think about it, however, the more I think Socrates might be correct. 42 �I still do not agree with him that if there are no teachers there are no learners. I do, however, think he might be right when he says that learning virtue is due to divine dispensation. To my mind, his answer as to what is divine dispensation is actually too limited, for I still cannot understand, if anything is teachable, knowledge, for example, what makes that ‘aha’ moment possible. Where does it come from? One might say it comes from intuition, but what is intuition? Could not one say that intuition might in fact be the soul remembering, and that therefore nothing is teachable? I was dissatisfied with Socrates’s answer that virtue is bequeathed through divine dispensation because I thought it obvious that one can learn without teachers, that one can learn, that is, through observation. But what about this gift of observation? Where did it come from? Is it all, everything we do and learn, a gift from God? Could it be that yes, there are teachers; things are teachable, and yes, there are learners; we do learn things, but it all comes from God, the ‘aha’ moment of learning, the ability to teach? Many questions arise from this. Does God bestow gifts equally, but one has to accept the gift? Could this be why some people are virtuous, others not? What makes one more or less inclined to accept God’s gifts? Why would God create people who are not inclined to receive his gifts? Does God indeed do this? But these, perhaps, are questions for another time. For now, though, I conclude that that ‘aha’ moment that makes learning possible, that might permit me to answer these further questions, must be a gift from God. 43 �Prize-Winning Preceptorial Paper: Thus Spoke Zarathustra Anthony Meffe In a note Nietzsche observes that “One generally mistakes me: I confess it; also I should be done a great service if someone else were to defend and define me against these mistakes.” (XIV, 318 f.) Nietzsche here admits to the often obscure and esoteric nature of his writing, an obscurity that must be revealed by later interpreters and defenders. Walter Kaufmann in his seminal biography of Nietzsche echoes this sentiment with his refutation of the “Nietzsche legend,” namely the inheritance of preconceived notions surrounding who Nietzsche was, and what the purpose of his project was. The benign influence of Nietzsche’s sister Elizabeth was instrumental in cementing Nietzsche’s reputation as a nationalistic anti-Semite, as poet, or prophet rather than philosopher, and had led to a situation where, as Kaufmann puts it, “there is not even basic agreement about what [Nietzsche] stood for.” While the scholarly horizons for Nietzsche’s work are perhaps less grim today than in 1950, it is still a weighty task to come to a firm understanding of a philosopher who deliberately eschewed systematization, and who described the scholarly approach to knowledge as “cracking nuts.” (Z, II, 16) In cracking a nut you achieve a completeness, a goal, an end, then discard the scraps and move to the next nut, triumphant. In contrast, Nietzsche asks us not to ‘solve’ his thought, but to engage with it in a dynamic motion of mistaken interpretation, defence and clarification. The emphasis upon motion is a recurring theme in Nietzsche’s work, and especially in Thus Spoke Zarathustra where the path to the Overman (Ubermensch) is first described in direct and linear language but quickly develops into cyclical and nonlinear transformations, dances, and songs, that lead to greater understanding and creativity, but not to any end or telos. Nietzsche, while desirous of eternity, attempts to achieve it not in any solution that finds a solution, but rather through the eternal recurrence of the individual, subjective, creative will in the world, this particular world, the only one which will ever exist and has ever existed. Creation, the act of God which demands conformity, is distinguished from individual creation that engenders freedom and creates new values in a world where God is dead. (Z, Prologue, 9) In the death of the Creator, there is an opening for the creative will to find its way to becoming the Ubermensch, by perpetually moving. But the question remains as to whether the world outside of the subjective creative will ‘exists’ in a real sense, or whether it is merely a subjective projection of the whims of new creators. At the risk of attempting to crack this philosophical nut like the scholars, I will argue that Nietzsche presents a unified and consistent view of the world, defined by motion, and against Christian and Darwinian teleology, which demands the kind of creativity he describes. It is meaningful insofar as it describes reality, the eternal exercise of the will in relation to the world. Nietzsche’s system that eschews systems then relies upon perpetual motion which reflects and is faithful to life, or rather living in the world as it is. This is achieved through eternal recurrence, and can be described reliably as an objective reality. 44 �The most essential quality of life in Zarathustra is constant motion, whether simply physical motion or a deeper spiritual transformation. As Peter Behrens writes in his novel The Law of Dreams, “the law of dreams is keep moving,” and this might equally be called the law of Zarathustra. (Behrens, 10) Thus Spoke Zarathustra begins with a movement and transformation: “When Zarathustra was thirty years old he left his home… and went into the mountains. Here he enjoyed his spirit and his solitude and for ten years he did not tire of it.” (Z, Prologue, 1) Zarathustra moves to the mountain, but still finds no ultimate satisfaction: “I am weary of my wisdom… I want to bestow and distribute…For this I must descend into the depths, as you do evenings when you go behind the sea and bring light even to the underworld.” (3) He continues: “Like you I must go down…” (3) Already on the first page we have spanned ten years, and bridged two epiphanies on the part of Zarathustra, not satisfied with enjoying his spirit, he wishes to descend and teach. And what does he wish to teach? It is the path to the Ubermensch: “I teach you the Overhuman. Human being is something that shall be overcome. What have you done to overcome him?” (Z, Prologue, 3) Humanity is one stage, a stage that requires action to be surpassed. While Zarathustra also uses semi-evolutionary language, comparing the Ubermensch to man as we compare man to ape, Kaufmann is careful to point out that Nietzsche rejected an evolutionary corollary to his work. (Z, Prologue, 3) While the symbolism and comparison here “invites misunderstanding,” Nietzsche himself claimed that only “scholarly oxen” would interpret his work as Darwinism. The path to the Ubermensch requires active overcoming rather than passive and deterministic reception of natural forces to which one adapts. We might find some clarity in Nietzsche’s work on history, written in 1874 before Zarathustra” where he writes: For since we happen to be the results of earlier generations we are also the results of their aberrations, passions and errors, even crimes; it is not possible quite to free oneself from this chain. If we condemn those aberrations and think ourselves quite exempt from them, the fact we are descended from them is not eliminated.” (U VI, 3) He writes further that the attempt to eradicate this memory creates a kind of second nature as we break from the first, and yet something of the past state always remains, and the new state is generally feebler than the first. (U VI, 3) By feebler Nietzsche likely means more contingent and less survivable, even if it is more complex, as all higher beings are, comparing the complexity and fragility of humans to the durability of simpler organisms in The AntiChrist. Instead Nietzsche demands that the path forward be willed rather than accepted, even as remnants of earlier transformations will endure. Rather than look to change as a cold or mechanistic reality, it should be understood as a proud action towards a higher state. In The Gay Science Nietzsche remarks that the Darwinian conception has led, just as in Christianity, to a “man against the world” understanding of life, wherein man must give up either reverence or his own being, where both are accorded as nihilism. (GS, 346) Rather Nietzsche seeks a path wherein man and the world are not in conflict, 45 �where what is past, is, and is to come can be accepted with all their warts. But how does Nietzsche’s conception of motion and transformation eradicate nihilism? The answer to that question is found in Nietzsche’s conception of life which is irrevocably tied to endless motion towards without ultimate completion, as well as his notion of the death of God. Zarathustra teaches not just the Ubermensch but the path to it: “Mankind is a rope fastened between animal and Overman – a rope over an abyss.” (Z, Prologue, 4) The ones who know how to be “crossing over” and “going under” are those who know how to live. (4) But what does it mean to know how to live? If mechanistic Darwinism is not an antidote, then neither is faith in God, even as in the revolutionary nineteenth century such a dichotomy seemed to be the nexus of intellectual conflict. As soon as Zarathustra comes down from the mountain he meets an old man who has as yet not heard that “God is dead.” (Z, Prologue, 2) The phrase is one of Nietzsche’s most famous aphorisms, and represents a foundational principle upon which all his ideas depend, especially in Zarathustra. The one who is a believer in God is a believer in “a world behind.” (Z, Part 1, 3) God is presented as outdated, or perhaps more appropriately something which has served its purpose, but which now retards motion. Zarathustra once believed in this “delusion,” that is the belief in anything beyond the human. (Z, Part 1, 3) To put faith in a world beyond the world that one inhabits is to reject life and living, to place the creative will outside of one’s action, and instead to conform to an invented will without realizing that it was man that willed it. Thus speaks Zarathustra: Weariness that wants to attain the ultimate in a single leap, in a leap of death, a poor and ignorant weariness that does not even want to will anymore: that is what created all Gods and all worlds behind…The body it was that despaired of the body – that groped with the fingers of deluded spirit for the ultimate walls. (Z, Part 1, 3) The deluded spirit longs to achieve eternity and completion, the ultimate, in one swoop, and to rest upon that victory. God’s corpse erects a wall, an ultimate wall, that protects against motion, but motion and transformation is necessary to life. In simpler and more direct words, Nietzsche describes the chief principle of faith in Twilight of the Idols (written after Zarathustra) as “faith that a will is already in things.” (G, Epigrams and Arrows, 18) If a will, especially a constant, unchangeable Will, is imputed into the world, then the human will is once again in opposition to the world. He must either conform and lose himself, or lose his reverences, just as with mechanistic Darwinism. We are then presented with two distinct forms of modern nihilism, both belief in a deterministic world to come, and a religious world that ought to be left behind yet casts long shadows. By what means then can man find meaning? For Nietzsche the answer lies in the transformation, the motion, of the spirit. We have already heard that mankind is a rope over an abyss, but Zarathustra goes on to say that “What is great in the human is that it is a bridge and not a goal.” (Z, Prologue, 4) What is terrifying in humanity is “dangerous shuddering and standing still.” (Z, Prologue, 4) The bridge, however, like the rope, is a linear image, one may 46 �cross forwards, or backwards, or potentially fall into the abyss. While the abyss itself may represent a non-linear element, the path is straight. A straight path then must necessarily lead to some goal, some destination, or some end, unless it is infinite. Surely then the straight path must lead to death. However, this linear imagery is developed in Zarathustra’s speech on the Three Metamorphoses, and becomes more cyclical. The cycle allows for repetition, without a necessary end to motion. The spirit moves through three transformations, into the camel, the lion and the child, each providing a necessary means to move beyond the world behind, and the world to come. The first transformation is that of a camel in whom the spirit can carry the weight of heavy questions and pondering. (Z, I, 1) Then we encounter the lion in which man learns to regard the “sacred Nay” to become a “lord in its own desert” after winning freedom. (1) The enemy of the lion is the great dragon who proclaims “Thou shalt,” in a rather obvious reference to the Decalogue. (1) Freedom is attained through rejection of what one should do, “thou shalt,” and in rejection of external value, of external will in the world. (1) An apex, but not a completion, is found in the child, the final transformation. (1) The power of the will transforms sacred naysaying into sacred “Yea-saying,” embracing creativity to build one’s own world of value. The innocence of the child allows for forgetting, rebuilding, and transforming, much like in Nietzsche’s theory of history. The purpose of these transformations seems to be a means to let go of the old values that weigh down the spirit, to reject the world beyond, and to will it into the world behind through individual creation. As Zarathustra remarks, “Wherever I found the living, there I found the will to power, and even in the will of the serving I found the will to be master.” (Z, II, 12) The dragon says “thou shalt” but the lion says “I will” becoming master over itself and serving life. (Z, I, 1) Evaluation is transferred from the realm of external discernment to individual will and creation. There is no indication that this could not be repeated, providing man a means to stay in motion. Life is then served by killing the Creator, killing Creation, and moving to become one’s own willing creator in the world as it exists. The slaying of the dragon then opens new ports of motion. Nietzsche writes in The Gay Science of the great joy one experiences at the news that “the old god is dead” (GS, 343): At long last the horizon appears free to us again, even if it should not be bright; at long last our ships may venture out again…all the daring of the lover of knowledge is permitted again; the sea, our sea, lies open again; perhaps there has never yet been such an “open sea.” (GS, 343) What is important is the possibility of movement and transformation, not any particular course. The sacred Nay opens an ocean of sacred Yea. Yet even this grand freedom is not without qualification, as Zarathustra remarks “Body am I through and through, and nothing besides; and soul is merely a word for something about the body.” (Z, I, 4) The soul is an aspect of the body, as is the spirit. (4) The transformations enumerated above are bodily and spiritual, insofar as all things are 47 �bodily for mankind. He later expounds on this stating “Since I have come to know the body better… the spirit is only a hypothetical spirit to me; and all that is everlasting – that too is only a parable.” (Z, II, 17) Only the perishable body exists as truly real for Zarathustra at this point. What is important, however, is that Nietzsche necessarily unifies subjective creation through the three metamorphoses with reverence for life and nature. The creating will is a function of a new freedom gained from an awareness of the reality of this world, apart from worlds beyond or behind that a literal spirit or soul would indicate. One might raise the objection: is this demand to perpetual motion and life not simply replacing one dragon with another? Why should the ‘thou shalt’ of nature or of life be any different from the ‘thou shalt’ of God? From the language that Nietzsche uses, however, it seems plain that he envisions this reverence for life not as something you must do, but rather that this new way offers man the freedom to behave honestly towards nature, not through a delusion, nor through compulsion. Zarathustra preaches faithfulness to the earth and not to invented worlds. (Z, I, 3) The creation of new values is then a function of nature through our life-affirming bodies. Nature does not demand, but permits. The image that Zarathustra uses of the railing to the Ubermensch illustrates this: “I am a railing by the torrent: grasp me whoever is able to grasp me! But your crutch I am not.” (Z, I, 6) One may grasp the rail or not, but it is there to make use of as one will. But does life not still end? How does one avoid the obvious inference of fatalism (that Nietzsche rejects) in these attempts to escape nihilism, or does this merely cement nihilism as reality? Some clarification and expansion might be found in the songs that Zarathustra sings in the Second Part of the book where we find the first murmurings of the eternal recurrence. The distinction between night and day also features heavily as a kind of perpetual and ongoing motion in the cosmos, undergirding life. In The Night Song, Zarathustra looks to the heavens, and finds something cold and unsettling in their motion. “Many suns revolve in desolate space…to me they are mute. Oh this is the enmity of light toward that which shines; mercilessly it goes its orbits.” (Z, II, 9) Later Zarathustra says “Like a storm the suns fly their orbit, that is their motion. They follow their inexorable will; that is their coldness.” (9) This inhuman motion seems to unsettle Zarathustra in contrast to the motion of the spirit which was animating. Words like ‘merciless,’ ‘desolate,’ ‘mute,’ ‘coldness,’ and especially ‘inexorable’ sound like the language of fatalism and resignation rather than life, specially when referencing will. Yet life is itself a reverence and honesty towards nature through motion. Zarathustra is perhaps reflecting on the disjuncture between the creating will which “wills its own will” and which “attains its own world” while confronted with a natural world remote to that experience (Z, 1, 1) In the daylight Zarathustra could preach to the stars: “You great star! What would your happiness be if you had not those for whom you shine?” (Z, Prologue, 1) Where Zarathustra was boastful and proud in the daylight, he is now intimidated and alienated from those same luminous bodies in the evening. What has changed? Zarathustra experiences “iciness” and “hesitation,” at night, and he seems unable to move while experiencing 48 �a kind of involuntary contemplation of the shining suns that move so inexorably. Contemplation, or rumination had been an object of mockery to Zarathustra, a desirable nonsense, but nonsense all the same. (Z, I, 2) Later too he describes contemplation as “emasculated leering,” to “desire nothing from things” but to lie before them. (Z, II, 15) The lifeless impasse is broken by adding motion into contemplation as a passive corollary to the dynamic creation of the day time. In The Dance Song, Zarathustra comes face to face with life itself in the form of a dancing girl while strolling at night with his disciples. Life is dancing, and it is in that motion and transformation of nocturnal dancing that Zarathustra finds a means to rehabilitate concepts he had dismissed to make them serve life. His first words to life are “Do not stop dancing” referring to the dancing girls as “light ones.” (Z, 2, 10) He finds life before him, in the evening, motioning in a manner that is not alien the way the movement of the stars was. He says to life: Into your eyes I gazed recently, oh life! And then into the unfathomable I seemed to sink. But you pulled me out with your golden fishing rod; you laughed mockingly when I called you unfathomable.” (10) Unlike the distance between Zarathustra and the night-time suns, life is here personified, and speaks to Zarathustra directly, breaking any delusion of distance or disjuncture between the human will and the natural world. To look at life and understand it is not then a rumination, nor a flight from life, but part of a parallel structure of nature of which the creative will is one part, along with the acknowledgment of the natural world. Creation of value is necessarily parallel with nature, not disrespectful to it. But while nature’s existence is objective, creation of value is not, for how could you march from summit to summit if you had found and rested upon the real truth? (Z, II, 7) Rather it is an objective response to the freedom conferred by the non-existence of objective values in nature that is itself an objective reality. This is why life dances, because these two necessary aspects participate with each other in the constant motion that is, for Nietzsche, life, itself mirrored in the transition from daylight to evening. In the dance we can imagine the constant flow of transformation, from camel, to lion, to child, or from day to night, in a constant flow of motion, that is to say in concert with nature. It is not surprising then that it is those moments of crisis for Zarathustra when he has forgotten how to walk, that he has also lost sight of the path to the Ubermensch. (Z, II, 22) But why does Zarathustra continue to experience moments of stillness and lifelessness even after his encounter with life? He has still not sufficiently conquered one final ‘end,’ specifically permanent death, a permanent end to motion that he refers to as ‘the spirit of gravity.’ Zarathustra describes life as “A dance and a mocking song to the spirit of gravity,” the spirit that rules the world. (10) Zarathustra mentions this spirit only once before in the first Part, “And when I saw my devil, there I found him in earnest, thorough, deep, somber: it was the spirit of gravity – through him all things fall. (Z, I, 7) The spirit of gravity is the essence of fatalism, for what goes up must come down, what lives must die, what begins must find an end, 49 �even if that end is neither a religious nor a mechanical world to come, nor a world beyond. In what then can a creator take solace other than nihilism? The dancing god, life, provides a clue in the names men give her: “profundity or fidelity, eternity or secrecy.” (Z, II, 10) Eternity is the name that men give life, but eternal life is a concept that Zarathustra has derided as the life-denying philosophy of the despisers of the body and the preachers of death, whose conception of eternal life is a goal that distracts from life as it is in the world. (Z, I, 9) What life tells to Zarathustra is that life itself, life as it is, is eternity, and this is the lightness that Zarathustra perceives in the dancing girls, their liberation from the spirit of gravity without any final end to their dancing. This liberation also provides for a liberation of the will, as well as a further unity of the subjective creating will with the objective natural world. In The Gay Science, Nietzsche claims that “Faith is always coveted most and needed most urgently where will is lacking.” (GS, 347) Faith is the dereliction of the will, the belief that there is another will in the world to which one must submit. However Zarathustra remarks that “I would only believe in a god who knew how to dance.” (Z, 1,7) It would seem then that the dancing god, life, offers an exception to the rule. Nietzsche states that there is a correlation between one’s strength and the need to believe, therefore Christianity, or Metaphysics more broadly, will survive so long as they are needed. (GS, 347) We know that Zarathustra has proclaimed the death of god, declaring that all gods are human works (Z, I, 3) and that true creativity is impossible if there are gods, for how could one create if there were already Creation, if there were already a will there? (Z, II, 24) Zarathustra tells us that the gods died of laughter when the God of Abraham declared “thou shalt have no other gods but me,” stating that true divinity is to have gods but no God. (Z, III, 8) Yet through the spirit of the lion, and sacred naysaying, God, the dragon that commands “thou shalt,” has been killed. We are left without gods, and without God, but this leaves a new sea open once again. If belief is derived from necessity, then the creative will must will belief in the dancing god, life. The dancing god is man’s reverence for nature which participates in nature. The created god of nature, the created god of the will, steps in concert with the world as it is, and is united with it. Man gives up neither reverence nor himself. To what one is reverent is their own body united with nature through the will. This unity is expounded upon by Zarathustra when he addresses the heavens before sunrise: Oh sky above me, you pure, exalted one! This your purity is to me now… that you are my dance floor for divine accident, that you are my gods’ table for divine dice throws and dice player. But you blush?... is it the shame of us two that made you blush? (Z, III, 4) Through the will, man can find unity even in the parallel structure of nature, and divinize the world as it is. Why does the sky blush? Is it perhaps embarrassed by this union? While still two distinct and separate entities, Zarathustra becomes aware of the power of the will to unite with the natural world, exemplified by the motion of the dancing god, life. The necessity of creating new values is reconciled with the 50 �reality of nature in this long dance to become aware of how one’s “own being is involved in the totality of the cosmos”. That parallel division is never truly eliminated, however, nor does that seem to be a particular problem for Nietzsche or Zarathustra any longer. But there is still the question of the eternity of life, that is to say the question of perpetual motion. Having reconciled life with the creating will, there is still the need to defeat the spirit of gravity. As Nietzsche writes in Twilight of the Idols: The fatality of our essence cannot be separated from the fatality of all that was and will be. We are not the consequence of a special intention, a will, a goal; we are not being used to reach an “ideal of humanity”… We have invented the concept “goal”: in reality, goals are absent… (G, The Four Great Errors, 8) Nietzsche must then find a way to reconcile the eternity that life has spoken to Zarathustra with human fatality, without succumbing to fatalism. This is achieved through the concept of eternal recurrence. As Kaufmann points out, Nietzsche considered the eternal recurrence his most important idea, even as he offers little to no proof of it in his works. All the same it is an absolutely necessary aspect of his thought, for it is his solution to fatalism that respects fatality. The dwarf says to Zarathustra, “You stone of wisdom! You hurled yourself high, but every hurled stone must fall!” (Z, III, 2.1) This is the thought of lead that is dripped into Zarathustra’s ear, which he overcomes with the courageous phrase, “Was that life? Well then! One More Time!” (2.1) Zarathustra then develops the doctrine of the eternal recurrence: “See this gateway, dwarf! I continued. “It has two faces. Two paths come together here; no one has yet walked them end to end. This long lane back: it lasts an eternity. And that long lane outward – that is another eternity (2.2) The paths converge only at the gateway called “Moment.” (2.2) Each moment is then made eternally alive through repetition, without the need to look forward or backwards or towards any goal or telos. From this gateway Moment a long eternal lane stretches backward: behind us lies an eternity… And if everything has already been here before, what do you think of this moment, dwarf? Must this gateway too not already have been here? And are not all things firmly knotted together in such a way that this moment draws after it all things to come?... For, whatever can run… must run it once more! (2.2) Kaufmann calls this the supreme “suprahistorical” expression, wherein all striving beyond is extinguished in the exaltation of the moment, whether that striving be Darwinian, or Christian. Each moment resounds in eternity not as a stepping stone, but as a stepped stone, always present, and past, and future, and therefore always in perpetual motion. The finitude of earthly existence is transformed into an eternal faithfulness to the earth that Zarathustra preached from the beginning. (Z, I, 3) With each moment separated from a final goal or end, the will is free to say to itself “One More Time!” (Z, III, 2.2) This is what it means for the will to create its 51 �own world, because it creates the world as it is, one’s own eternity which is eternity, and that is life. With the eternal recurrence Zarathustra is free to say “This is my good and evil.” (Z, III, 11) The recurring will makes for itself eternal values not by appeal to another world, but in this world that will always reemerge. “All joy wants eternity, wants deep eternity,” says Zarathustra, by which he means that willing ‘yes’ to life is a will to its totality, night and day, pain and happiness, all ensnared together as one bottomless dancing eternity. This is how Nietzsche solves the problem of nihilism as a reaction to the world as it is, through life as eternal motion which relies heavily upon the eternal recurrence to achieve coherence, and also how he reconciles the subjective will with objective nature. The project of Nietzsche can then be described as the attempt to reconcile his rejection of nihilism with his beliefs regarding what reality is. Whether he succeeded or not is a difficult question, and one to which many will likely come to differing conclusion, however what seems clear is that Nietzsche offers in Thus Spoke Zarathustra a circuitous and roundabout enumeration of the demands of his conception of reality. The creating will that emerges from the corpse of God is not merely subjective, but rather subjective in accordance with the reality of the natural world where there exists a gap in objective value. While Nietzsche never fully unifies the two, he does posit a parallel unity where each is faithful to the other, even if they are not fully united to the other. This faithfulness to the earth as it is what is objective for Nietzsche, the earth that is eternally alive and in motion, where every subjective value is elevated in each moment of eternity. Through eternal recurrence, and the creating will, Nietzsche sustains his central notion of life as motion in a way that, at least internally, fulfills the objective of faithfulness to the earth as it is (according to Nietzsche), while providing an escape from nihilism that rests on no assumptions that contradict his own conception of reality. The joy that Zarathustra experiences towards the end of the work is the joy of reconciliation and unity, achieved on his own terms. The conception of the world as described by Zarathustra can then be said to be objective, and even further, that the distinction between subjective and objective breaks down in the eternal recurrence. Whether it is correct is another question for another essay, though there are suggestions of the necessity of faith for some of the concepts here enumerated, particularly the eternal recurrence. Whether this is a true victory over nihilism is perhaps still left to the reader, but all things considered it was a heroic and consistent attempt. 52 �Artwork by Jesse Clagett 53 � 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 Colloquy Description An account of the resource A student-run journal for the Graduate Institute community of St. John's College in Annapolis, Maryland. The issues feature essays, art, poetry, interviews, and more. 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 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 pdf Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 56 pages Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Colloquy, Fall 2021 Description An account of the resource Volume IX of Colloquy, published in Fall 2021. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Braley, Olivia (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 2021-12 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 Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived English Subject The topic of the resource St. John's College (Annapolis, Md.)--Periodicals Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Colloquy_Fall2021 Graduate Institute https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/8fb595d9b86cd6c5bc71e28ae91715e4.pdf d809f11a2bd35c833ebd091045e8f6c3 PDF Text Text Colloquy �A Note from the Editors Contents On Being a Stranger 12 On Play 20 Translations 30 Memoria 46 List of Works 59 Acknowledgements 60 The Graduate Institute is St. John’s Wild West. We’re not nearly as old as the rest of the College, and we’re not as tightly bound as the undergraduates. We come into the College from very different situations, and we have jobs and families to attend to. We feel that one role Colloquy must take is to be a place where we can grow closer together. We’re hoping Colloquy leads us all to reach out across the program, not just the seminar table. Colloquy is still so new a publication as to admit trial and experiment. Our first issue was spring 2017. In this eleventh edition, we continue to preserve, as we did in the first issue, the end of the semester toasts to the students and tutors. We include the précis for Kelly Custer’s Master’s essay to recognize its successful defense, and to offer a model for future candidates to have some sense of how to go about writing them. We invited all the G.I. to submit brief pieces on the topics “On Play” and “On Being a Stranger” to carry on St. John’s democratic tradition of dialogue. We received submissions from alumni, including the founding editor of the journal, Bonnie Naradzay. We are proud to include a Latin, Spanish, Russian, and Arabic translation. We hope you appreciate the thought and labor that went into this edition of Colloquy. Most of all, we would like to express our sincere gratitude to Emily Langston, Kashya Boretsky, and Diana Villegas for all their assistance, as well as the Graduate Student Council and the alumni for their continual support of the G.I. community. And of course, we would like to thank our contributors. Abdullah Wadood and Jesse Clagett Fall 2022 1 2 �Reflections of the Revolution in Britain Benjamin Crocker Like periscoped sheep, the palace hordes startled back and forth, lunging the gates, devices bobbing - flopping above the fray into which they all tumbled. They scuffled to meet, but mostly just to prove-their-meeting-of, the new King. By chance, I had been working in Wiltshire the day before, Thursday September 8 - the day of Queen Elizabeth II’s passing. Mid-conference at an old Wiltshire estate when news of Her Majesty’s death broke, my first observation was that no one quite knew what to do. That would be good, I thought. But down there at Buckingham it was a dog show indeed. Those journalists stampeding like marked cattle. The sheepy public surging forth to wherever fear of missing out and royal opportunity might intersect. And when the standard went up, and out he came, stooped and sartorial, to meet his public, he might have had cause for bewilderment At dinner that evening the staff stood to attention, some silence was enforced, a vigorous shout of ‘Long live the King’ rang out, and esteemed colleagues made fine, concise addresses of tribute and remembrance. A wonderful young couple seated opposite me had hurried to buy black. I was relieved. For Charles III more often than not shook the hand of a mind tethered not to royal affection, but to its own demented voyeurism. The King looked not into the warm eyes of the old empire, but to the cold glass lens of the new one. But the milieu was otherwise unshaken by the day’s earthquake. This was mourning as spectator sport. Which of course isn’t mourning at all. Only one in a hundred, nay, maybe a thousand, had the decency to wear black. The liquor flowed as on any other night. The conversation was light, serious, silly, and profane by turns - as on any other night. ‘I feel a deep sadness’, a wise colleague had the decency to say, in private, amidst the oblivious bonhomie. And through it all, the BBC - and every other Tom, Dick and Harry with a microphone - kept vigil. Vigil in the way a hamster keeps vigil at its wheel. Constant, monotonous, unchanging, dumb. Our coach to London the next day took neither longer nor shorter than it should have. No one was flocking to the capital to grieve in public. But it seemed no one was staying home to grieve in private, either. I was dismayed. There were some flickers of hope. Two American flight attendants had hurried down after their shift, pinned their wings to a rose and moved diligently toward the fence to pay their respects. “That’ll end up in landfill, love” - it didn’t take long for the locals to burst their bubble… On every billboard between Heathrow and Whitehall her face alternately shone with youth or glowed with wisdom. Westfield presents Queen Elizabeth in Black and White. Surreal. Arriving at the hotel, I scoffed down whatever was in sight and hurried across the road to the Palace. What were the odds that I would be here, on that one day out of 35,000 others in the span of the second Elizabethan Age? I could have the privilege of mourning - not just for the Queen, but for the spectre of grace and diligence that emanated from her reign. For my Grandfather, who served in her Army, played the piano bequeathed by her family, and migrated between two of her realms. For the people for whom she meant more than I could ever know - the war wounded and widowed, the people who tied 3 ribbons, baked cakes and trained dogs for shows, who dressed smartly and hung her portrait proudly in dusty halls on dusty plains, in dusty farming towns, in the dusty country I grew up in. Another beautiful young woman dressed in black strode stoically through Green Park, fighting the tears that burst forth regardless. And though I caught but glimpses of them, I can say that those women knew how to mourn. But I’m not so sure about the rest of us. I’m not sure we knew what clothes to wear, what posture to hold, what pace to step, and what manner to speak in. I’m not sure we understood that solemn pageantry and sacred ritual are to be more experienced, less packaged into clips and discussed over dinner. 4 � In the span of the Queen’s reign, and contra her steadfast grace and majesty, what remains of her Empire has indeed undergone a profound revolution. The Romantics Lest that revolution in Britain not be conspicuous for any speed or bloodshed, it shall ever be for the sake of propriety slowly surrendered, for decorum gradually lost. Ten-thousand daffodils along the margin of a bay would in my time have all ceased to decay, and Daisies become a worthier flower to adorn an epitaph desiring that we mourn; for if my Words have any worth at all then perchance they would outlast us all. But times being as they are, I think I’ll write only for myself, and no distant reader’s delight. Melissa Moore No modern master Taylor could possibly hope to weave prettier patterns of discarded themes, nor any serious painter withstand not being privy to such a place as Kubla Khan decreed. It was a painted poem, upon a painted canvas that first set in motion things outlandish and though it was quite beautiful and refined, in the end it took a lifetime to wash away the brine. Though the crystal chill overcomes the burly winter birch —coats with downy flake limbs where songbirds perch— though all this world should be condemned to fire and to ice, I doubt that either Burns or Frost suffice. Beware, young friends: Tam O Shanter’s good mare’s advice, a red red rose with thorns, ensnares, for she is long gone, and yet here you stand for all the world a much luckier man. The past is filled with beauty – this truth no one will deny – and the future appears stark before the nostalgic eye, but words do not belong to those who say them best and life spent lost in memory is life best laid to rest. Though in this race the many may surpass me and though their words through many ages may outlast me, I’d rather turn my words to wind during the run than become Swift only to be called Donne. 5 6 � He’s This, She’s That Louis Petrich Can he be rhymed off straight from facts—writ pat? Can she be rhymed off straight from facts, stared stone? In love with seas, curled brains, dared skin, pink wilds-- Her friend long-haired, longed tame, with dog she keeps. “I have love for you, friend,” she pares, “that’s it.” Yet love dared pick him and pertains, phone-laired. As clouds paint skies her evanescent smiles (Her dog would like him more, licked treat to treat.) subscribe words lit from distant hands, stealth lips, Legs chickening, fingers satiate, spell out for don’t bit stars do infinite of black? fools’ fated fallings in across hearts’ hacked Her missives vibrate overtones and sips divide. How quaint quilled perks do punt all doubt of overtures that salve somewhat heart’s rack of cursive character: see! and spur his plenty done more jointed years. unstop her soundings, scored not his who fears! Not fooled enough, still wet, issues grotesque, for schooled she goes in art of raising cheers girl-curious t’anoint boys amouresque. He might as well be spinning silk to straw. Imagination cleaves to jewels that claw. 7 couplings blacked Core falling yearnings turn parts mortal-tasked and creasing bent to pleasing master mirrors, equipage buffed to bluff dusk, youthful masked. “Life’s flash I steal, my wares achieve!” she rings. Imagination husbands armful things. 8 �9 10 �| On Being a Stranger 11 12 �on being a stranger you can spend your whole life chasing authenticity and find out you don’t know the meaning of the word a stranger in your own skin; not at home in yourself you can’t see yourself in five years (or in love) (or as a parent)(or happy)(or not in pain) when you can’t see yourself in a mirror there’s a fog over everything. it’s hard to realize you’re the only one who can’t see right things look different from that perspective you don’t know what’s wrong but you’ve always felt like an alien (ever at arm’s length)(your ways are strange) every movement: like in a nightmare, trying to run your limbs feel Wrong untethered the world bends away underneath you there, but not there you get very good at losing yourself to survive staring too long at the flames would mean acknowledging you’re on fire no one else sees it you can’t explain it all you can do is look away the easiest place to lose yourself is in other people sometimes, they’ll let you sometimes, they like it (they like You) 13 14 �it’s as addictive as anything else you can lose yourself in completely a total abnegation disintegration you’ll swear it’s transcendence there’s a special brightness in the eyes when the fog clears an appreciation for how much there is to see and a thirst to see it anew how do you share what you learned on the other side? merely having been there, it’s alienating how can you explain what it is to feel Wrong to those who have always felt right? (always belonged?) but you’re trying You on for size feeling your weight under yourself and it feels good like every grand journey, it’s about finding the way home Siobhan Petersen It must be said that every evil in some way has a cause. For evil is the absence of the good, which is natural and due to a thing.... Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologica, First Part, Question 49 I went to San Antonio to collect a writing award recently. TSA treated me with contempt. As I saw the lights of D.C. (my only home) from up above, I wept for a reason I do not know why. I asked an older gentleman if I could sit next to him while I waited for the connecting flight. He agreed. As soon as my butt touched the seat, he got up and left. When I arrived at San Antonio at noon, the woman at the hotel counter told me check-in was at three. I wasn’t welcome, her stern stare scolded. So I walked to a Whataburger without a sidewalk in sight. All my belongings were on my back. I didn’t want to be mugged. I hoped that someone would pick a fight with me just so I would be noticed, but I didn’t even get that. This city is made for metal and rubber, not flesh and bone. I hid behind a pillar of an abandoned building to get out of the sun and out of sight. A homeless man had the same idea. The soles of my shoes began to reek of hot tar. The crosswalks are spaced out in twenty-minute intervals. Ten-lane highways separate the sidewalks the width of my thumb. Every building is an island surrounded by asphalt seas. A haggardly man passes me by on a bicycle, the only other pedestrian. He told me a word of wisdom, but he went by too fast in an accent I couldn’t understand. The sun began to seep into my clothes and turned into sweat. I need some sleep. I need to rest. I returned to the hotel disheveled and waited for an hour in the lobby. The woman at check-in eventually acknowledged me and apologizes profusely. I pretend that it is no big deal. Earlier that week I learned all my old friends have been excluding me. I couldn’t hold my grief much longer. So I searched for someone to talk to. I called my younger brother and asked him if he was free. He opened his lips to inhale. I wept. God is stretched very thin here. Abdullah Wadood 15 16 �Ex Cathedra By Mephibosheth Today started like any other day for Jay: he got up early and sat around on his bed playing on his phone or turning on the TV to watch some of his favorite shows. By all accounts, he was just like any other young man, that is to say that he was lost and yearning to find a purpose in his life, bouncing from interest to interest, job to job, and major to major as he attempted to strike out on his own, away from the ever-scrutinizing eye of his parents. Unlike his younger counterparts, however, Jay had something which set him apart from all others, he had a disability—not just any disability, but one which required the use of a bulky power wheelchair. Being that his condition had been with him since birth, he knew no other form of transport, and had easily come to accept both the chair and side effects of his condition. Although he was occasionally taken by bouts of loneliness and alienation due to the limits his chair imposed on him, it would not be an exaggeration to say that he and the chair were one in spite of all this. As he waited for his nurse to arrive, Jay began to turn over a myriad of thoughts about his life, his future, and the problems that he caused his family as a result of his disability. Usually the television assisted in drowning out these thoughts long enough so that he would not be consumed in sadness, it helped, but not for very long—his mind always returned to the ever-present conclusion that he was a burden; the conclusion that all of his studying, all of his attempts at work, his phobia of the outside world, would lead to life passing him by as he stood inept and cowardly staring it in the face. You see, Jay cared very much for his fellow human beings, but because his condition limited him so severely as to the enjoyment of various natural things which do not particularly concern those who do not suffer from physical disability he had grown to hate nature. It reminded him of everything which separated the cripples from the non-cripples, the invalids from the valid. He preferred the cold, calculating world of electronics and technology. This world was, to him at least, more relatable, especially since he depended on that world to live his daily life. So it was, then, that after turning over all of the questions of the universe and existence inside his head that Jay’s nurse finally came. Her routine was simple: she would change Jay, help him put on his leg braces, help him put his clothes 17 on, pivot him into his chair, and finally strap him in so that he would not fall over while sitting. After this their routine would continue as most others’ would: he would have breakfast, brush his teeth, and decide what to do for the day. Everything seemed to be going well until Jay suddenly felt a sharp pain in his back, almost as if someone had stabbed him. It wasn’t unusual that he would rub up against the back side of his seat or catch his shoulders on the metal backplate of his chair, so he had initially thought nothing of it. As the day went on, however, his motion became more and more restricted, and he noticed that the chair was slowly and painfully enveloping him within itself. What is going on? There must be something wrong with the chair or me. It shouldn’t be this way. This shouldn’t be happening. But try as he might Jay could not escape the inevitable and he was eventually completely subsumed by his own chair. He could feel that he had been enveloped by total darkness, but as far as he could discern he was able to speak normally and without impediment. Around this time late in the evening was when his nurse would come back in order to serve him dinner and put him to bed. When his nurse finally came he wasn’t exactly sure what was going on, so when she opened the door he greeted her as he normally would “Hi, Catie, it’s nice to see you again today,” Jay said. “It’s nice to see you as well, Jay. Are you ready for dinner?” replied Catie. “Yes, I’m super hungry,” responded Jay. Catie didn’t seem to notice what had happened to Jay. She acted as if nothing was wrong. It was just as if it were any other day. Jay noticed that although he was surrounded by darkness he could still see outside of his chair and move his hands just enough to drive to his room to await his food. As Jay ate, the material enveloping him within his chair would recede as he raised the spoon up to his mouth, only to re-envelope him in its darkness when he put the spoon down. The same thing happened as Catie gave him his daily sponge bath. Jay was really beginning to question his reality. This was made all the more worrisome for him as Catie proceeded to lift his entire chair and place it in his bed. Jay was very distressed, but he never actually said anything to anyone 18 �because he was afraid that he would inconvenience those around him and add to his status as a burden. He lived out all the rest of his days invisible to himself, but treated as if he were still there by others. It was this fact that really made him wonder whether he was right all along to think that his feelings of alienation were, in fact, correct. In the end, however, it didn’t really matter if Jay had actually become one with his machine, because society saw him simply as his machine and nothing else. He was doomed… | On Play 19 20 �21 22 �23 24 �“On Play” Ansley Green Oh to play… All I want to do all day is play! The fresh outside air, the endless possibilities, it is hard for mom to get me back inside. The imagination runs wild with possibilities, nothing is off limits, the world is huge and for the exploring. What would make me want to stop all this play? Time does not stop for happiness. The play no longer is free. Consequences come into play. Competition clouds kindness, but also spurs on greatness. Keep playing and you can make it big. Keep playing and you can be famous. Keep playing and you can be rich. Can’t you? I see the young women play, who have dedicated all the years of their life to excel. They gave up lighthearted playing for a fierce competition and love of sport. They have made it to the level all other little girls dream of. They are on the big stage, playing for an audience now. They play exactly the same amount as the men, the yellow ball zinging back and forth at speeds no slower than the others. They play, rackets flying when anger comes in. They play, tears streaming over stretched smiles when the victory comes. They play, but for what? They play so they can have a prize purse 1/3 of what the men’s is. They play so they are rewarded at a fraction of what their friends are rewarded…for the exact same play. There is no lack of money at the upper levels. The tournament organizers are not broke. They have just broken the system. Playing is no longer fair. Playing is no longer full of limitless opportunities. The air is less fresh here. The system is broken. The play is over. The little girls realize that this is not uncommon. This unequal reality is not contained to one game. If tennis was called golf was called basketball was called surfing was called skiing was called soccer was called hockey was called wrestling was called boxing was called running….it is still the same. Keep fighting, they say. Look, we have equal pay now, they say. What was the cost? Why was the battle so steep? Who will stand up for the others? Who will keep the girls in play? 25 26 �Anne Carson translated this fragment 286 from Ibykos, an ancient Greek lyric poet, and then proceeded to use the structure of the fragment (on the one hand….. on the other hand….. nay, rather….. ) to experiment with other texts, including pages from Kafka, the FBI file on Berthold Brecht, two pages from the owner’s manual for her new microwave…. See: Nay Rather (Volume 21) (Cahiers) Paperback – February 15, 2014. For one I experimented with Plato’s Meno and for the other Schrödinger’s What is Life? - Bonnie Naradzay Aporia Ibykos fragment 286, using only phrases from Plato’s Meno   The torpedo fish? I am quite perplexed. On the one hand, anyone who touches it feels numb. On the other hand, the human soul is immortal: at times it comes to an end, which they call dying, at times it is reborn, but it is never destroyed, and one must live one’s life piously. Nay rather, the statues of Daedalus run away if not tied down. But now the time has come for me to go. 27 What is Life? Ibykos Fragment 286, using only phrases from the epilogue of Schrödinger’s What is Life?   To say “Hence I am God Almighty,”  on the one hand,  sounds both blasphemous and lunatic, the closest a biologist can get to proving God and immortality at one stroke. On the other hand, in the Upanishads,  Atman equals Brahman in perfect harmony, mystics somewhat like the particles  in an ideal gas. Nay rather, in a gallery of mirrors, like the way Gaurisankar and Mount Everest are the same peak seen from different valleys, I see my tree  you see yours obviously only one tree. What the tree in itself is,  we do not know. 28 �| Translations 29 30 � ‫إن األعلى من األسفل واألسفل من األعلى‬ IPA: /innəl ʔala’ mən as su’ful was su’ful mənəl ʔala’/ “Lo and Behold! The highest is from the lowest, and the lowest is from the highest.” The phrase is found in Islamicate hermetic texts, most notably the “Emerald Tablet” and the “Secret of Secrets”. The first word, /innə/ , doesn’t translate to anything in particular in English. Usually it’s translated as “Indeed”. In Arabic, it is used as an intonation or particle attached to the subject to emphasize what’s being said. “Lo and Behold!” does not usually translate well when using /innə/ since /innə/ can be a very everyday word, but this particular line is describing something beatific so I thought it was fitting. I think also the simple affirmation “Yes!” could work, but that is too literal. The next word, /al ʔala’/ means “The Highest”. It is usually translated as “The Most High” but I think that is clunky. The Islamic tradition attributes ninety-nine names for God. /al ʔala’/ is one of them. Arabic doesn’t have copulas (“to be” words) in the present tense. They are grammatically implied. /mən/ is a preposition meaning “from”. /wa/ is the conjunction “and”. And /as su’ful/ means “The Lowest”. I have used the apostrophes in the IPAs to indicate a sound short of a full glottal plosive. Abdullah Wadood 31 32 �In the last two lines of his Ode on a Grecian Urn, Keats writes: “Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know”. I found these lines so formidable that I decided to try to translate them into my mother tongue: Spanish. Here is the result: “Belleza es verdad, verdad belleza. En la tierra Sólo esto llegáis a saber y no necesitáis saber nada más”. Now, two comments. In Spanish, a definite article—la, el—always precedes the noun in order to link its meaning with a referent, unless it is a proper noun1. In this case, I omitted the articles before the nouns belleza and verdad even though, strictly speaking, the poet did not present them as proper nouns. This is incorrect in academic or formal writing, and awkward in informal conversation, but it is not unheard-of in poetic forms. I chose to omit the articles because they would somehow steal the attention of the listener. I think Yeats would want us to focus on the nouns. On the other hand, you may notice that I used vosotros instead of ustedes to translate “ye”—hence, llegáis and necesitáis instead of llegan and necesitan. Vosotros and ustedes are both second-person, plural, personal pronouns. In Spain, the former is used in informal contexts and everyday parlance, while the latter is mostly used when speakers are total strangers to one another. In Latin America, however, ustedes is the standard usage in both informal and formal contexts, and no one uses vosotros either in everyday conversation, nor in academic or professional environments. But there is one place where vosotros still lives: Catholicism. The Bible uses vosotros throughout and in Mass the priest addresses the congregation with vosotros. Vosotros conveys an ancient and awe-inspiring tone which is how I believe Yeats’ Grecian Urn would speak. And that is all ye need to know. Luis Sánchez 1 In “María no vino a la fiesta”, the proper noun is not preceded by an article while in “el cartero llegó tarde” the definite article proceeds the noun. 33 34 �Молюсь оконному лучу— Он бледен, тонок, прям. Сегодня я с утра молчу, А сердце—пополам. На рукомойнике моем Позеленела медь. Но так играет луч на нем, Что весело глядеть. Такой невинный и простой В вечерней тишине, Но в етой храмине пустой Он словно праздник золотой И утешенье мне. I am praying to the window light— It is pale, thin, and straight. Today I am quiet since morning, And my heart—it is split in half. The copper of my washbasin turned green. But light plays on it there, So fun to touch. So innocent and simple, In the evening silence, But in this empty temple It is a golden holiday And it is solace for me. Анна Ахматова, 1909 “Из книги Вечер” Anna Akhmatova , 1909 From the book “Evening” I chose to translate this poem because its mood and feelings it evoked were relatable to me. The praying to a morning light with a broken, or perhaps just a confused, heart gives an idea of a new beginning taking time for adjustment. The speaker finding joy in a golden evening ray reinforces that change takes time, despite initial and underlying feelings of loneliness and despair. There is comfort and beauty to find after time has made things change, depicted by the light which dances still on the copper of the basin which has turned green. The days still pass, time goes on, and peace can replace despair. I focused on meaning rather than keeping true to meter for this translation. Ansley Green 35 36 �Seneca, Ad Lucilium Epistulae Morales Seneca, Moral Epistles for Lucilius CXII. SENECA LVCILIO SVO SALVTEM Letter 112. Greetings! To my dear Lucilius, from Seneca, Cupio mehercules amicum tuum formari ut desideras et institui, sed valde durus capitur; immo, quod est molestius, valde mollis capitur et consuetudine mala ac diutina fractus. Volo tibi ex nostro artificio exemplum referre. Non quaelibet insitionem vitis patitur: si vetus et exesa est, si infirma gracilisque, aut non recipiet surculum aut non alet nec adplicabit sibi nec in qualitatem eius naturamque transibit. Itaque solemus supra terram praecidere ut, si non respondit, temptari possit secunda fortuna et iterum repetita infra terram inseratur. Hic de quo scribis et mandas non habet vires: indulsit vitiis. Simul et emarcuit et induruit; non potest recipere rationem, non potest nutrire. ‘At cupit ipse.’ Noli credere. Non dico illum mentiri tibi: putat se cupere. Stomachum illi fecit luxuria: cito cum illa redibit in gratiam. ‘Sed dicit se offendi vita sua.’ Non negaverim; quis enim non offenditur? Homines vitia sua et amant simul et oderunt. Tunc itaque de illo feremus sententiam cum fidem nobis fecerit invisam iam sibi esse luxuriam: nunc illis male convenit. Vale I want1, by Hercules, that your friend be formed, as you desire, and educated2; but he, as someone very hard, is stuck3, really, what is more troublesome, he is stuck as someone very soft and broken4 by a consistent and bad way of life. I want to refer you to an example from our art. Not just any vine supports a scion;5 if it is old and consumed, if it is weak and thin, either it will not receive the shoot, or it will neither nourish it nor apply itself to it nor will it cross over into the quality and nature of it. And so we are accustomed to cut it off above the earth, so that if it doesn’t respond, a second chance could be tried,6 and, again, the second attempt7 would be sown under the earth.8 This man, concerning whom you write and enquire, does not have the strength9; he indulges his flaws10. He wilts and grows stiff at the same time. He is not able to receive argument11, he is not able to nourish it. “But he wants to12.” Don’t believe that. I’m not saying that he’s lying to you; he thinks he wants to13. For him, excess makes appetite14; Quickly, he will return to favour with it. “But he says he is put off15 by his life.” I wouldn’t deny that. For, who is not thus put off16? Men at the same time both love and hate their flaws. And so, we will judge17 him at that point when he shows18 us that excess is now hateful to him. But right now, for them the matter is poorly agreed.19 Farewell. Walker Rogalsky 37 38 �Endnotes 1 It is not Seneca’s desire or Lucilius’ desire that makes Lucilius’ friend unable to be bettered. 2 Educated here is institui, in meaning ‘in’ and stitui being from statuo meaning ‘to set something’ which is where English gets statue and status. This means primarily ‘to set something in.’ It’s where English gets institute or institution from. But it takes on two very interesting secondary meanings for this letter. It can mean ‘to plant’ and ‘to educate.’ That is, the same way knowledge or virtue is ‘set in’ someone, a plant is ‘set in’ the ground. I‘ve kept the Latin word order here because it is telling that Lucilius‘ desire is between the friend being formed and educated. It seems like Lucilius’ desire is ‘set in’ the possible passive activities of his friend. 3 This is the passive form of capio - ‘to take.’ The subject is the friend; the friend is seized and the durus is in apposition to the implied subject being the friend. This is an interesting use of capio. It implies two things, namely that the friend has been seized, very much like our word seize which implies the no longer functioning of a mechanism as in ‘seized up.’ It is also the word a Latin speaker would use, as in English, to say a plant has ‘taken root.’ Thus foreshadowing for our upcoming plant analogy. But both of these meanings together along with the durus (hard) being in apposition to the implied subject make me feel as though his friend has grown stuck, but by his own agency. Indeed we do not have any agent in the ablative for the passive verb in these clauses that contain capitur. But it would not be out of the question to say that the consuetudine mala ac diutina could be used as the agents for not only fractus but also capitur. This only further corroborates the fact that this friend has taken root or been seized as very hard or very soft by his own agency. 4 Broken here is fractus. This is a nominative thus is playing the same grammatical role as durus (hard) and mollis (soft.) It is fascinating that he is seized as something not only very soft but as something broken too. It is strange to think of something very soft as being broken because typically very soft things are malleable and thus not easily broken. This is not so in the case of the friend. This strangeness implies that the state of softness and brokenness of the friend is not physical. His character is soft i.e. it cannot endure pains, and thus broken by his consistent choices which form his way of life i.e. his (mala) consuetudine. This is also foreshadowing for the luxuria which is the friend’s exemplary fault or vice 39 which is a result of his being soft and thus not being able to endure pains. At first Seneca thinks him very hard which means unchangeable or recalcitrant in his error. But then says he’s very soft which has a common moral meaning of not being able to endure pain. The alternation between very hard and very soft seems to mean that he is unchangeable because he is very soft and thus unable to be formed like water or clothing. This all seems to be an allusion to Aristotle’s Ethics wherein hardness and softness concern moral character in relation to enduring pains; it doesn’t seem that Lucilius’ friend has attained the mean between hardness and softness; Aristotle at 1150b calls luxury a certain kind of softness. 5 Here the vine (or root plant) is Lucilius’ friend. I do wonder if the scion (the cutting that is being grafted on to the base plant) is Lucilius. In order to understand this analogy, we should first look at what grafting is: “Grafting is a technique that joins the tissues of two plants together so they continue to grow as one plant. In viticulture this technique allows grape vines to express the desirable varietal characteristics of the scion (upper part of the joined plant) in the fruits, while developing or keeping the root system of the rootstock (lower part of the joined plant).” So, the new plant seems to be an image of the friendship between Lucilius and his friend. The scion is Lucilius and the root plant is Lucilius’ friend. This is probably the case because if the grafting is successful i.e., the friendship is possible, then Lucilius’ friend, the root plant, will be able to take on the desirable characteristics of Lucilius, the scion. This is very well corroborated by Seneca‘s idea of the exemplum wherein virtue is achieved by being close to and imitating someone virtuous. This is most clearly articulated in Letter 6. Also, any grafting needs to be done between organisms of the same species, so it seems likely that Seneca is talking about two people here, not one person and some abstract qualities. If Lucilius is the scion and his friend is the root vine, we might wonder whether Seneca is the gardener. It may be “their art,” but it could be theirs in different ways. 6 The Latin here is temptari possit secunda fortuna. Temptari, the passive form of temptare, is where English gets ‘to tempt.’ It has a fairly broad, though consistent, semantic range. It means roughly ‘to test,’ ‘to prove,’ ‘to try’ but mainly by touching, that is, by direct experience. It can be used not only as in, ‘to try one’s enemy in battle,’ but also ‘to feel the pulse of.’ This is an excellent word for the sounding out of character through friendship that this analogy is depicting. Secunda fortuna is the subject of the complementary infinitive temptari through possit (is able.) Fortuna on its own means ‘chance,’ ‘fate’ or ‘fortune’ but with 40 �secunda it means ‘good fortune,’ but also ‘second chance.’ Secunda means literally ‘second’ but also means good, a carry-over from a second i.e., following wind being always a good one for sailing, so secunda came to mean good especially with things determined by chance like the wind. Here it means most prominently ‘second chance,’ but can also mean good fortune is able to be tried again. Another interesting possibility for secunda fortuna is ‘a following state’ because secunda can mean ‘following’ and fortune can mean ‘fate’ or ‘state’ or ‘condition.’ Thus if at first the root plant doesn’t have a following condition, it’s possible to try a following condition. It’s quite possible Seneca means all three possibilities for secunda fortuna. 7 Second attempt here is repetita which is where we get ‘repeat.’ It comes from re, which means ‘to do again’, like English, and peto, which means ‘to seek,’ but especially to make an attack. This agrees very well with temptari in bringing home the harsh, if not violent nature of sounding out someone’s character through friendship. This is not a pleasant experience for either the root plant or the scion, although it does seem like it can be beautiful. This corroborates the fact that the friend is soft, that is his character can’t endure pain. 8 There is some ambiguity here concerning whether the cutting will be grafted to the root plant below the earth or simply sown as its own plant in order to root itself. ’Sown’ is inseratur which can mean either ‘to graft in’ or ‘to plant in.’ The purpose of growing grapevines is for the grapes. Grafting allows the variety of the cutting (scion) to produce fruit more quickly than if simply planted in the ground. But if the root is no good, one can just plant the cutting in the ground on its own, and although slower, it will produce fruit. This is opposed to if the root vine is old and weak, in which case no fruit will be produced. It seems likely that Seneca is saying here that, after the first attempt, if the root is no good, just plant the scion directly and throw out the root. That is, if the new plant is the friendship of Lucilius and his friend and we can assume the fruit is virtue, then if the root is bad and won’t take the favourable qualities of the scion which means that the friend is of a sufficiently bad character to not take to the friendship of Lucilius, then it is best to let the friend go if virtue is the goal. This letting go also seems like it would be painful for both. 9 ‘Strength’ here is vires which can also mean ‘vigour’ or ‘virtue,’ it is derived from vir which means man and it is where English gets ’virile’ from. It is plural which seems to imply there are many qualities his friend is missing in order to accept the graft. This can also mean, although grammatically unfeasible, 41 ’you are green‘ or ’you flourish’ from the Latin verb vireo which is derived from the word for green viridis. 10 Flaws’ here is vitiis which is most directly translated as ‘vices,’ but ‘vices’ implies a kind of Christian meaning that I don’t want to invoke. A vitium is any quality in a particular thing that gets in the way of a that thing naturally tending toward its end. 11 ‘Argument’ is here ratio where English gets ‘reason’ and, you guessed it, ratio from. I didn‘t want to use ‘reason’ because it brings to mind a kind of Enlightenment era notion of the activity of the intellect. Argument is a better notion although it sounds worse. Because of his poor moral state, it seems like Lucilius’ friend is not able to accept any argument or reason, let alone to live according to it and nourish it in his life. 12 ’Want’ here is cupio. It is the word that begins the letter, although Seneca is speaking then, not Lucilius’ friend. Seneca says that he wants that the friend be educated but that the goal of the desire is impossible. The friend says he wants to be educated but the goal of the desire is impossible, and it is impossible for the same reason as why Seneca‘s desire is impossible; namely because the friend‘s moral state doesn‘t allow the desire to be chosen. 13 Here we can see that Lucilius’ friend’s desire and reason are not in accord, that is, he is ignorant of his desires, but he doesn’t know that he is ignorant of them. 14 Stomachum illi fecit luxuria, translated literally is ‘luxury makes the stomach for him.’ Luxuria is where we get luxury from but they are by no means semantically identical. Luxuria means literally the rankness of trees or plants. It is that strong smell that comes off vegetable matter. But figuratively it means moral decadence. A very apt word! This phrase is difficult. It should be taken in two ways. First, it is as when one eats too much and is disgusted with food because of the discomfort. Yet as soon as the excess leaves the stomach, the disgust will return to desire. Secondly, it implies that the excess, the expression of the flaw in character, produces the whole unnatural process of excess enjoyment, disgust, excess enjoyment, etc.... His character makes his actions, and his actions make his character because he is unable to accept reason which is the only thing capable of presenting with him an alternative to his vicious cycle. 42 �15 ’Put off’ here is offendi it means literally ‘to be hit.’ This is frequently used to describe military action and goes well with the harsh and violent language Seneca gave us when describing the grafting process. This seems to imply that pain will be part of life regardless of whether one is stuck in viciousness or becoming virtuous and thus cannot be a good reason for choosing either. 16 This seems to mean that anyone, should they think back on their life, will recall some cause for pain and regret. Thus it is not sufficient reason to believe that someone wants to become virtuous, for all people feel this way, both those who do and those who don’t want to become virtuous. hard and soft, soft and broken at the same time, he loves and hates his flaws. He is feverish, and it’s his soul that is sick. Only by choosing to become virtuous, and the pain that comes with that can he begin to come back to health. But he must choose pain in this instance rather than just feel it, because there will be pain either way. By choosing he will begin to exercise his reason, and thereby be able to accept arguments and nourish them in conversation with Lucilius. But right now, he is stuck, so it seems the gardener recommends that this root plant not be used for grafting. 17 ’We will judge’ here is feremus sententiam. This idiom means literally ‘we will carry opinion’ but it has a very particular usual meaning. It is used for voting, and especially voting in the comitia, where the people would vote on who should be magistrate. They would vote twice with time in between, so that the magistrate would be able to change his way of life or not based on the first vote; see Cicero’s On The Agrarian Law 2.11. This is very similar to the way Seneca describes the grafting process having two chances. 18 ’Show’ here is fac fidem which means literally ’make faith.’ Normally this means to convince or persuade, but with an object clause it means to show or evince. That is, with an object clause the proof is more obvious and less subject to interpretation. This is similar to how temptari, used earlier, requires a kind of experience for proof. So it seems like Seneca and Lucilius will need the friend to start living as though excess (luxuria) is hateful to him rather than just saying it. This seems to require a choice on his part. 19 This is a difficult phrase to translate. The Latin is: nunc illis male convenit. Convenit is where English gets ’convenient.‘ It comes from con which means ‘together’ and venio which means ‘come.’ The ‘them’ is the friend and luxuria. The issue in translating this phrase is that it is impersonal, so the subject is the situation. The impersonal meaning of convenio means: ‘it is agreed upon,’ ‘there is unanimity with respect to something,’ or ‘the matter is decided.’ Also, it is not a simple negation; the adverb is male which means ‘badly.’ This phrase seems to put the friend and the faults on the same level, as if they are to agree to something together. This is strange because they are his faults, to put them on the same level indicates that his faults have as much agency in his life as he does. This is absurd because his faults are him how could they not agree? What this likely means is he is not in agreement with himself. He wilts and stiffens at the same time, he is 43 44 �| Memoria 45 46 �Students at the Graduate Institute who elect to write a Master’s Essay undergo an oral examination upon completion of their essay. Each examination begins with the student reading a précis of their work. This fall Kelly Custer successfuly defended his Master’s essay titled Following the Logos of Plato’s Phaedo. Following the Logos of Plato’s Phaedo October 5, 2022 Kelly Custer In my undergraduate years, I worked in a restaurant, during which time the most frequent question asked of me was what my major was. Immediately after my answer that I was a philosophy major followed the question, “What are you going to do with that?” My response was always, “Prepare for death.” While I cannot recall how many people pushed me to answer just what preparing for death entailed, it was no doubt only a few. The lack of follow-up questions was favorable for me as it is doubtless that whatever stumbling and blush accompanied response I might have given was as unmemorable to me as it must have been for anyone else.  Philosophy as the preparation for death and itself the practice of dying and being dead is the dominant theme of Plato’s Phaedo. Who could not help but share in Simmias and Cebes’ initial perplexity and outrage upon hearing such a definition of philosophy? Socrates’ first task in the Phaedo involves his explicit answering of how philosophy is akin to dying, which sets the stage for the ensuing speeches and arguments of the Phaedo. One of the primary contentions of my essay is that it is equally in Socrates’ treatment of his young friends, his attending to their souls through philosophical speech, and his attempt to persuade them to spend their lives taking care of their own that we see just what philosophy as a preparation for death consists of – the care of our souls. And as all great endeavors that bear the balance of life and death, the care of our souls is not without danger. The primary question of my essay is what such dangers in the Phaedo are and how Socrates and his young companions follow the logos of their conversation to a place of safety at the dialogue’s conclusion and the end of Socrates’ life. But before discussing my essay with those at this table, who are the first recipients of my gratitude for the time you have taken to read my essay and are now prepared to spend with me as we enter our own dialogue guided by the richness of Plato’s Phaedo, I would like to offer a few words of thanks and dedication. To Mr. Kalkavage for the guidance of my writing and thought as you patiently encouraged me as I started and stopped, often fumbling with awkward hands in the attempt to pick up and follow my logos throughout the completion of 47 48 �this essay.  To my parents John and Julie who never once asked a young and confused, but albeit, earnest philosophy major, “What are you going to do with that?” but always trusted and had faith that there is no greater task than the care of one’s soul. To my wife Martha who shares my soul and whose love and patience never wavered as she often disproportionately shared me with the Phaedo among many other books, the seminar table and those who sat around it, and the conversations that never end.  And last and in no way least, to my son, Yohannes, to whom this work is dedicated. In the brevity of your nine weeks of life, your every movement, facial expression, and sound reminds me that you have a soul and that it is in my care but more importantly, that the art of fatherhood is to persuade you to become master of your own.  49 A Toast to the Tutors May 22, 2022 Andrew Graney Should we do this at Galway? It’s hard to believe my time here at St. John’s is coming to an end. What is the “end” of St. John’s College? Is it our happiness? I think Aristotle would be happy if it was, as long as that happiness was in accord with virtue and right reason, whatever that means. And while I chuckle to myself a little as I say, “whatever that means,” I think it gets to the heart of something important about St. John’s. I heard that phrase with some frequency during my two years here— from students and tutors alike. After one person asked what a particular author was saying, or trying to say, another might offer up a passage he thought would be helpful, read it, and then, realizing he might not have actually understood it, would say that three-word phrase. This, I find, has been a way of keeping the conversation both light and serious. It’s funny, but it also shows an openness that is key to education at St. John’s. We all came here to ask questions and read books in conversation with one another. When done right, it’s a remarkable thing. The books are in conversation with one another, and we, with one another, are in conversation with those books. That funny phrase, “whatever that means,” reveals how we actually want to have those conversations. We do not come to the texts, or each other, with premade answers, but instead have genuine interactions. We all go by our honorifics, including the tutors, because we are all trying out figure out what “it” means together. We help one another, guide one another, wrestle with the texts together. Instead of being told what something means, we have a conversation about what it might mean. We listen and have our minds changed. It’s no small thing to have one’s mind changed, and sitting at the St. John’s seminar table graciously grants us that gift. You can risk yourself here. You can say, “I don’t know.” You can ask questions that have been on your mind for years or questions you had never thought of before, of concepts entirely new to you. Through conversation, we grow. Our minds, like knives against a whetstone, become sharper, more penetrating. We have a chance to come into hard to reconcile complexities and revel in them without reducing them. As I said earlier, we say, “I don’t know,” but that “I don’t know is not an “I don’t care,” nor is it a throwing up of arms and giving up, (even if we might want to sometimes). It’s not a stagnant “I don’t know,” but a moving 50 �one—in every sense of the word. We laugh, we agree, disagree, get confused together, and perhaps even enlightened. Thank you, tutors of the GI, for cultivating this environment, for allowing all of this to happen. Thank you for guiding us in our confusion, for giving us room to be confused. Thank you for letting us think for ourselves but not by ourselves. As Aristotle said, “man is by nature a political, [i.e. social], animal. Through hosting the big questions of life, you, the tutors, help us to come into our very natures, become more ourselves. Keeping your minds (and hearts) open, you open us. So, friends, please join me in raising a glass. And here’s to the tutors: thank you for all you do. 51 A Toast to the Master’s Degree Candidates May 22, 2022 Louis Petrich, Tutor A few weeks ago I took the pleasure of reading some poetry of Robert Frost in the company of my seniors. Despite the middle portion of their college careers having been muddied by Covid, they made a clear, joyous end of it in American poetry. That got me wondering how character keeps buoyant, avoiding nausea, while crossing rough seas to rocky shores. What follows are some thoughts of mine offered apropos of your new characterization as masters of the liberal arts—the wonder of it, given the contrary winds that blow. “Thoughts of mine” warrants this note: as always when I rise to speak I owe my would-be height to the authors I have been reading of late with you—Emerson, Thoreau and Whitman, Melville and Nietzsche—and with students like you—Baudelaire, Flannery O’Connor, and always Shakespeare. Much importing we have done. Their voices stand out or blend to make my present solo a chorus. Let that suffice what is owed, so as not to appear a smuggler. You chose this college. You might have spent somewhere else your many hours, and somehow else your means to live. You maintained a bright and forward disposition when even the offspring of Whitman were given to cranky sighs at life’s unaccountable swings. I can’t chalk this up to youth, as I might with my seniors, for not all of you are young, unless, as they say, “in spirit.” That’s a word we have much encountered together—spirit: in the eagled flight of aphorisms, while dancing the dialectic, or feeling massaged by expert rhetoric. Right now, as fits our poignancy, let spirit appear as poetic stressing in those final feet of Frost’s “The Road not Taken”: I took the one less traveled by,/ And that has made all the difference.” With legs young or old you took that road, you seekers of knowledge, and on it your spirits altered. You learned how to listen and speak to the ever-living questions, booked lonely and communal, invisibly active, resolutely cheerful, unpretentious, patient; living dangerously, like an endangered species in this angry culture that hastens to harpoon and drain, Ahab style, whatever offends its fragile members. But as for your style, you players with lightning, let your future comportment manifest all the difference this road (open to many) makes to its few faithful takers. So may your faces impress the many, when they see how sympathy, generosity, and courage give you looks of readiness to expand your days, your moments towards eternity. Isn’t it remarkable (speaking of readiness) when the lines we were given to read in high school (our salad days, green in judgment) come readily back in adulthood so transparently good? For it’s often the reverse case: we return 52 �to youthful occupations or pleasures and ask: “how could I ever have liked this stuff?” This prompts me to ask if a confession of this kind will ever be encountered over the books you have been reading on the Program? The sighing of such words would have to issue from a depleted kind of character, not yet heard without gainsay among your predecessors. That being so, don’t be afraid to look back. It won’t send your Eurydice to hell or turn you to a pillar of salt. It is part of our convalescence and manifesting of health, that while bound to the perils of life we go on conducting the air-born music and grounding the fires of the sky. As water cuts into rock, let life’s learning cut into life’s hardness—silently, subtly—shaping the very character of the times we inhabit. So does an open road, overgrown with waiting, admit the impression of our cultivating passage. In my fall preceptorial with you, I looked back at my first literary heroes to see how well they would hold up to my autumnal needs. I was met by my Eurydice, face to face and accompanying me upward still, after forty years. Although the American “enterprise” (Thoreau’s favored word for it) was approaching the abyss in the 1850’s, he and his fellow transcendentalists sang—then as now—of shining dawns and springs, of love for their fellows rooted in love for themselves, and even as an assassinated president’s coffin toured the states, they conducted stars earthward and flowers they sentenced rising—for all time. And that’s not just me succumbing to fine words, for one who tried to put on the attire of Emersonian idealism but couldn’t make it fit man’s cannibal-fed fierceness—Herman Melville—even he found a good use for a cannibal’s coffin, carved with the tantalizing possibility of heaven and earth’s mutual design: that use being to keep one calling himself “Ishmael” alive to tell the incredible true story of Moby Dick. Why should we in our preceptorials harken back to the tellings of Moby-Dick, Walden, or Song of Myself, unless the tellings have like uses as that carved coffin?—to keep us well-sounded, ready to be picked up on the dark seas by bereft sailors searching for characters manifestly buoyant, however much alone, possessed of speech able to name things forever current, though not in purchase, yet much in need. And as for that great white whale pursued by Ahab, who went lining the oceans with questions untallied: is their finding each other on the open seas so incredible, when today we find ourselves lingering on high scenic old roads, not at all the current effacing efficiencies plotted for all on the plains?—when we hear our latent words come from what depths of undiscovered country to breach the surface between our facing infinities? The little things we’re made of can do what we most long to do. Isn’t that remarkable? And so here we are, where we most long to be. We have taken the most signal ways across the wanderings of our kind to arrive here and measure up. Like that German philosopher, canvassed behind a big mustache, who says, “Let us color our own example ever more brilliantly,” you too have stepped aside from the ugly, the accusatory and reproachful, the partial improvers and punishing equalizers, to paint your canvass as one whole, 53 and to make it beautiful. Remember well the practice, how to draw aside from incessant clamoring to color your example by attention to the exemplary. Whether whaling or sitting by the fire, there’s a line tightening around the neck, but remember how life’s breath, made aware of what’s out there, would fasten in its finitude only on what’s tasteful and terrific. A familiar paradox obtains here, of looking away in order to be looked at, of stepping aside from the world in order to come back to the world—still having to live, still having to think—of saying “no” to make room for a vast encompassing “yes.” Let that character obtained as yours be bold to manifest its inherent case for treading today’s less traveled road of the liberal arts. Like that fellow treader, Parker by name, trying to know himself in one of Flannery O’Connor’s late stories (boy did she ever know about that line!), his entire body he covers with random tattoos; but God—because Parker asks for God when all he has left unpainted is the blank skin of his back—God comes in answer to color the whole of his back in a tattoo of brilliantly byzantine design. Well, you asked for it when you took this road, and in brilliant color and design it’s got your back now. Whatever grumblings or fears may front you piecemeal, we’ve got your back now—wonderfully looking, masterfully reaching ahead. Let us then raise our glasses, and in reach of these towering trees that give us back breath enough to hold out against wind and rain, let us drink to the brilliant masters of the Graduate Institute, class of 2022, manifestly goodly different. 54 �A Toast to the Tutors Summer 2022 Chase Waller As I have reflected on the past four summers which I have spent at St. John’s, the big question, which I and probably my classmates have been asking is: What did I get out of this? What have I gained from my time with these amazing tutors reading these texts? Plutarch credits Solon with the following words: “The future that bears down on each of us is variable and determined by unknowable factors, and so we consider a man only happy when the gods have granted him success right up to the end of his life. However, to count anyone happy while he is still alive and faced with all the uncertainties of life is as unsound and valid as proclaiming an athlete the winner and crowning him while the contest is still in progress.” So I guess, by Solon’s calculations, I can’t thank the tutors for making me happy. Hopefully, the gods will grant me success up to the end of my life, but that privilege seems reserved for a small percentage of people. And I will corroborate Solon’s claim further by saying that St. John’s, in one sense, has not brought me happiness. I am more confused now than I ever have been in my whole life. “About what?” you may wonder. About everything! About justice, and love, and education, and history, and parallel lines, and God, and everything. It’s chronic! It never stops. St. John’s has effectively ruined certain things for me. I feel like I haven’t answered a question in four years! When I drive down an open road I see a Lobachevskian parallel and have to pull over and take a nap. I have grown to be tepid– I struggle to assert anything because I feel so lost in the vast world of wisdom and knowledge and story. This state is not happy. Sometimes it’s angry. I feel like Thrasymachus, barging into the dialogue and demanding that people listen to what I am saying, even though what I am saying falls apart so quickly. And yet, in another sense, St. John’s has brought me some of the greatest happiness in my whole life. I have made friends every summer I have been at St. John’s. I have cried every summer I have been at St. John’s. I have laughed every summer I have been at St. John’s. The list goes on, but the full range of emotions has been readily available, and I have embraced each of them openly with others. What else can you do when presented with truth and beauty? So, to answer the question, I would like to thank the tutors for what I feel is the most important thing that I have received from St. John’s (and that which might 55 cause me to disagree with Solon): simply the ability to listen. Every time I sit in class I look at the tutor and wonder to myself: “how can they listen to this conversation, having themselves read and re-read the text so much more than me, having themselves so much more background information about the text, having themselves thought so many more years than I about these things, having lived so much more life than me?” How did you, tutors, listen to my confused attempts so patiently? Why do you reject time at the beach during the summers to sit in a classroom and continue the dialogue? It is an act of love, and I am so grateful. You taught me how to listen carefully, and to dignify every person by that very act. It is tremendously profound. I hope, like you, the tutors, to be able to willingly enter confusion and difficulty over, and over, and over again with excitement, and generosity, with an ear for everyone (including the authors) and with the extreme compassion to listen. Furthermore, by your example, I have learned how to listen to and thereby love myself. When I came here, I was in a crisis. I didn’t know what to do. I used to berate myself for every little mistake I made. I still don’t know what to do, and I am still in a crisis. But now, thanks to my tutors and my friends, I know that I am not alone, and I know that I don’t have to beat myself up for not knowing. Not knowing is part of the fun. And just as I want to be like the tutors in loving others by listening to them and valuing what they say, I want to learn how to do the same for myself. Just because I don’t necessarily come to any grand conclusions, doesn’t mean the ideas in that pursuit are worthless. I will conclude with this: when I first read Notes on Dialogue, the strangest precept to me was that we were not to take notes. I thought it strange because I wanted to remember the ideas in the conversations we had. But in my time here, I saw that it was actually extremely profound to fully listen to someone, without the distraction of trying to write anything down, making full eye contact. It makes sense to me how full attention to someone’s words will give you a much deeper appreciation for their ideas. And though I might not have a record of that idea on paper, what I do have is an intimate experience with the person, having given their words due thought, and having let them convince me. In that sense, the ideas become more a part of me when I encounter them in this way than they would have had I recorded each and every one of them on paper. Every conversation was a relationship; every conversation changed the way I think in some way. I don’t need them all on paper because I think for me that would just be a temptation to return to the ideas and use them for something other than what they were meant for. Perhaps, it is better to just listen, and in so doing, to love. So, to the tutors, here’s to you for teaching us how to listen and to love. May we follow your example and thereby learn how to embrace confusion, argument, paradox, and complexity for the sake of perhaps seeing something true. 56 �A Toast to the Master’s Degree Candidates Summer 2022 John Tomarchio As God cast Adam and Eve out of the garden of paradise, so we gather here today as you cast off from this our island of misfit toys, to finish out your intellectual life among infidels and barbarians, some your nearest and dearest. And when you propose to them to spend 2 hours some Monday night after work discussing a 17th century metaphysical poem on the vanity of erotic desire; or a geocentric account of the solar system; or the arguments of an ancient Greek drinking party for and against pedophilia, they will think you a misfit for even asking, and they will be right.  So, what will be left for you to do but retreat to the secret chamber of your soul where your heavenly Father alone will see what becomes of the seeds that Holy Mother College, like a good sower, has scattered there. True, some of those seminars fell on the hard parts of your soul and were devoured forever by the birds of pride and prejudice. Other seminars fell on the shallow parts of your soul and sprung up quickly, even eagerly, only to wither before searing rays of cross-examination. Still other seminars were choked by the thorns and thistles of daily cares, for the G.I. Johnny does not live on Seminar alone! BUT, some of those seminars have fallen on good soil, and taken root, and if cultivated, will in time yield fruit 30-fold, or 60-fold, even 100-fold. And if then you should remember us, your Tutors, send a check earmarked for Tutor compensation, for Tutors can’t live on Seminar alone either.  So, please raise your glasses, my fellow Tutors, to those about to brave life after Seminar: may it never befall us! 57 58 �List of Works Cover Midnight in the Studio Jesse Clagett Digital transfer of 16mm cyanotype 59 Acknowledgements Pl. 24 A winter afternoon in Kentucky IV Jesse Clagett Black and white print 10” x 8” Cover, Jesse Clagett jesse.clagett@gmail.com 6 Melissa Moore 27 Bonnie Naradzay bonnie.naradzay@gmail.com Pl. 9 Capulin Volcano, NM, I Aschely Vaugh Cone Oil on panel with hard gesso surface 10” x 8” x 1” Pl. 25 The Gyre Jules Spiese Color pencil on paper 7 Louis Petrich, Tutor 29 Jesse Clagett 9 Aschely Vaughan Cone https://www.aschely.com/ 31 Abdullah Wadood Pl. 10 White Arch I Aschely Vaugh Cone Oil on panel with hard gesso surface 10” x 8” x 1” Pl. 29 Thinking Pre-Socratic Jesse Clagett Digital transfer of 16mm photogram Pl. 11 Cast Fossil and Carson Cover Aschely Vaugh Cone Oil on panel with hard gesso surface 10” x 8” x 1” Pl. 45 Capulin Volcano, NM, VI Aschely Vaugh Cone Oil on panel with hard gesso surface 10” x 8” x 1” Pl. 21 Found at 4000 ft. in the Appalachians Jesse Clagett Black and white print 11” x 14” Pl. 47 White Arch II Aschely Vaugh Cone Oil on panel with hard gesso surface 10” x 8” x 1” Pl. 23 And if it’s cold enough Jules Spiese Color pencil on paper Pl. 58 A winter afternoon in Kentucky III Jesse Clagett Black and white print 10” x 8” 3 Benjamin Crocker 25 Jules Spiese 26 Ansley Green 10 Aschely Vaughan Cone 33 Luis Sanchez sanchezmo.luis@gmail.com 11 Aschely Vaughan Cone 35 Ansley Green 14 Siobhan Petersen 37 Walker Rogalsky rogalsky.walker@gmail.com 16 Abdullah Wadood abdullahwadood.com 17 Jose Gabriel Coronado-Flores gabecoronado66@gmail.com 21 Jesse Clagett 22 Jesse Clagett 23 Jules Spiese https://www.jspiese.com/ 24 Jesse Clagett 45 Aschely Vaughan Cone 47 Aschely Vaughan Cone 48 Kelly Custer 50 Andrew Graney 52 Louis Petrich, Tutor 55 Chase Waller 57 John Tomarchio, Tutor 58 Jesse Clagett 60 � 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 Colloquy Description An account of the resource A student-run journal for the Graduate Institute community of St. John's College in Annapolis, Maryland. The issues feature essays, art, poetry, interviews, and more. 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 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 pdf Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 31 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 Colloquy, Fall 2022 Description An account of the resource Volume XI of Colloquy, published in Fall 2022. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Clagett, Jesse (Editor) Wadood, Abdullah (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 2023-02 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 Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived English Subject The topic of the resource St. John's College (Annapolis, Md.)--Periodicals Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Colloquy_Fall2022 Graduate Institute https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/f52c75f0b9eaace1cabeec234e90b71c.pdf bb216559fbb3be5f324ee55e843357ff PDF Text Text Colloquy On Creation 1 �2 �Table of Contents 4. Letter from the Editor 6. Poetry 22. Short Stories & Musings 32. Essays 66. Translations 79. An Interview with Associate Dean Brendan Boyle 3 �Letter from the Editor 4 �On Creation and the Value of Themes I think a short explanation of the role of theme within a publication is warranted, given its inclusion in a handful of recent issues of Colloquy. Not only is it useful for you, the reader, but for the contributors, and the editorial team. Without theme, we have nothing to judge against. I’m not speaking of judgements of quality, as we would have a difficult and spirited discussion about how to ascertain a work’s quality. Instead I mean “judge” as in weigh the value of any particular work within the context of its setting. I think the simplest way to explain the importance of a theme is to highlight how prevalent the habit of keeping something “thematic” is. You cannot say something coherently unless a theme renders what you say coherent. I’d first point to books, like the many we read here at St. John’s. If Kant deviated at all from theme then the Critique of Pure Reason would suddenly find itself impure and unreasonable. And what a detriment to the ends of that work such a change would be. A core aspect of our ingrained habit of storytelling is theme. It ties one plot point to the next and allows metaphor to shine in the liminal space between word and interpretation. The role of theme is the same as the role of words, to communicate, but theme on its own can communicate an entire catalogue of interpretations and emotions that words cannot in their isolation. So, let us focus on the theme for this issue of Colloquy: On Creation. Creation is among the most transcendent capabilities of any single thing. It can refer to the creation of new life or new purpose. We talk of artists as creators, and we say the same of gods. The role of creation is that something comes to fruition, and moves from a space purely other, that of the non-existent, to that of the tangible and knowable, materializing reality from concept. In a way, “On Creation” is not a theme that enforces rigid boundaries. Creation as act is available to the entirety of life’s beings, and seems to belong to nature’s fundamental forces. The Universe forges stars as we create an idea. As a theme, “On Creation” does invite the polity of the Graduate Institute to participate in the single most unifying capability of all the Universe. And so I would like to end this musing with what I hope the following submissions create within you, dear reader. I hope they create inspiration, so that some aspect of the style, content, or beauty of what you read here aids you in creating something wholly your own. I hope they create a reaction, as emotional states are a sudden and startling reminder that we are alive. And I hope they create a sense of appreciation for the brilliant, curious, and creative minds that make up the polity of the Graduate Institute, in this time and place. Thank you, and give witness to creation. Stephen Borsum - Editor 5 �Poetry & Musings On Creation Old Dog Forbidden Fruit Children of that World Mimi My Mind’s a Dark Forest Before the Blank Stare 6 �Contributors Austin Suggs Chris MacBride Stacey Rains Louis Petrich Sydney Rowe Sylvie Bernhardt John Harwood 7 �On Creation Austin Suggs What was in that dark Over which the Spirit’s spark hovered? There was water there it seems Though not the water of our streams. This was of a different order Not teeming with life But humming with the power Of a world not yet made But somehow already there. Did you tame primordial chaos Or disturb a primal peace? And what happened on that second day That caused the pen to betray Something was off. For it was not good Nor was it great. It simply was. Did the mass of land amidst the seas Begrudge the Spirit its roaming free A new strife where once there was peace? And tell me, how great was man, really, If you came to regret his progeny? And if he’s an image of you, Well, what are we to do With that? 8 �Somewhere with Warm Waters - Louis Petrich 9 �Old Dog Chris Macbride The click-clicking of four arthritic ankles announce him into the kitchen At 17, he’s still turning up whenever the recipe begins warm olive oil over medium heat, add 2 cloves garlic… We met him at a rescue and were told his first owner was a chef it explains a lot His back is now a long, deep sway between hip and shoulder curved like the mountain valley in Virginia where he was born He shakes his head and the World’s softest ears slap against sunken cheekbones These days, he speaks in low groans as if to say getting older stinks (like dog poop) And yet when the air outside turns chilly darn if he isn’t a pup again Trotting up the driveway eager to sniff out the latest news left by four-legged friends Nose to ground, tail wagging he is happy 10 �Forbidden Fruit Stacey Rains In 9th grade Biology, we dissected lilies; we carefully opened the white petals to access the pale green center, separated the stamen from the pistil, and   learned that even flowers have ovaries to grow life inside of life, inside the deep, protected center, comes the slow swelling and upwelling, ‘til the petals drop away, and all is given to the potential. I have wrestled with the discovery that trees can be dioecious– that plants also are gendered–and, more, that there exists a botanical misogyny. “When used for street plantings, only male trees should be selected, to avoid the nuisance from the seed.” Fertility is so inconvenient. Nevermind the spewing, fertile pollen that now dominates the landscape, causing red eyes and running noses. Nevermind regret. 11 �Children of that World Louis Petrich (Luke 20:34-36) “—they neither marry, nor are given in marriage—” That’s all, perhaps, you need to say to inculcate thy kingdom come and save us bouts of parables: your sower, famed as seeding ground that’s cursed, then straining after roots to clutch at light, next family farms and winter strawberries— all angelically void when wings caress god’s breath and ‘tis enough to harvest songs. Your late-hired field hands, prodigally paid for?-consider angels--any time--for free. The good Samaritan gets even better, stays the night with beaten travelers instead of backing home to wife and stacking nursing on an innkeeper, whose own shrewd wife, though scraping profit from the dirty sheets, with years grows tired of busybody neighbor feats. 12 �There’d be no rigmarole with folks declining t’attend the wedding--no resorting last to uncast idlers outing for a lark— when kingdom come has come, the nights are done that consummate, no made-up faces fine or bodies nipped and tucked to light a spark— O what a load from off the mind!--you lookers, mark. My savior dear, your promised kingdom parabolic could have been a kingdom literal, in words that summon what they mean forthright as prince’s peal: I say there shan’t be children given away from honied skies. For yes, I do remember Paradise-creation, mine to color. Then the pall, for none do slice off married once for all until they deal their evil able parts and die while knowing them inseparable. She, hearing how to swallow serpentine the world, tends him naked taste of inside out desire; henceforth, he’s good no more alone to name things as he will and hear the Lord approve. 13 �If only kingdom come, pie rained from sky, were plated now for simple thanks to still the pulpy verbiage, round it goes: “Now eat at once the astronomical wee apple that lets fall the dominoes.” Along come back pains, raking leaves from tree left-o’er uneaten, cracking truth on fossil fruit pertaining not to peaceful night of sleep ‘til death-with tugging of the limbs and closing in and never deeper getting than this flushing skin. To walk with God in cool breeze of the evening--unafraid of after-hidden, poor performing fool— that’s ever, and forever, bliss. For that, be overcome, O world amiss. 14 �Mimi Sydney Rowe Vertebrate coast. Silent boat. Cusp of tropics, touch pearl. Medicine inside embers. Sails high; flatter. Arcing Inwards to you. The tiny cabin with a bowl of salt. Cut open, pouring. 15 �My Mind’s a Dark Forest Sylvie Bernhardt Escape—run for the trees—evade; Before they mark me freak, No hope flickers warmth I might save. No others will I need learn. Down, down a dark stone cave Goes I, who dares and burns. I’ll claim honors as renegade, Down, down these mountain graves As friend to claw and beak. That shutter, crack, and groan. No good friend have they been to me— Community of Fear— Scratching fang nails on rusty rails, These wretched creatures roam. Conquer my last youthful decree: I’m no Devil nor deity; “I know this dark mirror.” Grisly death wings me home. Under night’s blanket I make haste Away from light, away. To fall in sight would lead to waste; Safety in darkness lay. Know I seek not a Paradise Where those wretched do roam. Those that claw against their stone tombs Wail, weak cretin cries. As I descend, no lights a friend Forever suckling purple blooms, To delve through depths returned. They who lives no more dies. Wicked shadows cling to bright kin, To I, who dares and burns. Brutish heads prevail in disorder, In guise of man though beast. Debased are they, the exploiter, And violence of brutes won’t cease. 16 �I move quietly in shadow But if my flesh be not my end, With sharp claw I unsheathe. Then question not my aim. No hatred I harbor in tow, Makers of form are divine kin, But blood be what we breathe. So worship not to tame. Should I consent to suffer more Tread on, but move most steadily, Or live in sunk despair? Else these shales might splinter, I know in cruelty they’ll restore And break. Striking me readily, A lust for death so fair. As done in past winter. Earth, oh Earth, cries do bury Depths I dove, and air gusts led An evil rot in mind. Through caverns and deluge. Spoken in tongues—restless fury A moonlit grove, past tamed, then freed— Stirs frenzied force blind. Now my living refuge. If only I had strength in hand to rake A melody of crinkling leaves The tremors from my flesh. Invokes safety’s soft glee. From my throat’s rage to the world’s break, Lantern flower blooms now breathes All cries ever languish. A loving warmth through me. Death I keep always in soft heart, Hold I no more despotic dark, That will know endless cold. While rose, mint and oak grows; Love binds us before we depart; Reflecting sanctuary’s mark Of All, this I now hold. Away I from old woes. 17 �Ruins are ripened with dull time. On this bed of oak leaves I sleep; I find the warm glow safe. No company I seek. Lonely lantern’s golden flame climbs My tale always to tell as creep, An ancient etched-stone waif. As friend to claw and beak. Secret garden beneath the falls Spiraling to center. Fire sprouts flame on vine-meshed walls Blooming in November. To stir thoughts of metaphysics I deny mind’s fetters. Alight there glows hieroglyphics— Spells in gold letters. Timber crackles in a dirt pit. Smoke fails to reach the floor. Poems I babble and I spit, So to deepen the lore. Tonight, what dreams will I endure? Be they kind or bleak? While rosy-cheeked dawn will ignore Me so tender and meek. 18 �Puck: Consider it a Dream - Nadine Bucca 19 �Before the Blank Stare John Harwood Here I sit and kneel Before the blank stare Of some little earth, An image, of one I have never seen nor touched. The more thoughts rattle In between my ringing ears, The less I can manage To imagine even the carving Of the one I’ve never seen. A faceless and mangled Homunculus of marble Stands before my penitent’s gaze. In fear, I can not fathom to begin; To set a chisel into the creature, To even gesture to the creator. How can I release anger and dread, Praise and duty, pent up In the veins and muscles Of marble, so finely shaped By the hands of the Almighty? 20 �Would even a painting, A lead etching, A mindless praying, Or even tranced dancing Begin to evoke the Unspeakable, The Ever-Perplexing? So, I sit and scratch lines into letters And letters into the pages of my heart That resembles the stone That patiently awaits Before my artist’s first minding. After a purging time of pondering Before the blank stare Of the One Unfathomed, Who fathoms me gently, I dare begin to finally set a mark. 21 �Short Stories & Musings Dialogue: Meeting with Descartes TRANSLATIONS The First Postulate 22 �Contributors Yonas Ketsela Cynthia Crane 23 �Dialogue: Meeting with Descartes Yonas Ketsela I set out on a journey today to meet with Descartes. He invited me to come and chat with him at his house. I have been anxiously waiting to see him all day. I have his book, Meditations on First Philosophy under my arms. After a long walk, I arrived at the appointed time, and I am now only waiting for his call. This is roughly how our conversations go: Descartes: “Let us for example take the wax; it has only just been removed from the honeycomb; it has not yet lost all the flavour of its honey; it retains some of the scent of the flowers among which it has gathered; its colour, shape, and size are clearly visible; it is hard, cold, easy to touch, and if you tap it with your knuckle, it makes sound. In short, it has all the properties that seem to be required for a given body to be known as distinctly as possible.” Yonas: What you said makes sense to me. This is in fact what I myself experimented on a candle before coming here. If I put it in my own words, what you describe is exactly what I characterise as my conscious sense-experience or sensations: the colour, shape, size of the candle belongs to my vision; it has some cedar flavour which belongs to my sense of smell and taste; its hardiness and coldness to my sense of touch; and its sound to my ear. Thus, all these sensations are distinct to me. Even though I am not sure if I can say that it is clear, nor do I know exactly what this experience means to me. Descartes: “But wait–while I am speaking, it is brought close to the fire. The remains of its flavour evaporate; the smell fades; the colour is changed, the shape is taken away, it grows in size, becomes liquid, becomes warm, it can hardly be touched, and now, if you strike it, it will give off no sound. Does the same wax still remain?” Yonas: It is unclear to me now how I can precisely answer the question whether the same wax remains or not. But one fact is clear to me that it has undergone some changes of appearance. Its previous qualities are not there anymore. My sensations are obviously diminished in reaction to this change. I can barely smell it, its colour is unclear, its shape somewhat deformed or irregular as a result of being in a change of state—from that of solid to liquid; I also cannot grasp it; its sound is not as distinct as before. So, I guess, so far as my sensation is diminished, I can say it is not exactly the same wax as before. In fact, if someone now breaks into the house and senses this wax, he would hardly be able to exactly predict or imagine its previous state. But as for me, I know what happened and I can remember its previous state–however vague it might be. So I don’t see the same wax as before. 24 �Descartes: [I see what you are saying but] “we must admit it does remain: no one would say or think it does not. So what was there in it that was so distinctly grasped? Certainly, none of those qualities I apprehended by the senses: for whatever came under taste, or smell or sight, or touch, or hearing, has now changed: but the wax remains.” Yonas: Ahh, you are right. I hadn’t reflected in this way before. But If I follow your suggestion, it does seem to me that what I distinctly grasped was first its number, namely, there was one wax here which has undergone a change from one state to another. But as you said, for its taste, smell, sight, touch and hearing, they become very obscure and even my imagination can only be a little to no help (given that my imagination is not good enough). My senses may still retain a certain trace of sensations in them, but I am sure they will disappear pretty soon (given that my memory does not always record these sensations accurately). In another extreme case, someone who does not have one of these sense organs may not participate in the same experience at all as I am now. I am now wondering if these qualities are not necessarily what belongs to the essence of this wax, then what is the essence of the wax apart from these qualities? Descartes: [Good], “perhaps the truth of the matter was what I now think it is: namely that the wax itself was not in fact sweetness of the honey, or the fragrance of the flowers or the whiteness, shape, or sonority, but the body which not long ago appeared to me as perceptible in these modes, but now appears in others. But what exactly is this that I am imaging in this way?” Yonas: That is exactly what I am wondering about too. Descartes: [Okay] “let us consider the matter and, thinking away those things that do not belong to the wax, let us see what remains.” Yonas: Ok. Good. Descartes: “Something extended, flexible, mutable: certainly, that is all.” Yonas: I think I can understand that. Descartes: “But in what do this flexibility and mutability consist? Is it in the fact that I can imagine this wax being changed in shape, from a circle to a square, and from a square into a triangle?” Yonas: Well, speaking in clear concepts, I think, that may be what we can understand by terms such as flexibility and mutability. But I am not sure if that is exactly what happens in reality. Descartes: [Okay] “That cannot be right: for I understand that it is capable of innumerable changes of this sort, yet I cannot keep track of all these by using my imagination.” 25 �Yonas: Now, I see what you mean, namely that the limitation of my faculty of imagination would not at all allow me to keep track of all these changes ad infinitum. Descartes: “What about ‘extended’? Surely, I know something about the nature of its extension. For it is greater when the wax is melting, greater still when it is boiling, and greater still when the heat is further increased.” Yonas: Yes, in some vague estimation, I can surely think of changes in its state, that is to say, from a solid state to liquid or further to gas, consequently its extension increases. Yes, I am not sure whether at a certain point, we may want to say that it is dispersed, and not any longer an extension but discrete parts in space. Descartes: [Okay, hold that thought] “And I would not be correctly judging what the wax is if I failed to see that it is capable of receiving more varieties, as regards extension, than I have ever grasped in my imagination.” Yonas: Your meaning is that if I cannot determine what this wax is like as it changes from one state into another in some notion or idea, then it seems that I could not do that by my imagination alone. Descartes: “Now [see] I am left with no alternative, but not to accept that I am not at all imagining what this wax is, I am perceiving it with my mind alone: I say ‘this wax’ in particular, for the point is even clearer about wax in general. So then, what is this wax, which is only perceived by the mind?” Yonas: If I remember correctly, we previously said that if we remove all the qualities from the wax, we will arrive at only flexibility, mutability, and extension. Is that what you mean? I mean that the mind can grasp the wax in these ideas and yet it would be the same wax. Descartes: “Certainly, it is the same wax I see, touch, and imagine, and in short it is the same wax I judged it to be from the beginning. But yet—and this is important—the perception of it is not sight, touch or imagination and never was, although it seemed to be so at first: it is an inspection by the mind alone, which can be either imperfect and confused, as it was before in this case, or clear and distinct, as it now is, depending on the greater or lesser degree of attention I pay to what it consists of.” Yonas: Indeed, that seems to be an interesting and important point. There seems to be much more happening in perception than my simple sensations. But I don’t quite see the problem yet. I do trust my senses that they can give me accurate sensations, but I hadn’t quite reflected in this way before—how my mind can be problematic to this experience or how it would inspect the wax apart from the senses and yet could be in error? Descartes: “...I am amazed by the proneness of my mind to error. For although I am considering this in myself silently and without speech, I am ensnared by words themselves, and all but deceived by the very ways in which we usually put things. For we say that 26 �we ‘see’ the wax itself, if it is present, not that we judge it to be there on the basis of its colour or shape. From this I would have immediately concluded that I therefore knew the wax by the sight of my eyes, not by the inspection of the mind alone.” Yonas: That difference makes sense to me. Descartes: [For example, as I am seeing this wax]..”If I had not happened to glance out of the window at people walking along the street, I have immediately concluded that I knew the wax by the sight of my eyes, not by the inspection of the mind alone but using the customary expression, I say that I ‘see’ them [the people in the street] just say I ‘see’ the wax. But what do I actually see other than hats and coats, which could be covering automata? But I judge that they are people. And therefore, what I thought I saw with my eyes, I in fact grasp only by the faculty of judging that is in my mind.” Yonas: This explanation does make much more sense to me now, especially when I connect it to what you said before about the degree of attention one needs to put in his observation of facts of experience. Thus, my mind’s imperfection and confusion then only consist in that it judges quickly and that is when it errs. Descartes: [Good] “Let us then go on where we left off by considering whether I perceived more perfectly and more evidently what the wax was, when I first encountered it, and believed that I knew it by these external senses, or at least by what they call common sense, that is imaginative power; or whether I perceive it better now, after I have more carefully investigated both what it is and how it is known. Certainly, it would be foolish to doubt that I have a much better grasp of it now. For what, if anything, was distinct in my original perception?” Yonas: I don’t believe we arrived at that yet. Descartes: [That is right] When I distinguish the wax from its external forms, and as if I had stripped off its garments, consider it in all its nakedness, then, indeed, although there may still be error in my judgement. I cannot perceive it in this way except by [my] mind…I have learned now that bodies themselves are perceived not, strictly speaking, by the senses or by the imaginative faculty, but by the intellect alone and that that they are not perceived because they are touched or seen, but only because they are understood, I clearly realise that nothing can be perceived by me more easily and more clearly that by own mind. Yonas: I am amazed by this conclusion. I think I would rather stop our discussion here. I want to go now and come back another day for more discussions. For now, I have enough thoughts to contemplate for the coming days. It is really nice meeting you and talking to you in such a respectful way. 27 �Walking to My House My dialogue with Descartes was very interesting and, on my way back home, I was contemplating deeply the significance of his conclusion. Descartes’s assertion is that in one’s act of thinking, he said, it is possible to strip all external impressions and concentrate a certain degree of attention to the object and receive a correct perception in the mind. This is conceivable. After a long walk, I finally arrived at my house. I was completely lost in contemplation; only when I looked at the flowers at the front door of my house that I was awakened to the facts of this amazing world. I said to myself, ‘that is my house.” I judged it correctly but the question that is still with me is how I did that— is it my mind or my senses that showed me the way here? Note: The Full Treatise of Descartes’s Discussion of the Wax is found in Book II of his Meditations on First Philosophy. 28 �The First Postulate Cynthia Crane A false and scurrilous tale Let it be postulated to draw a straight line from any point to any point. East of the dusty market, under a low dry tree, a girl put an open wooden box at the feet of her little brother. The boy did not notice, but stared at the curling clouds brushing the near-white sky, broken to bits by the branches and leaves of the olive. “Euclid, look,” she said, and tapped the box. Their mother, working the edge of the market, stopped her hawking, saw the children safe in conversation, and turned back to her selling. Nothing would come of it, she knew, and wished the girl would let her brother be. Euclid’s eyes moved slowly off the clouds and his mind moved slowly off the job of assembling them back to wholes from the fragments between the leaves. The box of sand assembled itself at his feet, and then his sister’s face: lips, teeth, sunned freckles, black eyes obscured by curls. “Euclid,” she said, “come back.” So he did. The boy knelt and smoothed the sand And smoothed the sand And smoothed the sand, Grains of glass under his palms Grains of glass under his palms Grains of glass under his palms and fingertips. Mother’s cries, “here, here, sailor,” Cut his ears like Grains of glass under his palms and fingertips. “Don’t listen,” the girl said, and shifted the box around so Euclid would not watch their mother. His tears were leaving tracks in the dust on his face, but she did not wipe them away, would not touch him and set him off. He spit the dirt out of his mouth, and watched it bead then sink into the ground. 29 �No. He smoothed the sand and smoothed the sand and smoothed the sand, grains of glass under his palms and fingertips. “Yes. Look.” His sister’s dirty finger poked a dot in the sand, And by it, another, And by it, another, And by it, another, Snaking a line across the box of sand, Awaking a serpent in his mind, Between his eyes, Behind his nose, Above the taste of salty olives and grape leaves boiled in wine Lingering Annoying On his tongue. He spit again. No. The serpent reared its hooded head, smelling tongue and clouded eyes. It curled around his thoughts and flicked them into disarray. Euclid jabbed his finger into the sand, dragged it straight across the box, connecting one of his sister’s dots to another and abandoning the rest. He pulled his finger out again, and smoothed the sand on either side of the line he’d made. He leaned forward, his face close to the surface of the sand, and then he leaned back. Strange. Sensation. He felt his face with his fingertips and palms. It moved soft as shifting sand or dust and as though and as though and as though . “You’re smiling,” his sister said. 30 “Yes.” �Galaxy in a Flower - Nadine Bucca 31 �Essays Corruption at the Symposium How to Read Well The Galileo Affair The Nature of the Pilgrimage The Creation of the Self 32 �Contributors Sam Hage Siobhán Petersen Shirley Quo Noah Vancina Kyle Reynolds 33 �Corruption at the Symposium Sam Hage At the conclusion of the Symposium’s six speeches about Eros, the drunken Alcibiades interrupts the party with a crowd of attendants in tow. At the conclusion of Alcibiades’ speech, another, drunker crowd of revelers interrupts the party, sending things into confusion and signaling the end of Aristodemus’ narrative. Unlike Alcibiades’ initial entrance, which enables his long and rhapsodic depiction of Socrates—providing key biographical information found in only a handful of places in Plato—this second entrance seems to serve no discernible dramatic purpose. A small detail, however, included almost as an afterthought, may tell us a great deal. The second time around, the intruders find the door to Agathon’s house already open, because “someone had gone out.” We mustn’t suppose this detail is accidental; according to ancient anecdotes, Plato revised individual lines of his dialogues hundreds of times. What’s more, the preposterous custodial chain of the Symposium’s narrative is a clear indication of Plato’s own authorial hand at work. So who has left the party? And why does Plato wish for us to know? Once noticed, the first question is not difficult to answer: Alcibiades is still speaking or has just finished; Phaedrus and Erixymachus are mentioned as leaving right after this; Socrates, Agathon, and Aristophanes stay awake talking all night; Aristodemus is there to witness and narrate it all. Of the seven speakers, plus Aristodemus, Pausanias is the only one not explicitly mentioned. Unless this is a meaningless addition meant to refer to one of the unnamed speakers whom Aristodemus or Apollodorus forgot about, the only possibility is Pausanias. Why Plato should present us with this detail is a much greater question. Pausanias, we are told in the opening pages, is still hungover from last night’s festivities—but no reader will be satisfied to think he has left simply because he isn’t feeling well. More relevant is the fact that he has been witnessing his beloved, Agathon, flirt with the beautiful newcomer Alcibiades—and with Socrates from the very start of the party. Given that it is during Alcibiades’ speech that Pausanias finally storms out, it seems likely that 34 Alcibiades will provide us with the key to Plato’s lesson. �Without undertaking a tedious examination of Pausanias’ and Alcibiades’ speeches, we can at least observe some cursory points. Pausanias’ defense of Eros is highly unerotic; even the “highest” relationships are for him ultimately transactional. In truth, Eros is not defended at all, but instead undergoes a kind of technical scrutiny and classification. Pausanias’ bizarre focus on the jurisprudence of pederasty is especially startling in juxtaposition with Phaedrus’ emphasis on the tragic nobility of a lover’s self-sacrifice and Eryximachus’ rapturous elevation of Eros as the governing principle of the entire cosmos. His focus on the shameful is revealing: he seems rather ashamed of erotic relationships altogether. No character could be further opposed than that of the shameless and bombastic Casanova who delivers the evening’s unexpected epilogue. Whereas Socrates reveals the true nature of Eros properly understood, Alcibiades vividly illustrates the corruption that this philosophic attitude can sometimes leave in its wake. As a youth, Alcibiades has been partially won over by an appeal to wisdom; nonetheless, the conversion has not entirely succeeded. Plato’s dramatic art demonstrates the extreme care Socrates took in choosing to whom, and how, he disclosed his teachings. Socratic education does not admit of half measures, and a little learning is a dangerous thing. No doubt Socrates is not entirely to blame for the schizophrenic political career of a man with such unreformable erotic impulses. Nevertheless, many Athenians would have seen Alcibiades as a prime example of Socratic corruption. However strange his views of pederasty might seem to us, Pausanias, by contrast, is a spokesman for the conventional. His archetypal pederastic relationship exchanges the beauty of the body for the knowledge of a wise teacher. The lover possesses the good that is truth, and desires the beauty he lacks. Socrates recognizes the beauty of his own soul as superior to that of any mere body; he would never participate in this transaction. Socrates’ students instead come to recognize the beauty of his soul, and become his lovers instead. Plato offers us many indications that corruption is a theme of the Symposium. When Apollodorus is first approached by his unnamed companion in the dialogue’s opening lines, he reports that just the other day, Glaucon had asked to “question him closely” about the party where “Socrates, Alcibiades, and the others” made erotic speeches. 35 �The singular focus on Alcibiades is understandable, not only because of his prominent role in Athenian politics throughout the Peloponnesian War, but especially on account of suspicions that Socrates was somehow responsible for Alcibiades’ spectacular downfall. The party depicted in Plato’s dialogue occurred not long before the Sicilian expedition, Alcibiades’ recall, and his subsequent desertion to Sparta; the framing device at the start of the dialogue takes place just over a decade later—only a handful of years before Socrates’ trial. This offhand inclusion of Glaucon as Apollodorus’ interrogator is extremely notable: the evidence of this dialogue, in addition to that of other Platonic works, suggests that of all Socrates’ close associates, Glaucon in particular may have felt himself corrupted by Socrates’ tutelage. At the start of this dialogue we learn that “everything” is more important to Glaucon than philosophy. This might indicate that he now holds a conventional and suspicious view of Socrates’ way of life; moreover, it tells us that his concern with the details of the speeches at the party can’t possibly have been philosophical. How odd, indeed, that if he is so interested in the events of the drinking party, he did not simply consult Socrates himself. Glaucon’s importance is also signaled by similarities between the opening lines of the Symposium and the Republic, in which Glaucon is Socrates’ central interlocutor: both begin with the narrator “going up” to town, before being arrested by a combative acquaintance. In this case, the verb used by Apollodorus in the dialogue’s first line, πυνθάνεσθε (“I am not unprepared for what you ask about”), is in the second person plural—is he now being scrutinized by a group of inquisitors? Xenophon also wrote a dialogue called the Symposium, also with an unmistakable suggestion of the theme of corruption: Socrates is there depicted in the company of the beautiful youth Autolycus and his father, Lycon—one of Socrates’ accusers in his trial for corrupting the young. In general, Xenophon seems more willing than Plato to concede the reality of the corruption charge. He grants in the Memorabilia, first, that Socrates did indeed impart political skill to his associates and, second, that Alcibiades and Critias were among those associates. 36 �(It is often taken for granted that the ruination of these two supreme criminals was the real substance of Socrates’ indictment, but that because of the amnesty of 403, such a charge could not be made explicit.) Commentators have even pointed out that the Greek verb απομνημονεύω, from which the title Memorabilia is derived, can mean, in addition to simply “call to mind,” to “hold something against another”; not just “bear in mind,” but also “bear a grudge.” Just like Plato’s inclusion of the detail of the open door, Xenophon cannot possibly have placed Lycon among the banquet’s attendees by accident. He must wish for us to learn something about what would become Lycon’s motivations for accusing Socrates 23 years later. It is true that in Xenophon’s version of events, just as in Plato’s, Socrates subverts commonly accepted pederastic norms, urging both Callias and Critobulus to avoid sexual entanglements and to care only for the virtue of their young beloveds. But while disagreements like this might explain a frustrated lover’s early departure from a party, they can hardly provide motive for the prosecution of a capital crime. Besides, this chaste exhortation is exactly the kind of thing Lycon, the father of a handsome youth, would most wish to hear. Doubtless far more important, then, is the revelation that Autolycus was killed by the Thirty Tyrants after the Peloponnesian War. Did Lycon hold a particular grudge against Socrates for his role in Critias’ education, or associate him with Thirty’s rise? Did he blame Socrates for Autolycus’ being an “outspoken” member of the insurgent democratic faction, as Diodorus Siculus describes him? Beyond his putative influence on Critias, there is admittedly a strong case against Socrates as an opponent of democracy. Republicanism and the rule of law are presented a number of times in Plato’s dialogues as a “second sailing” to the rule of a wise statesman, and in the Republic, Kallipolis bears certain unmistakable similarities to Sparta and other monarchic or oligarchic regimes. Socrates’ theories about “intellectual despotism”—the belief that the wise alone hold a rightful claim to rule—could easily have been taken by men like Lycon to constitute support for actual despots. It is understandable that an embittered father could attribute some blame to Socrates, the famous political philosopher, for the power and brutality of the oligarchic Thirty 37 �Tyrants. It may not at first make sense that Lycon could also blame him for his son Autolycus’ membership in the coalition that resisted them. But Xenophon once again suggests the connection. Despite the fact that no reader of the dialogues could mistake Callias III of Alopece for a genuine follower of Socrates, the debaucherous grandee presents himself at the beginning of Xenophon’s Symposium as a devoted student of philosophy and a member of the Socratic circle. In Xenophon’s depiction of the party, Socrates exhorts Callias to a career in politics, and tells him the surest way to woo Autolycus is to make him more virtuous. Indeed, the theme of the evening’s conversation is introduced by the question of who can “make Autolycus better.” Socrates quickly warns the others that this is a dangerous topic, and should be put off to another time. It seems he was right: Callias’ unfortunate political career during the Peloponnesian War demonstrates a respect in which Autolycus chose the wrong mentor. Perhaps Lycon sees it thus: a follower of Socrates ensured Autolycus became an outspoken member of the losing side; a follower of Socrates caused the winning side to form a powerful, repressive oligarchy that put Autolycus to death. Socrates’ supposed intellectual despotism, it turns out, is not unconnected to his erotic innovations. In both Symposia, erotic attachment to the beautiful is supplanted by attraction to the good. This reorientation is of a piece with the typical Socratic line about deliberate action and human motivations: everyone is always pursuing what seems good to him, and wrongdoing is thus the result only of mistaken apprehension of the good. Human action, in other words, is to be understood in terms of a kind of self-interest; elevated self-interest perhaps, but self-interest nonetheless. To truly comprehend this outlook is to radically undermine traditional notions of noble virtue. If what it means to act deliberately is to act in accordance with a belief in one’s own good, how could beautiful sacrifice be possible? On this extreme Socratic view of human nature, the brave or noble person really thinks what he’s doing is best. Orpheus, Alcestis, and Phaedrus’ invincible regiment of male lovers would no longer deserve our admiration—not to mention pediatricians, special ed teachers, firemen, and 38 �Nobel Peace laureates. In teaching this doctrine, Socrates did something far more subversive than impugn the city’s religion. Most Athenians, in any case, seem to scorn literal belief in the gods: Euthyphro is openly ridiculed for his unusual fundamentalism. It was corruption of the young that carried the real weight in Socrates’ indictment, for which impiety was mere window dressing. Socrates has done something much worse than simply contravene the city’s religion; he has taken away its idols, and undermined the very basis for noble and heroic deeds. No wonder the city tries to kill him. We would, too. 39 �Nightmare - Nadine Bucca 40 �How to Read Well Siobhán Petersen How is it that I’m able to say that I’m not sure I ever read a book before I started the Program? Close reading – attending deeply to what is said, the way it was said, what it could mean – has never been a weakness of mine. Yet, something was still missing; some crucial engagement beyond merely what the author has put on offer that gets to the vitality of what our labors are all for. How do we facilitate a meaningful conversation with an inanimate object, how do we engage with ideas so renowned they’re practically cliché? If we decide the inexhaustibility we’re seeking in the Great Books actually comes from ourselves, can this teach us how to drink deeper from them? I offer some thoughts on how I’ve met that challenge. I On a pragmatic concern: I am a strong advocate of writing in our books. The best advice I ever got on annotation – after it was too late to help with my first semester, incidentally – was to not to try to make insights or observations in the margins, but rather to be indexing them for things I found interesting about it as I read. My margins are full of notes that just describe the action, like “Patroclus’ ghost;” running motifs specific to the text, like “synthetic judgment” or “The Moment;” and big ideas it might speak to, like “fate” or “death” or “divine justice.” i This makes it easy to find quotes in discussion, and come paper season, it’s so helpful to know what I was thinking about and where. I’ve turned my copy into a bespoke reference for textual evidence on every line of inquiry that matters to me. But more to the point, it helps me read deeper because it helps me return to the text as I think about it later on; it is perhaps only half of the experience to actually read and discuss, the other half is how you turn it over in your mind after. ii Beyond the practical value, I’d also advocate for an aesthetic value to the practice. Books are strange, fourth dimensional objects – they carry our thoughts forward in time. A thought is ephemeral; a body of them preserved against the passage of time is a text, and that can be as true for the reader as it is for the writer. Further, I am creating a shelf of artifacts of my life at St. John’s. What starts as a two-way conversation between the reader and the author becomes a trialogue, with the version of myself as a Master’s student participating too. Just as I feel privileged to see inside the head of people I care about when I read their annotated books, someone is likely to value these thoughts from this particular stretch of time of my life at some point in the future, even if that someone is only me. 41 �II I think what separates a lay reading and a close reading is a decision: to take nothing within a text as incidental. Every word was deliberately chosen for a particular effect; every tangent, every metaphor was considered in light of the whole. I take as axiom that no one writes anything because they want to say something – they do it because they need to say something. Whatever the author set out to express lies in the background of every small detail, so it pays to attend them with care. How do we attend to details that will enhance the discussion? I think that anything that sticks out to you is interesting. A particular use of language, a mention of something else you read, the way some pet interest of yours appears in a reading: I’ve seen some of the most profitable inquiries come out of someone’s peculiar observation. Someone offering their idiosyncratic take opens up vistas of thought that, definitionally, I could never have hoped to imagine myself. Ultimately (or with an eye to the Good Life, let’s say penultimately), we read to come ready to share; to me, this is what we call the “learning community.” No one else can give your perspective, and it’s our function as classmates in-community to offer it. i In trying to sort out the big picture, I think it’s valuable to remind myself – as anyone who’s written anything can probably relate to – I’ve never gotten to the end of any writing project and felt like I’d fully said everything I set out to. I try to leave space in the text for what the author perhaps couldn’t write. I think this is different from simply granting a charitable reading; I’m perhaps suggesting we can sometimes glimpse past the text if we look hard enough at the totality as well as the particularity: can see the forest and the trees. Whether we’re impressed with the picture we see is up to us, but given the choice between two readings, I try to default to the one that is most nuanced, human, interesting. ii Counterintuitively, what I’m not suggesting is a devotion to the author, nor their intended message. What I’ve found reading so many Great Texts birthed from Great Minds is that somewhere along the way I stopped reading to find out what Plato, or Descartes, or Dostoevsky thought; I only read to find out what I think. We talk about ourselves as “in conversation” with the books. Part of being a good conversationalist is to hold up your end of the discussion. Have your own thoughts! There’s a bit of a pressure-relief in realizing I can be nearly certain I can’t have a wholly original idea about texts so widely read, but that doesn’t mean we have to rely on cliché, or pre-made understandings. What does a text mean to you, right now? III In that spirit of the “now,” I’ll even go so far as to say it is okay to disinterpret a text to the end of creating the most interesting possible reading. “Disinterpretation” implies willfulness; we are free to develop accounts of the reading that run contrary to good sense, so long as we can support it with textual evidence. Put a quote in another context! Take one out of context! 42 �Are you unsatisfied with the answer the author provides, can you develop a more elegant account with what else they’ve said? i Even if you end up spiraling out or spinning the wheels; experimenting by analyzing, combining and recombining ideas from all over the canon, from your classmates, from your favorite novel will be a worthwhile skill to build in its own right. I try not to worry myself with the products of any of these experiments, nor do I try to disguise my experiments in-seminar as completed positions; the idea is to push every idea to its limits. I only ever want to be a better scientist. ii Partly, my decision to close-read is built on this disinterpretation; I can’t know for sure what was in the mind of the author when they selected any element, but I choose to read it otherwise, even if I’m wrong. I joyfully forfeit any spurious claim on the Necessary for a ground in the realm of the Aesthetic. If something seems to come out of nowhere based on everything you’ve previously understood about the work, it’s easy enough to disregard it as incidental, but far more worthwhile to examine it as vital, integral. Why might this be here? There’s no ambition to exactitude in “might,” only pliable openness. It is my firm opinion we are not here to be right about anything; we’re here to be wrong in interesting ways. 43 �Galileo and the Interaction between Religion and Science Shirley Quo Introduction Galileo’s Dialogue on the Two Chief World Systems: Ptolemaic and Copernican (Dialogue) is one of the most important texts of the Copernican and Scientific revolution. It started the transition from the geocentric to a geokinetic worldview by means of interdisciplinary considerations based on Galileo’s new physics, observational evidence stemming from his telescopic discoveries and methodological principles including critical reasoning. The Dialogue is also noteworthy because it led to Galileo’s trial by the Roman Catholic Inquisition in 1633. His book was banned and he was found guilty of ‘vehement suspicion of heresy’. This was because the Catholic Church believed that the Holy Scriptures supported the geocentric worldview i.e. that the sun revolved around the earth. To support a geokinetic worldview was therefore an act of heresy. These developments are known as the Galileo Affair. The purpose of this article is to examine the conflict between science and religion in the context of the Dialogue, the Galileo Affair and its aftermath. What, if any, is the role of religious authority and the Bible in scientific inquiry? The Geostatic Worldview The geostatic worldview assumed that the earth is spherical, motionless and that it is located at the center of the universe i.e. geocentric theory. Aristotle and Ptolemy were the two main contributors to this view of the universe. The old view considered that there was a fundamental division in the universe between the earthly and the heavenly regions and each region consisted of bodies with different properties and behavior. This is called the heaven-earth dichotomy. Terrestrial bodies occupied the central region of the universe below the moon, whereas heavenly bodies occupied the outer region from the lunar to the stellar sphere (the highest heaven or the firmament). Earthly bodies moved naturally straight toward (downward for earth and water) or away from the center of the universe (upward for air and fire), whereas celestial bodies (aether) moved circularly around the same center. 44 �Geometrically there were only two lines with the property that all parts are congruent with any other part – the circle and the straight line. Motion could be simple or mixed. Simple motion was motion along a straight line. Thus there were only two types of simple motion – straight and circular. Mixed motion was motion which is neither straight nor circular. There was a theoretical reason why upward and downward natural motions could belong to the same fundamental region of the universe but were essentially different from natural circular motion. This is the theory of change as contrariety according to which all change derives from contrariety and no change can exist where there is no contrariety. Contrarierty means opposites such as hot and cold, dry and humid. So up and down is a fundamental contrariety. This applies to terrestrial bodies which is full of qualitative changes e.g. birth, growth, generation, destruction etc. Circular natural motion of heavenly bodies by contrast have no contrary therefore it lacked an essential condition for the existence of change. Because no physical or organic or chemical changes were detected or observed in the heavens, it was claimed that the heavenly realm, unlike the terrestrial realm, was unchangeable, ingenerable, incorruptible etc. This provided the basis for the heaven-earth dichotomy. The Copernican System Copernicus published ‘On the Revolutions of the Heavenly Spheres’ (Revolutions) in 1543. Unlike the old view, the stellar sphere was motionless and did not revolve around the earth with westward diurnal rotation. Instead, the diurnal rotation belonged to the earth, though its direction was eastward in order to result in the observational appearance of the whole universe rotating westward. This is called a geokinetic worldview. The earth was given a second motion, an orbital revolution around the sun with a period of one year, and also in an eastward direction. The annual motion was shifted from the sun to the earth thus making the earth a planet rather than the sun. This terrestrial orbital revolution meant that the earth was located off-center, the center being instead the sun. This is called a heliocentric worldview. 45 �Copernicus’s view was based on an idea proposed by the Pythagoreans in ancient Greece which had been rejected in favour of the Ptolemaic worldview. In Copernicus’s worldview, the earth moves by rotating on its own axis daily and by revolving around the sun once a year. It was a simpler and more coherent theory if the sun rather than the earth is assumed to be at the center and the earth is taken to be the third planet circling the sun yearly and spinning daily on its own axis. It had fewer moving parts than the geokinetic system because the apparent daily motion of all heavenly bodies around the earth is explained by the earth’s axial rotation and thus there is only one thing moving daily (the earth) rather than thousands of stars. There were also theological and religious objections. The biblical objection claimed that the idea of the earth moving is heretical because it contradicts many biblical passages stating or implying that the earth stands still.1 For example, Psalm 104:5 provides that the Lord “laid the foundations of the earth, that it should not be removed for ever”. In Ecclesiastes 1:5, it provides that “the sun also riseth, and the sun goeth down, and hasteth to the place where he ariseth” which seems to attribute motion to the sun and support the geostatic system. Another theological objection was based on the idea that God is all powerful – this may be called the divine omnipotence argument.2 This was endorsed by Pope Urban VIII during whose reign Galileo was tried and condemned. One version of this argument was that since God is all powerful, He could have created any one of a number of worlds e.g. one in which the earth is motionless. It was religiously heretical because it conflicted with Holy Scripture and the biblical interpretations of the Church Fathers and therefore undermined belief in an omnipotent God. The Galileo Affair In 1615, the Holy Office, or Roman Inquisition, asked its Inquisitors for an opinion on two propositions based on some formal complaints filed against Galileo in relation to the Copernican system:3 (1) the Sun is the centre of the world and completely immovable by local motion; and (2) the Earth is not the centre of the world nor immovable, but moves as a whole and also with a diurnal motion. 46 �The Inquisitors returned a unanimous opinion: (1) The first proposition was declared unanimously to be foolish and absurd in philosophy and formally heretical inasmuch as it expressly contradicts the doctrine of Holy Scripture in many passages, both in their literal meaning and according to the interpretation of the Fathers and learned theologians. (2) All were agreed that this proposition merits the same censure in philosophy and that, from a theological point of view, it is at least erroneous in the faith. In 1616, the Congregation of the Index issued a Decree declaring that the doctrine of the earth’s motion was physically false and contrary to Scripture; condemning and permanently banning Foscarini’s book, Letter on the Pythagorean Opinion, which had argued that the earth’s motion was probable and not contrary to Scripture; and temporarily prohibiting Copernicus’s Revolutions until and unless it was revised.5 Although Galileo was not mentioned at all in the Decree, he was given a warning in private. This warning exists in two versions. One is written on a certificate given to Galileo and signed by Cardinal Robert Bellarmine, who was an authoritative member of both the Congregation of the Index and of the Inquisition; it stated that Bellarmine had informed Galileo that the earth’s motion could not be held or defended. The second version is in an unsigned note written by a clerk and found in the file of Inquisition trial proceedings; it stated that the Commissary-General of the Inquisition gave Galileo the special injunction that he must not hold, defend, or discuss in any way the earth’s motion. Galileo claimed that he had never received the second version.6 Despite the warning given to him by the Catholic Church, Galileo published the Dialogue in 1632. The book was a discussion of the earth’s motion but took the form of a critical examination of all the arguments for and against the idea; the arguments on both sides were presented, analysed, and evaluated. The arguments for the earth’s motion turned out to be much stronger than those against it. This was an implicit defence of Copernicanism. However, Galileo believed that he had acted within the spirit of Bellarmine’s warning because it was only a hypothesis. 47 �In 1633, Galileo was brought to trial by the Inquisition on the charge that in his Dialogue, published in the previous year, he had disobeyed the injunction of 1616 and had defended the Copernican system, knowing it to be heretical. In the course of their judgment the Inquisitors twice reaffirmed that the system was heretical, in two slightly different forms. In the first place they recalled and quoted the judgment of 1616, citing it as evidence that it had already been duly examined and condemned. The Inquisitors then delivered their own verdict:7 “We say, pronounce, sentence and declare that you, the said Galileo... have rendered yourself, in the judgment of this Holy Office, vehemently suspected of heresy, namely of having believed and held the doctrine, which is false and contrary to the Sacred and Divine Scripture, that the Sun is the centre of the Earth and does not move from east to west, and that the Earth moves and is not the centre of the world, and that an opinion may be defended and held as probable after it has been declared and defined contrary to Holy Scripture.” According to one commentator, there is an interesting difference between the two statements.8 The Inquisitors in 1616 condemned as heretical the proposition that the Sun is the centre of the world (centro del mondo) and immovable; in 1633 they condemned as heretical the proposition that the Sun is the centre of the Earth (centro della terra) and does not move from east to west (i.e. does not move in a diurnal orbit around the Earth). What does this mean? Surely it cannot be taken to mean literally that the Sun is the centre of the Earth? Perhaps it means that it is the centre of the Earth’s orbit or, as in Copernicus’s own theory, the centre of the celestial sphere in which the Earth is embedded (which might be called ‘the Earth’ in an extended sense).9 As time went on, however, the situation changed. In the new theory, the fixed stars did not rotate and hence, it was no longer necessary for them to be held together in a rigid sphere. The whole system of rigid spheres could be abandoned. The universe need not be spherical, it could be any shape or even infinite. Even if it was a sphere there was no need for the Sun to be at its centre or immovable (for the whole planetary system might be in motion). 48 �Galileo was aware of this theory. In the Dialogue, Salviati, the advocate of the Copernican centre of the universe; if any centre may be assigned to the universe, we shall rather find the sun to be placed there, as you will understand in due course’.10 Galileo added this marginal note “The sun more probably at the centre of the universe than the earth.” In 1633, the Inquisition found Galileo “vehemently suspect of heresy” for holding and defending the thesis that the earth revolves around the sun and for thinking “that one may hold and defend as probable an opinion after it has been declared and defined contrary to the Holy Scripture”. The content of Galileo’s suspected heresy was two-fold. The first was an astronomical or cosmological claim about physical reality, which Galileo had supported and defended in the Dialogue. The second was a methodological principle or rule about how to proceed in the search for physical truth or the acquisition of natural knowledge i.e. the principle that Scripture is not an authority and may be disregarded as irrelevant in astronomy and natural philosophy. Galileo’s new telescopic evidence removed most of the observational-astronomical objections against the earth’s motion and added new evidence in its favor. Galileo believed not only that the geokinetic theory had greater explanatory coherence than the geostatic theory (as Copernicus had shown) and that it was physically and mechanically more adequate (as Galileo’s new physics suggested) but also that it was empirically and observationally more accurate in astronomy (as the telescope now revealed). His assessment was that the arguments for the earth’s motion were stronger than those for the earth being at rest; that Copernicanism was more likely to be true than the geostatic worldview. According to one argument, the view was developed during the Enlightenment that Galileo’s trial embodied the inherent incompatibility between science and religion, and later this view became widely accepted. The case of Galileo may be one of those where science and religion happened to be in conflict. Galileo’s trial does exhibit such a conflict if science is interpreted in that context as Copernicanism and religion as Scripture; for although Galileo believed and argued that Copernicanism is compatible with Scripture, the Catholic Church (through Bellarmine, Pope Urban VIII, the Index, and the Inquisition) claimed that Copernicanism is contrary to Holy Scripture. 49 �The conflict between science and religion is a striking feature of both the original and the subsequent Galileo affair: in the original episode in 1616, it takes the form of Copernicanism versus Holy Scripture; in the subsequent controversy in 1633, it takes the form that Galileo’s trial was widely perceived to epitomise the conflict between science and religion. Aftermath of the Galileo Affair The Catechism of the Catholic Church states: Though faith is above reason, there can never be any real discrepancy between faith and reason. Since the same God who reveals mysteries and infuses faith has bestowed the light of reason on the human mind, God cannot deny himself, nor can truth ever contradict truth. Consequently, methodical research in all branches of knowledge, provided it is carried out in a truly scientific manner and does not override moral laws, can never conflict with the faith, because the things of the world and the things of faith derive from the same God. The humble and preserving investigator of the secrets of nature is being led, as it were, by the hand of God in spite of himself, for it is God, the conserver of all things, who made them what they are. By 1939, Pope Pius XII was praising Galileo for being among the “most audacious heroes of research … not afraid of the stumbling blocks and the risks on the way, nor fearful of the funereal monuments.” Galileo was again mentioned with approval by Pope Pius XII in an address to the General Assembly of the International Astronomical Union in 1952, where he concluded his remarks saying: As so, friends, above and beyond the deep respect which we entertain for all the sciences and for yours in particular, this is yet another reason why we are moved to pray: may the science of astronomy, founded on the highest and most universal horizons, the ideal of so many great men in the past such as Copernicus, Galileo, Kepler, and Newton, continue to bear the fruit of marvellous progress and, through to the heartfelt collaborations promoted by such groups as the International Astronomical Union, bring the astronomical vision of the Universe to an ever deeper perfection. 50 In 1979, at a meeting of the Pontifical Academy of Sciences commemorating the centen �nial of Einstein’s birth, Pope John Paul II gave a speech in which he talked about the Galileo affair. The Pope admitted errors on the part of ecclesiastic individuals and institutions and acknowledged some wrongdoing on their part. He spoke of Galileo having been caused “suffering,” of his treatment as an instance of unwarranted interference into the autonomy of scientific research, and of the fact that the Second Vatican Council had “deplored” such interferences. From the point of view of the principles Galileo held regarding the relationship between science, religion and the Bible, Pope John Paul II spoke with unprecedented clarity and remarkable accuracy. In the 1979 Einstein centennial speech, the Pope said:17 He who is rightly called the founder of modern physics declared explicitly that the two truths, of faith and of science, can never contradict each other . . . The Second Vatican Council does not express itself otherwise. Pope John Paul II also issued a call for further studies of the Galileo affair that would be guided by three goals: bipartisan collaboration between the Galilean scientific side and the ecclesiastic religious side; open-mindedness to the wrongs of one side and the merits of the other side; and validation of the harmony between science and religion. Although the third goal was in some tension with the other two, it was the one closest to the Pope’s heart. For he argued that Galileo believed that science and religion are harmonious and that Galileo conducted his scientific research in the spirit of religious service and worship. Galileo also elaborated important epistemological principles about Scriptural interpretation, which correspond to the correct ones later clarified and formulated by the Catholic Church. The Pope wanted to reverse the traditional interpretation of Galileo’s trial as epitomising the conflict between science and religion. For Pope John Paul II, a key lesson from the Galileo affair is the need and importance of methodological pluralism i.e. the rule that different branches of knowledge call for different methods. This is what Galileo himself had advocated. In contrast, his theological opponents were committed to a misplaced cultural unitarianism that led them to fail to distinguish scriptural interpretation from scientific investigation and so to illegitimately transpose one domain into the other. 51 �Some commentators argue that the Inquisition was wrong to condemn Galileo since he preached and practiced the principle that scriptural passages should not be used in astronomical investigation, but only when dealing with questions of faith and morals. The Inquisition found this principle intolerable and abominably erroneous, and wanted to uphold the opposite principle that Scripture is a scientific authority, as well as a moral and religious one. On this question of theological and epistemological principle, Galileo was ultimately exculpated. In regard to the biblical issue, the main point of Galileo’s letters to Castelli and to Christina is that the literal interpretation of the Bible is binding only for questions of faith and morals and not for physical questions.18 Although in a sense this proposition can be accepted as true, it was regarded and was in fact singularly dangerous at that time. The most detailed description of how the Church views the interaction between religion and science can be found in a 1987 letter written by Pope John Paul II to Fr. George Coyne SJ, director of the Vatican Observatory. In this letter, he insisted on the equal value of science and religion:19 … both religion and science must preserve their autonomy and their distinctiveness. Religion is not founded on science nor is science an extension of religion. Each should possess its own principles, its pattern of procedures, its diversities of interpretation and its own conclusions. Science can purify religion from superstition; religion can purify science from false absolutes. Each can draw the other into a wider world, a world in which both can flourish. The Pope also argued that this dialogue was essential to progress within science itself, a theme which Pope Francis would later develop in Laudato Si’:20 … science develops best when its concepts and conclusions are integrated into the broader human culture and its concerns for ultimate meaning and value. Scientists … can also come to appreciate for themselves that these discoveries cannot be a genuine substitute for knowledge of the truly ultimate. And in 1992, at the conclusion of his inquiry, the Pope had not changed his mind in this regard but reaffirmed the point with these words: 52 �“Paradoxically, Galileo, a sincere believer, showed himself to be more perceptive in this regard than the theologians who opposed him . . . The majority of theologians did not recognize the formal distinction between Sacred Scripture and its interpretation, and this led them unduly to transpose into the realm of the doctrine of the faith a question that in fact pertained to scientific investigation. Moreover, from the Galileo affair . . . another lesson we can draw is that the different branches of knowledge call for different methods . . . The error of the theologians of the time when they maintained the centrality of the earth was to think that our understanding of the physical world’s structure was in some way imposed by the literal sense of Sacred Scripture.” The Galileo myth claims that Galileo was not condemned for his astronomical conclusion that the earth moves, but for his theologically unsound practice of supporting an astronomical view with biblical passages.22 This explanation is untrue because Galileo preached and practiced the opposite principle that Holy Scripture should not be used to support physical propositions. This myth seems to have acted as a catalyst for the subsequent Galileo affair to become the cause celebre it is today. Commentary As Galileo put it, quoting Cardinal Baronius, “The intention of the Holy Ghost is to teach us how one goes to heaven, not how the heavens go.” Galileo added the following note in the preliminary leaves of his own copy of the Dialogue: “Take note, theologians, that in your desire to make matters of faith out of propositions relating to the fixity of sun and earth you run the risk of eventually having to condemn as heretics those who would declare the earth to stand still and the sun to change position – eventually, I say, at such time as it might be physically or logically proved that the earth moves and the sun stands still.” Galileo rejected the conception of the center of the universe which deprived the justi 53 �fication for the idea of the immovable earth. Following Copernicus, Galileo set forth the advantages of assuming the sun to be at rest. It is simpler to assume a rotation of the earth around its axis than a common revolution of all fixed starts around the earth. The assumption of a revolution of the earth around the sun makes the motions of the inner and outer planets appear similar and does away with the troublesome retrograde motions of the outer planets, or rather explains them by the motion of the earth around the sun.These arguments are convincing but are only of a qualitative nature i.e. since humans are tied to the earth, our observations will never directly reveal to us the “true” planetary motions but only the intersections of the lines of sight (earth-planet) with the fixed star sphere. Galileo demonstrated that the hypothesis of the rotation and revolution of the earth is not refuted by the fact that we do not observe any mechanical effects of these motions. However, this misled him into formulating a wrong theory of the tides. Galileo’s work represents the passionate fight against any kind of dogma based on authority. Only experience and careful reflection are accepted by him as criteria of truth. In Galileo’s time, this was a revolutionary concept. Merely to doubt the truth of opinions which had no basis but authority was considered a capital crime and punished accordingly. This is one of the reasons that Galileo is considered to be the father of modern science. The Dialogue is the book which historically did the most toward breaking down the religious and academic barriers against free scientific thought. As Einstein said, ‘the leitmotif which I recognise in Galileo’s work is the passionate fight against any kind of dogma based on authority’. Galileo’s works were not removed from the Catholic Church’s prohibited list until 1741 by Pope Benedict XIV. The Inquisitions of Galileo Galilei between 1615 and 1633 highlighted the Catholic Church’s interpretation of the role of tradition. In that time, the Church was facing the fact that Copernican heliocentrism was better able to predict planetary motion than biblical tradition. Galileo has also been celebrated as a figure of valor to the scientific community because the Dialogue pulled no punches in mocking the then Pope Urban VIII. Galileo allegedly used direct quotes in the Dialogue and attributed them to a character called Simplicio. What is less appreciated however, is that Galileo agreed that the natural world could not be in contradiction with the faith that he maintained his whole life. 54 �Conclusion The moon is 40 million years older than we thought, according to a new analysis of lunar samples collected by Apollo astronauts a half-century ago. This research looked at moon dust brought back by the Apollo 17 mission in 1972, the last time humans set foot on the surface. The results, published in the journal Geochemical Perspectives Letters, suggest it must be at least 4.46 billion years old and that it could have formed as long as 4.51 billion years ago. “It’s important to know when the moon formed”, Professor Philipp Heck of the Field Museum in Chicago, senior author of the study, said, “(because) the moon is an important partner in our planetary system – it stabilises the Earth’s rotational axis, it’s the reason there are 24 hours in a day, it’s the reason we have tides. Without the moon, life on Earth would look different. In the Dialogue, Galileo argued that the tides are caused by the compounding motion of the earth as a conclusive proof of heliocentrism. Despite this error, the Dialogue remains one of the most important texts of the Scientific revolution. The Galileo affair illustrates that changing scientific paradigms caused increasing problems for religious doctrines that had been reconstructed according to the scientific knowledge of earlier times. It has been claimed that science and religion constitute “non-overlapping magisteria” whereby science pertains to the empirical realm of facts and religion to ultimate meaning and moral value.28 From the late nineteenth century, free inquiry came to encompass the study of religion itself. Emile Durkheim, a prominent social scientist, defined religion as “a unified system of beliefs and practices relative to sacred things, that is to say, things set apart and forbidden.” This assumes conflict whenever scientists attempt to study sacred things “set apart and forbidden” and in so doing, challenge religious prohibitions. Today, stem cell research invokes some of the same deep-seated religious prohibitions as heliocentrism once did. 55 �Mind in a Fog - Nadine Bucca 56 �The Nature of the Pilgrimage: The Meaning of Springtime in The Canterbury Tales Noah Vancina “Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages” (12)—why now, and whence the longing? Before he even arrives at the human subjects of his tale of pilgrimage, all described in the General Prologue, Chaucer, as an “introduction” to the General Prologue, gives the sweetest description of springtime, which evokes already in the hearer the longing for the peaceful time he describes. Let us go on our own pilgrimage to seek how Chaucer awakes this longing, and how we might then be ready to join the pilgrims as “to Caunterbury they wende.” Chaucer begins by providing a context for pilgrimages: “whan” (1). “When” is a temporal description that is precise or imprecise, depending on what follows. What follows must be some event, identifiable such that the time, the “when” of the sought-after occurrence, appears. Yet, Chaucer draws out his “whan” for eleven lines, one great dependent clause, in which he lists multiple conditions before the long-desired “thanne” arrives. Even these conditions, though, remain imprecise: “Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote/The droughte of March hath perced to the roote/And bathed every veyne in swich licour/Of which vertu engendred is the flour” (1-4); at what moment have all these things come to pass? Rain falls gradually, only in drops, and slowly it soaks into the earth, uprooting the drought that preceded. So likewise the blowing of the zephyr until it reaches and warms end of every damp wood. Thus, the awaited fulfillment is an atmosphere, not a moment, in which pilgrimages begin. With these descriptions, Chaucer evokes a dawning awareness, a longing that does not come all at once and overwhelm but that grows like the fitful entrance of springtime and the growth of young shoots, like the passing away of sickness and the coming of full health. Chaucer presents meteorological events not exactly as personified, but yet as intentional and moving towards a goal. April, with “his” sweet showers, as if the showers belonged to April (as opposed to “April’s” showers, which feels more distant), who brought them with the intention of ending the drought and bringing the moisture needed for the flowers. The zephyr and the sun, too, play a part with “sweete breethe” and a “cours” to run. This almost personification suggests that natural phenomena act in the world as more than dumb happenings. 57 �Each verb, too, is loaded with intentions. April’s showers pierce the drought of March (2). Not a simple statement of cause and effect in nature, “pierce” suggests attack, an intentional breaking through as if much depends on not being repelled. The next line reveals the goal: to “bathe[] every veyne in . . . licour” (3), that life be not hindered. The zephyr then inspires the “tendre croppes” (5-7) as if it had breath to share, or the shoots could receive spirit. When Chaucer arrives at the birds, no change of language is necessary. One might even say that the verbs applied to the birds, “maken” and “slepen,” are the least suggestive of life, although birds are the most obviously conscious of the characters so far. Curious also is the peacefulness suggested by Chaucer’s diction. The showers are “soote” (1), the zephyr’s breath is “sweete” (3), the shoots are “tendre” (7), and the birds are “smale” (9). Everything in this springtime bespeaks gentleness and peace. Only against the intruder is any harsh word said, for the “droughte of March” is “perced” to the root (2): the drought being an unwelcome condition that would forestall the coming of spring and, perhaps, also of pilgrimage. It is in this verdant time, teeming with life, that men long to go on pilgrimages. Now why at a time when everything seems so right with the world would men desire change rather than rest? We find a suggestion in a line that sits right between the dependent clause description of springtime and the independent clause discussion of pilgrimage: “So priketh hem nature in hir corages” (11). Of whose hearts is Chaucer speaking? It may seem natural, as the immediate antecedent, to think that the birds are meant, who make melody and sleep with open eyes due to nature’s influence. But could it not be looking ahead as well, to the folk who long to go on pilgrimages? Even the rhyme scheme would couple “hir corages” with “pilgrimages.” Line 11, situated close to the midpoint of this introduction to the General Prologue and at the meeting of the dependent and independent clauses, joins weather, plants, animals, and humans in the influence of nature on their thoughts and actions. What kind of nature incites men to longing? Two meanings of “nature” seem possible: the inherent constitution of a creature or the creation itself. But perhaps neither meaning is really distinctive. If nature is understood the first way, Chaucer is saying that something within man stirs him up in the springtime, in reaction to what it perceives around it. If the second way, creation in springtime moves man to longing. 58 �Chaucer points to the importance of the natural world in either case, leading us to wonder why springtime would cause such feelings in human beings. There is, first, a correspondence between the creation emerging from winter and a man recovering from sickness. Chaucer lavished attention on explicating the blooming flowers, the tender shoots, and the centrality of the sun, but these conditions or incitements for longing are only linked to humans with a “thanne,” the termination of the dependent clause. Nevertheless, the pilgrims on the road to Canterbury are seeking a saint who helped them recover from sickness. The parallel is evident, though human convalescence is not described so lyrically. It has already been described through springtime. But more darkly seen is a lack in men out of which rises this longing. Before nature, with its wholeness and life, man is disturbed. The showers do not enliven him; the wind does not warm him. Or not primarily. Man stands across from a natural world that seems as conscious as he. He longs, and so he leaves his familiar home, sometimes to go to foreign lands. Still, what is the lack, the source of longing? As has been said, those pilgrims that go to Canterbury have been healed from sickness. Wholeness there; so we would have to say those pilgrims are responding to wholeness, not to want. Thus, man at his best state would still not possess something of which he is made aware by springtime. The conceit behind Chaucer’s tales suggests that this want is filled by fellowship. Plurality is present throughout the introduction: “every” vein is bathed by the rain, “every” wood and field is inspired by the zephyr, and multiple “foweles” sing. As emphasized to by the loading of all these plurals into a dependent clause, these plurals are bound together, as if joining one another in a festival of spring. Thus, people who recover out of the loneliness of sickness (or whatever separates them from others) find in springtime the inspiration to join fellowship on pilgrimages. The newness of spring incites men to seek new acquaintances, new sights, and new experiences. We see how Chaucer (or whoever the narrator may be) embarks on his pilgrimages alone but quickly seeks out, and is accepted into, the company of other pilgrims (19-34). Men desire to mirror the character of the season around them. They participate in this way not solely with creation, but with each other, each individual being drawn out of himself and into a community. 59 �Of course, we should not force Chaucer to say that he has described all people in springtime or even all who go on pilgrimages, just as not every springtime is as consistently idyllic as the one represented in the General Prologue. What Chaucer does offer is insight into human nature, seasons, and pilgrimage. The wholeness found in a beautiful springtime does incite longing in the human heart, but not a longing of despair or unrequited passion. Instead, it draws people together into communities of thanks—for to this end Chaucer’s pilgrims wend to Canterbury. While it may be less common now to make a pilgrimage of the kind Chaucer describes, springtime can still create longing in our hearts and, now that we better understand what it means, we are better prepared to meet our own longing “to goon on pilgrimages.” 60 �The Creation of the Self: Shakespeare and Aristotle Kyle Reynolds It might seem self-evident that Prince Hal undergoes a significant change in character throughout Shakespeare’s Henry IV. His character is first introduced as a drunken degenerate ne’er-do-well. Yet, by the end of Part One, Hal has redeemed himself in the eyes of his father and is hailed as a hero. This does not necessarily signify a change in character though, only a change in his conduct. One does not need to be virtuous to act virtuously. As Plato’s Ring of Gyges allegory demonstrates, the utilitarian benefits of acting justly are often enough to compel just behavior. Still, perhaps a change in conduct is enough to result in a genuine change in character, even if this result is unintended. This begs the question, does Hal’s character truly change and does he become a more virtuous man? Hal’s first soliloquy, spoken to the audience after the prince agrees to join his comrade Poins in a plot to embarrass their friend, Falstaff, provides some critical insight on this question. Shakespeare uses this soliloquy to help elucidate Hal’s intentions and provide an explanation for his behavior. The prince tells us he is seeking to “imitate the sun / Who doth permit the base contagious clouds / To smother up his beauty from the world, / That, when he please again to be himself, / Being wanted, he may be more wond’red at” (Shakespeare 15). If the prince is to be believed then, his juvenile and dishonorable behavior is all in service to a grand façade. By shirking his duties and ensuring he is perceived as worthless and reprehensible throughout the kingdom, Hal is tempering the expectations of his subjects, his father, and his peers. So, when he does finally cast off this façade, his redemption and reformation “shall show more goodly and attract more eyes”. However, it’s not clear that Hal’s behavior is merely a façade. He seems to thoroughly enjoy taking part in the debauchery perpetrated by his dishonorable cohort. Take the dialogue directly preceding Hal’s soliloquy for example. Hal is at first weary of Poins’s scheme to prank the unsuspecting Falstaff. To convince the prince, Poins offers the prophetic argument, “[t]he virtue of this jest will be the incomprehensible lies that this same fat rogue will tell us when we meet for supper: how thirty, at least, he fought with; what wards, what blows, what extremities he endured; and in the reproof of this lives the jest”. 61 �Hal, now convinced, responds, “[w]ell, I’ll go with thee. Provide us all things necessary and meet me tomorrow night in Eastcheap. There I’ll sup. Farewell” (Shakespeare 14). It is the prospect of humiliating Falstaff and catching him in his lies and exaggerations that finally compels Hal to join Poins’s plan. There does not appear to be any utilitarian benefit for Hal in joining Poins. His willingness to go along with the prank seems best explained by a genuine and wholly ignoble desire to humiliate Falstaff. Hal’s reactions to Falstaff’s all too predictable lies concerning the prank only a few scenes later serve to further illustrate this point. Falstaff begins to eagerly, and inaccurately, recount his ordeal to Hal and Poins, telling them of the men who robbed him of his stolen gold, entirely unaware of the fact that those men were in fact Hal and Poins. Almost immediately, Falstaff begins to, in a rather obvious manner, increase the number of his attackers, for which Hal derides him, saying, “O monstrous! Eleven buckram men grown out of two!” (Shakespeare 47). Falstaff, surprisingly unphased by the prince’s derisions, continues with his fictional account of the “battle” and Hal continues with his mockeries. Finally, after Falstaff becomes wholly indignant due to Hal picking apart every aspect of his tale, the prince tells Falstaff the truth, stating: “We two set on you four and, with a word, outfaced you from your prize, and have it; yea, and can show it you here in the house. And, Falstaff, you carried your guts away as nimbly, with as quick dexterity and roared for mercy, and still run and roared, as ever I heard a bullcalf. What a slave art though to hack thy sword as though hast done, and then say it was in a fight! What trick, what starting hole canst thou now find out to hide thee from this open and apparent shame?” Every action Hal has taken and every word he has spoken in this scene seems to have been aimed at maximizing Falstaff’s embarrassment. If this is simply a part Hal is playing, such intricate scheming would be unnecessary. However, if Hal truly is morally degenerate and elicits genuine joy from poking fun at and participating in the schemes of his corrupt and contemptible crew, then his behavior makes a great deal more sense. Hal’s so called “reformation” begins in earnest when he confronts his father and pledges to fulfill his duties as a prince of the realm. 62 �He tells the king, “So please your Majesty, I would I could / Quit all offenses with as clear excuse / As well as doubtless I can purge / Myself of many I am charged withal” . The king rejoices at this news, but is, at first, skeptical. Hal reassures him, promising to “[b]e more”. Hal appears to honor his commitment, marching off to battle against a rebel force, to the astonishment of his enemies. Percy Hotspur, the leader of the rebels, inquires as to the statues of Hal and his forces, asking, “Where is … [t]he nimble-footed madcap Prince of Wales”. His cousin, Vernon, replies: “All furnished, all in arms; / All plumed like estridges that with the wind / Bated like eagles having lately bathed; / Glittering in golden coats like images; / As full of spirit as the month of May / And gorgeous as the sun at midsummer; / Wanton as youthful goats, wild as young bulls. / I saw young Harry with his beaver on, / His crushes on his thighs, gallantly armed, / Rise from the ground like feathered Mercury, And vaulted with such ease into his seat / As if an angel dropped down from the clouds / To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus / And witch the world with noble horsemanship”. Hal has, at least in the eyes of his enemy, become an entirely different person. He is no longer seen as the “madcap Prince of Wales,” but is instead viewed as a gallant warrior. Hal has done little except show up to the battle, yet, Vernon offers him some of the most striking and sincere praise seen throughout the play. At this point, the reformation Hal prophesized seems to be coming to pass. Hal is executing his plan and those around him are taking note. However, Hal’s plan is to simply feign virtue so as to be better looked upon by those in his kingdom. He is only interested in the utilitarian benefits of being perceived as virtuous. Yet, after the conclusion of the battle with Hotspur’s forces, Hal takes an action which appears entirely inconsistent with this philosophy. Falstaff falsely tells Hal and his brother, John, that he had killed Hotspur. Hal responds, truthfully, “[w]hy, Percy I killed myself”. This, of course, does not stop the invariably deceitful Falstaff from arguing that his account of Hotspur’s death is accurate, going so far as to threaten to make anyone who doubts him “eat a piece of [his] sword” (Shakespeare 114). Hal, despite knowing the falsehood of Falstaff’s claims, agrees to allow him to take credit for the killing of Hotspur, saying, “if a lie may do thee grace, / I’ll gild it with the happiest terms I have”. 63 �While it’s not entirely clear why Hal chooses to let Falstaff persist in his lie, it seems to come from a genuine desire to see Falstaff improve himself and his circumstances, which Falstaff commits to do only a few lines later. There doesn’t appear to be any benefit to Hal in allowing Falstaff to claim the glory and honor associated with killing Hotspur. Hal’s motivations are instead altruistic in nature and demonstrative of true virtue. Despite deciding to reform himself in the eyes of those around him, Hal is unable to entirely forgo his old ways. Much to the dismay of his father, Hal continues to associate with Poins, Falstaff, and his other sinful companions. When the king learns that Hal is back in London with his band of scoundrels, he laments; “Most subject is the fattest soil to weeds, / And he, the noble image of my youth, / Is overspread with them. Therefore my grief / Stretches itself beyond the hour of death. / The blood weeps from my heart when I do shape / In forms imaginary th’ unguided days / And rotten times that you shall look upon / When I am sleeping with my ancestors. / For when headstrong rage and hot blood are his counselors, / When means and lavish manners meet together, / O, with what wings shall affections fly / Towards fronting peril and opposed decay!” The king is deeply afraid that Hal cannot truly reform and will ultimately succumb to his rage and other vices which will destroy him. Finally, at the conclusion of Part Two, Hal ultimately casts of his old habits and comrades. In a cutting and markedly harsh speech directed at Falstaff, the prince announces: “I know thee not, old man. Fall to thy prayers. / How ill white hairs becomes a fool and jester! / I have long dreamt of such a kind of man, / So surfeit-swelled, so old, and so profane, / But, being awaked, I do despise my dream. / Make less thy body hence, and more thy grace. / Leave gormandizing. Know the grave doth gape / For thee thrice wider than other men. / Reply not to me with a fool-born jest. / Presume not that I am the thing I was, / For God doth know, so shall the world perceive, / That I have turned away my former self. / So will I those that kept me company”. The way Hal speaks of his transformation makes it sound not as if he is simply put 64 �ting on a different mask but as if he has truly undergone a metamorphosis of spirit. He likens his reformation to wakening from a bad dream, a dream he now despises. So, although Hal may not have meant to undergo a genuine change in character, he did. His actions make clear that he was a morally corrupt degenerate that enjoyed taking part in the activities of his London gang. Then, he undergoes a reformation, which may have at first simply been an act, but ultimately results in a changed character capable of committing acts of altruism. Hal does seem to waver in his new convictions, returning to the London tavern to fraternize with Poins and Falstaff, but finally lets his old wayward acquaintances go. But why does Hal undergo this change in character? Perhaps Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics can provide some insight. Aristotle tells us: “oral virtue comes about as a result of habit, whence also its name (ethike) is one that is formed by a slight variation from the word ethos (habit). From this it is also plain that none of the moral virtues arises in us by nature; for nothing that exists by nature can form a habit contrary to its nature. … Neither by, then, nor contrary to nature do the virtues arise in us; rather we are adapted by nature to receive them, and are made perfect by habit”. Hal lived a life of vice and did not create a habit of virtue. He thus became sinful and devoid of moral integrity. Hal then began to act virtuously. Eventually, acting ethically became habitual. However, habits are engrained on the soul and Hal struggled to overcome his past transgressions. Though, finally, a new, virtuous Hal was created through the prince’s actions. For, the self is formed by our habits, and Hal is no different. 65 �Translation On the Creation of Man 66 �Contributor Stephen Cunha 67 �On the Creation of Man By Wolfgang Musculus Translation by Stephen Cunha Now, accordingly, in proper order, we proceed to consider the work of God in the creation of man: which consideration must be understood, not only to be next after those things which we have noted concerning God the maker of all things, but also to especially concern man. For what is more properly suitable for man than, after his creator, to understand himself? We are drawn to this knowledge not only by that which Lactantius somewhere puts into words, “Great is the power of man, great his reason, great his mystery, so that not undeservedly Plato gave thanks to nature, because he was born a human being”—yes indeed, because next to God nothing is more sublime than man, nothing more excellent has been made;3 but also because no small portion of our salvation requires this, that we know ourselves, wherein even those who have everywhere inculcated the saying γνωθε σεαυτόν, that is, “know thyself,” as if it had dropped down from heaven, have admonished that the greatest part of wisdom is found. But who does not know that it is especially required for the knowledge of man, that we should not be ignorant of the origin and making of mankind? And the Holy Spirit has described the creation of man with singular care and greater diligence than all other created things in the Sacred Scriptures, undoubtedly for this purpose, that even from the origin of our race, we might be reminded that when God made man, he wanted to create a certain remarkable work, which would be much more outstanding, and would much more closely approach the glory of his divinity, than the rest of creation; and in the next place, that the knowledge of our beginning might be very much conducive to the consideration of divine wisdom, goodness, and power, and contain, as it were, some principles of heavenly philosophy. And I also think that some parameters of knowledge are required, so that we do not extend our consideration beyond those things that are able to advance Christian godliness. What should be thought by the godly person concerning the creation of man cannot be better determined than from the instruction of the Holy Spirit, which Sacred Scripture sets forth to us. For the mind of man has been so darkened, that he is able to judge rightly neither of his maker nor of himself. For this reason, man must take care to search for the things that ought to be known, and held with certainty, not only concerning man himself but also concerning God his creator, from the Sacred Scriptures rather than from human opinion. And those things which have been handed down in the Sacred Scriptures, having rejected all curiousness, are so composed, that they are adapted to both our capacity and our benefit. They are moderate, but solid, certain, profitable, necessary, and harmonious. Therefore, concerning the creation of man, this is related to us in few words in Genesis chapters one and two. First, that man is a work, just as all other created things. He was made in time; he did not exist before time. Indeed, if we consider the time of our beginning, which Sacred Scripture also reveals, every creature is more ancient than man. Now everything which has been made does not exist on account of itself, but by reason of another source. And just as 68 it does not exist from itself, so whatever it has, it does not have from itself, but from the one by �69 �whom it was made. Nor when it was made, was it able to cause itself to be made different, either better or worse, than what it was made according to the will of its maker. On the contrary, it has not even contributed in the smallest degree to become what it has been made. Accordingly, it should be observed concerning man, that since he also, just like the rest of creation, was made, all that he is and all that he has (in terms of natural abilities), depended on the will, wisdom, and power of his maker. Second, since the very consideration that we have been made immediately leads us forward to become acquainted with our maker, we next inquire about the maker and creator of man. Sacred Scripture attributes the creation of man to the same One by whom all other things were made. It says, “God created man.”The books of the Gentiles say concerning a certain Prometheus, the father of Deucalion, that he first formed man. And he did not form man, but the image of man from clay: for which reason he is also the author of the art of molding. We acknowledge that the maker of our race is the only and true God, who made heaven and earth, and all the things which are in them, visible and invisible, and so we confess that whatever we are and whatever we have is from him. Moreover, it is properly required that in all things we depend on him alone, as the creature on his creator. Israel is reproached in the Mosaic and prophetic books because it abandoned its maker. And God himself cries out, saying: “I made you.” Wherein it is sufficiently demonstrated how perverse the heart of man is, to such an extent that he forsakes his own maker, God. Furthermore, we are admonished by this knowledge, since we all have the same creator and maker, lest any man find fault with his work, either in himself or in others, saying: “Why did he make me like this?” In Isaiah chapter forty-five we read as follows: “Woe to him who speaks against his maker, a potsherd among the potsherds of the earth. Shall the clay say to its potter, ‘What are you making?’” And in Proverbs chapter fourteen we read: “He who finds fault with a poor man, reproaches his maker.”Therefore, that faith by which we believe that we have been created by God, will work these three things in our hearts. First, that in all things we depend with our whole heart on God our creator. Second, that each man is content with how he has been created, and even embraces it with thanksgiving, for which he has been made by God the creator. Third, that no one looks down on how his neighbor has been made, however base and lowly, lest he dishonors in him their common creator. In the third place, the Sacred Scriptures are not silent about this, of what man was made. In Genesis chapter two we read the following, “Therefore, the Lord God formed man from the dust of the earth, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and man became a living creature.” In Hebrew it is, ‫המדאה ןמ רפע‬. Notice the material from which man was made. And what is baser, what is poorer and more unstable, than the dust of the ground, from which not even bricks can properly be made? He could at least have been made from solid earth. This origin of our race warns us all, that in consideration of it we maintain modesty, lest it be said to us: “Why are you prideful, O earth and ashes?” For what other assessment is to be made of that, which is made from dust? The Holy Spirit could have said, “The Lord God formed man from the ground,” or “from the dust”: but in order to inculcate the lowliness of man, he called man, made from dust, “the dust of the earth.” And what did God say to Adam? “Dust you are, and to dust you will return.” He did not simply say, “you are 70 �71 �from dust,” but “you are dust.” Lest the flesh should say, “So what that I am from dust? Whatever I came from, I am now a human being, and am not dust”; the sentence of God our maker comes to us, saying: “And from dust you are, and dust you still are, and to dust you will return,” just as if you were to say to a magnificent glacier: “And water you were, and water you are, and to water you will return.” In the fourth place, the way in which the first man was made is read in the Sacred Scriptures. We read the following in Genesis chapter two: “Therefore, the Lord God formed man, from the dust of the earth, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and man became a living creature.”11 By the verb “formed,” the Holy Spirit expresses the singular diligence put into the creation of man. Second, in order to describe what material God formed, when he built man, he adds: “dust of the earth.” Third, he adds, “and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life,” by which words he teaches us how the figure of the human body, first formed from the dust, and still inanimate, was made animate and living. His maker poured into him spirit and breath (for in the Hebrew it is ‫ )םייח תמשנ‬from which he would live, and so he was made into a living soul: that is, he began to live, a man now animated, who before was dust and inanimate. Thus, the things concerning the first man Adam. And how Eve was subsequently made, is in the same chapter read in this way: “The Lord God sent a deep sleep on Adam. And while he slept, he took out one of his ribs, and replaced the flesh over it. And the Lord God built the rib, which he had taken from Adam, into a woman, and brought her to Adam. And Adam said, ‘This is now bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh. She is called woman, since she was taken out of man.’” In both cases, the singular purpose and care that God used in the creation of man is sufficiently intimated. And yet, in like manner, we are permitted to see how the Holy Spirit describes in three words the wonderful way man was formed—wherein the body together with its members, both internal and external, such as bones, veins, cartilage, vertebrae, muscles, joints, and limbs were most harmoniously fashioned, put together, and adorned, and then vivified by the infusion of the soul—when he says, “he formed,” “he built,” and “he breathed [inspired].” And in this way, he restrains our curiosity, which is itching to know each of these things, how, by what industry, by what strength, and in what space of time it was accomplished, admonishing us to reverently hold fast to those things imparted in few words, and to acknowledge and honor God our maker. In the fifth place, it is also taught in the Sacred Scriptures, what kind of man was made. With respect to the figure of the body of both, male and female, its stature, and the fitting together of the body and soul, it is in itself plain, of what constitution we have been made. But as for clearly perceiving the nature and dignity of man, since both have been corrupted, and deprived of their original quality, of what kind both were in the first man, we are not able to know, unless the Holy Spirit speaks of and teaches it to us. And I do not understand in this place by quality of nature the bodily necessities and affections, in which we are still subjected, but that original quality of rectitude, which it is read that God imparted to the first man in Ecclesiastes chapter seven. For Ecclesiastes says the following, “I have found this only, that God made man ‫[ רשי‬that is, upright].” This is not to be un 72 �73 �derstood of the uprightness of the body, but of the soul, which men call original righteousness, and which comprises the knowledge of God the creator, obedience, faith, love toward both God and one’s neighbor, and the freedom of an upright will, together with other adornments of that nature. Therefore, when the first man by nature was made such—namely, upright, not only in body, but also in soul—he possessed free will in such a way, that he was able to obey God, if he wanted: and, on the other hand, he was able to sin, if he wanted. For however upright and free to do good he was made, nevertheless, at the same time, he differed from the angels in this, that he was able to be tempted by inordinate affections, and consent to them, and be led away from the rectitude of original righteousness. This does not have a place in those angels who, since the fall of the reprobate spirits, have remained in the truth of God. The Sacred Scriptures also testify concerning the dignity of the first man, when they teach that he was made in the likeness and image of God. God says in Genesis chapter one, “Let us make man in our own image and likeness, and let him rule over the fish of the sea, and over the birds of the air, and over every living creature on the earth, and over every creeping thing that moves on the earth. And God created man in his image and in his likeness, in the image of God he created him,” and the things which follow in that place. Most ancient and contemporary authors expound the dignity of man as uprightness of nature, of which we have made mention, so that the image of God was what separated man from the beasts, by reason and by the internal integrity of man which more nearly resembled the divine nature, wisdom, and righteousness. But although that exposition is not to be altogether discarded, it is nevertheless clear from the very words of Sacred Scripture that man was so made in the image of God, that he should be like God on the earth, and have all things placed under his feet. For what else is being said where it reads, “And God created man in his image and likeness,” than what follows, “in the image of God he created him”? In Hebrew it is ‫םלצב‬ ‫םיהלא‬. And to be created in the image of God, is to be constituted like a certain God. Whence, magistrates and rulers are in the Scriptures called ‫םיהלא‬: that is, “gods” and “mighty ones.” And this image of God granted to man does not exclude the internal uprightness of man, which is so necessary for the former to be retained, that without it a ruler differs nothing from a savage beast, except perhaps that he employs more subtlety and cunning in carrying out the malice of his tyranny. This understanding of human dignity, according to which man is made in the image of God, was plainly set forth by Chrysostom in his exposition of Genesis chapter one, and occasionally by Augustine in his dispute with the Manicheans. And when the apostle says in First Corinthians chapter eleven that “a man indeed ought not cover his head, since he is the image and glory of God, but the woman is the glory of man,” he thus plainly makes a distinction between the man and the woman, saying that the man is indeed made in the image of God, but the woman in the image of man. This cannot be understood only of internal human rectitude and righteousness, of which the woman is a partaker together with the man in the Lord, but is wholly to be understood of the authority of rule, which, as is well known, was granted at once to the man at the beginning, but denied to the woman. 74 The putting of Adam in a paradise of pleasure after he was made, a place more excellent and exceptional in comparison with all other habitations on the whole earth, and that he put names �75 �upon all the living creatures, also relate to this dignity of the image of God. For what else do these things prove than that he was the lord and ruler of the whole earth? Many other things are disputed concerning the status that our first parents had in paradise, and what they would have had if they had not sinned, but these things from Sacred Scripture are more certain and more profitable to students of theology: briefly, to hold, first, that man was made; second, that he was made by God; third, that he was made from the dust of the earth; fourth, that he was built with the special care of God; and fifth, that he was made in and elevated to the image of God, so that he is more outstanding in both nature and worth than all other creatures. If properly considered, these things contain most ample subject matter of Christian philosophy, and are conducive to this, that through the consideration of our origin we are restored to modesty, and through the knowledge of the uprightness and dignity of our first parents, we understand more deeply what we have lost in them, and what we have recovered, and not without great gain, in Christ our second Adam, and the author of our regeneration. 76 �77 �Bad Dreams - Nadine Bucca 78 �“Creating a Community” An Inter view with Associate Dean Brendan Boyle A vision for building community at the St. John’s College Graduate Institute. By Stephen Borsum 79 �It was what I would call the first cold day of the year when I came to the BBC to meet Mr. Boyle for an interview. It was cold only in that the rain falling that day was a chilling one, one lacking the distinct warmth that rain has in summer and early fall here in Annapolis. As I entered, I approached Mr. Boyle’s office to see it closed. Unexpected, given I was just on time for our scheduled meeting. But he called to me from within the GI Conference room where he had been taking some calls for the day, and after some polite banter and the brewing of some green tea, we began our discussion. What follows has been edited for clarity, and is ultimately a poor reflection of just how engaging a face-to-face conversation with Mr. Boyle can be. Stephen: I’m really curious to hear your thoughts on the role you play as dean. You know, you’re a liaison to the college. You are a tutor. You’re a family man. You have all of these responsibilities and so, where does worrying about the health of the GI community fall in the list of priorities? Mr. Boyle: I think my top priority is the GI as a community. One thing I realized when I was thinking about this interview this morning is that I’m probably going to be borrowing a lot of formulations that I heard from Walter Sterling yesterday. And I’m happy to credit him and you can credit him in whatever way you think is necessary, but I hadn’t really even, until yesterday, begun to notice that the first statement of the program is that St. John’s College is a community of learning, and that even if I hadn’t noticed that, I don’t think I had caught what he drew attention to. Which is that sentence, at least on his construction, is meant to distinguish St. John’s qua community from St. John’s qua institution like in the first instance. At the same time it might well be an institution. But if it’s an institution, that description is somehow much lower than the description of St. John’s as a community. So I do feel like my first responsibility is to the community of learning and more particularly to the community of learning that is the Graduate Institute now. And that there’s a new aspect to that community given the fact that the community now includes persons who are not physically located here, namely low-residency students. And so, in some sense, I’m the first Associate Dean to inherit this. To walk into a community or to have responsibility of shepherding the community that is not physically in the same place. It is true that Emily Langston also had that in the latter part of her term, 80 �and maybe I’m the first to come into a term for a community of this sort. And that will present, you know, new different challenges, but those are very much on my mind. How does one hold together a community that includes a not small number of persons who are not residents of this place? I’m trying to do some things, reading groups, for example, that in the past, I think, would be unheard of for an associate dean to have a reading group that was held online by design. But for me, in having the dean’s reading group be part of the weekend, I made it online by design because I was trying to be responsive to the nature or shape of the community now. To return to to the formulation of your question, I really do think that my job is as the steward of the community and its intellectual health, but intellectual health understood in the most capacious term. I also want people to be flourishing affectively and interpersonally because, in so doing, their intellectual flourishing will be still greater. Not to go on too long — I do want to make this conversation — but I will say one thing that I really liked about some of the things [Walter Sterling] said yesterday is that it’s very important for the person in a position of leadership to be physically present. And I’m trying to keep that at the center of my own mind. Now, I think I can actually do a much better job of being at ASG on Thursday nights — things like that. I could, in fact — and should, in fact, do a better job of that. So one of the things that’s important to me is to acknowledge the importance of the associate dean being physically present here as much as possible. Stephen: I will say, I think the impact of that is already palpable. You and Ms. Langston both have prioritized that, and I think it’s noted. I will give you the pass on being there at ASG. You’re here at, you know, eight or nine in the morning. I don’t think we need you there at 10 p.m. at night. That’s not on you. Mr. Boyle: That’s kind of you to say. Stephen: That splits off into two things, and feel free to go either direction with these questions. I do think the gap between the in-person students and the low-residency students is a very tough one to address and some things are being done like low residency weekends and I think everyone really enjoys those and it’s hard to require them to come to us 81 �more. So I think that solutions like online reading groups are excellent. The other thing is the relationship between tutors and students seems so vital and, as much as I know, certain tutors really enjoy the GI but I don’t see them present in some of those additional events. So I think the two main questions there are: Are there other things you are considering to bridge the gap between in-person and low-residency? And how do we keep the tutors involved at a greater level? Mr. Boyle: Yeah, two hard and great questions. I have some ideas for bridging this gap, and I’m not sure even if the ideas were put in place and they were successful, I’m still not sure how much the gap would be bridged. One of the things that I’d like to do and want to start doing in the near future is just doing something like a spotlight on a low-residency student, weekly or biweekly, or something like that, and maybe having a little interview and then putting it up on the board or sending it around. Just as a way to get the in-person students to know about the low-residency students who are out there. Would that make intellectual connections? I don’t know. I’m hopeful that something like that, and I don’t know what their exact right form is, could go some way. Now, to me, it’s still an open question. What would the best possible outcome look like? How much of a divide would there be in the best of all possible worlds between the low-residency students and the in-person students? I don’t think that the answer would be none. But maybe it would be rather little and I think that’s a perfect question. How do you achieve that “rather little.” The question about tutors is also a good and hard one. And I think that one of the things that Emily Langston did really well is integrate the Graduate Institute into the larger life of the college, and I think that she would say that that was an important part of her own work. I think that she would also say that it’s probably not yet finished, and it’s my job to, if not finish it, then hopefully advance it. But it’s also true that we haven’t really found a way to bring more tutors to the GI. I feel like there’s a somewhat small subset of tutors, and the faculty who are teaching in the GI and we haven’t yet found a way to broaden that subset. There are some restrictions, like untenured faculty can’t teach in the GI seminar. OK, leave that to the side. I would like to find a way, and I’ve begun to speak with [Annapolis Dean] Susan Paalman about this to find a way to bring in mid-career tutors beyond the current subset of regulars into the GI, because I feel like that problem is related to the problem that you’ve said of getting tutors to just be at other co-curricular or curricular-adjacent events. 82 �They seemed like separate problems, but I think they’re related in that if people think of the GI as a regular part of the academic life of the college tutors, that is, they will see GI events — be they ASG or (Campus) Convening weekend or what have you — as much more of a piece with homecoming weekend or just general college events that they go to with some regularity, even if they’re not teaching in the GI in that particular semester. So, that’s an aim of mine, and I think it would be good for the GI to have greater circulation of the faculty through it. And I think that some of the GI students even like the fact that there a subset of tutors who are especially dedicated to GI. I think there is something to be said for that, but it would be nice for that subset to be larger, and then I think we would have that circulation which would be good for all parties. Stephen: I think all of that addresses another question I have. It seems that It’s hard to build a community with busy adults when you only have four segments to do so. And I know that’s how the program is built and marketed, but do you see that as a hindrance to a sustaining a community? Are there inclinations you have on how to address that other than GIs coming back to do precepts and audit classes later? Mr. Boyle: Can I first ask a question in response? Is it somehow a corollary of that question that the MALA could or should be longer than four segments? Stephen: It certainly could be. And I’m thinking of the four semesters and particularly how I hear it marketed in some ways where you could do summer or fall, spring, summer and be done in a year, and you can hardly form a friendship in a year regardless of your lifelong relationships. Mr. Boyle: That seems that seems fairly said. On the one hand, I think that the MALA is by most Master’s standards long. Most other programs speak in the language of credit hours. This Master’s program, seeing as it takes, let’s say, two academic years, generally is more time for students to form community than I think a lot of other Master’s programs have. I’m not entirely sure that the time component is works against us. I do agree that 83 �when the program is marketed, or at least described, as a program that you could finish in a year — summer, academic year, following summer — then the question of how to put that frame together with the emphasis on community is a hard one, and maybe even might sound a little bit disingenuous. As in, how can you promise the creation of community in one calendar year? I would respect that criticism. I don’t actively talk about the program as one that should be done in a single calendar year. When people ask if they can do this, I tell them that of course they can, and I recognize that some people have a year off of their job or a sabbatical that is just the calendar year, and we want them to be able to do this in that in that single calendar year and I guess we’re in some sense crossing our fingers that the intensity of the program will generate some sort of community and lasting friendship that is typically brought about by time. It might be important for me to think about those persons who have done the program in a year and calendar year and whether they as a distinct group feel connected or not to the college now. One other open question for me is: does this segment structure itself work against community? That wasn’t precisely your formulation, but I wonder if you might endorse it? And I say that because it’s not as if students move through the program together. You’re in a segment with somebody one semester and then they’re in segment X in the spring semester, but you’re in segment Y spring semester and you just don’t see each other or aren’t reading the same texts any longer. Does that work against community? Maybe it does. It’s certainly true that the undergraduates, you know, don’t have that experience. So that’s something I may have to give some more thought to, but maybe I could just pause for a second and ask you, do you think that segment structure works against community? Insofar as the person with whom you are forging a deep friendship now this fall very well will not be in the same class with you next semester, let alone in the same segment. Stephen: I do think this type of thing plays out in ASG. And I haven’t seen enough evidence to say that it’s positive or negative, but it is interesting to see the... I want don’t use the term “clique” because it’s often so loaded, but it’s the most apt word. Cliques will form in ASG often, and if they’re not people who are already established friends they will form because of the shared texts. And those are bright and vibrant conversations, but 84 �at the same time, there is such a genuine interest in what everyone else is experiencing that I think it overcomes itself, so I don’t think the segment structure is necessarily a hindrance. I would be curious to know, and this is more of a general question, if there is a perceived issue, how even flexible is the structure of the GI? It doesn’t seem like it’s something that can change on a whim. Mr. Boyle: Definitely not something that could change on a whim. But the GI structure has changed a lot, even in the short time that I’ve been at the college. For example, the decoupling of the preceptorials from the segments. At one point, not during Emily Langston’s associate deanship but back in Jeff Black’s deanship, it used to be the case that the preceptorials were in a pretty strong sense pegged to the segments offered that term. So, if you take this term for an example, Math and Natural Science, and Literature. The preceptorials offered would be two Literature preceptorials and two Math and Natural Science preceptorials. Instead, what we actually have this fall is Canterbury tales, Galileo, three modern poets, the Greek, and Plato. And yes some of those may fit the themes of the current segments, but that seems to be circumstance, not designed. I think in years past one might have said that Plato’s Republic somehow belongs to Philosophy and Theology. So I do think that there is some kind of openness for the structure of the GI to change, and you might hear people around the halls talk about other paths to degree that the GI might pursue. Maybe we decouple — and I’m not endorsing this, I’m just reporting things that I’ve heard — decouple the seminars and tutorials. And it’s no longer the case that one needs to take four seminar-tutorial pairs plus four preceptorials, but one needs to take four seminars, four tutorials and four preceptorials. And they can be somehow mixed and matched. That could not be changed on a whim and I’m not sure that that’s even a good idea. I would say I do think that the relationship between seminar and tutorial in the GI is unique and it’s not like the relationship between seminar and tutorial in the undergraduate program. Insofar as it’s unique, I can imagine people in the future thinking about different ways forward to the degree that may not abandon the segment structure, but might actually in some sense alter it because one would be no longer bound to these seminar-tutorial pairs. Again I’m not endorsing this. I’m just speculating on things that I have heard, and I’m of two minds. As you might recall yesterday, Walter Sterling talked about the GI as be 85 �ing a place for experiments, and I think that there’s definitely some truth to that. Now, one needs to be cautious about imagining the GI as just some kind of laboratory where one can try a bunch of different things, because that’s a deep disservice to the Institute, as an institution with its own coherent program. It’s true that it’s more amenable to experimentation, new offerings, new MALA segments than with the undergraduate. Well, obviously it might be amenable to new offerings than undergraduate programming is, but one needs to be very measured about how one goes about doing such a thing. Stephen: I think this discussion of the structure of the GI program raises a question that ties the conversation back to the relationship between the GI and the broader college community. I think the first thing I want to just hear your input on is, there is such a difference in how the GI and the undergrad programs are built — and this might get at the heart of the issue — do you think GIs and undergrads graduate from their programs prepared to have the same conversation with each other? Is there something inherently true about the structure either way that creates that unity? Mr. Boyle: I think there’s enough overlap between the texts that are at the center of the GI. I want to say that at the center of the GI are the books and at the center of the undergraduate program are the books. It just so happens that we have kind of carved them up into segments for reasons that might be related to the unique position that a number of persons who are coming to the GI find themselves in. That they’re organized by segments to me will always remain a secondary fact about the about the Graduate Institute, and the books on the lists will always remain the absolute center, and insofar as there is great overlap between those lists and the list for the undergraduate program. I do think that the two sets of graduates, GI and undergraduates, go out ready to talk to one another, and the places in which they differ, it’s probably the case that undergraduates know about and wish that they could have read things that are in the GI program and vice versa. For example, the entire history segment. GI’s have ready ears to hear about things that are in the graduate program but not in the undergraduate one, and seem genuinely curious about the undergraduate experience and what it offers that they may not see in the GI. Labs are a terrific example there. Music, by and large. But yeah, there’s a nice amount of overlap. But with the possibility for growth because the overlap is not total. 86 �Stephen: Absolutely. Well, I only have two more quick questions for you. I’m curious to hear your take on what it is that makes the GI community so unique amongst the polity or even in the world. And then the last question is just a question on your background and what got you here. So I guess you if you want to take the GI community question first and then we can jump into the other one. Mr Boyle: This is where I’m definitely going to steal from Walter yesterday because I thought it was so moving of him to have said that. In some sense, the GI is most reflective of what it is that is at the heart of St. John’s College. Insofar as, people come to the graduate program, people do not drift into the Graduate Institute in the way that 18-year-olds can drift into the undergraduate program or be helped along by their parents into the undergraduate program, directed by their parents say, into the undergraduate program. It’s not a knock on anybody, it’s just a recognition of that’s how life is. One at 18 is still not quite in charge of one’s own life. But when one decides at the age of 25, 55, 75 to give of oneself one’s time and one’s finances to intellectual inquiry, that is a demonstration of the true choice-worthiness of the undertaking that we do here. That characterizes the work of the college. And yes, it will always be the case that the undergraduate program is at the center of St. John’s. No one, no one is doubting that. But I thought that Walter really highlighted a way in which something about the presence of persons who have made a very considered and deliberate choice, in something like the middle of their lives, to undertake this mode of inquiry through conversation is the best possible endorsement of it. So, I found that very, very moving. And in some sense wish all GIs could have heard that. It helps me even think about what I find so moving about seeing a 25-year-old, a 55-year-old, a 75-year-old here together learning from one another. I see in them hunger for a life of learning with others and in community with others but also, recognition that that hunger is one that can be met by this distinct community, the institution of St. John’s College. So, their presence here in the Graduate Institute is in some sense the greatest endorsement of the institution as a whole. Now, how did I get here? Again, I’m going to borrow a little bit from something that I heard Walter say in a different meeting. I’ve been a tutor for 10 years, more or less. And at some point along the way, I think I felt some sort of calling to take on a role in the college over and above my work and the working of the classroom, which is, I believe, the most important work at the college. But I thought that I might have had one or two administrative talents that are in some sense very minor virtues like staying on top of 87 �things or keeping some things organized, that I felt like I could put in the college’s service. I Won’t be in this position forever and look forward to returning to the classroom, but as I felt like I had these minor virtues I wanted to share them with the college. And so when they asked me to do this, I was very glad to do it. And I came into the role with the GI in a great position and hope to leave it in a still better one. Stephen: Building on your journey to this position I have one last question is and then we’ll get you out of here. I saw in your background in classics is what led you into this world of inquiry. But clearly, just even having a couple of brief intro or Campus Convening Weekend seminars with you, there’s a vibrancy in you about educating itself. So I’m curious, does that drive to be an educator come before the passion of the classics, or did the passion of the classics inspire the drive to be an educator? Mr. Boyle: Can I do the thing that interviewers hate and just reject the terms of question? Stephen: Be my guest. Mr Boyle: I think I might have at one time thought of myself as an educator, but I’m very grateful to St. John’s because I don’t any longer really think of myself as an educator. But I feel like I can passionately model being a student, like I just love learning and I love learning with others and I think I’m not bad at it. I think I know how it goes well, and what in what conditions it goes well, and what conditions it goes somewhat poorly. And I think I can model that for people. If I’m educating them in that regard, I’m happy to, but I’m definitely not filling their minds with any theories. 88 I’m grateful to St. John’s because to be perfectly honest, before I came to St. John’s I did just want to be filled with facts that I could report, but not really own as my own. St. John’s, as I think it’s true for many tutors, marked a real new beginning in my own intellectual life. What I could say if I have to start again from nothing and say, almost all of what I take myself to know I know in only the most attenuated sense because it’s so mediated. It’s been handed to me by so many other persons that I have never really taken any ownership of my own education, and I think I was able to do that when I �became a tutor and I hope I’m showing people that they can do that, too. And you can start at any time. It’s available to anybody to just take ownership of their education. And insofar as I’m showing people what that might look like, I may consider myself an educator, but in the main, I’m just a student. Stephen: Well, it’s certainly palpable and thank you for taking some time with me today Mr. Boyle: It was a pleasure, glad to. 89 �Thank you to all our contributors 90 Austin Suggs On Creation Chris Macbride Old Dog Cynthia Crane The First Postulate John Harwood Before the Blank Stare Kyle Reynolds The Creation of the Self Louis Petrich Children of That World Nadine Bucca Visual Art Noah Vancina The Nature of the Pilgramage Sam Hage Corruption at the Symposium Shirley Quo The Galileo Affair Siobhán Petersen How to Read Well Stacey Rains Forbidden Fruit Stephen Cunha On the Creation of Man Sydney Rowe Mimi Sylvie Bernhardt My Mind’s a Dark Forest Yonas Ketsela A Dialogue with Descartes �COLLOQUY St. John’s College, 60 College Avenue, Annapolis, Maryland Volume 13: Fall 2023 Editor Stephen Borsum Editorial board: Sarah Ritchie, Paul Harland-White, Shirley Quo, Stuart Williams, Kyle Reynolds, Sylvie Bernhardt With thanks to: Kashya Boretsky, Associate Dean Brendan Boyle, and the Graduate Student Council ..... Colloquy is a biannual publication of the Graduate Student Council and St. John’s College in Annapolis, Maryland. The journal is free of charge. Address correspondence to Colloquy, The Graduate Institute at St. John’s College, 60 College Avenue, Annapolis, Maryland, 21401. Or email to colloquy@sjc.edu. Students, tutors, and alumni of St. John’s College and the Graduate Institute are encouraged to submit their manuscripts in PDF or Word format by email to colloquy@sjc.edu . The journal also accepts submissions of poetry, original art, and photography. Please include your name, contact information, and the title of your work with your submission. Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in the journal do not necessarily reflect those St. John’s College, the Graduate Council, or Colloquy. 91 �92 � 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 Colloquy Description An account of the resource A student-run journal for the Graduate Institute community of St. John's College in Annapolis, Maryland. The issues feature essays, art, poetry, interviews, and more. 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 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 pdf Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 92 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 Colloquy, Fall 2023 Description An account of the resource Volume 13 of Colloquy, published in Fall 2023. The theme of the issue is On Creation. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Borsum, Stephen (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 2024-02 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 Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived English Subject The topic of the resource St. John's College (Annapolis, Md.)--Periodicals Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Colloquy_Fall2023_Online-Copy Graduate Institute https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/a4a262c069b1dcb36e38d68b7738b392.pdf 46a205e93a354bff8894dbf099e42a66 PDF Text Text Colloquy FALL 2024 On Being �Colloquy is an academic journal and biannual publication of the Graduate Student Council and St. John’s College in Annapolis, Maryland featuring the works of students, tutors, and alumni of the St. John’s Graduate Institute. The journal is free of charge. The views and opinions expressed in the journal do not necessarily reflect those St. John’s College, the Graduate Council, or Colloquy. Printed with Cardo font Cover: Vanity with Two Mirrors - Amelia Taylor Wolfe oil on canvas panel 8x8” �Colloquy Issue 15 Fall 2024 On Being Editor-in-Chief: Bucca Editorial Board: Lola Bondar Stephen Borsum Cynthia Crane Gus Kraus Stafford Wood Assistant Director for Graduate Student Services: Kashya Boretsky Associate Dean for Graduate Programs: Brendan Boyle Colloquy, The Graduate Institute at St. John’s College, 60 College Avenue, Annapolis, Maryland, 21401 colloquy@sjc.edu �Letter from the Editor Dear Graduate Institute Community, This is the third themed issue of Colloquy. Last fall we had ‘on creation’ then ‘on character’ in the spring. For this semester, ‘on being’ was a popular choice with our editorial board, though it was not without its contenders. I was drawn to ‘on wonder’ and ‘on passion’ as well, topics that might inspire students all kinds of beautiful and dramatic pieces. However, I wanted to keep this semester’s theme broad. Almost anything can tie back to the idea of ‘being.’ Within these pages are oil paintings, still-lifes which capture the essence of everyday objects. There’s a meditative quality about them, how one can study a subject and find the lines to represent it, not as it is precisely but through a new created form of representation. It’s the same with the lithographs and prints, but with people as subjects there seem to be many untold stories that might begin to reveal themselves in a single pose or expression. While theme can inspire creators, it can also dissuade them if they don’t see a strong enough connection to their work. Like many things, the proper balance must be found. Theme is worth having because it unites pieces and can encourage readers to find connections between pieces in a way that grants insights, those Aha! moments when these links are discovered. Within these pages, there are essays that address education, the formation of a student and what it means to be human. There are philosophical quandaries exploring the idea of being itself. There are poems which deal with the nature of time, and how it changes us. Throughout the journal, there are numerous inquiries and all on some level related to being. Finally, there is the journal as an image and physical object. There is the balance between the ink on the pages forming words and ideas, and the blank spaces, the non-being. It is in some of these spaces, I’ve found small homes for some of my own sketches and drawings, occasionally inspired by the poetry of the page. For Chaucer’s prologue, I took inspiration from the Ellesmere manuscript. Others are based on the world around me and my own imagination. I hope they, along with the rest of the work here, bring you delight. Sincerely, Bucca �Contents Poetry & Musings Wednesday Morning Meditation the First Gerund is Easier than Noun Old Willow Man I am Part of All That I have Been Orange Sunset & Olive Pits Champion Challenger Achelous The Fox I Wish I Was Obituary Storage 7 8 9 10 11 12 14 16 18 20 22 23 Rachel Brown Aaron Knight Stafford Wood Stephen Borsum Laszlo J. Boesze George Kalandadze Michael Vigil Travis Kyker Travis Kyker Tova Gannana George Kalandadze James Paul Rogers 25 26 28 Cynthia Crane Deana Moss Stephen Borsum Short Stories & Translations Canterbury Tales The House on Fargo Street Being in Lisbon Essays Emile at the Place for Learning 31 Image, Imaginary, and Ignorance of Real Being 45 Root to Rise 51 Charles Edward Chapin Gus Kraus Haley Prickett Interviews & Toasts Meet Tutor, Mr André Barbera 60 Becoming a Reader 62 Like Alyosha 64 What’s a Eureka Moment you had in class? 65 Shirely Quo Charmaine D’Souza Emily Price �Poetry & Musings Dog Patch, 17x21” lithograph - Jesse Wood 6 �Wednesday Morning Rachel Brown A toadstool White as a new-turned leaf Sprang up last night While I was sleeping. This empty space Will always be the hallowed place Where a toadstool Fleeting as a dream Fresh as a stream of sunlight Alighted one morning to Grace for a day The ground below my windowsill That never felt empty before And will ever feel full Of a fragile strength A slim silent speaking presence Raised from darkness into life Overnight An extravagant, lavish Testament to joy Like wine pouring over from Jugs of water Pouring and pooling in Thirsty goblets. A toadstool Iike an inverted goblet Poured out for me Is new and newly baptized Clean by sparkling morning dewdrops into An innocence of grief. ! 7 �Meditation the First Aaron Knight Big D beside the fire—anyone else here from 2024? After all, even more? This more here more there more. Right now nothing really matters, literally anymore. Doesn’t it seem painfully unreal? Like snow? Like a snowball? Just under the ear in front of the pineal gland say? One’s rightful place among bugs and dust and supernovas – Inventories of perception, liquid in the vessel. Celebrating the cosmos. Expand, fit myself inside A grotesquely offensive form – I won’t stand out as much if All continuous or infinitely discrete Horns and graffiti and rain (so much rain), can claim membership too. (I really couldn’t care less – just take the spotlight off me.) So I’m awake? Not so sure about that. Prove it. Bundled up for winter I fear you’ll see a black hole on your starboard, (A compulsion to prevail and monetize is a favorite). Shame and spite more than thought, prove existence, I would say, if asked by a Deceiving God. That my feeling insides, Speechless, and that howling sound we hear in our ears – You told me you heard it too – quieter silence but still loud. (The eternal alarm of intrusion never goes silent?) But whenever I say it never will – Fools rush in and all that, Commands and directives, metaphysics and epistemology And ontological limits of signifiers – Little Daddy Roughbones tonight folks, Straight to bed when the sun goes down – Let me tell you that I never signed up for this here thing – I just know that I woke up at age 4 and realized I wasn’t 3 anymore – Still my most profound insight. 8 �Gerund is Easier than Noun Stafford Wood Speaking is easier than being a speaker Leading is easier than being a leader Fighting is easier than being a fighter Writing is easier than being a writer Teaching is easier than being a teacher Preaching is easier than being a preacher Loving is easier than being a lover Mothering is easier than being a mother 9 �Old Willow Man Stephen Borsum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�I am Part of All That I have Been Laszlo J. Boesze “I am a part of all that I have seen...” Tennyson, “Ulysses” In different carriers, I exist in parts Coiled in a mysterious way That joined grow in a primordial ooze, Take shape and find limbs and senses anew And screaming face the world again: Alive, a whole, and brand-new I That is as old as from whence I sprang. Wanted or not, I have sprung forth, Demand my right to be, And be cared for, Till I can fend alone And have parts of me form a new I. And when I leave Blood-soaked or shriveled up What trace of me do I leave behind? Am I a monumental tomb Remembered better that I Who left my bones in a sea of peat? Did either me an impact make In a world I cannot comprehend? Still, I am a part of all That was, that is, will be, In ways I shall never know. 11 �Orange Sunset & Olive Pits George Kalandadze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�Corrales II, 16x22.5” lithograph - Jesse Wood 13 �Champion Challenger Michael Vigil Work through challenges like any man would. — By crying out to father; Father, forgive me, for I know not what I have done. — Seeking mother’s touch. To Mother; caress my body in Myrrh, once laid to rest. — In a world of devotion, imitation, idolization, instant gratification. Seek a hand of grace, not one of cruelty, seek the place where a babes cry, meets mother’s coo. — Present is a place, void of spirit, a babes cry, rings out; to no echo. To no warm embrace. Dirty, soiled, bad-tempered; mother’s ears are deaf, to this babies falsetto. No hand of grace, no mother’s touch, only torment; only whimpers. — Tears tread down narrow, undulating, swollen eyes; cradled in hollowed bones. Down, down, tapping, dripping, dropping. Drooling onto dirty soiled frame, hollowed by hatred, hallowed by shame. — Tread, tread, tread. Blop, drip, drop, tear, tear, tears. Travel the tunnel of birth. A crap shoot of probabilities. Popped from the space between urine and feces. Plopped upon the crap-table, arrival, unhappy, a-being, unexpected. — Confront the Law, not natural law; the law of averages. To a serpents hiss, affronted by a woman’s whis-per, “you are departing unhappy.” Heel bruised, fork tongue, slithers off, affronted. — Making out, then making off. Flicking classic movie poster post cards, from index finger. Flicking an ear, to disturb a friend. “Dare I disturb the universe?” — Keeping time, not natural time, whistling “Giant steps” like a type of syncopated jazz aves, barreling Geary ave. Gunning for the coast, rebelling, Jim and Buzz, screaming, “let’s see who chicken!” 14 �— The buzz fades, sipping whiskey, from a worn leather, stuffed in the side pocket, tucked next to a Faulkner, novel. Not understanding my worries, limping, strolling Geary ave. — Trimming the top off parking meters, I tread, the sulfur surface, and use the change to tear out pages from newspaper dispensers. Disturbed by the mendacity. Perturbed to trepidation. Tear drops, soak, wear through the pulp, diffusing the ink, exposing the truth. — I tread through life on hot summer pavement, worn down, like a used tire. Rotating round the circumference, axle grease spews out the hubcap like a boxer spitting a tooth. — Racing down Columbus Ave., wailing “a love supreme”, speeding past a statue of St. Francis of Assisi. Touched by stigmata, and a revelation; a truth, I sped through life, heaven seeking, hell bound. — Tires bald, worn down, the psst of a nail wound, puncturing through a thin layer. No more rotations, to a force greater than my own, strewn upon the cold pavement, as my breath hisses into the aether. — Father forgives me, for he knows what I have done. — Crack of polyurethane window pane, under foot, Fanny, a flower, sprung on the sidewalk adjoint the Café Trieste. An on looker, in Illumination (as dew turns to mist) says, “The pane broke so well.” — Mother caress my body in Frankincense, once laid to rest. — Amen 15 �Achelous Travis Kyker The next time, We walked our little way Stumbling up like vagrants Seeking the coals of comfort, Prodding burnished ashes, Listening into the dark And shedding the rags of day. I doubted then, But learned how to cast it away. Eyes, uplifted from afar, Made us fervently glad Unwitting worshipers Beneath a cathedral of stars. But at last, Young and weeping The road tore past our feet. Backwards, rushing wrong, Into a holy defeat, A secret home, a fathom-call; Up to the mouth of the father Whose hungry love makes children of us all. 16 Yoked - Jesse Wood 14.5x10.5 intaglio print with monotype and aquatint The first time we were there, That river. Water going by like silence, like silver, God’s diamonds— Mystery too beautiful to name. All the precious moments Dissolved there Tumbled in dark time, Churning to dust Before our eyes. You took my hand And we knelt with the faith of fools Praying hopelessly. �17 �The Fox Travis Kyker Red fox rampant, eyes aloft— Autumn is good for him. A swath of crimson samite all-encompassed, lost Amid the sea of swirling bronze admits No gaze of lesser beasts Who garrison the land with fearful watch. Look! whisper of life— The careless message races to its lord. Spires of black ears prick up As paws splash down, The dew-drop scatters Patterning a crystal ring about His gallery of shining claws. They sink into the earth to launch A swift assault And hammer to the ground A speeding thunder, secret fire, Racing through sun-spears That dash across his pelt like beams Of luminary shadow. �Is this the fox thou lovest? Yes— His splendor’s course to all men’s hearts doth run. For he is as a law unto himself, The law of will and hunger so endowed That need, for him, and want together Always bleed as one, And rightful prize is always all that simple might beclaims. But here he reads the scroll of nature’s heart— A subtle work which guards its secrets well— And fancies it admissible to deem The plainest and true meaning as the same, As a great king cruel and strong beholds The wonder of his crown And plunges without mercy on his liege. For if war fathers all, and fire Penetrates the very soul of life, The bíos and the bow are truly one, And nature’s song enchants itself Upon a flash of white not long unstained, Descending in a vicious revelation. And now as red flows into red, Behold thy saving truth: The many into one resolved Upon a tangle of dead roots, A new whole self-engulfed emergent Writhing on the forest floor— Becoming is itself undone in this Vermilion ouroboros. 19 �I Wish I Was Tova Gannana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— GL(!&*!)!0.#913#!(''$+!G!%)&/!)/!7-'44%)#=4+!G!5-../!(2!.#$.-4K!N.'9#.!)-.!-'##&*5! /0-'350!/'!/0.!*.S/!4/)5.K!U#'-2!)*$!6.)3/2+!7)##!&/!70)-(+!4&(9#.!7)*!)#4'!6.! 1)/)#K!G!%.&50!(24.#1!1'-!/0.!)('3*/!63/!)#4'!/0.!/&(.K!GL(!0'(.!)*$!)%)2K!G!Q'&*! %&/0!%0)/.:.-!G!/)=.!&*K!GL(!D40&*5!'-!GL(!#2&*5!)6'3/!%0.-.!GL:.!5'*.K! —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�Lady of the Canyon, 11x15” monotype - Jesse Wood 21 �Obituary George Kalandadze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�Storage James Paul Rogers I love the light of southern sunsets as It lathes through the boughs of the red-oak trees, Casting bars of bright and dark on the fields. Such sights will ever mean home to me: the Gentle hills rolling down toward the river Crowned with maple and hickory; local Lanes all swathed in shadow from the forests’ Graceful eaves; quiet river ripples lit At evening from the west while waterbirds Take silent flight, calling softly, toward the East. Though I have seen a thousand thousand Evening skies blushing lovely in the fall, Each one retains the power to enchant, Reminding me to be glad to be, to Live yet one more day where fleeting beauties Lie in wait for those with eyes to find them. 23 �Short Stories & Translations Clay Skull and Wineglass - Amelia Taylor Wolfe oil on canvas panel 9x12” 24 �Canterbury Tales First 18 lines of Geoffrey Chaucer’s General Prologue Cynthia Crane When April with sweet rain has sought Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote And pierced the roots of March’s drought, The droghte of March hath perced to the roote, And bathed every vine in that liquor And bathed every veyne in swich licour That sires by nature every flower, Of which vertu engendred is the flour; When Zephyr with his breath ‘s beguiled Whan Zephirus eek with his sweete breeth On farmer’s land and in heather wild Inspired hath in every holt and heeth First fragile crops, and the young sun The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne Half through Aries’ course has run Hath in the Ram his half cours yronne, And little birds make melodies, And smale foweles maken melodye, And sleep all night with open eyes — That slepen al the nyght with open ye So Nature pricks up people’s courage (So priketh hem Nature in hir corages), Til they long to go on pilgrimage, Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages, And those who pray seek routes unclear And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes, to distant shrines known far and near; To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes; And especially from every county’s side And specially from every shires ende Of England to Canterbury they ride, Of Engelond to Caunterbury they wende, Seeking the sainted martyr’s way The hooly blisful martir for to seke, That helped when they were sick with plague. That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke. 5 10 15 �The House on Fargo Street Deana Moss I take a deep breath. I stand under the overgrown tree, facing the long, narrow driveway that feels like a forgotten path stretching into eternity. The gravel crunches underfoot, but the sound is swallowed by the eerie stillness. The air carries a weight, thick and oppressive, pressing down with each step. I sighed, why did we even live here? The house stands hidden, shrouded in the shadow of another, as if deliberately concealing itself from the world. It was the result of necessary downsizing. A rental home that was never meant to be permanent, simply a bridge between what we thought would be our forever home to what ended up becoming my sole inheritance. As I move closer, I see flickers in the periphery of my vision—familiar, yet out of place. There, darting along the driveway, is the ghost of my younger self, her laughter silent but vivid, her bike wheels spinning in an endless loop. A soft smile etched itself across my face. I saved up every penny I had to my name to buy that purple bike with tinsel hanging off the handlebars. The image vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving behind an ache so sharp it feels real. The house looms ahead, unassuming yet suffused with an unshakable melancholy. Its facade seems to sag under the weight of time, and the windows, dark and opaque, offer no reflection, only void. As I approach, a wave of sadness crashes over me, cold and suffocating, as though the house itself mourns its place in my story. Each step toward the door feels heavier, the pull of the past growing stronger, and I can’t tell if it’s the house or my own heart that’s whispering, Why have you come back? Tears welled in my eyes, as if I was about to sneeze–but the sneeze never came. The house stands like a shadow of its former self, 26 its once light, inviting exterior now cloaked in a somber, weathered brown. The vibrant energy that once filled its halls has faded, replaced by an unsettling quiet. The carpet that once cushioned playful steps is gone, stripped away and replaced by dark, polished hardwood that seems to groan underfoot as if mourning the past. The space where laughter used to echo—my childhood sanctuary of games and imagination—has been transformed into a cold, sterile dining area. The table in the center is tiny compared to the hardwood table that belonged to a young pilot. The walls are devoid of the warmth one would expect to go along with the sentiments that the words on the wall seem to be expressing. The chairs are stiff, their angles too precise, and the air feels heavy, as though joy itself has been exiled from the room. Shadows pool in the corners, stretching longer than they should, as if the house itself resents its transformation. It feels as though the walls are watching, bearing witness to the life that was once here, now stifled by this chilling refinement. This is no longer a home; it is a memory gone hollow. But, as I look around, I remember, this was never my home. This was temporary. This house was a meaningless fling. It was a rental, it was never meant to be permanent–so why do I feel this way? It’s just a house. It’s just a house. It’s just–but why do I feel like this? The corridor leading to the master bedroom stretches ahead, narrow and claustrophobic, its walls pressing inward as though eager to trap me. The air feels thick, stale, as if the house itself is holding its breath. I reach the bedroom, but it is not the room I remember. �This was once a space I reluctantly shared, filled with the chaos of three lives jostling for room. Now, it feels eerily orderly and unfamiliar—its transformation erasing even the faintest echoes of what it once was. The sound of two young girls and their mother sharing a room have now been replaced by the rustle of trees in the backyard, scraping against the window. I turn toward the closet, the one place that had been mine, hoping to feel the solace I felt when I was a child. It was a windowless room. Spacious, even when it was filled with clothes and photo albums. Stepping inside, I am swallowed by its shadows. This was my sanctuary, a haven where I could be unapologetically myself. Here, I had felt invincible, untouchable by the rules and expectations that waited outside the door. I would look through all of my mother’s hidden treasures, this was the place I discovered my mother was the tooth fairy and Santa Clause. As I stand and look up to the high ceiling, the air is heavy, cloying, and the ceiling seems to close in. soot-streaked bricks bearing silent witness to all that was lost here. I collapse to my knees, the weight of the house pressing down as if it is alive, feeding off my despair. My sobs wrack my body, raw and unrelenting, as memories pour out unbidden. The Christmas I refused to help decorate—such a small act of defiance—looms large in my mind, a symbol of everything I pushed away, everything I let slip through my fingers. The sorrow washes over me like a tidal wave, drowning me in its cold embrace. What was once warm and alive has become hollow, corrupted by its own emptiness. It feels as though the house mourns too, though not for me. It mourns the spark of life it smothered until it was gone. Having no other being to consume, it consumed itself. As I kneel before the cold hearth, I feel something behind me. I turned; it was the breeze coming in through the door I left open. A tightness grips my chest, sharp and unyielding, each breath shallow and strained as if the air itself refuses to enter my lungs. My pulse pounds in my ears, louder and faster, drowning out every rational thought. My hands tremble, my palms slick with sweat, and the room feels impossibly small, spinning and tilting like a ship in a storm. My mind screams for escape, but my legs feel leaden, rooted to the floor. Finally, with a desperate lunge, I turn and push the door open. Cool air rushes in, and I stagger out, gasping as if I’ve been underwater for too long. My heart begins to slow, but the ache of the loss remains. I can’t stay in this house a moment longer. The walls seem to close in, each step down the corridor echoing louder, mocking my escape. I run, my breath ragged, my legs trembling as I race through the suffocating space. At last, I stumble into the living room and stop, my eyes drawn to the fireplace. Its 27 �Being in Lisbon Stephen Borsum The city is beautiful, but in some ways more so sleeping than when it’s awake. The port in my glass is sweet but bold, complemented by the slow burn of a rich cigarette. It was a short morning of strolling through a museum of antique arts, remnants of Portugal’s famous discoveries, but really they were just old paintings of Jesus and the martyrs, which the occasional piece of Chinese pottery interjected itself between. I searched the shops for nothing in particular, but seeking 28 something beyond another drink or another cup of espresso. Another drag from the cigarette, another sip of port. To my left is the sprawling mass of building-topped hills and rolling green spaces, colors fade together like an impressionist’s field of wildflowers. All of this is interrupted by the church renovation happening below, where workers in their hard hats operate a crane that occasionally obstructs my view of the city. Towards the river, some gaudy multi-story office build- �ing for a corporation breaks the otherwise inviting skyline, interestingly blocking my view of the massive statue of Jesus. The port finished, I meander through a district that I now realize is only a tourist trap, and isn’t to be taken as the true heart of Lisbon’s artist culture. That’s in the aged stone occasionally covered with graffiti. Or the street performers. Or the hand-placed stone sidewalks with black and white bricks interweaving into various shapes, sometimes purposeful but others chaotic. Perhaps the truest art of the city is the flowers still blooming in late-November, but I won’t ask the locals such a question. I don’t mean to render their city knowable like some blog post. What is least interesting is surface level. Like the Catholic references and churches on nearly every block. So many built on destroyed mosques. The return walk to my destination is all uphill, but thankfully this area of Lisbon is not so steep. Still, I don’t resist stopping by the pastelaria, the bakery across the street for another glass of port and a pastel de nata, when the desire to take a break comes over me. Each time I try the little custard tart I like it more, and even though it’s nearly the noon-hour, I see hungover Lisboans rising for breakfast at the cafes around. With some I can practice just enough Portuguese to not be an asshole, but quickly have to ask if we can switch to English as their own tongue flows so easily through them and immediately becomes ungraspable to my ears. I find myself enjoying this port more than the others, but I’ve only tried the red and for some reason won’t try the white. Ignorance I presume. Still, I finish my glass and strike another cigarette, the brand I found here is dangerously smooth. And continuing my walk I finally find what I was looking for without knowing. A simple shop, where a Japanese man watches YouTube while waiting for tourists to wander in. He’s selling sunglasses, and I desperately need a new pair. I return to the studio where we are planning to enjoy the evening. The proprietor greets me, and we discuss tattoos, his collection of them and my lack of one. We drink what seems to be the only beer people have a preference for in Lisbon, Super Bock, and talk about life in America and the animals in Montana, namely the great many of them that can kill you. The studio opens for the evening and artists suddenly pour in, the space awakens from contemplative to lively, letting bloom an energy in the room that I’ve already spent for the day walking the many streets. And I remember the warm sun and the port and cigarette from earlier in the day. 29 �Essays Precarious - Amelia Taylor Wolfe 12x16” oil on canvas panel 30 �Emile at the Place for Learning Rousseau and Oakeshott in College Campus Duet Charles Edward Chapin I. Orchestration The teenage education of “Emile” described by Jean-Jacque Rousseau in the work’s third book, and the college described in Michael Oakeshott’s “A Place of Learning” present an opportunity for exploring dissonance and harmony in these two approaches to young adult education. Will the Rousseauian mantra, “What good is that for?”1, doom Emile’s journey through the hypothetical halls of Oakeshott College, where faculty and students abjure “the use which may be made of the conclusions of their inquiries?”2 A student has been tutored to reject scholarship. The tutor of his youth, himself an eminent scholar, guided him instead to favor practical applications of his lessons, and to sustain his financial independence as a craftsman. Now eighteen years old and somewhere in twentieth century America, he decides to attend a secluded liberal arts college to pursue deeper meaning in life. How might his childhood tutor’s views interact with the pedagogical design of this campus, where, in favor of intellectually productive leisure, “instrumental arts” are distanced from “liberal learning?” To encourage this dialogue, I make a few choices. First, Emile has a disposition and maturity that matches this hypothetical college. Readers may quibble with this premise, arguing that Rousseau’s Emile would see higher learning as pointless.3 On the other hand, the character has a pensiveness that lends itself to honest inquiry, and perhaps his attraction to liberal arts is inevitable. In any case, let us give him a chance to go to college. Second, the Oakeshott faculty prefer dialectic pedagogy and are oriented toward the individual flourishing of students. Emile’s training in experimentation and self-led discovery will not, therefore, cause conflict in this setting. This choice allows us to focus more exclusively on the concept of utility in education, rather than pedagogical process. Finally, when Emile is faced with conflict between Rousseau and Oakeshott, he chooses a path that prioritizes interaction between them, rather than retreating to one side or the other. II. Melody Oakeshott College stands before him, an isolated, walled campus rimmed by mountains of green and blue. “Adventures in Human Self-Understanding,” (Oakeshott 15) 1 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques. “Emile: or On Education.” Translated by Allan Bloom. New York: Basic Books, 1979. p. 179 2 Oakeshott, Michael. “A Place of Learning.” In What Is History? and Other Essays, edited by Luke O’Sullivan, 1-34. Exeter: Imprint Academic, 2004. p. 22 3 Indeed, our reading focused exclusively on Book III, which takes place between Emile’s 12th th and 15 year. 31 �proclaim the banners on the lampposts. This motto of the college’s founder and namesake is what drew Emile here. He seeks adventure and wants to understand. The nearest town is two miles away through dense woods, and to preserve the intellectual purity of the college environment, students travel only on foot. Two miles through the woods is an easy navigation problem for Emile on a sunny day or a starry night, but he is not here to escape. He is Robinson Crusoe, marooned anew, on an island with uncharted possibilities. Earlier that day, he had sold his craftsman’s tools for pens and paper, then had saved the rest for books. The tutor and friend of his early teens, Mr. Rousseau, had never intended for him to choose this path, or indeed any path that involved so many books. He had been permitted to read, of course, and especially those books that provided inspiration for martialing the resources necessary to find his way in the world (Rousseau 184). But to study humanities at a small, secluded college? It would have seemed foolish to Mr. Rousseau. “It is by their palpable relation to his utility, his security, his preservation, and his well-being,” Mr. Rousseau had once advised, “that he ought to appraise all the bodies of nature and all the works of men. Thus, iron ought to be much more valuable in his eyes than gold, and glass than diamonds” (Rousseau 187). Emile can imagine how the people in the market would roll their eyes at the utility of prioritizing humanities and isolating oneself from the hic et nunc (“Here and now” Oakeshott 10-11), two of Oakeshott’s precepts. As he hears their voices in his mind’s ear, He zips his jacket against the 32 wind and pulls down his simple cap. He wonders now if Mr. Rousseau ever fully understood that he has chosen this path not in spite of his tutor but because of him; Mr. Rousseau’s seeds of worldly, practical knowledge had sprouted into a growing sense that these sorts of books were of greater use than he had previously been told. Emile had become accustomed to allowing objects and information to appear in front of him, without demanding answers from them. Now, at eighteen, his own life had presented itself as one of these objects of curiosity. He had studied it with his characteristic pensiveness and curiosity, but the essence of the thing, the meaning of life, had eluded him. Self-sufficiency and creative instrumentation had begun to seem like virtues, not meaning. They were a way to live a good life, a means to an end. But now, when he asks of life, “What good is that for,” (Rousseau 179) who is he asking? He lacked the instruments to form an answer. The search for these tools is what brings Emile to Oakeshott College. And what an adventure it could be! Mr. Rousseau and Mr. Oakeshott had this attitude in common. Both had described life as a process of exploration that gave depth to one’s existence. Mr. Rousseau may have preferred a more individualistic, hands-on approach and Mr. Oakeshott a more Socratic, theoretical one, but surely there is room at the Oakeshott seminar table for a student who likes to work with his hands? Besides, Emile’s love of testing things fit in well with the study of natural science, which was respected at Oakeshott. He under- �stands that too much science is frowned upon at the college, but Mr. Rousseau had shared this view: “Not to teach him the sciences but to give him the taste for loving them,” (Rousseau 172) he had prescribed. There was an apparent danger in going too far into one field and losing sight of the big picture. Even if Mr. Rousseau had made that argument based on utility, it was rooted in a respect for balance between natural science and other concepts. Oakeshott College would do the same. In fact, the Oakeshott curriculum prohibited students from concentrating their studies in natural science.4 Incidentally, Oakeshott College also prohibited students from being employed and being distracted by “the instrumental arts,” (Oakeshott 13) as marketable skills were called. Emile has an affinity for his craft, but he is willing to take a break from it to pursue life’s deeper meaning. Sacrificing his craft is not a rejection of his Rousseauian values but rather an embrace of them; he is making a trade. Mr. Rousseau might have argued that it was not worth what he was paying, since “it is by money that goods of various kinds become commensurable and can be compared,” (Rousseau 190) and since his time at Oakeshott would not produce more money. But Emile had decided that money was just a representation of value, and that understanding how to live a meaningful life simply had a higher personal value than practicing his trade for four years. Besides, study was a kind of work, and he knew how to find love in his work by doing it well and letting it speak for itself. He feels sometimes like two people: an aspiring philosopher, and an aspiring master craftsman. This is by his tutor’s design: “In all that he will see, in all that he will do, he will want to know everything; he will want to learn the reason for everything. From instrument to instrument he will want always to go back to the first; he will accept no assumption” (Rousseau 188-189). Well, Mr. Rousseau, he thinks, I am here to go back to the very first questions. Why am I here? Why are we here? He knows his former tutor and the founder of this college had their differences, but he thinks the foundations are similar enough to allow for an experience of great personal significance. He enters campus through a large gate in the wall. It shuts behind him with a definitive click. II. Countermelody Emile sits at the corner of his seminar table. “The Life of the Mind” is a required discussion group for all first-year students. Two months have passed since he last heard the click of the gate. The readings have been stimulating, but the wind is no longer at his back on his expedition. He stays engaged, but he sometimes wonders why his peers seem content to just talk. There is a term they keep using, “the conversation” (Oakeshott 16, 30, 34). It seems like an accepted end in itself, this conversation, a kind of proper noun without a clear delineation. He is not always sure whether he is 4 Oakeshott 22. Since I am building a hypothetical college on Oakeshott’s writing, I choose to imagine that the college has translated the spirit of his writing into academic policy. 33 �in “the” conversation or just “a” conversation. The ideas that come up in these discussions are wonderful. Yet whenever he tries to offer an opportunity to test them out after class, like the time he proposes a system for measuring “soul” as a ratio like health, his peers seem embarrassed and hesitant. Is this the limit of learning at Oakeshott? The students seem like cartographers who draw maps from descriptions but never travel, never measure the land with their eyes. The tutor, Ms. Vendredi, sits just to his right, at the end of the table. She reads from an essay by the founder of the college. “Oakeshott wrote that ‘Liberal learning is a difficult engagement’” (Oakeshott 30). She pauses. “‘It depends upon an understanding of itself which is always imperfect; even those who presided over its emergence hardly knew what they were doing. And it depends upon a self-confidence which is easily shaken and not least by continual self-examination’ (Oakeshott 30). So,” continues Ms. Vendredi, “What perplexes me is... What is it that we are learning in such a difficult way?” “Human self-understanding,” offers a fellow student at the end of the table, reminding everyone of the school motto. “It is inseparable from learning to participate in what is called a ‘culture’” (Oakeshott 16). She refers to the text by Oakeshott. Emile writes this down carefully. He finds satisfaction in the careful script of his hand and the even flow of ink from a well-designed pen. He thinks about his craftsman tools. It helps him feel valuable to make things that people pay him for, to re- 5 mind him that he can find his way through a problem with his own wits. His compensation has been a source of self-confidence. How are students compensated in their culture of learning? By grades? By affirmations at the seminar table? He is momentarily distracted, thinking of the instruments of the seminar. Pens, printed texts on paper, the table, the chairs, all invisible to his peers but designed by experts to be perfectly invisible to their users. A pair of glasses perches on his tutor’s nose, calibrated by an optician. A lamp above the table holds the light of engagement at a standardized level of lumens, using a predictable number of watts. Are these instruments not part of our culture here at Oakeshott? He wonders how the college community fails to acknowledge that the craftsmanship of its physical environment is part of its culture. Isn’t the tutor’s optician participating in the seminar, indirectly? Ms. Vendredi seems to have caught him staring at her glasses. Her eyes, distorted by the lenses, remind him of a lesson from Mr. Rousseau about the refraction of light and how a stick will appear to bend in water. She invites him to share what is on his mind. “Is this idea of culture measurable?” he asks. “What could one use to determine whether it is even real? And if it is, how might participants in the culture know when or if they are participating? And in the context of learning about human understanding, surely the economic output resulting from that understanding must be considered?”5 A hypothetical point of view, imagined based on a synthesis of Rousseau‘s emphasis of instrumentation in the education of Emile. See Rousseau 169, 176, 184, 188-189 34 �A classmate across from him responds. “I see what you’re saying. Maybe the measurement of learning is what you could use to show how culture is developing, and then furthermore how learning impacts local trade. Consider this passage in the text: ‘A large part of human conduct is, and always has been, concerned with exploiting the resources of the earth for the satisfaction of human wants, and much of human learning is concerned, directly or indirectly, with this endlessly proliferating intelligent engagement….’ (Oakeshott 11-12). In the context of a culture of learning about human self-understanding, she nods, Oakeshott would agree that, ‘This certainly is genuine learning’” (Oakeshott 12). Another peer to his left jumps in, “I think that economic output might be considered as a voice in the culture, but not the culture itself.” He wonders what she means by “voice.” Voices have ranges and are heard in pitches. They emit sounds in octaves. They can be transcribed onto staves of treble and bass clefs with precision. That is not what she means. She is talking about the conversation again. She cites Oakeshott, “Perhaps we may think of these components of a culture as voices... Each the expression of a distinct and conditional understanding of the world and a distinct idiom of human self-understanding, and of the culture itself as these voices joined, as such voices could only be joined, in a conversation” (Oakeshott 30). He does not quite follow. “Are you saying that the mere existence of the conversation itself is the value? Well, what is that conversation good for (Rousseau 179). His peers appear non-plussed. A man across the table retorts with a raised eyebrow, “I mean, that’s kind of the whole point here at Oakeshott. If you’re not here for the conversation,” he then looks around the table for reactions, “then what are we even doing here, guys?” Emile tries to explain what he means. “The idea of this conversation as ‘culture’ needs to have some utility and purpose that helps us toward self-understanding. It needs some property that allows one to use it to measure progress towards that self-understanding. Like it says on the lampposts...” He trails off and feels like he’s losing them. “Ok, just imagine it like this.” He finds himself proposing the development of a series of measurements, and then a data collection plan, for extrapolating the relative influence each “voice” might have on the outcome of self-understanding. One could develop an entire curriculum around this way of measuring impact, train experts in program management, advise governments on how to manage grants effectively, change the world…!6 He stops, seeing a mix of bemusement around the table. Has he departed from the text again?7 Another peer to his left chimes in, challenging him. “I feel like your idea matches what Oakeshott called ‘the relic of a dis- 6 A hypothetical train of thought, based on a description of Emile’s training in following his curiosity. See Rousseau’s anecdotes about magnetism, navigation, and optics. 7 I imagine this feeling would come up frequently, given his training in applying concepts that are not contained in his inspirational texts. 35 �position’ to value sciences ‘in terms of the use which may be made of the conclusions of their inquiries.’ An attitude like this ‘has sometimes led to a proliferation of what may be called semisciences - organizations of information in terms of the use which may be made of it’” (Oakeshott 22). Emile can sense that he is being cautioned against falling into the rabbit hole of applied science. arts, but to the continuous intellectual adventure in which human beings have sought to identify and to understand themselves’ (Oakeshott 13). So, if you let people get dragged into the tooling side of the learning process, you’d never have the intellectual adventure. You’d be so focused on the mechanics that you’d lose the plot about the purpose of those tools.” “Ok, well call them what you will, but these ‘semisciences’ sound important.” He encourages the seminar to think differently. “Surely there is a need for instrumenting these contributors to learning, these voices, especially given their potential impact on human understanding. The development of such tools, or instruments, for advancing our goal of self-understanding could drive entirely new ways of thinking. It is not a betrayal of liberal learning to use tools,” he asserts, “if they are being invented as part of the learning experience. My old tutor used to say, ‘With every tool I use, I do not fail to ask myself, “If I did not have this tool, how would I go about making one like it or doing without it?”’ (Rousseau 188-189). In this way, instrumenting the culture and conversation would be in service to Oakeshott’s ideals, not a distraction by an instrumental art.” He ponders this response, more than a little disappointed, and he starts to wonder if he made a mistake by coming here. Oakeshott College had seemed to have the same foundations of intellectual adventure as his tutor Rousseau, but he had not expected instrumentation to be so undervalued by his peers. Another peer across the table disagrees. “The focus should be on the general learning experience, not an obsession with its mechanisms. Oakeshott wrote that, ‘What comes into view is not merely an extension of the field of instrumental learning but an altogether different engagement of critical self-understanding in which we relate ourselves, not to our inheritance of instrumental 36 Ms. Vendredi brings the conversation back to center. “Oakeshott’s focus was that ‘Liberal learning is learning to respond to the invitations of the great intellectual adventures in which human beings have come to display their various understandings of the world and of themselves’ (Oakeshott 22). She might have noticed Emile’s furrowed brow and the beginnings of a doodle emerging from his pen. Isn’t the development of tools just such an intellectual adventure? He wonders. Is Oakeshott – both the college and its namesake – denying him an invitation to allow his own craftsmanship into the conversation? He sketches an isometric drawing of a pair of glasses next to the words “self-understanding” and “relic.” III. Dissonance Twenty-six months have passed since the click of the gate. Twenty-year-old Emile �sits in an empty natural science laboratory, his mind caught in a wrestling match between Rousseau and Oakeshott. His first year has been stimulating, different from his life before college. Even when he finds himself at odds with the college’s approach to learning, he could tolerate the difference as novel. Just as Mr. Oakeshott had written, the “voice” of the college was indeed just part of the conversation (Oakeshott 30). It was the loudest voice on campus, but he still had Mr. Rousseau‘s voice in his memory. But now, a microscope is on the counter in front of him, and he is furious. The instrument has been simple enough to learn how to use. He has regretted, even, not having had one earlier in his tutelage. What infuriates him now is not the device itself, but the memory of his peers’ attitudes toward the microscope during the lab earlier that day. They were given precise instructions on how to operate the scope and what to look for through its lenses. They each followed the instructions to the best of their ability. And that was all. Alone now, he pulls out a discarded pair of glasses he has recovered from a campus trash can. One lens has been cracked, but the other is perfectly intact. They were simple reading glasses. He could see, in his mind, how the lens could be removed from the glasses, then how it could be edged to fit a new component that could be placed over the eyepiece. With the right angle, a mirror, and with enough light from below, he might be 8 9 able to project the contents of the microscope slide onto a screen. Students could share the same experiences with one microscope, seeing the same things under the microscope at the same time, instead of requiring multiple microscopes and making students take turns. As his mind wanders, he wonders if he could find an old telescope, then try adding a layer of magnitude to the projection without altering the microscope lens.8 What bothers him now is that his peers took no interest in the microscope itself, only the contents of the slide. Indeed, he felt like the college itself took no interest in the microscope. Mr. Oakeshott himself would have relegated it to the domain of the “instrumental arts.”9 And yet, the instrument had been so critical in the learning experience for developing self-understanding among the students. The achievement of learning was directly proportional to the precision of the instrument. The inextricable link between instruments and learning meant that instrumental arts were the sine qua non of liberal arts. Emile could see all the unrealized potential blocked by this prejudice against tooling. Of course, the microscope was “just an instrument” to the single-minded goal of learning, but in understanding how the instrument was designed in the first place, Emile could imagine better instruments, better insights, better learning experiences. His frustration building, he begins feeling trapped on campus. In their sophomore year, many of the Oakeshott students have behaved less like curious peers and more like the arrogant buy- Inspired by Rousseau 201 A hypothetical conclusion inspired by Oakeshott 30 37 �ers he used to see visiting the craftsmen in the market. Being students at the college had become their source of dignity and self-perceived status. Their isolation and rejection of the instrumental arts marks their self-perceived intellectual purity. For people like this, modifying a microscope would mean temporarily leaving their blessed journey of liberating their souls from ignorance.10 Let the craftsmen worry about such things, he could imagine them saying. Now in his junior year, Emile clenches his fist around the discarded glasses thinking about the attitudes of his peers. Honest labor had been a defining part of his life’s meaning before Oakeshott. Mr. Rousseau had said, “To work is therefore an indispensable duty for social man. Rich or poor, powerful or weak, every idle citizen is a rascal” (Rousseau 195). The easygoing veneer of youth has worn off for him and his peers, and now he confronts the social experience of living among people with no work experience, no sense of what it feels like to translate ideas into reality and then to receive the most concrete feedback: a market-based compensation. Despondence replaces Emile’s outrage. What is his place here? He begins to feel the walls of the secluded campus stifling his instincts and deadening his voice. The dignity of work being stripped from this campus society, he notices dignity instead being assigned in other ways: the signaling of erudition with classroom performance, the carefree attitude towards life outside class, the adaptation of speech and dress to match the place and time and audi- 10 38 ence, and the exhibition of enlightened viewpoints ringing like an insistent bell in the hallways. Mr. Oakeshott had not written about this culture of the young and the learned. Yet here it was, the product of a secluded campus that rejected the tempering influence of the instrumental arts. His peers from last year’s Life of the Mind seminar have continued to cite Mr. Oakeshott as the way to learn liberally, but they have shared an unspoken consensus behind their eyes: that “liberal learning” is the key to avoiding an unimportant life. He had come to college to examine life’s meaning. His peers were now habitually examining whether anything they encountered rose to a level of sufficient prestige. He can sense that what he is experiencing is not necessarily what Mr. Oakeshott had intended, but it was nevertheless precisely the kind of society that Mr. Rousseau had cautioned him against. These students were chasing the gold and diamonds of the benighted aristocrats, and he had been taught to never forget the surpassing value of iron and glass among the noble craftsmen, whose art truly liberates. Mr. Oakeshott had sought to create a campus protected from the corrupting influence of the hic et nunc, but in so doing, he had exacerbated the corrupting influence of endless leisure or of promoting liberal learning as preferential to labor. Mr. Rousseau had taught him to integrate learning and labor. He could see now that his tutor had driven him to innovate, to invent, and to disrupt what he sees as ineffective or inefficient relics of institutional inertia. A hypothetical conclusion based on Oakeshott 22, 31, 34 �He wants to shout to his peers in an editorial, or surreptitiously post a call for change on the campus walls. They have misunderstood Rousseauian utility! “What is that good for?” is not a relic of a disposition toward utility but rather a call to virtue, a conviction of consciousness, not with the aim of economic impact but with the simple concept that ideas should make a difference. “This is now the sacred word,” he quotes Mr. Rousseau in his mind, “the decisive word between and me in all the actions of our life” (Rousseau 179). Here in the lab, without his craftsman’s tools, and with haughty judgments about instrumental arts clouding his self-esteem, the target of his despondence transfers. The disappointment is not with the college but with himself. Mr. Rousseau had warned him against the path of books. Mr. Oakeshott would never have wanted him here with his love of instruments and invention. He wants to flee, to climb over the walls. Or stage an insurrection, block the doors, make threats. But he has made a commitment to himself to finish this adventure. “No book other than the world, no instruction other than the facts,” (Rousseau 168). he recalls from Mr. Rousseau. This campus, the secluded world of liberal learning, is forcing him to question the value of a community that produces no goods and elicits no feedback from the outside world. He resents himself for studying here and yearns for the tools he sold over two years ago. He deftly pops the good lens out of the glasses. IV. Harmony It is the second term of his junior year, and Ms. Vendredi has invited Emile for a private conference. He notices the absence of her glasses, then sees the faintest outline of contact lenses around her green-blue irises. Apparently people do try new things at Oakeshott. He wonders if the light, bouncing off the mountains outside her window, refracts differently into her pupils than it did through her glasses over two years ago. “Would you mind if I read aloud?” begins Ms. Vendredi. He politely consents. She nods and raises the text to her eyes. “The art of the master consists in never letting his pupil’s observations dwell on minutiae which lead nowhere but in bringing him ever closer to the great relations he must know one day in order to judge well of the good and bad order of civil society” (Rousseau 190). She pauses, looking at him over her page. A slight smile grows at the corner of her mouth. Emile feels a touch of familiarity. He frowns, then returns a flicker of a smile, like a shaft of light through storm clouds, noticed only by one looking for sun. Ms. Vendredi goes on, her own smile growing, “One must know how to match the conversations with which one entertains him to the turn of mind he has been given” (Rousseau 190). She puts down the page. “How do you come to know the writings of my former tutor, Mr. Rousseau?” he asks. His eyes are soft, nostalgic. Hers are kind, with cordial distance, like an aunt who knows better than her nephew. 39 �She corrects him gently and with a wink, “Surely, you must mean my former tutor.” Emile is stunned. Mr. Rousseau was her tutor, too? A mist forms at the edge of her eyes. They share a common history. She explains how she herself had come to bridge the views of her Rousseauian tutelage with the call of Oakeshott College, at least two decades before he arrived. She had her own journey from the market to the secluded campus. “Mr. Rousseau and Mr. Oakeshott did not agree, but that does not mean you must choose one or the other. Will you indulge me with one more reading, this one from Mr. Oakeshott?” He consents, gladly. She picks up a separate page. “[C]hoosing wants to satisfy is also something that has to be learned, and […] the conditions to be subscribed to in making such choices are not the terms of the instrumental arts and practices in which chosen wants may be conveniently satisfied” (Oakeshott 13). “You see,” she prods Emile, “the desire to innovate and to invent, to challenge and disrupt and improve, this is a want you must learn when and whether to satisfy. It is not the deeper meaning you are seeking but a discipline, valuable in finding that meaning. It is a desire that you can use your instrumental arts to fulfill when the time is right. But!” She pauses and holds up a finger: a teaching moment. “The time is not always right! There are times when you must learn to concentrate on the simple fact of “being,” not what could be.” Emile observes her skeptically. “Ms. Vendredi,” he asks, “I think I understand 40 your advice, but where do you see this in Mr. Oakeshott’s text?” “Ah,” she nods, “let me continue. “What comes into view is not merely an extension of the field of instrumental learning but an altogether different engagement of critical self-understanding in which we relate ourselves, not to our inheritance of instrumental arts, but to the continuous intellectual adventure in which human beings have sought to identify and to understand themselves” (Oakeshott 13). “Do you see?” she asks. “Your ability to create instruments is a heritage, just like your current adventure of liberal learning is a heritage, passed down through generations and inviting those who cannot help but feel like there is something deeper to life. They exist side-by-side, instruments and critical learning. But you must also learn that there is benefit in setting one aside to focus on the other.” “So,” Emile asks, “do you mean to say that Mr. Oakeshott was not abjuring the instrumental arts but simply deferring them?” “Well...” Ms. Vendredi looks down and smiles at the question. When she looks up again, her smile is framed by a warm frown. “Maybe not. Oakeshott’s text keeps the instrumental arts at a distance from the liberal arts. I can’t say that my own conclusions are also his. And yet,” she added, “my experience of the two arts is that their differences are complementary.” She continues. “There are plenty of voices at Oakeshott College, if you learn to �discern them. I sense that you have been hearing one dominant voice, the voice that devalues the instrumental arts, rather too loudly. I don’t think that voice is Mr. Oakeshott’s. He knew the instrumental arts had value. In fact, their value was so great to the hic et nunc that it might crush the flourishing of liberal arts among students and faculty. Whether instrumental arts were to be abjured or deferred among students of the liberal arts might depend on what the student does after graduating. But before that moment, he did argue that they would be distracting.” between your pupils’ knowledge and mine’s ignorance! They know maps, and he makes them” (Rousseau 171). She nods in agreement, encouraging him to reflect. He ponders. “Is this feeling of being out-of-step with my classmates, of being ignorant, or being inferior... Is this just how it feels to draw your own map when everyone else already knows how to read one?” “Please remember,” adds Ms. Vendredi, “that you have a voice as well. And we all need you to use it – judiciously, of course, and respectfully, as we all must learn to do, even in discord. But use it you must, or else the chorus lacks harmony.” With this, she pauses, looking at her bookshelf. He follows her gaze to a well-worn copy of Robinson Crusoe. On faded paper, a map drawn by the hand of a child is folded up next to Defoe. Emile clears his throat and quotes their tutor. “Emile,” she says, “everyone at Oakeshott College is creating their map. And yes, some people already have fine calligraphy whereas you can create your own pens from scratch. But eventually, everyone has to cobble together their own map for themselves when they realize that there’s a quieter voice leading them into new territory. In the efficient market of the world outside, it’s tempting to assume that the rational system of compensation dictates real value. But there is a dominant melody of appetite there, drowning out the voice that calls for deeper meaning and greater value that does not attract compensation. Having heard that voice and, like me, found your way here, you can learn to discern the topography and listen to quieter voices, then join their harmony. Rousseau’s voice is here at Oakeshott, just not the dominant melody. “The goal is not that he know exactly the topography of the region, but that he know the means of learning about it. It is of little importance that he have maps in his head, provided that he is able to get a good conception of what they represent, and that he has a distinct idea of the art which serves to draw them. See the difference there already is “Now I hope,” she adds, standing up, “you will continue this conversation with me as you complete your journey here at Oakeshott. You know, you can have more than one mentor, and our Mr. Rousseau was just the first of many voices whose melodies you can recite simultaneously, in a lively interplay of harmony and dissonance. Learning to accept Emile begins to see her point. This new interpretation allows for the warring voices in his mind to coexist, without forcing them to agree, and without accepting one at the expense of the other. 41 �their invitation to listen, and sometimes to sing, is part of the process.” She smiles again. He looks out the window at the mountains, thinking how shallow they would be without the contrast of blue and green. V. The Instrument Emile is now twenty-one, a senior at Oakeshott. He is not yet thinking about his plan after graduation, but neither is he worried about whether he fits in. Even without the freedom to innovate and invent, he is experiencing an active world of experimentation in dialogue, in writing, and is finding sanctuary in the willingness of some tutors and peers to at least hear his ideas without judgment. The aspiring philosopher within him grows, happily, into a new kind of craftsman. In so doing, this philosopher also admonishes him to accept his own limits. There is indeed more to be learned by developing empirical instruments, but his mind is its own instrument, one that can only be made more precise after first being acknowledged. As he walks pensively along the perimeter of the campus, his hand trailing along the walls, he feels cheeky. Mr. Oakeshott’s “place of learning” may require him to defer his instrumental arts, but if the mind itself is an instrument, Rousseau may be having the last laugh. Emile remembers another of his tutor’s lines. “The surest means of raising oneself above prejudices and ordering one’s judgments about the true relations of things is to put oneself in the place of an isolated man and to judge everything as this man himself ought 42 to judge of it with respect to his own utility.” Here among the mountains of blue and green, his own mind under the metaphorical microscope, he has found and raised himself above his own prejudices. Has he seen the true relations of things? That would depend on how well the microscope was instrumented! He laughs to himself. Every seminar is a way of calibrating that microscope. With Rousseau and Oakeshott in harmony, he hears their voices fueling a surge of self-confidence for the remainder of his adventure in self-understanding. Rousseau, in baritone: “Emile has a mind that is universal not by its learning but by its faculty to acquire learning; a mind that is open, intelligent, ready for everything, and, as Montaigne says, if not instructed, at least able to be instructed” (Rousseau 207). And Oakeshott, in tenor: “To be human, to have wants and to try to satisfy them, is, then, to have the use of particular skills, instrumental practices and relationships. There is no action which is not a subscription to some art, and utterance is impossible without a language” (Oakeshott 12). He is a human, a self, on an adventure related to his particular skills, ready for everything. He hums along absentmindedly, fingering a lens in one pocket and a pen in the other, as the lamppost banners ripple in the wind. �Time, 8x8” oil on canvas panel - Amelia Taylor Wolfe It is what it is, Our sweet tautology— A phrase so warn and tattered, It’s seared in memory. You have no metaphysics When you say sweet nothings. Easy to ignore the Ever Present, The one and only True Being. Joey Jekel 43 �44 �Image, Imaginary, and Ignorance of Real Being The Myth of Narcissus in Plotinus’ Enneads and Anna Kornbluh’s Immediacy Gus Kraus When we look into a mirror and say that we see ‘ourselves’, we casually assume an identity between an image and that of which it is an image. This assumption, however, obscures the medium by which we face ‘ourselves’: the mirror. In fact, what we find is not at all what we sought, but only an appearance. Generalizing from this example, we may question the ‘given’ of the broader data of sense-perception: by what medium do we encounter reality? That is, not the image but the real thing, which causes the image? In pursuing this question, it may appear odd to pair a late Antique mystic “embarrassed about having a body”1 and a Jamesonian critic of “contemporary cultural aesthetics.”2 However, the intersections of Marxism and Psychoanalysis are no stranger to Ancient Literature: with “Odysseus or Myth and Enlightenment”, Adorno and Horkheimer offered3 their own contribution to a field of research in which Plotinus’ student, Porphyry, labored over a millenia before (eg. On the Cave of the Nymphs). This is to say nothing of Freud’s own reception of Sophocles’ Theban plays or, apropos of Plato, his tripartite division of the psyche (Greek for “soul”). In this respect, Anna Kornbluh’s 2023 Immediacy: Or, The Style of Too Late Capitalism carries on a well established tradition of both Critical Theory in particular and of Philosophy generally. Despite writing in different philosophical and historical contexts, Kornbluh rather interestingly parallels Plotinus in analogizing and allegorizing myth, specifically that of Narcissus, in order to critique a cultural ignorance of mediating and symbolic layers between a given image and reality. Narcissus in Critique of ‘Immediacy’ Kornbluh’s investigation of the Image and the Imaginary is one component in a broader project of aesthetic critique. She designates “Immediacy” as a contemporary cultural style that undertakes a “reification of what merely appears” (Kornbluh 190). This culturally dominant style demands immersion and eschews any form of mediating or representational interference. Rather than the cynicism and self-awareness of postmodernity calling attention to the work of art qua art (the object of Frederic Jameson’s seminal critique, which Kornbluh considers the cultural logic of an earlier period (Kornbluh 1213), Immediacy blurs formal delineations like media or genres to cultivate supposedly unmediated, authentic experience as art’s unquestionable raison d’être. It thus extols, in both form and content, effortless flow, or as Kornbluh describes, “#NoFilter” (Kornbluh 6). Hoping to ground us, contra Immediacy style, she calls our attention to one of its inherent contradictions: “[t]he paradox of immediacy is a cultural style that imaginesitself unstyled” (Kornbluh 11). Amidst the swirling sense of immediate urgency and aesthetic flux, wherein “representation is slackening … [m]edium dissolves, extremes effulge, exposure streams,” (Kornbluh 1) she discovers an economic basis of this cultural aesthetic, as a project of stylizing of the “intensification of circulation” (Kornbluh 44) of capital. Kornbluh uses this analysis of the material, objective basis of Immediacy to begin an investigation of the cultural style’s subjective effects, among which is a kind of Narcissism. Linking a Debordian account of this intensified circulation, where commod- 1 “On the Life of Plotinus and the Order of His Books”. The Enneads. Tr. Boys-Stones, George et al. Ed. Gerson, Lloyd. Cambridge University Press, 2018. 17. 2 Kornbluh, Anna. Immediacy: Or, The Style of Too Late Capitalism. Verso, 2023. 1. 3 Adorno, Theodor and Horkheimer, Max. Dialectic of Enlightenment: Philosophical Fragments. Tr. Jephcott, Edmund. Ed. Noerr, Gunzelin Schmid. Stanford University Press, 2002. 35. Facing Page: Hance, 15x11” intaglio print - Jesse Wood 45 �ities develop into spectacles4, to a Lacanian ‘reframing’ of psychological phenomena as topoi of social critique5, she makes the move from the Image to the Imaginary: “Too late capitalism’s circulation-centricity expediates a historical contingent inflation of the image, and arguably, the subjective corollary is the inflation of the imaginary” (Kornbluh 47). Kornbluh explores prior attempts to account for this “subjective corollary” in the the ‘trend’ of pop psychologizing today’s culture as abundantly narcissistic (Kornbluh 46) However, to interrogate this supposed “epidemic” of egocentricity within the image-economy “with a lens other than moral panic,” (Kornbluh 53) she recounts a psychoanalytic retelling of the myth of Narcissus: “When this ordinary entrance into the symbolic [as the “terrain of alterity”] is obstructed, the subject remains too much in the imaginary - the specular state we commonly recognize as “narcissism.” [...] The name comes from the ancient Greek myth of Narcissus, a young man who found his own reflection in a pool so captivating that he could not tear himself away from water’s edge and literally wasted away into death. [...] Narcissism fundamentally pertains to the image; the subject invests libidinally not in a substantiality like “ego” but in a speculative effect of the technology of the mirror. In the ancient myth, the image floats on water and might 4 therefore be construed as naturally occurring. But in Lacan’s retelling, the mirror function encompasses glass, photography, screens. Narcissism becomes qualified as an attachment to the ego qua effect of the mirror [...] Conditioning the very existence of the narcissist, mirroring also composes their primal demand: the reflection must be repeated. One selfie is never enough. [...] An economy that prizes the circulation of images, human capital entrepreneurs, and the data-fication of everything into endless counting of the homogenized same realizes in plasma the mythic promise of the fluid screen. Narcissus’s mirror is industrially ordained” (Kornbluh 51-52). Kornbluh’s critique of Immediacy’s psychological impact centers on how the hyper-circulation of images creates a relationship between the subject and those images analogous to that of Narcissus as his reflection. The subject, gazing into a screen as a bottomless sea of spectacles, takes as substantial, unmediated and real what, when subjected to critique (only possible via the Symbolic), is in fact contingent, mediated and imaginary. Kornbluh advocates for the mediating power of critical theory as a way to overcome this assumption of identity born of ignorance. “”Drowning in a deluge of images without context, words without meaning, information without distinction - this is the subjective experience in an economy of immediacy. [...] A society of the spectacle in which sociality transpires through eyes, it can often seem to individuals as though our work is the production of our own image …” ibid 45, 56; cf. “In societies where modern conditions of production prevail, life is presented as an immense accumulation of spectacles [...] The spectacles is not a collection of images; it is a social relation between people that is mediated by images.” Debord, Guy. The Society of the Spectacle. Tr. Knabb, Ken. Bureau of Public Secrets, 2014. Theses 1, 4. 5 “The psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan posits the imaginary, the symbolic, and the real as three distinct but interdependent orders of psychic experience. These reframe Sigmund Freud’s topography of the ego, the superego and the id, respectively, elucidating that the domains of the subject are also objective realms of the social.” Kornbluh 48. 46 �Narcissus in Inquiry into Beauty Plotinus wrote two different tractates concerning Beauty. According to his student, Porphyry, the first treatise he had ever written was I.6 “On Beauty”; years later, he revisited the topic in V.9 “On the Intelligible Beauty”6. Despite this gap between their composition, both make recourse to the myth of Narcissus to illustrate the transcendent and noetic qualities of Beauty. Following his dialectic method, Plotinus begins his inquiry into Beauty with a question: “[w]hat, then indeed, that has actually made us to imagine bodies to be beautiful … what is this beauty?”7 The possibility that Beauty emerges from the material substrate of bodies (BoysStones et al. (1.6.1.10-15)) or our perception of them is quickly dismissed. For Plotinus, it would be an impossibility, insofar that he is searching for Beauty as an existent and has said elsewhere that “matter does not even have existence [...] rather, we say that ‘existence’ is said of it equivocally …” (Boys-Stones et al. (I.8.5.10-15) 114). Instead, Plotinus establishes that the really-existent and immaterial Soul recognizes in a material body something else substantial, intelligible, “to which it has kinship” (BoysStones et al. (I.6.2.10) 94). A material body becomes beautiful only by participation in an undivided Form, in the real existent, in Beauty itself (Boys-Stones et al. (I.6.2.25; I.6.3.5-10) 95). The distinction between real ‘existence’ and the colloquial use of the word allows him later, in analyzing immaterial virtues as beauties, to connect Beauty to the real: “what does ‘real Beings’ mean? In fact, it means that they are beautiful Beings” (Boys-Stones et al. (I.6.5.15-20) 97). 6 Plotinus uses the myth of Narcissus as an exhortation to pursue this real, intelligible Beauty. Because Plotinus argues such a simple Form subsists in the noetic, (Boys-Stones et al. (1.6.9.40) 103) the apprehension of beauty becomes a cognitive act by the beholder. However, when we depend on our sense-perception rather than our intellect, we are unaware of the role our cognition plays in aesthetic judgements. Plotinus notes that we habitually “pursue external[ beauties], being ignorant of the fact that it is the internal that moves us. It is as if someone, looking at his own image, and being ignorant of where it came from, were to pursue it” (Boys-Stones et al. (5.8.2.3435) 612; Emphasis mine). This shorter mythic allusion emphasizes the noetic quality of the Form in which external Beauties pursue, and analogizes our ignorance of this fact to Narcissus not knowing what causes the image on the surface. In I.6 “On Beauty”, Plotinus recounts the story in more detail, and calls attention to own analogical readings. He enjoins the viewer that “...when he does see beauty in bodies, he should not run after them, but realize that they are images and traces and shadows, and flee towards that of which they are images. For if someone runs towards the image, wanting to grasp it as something true, like someone wanting to grasp a beautiful reflection in water - as a certain story (μῦθος) has it, hinting (αἰνίττεται) at something else, in an enigmatic way, I think, who falls into the water and disappears - in the identical manner, someone who holds on to beautiful “On the Life of Plotinus and the Order of His Books”. The Enneads. Tr. Boys-Stones, George et al. Ed. Gerson, Lloyd. Cambridge University Press, 2018. 20-21. 7 The Enneads (I.6.1.5-10). Boys-Stones et al, 92. 47 �bodies does not let them go plunges down, not with his body but with his soul, into the depths, where there is no joy for an intellect, and where he stays, blind in Hades [...]”8 “[H]inting at something else” implies a meaning for the story which is not immediately apparent. Plotinus posits a need for interpretation: the myth’s ainittetai (‘riddling’, intimating, or hinting9) beckons the reader to decode its ainigmata (“riddles”, whence English ‘enigma’10). But further, by retelling the myth in a self-referential way which calls attention to himself as an interpreter (“... I think…”). Following Plotinus’ lead, we may say that the myth of Narcissus does not merely portray a youth who chases not after the beautiful but its image; the story presents itself as an image, signifying some other meaning. The image discloses this hidden meaning only when we “flee towards that of which [it is an] image…” Plotinus uses the myth as a practical example the semiotic approach to material beauties he advocates, building on ‘Diotima’s Ladder’ from the Symposium11 as a hermeneutics of sense-experience via inward contemplation (theoria). An Intriguing Echo The Nymph, Echo, spurned by Narcissus, loses her bodily form and becomes merely a “voice”12. So too does a sound echoing through a cave mutate as it bounces from one surface to another. In the same way, the echo of the myth in its retellings changes through its successive receptions. Kornbluh, whose primary references concerning Narcissus and narcissism are Lacan and Freud, makes no indication of a noetic essence of Beauty. Furthermore, Plotinus would not 8 find much “to which [the Soul] has kinship” in Kornbluh’s materialist analysis of commodity circulation, which in a Marxist and Lacanian sense makes up an objective, social basis for the subject; thus, the outline of economic shifts necessarily prefigures her study of an inflated imaginary as their “subjective corollary”. But despite these retellings appearing within two discourses which could not be more at odds in principles, they share a stunningly similar rhetorical structure. The viewing subject catches sight of its reflection, and becomes erotically attached to this sensual datum (in a Plotinian sense, out of pursuit for the body and ‘plunging’ into matter; for Kornbluh, out of libidinal overinvestment). Despite the object reflected appearing ‘real’, the growing obsession obfuscates the role of the medium in constructing the object: as Kornbluh says, the [“imaginged real” is not the real, but the effect of the mirror], much like Plotinus who distinguishes the image for that which causes the image and that the body is merely matter participating in form. Both Kornbluh and Plotinus turn from telling the myth as a portrayal of narcissistic self-deception to telling the myth as moral, blending the descriptive and prescriptive. Therefore, both make a similar prescription: the subject must strengthen their awareness of symbolic mediation (via theoretical critique, via exegesis of the ‘enigmatic’). The myth thus retains a coherent, rhetorical effect despite striking differences in philosophical context. Boys-Stones et al. (1.6.8.6-16) 101; Emphasis mine. For the Greek text, Henry, Paul, and Schwyzer, Hans-Rudolf. Plotini Opera I. Tomus I: Pophyrii Vita Plotini, Enneades I-III. Oxford Classical Texts, 1964. 102. 9 Lidell and Scott. An Intermediate Greek-English Lexicon. Oxford, 1889. 21. 10 ibid 11 Cf. Plato, Symposium 211b-c 12 “Corpus adhuc Echo, non vox erat…” Ovid, Metamorphoses 3.359. Ovid III Metamorphoses I. Loeb Classical Library, 1916. 3.359. 148. 48 �Doors and Windows of Mexico City - Aaron Knight There once was a thing in the void Its predecessor’s been destroyed Of being it’s not Becoming’s its lot It’s hard for the thing to stay joyed Amelia Wolfe 49 �~ Paul Harland-White 50 �Root to Rise Attachment in Xunzi Haley Prickett Xunzi opens the first chapter, “An Exhortation to Learning,” rooting himself in Confucius (through the invocation of something a gentleman says):”Learning must never stop… The gentleman learns broadly and examines himself thrice daily, and then his knowledge is clear and his conduct is without fault.”1 This is a particularly curious beginning that sets the stage for a project that is ongoing. Learning (the very subject being exhorted) cannot be finished, and must never stop. This suggests to me that the root–or the heart of this project Xunzi is undertaking–is likewise something eternal, and constant.2 I am perplexed by what learning is for Xunzi, and how the initial natural images make that less perplexing. Xunzi writes: Blue dye derives from the indigo plant, and yet it is bluer than the plant. Ice comes from water, and yet it is colder than water. Through steaming and bending, you can make the wood as straight as an ink-line into a wheel. And after its curve conforms to the compass, even when parched under the sun it will not become straight again, because likewise the steaming and bending have made it a certain way. Likewise, when wood comes under the ink-line, it becomes straight, and when metal is brought to the whetstone, it becomes sharp.3 Is natural learning different from education? I am understanding natural learning to be the knowledge gained through survival and getting older, a learning through experience–like that if you go underwater you cannot breathe, or if you touch fire you will get burned. Is Xunzi pointing us to a version of learning that is environmental learning? Do the people and the landscape among which one lives provide a parallel (but distinct) path of continuous learning that is not natural? This active learning, that the gentleman must never stop is growth in the present tense. So, I wonder: what is the root of this active learning and how is it possible to find any sort of footing, foundation, or stability with something that is constantly, by definition, in progress? I suspect that the images we are given of trees (those natural beings who transform, yet stand fixed and firm in their community) will be helpful. Two things Xunzi thinks about humanity seem initially clear: one, humans are not just born, humans are made, and two, we can only know what we see and hear. If you never climb a high mountain, visit a deep ravine, nor hear the wisdom of former kings, then you will never know the height of Heaven, the depth of the Earth, nor the magnificence of learning4 He writes (not in the words of a gentleman): “Children of [all] peoples cry with the same sound at birth, but when grown they have different customs, because teaching makes them thus.”5 I think I agree with him on this; people become what they are taught. But, then we have to 1 2 Eric Hutton, . Xunzi, “An Exhortation on Learning”. Princeton University Press, 2014. p. 1 This notion seems to check out for me, as a human who truly values learning and growth, learning does not have an end, learning is a way of being; learning is a continual process that must (in the imperative) continue. Otherwise… otherwise, what? There is no purpose to living? That seems extreme, but perhaps not too far off the mark. There is no growth? I think that is right, and supported by the images we are given of roots throughout this chapter. There is no transformation? That makes me wonder if transformation is a different sort of growth – one that requires intention, or cultivation. 3 Xunzi, p. 1 4 Xunzi, p. 1 5 Xunzi, p. 1 51 �wonder, what does it mean to be taught, and what should the content of the learning be? How does Xunzi use the examples of inanimate things that grow (and root and transform) to help us understand how the process (and product) of learning that underlies everything actually works. Learning is an ever ongoing event for Xunzi. In its continuity and cyclicality, nature provides a mirror for us to understand the proper form and purpose of ritual. Xunzi writes, in “The Rule of a True King” about the cosmic order: “Heaven and Earth are the beginning of life. Ritual and yi6 are the beginning of order. The gentleman is the beginning of ritual and yi.”7 By making ritual and yi his default, and learning to follow the form, the gentleman begins to accumulate virtue through his habits. The order of Heaven and Earth rely upon the “unifying guide” of gentlemen who tap into the “great root”8 through the practice of ritual. In this way, humanity gains cosmic relevance. The consistency that ritual provides creates a fixity. The ongoing practice of ritual solidifies and connects, across space and time, humanity. Ritual is a sort of glue that keeps us in connection with our ancestors, and in dialogue with future generations. Since reading Xunzi for the first time, I have been unable to forget his use of plants (silent, though living) to illustrate learning. As a self-taught botanist, the natural imagery of plants resonates, and I am interested to spend some time digging in (hah! pun intended) to the way they function within Xunzi’s project. In this essay, I will examine closely the images we are given of plants (things with roots) to clarify for myself (and ideally my reader) the way in which Xunzi uses the natural world to illustrate a truth about the human experience of learning. Before exploring further, it will be helpful to put the passage in question on the page: 6 In the south there is a bird called the meng jiu. It makes its nest from feathers, weaving it together with hair, and attaches it to the slender branch of a reed. When the wind comes along, the branch snaps, the eggs break, and its young perish. This happens not because the nest itself is flawed, but rather because of what it is attached to. In the west there is a plant called the ye gan. Its stem is four inches long, and it grows on the top of high mountains, so that it overlooks ravines a hundred yards deep. It has this view not because its stem can grow long, but rather because of where it stands. Likewise, when the peng vine grows among hemp plants, it goes straight up without being stood upright. The root of the lan huai plant is sweet-smelling angelica, but if you soak it in foul water then the gentleman will not draw near it, and the common people will not wear it. This happens not because the original material is not fragrant, but rather because of what it is soaked in. Therefore, the gentleman is sure to select carefully the village where he dwells, and he is sure to associate with well-bred men when he travels. This is how he avoids corruption and draws near to what is correct.9 The images presented are seemingly different: 1. The reed where the meng jiu bird builds its nest “fails” because of what it is attached to. 2. Seeing everything, the little plant (ye gan) “triumphs” because of where it stands. 3. The peng vine, growing upright, likewise “triumphs” because of where it stands. 4. The once sweet smelling roots of the lan huai plant, becoming foul, “fails” because of what it is soaked in. How do these metaphors illustrate something about learn- Since Hutton left yi untranslated, I shall do the same. It is worth noting what he says about the senses of the meaning. It can mean ethical standards (duty), the proper way to act (virtue), or righteousness. 7 Xunzi, “The Rule of a True King,” p. 75 8 Xunzi, “The Rule of a True King,” p. 75 9 Xunzi, “An Exhortation,” p. 2-3 52 �ing, and are the images consistent or distinct ideas? I suspect it is a both/and situation; they are both connected (there is consistency in the purpose of the image), and distinct–each has a unique nugget of wisdom. Each example deserves detailed observation. 1. The flimsy reed It is striking to me here that Xunzi first uses an example of a bird attaching to a plant. Birds can fly, they do not have roots or the limits of gravity in the same way, yet they demonstrate something crucial. Despite the fact that the meng jiu bird has some questionable parenting choices, the bird is not extinct (or at least not yet). Using the nearby reeds as a point of attachment, despite the nest being well built (in its own form, as a nest), the nest will ultimately render itself useless. When a strong wind comes along it is extremely likely, though not inevitable, that the baby birds will die. inevitably (and invariably) causes the nest to break and the baby birds to die. Are we to say, ‘what a dumb bird, how could it be so careless?’ I think no, the bird simply did what was natural, attached itself (and its future) to what it was surrounded by. Though, I do think we can wonder: ‘what a short-sighted bird, how could it not see the reed would not support the nest.’ This seems to be a pretty brutal example (unborn birds falling to their death before they even live), but also a pretty clear message about parenting 101–pay attention to the things you use to support your family. If they are not sturdy, rooted, and fixed (like virtue, or the Way), then there is no hope for your family. It could also be a warning about who you choose to surround yourself with– if they are reed-like, and flimsy, then death/ failure to thrive of the children will follow. They will not leave the nest and fly (as baby birds, or as students off to college) if your village lacks virtue. I cannot ignore the ambiguity of how it could be possible for this bird species to continue if it inevitably follows this same pattern?10 However, I think Xunzi is trying to illustrate the importance of being prepared for the wind, and attaching ourselves to things that are firmly rooted, and stable, otherwise we are sure to lose our footing, or our children! The nature of the reed is that it is flimsy, and not suited to support a nest. Since the meng jiu bird is not extinct, and the other metaphors in this passage are of plants, is the image actually about the reed? The reed (knowingly, maybe) allows the nest to become attached, for the time being. When the nest falls, the reed is unaffected. It simply continues its reed life, firmly rooted. Reeds are simultaneously flimsy and rigid. If foreign objects are attached to their stalks, if they are weighed down by something, then they do not panic and change their own course. They wait patiently for a strong enough wind to snap the “tumor” (nest) off. The reed is both shaky and solid. It is not capable of supporting life beyond its own being, in the same way a redwood tree might be. 2. The little ye gan The little plant is circumstantially favored–it is on a big mountain, it has a great view… but it does not ever get to be too tall, or too useful for that matter. It just lives out its little four inch life looking into the deep valleys, “because of where it stands.” This image of a tiny plant (smaller than the palm of your hand) with the view of the whole world from the top of a mountain makes me wonder if Xunzi is (with extreme subtlety) making a commentary on society. The little plants are fortunate; they have been born on a mountain top (perhaps this is like the nobility, or the family of the emperor–people who are born into “privilege” in society). Xunzi writes, “The gentleman is exceptional not by birth, but rather by being good at making use of things.”11 The ye gan, through no merit of its own root system, have been afforded the luxury 10 This is a potentially WILD turn of events, but what if this example of the bird is commenting on generational trauma… it will continue to shape those who do survive (invisibly) as they will either die out early, and continue the cycle generationally, or they will break the cycle and attach their nest elsewhere. 11 Xunzi, p. 2 53 �of an unobstructed view. They need not rely on anything beside their origins to see completely, or become educated through learning. The gentleman becomes exceptional because he is aware of what might be useful, not because he was born that way. The gentleman is made through learning. 3. The upright peng vine It grows straight (not through any virtue of its own root system) because it is supported by the hemp plant. Yet, because of the sturdy and reinforcing hemp plant, the vine can attain height. Like the ye gan, where the plant stands, where its roots are, is relevant. The peng vine (AMONG hemp plants) does not need to be stood up because it grows straight. The straight growth is the result of what is around, not necessarily any virtue of its own root system. It is the proximity in space to something else (something notably different from it) that enables it to climb. The direct physical proximity provides the foundation; the habitat determines the direction. If I am right, and this metaphor is a social commentary, does that mean where one is born in society determines where one’s learning begins? There is still no end to learning, but perhaps this is illustrating where one must start, from the perspective of a commoner (born without a title); one must learn from a teacher. The hemp plant guides the peng straight. Through learning, the vine climbs and is made straight, much like a commoner who goes on to become emperor (like everybody’s favorite emperor Shun, or Yu, the craftsman of the rivers), or any commoner who happens to be attached to the right teacher and learns the proper use of ritual. In fact, Xunzi concludes the chapter “Human Nature is Bad,” by twice exclaiming: “Everything depends on what you rub up against!”12 What we attach ourselves to, will dictate everything that follows. The little plant and the upright plant are connected “likewise,” suggesting similarity between the two images. Initially, I thought that the function of these images in- 12 13 54 Xunzi, “Human Nature is Bad,” p. 257 Xunzi, “The Rule of a True King,” p. 77 cluded explaining what it means to be rooted, or the “virtue” of being rooted. But, it is notable that they are “successful” as plants, more despite than because of their root systems. Yes, it is due to external circumstances that they are successful: the little plants have the best view because of their “home” on a mountain, and the vines grow straight because of the “village” of hemp plants supporting them. Potentially these two images serve to amplify what is possible for plants in a community, as opposed to relying entirely on oneself. The importance of community is not to be overlooked. In fact, Xunzi claims that if humans do not have social order, chaos will follow: “If there is chaos then they will disband. If they disband then they will be weak. If they are weak then they cannot overcome the animals. And so they will not get to live in homes and palaces. This is the meaning of saying that ‘one must not let go of ritual and yi even for a moment.’”13 This sets the direction Xunzi is going. So far, the examples have brought the danger (or advantage) of attachment and position to the forefront. The nests attached to the reeds that fall, the four inch plants that grew on the top of a mountain, the help provided by the hemp plant encourages a supported and upright vine. The final example though is different, it is only after the roots are no longer rooted that they become relevant for the metaphor. 4. Smells like Teen Spirit While rooted, the fragrance of the lan huai is dormant. When uprooted the smell is delightful. When soaked in something foul, the fragrance of the roots transforms–everyone now keeps their distance. This image presents unrooted roots “soaked” in something foul. Which makes me wonder why one would expect something marinated in something to smell anything but likewise foul. It is possible there is something important about the contrast between presoaked roots (a delight to the nostrils) losing their fragrance when soaked, and absorbing a different, and horrible odor (an offense to the olfactory system). There is a transforma- �tion, a material change, that happens when it is detached from its origins.14 Is being rooted in a place and being uprooted and soaked elsewhere really helping us understand the same thing? Upon reflection, I think yes. What we connect ourselves to, our roots, what we hold dear, what we deem of value does shape and transform us. Likewise, what we allow to permeate us, will transform us. Much depends on the nature of what we are being soaked in; if it is good, we will become good. If we study the ancients and practice ritual, the wealth of things to learn is infinite. If we gamble, and seek pleasure, and hang around with foul smelling people, we will be transformed and have a foul smell that repulses commoner and nobleman alike. Both being rooted, and being uprooted (both attaching to and detaching from) are examples of the external world influencing the internal. Does Xunzi think the “virtue” of a thing (plant or person) is nearly inseparable from the roots it has? Or is he pointing us to consider the circumstances as the real linchpin? Circumstances will always change; adaptability is crucial. It seems pertinent that plants do grow towards light. There is a natural inclination to use the energy being offered by the sun, the gentleman is likewise resourceful. 5. Roots as a Metaphor/The Secret Life of a Plant Parent–An Interlude All plants rely on their root systems to sustain their life and encourage new growth. They are in most cases subterranean(although air plants are a thing, and plants do have ‘aerial roots’), providing invisible stability; in all cases, roots are crucial to the health of a plant. Roots are what we connect ourselves to. Roots do not consider the profit to be gained by growing, they grow by instinct. Plants are different from us, yet they have much to teach us about how to live (and maybe, how to learn!) and how to make more life. In the plant world, people have “propagation stations” which consist of cuttings from other plants in water (or sometimes moss). As the cutting soaks in the water, it miraculously (though naturally) grows roots. You can keep some plants in water for a long time–years if you want to! It’s fascinating to see the root systems develop. It is also easy to notice if the roots are healthy or not (more so than you can when they are in soil, obviously); roots will turn brown and soggy when they have rotted; rotten roots are fatal. Trimming the rotten roots will help the plant grow healthier and potentially save the plant’s life. By observing the health of roots, it is possible to discern the natural growth pattern. If we consider roots metaphorically it seems only natural to think of where one comes from. The two most influential forces in shaping minds are (I think): family and education. What do family and education provide a person with? That feels like a loaded question, but I think in an ideal world, they provide the soil – where virtues are cultivated. Thus, if the values are rotten, the plant (and the person) will become likewise, rotten. If I live a life rooted in honesty, I will become an honest person. Not only what roots are, but also where the roots are, is relevant in shaping the future. Xunzi is asking us to look at the people around us, and if we see that they are flimsy and unsupportive, then we need to move! Or, we need to find a teacher, because we (and all of our future generations) are doomed otherwise. Now, (because I do not suppose that Xunzi’s intention was for me, thousands of years later, to use his ideas to explore my own understanding of roots as a plant parent), I will return to the text explicitly, with the question of how these images help the reader understand learning. 6. What to Do? Where to Next? It’s a Jungle Out There! The conclusion of the image reveals that the plants serve to explain that one must exercise discernment in selecting one’s community. Xunzi corroborates: “the gentleman is sure to select carefully the village where he dwells, and he is sure to associate with wellbred men when he travels. This is how he 14 I have a hunch that the opening images of dye, freezing, and an uncarved block (being made straight or round) might be a mirror for these images of roots and trees. 55 �avoids corruption and draws near to what is correct.”15 The duality of motion (towards what is right and away from what degrades) requires a double awareness–what will be to our benefit, and what will be to our detriment. Plants already know this inherently; they move towards the sun. The physical rootedness of plants (in the soil) limits their ability to move away from corruption. Luckily, we metaphorically rooted humans have more sovereignty. With this sovereignty also comes an infinite number of possibilities and choices. How are we supposed to know what is correct? Based on the poem16 that follows, the suggested technique for discerning what we should seek lies in building our foundation. What we build upon will dictate what is created. Just like in the natural world, bugs are generated from “rotten meat,” and maggots come from “fish that’s spoiled,” so too in human society. Ruin and misfortune emerge from “lazy, haughty men who forget their place.”17 If the foundation within (the roots) are corrupt, anything built on top will be building towards hatred. So, this makes clear, the uncorrupt path would build towards yi.18 Xunzi expounds upon this poem with more natural imagery. He writes, “You may spread out firewood as though all of the same kind, but fire will still seek out the dry pieces. You may level out the earth so that it appears all even, but water will still seek out the wet places…Wherever trees create shade, flocks of birds will rest. Wherever something turns sour, flies will gather.”19 Here, the emphasis is not on things that are rooted, but unrooted things that can move! Though the purpose of the metaphors is linked (nature can teach us about virtue), it feels like an in- 15 16 version from the four images of plants I have been focusing on. If not an inversion, it is certainly a change in perspective. The idea that fire will be able to perceive which wood is dry (and therefore good for food and growth), and likewise that water will be able to seek its nature seems vital. If what is beneficial is visible, this image is useless. I think the point is that despite the effort made to disrupt what appears (spread out firewood, as if you are testing fire to see if it knows what it ought to attach to), it will not disrupt the natural course of things. It is biologically fundamental that birds and creatures on foot will flock towards the place where there is shade, and food. Xunzi declares: “Likewise, there are words that summon misfortune, and there is conduct that beckons disgrace, so the gentleman is careful about where he takes his stand.”20 I am struck by the fact that in order to know where to stand, there are words and actions that are to be avoided (but not a clear prescription of what is to be searched for). This furthers Xunzi’s opening thought that learning is unending. It is not just knowing what there is to know; it is also being able to build upon that foundation. If you can accumulate enough earth, you can make mountain (bringing wind and rain!). If you can accumulate enough water, you can create a pool (bringing the dragons to live!). Xunzi boldly follows these two natural examples in an axiomatic way: “If you accumulate enough goodness to achieve virtue, then you will naturally attain to spirit-like powers and enlightenment, and the heart of the sage is complete therein.”21 The transition here is profound. If you live a good life, the “natural” progression appears Xunzi, “An Exhortation,” p. 3 Ode? It’s unclear the source of the passage, but it is set off, suggesting it belongs to a different source that Xunzi is using to build his argument. 17 Xunzi, “An Exhortation,” p. 3 18 It is not obvious what the antonym of hatred would be in this context. Perhaps yi is the closest? That would fit nicely with the emphasis Xunzi places on the combination of ritual and yi. However, I think if we read it as love, that would also be a reasonable articulation of the antithesis. 19 Xunzi, “An Exhortation,” p. 3 20 Xunzi, “An Exhortation,”p. 3 21 Xunzi, “An Exhortation,”p. 3 56 �to be a categorical transformation towards a higher self. It is with this enlightenment that the heart of the sage is perfected. Wow! Talk about a product of learning–“spirit-like powers”! This makes me wonder, how many plants would it take to make the inside space an “outside” space? Is there a quantifiable way to distinguish that a place is more like a jungle than an apartment? I wonder this because, it looks like there is a change of state that happens to the person who achieves these “spirit-like powers and enlightenment.” This appears to echo the opening images –ice being colder than water (its original state), and the indigo dye being bluer than the plant (in its original state). However, unlike the wood that has been made straight or curved will not revert in the sun. Yet, if the process of accumulating virtue and goodness stops, a regression is possible. Is this transformation of the heart a change of state for the person? Accumulating knowledge of plants requires continual and consistent effort (you must learn about your plants, care about your plants—water, fertilize, make sure your plants are getting enough light; you sometimes have to deal with pests, or clean up spilled dirt in the house, etc.) The parallel lines I see between how learning is being understood by Xunzi and my unending plant journey is helpful. The layers and layers built on top of one another are an accumulation of knowledge, there is always more to learn, but in the learning there is (indeed) a transformation. Perhaps if I were a sage, and studying ritual and not plants, my heart would not just transform, but also complete! Xunzi proceeds to explain that he is not talking about anything easy; the lazy and distracted will not triumph. He offers the example of a carver. If he first tries to carve rotten wood, he will not know how. But if he is single minded, and practices, one day he will be able to “engrave even metal and stone.”22 By analogy Xunzi compares an earthworm and a crab. The legless earthworm is single-minded, its focus is unwavering; by contrast, the multi-limbed crab is 22 23 frenetic and relies on the snakes and eels for finding water. By taking one step at a time, with full focus, the next step will be easier. In repeated action, behavior solidifies. It is by means of consistent words that one’s character becomes trustworthy. It is by continued propagation and care of my plants that approaching “jungle” status in my apartment can even present itself as a possibility. It does not come as a surprise Xunzi moves from this idea of accumulation to ritual. 7. Ritual = the G.o.A.T. Root The world around us repeats visibly each year. As a Californian, I see the sun set in the west over the Pacific. There are no deciduous trees that announce the fall, though there is a subtle movement in where the sun sets on the horizon. In autumn, the sun gets closer in alignment with the view I have from the beach, where I’m standing. After the winter solstice, the sun slowly moves farther to the northwest. Similarly, trees lose their leaves in brilliant fashion, only to have them return again in the spring. Both are a form of ritual. They are a visible expression of action. Nature is a sort of ritual. The expression of it will vary, but the root of it will remain constant. Ritual as a root provides a clear method, though little room for creativity. This rigidity provides something to hold on to, and something to build upon. The roots of ritual extend far beyond the present moment and offer an outline of what is “proper.” You do not need to discern whether or not it is “beneficial” for you–it has stood the test of time. But, it is possible you could accumulate virtue, but not have the proper clothing, or offering or item needed to perform the ritual perfectly. The prescriptiveness of ritual certainly complicates things. Luckily, Xunzi reassures us not to despair and gives us an analogy with sound. The ancients remark on how animals draw near to music and that all sounds are heard. Xunzi reassures us there are no sounds “so small as not to be heard. There is no action so subtle as not to be manifest… If you do good, will it not accumulate? How could it be that none hear of it?”23 Even the Xunzi, “An Exhortation,” p. 5 Xunzi, “An Exhortation,” p. 5 57 �smallest step towards goodness, and virtue, is a step closer. The only “wrong” thing to do is to not take a step. 9. The “End” of this Essay One must remember that the opening claim of Xunzi was that learning must not stop. However, this essay must end, eventually. Yet, what the path of learning looks like, or how one is to know if she is going in the right direction or not, is still ambiguous. Anticipating a good student would wonder this, Xunzi rhetorically asks the beginning and end of learning, only to introduce a parallel distinction between order and purpose. The order of learning begins by reciting the classics, and the end is the study of ritual. In other words the end is an activity–an ongoing effort. Next Xunzi explains the purpose “begins with becoming a well-bred man, and ends with becoming a sage.”24 It is only after knowing the order that the purpose is illuminated. Xunzi provocatively concludes: “to pursue it is to be human, to give it up is to be a beast.”25 In every moment we are alive, the purpose is in the present tense. The pursuit of wisdom is what makes us more than human. Learning is not something that 24 25 26 58 Xunzi, “An Exhortation,” p. 5 Xunzi, “An Exhortation,” p. 5 Xunzi, “An Exhortation,” p. 6 happens to us; it is a life-long task. If we do not spend our lives continually learning, we forsake our humanity. Could the stakes get higher than that? There is not an “end” to learning; there is death, which stops learning, and there is ritual, where learning stops. The difference between a limit (or a stopping point) and an end is subtle, but significant. It is in this way that Xunzi can logically make learning a continual way forward, inseparable from ritual. The vision of learning Xunzi gives us is not pessimistic and offers a relatively clear direction for the most expedient way to learn: “draw near to the right person… And exalting ritual comes second.”26 Who we surround ourselves with, who we “draw near” and “imitate” will determine who we become. Our attachments are paramount; where we are rooted is where we will rise from. Bibliography Xunzi, The Complete Text. Translated By Eric Hutton. Princeton University Press, 2014. �Interviews & Toasts Vanity with Globe - Amelia Taylor Wolfe 5x5” oil on wood 59 �Meet Tutor, Mr André Barbera Shirely Quo sponsibility. But if we are not responsible, i.e., blameworthy, how can it be sin? Sin implies culpability, and so we seem to be suffering the consequences, indeed the punishment for something that we didn’t do. Why must we be descendants of Adam and Eve? Why couldn’t our first parents have been obedient and blameless? We never asked to be descended from Adam and Eve. St. Augustine asserts: “be a man guilty of unbelief, or a perfect believer, he does not in either case beget faithful children, but sinners; in the same way that the seeds, not only of a wild olive, but also of a cultivated one, produce not cultivated olives, but wild ones.” (On Original Sin, ch. 45) 6 December 2024 Mr André Barbera hails from Connecticut where he studied at Wesleyan University. He completed his PhD in 1980 at the University of North Carolina. The title of his thesis was ‘The Persistence of Pythagorean Mathematics in Ancient Musical Thought’. He taught at the University of Notre Dame in Indiana before coming to St John’s College in 1990 to teach at its Annapolis campus. Recently, Mr Barbera completed his latest book, ‘Original Sin and Time’ which explores the idea that God is not bound by time. It is written from a Judeo-Christian perspective. His new book will be available in early 2025. The following blurb was kindly provided by Mr Barbera: We generally don’t like to talk about sin, and we especially don’t like to talk about original sin, a sin for which we deny re60 The vast majority of biblical exegesis, commentary, and preaching on original sin attempts to temper the apparent harshness of this notion. We rush to contextualize the condemnation, historically, psychologically, and spiritually. Things aren’t that bad. But what if they are? This book explores the possibility that each and every one of us is guilty for all misery and woe, for our willful transgressions, for the cruelty of others, and for so-called natural disasters such as earthquakes. We commit the sin of self-reference, we say “I,” and thereby we temporalize ourselves. Original sin and time are the same thing. Although it is a standalone book, it continues a discussion about Augustine which he began in his previous book called ‘On Faith, Works, Eternity, and the Creatures We Are’. In that book, which forms part of a series, Reading Augustine, Mr Barbera considered �the question of faith, how an individual may act faithfully, and what good (if any) is faithful action. Drawing on the letters of the Apostle Paul and the work of philosophical thinkers such as Søren Kierkegaard, Mr Barbera explored numerous aspects of faithful living, from religion, original sin, and tests of faith, to the power of prayer, and even the concept of atheism. Mr Barbera formulated a postulate drawn from Augustine’s Confessions: God is not bound by time. The person of faith, however, is enslaved by time. Mr Barbera has been a tutor at St John’s College for more than 30 years. He teaches in both the undergraduate and graduate program although he is more familiar with the former. He says that it is easier to teach undergraduates because the majority of the students come from similar backgrounds and have similar knowledge whereas the graduate students come from many different backgrounds and different life experiences. However, the undergraduate program is more technically demanding. He completed his PhD in ancient music theory and used to play the piano although he says that he stopped playing the piano because he realised that he was doing it for procrastination rather than enjoyment. In comparison to other colleges and universities, St John’s College does not require tutors to undertake research and publish schol- arly books or journal articles. However, the purpose of a sabbatical is not so much compensatory but preparatory, i.e., to come back refreshed for another teaching year. St. John’s tutors are expected to teach all subjects, regardless of their formal academic backgrounds. This includes classic works in philosophy, literature, political science, psychology, history, religion, economics, mathematics, chemistry, physics, biology, astronomy, music and language. Unlike the graduate program, undergraduates take a class called “laboratory” where they discuss scientific texts in biology, chemistry, physics, astronomy, and genetics, and then recreate iconic experiments in the Junior laboratory. The laboratory is about modern classical physics, e.g., Galileo, Newton etc. Mr Barbera says that there has always been a question mark about whether the laboratory should be part of a traditional liberal arts education but it has been a St John’s tradition ever since the Great Books Program was adopted in 1937. In addition to teaching Mathematics and Natural Science this semester in the graduate program, Mr Barbera is also teaching a preceptorial on Augustine and the City of God in the undergraduate program. 61 �Becoming a Reader Toast to the Tutors (Fall 2024) Charmaine D’Souza To begin, I need to say a couple of things aloud. this—standing in front of people—not so much. I did not consider myself a reader, especially not of the Great Books, before arriving at St. John’s. While some of the undergrads are known to call the GIs “half-Johnnies” based on how much of the Program we read, I consider myself more like 10% Johnny. In my panic, but knowing I have an incredible family, I sent them a one-word message: HELP! That said, I think this judgment by these undergrads is a bit cruel. So, I would like to leave this place giving my peers a new title: GI Johnnies. It is a true and fitting title for most here and aspirational for someone like me. A second note: I haven’t conferred with my graduating peers while preparing for this speech, but I hope my words are a reflection of yours as well. Now, with that said... Most people in my circles back home try to resolve their midlife crisis by purchasing a luxury motorcycle or a weekend at a 7-star resort. I feel fortunate that the lockdown, though under unfortunate circumstances, gave me the chance to pause, take stock, and realize that those sources of instant gratification and/or bandages would not give me my answers. I needed to step away from the noise and contemplate what it truly means to live a well-lived life. When Mr. Boyle asked me to raise a toast to our tutors a couple of days ago, I was deeply grateful for the opportunity to express my appreciation. Thank you, Mr. Boyle! And then, in the dark stillness of my bedroom, just before going to sleep that night, I panicked. I love one-to-one conversations and those around the seminar table, but 62 The next morning, my dad responded with a quote: “I must be willing to let go of what I am in order to become what I will be.” Attributions to this source are unclear. Einstein or Lao Tzu—whoever said it—had a point. My dad knows me well. He had a point, too. As I reflected on this quote, I recollected that transformation often requires sacrifice. I had forgotten that for a long time. To become who I am today, I had to let go of the comfort of who I was. To become who I am meant to be, I must let go of the comfort of who I am now. Letting go hasn’t meant abandoning my identity; instead, it’s been about unearthing and letting go of outdated beliefs that no longer serve me—allowing them to wash away. Holding too tightly to principles— like Creon—or to ideas of my current self, including my habits, fears, and even my successes, had become invisible traps. Today, I see I am better for the letting go. What felt like a sacrifice isn’t truly lost; instead, it has become the foundation of my becoming—the beginning of knowledge— of an education. This journey has required trust. This journey required faith in myself, confidence in my adaptability, and reliance on our community of learners and teachers. To all my peers in the classroom and at the GI, from Kashya Boretsky, a classmate in my first semester to her spouse, Stephen Borsum, a classmate in my last one, thank you! �As for the teachers, they have appeared in the form of each book and every tutor here at St. John’s. Mr. Jeffrey Smith’s contagious enthusiasm at our Politics & Society tutorial table ignited my passion for Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics. Please remember that was my first tutorial. Aristotle. The Ethics. What a start to a master’s program for a non-reader! Through our sessions, I realized that society begins with the self, then family, followed by neighbors, the city, and beyond. I learned I had no business trying to change the world if I couldn’t get the first three— self, family, and neighbor—right. Euclid with Mr. Crockett taught me that the difference between things being equal and congruent isn’t just foundational in mathematics but also in life. Discerning when something needs to align perfectly with my expectations, goals, and desires, and when equal is good enough, is invaluable in the pursuit of a well-lived life. And then, there is Mr. Braithwaite. In the wise words of Kung Fu Panda, “When the student is ready, the teacher will appear.” We began this semester with me embodying the role of the stubborn, ignorant comrade in Hipparchus. May I say, I played that role exceptionally well. But that’s not why I came to St. John’s. My hope is that I have let go enough to now resemble the comrade in Minos—still flawed, still learning, but a work in progress. A quick side note: Over Thanksgiving a couple of weeks ago, I visited Seneca Rocks in West Virginia. At one of the local stores there, I came across a souvenir mallet with the words etched on the handle: “Hillbilly Attitude Adjuster.” Mr. Braithwaite, thank you for being my very own “attitude adjuster.” Much needed and deeply appreciated. “When the student is ready, the teacher will appear. When the student is truly ready, the teacher will disappear.” I must admit—I am not truly ready. I feel as though my education has only just begun. But life moves forward. That’s the world we live in. Undergraduate studies is four years and Masters two. We quantify it with grades and a certificate and call it education. I can’t. I choose not to. I must see my time at St. John’s as a primer—a foundation for a lifetime of learning. Today’s seminar table can turn into tomorrow’s laptop screen. Not congruent, perhaps, but metaphorically equal. Whether we came here to reflect on life, learn from the Greats, or earn a degree, St. John’s has been our catalyst. While the soul of this college is the Program and the great lives and wisdom we read through it, the beating heart is undoubtedly our tutors. To our tutors, the primers of our education. Cheers! 63 �Like Alyosha Toast to the Tutors (Summer 2024) Emily Price I have spent some time, in the last few weeks, thinking about what it means to say goodbye and how to do it well--the closing of a chapter. At the start of a journey, we need the courage to begin. When we meet obstacles, we muster courage to face them. But saying goodbye takes courage as well. on without me. If I clench my fist around this gift, I will lose what I have, it will slip through my fingers. It is a thing to be held with an open palm. St. John’s has been a haven for me—for many of us. A golden hour—sunlight illuminating the world, showing us its glory for a few sacred moments. On this campus, pretense is disposed with. Careful reading is expected. Sincerity is rewarded. We are learners, listeners. St. John’s is a world we hoped might exist, somewhere. But which of us dared to hope we’d find it? Or that we’d be invited inside? In such a place you could linger forever. I wish I could. But, like Alyosha, most of us cannot stay within these walls. We’re sent back into the world. Monday morning comes, and our lives and our work stretch out before us. To say goodbye takes courage. It is you, dear tutors, who have taught me this. For a seminar is just such a beautiful, delicate thing, and you are masters at holding it gently. How easy it would be to have an agenda, to demand a particular outcome. To give the equation or spoil the ending. But you know that each of us must see for herself, and so you content yourselves with a subtle task--balancing the ecosystem of the classroom. You nudge rather than mandate. You redirect by modeling inquiry. With self-restraint you allow a conversation to fumble its way toward insight. And because of your work—your forbearance and humility—you preserve a space where students like me may come to meet the great minds of the past for ourselves. My St. John’s education is gift. I cannot demand it continue beyond its bounds. I cannot grudge the rest of you for continuing Thank you for offering me this gift. I will treasure it and try to hold it with an open palm. 64 Whoever teaches us how to orient to things as beautiful and delicate as a goodbye? �What’s a Eureka Moment you had in class? selected responses from students Reading Aristotle’s Ethics, I was appreciating the balance and symmetry he was describing between virtues and vices, but was worried that often referring to “how a virtuous man would do it” was either tautological, or at least left the reader at sea. But at some point I considered that this wasn’t (only) a philosophical treatise to be understood or judged on its logical coherence, but as Aristotle said, something to aid us in actually becoming more virtuous. When I considered his model as a guide to iterative consideration of my actions and desires, I realized that I have always had the experience of having a chance of being a ‘good man.’ And now I had a way to consider and refine, over time, what the content of a ‘virtuous person’ was. I also realized that it’s being dependent on, and also something greater than the sum of individual virtues, meshed with a sense I’ve always had, but had never put into words. In Lobschevski’s 18th theorem: He rotates an angle that, once moved, maintains its original inclination. This ability to move while staying equal was predicted in a previous essay of mine, so when I got to Theorem 18 I was doing backflips. Alexander Bram, MALA, Both Campuses I took a Preceptorial over TS Eliot’s poetry. It wasn’t a particular moment, but rather a collection of moments when I would pause in the middle of class and wonder at the fact that we had already talked about a poem for more than an hour and there was still so much more to say. Day 1 attending class I remember thinking, “….so they actually want to know what I think?”. Day 2 was, “….am I actually thinking about this right?” and Day 3 thinking, “….it doesn’t matter what I think as long as I’m thinking about it!”. Doing geometry without numbers was a major aha! moment as well. Joseph Griego, MALA, Santa Fe My entire career here has been a series of aha! moments, such that the totality is more in view now and specific moments recede. To no longer worry that I don’t know, to feel a joy in seizing with others on a delicate moment to find something new, to hear those possibilities and to help birth them, that is thing I live for. Amelia Wolfe, MALA, Annapolis By giving very short and (at longest) relatively short reading assignments, the GI program encourages rereading. I sometimes read passages three times before class. It took many readings - but eventually, sitting there and reading yet again, I finally understood what Lobachevksi must have meant by asserting that the sum of the angles of a triangle MAY be less than π. Peter Daub, MALA, Annapolis Stacey Rains, MALA, Both Campuses I can describe one of my first experiences of this. It was a comment Ms. Schwartz made during a discussion of the Iliad that had to do with the rejection of one’s own humiliation or shame and how that is the genesis of so much conflict, confusion, and even war. Karen Kohut, MALA, Low Residency, Santa Fe Ned Walpin, EC, Santa Fe 65 �Thanks to Our Contributors Stafford Wood Santa Fe ‘25 Amelia Taylor Wolfe Annapolis ‘26 Travis Kyker Annapolis ‘25 Jesse Wood Santa Fe ‘26 Charles Edward Chapin Santa Fe ‘26 Michael Vigil Santa Fe ‘25 Tova Gannana Santa Fe ‘26 George Kalandadze Annapolis ‘26 Rachel Brown Santa Fe ‘26 Aaron Knight Santa Fe ‘26 James Paul Rogers Santa Fe ‘26 Deana Moss Sante Fe ‘25 Gus Kraus Santa Fe ‘25 Stephen Borsum Annapolis ‘25 Cynthia Crane Annapolis ‘25 Shirely Quo Annapolis ‘25 Paul Harland-White Annapolis ‘24 Emily Price Annapolis ‘24 Charmaine D'Souza Annapolis ‘24 Haley Prickett Sante Fe Laszlo J. Boesze Annapolis �67 � 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 Colloquy Description An account of the resource A student-run journal for the Graduate Institute community of St. John's College in Annapolis, Maryland. The issues feature essays, art, poetry, interviews, and more. 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 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 pdf Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 65 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 Colloquy, Fall 2024 Description An account of the resource Volume 15 of Colloquy, published in Fall 2024. The theme of the issue is On Being. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Bucca (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 2025-02 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 Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived English Subject The topic of the resource St. John's College (Annapolis, Md.)--Periodicals Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Colloquy_Fall2024_v10 Graduate Institute https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/1da4f37f3af85ffe54d77fd01943ae1c.pdf 76dfa75faf84d097137df4fab9e32949 PDF Text Text Colloquy SPRING 2024 On Character �Cover art: Achilles 1&2 - Paul Harland-White �Table of Contents 4. Poetry 10. Short Stories & Musings 32. Essays 54. Translations 65. Toasts & Prize Essays 74. Year in Review: Growing & Flourishing �Poetry & Musings Oblivion Sorrow 4 �Contributors Austin Suggs Stacey Rains 5 �Oblivion Austin Suggs I walk down shaded city streets, eyes low To miss the gaze of a man who begs for Just enough to eat, or not feel. Hungry? Or nothing at all. Who am I to judge The one who wishes for oblivion When my gaze betrays I’ve long lived there too? They say the rich and the poor inhabit Different worlds. I think they just enter Through separate doors to find the same bleak Nothingness they sought, or stumbled into Or were forced down. It’s all so hard to say. But soon enough, in life as in their deaths They sink down into the deep, dark, dank ground Having lived life chasing, but never found. 6 �Poet’s Nature Trail - Nadine Bucca 7 �Sorrow Stacey Rains There is a reason that hollow and hallowed echo the same. The word you mean to say is not quirk or coincidence but rather power, providence. Like a hole made ready for planting Like a pestle in mortar preparing the flavor Like a discordance that yearns for the melody Good redounds to good and the painful echo makes space for the necessary silence. Now I can hear “I am here.” 8 �Ripples - Paul Harland-White 9 �Short Stories & Musings Reading TRANSLATIONS Enkidu’s Dwelling Lady Sagredo The Mode of Pi I am. Working? 10 �Contributors Martha Franks Nadine Bucca Cynthia Crane Stephen Borsum Melissa Hicinbothem 11 �Reading Martha Franks It was three o’clock in the morning, and Alison’s mother sighed as she got up to go to Alison’s room. Alison’s father stirred and groaned at being woken untimely on yet another night. Again, again, again. Every night when she should have been sleeping and letting her parents sleep, Alison read books. Every night one of Alison’s parents would come into her room at eleven or so, turn off the light and tell Alison to sleep. Alison would wait for her mother or father to leave, wait an extra few minutes for the coast to be all the way clear, and then turn the light on to read some more. Hours later one of her parents would get up again to turn off the light, hoping that by this time Alison had fallen asleep over her book and would not start the weary round again. Punishment did not help. Alison submitted to whatever her parents imposed as if to a piece of bad luck unconnected to any cause and kept on reading. Once her exasperated parents tried removing the light entirely, but Alison found an answer to that. After waiting for the household to quiet down that night, she got up to curl in a nest behind the orange chair in the living room to read with the crystal glass lamp lowered to the floor. After Alison’s mother had found her asleep behind the chair a few mornings running, the reading light was restored. Her parents decided that it was better to hope that Alison would eventually fall asleep in bed rather than behind the chair. They could see that there would be no surrender in this war. Maybe war was the wrong word, as there was no malice in it. Alison needed to read and night was the time she had to do it in. She had no wish to battle or defeat her parents, it was just that reading was essential. Reading made the world livable. It made the world wide enough to dream of being somewhere else and someone else. The characters in books did not judge her or ask anything of her or shout at each other; they rescued her from the things that were hard about her life. She could ride along on their shoulders and feel with them as if she was experimenting with being them, making their mistakes and being proud of their successes in worlds that she could not have imagined on her own. Both of her parents understood all that, really, having 12 �themselves loved to read as children. The battle among the three of them also united them. On Christmas Alison found in her stocking a book with a French name, Les Miserables. It was fat and long, but it had amazing pictures and the first page drew her in immediately. Her mother, rushing around to arrange for Christmas dinner and celebrations, sighed as she always sighed at her own conflicting feelings about Alison’s reading. She could have used some help with the cooking and table-setting, but her heart was glad when she saw Alison settle into a corner with her new book, the book that Alison’s mother had loved most as a child. Alison did not hear the bustle around her. She was in France, with Jean Valjean, stealing bread for his sister’s children, being sent to be a galley slave as punishment, escaping and on the run from the police, the whole world against him. Then he was brought up short when, after he stole some silver candlesticks from a Bishop, the Bishop forgave him, and told him to keep them. Jean Valjean was paralyzed by this incomprehensible generosity just at the moment when Alison’s father called her for Christmas dinner. She startled, looking up groggily into her suburban American home, nearly paralyzed herself by the contrast with her book. It took a while to remember who she was and what was expected of her. Her imagination began to clear, though, after which it was fun to be with her aunts and her cousins. Alison spent the first part of dinner staring at the silver candlesticks on the table, lighted and glowing for the celebration. She watched the family’s reflections moving and changing in the candlesticks’ polished, elegant contours. No wonder Jean Valjean had tried to steal them— the images in them were beautiful, no matter how hard the life that they reflected. No wonder he had been paralyzed when the Bishop had given them as a gift—it’s a world-changing thing to own something that can make a hard life beautiful, like books. The Bishop’s gift was part of a bargain, Alison suddenly remembered, that Jean Valjean would no longer steal but become a part of society. She shook herself out of her reverie and joined the laughter of her family around the Christmas table. School was out, so Alison could read all the next day. Jean Valjean began the 13 �new life that the Bishop had demanded, disguising himself from the police. He did well for a while until the honesty he had promised to the Bishop forced him to reveal himself and return to his punishment in the galleys. Alison marked her place in the book and closed it in order to think about this dramatic moment of self-revelation. Her mother was cooking and Alison noticed for the first time how tired her mother looked. She put down the book entirely—she wanted to stretch it out and savor it anyway—and set the table for dinner without even being nagged. She was obeying the Bishop’s bargain. That night Alison and her parents slept undisturbed. In the morning Alison went eagerly back to the story to read about Jean Valjean running away from the galleys a second time. Having escaped, he went to find a little girl, the daughter of a woman to whom he had made a promise. The little girl was having a hard time where she was living. She had no books to help her, Alison thought, with pity. Jean Valjean rescued her and became her foster father, finding refuge in the shelter of a convent, in which she grew up. Reading about those thick convent walls with the quiet garden inside, Alison felt the enclosure of the book protecting her, too. Her parents had given her this world for Christmas. There was a lot that Alison did not understand about the rest of the book. It centered around characters who rebelled from their parents and their country and fought for better, freer lives. She felt the power of it but it frightened her, as she was too young to imagine breaking with her own parents, no matter what their conflicts. It was not important, though, that she did not understand. The bargain struck between Jean Valjean and the Bishop held fast whether it was understood or not. On the night that she finished the book she wept over the death of Jean Valjean, reunited with his child at last in a poor, barren room graced and lit only by the flames of the silver candlesticks on the mantle. Her mother found her asleep, the tears on her face, and turned off the light. 14 �Forbidden Fruit - Nadine Bucca 15 �Enkidu’s Dwelling Nadine Bucca After they slew the forest demon, Enkidu and Gilgamesh celebrated their victory with great shouts and cries. They kissed each other. “What great glory we have received,” said Gilgamesh. “Tomorrow we shall cut seven cedars, but for now let us wash in the river and rest.” So, Gilgamesh and Enkidu bathed in the cool clear river at dusk, the sun’s warm colors shining in the waters before disappearing with it behind the horizon. Under the stars, they rested. They found a spot with few roots, a small clearing, and laid their cloaks there. The sky was bright with all its little lights. There were many cedars in the forest, tall and dark, reaching up to the heavens. They found a space between them, settled among them for the night. In Humbaba’s forest, there lived a great many creatures. Owls made their nighttime calls. They could hear a twig break, with a loud snap, as a fox roamed about. It was not quiet like how the rest of the world seemed to still when they first wrestled each other or when Enkidu first laid his hand on Gilgamesh’s heart. Enkidu spoke. “Gilgamesh, my dear friend whose love is better than the love of Inanna, the goddess of love, we have slayed the forest demon. As he fell, so one day we must all fall. Do you fear death?” “I have never known death.” Gilgamesh looked up at the many stars, more than he had seen in the city. The dark sky seemed an endless river, with many small drops of sunlight sparkling on its surface. “Before I was only a thought, a small seed of a being,” he said. “Were you dead?” Enkidu asked. 16 �“Yes, but I was waiting.” “What if you had not become yourself? What if you had become a rock or a tree?” “Then that’s what I would have been.” They listened as another owl called and after, in the stillness that followed, there was the sound of the flowing river. Gilgamesh thought better of his answer. “I do not know if I was dead before or if my mind was merely dormant. But Enkidu you came from clay, from the earth. Aruru shaped you. Were you content when you ate and drank with the gazelles? Were you alive?” “My mind was wild but I was free. The priestess—she clothed me.” “The priestess—she made you human.” Enkidu turned from the stars to gaze at Gilgamesh, to see the dark rounds of his eyes. “No,” he said, taking his hand. “You did.” “I didn’t feed you bread or give you drink. I didn’t pour forth knowledge for you.” “Do you wish you had?” Enkidu whispered. “I’m not jealous of a priestess.” Gilgamesh’s voice held firm. Enkidu turned his gaze back to the stars, back to the slow moving clouds, covering and uncovering the light of the moon. “I am,” he said, at last. “She is wiser than me.” “I wish I’d done those things for you, but you have already gained all the knowledge you need.” 17 �“Yet, I am ignorant,” said Enkidu. Gilgamesh said nothing, but brought his hand to caress his lover’s knuckles, the grooves between his fingers, interlacing them with his own. Gilgamesh and Enkidu slept under the stars, resting in each other’s arms. “Make me more human,” Enkidu said. “Make me more human than I am.” Gilgamesh spoke, “What knowledge can we share together? We may hold each other, and you may kiss me, but what can two men hope to create?” Enkidu replied, “We shall make what it is in our power to make.” “Very well then. You are my companion formed from the earth. I cannot tame you.” The next morning brought a chill over the water, a light fog. They gathered wood for a fire, ate the bread they had. The bread was still soft in the middle. It tasted to Enkidu like sweet grain, and nothing like the grass of the gazelles which now he hardly recalled. “Do you understand,” Enkidu said. “The goddess made me because of the outcry against you—she made me to fight against you, to be your equal. You were a tyrant.” “I know.” “You were the worst tyrant. This pitcher wants water. The city down to its earth wants restitution.” “I’ll make a monument then, build a wall. Maybe I’ll even make it to you,” Gilgamesh laughed and Enkidu followed. “I expect more from someone who is one-third god.” “Two-thirds actually.” 18 “Let me be your other third.” �“Why not half?” “You must be careful, for then I may overtake you. You’re mostly god; I am completely man. I do not wish to be divine, but only as I am. Here, I have collected the seeds of a cedar,” Enkidu said. “Before we build, let’s plant.” Enkidu held out in his palm, the small seed cones. “I wouldn’t take the hand of a lesser man,” replied Gilgamesh. He took the cedar seeds, then Enkidu’s hand, and they embraced. “You have a great many questions and observations Enkidu,” said Gilgamesh. “We will cut down seven trees and build a raft, but first let this earth grow and nourish these little cedar trees to be, you who were born of clay.” Enkidu blessed the earth. For seven days the two friends planted cedars placing each seed in the earth, and covering them, digging with their hands, washing in the stream. Both men found rest in their planting, a sweetness like honey, as strong as fermented grain, as potent as death. And at the end of seven days, Gilgamesh dreamed. He saw the beginning, the separation of deep waters, the making of the gods. The world became dark to Gilgamesh’s eyes. Then Gilgamesh said, “I must run through a tunnel to catch the sun.” And Enkidu responded, “Our days are numbered. Let me be your sun.” As he said this the leaves above him glittered with light. “If only you were my sun,” Gilgamesh said. In that garden, Gilgamesh and Enkidu lived. 19 �Lady Sagredo Cynthia Crane Giovanni Francesco Sagredo (1571 – 1620) was a mathematician and scientist, and a friend of Galileo, who immortalized him as one of the interlocuters in his Dialogue Concerning the Two Chief World Systems. He attempted to solve the problem of measuring longitude with magnetics, and the English physicist William Gilbert called him the “great Magneticall man.” I imagine that like many know-it-all Renaissance men, he might have been diff icult, if charming, to live with. Since he never married, I thought a bit of a romp with a nonexistent wife might serve us all to remember that even in the midst of greatness, we still want wine and chocolate for dessert, and we still want Galileo to talk about the stars. “He’s coming tonight!” “Who’s coming tonight?” “Him!” “Oh . . . him . . . ,” Lady Sagredo said, and laughed at her husband the same way their son would laugh at Cook panicking about nothing. “Stop that,” Sagredo said. His wife said, “Stop what, darling Marito?” “Stop smiling like that.” “You want me to be sour?” “I do,” he said, “I want you to be sour and rushed and hurry about and send Cook to market for f ish and make the evening magnif icent.” “He wrote me last week,” she said. 20 �“Last week?” Sagredo ran his f ingers across his bald head as though his curls were still there. “Hmmm,” she said, remembering his hair. “Last week?” Sagredo repeated. “You didn’t tell me?” “I assumed, darling, I assumed,” she said, pulling him close and interrupting his words with a long kiss. Don’t worry, she explained, the menu is set, we’re having the cheese you like from town, and the peppered olives, as though cheese and peppered olives would put his mind at ease. “And the Asti,” she added. He looked alarmed. “ The Asti? Are you sure?” “Not with dinner,” she explained with some exasperation. He had stopped listening to her and was playing with the lace at her neck. He missed the pretty way the old ruff had framed her face when they f irst met, but he had to admit, the view behind the soft lace was lovely, enticing, suggestive. “Stop, Marito, stop,” she said with a completely different laugh, and pushed his hand away, though not quickly and not with much force. “ The Asti will be perfect,” she reprimanded, “I got chocolate.” “You didn’t.” “I did.” Sagredo stopped himself from asking about the money. “It’s going to rain tonight,” he added. “I know,” she said, “I know everything.” She kissed him again. 21 �“ Therefore, chocolate,” she added. “And Asti.” He wanted to know if that was the dress she was wearing. No, she assured him, she had worn this dress last time they met in Venice, Galileo would remember it, and Maria Celeste would want to hear about something new. Sagredo objected, “but she’s at San Matteo,” meaning the convent where Galileo’s daughter had taken orders. “Precisely,” said his wife. Ms. Sagredo turned to go but the locket at the end of her long necklace was stuck to one of the buttons of her husband’s vest. She pulled it away, though it was more than a little stuck. Sagredo reddened. “It’s magnetic,” she said indignantly. “You told me this was gold.” She held the locket up to him. “I did,” he said, “say that. I did say that it was gold, and it is gold, kind of.” “Plate?” “Not plate, better than that, but yes,” his voice petered out. Making a disgusted sound, she turned away and left for the kitchen, not really angry, but also not ready to let him see her smile. She thought how Galileo would flirt and drink too much Asti and she would be able to get him to talk about the wandering stars and the rugged moon, and then it would be worth all the time and money she’d spent for an evening out of the kitchen and away from her books, dreaming of, well, she wasn’t sure what. 22 �Tea at Laterna - Nadine Bucca 23 �The Mode of Pi Stephen Borsum The air in the courtroom was stifling. So much so that it would choke the sturdiest of lungs, drying the trachea like the deep desert under a hot sun; save for the fact that the entire congregation was holding their breath. No breath, no air to choke on. A fly nipped at my ear, that droning driving the hair on my neck to stand at attention. Perhaps in my ignorance I should have slowed my mind to listen to its secret. But I neglected this opportunity, not recognizing it for what it could have been, for the prosecutor approached the bench, and seven pairs of eyes from the jury, confused, angry, concerned, watched every twitch of my face. “Is it not true, that you are here on trial for the pursuance of fundamental truths of the Universe?” It was a misdirecting question from the prosecutor, delicately crafted, but asked too early to have the impact he clearly intended. “It is true, that is what I’m on trial for.” I reply. The cold, procedural questioning was meant to envelop the emotions surrounding my case. Be they wonder or terror. And to discard that envelope, tossing it into the ever-burning fire of principle and logic. “And you maintain your innocence?” “Clearly.” His wry grin flashed. The chase was on. He turned now to the jury, his audience. “Please, if you’d answer this question for the jury, we might continue, all sharing an understanding of certain facts.” The prosecutor paused. This was a simple trick, one that school children learn when they share stories. The congregation would strain forward, pointing ears towards the forthcoming question. Each moment would raise the tension, increasing the stakes of my answer. No question in the trial until now bore such weight nor may any after, if handled deftly by the prosecutor. “Would you deny,” another pause, delicately placed, precise, “that 24 �your research and subsequent applications thereof, contain the possibility, no... the probability,” a self-correction wielded like a dagger, concealed within the sleeve, “of altering the human soul, perhaps irrevocably?” I did not hear the myriad of reactions from the room, but my heart sensed them. As if the jury and congregation had been shown irrefutable evidence, the murder weapon in my hand moments after using it, the bated breath was released and the heat of the room grew sticky with humidity. As if the capillaries of the lungs saturated the exhalation more deeply with moisture. In fact this was only a baited question. My biting of this lure would open a new line of questioning from which I would be unable to return. To deny such a grandiose suggestion was to deny what my work had yielded, a fate worse than conviction, and death. To assent to this question was to guarantee such a conviction and to never see my work flourish as it could. As it must. My defense attorney caught my eye. His were welling with tears as this was the question we had always prepared for. The undeniable question. And in no retort we had crafted had there ever been a convincing way through. When your attorney becomes an ally, beyond litigator, there must be power in what you’ve done. Even he denied me at first. Suggested that pleading guilty and discontinuing the work would be the only certain path to safety. But now he sees. He knows. Damn safety. “Do you feel I have altered your soul, prosecutor?” The judge spat at me, sharply, without a patience that was never granted in the first place. “You will answer the question in a statement. A dialectical maneuver will not suffice.” The prosecutor smiled a venomous grin. “Yes, your honor.” My turn to pause. To breathe. Perhaps this was my last free heartbeat and I would soak in the moment as if it could be stripped away. The room grew dry again, but I was careful to not let it linger so long as the prosecutor. His pension for showmanship was my only saving grace. “Not just the human soul, but that of the Universal.” It was certainly nonsense to most of the people in attendance. And the prosecutor recoiled. It was this essence of power that had faced the 25 �least ridicule, for it was the least sensical to their ears. But the prosecutor recovered, too quickly for my liking. “There we have it. Admission, and delusions of grandiosity. This, man, ladies and gentlemen here assembled, wishes himself a god!” This drew chuckles, as the prosecutor turned to address the crowd, encouraging their pity and scorn for my contemptuous delusions. “Not wishes. Wills.” I said, partially to myself but with enough volume to my baritone that the ears nearest me keyed in on it. In this moment my mind returned to a series of memories that lay coiled in my conscience. There were first the resonances that established held a sacred balance akin to that of the celestial orbits. Inalterable, it was said they were. Yet a thoughtful nudge might disrupt such balance. Thoughtful, or reckless, I was warned on occasion. But who might undue the orbits of the planets themselves save the hand of God? And was I to supersede him? Or was I an act myself? Flashing forward to two frequencies, one and the other containing a balance of sameness and difference together, threads of unison passing between both that would wax and wane as dissonant undertones built. “It’s beautiful” she said. She had been the most apprehensive, and her skepticism was at first my only source of apprehension. Now her skepticism was not that it couldn’t be done, but what may happen if it worked? The nuclear age ushered in the power for mankind to undo itself, but this? The power to ascend, decay, evolve, dissolve, many possible paths that the frequencies alone would be the arbiter of. The slightest miscalculation meant a causal chain, the results of which could not be anticipated. Why had I pressed forth in the face of such potentialities? “What remains in flux is how this emanates throughout the heavens.” The philosopher asked. And I returned a question that had not come to my mind until this moment. “Is God’s soul that of the cosmos, or something beyond? What is the part and what is the whole?” 26 The smile he turned to me with was one of pensive reflection, apprehension and anticipation mixed in a swirl of emotion. “That is the �question, isn’t it? Would that we could know the wholeness of creation. I fear you may learn the truths as you change them, if the Universe is constructed in one way rather than the other.” And then the final experiment. A tone slowly bending up, the tri-tone filling the resonant chamber, and the overtone singing the voice of heaven. But from which direction would the wave pattern collapse? Inwardly or outwardly, both were possibilities, with drastically different consequences. The overtone peaked as the rising tone angled back down, through the tri-tone, down past unison of the second and third octaves below the overtone, into something new. The undertone, and the ground began to tremble. What my calculations never determined is how long the tone would have to sink and how far the undertone might fluctuate. I had never expected it to take days, even weeks. And then I was arrested. I was out on the street going to buy bread and a bottle of wine to distract myself for an evening because I had nothing to do but wait. And waiting seemed like a prison unto itself. But I had seen the signs, there would be a result that no one could control, and yet would alter everything. It was something that could not be resisted by stopping it, resonant waves expanded. I was shaken from this reflection by realization. The courtroom around me had swelled to an uproar. Cries of heretic, blasphemer, and heathen rang of the walls of this stone room. The prosecutor even reeled for a moment before seeing the opportunity to deal the finishing blow. “You see, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, he confesses! This is no mere tinkerer but one who’d assume you can supplant the will of God!” The judge pounded at his desk with the gavel, crying for an order that he could not wrest from the crowd, not until the prosecutor, now firmly in control of the narrative, raised his hands. “What I cannot be certain of,” he turned to the judge, “your honor, is whether or not the defendant is insane.” I hereby request that the trial be paused until such a time as we’ve had him evaluated both spiritually and psychologically, to allow the jury to fully assess the qualities of the defendant before delivering a verdict.” It was a smart move on his part. It showed a touch of sympathy, whether feigned or not. And it would lend credibility to the sentence the prosecution had originally sought, death by ostracization. A volun- 27 �tary sentence that would cast me out and let me die how I pleased, removed from civilization so as to inflict no further harm upon it. The judge was quick to acquiesce. In mere minutes I was once again chained and thrown into the back of a transport. Feeling the rumble of the road beneath me as it passed the waiting miles to the prison. I can’t feel the rumble of a vehicle any longer without remembering the undertone. And they threw me back into my cramped cell. There I had several books, at this point nearly memorized and only used to pass the time. I felt I had milked all their secrets long ago, and every time I opened them now was just for a hit of nostalgia or to notice some hidden quirk of translation. Plato’s Timaeus, Einstein’s Relativity, The World as Will and Representation, and Marie Shelley’s Frankenstein. It was a short list, but they all offered a kind of creature comfort. Days passed. Then weeks. And I endured a barrage of tests designed for no other purpose than to assure I was as condemnable as it appeared. All the while I had only the ability to wonder about my experiment. The calculations supported a theory that even if they found it, destroyed it, sundered the equipment and stopped the tones, they had already emanated. But how long before I knew some sign of the impact was impossible to tell. Localization of experiment does not correlate to localization of phenomena, and a question the Philosopher once asked me was, “We know the speed of light, and the speed of sound. It remains to be seen if the speed of truth is beholden to such obstacles.” 28 �I am. Working? Melissa Hicinbothem When I considered what it meant “to be” I was unable to discover anything tangible. I could not grasp anything intrinsic to myself that revealed what it was to be. Considered another way “to be” might mean “I am”. Well, the problem emerges, I am, what exactly? How can I know what I am without something external? What condition tells me what I am in any given moment? In this awkward position I began to consider my personal circumstances. Following seven months of unemployment I began a new job. My question took on a new cast. What does it mean “to be” working? What does it mean “to be” not working? Now, I found myself at a convenient demarcation point to consider my inquiry about being. What did it mean to be working when previously I had not? Was my time more engaged? Was I less idle? The short answer is no. My new employment did not mean any greater engagement. It did not mean less idleness. I had a job now, but I spent a large amount of my working hours engaged in nothing purposeful. Certainly nothing urgent. Indeed, for the first time that I can recall, my new employers urged me to “relax” to “take it easy”. What does this mean? It seems to mean that “to be” working involved or required no change internal to me. Nothing inside of me needed to change. So, nothing inside of me changed. Here I was, working again after a long hiatus, and I found no evidence that any change in my state had produced a change internal to me. I was not required to be more purposeful or serious. By the measure of my internal life “I am” working was just as intangible as “I am”. Still, I was at a demarcation point and I knew that some change had taken place. “To be” working was indeed different from not working. If my internal life was unchanged by the demands of employment perhaps, I should look to more external factors. “To be” working meant that my time was no longer unstructured. Any given time of the day could no longer see me anywhere. Even if I had nothing important to do at work I still needed to be there. Did “to be” working mean that I was physically present at times dictated to me by my employer? Was this the absence of idleness? Even though I was doing very little, I was 29 �structuring my presence around someone else’s demands. There was nothing substantially different with me, but I was sharing external conditions with someone else. Another possible answer for what it meant “to be” working was that I was earning money. Admittedly, this might be the best example. Money does seem to be an important distinction between gainful employment and unemployment. I had no sense of vocation integral to me, but as the result of meeting my employer’s conditions I could expect to receive a paycheck. An agreed upon amount of money would be exchanged for my presence at dictated times. Is this what it means “to be” working, the shared understanding of external conditions between my employer and me? If I cannot discover what it means “to be” working independent of any external conditions, have I established a phenomenological account of myself? It seems to be Hegel’s conjecture that the Greeks possessed shared external conditions similar to those between my employer and me. In the case of the Greeks, they had a shared aesthetic sense. A shared understanding of what was beautiful. My employer and I only come together for the expectations of work, and the Greeks lived in separate city-states that were bound only by a shared aesthetic. I know virtually nothing of my employer beyond what it is necessary to meet the shared conditions of work. Yet, we are able to work together because of that shared understanding. Is the unity of Spirit a shared understanding of external conditions? I do not think so. Hegel believes the Greek unity was fragile. That it was undone by Thought. Does this mean that a shared understanding of beauty could not hold the Greeks together in the face intellectualism? If a culture cannot be held together by a set of shared external conditions what is necessary for prolonged survival? If not, what role does intellectualism play in building the unity of spirit? If the Greeks did not have unity of Spirit, were they the first step in a long historical journey to find the unity? 30 Let me assume that the Greeks do not have unity of Spirit. They are indeed missing something. The Greeks see beauty as I see my employment. A set of shared external conditions. Am I missing something too? I have already remarked that upon commencing my new job I felt no internal change. When I perform my duties, I know neither what �I am doing in a meaningful sense, nor why I am doing them. I know I am working, but I do not know why. I suppose I am in the same position I was in when I began this essay. And now I am running out of time to reach a conclusion. Like Hegel’s reading of the Greeks, I have observed phenomena in my life. The phenomena (presence and compensation) occur as the result of my shared understanding with my employer. But, does this shared understanding prove any unity of Spirit in my life? Will I come undone at the emergence of Thought? 31 �Essays A Bug’s Life Kar ña in the Round The Ultimate Desire of Le Misanthrope Intertextuality and the Elixer of Character Is Odette Odile? 32 �Contributors Johnathan Wright Jay Gold Kelly Kwon Gus Kraus Cynthia Crane 33 �A Bug’s Life The Brothers Karamazov’s Dimitri as Fallen Man Johnathan Wright In Dostoevsky’s masterwork, The Brothers Karamazov, it quickly becomes clear to the imagination that the pious, innocent Alyosha is an “angel,” and that the secretive, cold Ivan is a “grave,” but the characterization of Dimitri, the eldest Karamazov brother, requires a subtler analysis. Dostoevsky himself names him a vile insect. Indeed, it is true that Dimitri has many dehumanizing vices; he is, in his own words, “just a brute of an officer who drinks cognac and goes whoring”. Nonetheless, the author’s label of “insect” is not meant to be a revocation of his humanity, but an emphatic affirmation of it. This becomes apparent over the course of several poems which Dimitri recites to Alyosha during their dialogue in Fyodor Pavlovich’s neighbors’ backyard. The first excerpt that Mitya recites is from Schiller’s “Eleusinian Festival;” it narrates Ceres’ coming to earth and finding the world hostile, barren, and desolate due to “man’s universal fall” (pp. 106). With all of his unholy revelry and rampant womanizing, Mitka himself presents 34 the reader with the picture of a man who has been utterly enthralled by his base desires, a true product of the Fall. Nevertheless, he is still a man. By way of Aristotelian example, he is not so controlled by his base desires that he becomes a beast, who does not know and want the good; he is a torn human being who knows what is good, but simply lacks the self-control to bring that good about. Despite his brutishness, Mitenka preserves a strong sense of honor and propriety. Mitya’s heart is tormented by this internal conflict between good and evil: “Let me be cursed, let me be base and vile, but let me also kiss the hem of that garment in which my God is clothed; let me be following the devil at the same time, but still I am also your son, Lord,” (pp.107). Is this not the very struggle which we all, imperfect yet noble as we are, undergo in the silence of our own hearts? As Mitka’s third excerpt, from Schiller’s “To Joy,” asserts, our tendency toward earthly pleasures renders us “insects”— but also makes us human. Dimitri, then, is indeed an insect, but according to Dostoevsky, so are we. Dimitri’s relationship with Katerina reflects such human complexity. It begins because of his ever-present pride and lust; he seeks to blackmail her into intercourse, simply because she spurns him. When the moment �comes, however, something about her character breaks his wicked resolve. Her defiance and strength penetrates past his base sensuality and touches something more noble, something even akin to reverence in his dark heart. It makes him uncomfortable, and for that he even hates her for a moment, with “the kind of hatred that is only a hair’s breadth from love” — it causes him to let her go free. This act of mercy in turn moves her, and for that she falls madly in love with him. Baffled by this unexpected reaction, Dimitri sinks into an acute self- consciousness that wavers between humility and pride. He is keenly aware of his faults, and feels as if he is not worthy to marry someone as noble and virtuous as Katerina. It would be easier to call his insecurity “humility” if he were willing to accept mercy and reform for the sake of love, but even in the face of Katya’s tender forgiveness of his faults and trespasses, he refuses to besmirch her reputation by wedding her, protesting that he cannot change. In this way, Dimitri is more self-destructive than humble; he is too unwilling, too cowardly to turn and face his vices, even if it means the loss not only of Katerina, but ultimately, of his soul. Katerina herself is not without some self-destructive tendencies of her own; her brazen confidence and proactiveness errs on the side of excess, and leads to her allowance of the ruthless Grushenka into her home, a decision which ends in disaster. Though Dimitri is considered “the insect,” his complex character and relationships teach more about the plight of fallen man than either his brother “the angel,” or his brother “the grave.” 35 �Karña in the Round Jay Gold INTRODUCTION E. M. Forster once distinguished between two different kinds of literary characters. Flat characters are simple and two-dimensional, frequently a single quality writ large. Round characters, on the other hand, are complex and harder to characterize briefly. Forster offers Dickens’s Mrs. Micawber as an example of a flat character, and Thackeray’s Becky Sharp as an example of a round one. To this reader, there is no rounder character in the Mahābhārata than Karña. While he is portrayed as a coherent personality, it is difficult to assert anything about his character without qualifying that assertion in important respects. There is no need to demonstrate Karña’s roundness; that will be obvious to every reader. My intention in this paper is to answer the question, What is it about Karña that makes him so obviously round? KARÑA’S CASTE AND FAMILY STATUS ARE EXTREMELY COMPLICATED Karña, while he admits that Kŗşņa has stated the law correctly, rejects this interpretation for himself. For Karña, Kunti’s having abandoned him destroyed any parental claim she 36 might have on him, and the love with which Râdhâ and Adhiratha raised him established such a claim in his eyes. Thus Karña is by history and by inclination the son of a sûta, and by heredity and by law a kṣatriya. But there is another way in which he can be said to be a kşatriya: in his physical capabilities, particularly his ability to withstand pain. After he gives Indra his earrings and accepts from him the Never-failing Spear, Karña flays his entire body, “mov[ing] no muscle in spite of the pain.” That such fortitude demonstrates his kṣatriya-ness may be seen in the following story: Karña had asked to study with Drona, but Drona turned him down, saying he would teach only “[a] brahmin who has correctly performed the right vow” or “a kṣatriya who has performed asceticism.” So Karña betook himself to Râma Jâmadagnya and made the same request, this time purporting to be a brahmin. Some time later a fearsome insect bit Karña, who “stifled the intolerable pain with his fortitude,…not moving in the least.” Râma, when he became aware of this, was angry enough to curse Karña: “No brahmin could endure this extreme pain. Your fortitude could only be a kṣatriya’s.” In other words, Karña’s physical characteristics, as well as his heredity and the law, show him to be a kṣatriya. �I add that frequently in the Mahābhārata we see characters who are the sons of gods, but who also are considered the sons of their mother’s husbands. This is true in particular of Karña’s Pandava brothers. Karña is unique in that there are three male characters who could be said to be his father: the sun, Adhiratha, and Pandu. KARÑA IS COMMITTED TO CARRYING OUT THE OBLIGATIONS TO OTHERS THAT HE HAS TAKEN ON On the face of it, Karña looks utterly principled, committed to truth, to loyalty, and to generosity. Yet at different points he takes actions that arguably violate these commitments. 1. Truth Karña says, speaking to Kṛṣṇa, “[N]either joy nor fear, nor all of earth nor piles of gold can make me a traitor to my word.” This seems to be Karña’s fundamental principle, as it includes his vows involving the loyalty and generosity that also characterize him. This is the principal reason Karña gives Kṛṣṇa for rejecting Kṛṣṇa s directive to assume his position as the eldest Pandava. One would think Kṛṣṇa’s charge would be compelling to Karña for several reasons. Karña would become king, in a ceremony at which Kṛṣṇa himself would officiate. By this act he would bring about peace between the Kauravas and the Pandavas. His acknowledging his place in the Pandava family would be entirely consistent with the law, even more than the path he does take. (He tells his mother Kunti, who urges him to follow Kṛṣṇa’s directive, that he does not “deny that for me the gateway to the Law is to carry out your behest.”) And he would be obeying the instructions of the supreme lord Kṛṣṇa. Yet, he says, his obligations to Râdhâ and Adhiratha and to Duryodhana keep him from doing so. I do not see where Karña actually pronounces a vow of loyalty to Râdhâ and Adiratha; his obligations to them seem to come from love and felt loyalty. To Duryodhana, on the other hand, he does take a vow . Even before he has gotten to know Duryodhana, Karña tells him, “I choose to be friends with you.” And again, when Duyyodhana asks for his eternal friendship, Karña responds, “So it shall be.” Afterwards, his felt loyalty plays a prominent if not a predominant part in his devotion to Duryodhana. Another example of a vow that Karña refuses to break is his gifting to Indra the earrings with which he was born that make him invulnerable in battle. Both Karña and his father the sun say that “all the world knows” his vow to refuse nothing to the brahmins. So when Indra appears to him in the guise of a brahmin, Karña, even knowing it is a god and not a brahmin, grants his request for the earrings. (One might think he does so because 37 �it is a god who asks, but Karña has no problem defying Kṛṣṇa and the sun god.) This despite his knowledge that giving up the earrings will make him vulnerable on the battlefield. He does receive in return the Never-failing Spear, but with the restriction that he can use it only once. So the spear’s protection is rather less reliable than the earrings’. And, as discussed infra, as it turns out he uses the spear on somebody other than Arjuna, whom he had planned to be its target and whom he knew would otherwise kill him. Hence Karña’s keeping of this vow leads directly to his death on the battlefield. Sometimes Karña proclaims his absolute devotion to truth. “I do not fear death as I fear the lie,” he tells Kṛṣṇa. Vaiśampāyana calls him “truthful,” and at one point says, “Karña’s mind did not falter, for he stood fast by the truth.” But Karña is not above employing deception to obtain what he wants. We see this in the story of his apprenticeship to Râma. In order to study with Râma, he lies to him about his origin. In this willingness to deceive when he thinks the ends justify the deception, Karña is no different from Yudhiṣṭhira or Kṛṣṇa, who do the same despite their own reputations for honesty. Furthermore, such devotion to truth as Karña possesses does not include a devotion to transparency. After Kṛṣṇa tells him of his true legal status, he asks that Kṛṣṇa “suppress word of our taking counsel here,” as Yudhiṣṭhira 38 would not accept the kingdom if he knew Karña was his elder brother. While secrecy may not be as great a violation of commitment to truth as deception is, it is some distance from the total honesty that Karña claims to represent. 2. Loyalty Apart from his vows of loyalty, Karña claims that his actions derive from feelings of loyalty based upon how other characters have and have not acted towards him. The loyalty is pronounced in the case of Râdhâ and Adhiratha, Karña’s foster parents. When we first meet Adhiritha, Karña had just “hung his head in shame” when asked about his lineage. But Karña treats Adhiratha with reverence, despite likely knowing that acknowledging this sûta as his father would elicit scorn from such as Bhîma. In explaining to Kṛṣṇa why he will not assume his position as a Pandava, Karña speaks of his adoptive parents’ love for him – Râdhâ breastfeeding him and dealing with his body wastes, Adhiratha’s having his birth rites performed, marrying him to wives with whom he has “sons and grandsons” with whom his heart has bonds of love. “How,” Karña asks, “could a man like me deny [Râdhâ] the ancestral offering?” The obverse of his loyalty to Râdhâ and Adhisthira is his antipathy to his biological mother, Kunti, who, he �tells Kṛṣṇa “cast me out as though I had been stillborn.” Karña speaks of “the irreparable wrong” she has done him, and goes on, “Born a kṣatriya, I have not yet received the respect due a baron. What enemy could have done me greater harm than you have? When there was time to act you did not show me your present compassion. And now you have laid orders on me, the son to whom you denied the sacraments. You never acted in my interest like a mother, and now here you are, enlightening me solely in your own interest.” It might be thought that the fact of parentage would be enough to garner a child’s loyalty. But this is not Karña’s way. His loyalty derives from how he has been treated. This also is true of Karña’s loyalty to Duryodhana. The latter begins their relationship by giving Karña a kingdom so he can fight a duel with Arjuna, and defends him against Bhîma’s taunts. Karña tells Kṛṣṇa. “For thirteen years I have enjoyed unrivaled royal power in Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s lineage by relying on Duryodhana…[who] has raised arms and prepared for war with the Pandavas, because he relies on me,…Therefore he has confidently chosen me to be the main opponent of the Left-handed Archer in a chariot duel in the war.”1 Karña gives all these as reasons not to break his vow to Duryodhana. And when Karña’s father, the sun, tells him to do as Kunti says, Karña responds: “The Dhārtarāṣṭras have let me share in all their comforts and honored me much at all times: how could I, I betray them now? Now that they are embroiled in a feud with the others, they attend to me at all times and honor me as much as the Vasus honor Vāsava? How could I shatter their hopes now, if they think that with my prowess they can engage their enemies? How could I desert them now when they see in me the boat they need to cross over this impassable battle and find the farther shore of this shoreless ocean. Now the hour has struck for all the men who have lived off the Dhārtarāṣṭra, and I have to discharge my duty heedless of my life. Those evil men who, after having been well supported to their heart’s content, pay no heed to what has been done for them and fecklessly undo past benefactions when the time of duty arrives, wicked despoiler of their kings and thieves of their masters’ riceball, gain neither this world nor the next.” It might be countered that Duryodhana is a villain, unworthy of Karña’s loyalty.2 And, indeed, Karña may be accused of being loyal to a fault in the way he treats Draupadi, calling her a whore and a slave wench. He tells Kṛṣṇa that he regrets insulting the Pandavas, a very “round” thing to do. The reason he gives for his behavior is that he wanted to please Duryodhana. 39 �Finally, this section presents an opportunity to raise a question. When Kṛṣṇa issues his directive to Karña, the latter replies, “If I…were to obtain this large, prosperous kingdom, I would hand it over to Duryodhana.” Well, then, why doesn’t he do just that? There would be no war, and his friend would obtain the kingdom he desires. The text provides no explanation. 3. Generosity As we have discussed, Karña gives up his earrings of invulnerability to Indra disguised as a brahmin. He claims he does so because of his vow never to refuse anything to a brahmin, a vow taken on the basis of reverence and generosity. A later incident is if anything an even stronger example of that generosity. It will be recalled that in exchange for the earrings, Indra gave Karña a Never-failing Spear that would unerringly kill anybody, with the proviso that it could be used only once. Karña had planned to use it to kill Arjuna, the one warrior capable of killing him. But at one point during the war with the Pandavas, Bhîma’s demon son Ghaṭotkaca terrorized the Kaurava army: “The Kaurava warriors pleaded with the Suta’s son, “O Karna, kill the Rakshasa soon before he destroys the whole army. Use your Shakti weapon given to you by Indra, the King of Heaven…. Karna decided to use his 40 Shakti weapon. …[He] remembered how…he had exchanged it for his natural golden armor and earrings. It was meant to kill Arjuna. Not finding any other way to save the army from extermination, Karna picked up that dart and readied himself to release it. It could only be used once, and after being released, it would again return to Indra. Karna then released the mighty weapon.…That dart soared through the sky, and… struck Ghaṭotkaca in the chest depriving him of his life… Lord Krishna was joyous on the occasion…. ‘I know that Karna can now be killed, because he no longer has possession of that celestial dart.’” So Karña, out of his generosity and loyalty, and knowing of the consequences to himself, uses his weapon to save the Kaurava army. This exemplifies the reasons that both Dhṛtarāṣṭra and Vaiśampāyana call him “compassionate.” Karña’s use of the Never-failing Spear against Ghaṭotkaca has practical reasons as well: had he not used it, his side would have been defeated, and he never would have had the chance to use the spear against Arjuna. WITH ALL THAT, KARNA’S OVERRIDING MOTIVATION IS HIS DESIRE FOR FAME Karña says on any number of occasions that he hungers for fame even more than for life.3 In turning down the sun’s directive to refuse Indra his earrings, he says, “I shall give him �my earrings…, and my superb armor, lest my fame vanish.” He goes on, “I choose fame on earth, sun, even at the cost of my life.. [T]he famous man attains to heaven, the inglorious man perishes. For in the world fame gives life to a man like a mother, while infamy kills life be the soul alive.” He then cites a verse from “the Placer himself”: “In the world hereafter is fame The highest estate of a man; In this world fame if pure Increases that man’s life.” Karña then says that by giving away his earrings and armor, by offering up his body in war and vanquishing his foes, and by protecting others, he will “win supreme fame in the world….I have vowed to protect my fame with my very life.” Karña brushes off without comment the sun’s advice that “[o]nly the fame of a living man is good….what use is fame to a dead person who has been reduced to ashes?...The fame of a dead mortal is like a garland on a corpse.” could have had.” He goes on, “In killing Arjuna on the battlefield I shall find my reward, or reap fame if the Left-handed Archer kills me.” CONCLUSION I began this paper with the following question: What is it about Karña that makes him such a round character? I have analyzed aspects of his character and his story in order to provide an answer to this question. A characteristic of round characters is that even after they have been discussed at length there is more to be said about them, and there are elements of Karña’s personality – like his self-confidence or his braggadocio – upon which I have not touched here. Like other round characters in literature, Karña combines two seemingly opposed characteristics: he has a complexity we would expect to find in those we encounter in real life, and there is no one else – in life or in literature – quite like him. One of Karña’s reasons for not accepting Kṛṣṇa’s directive is that if he were to avoid combat with Arjuna it would bring disgrace to both of them, and he tells Kunti that he is concerned about “being called a coward” and “what…the baronage [will] call me.” He blames Kunti for having “destroyed the name and fame I 41 �The Ultimate Desire of Le Misanthrope Kelly Kwon What does Alceste ultimately want? It is nothing but commitment that Alceste demands from his friend Philinte and his partner Célimène. He yells at Philinte: “Monbleu! Vous n’êtes pas pou être de mes gens. L’ami du genre humain n’est point du tout mon fait.”. He detests that his friend Philinte is everybody’s friend. Also, he shrieks at Célimène when she opens the door for Basque without hesitation: “Quoi! L’on ne peut jamais vous parler tête à tête? A recevoir le monde on vous voit toujours prête?” He is extremely unhappy about his partner welcoming other people. Célimène grumbles: “Mais de tout l’univers vous devenz jaloux.” Alceste counters: “C’est que tout l’univers est bien reçu de vous.” It is true. Alceste feels jealousy of the whole world. Why? He is both unwilling to and unable to fawn over other people, whereas Philinte and Célimène are capable of acting gregariously. They seem to have a lot of options to choose their friends, but Alceste cannot hang out with people other than these two, who he has carefully selected. And, as such Alceste is such a misanthrope—what makes Philinte and Célimène exceptional enough to qualify for his circle? Are Philinte and Célimène as genuine as Alceste? 42 Definitely not. They do know how to be diplomatic: to flatter, to smile and to conceal. For instance, Philinte is far from being squeamish to butter up Oronte as “La chute en est jolie, amoureuse, admirable!” Célimène is kind to everybody; not only their potential ally, Basque, who will be helpful in the court, but also to her unwanted suitor, Oronte. Furthermore, to her enemy, Arsinoé, Célimène seems soft on her on the surface— even though these two women were delivering malicious messages in a passive-aggressive form. “Si l’on était sage, ces avis mutuels seraient mis en usage.”, Célimène fools her with a gentle tone—this adroitness is impossible for Alceste, who unintentionally provokes Oronte to file a lawsuit against him. Philinte and Célimène are two of the handful of people capable of appreciating the beauty of Alceste’s candidness, and regardless of Alceste’s anti-social character, they adore and trust his straightforwardness. We can see Philinte holding his laughter while Alceste gives an acerbic critique of Oronte’s sonnets. Célimène introduces annoying Arsinoé to Alceste, because she trusts Alceste to be faithful to her. Perhaps she had figured out that Alceste would see Arsinoé’s hypocrisy, and Alceste does point out Arsinoé’s shady intentions, of course. He asks in askance: “Mais, en disant cela, songez-vous, je vous prie, que cette personne est, Madame, votre amie?” He also refuses her flatteries. He begins to disavow �his thoughts so that he can avoid any involvement with Arsinoé, by humbly saying: “Le ciel ne m’a point fait, en me donnant le jour, une âme compatible avec l’air de la Cour.” Nevertheless, it is worth remarking that Alceste acquiesces to the possibility of Arsione’s false accusation: Célimène could be unfaithful to him. Alceste keeps petitioning Célimène not to hang out with other guys.—“Perdez votre proces, Madame, avec constance, et ne menagez point un rival qui m’offense.”, he says; but he begs to declare that Alceste is the one who she chooses: “Mais plus d’amusement, et plus d’incertitude: Il faut vous expliquer nettement la-dessus. (...) Je saurai, de ma part, expliquer ce silence, et me tiendrai pour dit tout le mal que j’en pense.” This distinguishes the simmering jealousy of Alceste. He merely scoffs at Philinte’s flattery—showing just an allergic reaction to Philinte’s false compliments. Although Alceste expresses his strong irritation at Philinte’s excessive philanthropy, he is not as anxious at seeing Célimène’s affection for other men. Perhaps Alceste is afraid of losing her. He asks for exclusivity as her romantic partner, while he does not, or cannot actively do so to his friend, because he is a friend. And thankfully, according to her letter, it turns out that Célimène’s inclination has always been toward Alceste, while she put in a lot of effort to conceal her disgust toward Oronte. She has been faithful, indeed. It is, therefore, shocking that Alceste announces that “Mon coeur a present vous detesté(,)” right after he confirms her faithfulness. He breaks up the relationship with the last word: “Allez, je vous refuse, et ce sensible outrage de vos indignes fers pour jamais me degagé.” How can his abandonment be juxtaposed with her affectionate confession? Isn’t this confirmation what he wanted ? What does he want? First of all, Alceste seems to make a dichotomy between those who value him and those who do not. He despises Oronte’s incapability of accepting his true judgment; He despises the world full of sycophants. Whereas he loves Célimène because she loves him, and we can infer from his contrapositive statement: “Je ne l’aimerais pas, si je ne croyais [être donc aimé d’elle].” Even if his love “ne ferme point mes yeux aux défauts qu’on lui trouve”, it does not hinder him from loving her. Even if he finds a piece of (false) evidence that Célimène loves Oronte, he cannot help loving her, and fails to avenge her by using Eliante. He deplores himself: “O ciel! De mes transports puis-je être ici le maître?” This insinuates that Alceste desperately needs her while Célimène seems to have a variety of options among her suitors. Unfortunately, Célimène frustrates Alceste by being continuously ambiguous. She blames his jealousy and doubt, but she never explains or elu43 �cidates. This can explain why Alceste becomes bizarrely credulous enough to believe Célimène’s affectionate letter is for Oronte. He has been made ill by his doubts, and now he gets a tangible piece of evidence that can validate his cumulative jealousy. He takes an opportunity to vent his rancor. “Moi, je veux me facher.”; He wants to be angry, and he becomes a little bit satisfied, just as we might become happy to figure out the nomenclature of illness long after suffering from its unknown symptoms. Before long, though, he realizes that “C’est [lui-même] qui [il] viens plaindre, et c’est [lui-même] qu’on querelle!”; (and?) Célimène turns out to be innocent. Instead of apologizing, now he pretends to be angry, labeling her reaction a brazen excuse. He tenaciously probes her as to how the expression of the problematic letter could be written without romantic connotations. All he wants is her assurement—to express how much she is devoted to him and how aloof she actually is from other men—but he receives no answer. She is not willing to enter his game. Later on, he tenaciously asks if she will choose him or Oronte. She procrastinates in giving him an answer; instead, it is other people, Acaste and Clitandre, who confess her mind instead. She did not have to hesitate when deciding whom. She just had to speak up and say, ‘I will choose Alceste, and Oronte is not even on my list,’ but she does not—she does not want to hurt Oronte’s feelings. However, to 44 what extent does she take care of Alceste? The longer she weighs those two on the scale,—unnecessarily—the more Alceste turns weary and is made miserable. When he figures out he has won this love competition, instead of rapture, he feels a deep disappointment. He thinks it is meaningless for him to feel anxious due to Célimène’s courtesy, and he is not willing to endure this anymore. “Et s’il faut qu’à mes feux votre flamme réponde, que vous doit importer tout le reste du monde? Vos désirs avec moi ne sontils pas contents?”, he questions. Most of all, when Célimène hesitantly offers him marriage by saying “Si le don de ma main peut contenter vos voeux, je pourrai me résoudre à serre de tels nœuds; Et l’hymen…”, Alceste finally explodes in anger, crying out that he detests her, and he therefore refuses her. He then turns to Eliante, confessing that he finds that she is the only one who he finds sincere. However he acknowledges that he himself is too unworthy of her love, and that he does not fit with marriage by nature. This indicates he is now too traumatized to pursue his desire for commitment. Now he begins to seek freedom instead: “Je vais sortir d’un gouffre où triomphent les vices, et chercher sur la terre un endroit écarté où d’etre homme d’honneur on ait la liberté.” (1808) This is the very moment that he changes the orientation of his aspirations: from commitment to freedom. �London Mer - Nadine Bucca 45 �Intertextuality and The “Elixir” of Character Gus Kraus Through his counsel to Arjuna, Kṛṣṇa weaves together plentiful references to other Sanskrit texts. But in the tenth chapter of the Bhagavadgītā, he uses these allusions to teach yoga to Arjuna, providing him a litany of magnanimous characters - Gods, sages, heroes, astrological bodies, scriptures, syllables and more. Kṛṣṇa does not simply present Arjuna with an array of moral exemplars. He avoids giving a straightforward Plutarchian exposition of heroes that Arjuna ought to emulate in acting according to dharma; the ethical purport of “I am the a among syllables”1 is not immediately apparent. Instead, Kṛṣṇa declares himself the seed (bījaṃ2) of the greatness of each character he lists. In tying the quality of each character to himself, Kṛṣṇa’s ‘who’s who’ of excellence in Sanskrit literature transforms reading - or, in this historical context, “listening” - into a meditative and devotional practice itself. The Gītā’s intertextual warp and weft of characters becomes a meditative focus for the yogic sādhaka. In the middle of their dialogue, after covering numerous philosophical topics and yogic practices, Arjuna asks of Kṛṣṇa, 46 “Pray tell me of all your divine ubiquities (vibhūti), by means of which you permeate these worlds. How may I know you, yogin, in my constant meditations? In what various modes of being may I meditate on you, my lord? Tell me again fully of your yoga and your ubiquity, Janārdana, for I am not sated of listening to your Elixir (‘mṛtam)” Arjuna seeks in these “ubiquities” to relish the amṛtam - the “Elixir” in context, but in the word’s literal meaning, that which is “immortal”4. Kṛṣṇa’s response affirms within each character an undying aspect, of which he is the source. He hears the unsated Arjuna, and graciously pours the sweetest mixture, made from the most resplendent characters of Sanskrit literature. The verses which follow use a formulaic structure, the genitive plural and either written or implied asmi in each metrical foot, ‘among the x, I am y’. The earliest identifications among the vibhūti center on retinues of divine beings, their vehicles and weapons, and mythical beasts. Kṛṣṇa yokes together in himself figures from both Vedic and Purāṇic mythology: “Of the Ādityas I am Viṣṇu, of the celestial lights the shining sun, of the Maruts I am Marīci, to the constellations I am the moon … [o]f the Rudras I am Śaṃkara, the God of Riches I am to Yakṣas and Rākṣasas … of marshals Skanda … I am Vāsuki among the Snakes. I am Ananta among the Serpents (nāgānāṃ), Varuṇa among sea creatures, Aryaman �among the Fathers, Yama among those who tame...Garuḍa among birds.” Kṛṣṇa affirms in himself a diverse cast of divine characters. Many of these references are crucial to the historical development of Vaiṣṇavism, notably the theonym Viṣṇu, meaning “all-pervader”, among the children of Aditi. In the same vein, Ananta (also called Śeṣa) among the Nāgas and Garuḍa among the birds both serve as Vedic ‘vehicles’ (vāhana) of Viṣṇu. Equally noteworthy, however, is how references to Śiva are interwoven with them: Śaṃkara being one of the Rudras (a host of Vedic deities which, in later Śaiva reception, are identified as avatars of Śiva), Vāsuki being depicted as a snake around Śiva’s neck, and Skanda being the offspring of Śiva and Pārvati (the story on which Kālidāsa based his Kumārasaṃbhava). Others still have no direct connection to the post-Vedic bhakti movements. The Yakṣas and Yama do make important appearances in the Kena and Katha Upaniṣad, respectively, while a devatā like Aryaman is largely absent in post-Vedic religious developments. Each of these divine references functions metonymically: they connect Kṛṣṇa through with a larger text or body of texts, including a broad range of Vedic hymns, Purāṇic storylines and bhakti-cults outside of his own. Each of these identified characters then transform into a new, meditative focus for the bhakta. The four sages (Nārada and Kapila, Vyāsa and Kavi Uśanas) Kṛṣṇa assumes are each significant characters in their own right, but in vibhūti tie together three important bodies of Sanskrit literature: the Vedas, the Sāṃkhya philosophical school and the Itihāsa (chiefly, Mahābhārata). The latter of these marks the beginning of increasing self-referential attitude to the Gītā by Kṛṣṇa. Uśanas was a Vedic sage, while Nārada features prominently in the Purāṇas. The founding of the Sāṃkhya school is traditionally attributed to Kapila; with this identification Kṛṣṇa retroactively deepens Arjuna’s choice to become his student by bringing him directly into the Sāṃkhya lineage (returning ad fontem). But most significantly, Kṛṣṇa takes on the traditional authorship of the entire Mahābhārata, within which the Gītā is embedded. Through the character of Vyāsa, Kṛṣṇa speaks obliquely to the audience of the Gītā, declaring himself the source even of this very text. Through the characters of these sages, Kṛṣṇa’s intertextual cosmos expands in a similar metonymic manner as was done with divine identifications. He stitches together Vedic metaphysical speculation, the heroic pursuit of dharma in the Mahābhārata, and the unity of metaphysical and practical discourse in Sāṃkhya-Yoga as having one source for their greatness and a single purport. Kṛṣṇa lists three heroic characters (Prahlāda, Vāsudeva and Arjuna) which deepen the self-referential 47 �commentary on the Gītā and further interlace it in an intertextual matrix. Naming Vāsudeva is the most directly self-reflexive moment in the vibhūti, as it is the specific character of Kṛṣṇa in the Mahābhārata. But by declaring himself to be Arjuna, Kṛṣṇa takes on both personae in this (self-)dialogue. But he displays an important contrast to Arjuna with a third character; Prahlāda’s story, told in full by the sage Nārada in the Bhāgavata Purāṇa as well as the Viṣṇu Purāṇa, shows him to be a character marked by natural and authentic bhakti. Despite an onslaught by his asura father, Hiraṇyakaśipu, he always maintains his devotion to Viṣṇu: put to death by Viṣṇu in the form of the man-lion (Narasimha), Prahlāda became the sovereign of the Daityas”. By interweaving Prahlāda into the vibhūti, Kṛṣṇa allows this Purāṇic tale to foil the Gītā. Arjuna, a reluctant warrior who must turn back to his dharma, contrasts strongly from Prahlāda’s status as an unwavering devotee both by nature and in spite of his nature. But between these juxtaposed heroes within the vibhūti, Kṛṣṇa reaffirms himself as cause. The contrast of Arjuna and Prahlāda highlights Kṛṣṇa’s final conclusions in the chapter, that he is the universal essence behind the qualities which make each hero great. “Prahlāda who was the worshiper of the Exalted Being was preeminent amongst [Hiraṇyakaśipu’s sons] by his virtues. … In dangers and calamities, his mind (always) remained unruffled. He cherished no desire for enjoyments, heard (as obtainable in the next world) or seen (in this world), as he regarded them to be unreal. He had controlled his senses, vital airs (the life-breath), body and intellect. He completely controlled his desires and kept his mind calm and serene. Though he was a demon by birth, he was devoid of demonic characteristics. [He] had a natural love and devotion to the glorious Lord Vāsudeva.” Kṛṣṇa’s vibhūti recount a cosmogonic act on two levels. Firstly, with respect to Arjuna’s world, it equivocates in essence (their “transcending power, luster and might”) the Gods of the Vedas and Purāṇas, Sages of various lineages, heroic characters from the Mahābhārata and elsewhere, syllables, the Gayatri meter, and elements of the human person (mind, consciousness) by including among the vibhūti. He reminds Arjuna to “know that each and every one of [the vibhūti] has its source in a particle of my splendor”; ascribes to himself the causal role of their greatness as their “seed”. Everything which is great is an effect of Kṛṣṇa’s own greatness: “I support this entire universe with but a single portion of mine”. Secondly, it creates an intertextual cosmos across diverse genres, by including within the vibhūti the Vedic Samhitas, the After many attempts to kill his virtuous son, this episode concludes with Viṣṇu taking an incarnate form as Narasimha to vanquish the asura-king: “After his father had been 48 �Upaniṣads, the Purāṇas and Itihāsas, and more. Kṛṣṇa links each of these, through the “splendor” or “Elixir” of their respective metonymic characters, in his own person. and as the support the entire literary universe as such. In this textual universe, Kṛṣṇa details ‘characters’ which are not only literary persons, but also elements of the Sanskrit language. These reveal another layer at which Kṛṣṇa has planted the ‘seed’ of his greatness. He states that “I am the a among syllables”, referring to the Devanagari script, wherein each consonant character in fact represents a syllable with an implied a unless otherwise accented (to indicate other vowels). The ubiquitous a vowel links each character within a word, mirroring on the morphological level what occurs at the narrative level. Not only are the divine, sagely and heroic figures rooted in the Kṛṣṇa, but even the words by which their tales are told are composed of Kṛṣṇa. Kṛṣṇa teaches a meditative, practical approach to literature: recognizing and savoring the greatness of a character - literary, linguistic, or otherwise - as having their source in the supreme being. Each character within the infinite vibhūti becomes a new ‘mode of being’ on which the devotee may meditate. Further, these characters each represent a single point of intersection in a vast cosmos of Sanskrit literature. Kṛṣṇa stresses that through this meditation, the bhakta comes to know him as the seed of each characters’ particular greatness 49 �Is Odette Odile? Ambiguity and Inference in Proust’s Names Cynthia Crane One of the blessings of being a St. Johns student, sticking to the text, is also one of the greatest frustrations. This semester, I read Marcel Proust’s Swann’s Way (1913), which is the first volume of his magnum opus, In Search of Lost Time. While the average reader, or even the devoted reader on an average day, lacks the patience to get through Proust on their own, reading the book in preceptorial has been a joy thick with ambiguity, reflection, revelation, and more ambiguity, the “arbitrary joys” of imagination. Since I found myself languishing in free time at the end of the semester--in other words, frustrated with my preceptorial paper and cramped for time--I decided to distract myself / undertake the foolish, and take Proust to the internet. Following his lead in Part 3 of Swann’s Way, “Place-Names: The Name,” where he freestyles about the meanings of names of places, I started to dig into the names of the characters in the book and do a little freestyling of my own. I do not imagine I have made an exhaustive survey, but I can offer you a quick glance into the thick density of Proust’s language. Many references to French history, particularly military history, appear in the names of characters, evoking an embattled and historical context for this story, so social and psycholog50 ical on the surface. In Part One, “Combray,” we meet Leonie. The name Leonie refers to a lion, a diminutive one. The lion was the symbol of England during the One Hundred Years War between England and France (13371453). A gossip and hypochondriac, Leonie is waited on by her servant, the vigorous and small-minded Francoise. The two, named England and France, engage in increasingly petty unending and unresolvable battles. References to the history of England and France, as well as the class conflict embodied in the Leonie-Francoise relationship, continue as the book goes on. We can add Germany and Türkiye to the mix as well, and throw in some cultural references. Charles Swann, the main character of Part 2, “Swann in Love,” is richly named. • Charles is a common name, but one with royalist connotations. From Charlemagne to Charles X to the Ultraroyalist Prince Charles, Count of Artois, the Charles’s make up a substantial number of the kings of France. Through his friendship with the Prince of Wales, Swann is further associated with European royalty. I am put in mind of the idea that in many ways royalty is more loyal to the people than to the landed aristocracy, with whom it is in many ways in competition. The son of a successful financier, Swann is likewise both accepted and rejected by the aristocracy. Are we to believe he is of a new brand of royalty? �• Swann engages his friend, Charlus (same name), in his efforts to spy on his lover, Odette, while the reader broadly understands that Charlus is having an affair with her. Swann considers Charlus an honest man, perhaps the good doppelgänger to Swann’s evil? Or the reverse? • Swann is a bastardization of the German name Schwann, which means “swan.” We can legitimately make the leap from Swann to swan. When I picture a swan I picture an elegant bird floating on the water, “paddling like hell underneath.” This is the picture of Swann, the psychologically tortured urbane sophisticate, moving smoothly through Parisian social circles while worrying constantly about who Odette is sleeping with when they are apart and whether she is lying to him. • Odette cheats on Swann with another woman while at a picnic in the Bois du Boulogne. Odette and the other woman kiss behind a rock at the Île des Cygnes, the Island of the Swans. There is an Île aux Cygnes in the Seine, but no Île des Cygnes in the Bois. Proust moved an island for his convenience to get the swans where he wanted them. • Swann and Odette’s first sexual encounter happens in his carriage as they kiss over the cattleya orchids she has tucked into the bodice of her dress. I don’t want to carry this too far, but I guess I do . . . the cattleya orchid was first bred in Europe by an Englishman named Cattley. The original flowers were sent to him from Brazil by a man named Swainson. Odette de Crécy, Swann’s lover and the subject of his obsession: • In the German folk tale and the Tchaikovsky ballet Swan Lake (first produced in Moscow, 1877), the virginal white swan is named Odette while the conniving black swan is named Odile. I do not know that Swan Lake was performed in Paris during the decade Proust was active there around the turn of the century. I feel sure he knew the story, through the ballet or the folk tale. According to the tale, the royal Prince Siegfried loves Odette. Siegfried is a German name meaning peace-victory. We will see the name Odette is associated with its opposite, violence and loss in battle, implicating that she is innately bad for Swann. Also in the story Odette is enchanted by the evil sorcerer, Baron von Rothbart—Charles Swann’s supposed friend Charlus is also a baron. • Odette is the diminutive of Otto, a name which in two ways evokes the brutality of French wars in the late 19th century as breech-loaded guns replaced cavalry and muzzle-loaded guns. • In the Crimean War (1853-56), France fought alongside Germany and England against Russia and the Otto-man Empire. France suffered terrible losses during the war. Modern Türkiye was the heart of the Ottoman Empire. It appears again as a place Odette cruises to when she leaves Swann to spend a year away from him with his 51 �former friends, then it reappears in the final unhappy dream sequence which leads to the end of his love affair with Odette, embodied by a young man in a fez. • Otto von Bismarck was the chancellor of Prussia then German emperor who defeated France in the Franco-Prussian War of 1870, ending the hegemony of France in Europe as well as ending monarchic rule in France. Proust was born three months after the war ended. Although the Prussians won and the war led to the unification of Germany, they suffered brutal losses at the hands of the superior contemporary French artillery. • Odette’s last name, deCrécy, is derived from a decisive battle in the One Hundred Years War between England and France. At Crécy, or Cressy in English, the English with their long bows soundly defeated the French (1346), who used the older crossbow. Like the battles above, it was a slaughter. Finally: • Forcheville, one of Odette’s other lovers, bears a name invented by Proust. It appears to be Anglicized from the French, fourche, which means pitchfork, as in a tool of the common farmer, while ville means city. A fork is a fourchette. A snake’s forked tongue is la langue fourche. The verb translated “to have a forked tongue,” in English, means to lie, or to deceive, although the connotation of “having” rather than “speaking with” seems to me to be even more damning of the liar. Here’s 52 a bit of trivia that could only have appeared in this day and age: a Google scan of published works shows the French phrase avoir la langue forchue was basically unused between the middle of the 19th and the middle of the 20th centuries. It did have a small blip of usage between 1908 and 1917, when the book was being written. Forcheville and Odette both lie to Swann about their affair. The connections among these words cannot be systematically rationalized. It is enough to know that Odette’s name elicits historical battles based on technological defeats, and those on more than one front. It is enough to know that questions of France’s place on the European stage concerned Proust, as did the morality of the various classes. I am not educated enough to completely decode the many ways Proust uses the names of the characters in Swann’s Way to tell his story, but I get the gist. Sometimes with Proust that is the most you can hope for. After all, le cygne, swan, in French is pronounced the same as le signe, sign. Is Proust invoking the new study of semiotics? Maybe, maybe not. He is at least embracing the ambiguities of modernity. �Swann - Stuart Kenny & Cynthia Crane 53 �Translation The Steppenwolf - Herman Hesse 54 �Contributor Charles Chapin 55 �The Steppenwolf By Herman Hesse Translation by Charles Chapin I found myself again in a circular hallway, excited by the adventure of the hunt. And everywhere, on countless doors, lured inscriptions: ———————————————————————————————— | “Mutabor” | | Metamorphosis into Random Animals and Plants | ———————————————————————————————— ———————————————————————————————— | | | Kamasutram | Instruction in the Indian Art of Love | Beginners’ Course: 42 Different Techniques | for Sexercise | | ———————————————————————————————— ———————————————————————————————— | Delightful Suicide! | | You’ll Laugh Yourself to Death | ———————————————————————————————— ———————————————————————————————— | Want to Sublimate? | | Wisdom of the East | ———————————————————————————————— ———————————————————————————————— | Oh, to Have a Thousand Tongues! | 56 Only for Men | | �57 �———————————————————————————————— ———————————————————————————————— | Downfall of the Occident | | Discounted Price. Still Unbeatable | ———————————————————————————————— ———————————————————————————————— | | Embodiment of Art | The Transformation of Time into Space | through Music | | ———————————————————————————————— ———————————————————————————————— | The Laughing Tear | | Humor Chamber | ———————————————————————————————— ———————————————————————————————— | Hermit Games | | Full-Fledged Substitute for Any Social Interaction | ———————————————————————————————— The row of inscriptions ran endlessly. One hailed: ———————————————————————————————— | Personality Building Tutorial | Success Guaranteed | | ———————————————————————————————— That seemed attention-worthy to me, and I stepped into the doorway. I was welcomed into a dim, silent space, in which a man sat on the floor without a chair, in the Oriental style, something like to a giant chessboard standing before him. He appeared to me, at first glance, to be my friend Pablo, at least he wore a similarly colorful silk jacket and had the same dark, gleaming eyes. 58 �59 �“Are you Pablo?” I asked. “I am no one,” he said warmly. “Here we carry no names, here we are no persons. I am a chess player. Would you like a personality building lesson?” “Yes, please.” “Then please, kindly provide me with a few dozen of your figurines for teaching material.” “My figurines…?” “The personas, into which you’ve seen your so-called personality disintegrate. Without figurines, I simply cannot play.” He held a mirror up to me, and I saw, again, the unity of my person disintegrated into many selves, many “Me”s, their number seeming to have grown even more than before. But the figures were now very small, about the size of handy chess pieces, and the player took, with silent, sure grips of his fingers, about a dozen of them and placed them next to the chessboard on the floor. Monotonously, he spoke on his subject, like a man repeating a frequently given talk or lecture: “You’re familiar with the flawed and doomed notion that a human should be in permanent unity, a permanent unit. You’re also familiar with a human being made up of a host of souls, of many, many egos. To split the ostensible unity of the person into these many figures, separating them from one other, is regarded as mad, that’s why science invented the name schizophrenia for it. Science is, in this respect, correct, as naturally no multiplicity, no plurality, is tamed without leadership, without a certain order and grouping. Science is wrong, however, in believing that only one unique, binding, lifelong order of the sub-ego, the sub-Me, should be possible. This error of science has some unpleasant consequences, its worth lies merely therein, that the state-sanctioned teacher and educator see their work simplified, and that thinking and experimentation are put aside. Because of that mistake, many incurable nutjobs are validated as “normal” and socially desirable, and conversely, many geniuses are viewed as a mad. We are supplementing science’s patchy doctrine of the soul with a concept we call ‘building’. To those who have experienced the disintegration of their ego, we show that, any time, they can put the pieces back together anew, in any given order, and in doing so, that they can achieve infinite variation in the game of life. Just as the poet, with a handful of figures, makes a drama, so do we build, unceasingly, from the figures of our fragmented ego, new groups, with new games and excitements, with ever newer situations. Behold!” 60 �61 �With quiet, clever fingers, he snatched my figurines, all the aged ones, the youths, the children, the women, all the cheerful and sad, strong and tender, nimble and clumsy figures, and arranged them swiftly on his board for a game, where at once they set themselves up into groups, families, for play and battle, for friendships and enmities, forming a small world. Before my enrapt eyes, he let the bustling yet well-ordered little world move a while, playing and fighting, closing alliances and fighting battles, courting one another, marrying, propagating; it was, in fact, a multi-character, moving and exciting drama. Then he swept over the board with a carefree gesture, overturned all the figurines gently, thrust them into a pile and built, thoughtfully, a selective artist, a completely new game out of the same figurines, with completely different groupings, relationships and interdependencies. The second game was related to the first: it was the same world, the same material, from which he had built it, but the key had changed, the tempo altered, the motifs accented differently, the situations posed differently. And so built the clever builder from forms, of which each was a piece of my self, one game after another, all of them distantly similar, all recognizable as belonging to the same world, obligated to the same origin, yet each completely new. “This is the art of living,” he said didactically. “You yourself may, from now on, continue to set up and invigorate the game of your life at will, to entangle and enrich it, it is in your hands. Just as madness, in a higher sense, is the beginning of all wisdom, so is schizophrenia the beginning of all art, all fantasy. Even the erudite have already half-recognized this, as one may glean, for example, from the “Princes’ Magic Horn”, that enchanting book in which the courageous and industrious labor of a scholar is ennobled through the resourceful collaboration with a number of crazy and institutionalized artists. — Here, place your little figures close to you, the game will spark joy often. The figure who, today, has mushroomed into a forbidding bogeyman and spoils your game, tomorrow you will downgrade to a harmless supporting role. The poor little figure who, for a while, seemed condemned to terrible misfortune and bad luck, in the next game you’ll make a princess. I wish you much pleasure, sir.” I bowed deeply and gratefully before this gifted chess player, placed the figurines in my pocket, and ducked back through the narrow doors. I had actually thought that shortly I would sit on the floor in the corridor, and for hours, an eternity, play with the figurines, but I had barely stood back in the bright, round theater aisle when new currents, stronger than I, pulled me out... 62 �63 �Queen Titania - Nadine Bucca 64 �Toasts To the Tutors (Spring 2024) - Michael Connors To the Tutors (Spring 2024) - William Houston Taylor III To the Tutors (Spring 2023)* - Siobhán Petersen 65 �The Johnnie Conversation Michael Connors - Toast to the Tutors (Spring 2024) The Great Books are often described as containing ‘The Great Conversation’ of Western civilisation. Indeed, it has been said that there may be nothing more Western than the ongoing dialogue of ideas. And there is nothing more Johnnie than having that conversation anytime, anywhere, about anything, and in front of anyone. This is ‘the Johnnie Conversation’. If you haven’t found yourself mid bench press discussing state of nature theories with a fellow Johnnie, or if you haven’t done a deep dive on the relationship between truth and beauty within 3 seconds of bumping into a friend at the shops, or if you have done anything other than talk about the Great Books while you have been at St. John’s, you have missed the point. If Johnnie, then existential analysis at the drop of a hat. This is the Johnnie Conversation. It is true that at St. John’s the conversation really does not stop. Over these past two years, I have had the distinct privilege of experiencing this with all the graduating students. Here are some highlights. Sylvie Bernhardt and I recently carried out a thought experiment involving how a contentious argument between Plato and Aristotle might play out, and its philosophical repercussions. A regular in the GI office on school days, Nick Dacosta and I would discuss every topic we were reading each night, then Kashya would pop out and tell us what Nietzsche would say. At the Ramsay house, Dominic Escorpeso and I shared conversations about the impressive oratory style of Cicero. Before class, Stuart Kenny and I discussed the merits of the Kantian ‘moral imperative’ in the GI office. Living with my good friend Yonas Ketsela at the Ramsay house, meant early breakfast breakdowns in the kitchen about, let’s say, every possible aspect of philosophy. In the GI office Jordan Klein and I discussed Hume’s scepticism. Ben Morgan explained to me that everything is political… even the office MM’s. At the ASG, Luise Parrales and I have discussed the ways in which the texts of the Western Canon are in dialogue, and what makes them great. Quinn Rifkin and I would chat at the pub, at the gym, or at social events like Sunday Supper Club, hosted by our good friend Sarah Ritchie. I would explain to Quinn what I was studying, then Quinn would sum up the entire history of that idea perfectly in 20 seconds. He would tell me about Straussianism… but it was over my head… After class Jack Ryan and I would continue to draw diagrams on the chalkboard, in an attempt to map out Aristotle’s virtue. At mealtimes fellow Aussie Luca Sudjovic and I would discuss every single topic we were studying. And lucky last, who could forget my main man, Houston Taylor? Houston and I achieved 66 �something intellectually noteworthy. We discussed every topic imaginable, while at the same time, managing to relate every single idea to either Plato’s Timaeus, or Chattanooga, Tennessee. In all seriousness, we do owe a debt to Houston for his work in the bookstore. Every time I went there to buy a book, I hoped Houston was there to help me get the right one…and to explain the whole book to me. I’m sure everyone in the GI has had similar Johnnie Conversations with these graduating students, and been enriched by them, as I have. Since beginning my studies at St. John’s, I have spent much time researching the benefits of a liberal education. And I think there is one main takeaway that should ring true for us all, an overarching purpose of a liberal education. This purpose was once articulated perfectly to me, by Mr. Petrich who said, ‘Well Mr. Connors, I think it makes us more human’. I think this is true of my experience, I have certainly connected more with humanity by reading the Great Books. But when I graduate St. John’s, I will also be a bit more human for having known you all, for sharing in the great Johnnie conversations, and from the enriching friendships created in the Graduate Institute. To my fellow graduating Johnnies, it has been a highlight of my life to undertake this education with you. I wish you all the very best for the future, and I know that wherever life takes you, you will continue to enrich the lives of others, as you have done in this community. May your future conversations be as great as those we enjoyed together at St. John’s. Now to some thank-yous. I’d like to take this opportunity to recognise the relationship between the Graduate Institute and The Ramsay Centre back in Australia. The Australians in the GI are all generously sponsored by the Ramsay Centre for Western Civilisation, and without that support we would not be here. On behalf of the Ramsay Scholars, I’d like to acknowledge the Ramsay Centre and thank them for their support. I’d also like to acknowledge our dean Mr. Brendan Boyle, and our former Dean Ms. Emily Langston, who have not only worked hard to strengthen the Ramsay-St. John’s relationship, but who have assisted the whole graduating cohort in many ways over the course of our studies. Ms. Langston and Mr. Boyle, thank you for your ceaseless positivity and enthusiasm for the mission of liberal education at St. John’s, the generosity and guidance you have given each of us individually, and your commitment to fostering a culture of collaboration and friendship in the Graduate Institute. We must also acknowledge Ms. Kashya Boretsky, who works behind the scenes 67 �to make sure the GI runs like clockwork. The level of energy and enthusiasm that Kashya brings to her work, and to discussing the Great Books, is infectious. She is also ninja-level at Johnnie Conversations. Kashya, all the graduating students have benefited from your administrative help throughout our education, and all been touched by your friendship. Thank you. Finally, I’d like to recognise those great stewards of the seminar, our masterful tutors, who have led us through these great ideas, and who make our intellectual journey possible. Tutors, the enrichment, wonder, and joy we have experienced from the Great Books would not have been possible without your guidance and friendship. You have encouraged us to think deeply, to strive for understanding of the great ideas, and to clarify our opinions. On behalf of the graduating students, a toast to the tutors: Thank you for your patience, your wisdom, your good humour, and for your friendship. Thank you for your guidance, for helping us to be more human, and for encouraging our Johnnie Conversations. To the Tutors. 68 �Lead and I Will Follow William Houston Taylor III - Toast to the Tutors (Spring 2024) In Gretel Ehrlich’s book The Solace of Open Spaces, she tells the story of a rancher friend living in Wyoming. He’s an eccentric and recluse. He works as a farm hand while his labor is in season. When it’s not, the man, she says, holes himself up in a little shack on a vast plot of land and plunges himself into total isolation. Ehrlich sentimentalizes this a bit. In one beautiful passage she compares the farm hand to the Zen monk Dōgen. Since she herself moved to Wyoming following the early, sudden, and cancerous death of her fiancé only a few years prior to writing, she is sympathetic to the man’s existential despair because she feels it, too—as all human beings do, from time to time. I love this story because I’ve also been known to be eccentric and reclusive, prone to nutty beliefs, and quick to anger. I once moved all the way not to Wyoming but to Japan—the home of Dōgen himself—looking for the kind of solace that Ehrlich describes as I too am a human being—and I sometimes act like it, from time to time. I moved to St. John’s College two years ago, not ever having been to Annapolis, curious about these great books, but expecting just a little bit of isolation and a little bit of solace. Instead, for two years now, time has stopped. Despite Annapolis’ geography, I’ve found perhaps the most spiritually open and generous place left on the planet. During my first tutorial, while reading Hamlet, Mr. Petrich instructed us to consider in the first scene why Bernardo, who has just entered the scene, should be concerned with identifying Francisco, who is already at the guard post. After all, it would make more sense for the guard on duty to be doing the guarding. But Bernardo is wary of the ghost. This, a perfect example of the power of close reading, opened up the text in a bright, new way for me. It showed that from the first, mundane lines, Shakespeare sets the dark tone of Hamlet. After all, the Danes are at war. The state of war requires constant, acute diligence. There’s no guarantee that anyone will find what just he expects around the next corner. As with the state of war, so with the text. From Hamlet to the Republic, from Chaucer to Rousseau, close reading has prompted text after text to bloom in its significance for me. The entire world of literature, philosophy, science, and politics has become much more open and thereby much more satisfy- 69 �ing, exciting, and sometimes even consoling. But even more significantly, my experience at St. John’s has taught me—and, in particular, Ms. Axelrod has been fond of reminding me—that philosophy need not be a solitary, nasty, brutish, or isolating endeavor. In fact, as I myself have been known to point out, Socratic philosophy seems very much to be about hanging out and killing time with one’s friends. So, we thank you all, our tutors, for modelling this behavior in the noblest way one can. I’d like to thank the tutors I have not yet mentioned. Ms. Benson and Mr. Goldberg, for showing me—like Mr. Petrich—that when one cedes pride of place to the text, that close reading—reading between the lines, so to speak—pays back dividends. I want to thank some others, in particular, for simply putting up with me—especially Mr. Goldsmith, Ms. Paalman, Ms. Silver, and Mr. Crockett—because they’ve taught me that the greatest intellectual rewards are not necessarily to be found waging dubious intellectual battles—being eristic as Socrates calls it in the Meno—but are much more often found when showing up to seminar ready to hang out with one’s friends—to be a bit more dialectic. Even though this is a toast to our tutors, I’d like also to thank my peers—each and everyone of you—for being those very friends, as well as Kashya Boretsky, Ms. Langston, and Mr. Boyle for their work in helping to build a place like the St. John’s College Graduate Institute, where philosophic that very friendship is so carefully fostered. So, without further ado, I propose a toast to our St. John’s tutors; as Glaucon says to Socrates: “Lead, and I will follow.” 70 �In the Doing Siobhán Petersen - Toast to the Tutors (Spring 2023) *Ms. Petersen’s toast was unfortunately omitted from the Spring 2023 issue of Colloquy, our sincerest apologies. One thing I’ve realized is I can only say something of real importance when I speak personally, so if you’ll please indulge me, I’ll just speak for myself here. Insofar as there’s a meaning to life, it seems I’m only going to find it in the doing. Being the sort of kid I was – that is to say, someone who would fall in with the Johnnie crowd – I very early found myself lost in an existential haze. Who am I, what are we doing here? You know, normal kid stuff. I could never shake this feeling that we’re just here. Meaningful answers did not seem forthcoming. I remember this moment last semester, as I’m doing my little pre-class ritual – refilling my water, getting coffee and the like – when I suddenly stop, and I realize I’d found it; this all felt meaningful to me. Getting a glimpse of Capital-M “Meaning” is kinda blink-and-you-miss-it – you go to seminar, you get wrapped up in the next reading; the day to day, moment to moment; constantly bouncing around new and exciting conversations. Yet, that moment; it’s like the clouds breaking, and realizing you’re standing in the sun. Suddenly you realize it’s been a beautiful day for a while now; perhaps it was the whole time. And even if the clouds close back in as you rejoin the hustle, maybe we can keep in mind we know the sun is back there, because we’ve felt its warmth. Meaning, then, isn’t an articulable experience because it’s not an intellectual experience. If that’s indeed the case, it’s a peculiar thing to note, given what it is we do here all day every day Rather it seems meaning comes from a pattern of fulfilling actions. You can’t guarantee it’ll be “for anything,” you don’t know if it really “means anything;” but if feels good now, it feels right now; it’s important, now. And that’s probably easier said than done. But, I’ve found that set of actions through exploring important things with interested people. Sharing in our own canon, but then more importantly our collective library of reflections on them; knowing that I am among like minds who are looking for something, 71 �and who are willing to collaborate to find it. I don’t think a life can’t just be meaningful, but perhaps it can continually become meaningful. Perhaps it must. I can’t promise we’ll arrive at that fulfillment, because there is nowhere to arrive. The spirit, if you like the term, perhaps always wants a project; I can think of no project grander than ardently, bravely trying on every available lens to attempt to glimpse something true. Even when you’re not sure it’s there. Especially when you’re not sure it’s there. In dialogue we all get to try each other’s lenses too; and for that I’m thankful to our learning community. Over time you collect a lot of lenses, and I am certainly not quite ready to let that go. How could you be?But this brings us to the tutors... I have to imagine our tutors are just like us; earnestly searching for something when they join us in seminar. I also have to imagine these kinds of questions only get harder to resolve over time, not easier. Honestly engaging with an idea requires a special kind of uncertainty, accepting that no matter what’s in front of you, you might still have something you need to learn from it. For me, the problem has only compounded the more things I’ve had in front of me - I’ve never felt more uncertain in my life than I do right now. If that’s so, it must take incredible patience to sit at the table and let us struggle through it, to master uncertainty so it doesn’t rob anyone else of theirs. I must then – I’d like to say “conclude,” but I’ll instead say speculate – that the fulfillment I’ve glimpsed must be the source of some repose, and hope for each of them that they’ve found enough of it here, in the doing, with us. That they too have found genuine meaning in this project. Our tutors perpetually display a flexibility of mind, a patience of contribution, and an attentiveness to the unstated, all in service of profound enthusiasm for seeing us perform that pattern of action. I’ve never felt more intellectually lost than right now. But I’ve never felt better equipped than now to wander, either. And so for that, I’ll ask us all to raise a glass to the tutors of St. John’s. Thank you all so sincerely for becoming at the table with us. And, I’d like to particularly thank our outgoing Associate Dean, Ms. Langston, who’s meant so much to the GI and who’s been unfailingly generous with her time, her thoughts, and her mentorship; and to whom I never managed to turn in a tutorial paper that wasn’t the length of a precept. Cheers, to the tutors of St. John’s! 72 �Path Through Reeds - Nadine Bucca 73 �Year in Review By Stephen Borsum �Year in Review: Growing & Flourishing It is with a gentle look back that we all prepare for a bold step forward. And in turning back to see this academic year as a whole, rather than living and experiencing its multitude of parts, we could perhaps venture to pinpoint some small number of the various exceptional moments that have made up this year for the St. John’s College Graduate Institute. First, in recognizing a banner year for the GI’s growth, it’s worth giving thanks to the faculty and staff who work so hard to make the experience enriching for the students, and to build it up to be a sustainable and effective agent of change in the lives of students yet to come. In particular, we pause now to give thanks both to Associate Dean Brendan Boyle, for his tireless efforts of advancing the GI within the community and beyond, and his daily work to ensure the wellbeing of the students and GI community in general—always seen to be of paramount importance; and also Kashya Boretsky, whose behind-the-scenes efforts, to the perception of the student body, keep the GI operating seamlessly—not to mention she is always ready to engage anyone, literally anyone, in a conversation about language or Nietzsche. And now we come to a question about the Graduate Institute, one I think Colloquy can help answer in small part: What are we here for, beyond simply trying to seek, with some clarity, the higher things? Furthermore, if we’ve all digested the proper amount of Aristotelian nutrition: If we are forming bonds of fellowship with others attuned to the same search, are the various friends we make nothing less than true friends? This year we saw the flourishing of community, with Sarah Ritchie’s Sunday Supper Clubs becoming a regular event beloved by many in Annapolis. We immersed ourselves in music, either through trips to the National Symphony in DC, or Mr. Crockett’s music preceptorial. There were the highs of seeing our dear friends graduate, preparing to take yet another momentous step in their lives, and the lows of seeing those same friends leave us to take such a step. We engaged with the question of the soul’s salvation and eternal love with Dante, the beauty of verse with Proust, the structure of the Universe with Galileo, and questioned how best to structure society with Hobbes, Aristotle, and Rousseau. There were also bonds formed by pursuing the Johnnie Project with texts outside the program: like the works of Mishima, or the catalog of Mr. Boyle’s reading group texts. I recognize I have missed many, many moments, big and small, in this note. In a way, that’s the point. As we are constistenly becoming more whole as people, truly capturing every moment of growth in our character is impossible. But the end result, who we have become and are today, is evident. Stephen Borsum - Editor 75 �76 �77 �Thank you to all our contributors 78 Austin Suggs Oblivion Stacey Rains Sorrow Martha Franks Reading Nadine Bucca Enkidu’s Dwelling Cynthia Crane Lady Sagredo Stephen Borsum The Mode of Pi Melissa Hicinbothem I Am. Working? Johnathan Wright A Bug’s Life Jay Gold Karña in the Round Kelly Kwon The Ultimate Desire of Le Misenthrope Gus Kraus Intertextuality and the Elixer of Character Cynthia Crane Is Odette Odile? Charles Chapin The Steppenwolf (Herman Hesse) Michael Connors The Johnnie Conversation William Taylor Lead and I Will Follow Siobhán Petersen In the Doing Nadine Bucca Visual Art Paul Harland-White Visual Art Stuart Kenny Visual Art Cynthia Crane Visual Art �COLLOQUY St. John’s College, 60 College Avenue, Annapolis, Maryland Volume 14: Spring 2024 Editor Stephen Borsum Editorial board: Paul Harland-White, Nadine Bucca, Kyle Reynolds, Cynthia Crane, Sylvie Bernhardt, Stu Williams With thanks to: Kashya Boretsky, Associate Dean Brendan Boyle, and the Graduate Student Council And welcome to the new Editor-in-Chief of Colloquy for the 2024-2025 academic year: Nadine Bucca! ..... Colloquy is a biannual publication of the Graduate Student Council and St. John’s College in Annapolis, Maryland. The journal is free of charge. Address correspondence to Colloquy, The Graduate Institute at St. John’s College, 60 College Avenue, Annapolis, Maryland, 21401. Or email to colloquy@sjc.edu. Students, tutors, and alumni of St. John’s College and the Graduate Institute are encouraged to submit their manuscripts in PDF or Word format by email to colloquy@sjc.edu . The journal also accepts submissions of poetry, original art, and photography. Please include your name, contact information, and the title of your work with your submission. Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in the journal do not necessarily reflect those St. John’s College, the Graduate Council, or Colloquy. 79 �80 � 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 Colloquy Description An account of the resource A student-run journal for the Graduate Institute community of St. John's College in Annapolis, Maryland. The issues feature essays, art, poetry, interviews, and more. 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 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 pdf Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 79 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 Colloquy, Spring 2024 Description An account of the resource Volume 14 of Colloquy, published in Spring 2024. The theme of the issue is On Character. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Borsum, Stephen (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 2024 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 Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived English Subject The topic of the resource St. John's College (Annapolis, Md.)--Periodicals Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Colloquy_Spring2024 Graduate Institute https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/6c2d15d5e0b17c58bc1ee854df23780a.pdf ebe6eebcf1354597b636fc2f6781c73c PDF Text Text COLLOQUY �Cover: Strife - Sylvie Bernhardt �Colloquy Issue 16 Spring 2025 On Becoming Editor-in-Chief: Kees Bucca Editorial Board: Lola Bondar Stephen Borsum Cynthia Crane Amelia Taylor Wolfe Gus Kraus Stafford Wood Associate Dean for Graduate Programs: Brendan Boyle Assistant Director for Graduate Student Services: Kashya Boretsky Colloquy The Graduate Institute at St. John’s College 60 College Avenue Annapolis, Maryland 21401 colloquy@sjc.edu �Letter from the Editor �Contents �Poetry Melted Candles I - Amelia Taylor Wolfe oil on canvas-paper 9”x12” 6 �Growing Pains Alexander Simmons Eli, Eli, lama sabachtani? – Matthew 27:46 Spring is a Passion: flowers fracture frost and new life breaks the black earth. Frantic, frenetic, a flinging-forth— boiling clouds out of a clear blue sky, winter’s tabernacle rent by the pouring-out of summer. Stones rolled aside teem with life. Seeds spring forth in their tender glory, shoots set upon gnarled churning roots below craving, searching, desperate for one lone sunbeam. But perhaps the Passion is only a mirage; a shimmering haze above a white-hot desert. A promised renewal scorched in the harsh bright of summer’s sun. And yet, for now, in the tenuous wavering of wild mustard in the breeze and the trickling stream of rainwater rolling down my scalp Hope abides. 7 �Game Theory Aaron Knight Even a minotaur couldn’t make heads or tails of this, Although making sense wouldn’t be too much fuss— It’s what you do with the sense you’ve made: Where it goes, who gets paid. This is the future after all, No one wants mazes—too foreign, too old— Icy alabaster or lacerating stone. The way out’s always through fear, Over cowardice and shame. I know at least that much for sure So why bother with the game? 8 �The Fern László Boesze Springtime. Barren ground. Tiny fern pokes through the soil. Unfurls. Meets the world. - Aaron Knight 9 �My Muse László Boesze I know she exists. When periodically she visits I feel her presence: The air is cleaner, The sky is bluer, The sunshine is more pleasant, The flowers are more fragrant, And I become more sensitive To nature’s many Sounds, Fragrances, The slightest puff of air. I revel in that! I become a different self! If only I could tell Which fragrance and movement of air Is hers… 10 �I thought I had, in thought, imagined love Paul Harland-White I thought I had, in thought, imagined love; There, born of booming thinking - a new couple. I had, hadn’t I? They were made, loving, Lovers summoned, cast in a reader’s whim. I read, guiding a heart’s tale through the dark; I set them t’ward their fated nuptials. I substantiated their dream, part by part; I had loved then, hadn’t I? In thought, they swim. Imprints, static, merely mirrors of mine. Gone in fogy thought, if past tense arrives If love it’s to be, it must survive time. Not loose, losing memory of gesture. Slept, held soft, crumpled in Love and borne in text. Pool-less reflections remembered as rhymes. 11 �The Owl George Kalandadze The hooting owl ne’er scared me, midst the blackness of sylvan night. But so more she had prepared me, veiled lore in sands of time foreseen. -- Eyes of amber immured in light. Wind -- her confidant, in hushed tone, my notice happened to ensnare. She resembled all, yet no one, branches bending, beneath her lun. Yet, misplaced, I wandered still, there. Her head, a cosmic carousel, an omnipotent balance wheel. Each hoot, an echoed hoary bell. Mistral’s replies through bluebells swell, Night hummed, a beehive, -- surreal. That instant, yonder on the limb, sat other owl, ready to speak. The wind, now sacred seraphim, my equal in ancestral dream. In silence, we beheld mystique. 12 �My War Aaron Knight I manage the peace for the Council of War. No, nothing shocks my conscience anymore: A million moldy stacks of hundred-dollar bills, High-minded standards tortured and killed, Daily injections with extracts of pain— I’ve seen it all but I’m not ashamed. All the explosions were just a puppet with a hat Learning to tap dance in the upstairs flat. Medics delivered a magic elixir (Everyone was dying at the time), Still peeking under the covers of fiction, They kept insisting everything was fine. (Neighbors asking questions About trash that festers While just down the road They’re burning the gold.) Maybe now I’m too weak to fight the system. So they’ll come to me; I won’t go to them. My counsel is always to bide your sweet time, Let God the be the one to hear all the crying. Our values are peaceful, our missions are just, We’re a people of love who enforce total trust. 13 �Theater - Aaron Knight 14 �What to Do if You Mixed Up the Clefs George Kalandadze I cried. My mother forced me to go. Music school final exam. I sat on the stairs, face wet, stomachache. The bus driver smoked cigarettes the whole way to the school. I was thinking about the blank canvas in my room, what will it come to be when the time comes? I pictured birds, and cattle, and a blue pond in the middle of a mountainous valley – What will it come to be when the time comes? I was performing three pieces: Chopin’s Mazurka in A minor, Op. 68 No. 2; Mendelssohn’s Song without Words, Op. 19 No. 1; Haydn’s Allegro moderato: 1st movement from Sonata in B minor, Hob. XVI:32. Everybody was there, I didn’t notice any grown-ups only that blonde girl two grades above me, who I never had enough courage to talk to – She was there, everybody was there. I sat down; my book turned to page 37, Mazurka. I begin. Apart from size, the tusks are the parts that give an elephant the look of prehistoric might and power. Yet when my fingers fell on them with a barrage of staccatos, I did not feel any power. I could only wish for an elephant to stampede into the room and take back what was taken from him. From me. Eyes wet. Again. As I was crawling through the final bars of Mazurka somebody in the audience coughed. I coughed up the final half rest. Page 12. Mendelssohn. I knew I had mixed up the clefs. Treble in my left, Bass in my right. I knew it halfway through Mazurka. Music made no sense. I kept going. Scratching my fingernails through the window of music. Hardly music. Noise. Mendelssohn sounded like an elephant when poachers cut its tusks. I did not stop. When I wrapped up, nobody clapped. What do you do if you mix up the clefs? I just kept going – My father died. 15 �The Constant State of Becoming László Boesze I am the result of two becoming one, Yet go back to the beginning of time When from nothing a universe sprang In which I have been at various stages Of “being” and of “becoming”. All that time I have faced the mystery Of life and death and being and becoming. I have been a part of this universe, Whose parts are constantly in motion And at various stages of becoming. Galaxies rotate toward their center Where their black-hole-maw sucks them to their death. They ingest themselves until their meal --They themselves chewed up, tightly compressed --Explodes And particles, dust and gases Fill the space of their former selves To then slowly form stars and solar systems anew That arrange themselves into new galaxies. Constant change, constant becoming, constant motion…. There is no graveyard of the stars, But there is “Birth”, “Life”, “Death”, and “Rebirth”. In this eternal cycle all parts are reassembled anew For nothing gets lost in the universe And nothing exists suspended idly in some corner. This “process of becoming” the ancient Greeks Summed up as --- the “Phoenix”. 16 �Being part of “ALL”, I fall under its law. Being a composite of body and soul, I accept the temporality of my physical self But agonize over the future of my incorporeal soul During my constant state of becoming. NOTE: The celebration of the Spring Equinox --- Easter --- is an excellent example of “becoming” and the concept of “rebirth”. Christianity superimposed its values on the earlier pagan, nature-based celebration of “rebirth”. Bogota Jardin - Aaron Knight 17 �How to Be a Dog George Kalandadze Wag your tail, so hard your body shakes. Chase the ball around until you ache. Let your tongue, flop, in the air. Don’t forget to drool, all over the armchair. Try to break a record, shedding fur. Roll in mud or puddles, whichever you prefer. Chase all the squirrels, until you are lost. Avoid the bathtub, at all costs. Bark loud, don’t hide your voice, at dusk or dawn, the choice is yours. Go through the laundry, make sure it’s clean, and steal a sock or two, unseen. Do tricks for treats and tasty eats. Mark all the tires in the streets. Jump into lakes and dive for rocks, from beaches, bridges, and old docks. But most importantly, be loyal, and treat your owner as the royal. And if you follow this “how to”, you might get lucky, on a barbecue. 18 �Dialogue & Translation Rotting Apples with Bottle and Candles - Amelia Taylor Wolfe oil on canvas-paper 12”x16” 19 �A Dialogue Concerning the Sun’s Nature Stephen Borsum 20 �21 �22 �De Rerum Natura Lucretius Artwork and Passage Selections by Sylvie Bernhardt translations by Anita Kent 1. Harmony - Venus’ Becoming Book 1, lines 21-23 Quae quoniam rerum naturam sola gubernas nec sine te quicquam dias in luminis oras exoritur neque fit laetum neque amabile quicquam… Since then you alone steer the nature of things, and since without you, nothing arises into the bright boundaries of light, nothing is made glad nor lovely… 2. Perspective Book 2, lines 331-332 et tamen est quidam locus altis montibus unde stare videntur et in campis consistere fulgor. And yet, there is a certain place in the high mountains from which they seem to stand still, and in the plains a brightness is at rest. 3. Strife - Plague of Athens Book 6, lines 1250-1251 nec poterat quisquam reperiri, quem neque morbus nec mors nec luctus temptaret tempore tali. Nor is anyone able to be found, whom neither disease nor death nor mourning has tested at such a time. 23 �Harmony - Venus’ Becoming Since then you alone steer the nature of things, and since without you, nothing arises into the bright boundaries of light, nothing is made glad nor lovely… 24 �Perspective And yet, there is a certain place in the high mountains from which they seem to stand still, and in the plains a brightness is at rest. 25 �Essays & Interviews Melted Candles II - Amelia Taylor Wolfe oil on canvas-paper 9”x12” 26 �Right in the Heart The Dialectic Motion of Mencius and Kao Tzu Charles Edward Chapin 27 �28 �29 �30 �31 �32 �33 �34 �35 �- Paul Harland-White 36 �The Story and the Slow Swoon of the Soul Genevieve Fowler 37 �38 �39 �40 �Rain in Washington D.C. - David Cherian 41 �The Dimensions of Knowing Why we act against our best interests Lola Bondar 42 �43 �44 �45 �46 �47 �Rotting Apples I - Amelia Taylor Wolfe oil on canvas-paper 9”x12” Rotting Apples II - Amelia Taylor Wolfe oil on canvas-paper 9”x12” 48 �Fear and Coercion in Leviathan Strangely enduring, strikingly true Lola Bondar 49 �50 �51 �52 �53 �Twist and Flame - Kees Bucca 54 �A Theological Reflection on Becoming Stephen Cunha 55 �56 �57 �58 �McDowell Hall - David Cherian 59 �Meet the Student: Mr Hassan Boulares Shirley Quo 60 �61 �Turtles - Kees Bucca �Thanks to Our Contributors Aaron Knight Santa Fe '27 Low-Res Amelia Taylor Wolfe Annapolis ‘26 In-Person George Kalandadze Annapolis '26 In-Person Charles Edward Chapin Santa Fe '26 Low-Res Shirley Quo Annapolis '25 In-Person Alex Simmons Annapolis '25 In-Person Genevieve Fowler Annapolis '25 Low-Res Lola Bondar Annapolis ‘25 Low-Res Stephen Cunha Annapolis '25 Low-Res Paul Harland-White Annapolis ‘24 In-Person Laszlo J. Boesze Annapolis In-Person Sylvie Berhardt Annapolis In-Person Anita Kent Annapolis ‘26 In-Person Stephen Borsum Annapolis ‘25 In-Person David Cherian Annapolis ‘26 In-Person Colloquy is an academic journal and biannual publication of the Graduate Student Council and St. John’s College in Annapolis, Maryland, featuring the works of students, tutors, and alumni of the St. John’s Graduate Institute. The journal is free of charge for members of the St. John's community. To contribute to Colloquy to ensure its availability into the future, please reach out to the Graduate Institute office at kashya.boretsky@sjc.edu, the Colloquy Editorial Board at colloquy@sjc.edu, or visit https://www.sjc.edu/giving/how-to-give. The views and opinions expressed in the journal do not necessarily reflect those of St. John’s College, the Graduate Student Council, or Colloquy. Printed with Cardo font �Colloquy Issue XVI SPRING 2025 Nec poterat quisquam reperiri, quem neque morbus nec mors nec luctus temptaret tempore tali. � 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 Colloquy Description An account of the resource A student-run journal for the Graduate Institute community of St. John's College in Annapolis, Maryland. The issues feature essays, art, poetry, interviews, and more. 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 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 pdf Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 64 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 Colloquy, Spring 2025 Description An account of the resource Volume 16 of Colloquy, published in Spring 2025. The theme of the issue is On Becoming. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Bucca, Kees (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 2025 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 Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived English Subject The topic of the resource St. John's College (Annapolis, Md.)--Periodicals Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Colloquy_Spring2025 Graduate Institute https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/6b1d1ff7fbd5280f7b407e6b8f7a56fa.pdf fc2bf17325b13a143423eb2a471908a1 PDF Text Text Colloquy 1 �2 Poems 2 On Seeing 6 Translations 22 Essays 32 Interviews 62 Memoria 76 �Let ter from the Editors This edition of Colloquy is dedicated to Ms. Langston for her dedication to the Graduate Institute. We would like to thank: the Graduate Student Council for the funds to make this edition of Colloquy possible; Kashya Boretsky and Ms. Langston for their continued belief in our publication as an indispensable ex tension of the G.I. community; Ms. Kraus for her lofty vision and wise counsel as our editorial advisor; and all those who submit ted. We welcome the new associate dean Mr. Boyle, and Colloquy’s new Editor-in-Chief Stephen Borsum, and wish them well. Farewell, Abdullah Wadood and Jesse Claget t Editors, Spring 2023 1 �The editors regret misprinting Ms. Moore’s The Romantics in the Fall 2022 issue. We apologize to Ms. Moore for the error. The Romantics Melissa Moore Ten-thousand daffodils along the margin of a bay would in my time have all ceased to decay, and Daisies become a worthier flower to adorn an epitaph desiring that we mourn; for if my Words have any worth at all then perchance they would outlast us all. But times being as they are, I think I’ll write only for myself, and no distant reader’s delight. No modern master Taylor could possibly hope to weave prettier patterns of discarded themes, nor any serious painter withstand not being privy to such a place as Kubla Khan decreed. It was a painted poem, upon a painted canvas that first set in motion things outlandish and though it was quite beautiful and refined, in the end it took a lifetime to wash away the brine. Though the crystal chill overcomes the burly winter birch —coats with downy flake limbs where songbirds perch— though all this world should be condemned to fire and to ice, I doubt that either Burns or Frost suffice. Beware, young friends: Tam O Shanter’s good mare’s advice, a red red rose with thorns, ensnares, for she is long gone, and yet here you stand for all the world a much luckier man. The past is filled with beauty – this truth no one will deny – and the future appears stark before the nostalgic eye, but words do not belong to those who say them best and life spent lost in memory is life best laid to rest. Though in this race the many may surpass me and though their words through many ages may outlast me, I’d rather turn my words to wind during the run than become Swift only to be called Donne. 2 �Song for My Son Kelly Custer Pushing your bassinet Over the colors of autumn, To the hum of the river And the rattling shrieks Of passing trains, Our song is Peripatetic. There, In your wide-eyed babbling And gentle coo, Speaks a word Swaddled within a word That commands my soul; For in it, your own calls out to me. Always, We return to the sitting room Where you stare up at the ceiling, Sorting light and shadow, Forgetting and recollecting, And I descend into your infancy, Knowing that what remains of my life Is devoted to that music of guiding you Up that dimly lit road of manhood. It too will pass, That as a man, You will descend to my bed of old age, Watching me sorting light and shadow On the screen of memory, Forgetting and recollecting. And you will know the music to make To guide me to that eternal light In which the song of father and son Abides. 3 �Love Lesson #2 Louis Petrich I don’t. Hold me against you? No. How could I?- grateful sooner this way to show off true than bend that way like men likewise to you- they try . . . and dare turns my head, too-this cureless weathercock! If suff’ring things conjunctively means less of me, more shining you should burn like sun (whom some do brave while others block) you could ask me (of skin not feared) to ply the screen directly to my heart, which lonely lunged unribbed and sucked for life your airs-so fool-proof cast I’d fake blood rarefy, head duck eyes pool in hiding shades submitting bidden black to steep in past my shame. If only good first light could clear my head looked up and satisfied-horizon lush on fire to burning heights would staff gypped hands with here I am!— no pitied anxious down-turned swipes 4 �where you’ve tumbled men to stand ‘em, where men tender women ‘till churned. How darling quips me-no things but words abuse me—O, you owe me red pledged avid lips that will so press to plumb part dumb partaken yes— apps nosing come, eclipse lips’ quest-pent pleas but singe, to suture wounds-amor fati-egged edging doom. Blood errs feet first. Throat thirsting moans rude proof of writ unauthored: moon’s. Shook spear’s clapped love spoons picklock tongue long lied true spoked round wicked depths. 5 �On Seeing 6 �On Seeing My Own Face Disappear Jeffrey Boatwright There is an extraordinary moment in Roland Barthes’ Camera Lucida; he’s struck with the recent grief of losing his mother. He sits alone looking through photographs. The photographs, at first, seem to fail him. He says as he begins to look, “I recognized her differentially, not essentially. Photography thereby compelled me to perform a painful labor; straining toward the essence of her identity, I was struggling among images partially true, and therefore totally false. To say, confronted with a certain, ‘That’s almost the way she was!’”. There is one photo, however, - a photo Barthes is too dignified to reproduce in his book – in which this pain almost falls away. He writes, “There I was, alone in the apartment where she had died, looking at these pictures of my mother, one by one, under the lamp, gradually moving back in time with her, looking for the truth of the face I had loved. And I found it”. Barthes is luckier than many of us. I can make no claim to having such an experience as Barthes’. Photographs have almost exclusively revealed nothing to me, and left me with a feeling of disgust. However, I recently, much to my own shock, had significant interaction with a certain photograph. It’s more accurate to say “I remember” a specific photograph that has become significant. I don’t have the photograph in front of me, nor do I possess it in any way. I couldn’t even say where the photo is at this point in time, or in whose possession. However, thinking about this photograph – last seen now more than a year ago – I’ve been able to begin to disentangle the trouble this photograph has been causing me. To give the basic “content” of the photograph (a word I use with distaste), it’s a photo of my father, grandfather, and grandmother at my parent’s wedding. My father is in the middle, in a kind of tux, or at least a coat with a tail. This coat tail extending from his back to somewhere around his knees makes my father look oddly short: short legs, small torso, large head. My family may be on the shorter side, but this photo makes my father look proportioned in a way he never has been. My grandfather – now gone over twenty years at the moment of writing – stands to my father’s right, the left side of the photograph. He stands a bit taller than my father, by no great measure, however, and a bit rounder. A curious gap in my memory of this photograph is my grandfather’s facial hair. I can easily remember (a word chosen quite deliberately) him both clean shaven and with a small greyish beard. Here my memory seems to be at play, showing me my grandfather as I most immediately recognize him, clean shaven, rather than as he most certainly would have been that day, bearded. My grandmother stands to the left of my father, even with the help of her shoes she remains the shortest of the three. She has a smile on her face that’s as honest as you’ll ever see. A day she always wanted to see was happening. There’s enough joy on her face to make anyone jealous. There’s another curious facet of this photo that remains mysterious to me. The photo seems to be taken by someone other than a professional wedding photographer. The three of them stand off-center, and their gazes seem to be not quite directed at the lens of this camera. It’s almost as if they were caught between two photos being taken simultaneously. They’re standing in such a way that seems all the more strange as I think about this photo. The three of them are standing in a line, but at an angle from the camera lens. My grandmother closest to the lens, my grandfather being the furthest away, and my father caught in between. My grandfather is almost fading into the background, nearly at the risk of becoming lost. His grasp of my father’s shoulder being the only thing keeping him visible, keeping him there, which is now, to say, in my memory. There’s a sense of fight in his stance and grasp. He’s fighting to remain an object of sight, someone to remember. This stands out to me as a distinct quality of the man, and this photo, but I cannot say that I have seen him “essentially” as Barthes says, still only “differentially.” The shock I experienced from this photograph has nothing to do with the joy on my grandmother’s face or the fight in my grandfather’s stance, however. It was as I was simply glancing over the photograph, perhaps wondering if I’d ever seen it before, the photo being taken a few years before I was born, when I saw something unexpected, perhaps even unwanted. When Barthes was looking through those old photos of his mother, he suddenly came across this photo from her childhood and was struck in an instant with a realization: “there she is!” He saw her, his mother’s face as he knew it, as he remembered 7 �it; he recognized it “essentially.” What I saw could be thought to be an opposite, or, at least, something different in kind. As I scanned this photograph from my parents’ wedding, I was struck (likewise in a mere instant) by what I recognized on my father’s face: “there I am!” I could see my own face. After the shock of this recognition, I looked at my grandfather’s face, and there I was again. There was the same face aging, fading, repeating until finally and totally lost to the background. I’m now older than my father was when this photo was taken, only by a few years. I seem to have acquired his face, its shape, both its roundness at places and its edges at others. And now when I look at my father, currently ill beyond repair, I see my grandfather’s aging face. Just as I have taken up my father’s face, he has taken his father’s face. What I recognized as the essence of the faces in the photo, the essence of my own face, was its transience. Once this wedding photo was taken their faces were no longer as they appear in the photo, and now, as I think of my own face, seen in my father’s, it is different than I have the ability to see. We slip away too fast. Just as I’m, roughly, the age my father was when this photo was taken, he is roughly the age my grandfather was when he died. This fact had lain dormant in my mind until I was reading the final volume of Proust, Time Regained, and read the sentence: “Yet death appears to be obedient to certain laws. Often for the instance one gets the impression that children of parents who have died very old or very young are almost compelled to disappear at the same age”. I read this passage sitting in my father’s room, which now contains a hospital bed, tables full of charts, medical equipment, and timetables of medications. Now I understood the shock of the photograph. I was seeing the disappearance of my own face. What’s not contained in the photograph are my own memories of seeing my grandfather, face sunken, breath labored, in a hospital bed in his own home. These are contained in no photographs; there are no photo albums on anyone’s shelf full of the endless associations tied to an image. And yet, this is what is meant to see this photo of these two men, this single face, essentially. The photograph cannot capture the essential and rapid transience of my grandfather’s face. If Proust is right, and I will not be one to argue, this means my face moves just as rapidly, is 8 just as transient. My grandfather has faded; my father rapidly fading. Just the same I, too, am fading. My timely – or untimely – inheritance will come to me when I, too, take on the faded face of my grandfather. Then there will only be the “Afterwards” of Thomas Hardy: If, when hearing that I have been stilled at last, they stand at the door,/ Watching the full-starred heavens that winter sees,/ Will this thought rise on those who will meet my face no more,/‘He was one who had an eye for such mysteries’? The “mysteries” of my own disappearing face are not for others to consider. This photograph from my parents’ wedding has made it a mystery for me, and me alone. The photograph projected the future losses; the memory holds on to what it can. But is this not the problem of seeing a photograph? What first was the account of a grandfather’s demise, was next a father’s, and now a projection of mine, a son’s. And it’s this accounting of fading away that Barthes refers to when he says: “every photograph is this catastrophe”. It is a catastrophe because no camera can ever capture the rapid transience of a human face. It’s as if the camera must turn away, and leave such a mystery, such an essential reality, to the memory and the gaze of the moving eye. �An Apology Leith Daghistani I I called you Guns until the accident. Until I watched you being carried away in a stretcher by the other Sailors, I only ever called you by your job title: Gunner’s Mate. Once sensible and orderly, the misshapen remnants of your right hand appeared to be sloppily glued together with congealing blood. I caught sight of the deep red weeping through the bandages before you turned to conceal it from me. I wondered what secret was revealed to you from within the dark hollow of your crushed bones. As my captain told me I should have been with you, that my presence alone would have kept you safe, I wanted to apologize to you - to seek forgiveness - but you were already gone. I imagined that some part of you was left behind, that maybe a drop of blood or piece of flesh would remain in the hull of our dark ship from which I might beg pardon. But I was alone. The other Sailors went back about their days, while I stood watch; savoring the inescapable equatorial heat that lingered long after the sun had set, sweating under the weight of my body armor, settling my hand on the pistol holstered on my leg, flicking the grooved steel safety catch off on off on off on off on off on. I remember the diesel fumes and stale cigarette smoke stifling the salt air. I remember the hum of the engines compressing that air, and the greasy exhaust filling my head as the ship swayed gently in the shallow waters. But I do not remember your name. II I recognize your face when we are unexpectedly reunited in the silent hallway of an office building where unseaworthy sailors are sent to desks. We shake hands. I am acutely aware of a narrow gap where your right index finger (your trigger finger) should be applying pressure on my palm. I see that the leftover sheets of your thin pale skin, stretched taut to stitch over your reformed right hand, barely contain the veiled flood of your estuarine veins. I am ashamed because I am hoping that you do not think that it is my fault that you do not have a right index finger, even though I think that it is. I am ashamed because I am happy that you did not lose your right hand or your right arm or what is left of your life, but I do not know whether your thoughts match mine or simply mirror them. I remember the trigger pressure required to fire that pistol. It is normally 12 pounds, but it is only 5 pounds if I take the gun from the holster, disengage the safety, cock the hammer, and then pull the trigger. I am ashamed because I know that I can easily apply only 5 pounds of pressure with my right index finger, but I am left-handed. I cannot apologize because I do not remember your name and I cannot call you Guns anymore. I say nothing. I do not think that we will meet again. III I once read that some ancient languages lacked a word for the color blue, and that Homer’s choice to call the sea wine-dark suggests that the world’s appearance depends on an observer’s vocabulary. I do not know if this is true, and I do not think that Homer would allow Ajax to forgive Odysseus if he could call the sea blue instead of wine-dark. I know that blood is always red. Blood only appears to be blue in veins, which are colorless, because light refracts through water and skin and blood and flesh at different speeds depending on its wavelength, which is to say depending on its color. The red is naturally hidden from our sight by this optical illusion. Perhaps I do not remember your name because I never called you by your real name in the first place, or because it does not matter what your name is, or because I do not want to. I do not know why these things remain invisible to me. I know that the sea really is wine-dark sometimes, in certain places, at certain times, in a certain light. 9 �Euclidean Geometry A Lens to Discern Life’s Choices Charmaine D’Souza Dedicated to Mr. Percy Mukadam, my first tutor, who incited the joy of learning mathematics with immeasurable incentives by way of his humanity, humor, and homemade kala khatta soda, and to Mr. Steven Crockett, who reignited that joy once again and shows me innumerable ways of seeing life’s journey today. Allowing myself to revisit Euclidean geometry again with fresh eyes has been a lesson in unlearning and relearning. More importantly, it has also been a lesson in viewing life’s choices. Starting at the beginning, with the definitions was a lesson in (re)questioning and better understanding the fundamentals. Do I genuinely know what a point and a line are? Are they abstract concepts, figments of our imagination, or do I see them all around me in daily life? If I can not see them, do they truly exist? What other abstract concepts have I made fundamental truths in my life over the years? What fundamentals have I lost sight of over the years? Reminding myself to be cognizant of these questions often helps me recognize my priorities more clearly. When we discussed Proposition 1: “To construct an equilateral triangle on a given finite straight-line”, one of my classmates spoke about trying to guesstimate the third point of an equilateral triangle rather than construct it with a compass. Coming from a creative background, I found his way of viewing this proposition intriguing. Creative and lateral thinkers see solutions so different from their analytical counterparts. At the same time, I realized for myself personally that while it is exciting to go through these innumerable journeys of curiosity and 10 discovery, journeys of discovering what-is-not-theexact-point on the way to finding the exact point, it is important to discern when to choose the off-thebeaten track and when to follow the road well traveled. The off-the-beaten track may genuinely take me on unexplored adventures but I better pave a path forward or remember the path back! The road well traveled may look monotonous and unexciting to me but can I look at it with fresh eyes? At first glance, neither seems right nor wrong, and yet—maybe, just maybe hindsight provides a peculiar way of perceiving past decisions. Intuition a portal into future ones. Over the course of a few classes, I learned that the art of constructing proofs is like playing with building blocks; each proposition builds on the previous, and yet not everything is related, e.g. Post. 5 is completely different from the first 4 postulates. Once in a while, the value and relevance of some of the propositions got a bit complex for me to understand at first instance. Shifting my focus from micro to macro, imagining the propositions like a Hoberman Sphere, figuring out how they link to each other, and reviewing past sequences of propositions enabled me to better understand “the storyline” and “the plot”, as Mr. Crockett called them, of the proposition at hand. While contemplating Euclid’s work, I realized that life is a balance of living in the now whilst expanding one’s view to observe the past and the future and how the present relates to them. Sometimes we have to take a couple of steps back, sometimes strip everything bare, and go back to the basics, to be able to exist, build and/or leapfrog. One of my biggest lessons was Prop. 35. �“Proposition 35: Parallelograms which are on the same base and between the same parallels are equal to one another.” Euclid’s instructions to construct and destruct this proposition were a pure delight— taking a complex-looking problem and breaking it down into simple parts, each I believe comprehensible even to an 8-year-old child, or the attendant boy in Plato’s Meno. Working through the proposition on my own and then in class together, felt like play—a LEGO box, where it was important to understand which block to add and when, and even more exciting was learning about which block to remove and when. As this proposition builds on a number of key, complex propositions like Prop. 34 and Prop. 29, which in turn build on other prior propositions like Prop. 13, 15, 23, 26, and Post.5, Proposition 35 turned out to be a barometer measuring my learning through the semester and my true understanding of Euclidean geometry. The biggest value of Proposition 35, for me, was contemplating the difference between things being equal and congruent. Congruence is the perfect matching of something with another thing on all aspects of comparison e.g area, shape, and boundary. Equal(ity), in Prop. 35, on the other hand, is the matching of two things in terms of spatial area. Discerning the value and difference of each is critical—both in mathematics and in life. In Euclidean Geometry, deciding to play with a congruent figure rather than an equal one could lead me down a different solution and vice-versa. Living life through this lens can be invaluable. Discerning when something needs to be congruent with my expectations, goals, desires, and vision, and when equal is more than enough can be invaluable to me in living a welllived life. 11 �Seeing the Student in the Bees & Bats of the Academy Sydney Rowe The Academy’s zoological catalogue provided their authors with an armory of useful metaphors for speaking about what was unspeakable: the student. Socrates uses the bee metaphor as a quip at Meno because, like a bee, Meno is impervious to teaching. It is as though Aristotle is speaking about Meno himself when he remarks that bees ‘are incapable of hearing sounds’ and ‘cannot be taught’, yet they are still ‘intelligent’ (Metaphysics, 980b). As the great Academicians squinted at the bees’ furry little heads, they were hard pressed to see any evidence of ears; unlike war elephants, whose ears you could see from a mile off as they hung from those beasts who walked through war and terror like grand matriarchs. Plato and Socrates likely bemused themselves at the notion that bees, who are incapable of learning, are somehow perfectly intelligent and so they naturally would have anthropomorphized their students as beeish creatures. Especially those hot-headed aristocratic lads who hazardously swarmed the Academy with a lustrous appetite for eternal greatness. Bees are all eyes. Their vision is bursting with all varieties of violet and with militant focus they quickly become lured by the beautiful flower of conquest. They create city-like structures which serve as monuments to their imperial greatness. Even Pharaohs, those dark gods, see the divine in bees and salivate at their laborious riches. As Tutankhamun’s bound corpse was carried into its tomb, those strange priests orbiting him softly placed a pint of honey by his side. Like Meno, or the pharaohs, bees share in a vacuous journey for the attainment of the vainest riches. It is a morbid undertaking to think, even for a moment, that those who refuse to listen can be so grandly cognizant of their vision that it is amplified to a deafening volume. The Academy used bats to describe another species of student. The most poetic moment in Aristotle’s Metaphysics mentions that we must be like bats to be students of philosophy: For as the eyes of the bats are to the blaze of the day, so is the reason in our soul to the things which are by nature most evident of all. (993b) To the Academy, bats allude to Socrates’ dear 12 friend Chaerophon who was nicknamed ‘the bat’ in Aristophanes’ The Birds (1296). Like a bat, Chaerophon was a most nocturnal creature who, with the dancing Socrates by his side, would get caught up at the agora in late night debate (Gorgias, 447b). Aristotle is suggesting that to have a fulfilling journey, and to see what is unseeable, we must be a friend of Socrates, like Chaerophon, and so be sensitive to his virtuosity with a battish hearing. Aristotle knew that bats’ large puppy dog ears, which are perched high on their little noggins, made them great listeners and handsomely compensated for their beady little eyes. It is this sensory imbalance which makes them great students as it allows them to fly as if by hearing. Bats are mindful of how sounds are reflected and refracted, like speech in a room of glum faces, the pressure ripples into all varieties of complicated dimensions. Bats enjoy the abasing irony that a high pitch and vacuous screech will often provide an equal or greater insight to those more puffed up and operatic moments. It is through staccato, not legato, that the incremental addition of aural information creates a symphony of brevity. For the bats, this is not an ear-ringing nightmare, but an ingenious process of echolocation that allows them to quickly gain a sense of space, even in the darkest places, and thus reach the arc of truth. The problem for the Academy seems that many of their students were bees, and very few were bats, and so the pedagogues who were housed there struggled to shoo them towards any one truth. Both the bees and bats had different perspectives of subject and so inevitably fell into their own destinies irrespective of their education - like day to night. Yet, as I write this, I am becoming tired, and I feel that my senses are getting away from me. I am beginning to wonder if I am more of a bee or a bat. Perhaps I have said too much and ought to pause, even if it is for something as simple as silence, and preserve what I have said in a question: who is more of a sphinx, Alexander the Great or Socrates? �Reaction to Guy Debord Nick Younes Guy Debord is very reluctant to define the spectacle. He prefers to describe aspects of it, and this is very different from “definition” as I’m used to the term. If I define absolute zero in a way acceptable to scientists I can rest assured that my definition aids and abets the scientific project. If I define the Super Bowl in a way that satisfies a foreigner who has never heard of the event, I can rest assured that I have, in some small way, helped to make this person less foreign and more American. But definitions like these, which expand human capability on the one hand or make the foreign less puzzling on the other, can’t be applied to the spectacle. According to Debord, we are the spectacle’s project and exist for all of our lives in the most intimate possible relation to it. There is no virgin territory into which an expansion of capability might proceed and there is scarcely anything less foreign than the manner in which we have lived all our lives. This is why defining the spectacle is like trying to describe the taste of milk or point out water to a fish. When Debord makes a close approach to conventional definition I still have the feeling of be- ing teased. In his fourth aphorism he says the spectacle is not a collection of images but a social relation among people, mediated by images. This makes me think of examples like advertising or fashion photography, the places where I learn which clothes to wear and in what way to wear them. But nearly every aphorism in his book is an allusion to something else—in the case of number four, to Marx saying that Capital is not a thing but instead a social relationship between people that is mediated by things. It’s as though Debord is daring me to imagine an example of Capital that captures its full range of influence over the conditions of my life. But there is only one example like that and it’s the world I live in. In a much smaller way, I can see the inadequacy of example compared to the thing itself in Toulouse-Lautrec’s work. I see this most strongly when I compare his advertisement for Jane Avril with his painting of the Moulin Rouge. This painting features the same singer fixing her hair in that venue’s mirrored walls. The advertisement is meant to draw people into the Moulin Rouge’s theater, in French it’s salon de spectacle. The image is crude. It is an example that bluntly summarizes the experience patrons are likely to have there, as they watch the woman with the expressionless face can-can in front of a musician, who grips the neck of his double bass with conspic- At the Moulin Rouge, 1892-95. Oil on canvas, 123 x 141 cm. The Art Institute of Chicago. 13 �uously hairy knuckles. A black line representing the loud music or the dancer’s thrall to it erupts from the tip of his instrument and encircles her before returning to form the shoulder of the bass. Jane Avril, 1893. Lithograph in 5 colors on wove paper, 129.1 x 93.5 cm. New York: Metropolitan The painting of the same place is subtler, yet somehow more garish. Here the theatrical attraction, Jane Avril, is literally in the background while a mixed group of subjects pursue social relations over drinks. Another singer haunts the foreground, also facing away from the audience. Her shining face is alarmingly corpse-like, as though all the greenish light in the room’s mirrors, everyone’s reflected images, were concentrated on her skin, blasting it like footlights. If the poster for this theater promises the audience a straightforward spectacle, Toulouse-Lautrec’s representation of its reality is a thicket of eyelines, none of which are directed at the entertainers. Air filled with live music, meant to lubricate a patron’s transition from street self-consciousness to anonymous spectator, is replaced by green haze, dotted with men in lumpy overcoats. The women whose sexuality the poster offers for consumption are unavailable, instead lost to the audience as they face their own concerns. 14 The woman who sits with her back to us is arguably the focus of Toulouse-Lautrec’s visual attention. But she is far too bizarre to serve as an erotic substitute for the disengaged singers. She is modeled from the rear, where all the composure and fretted-over display in her outfit meet in seams. We see how straight she sits, her body is in no danger of finding the comfort in her chair’s backrest. Her loose bun of orange hair makes me think of spilled intestines and her fur-lined dress reminds me of deepsea life. Were it not for one pink ear and two fingers of a black glove hers would be difficult to clock as a human form. The bow in her hair, meant to lengthen her silhouette to compete with men’s hats, is shown from its least flattering angle. We see it as a construction, the translucent black tulle that frames the flowers on the front of her head is anchored by a metal clip sunk into her hair. And then there is the blonde singer with the drowned woman’s face. She stands just behind the balustrade that cordons off these people from the viewer. In the same way customs officials wear uniforms so you know them as authorities the woman’s face marks her as the gatekeeper of this image and the space it depicts. By now, the balustrade is death and she the spectral guardian of dead customers. Does Toulouse-Lautrec undermine his own advertisement? Do I combat the spectacle that reenforces and spreads the present conditions of life when I stare at these images? Is the social relation taking place at this moment, in this room, moving against the spectacle, like a dérive, or are we simply allowing these relations to be mediated by yet another image, one that furnishes us with a highbrow alibi? �“The Aim Was Song” Explication Roth Boaz The Aim Was Song Robert Frost Before man came to blow it right The wind once blew itself untaught, And did its loudest day and night In any rough place where it caught. Man came to tell it what was wrong: It hadn’t found the place to blow; It blew too hard—the aim was song. And listen—how it ought to go! He took a little in his mouth, And held it long enough for north To be converted into south, And then by measure blew it forth. By measure. It was word and note, The wind the wind had meant to be— A little through the lips and throat. The aim was song—the wind could see. Almost by reflex, poets regale the purity and power of Nature. Robert Frost, however, blows that notion away. In “The Aim Was Song,” Frost contends that Nature—in the synecdochized figure of the whistling wind—works blithely and produces no purposeful beauty. But when human beings (“Man” in this poem) arrive in the world, they observe, instruct, and eventually surpass Nature with something more powerful: poetry. The artistry of Frost’s poem is on display from beginning to end. Its four quatrains contain alternating rhyme (ABAB, CDCD, etc) with enjambment occurring frequently in the first stanza, although virtually disappearing the rest of the way (only line ten is enjambed). Equally striking is the poem’s repetition: the title shows up twice, in lines seven and sixteen, and the phrase “by measure” makes two appearances. Finally, the poem’s lines steadily march along to an iambic tetrameter beat with one noteworthy trochaic substitution. It’s this trochee in line five—“Man came”—that illuminates the connection between the poem’s prosody and its content. Stanza one moves along freely enough: the regular meter and repetitive enjambment mirror Nature unfettered by humanity’s schemes. But with the trochaic “Man came,” the meter—and our relationship with Nature—changes. From this point, the lines are heavily end-stopped: the strong hand of “Man” reshapes—by measure, as it were—the sound of the wind. Rather than Nature’s accidental effects (the wind caught “in any rough place”), human beings take in air, release it, and give birth to music. The movement of the wind, of Nature, is random, and its measureless sounds have no purposeful melody. For human beings, though, the aim was song: by imitating the movement of air we make music, or—taken another way—we make poetry. Poetry can subvert the expectations of the senses, so much so that the wind doesn’t simply hear humanity’s audible artistry, it sees it. And by the end of Frost’s poem, so do we. 15 �PRINGLE GEOMETRY: LOGIC AND IMAGINATION IN LOBACHEVSKI Jay A. Gold “It seems wonderful to all who have not yet seen the reason, that there is a thing which cannot be measured even by the smallest unit. But we must end in the contrary and, according to the proverb, the better state, as is the case in these instances too when men learn the cause; for there is nothing which would surprise a geometer so much as if the diagonal turned out to be commensurable.” The question I will address is, What are the implications of the implausibility of Lobachevski’s diagrams for the validity of his geometry? In treating this question, I employ the distinction between logic and imagination. By logic I mean that propositions follow from postulates and previous propositions using established rules of inference. Diagrams, while they may be helpful for understanding, are not necessary for purely logical exposition; Russell and Whitehead’s Principia Mathematica presents its proofs without them. By imagination I refer to the use of images, the visual artifacts of imagination. I cannot write about the imagination in Lobachevski without noting that he calls his new geometry imaginary. He does not mean by this a geometry that relies on images. Still less does he mean what we typically mean by imaginary: he does not present his geometry as any more fictional than Euclidean geometry. Indeed, today Lobachevskian geometry is not called imaginary geometry at all, but rather, hyperbolic geometry. The unsuspecting reader encountering the diagram for Lobachevski’s Theorem 16 is apt to be nonplussed. In Fig. 1, we are presented with a line AG which we are told does not cut line DC, despite the fact that if AG and DC as drawn are extended to the right, they will intersect before reaching the boundary of the page. Furthermore, we are told there are infinitely many such noncutting lines, which is hard for us to imagine. If Lobachevski had attempted to remedy this by drawing line AG asymptotic to DC, he would have had to make DC curved, contrary to the stipulation in the statement of the theorem that the lines be straight. 16 Such implausibility is apt to lead the reader to wonder whether Lobachevski’s logic must be fallacious because his images are so implausible. This may be contrasted with an equal and opposite phenomenon that can be encountered when studying Euclid. There are steps in Euclid’s proofs that do not appear justified by his postulates and previous propositions, but seem to rely upon the plausibility of his diagrams. To take one example: In three propositions (1, 12, and 22) in Book One of the Elements, Euclid assumes that two figures intersect without postulating or proving that they do. For instance, at the very outset of the Elements, in constructing the proof of Proposition 1, Euclid describes two circles, BCD and ACE, which he says intersect at point C. The diagram shows this intersection, as it shows a second intersection below the first. A strictly axiomatic proof would have included a postulate or a lemma to the effect that where the sum of the radii of two circles is greater than the distance between the centers of those circles, the two circles must intersect at two points. But Euclid offers no grounds for positing that the two circles intersect at these points. Yet once one sees the diagram of Proposition 1, one cannot imagine an instance in which two circles would not intersect in these circumstances. The impulse that leads us to accept Euclidean proofs whose logical basis is incomplete, because of the plausibility of the diagrams, is, I think, the very impulse that leads us to wonder whether Lobachevski’s logic must be fallacious because his images are so implausible. It appears that even in mathematics human beings can be swayed by their sensibility, and that this can lead us to overlook the demands of logic. The plausibility of Euclid’s diagrams, and the implausibility of Lobachevski’s, may be thought to imply that Euclid is describing the world in which we live, and that Lobachevki, while logical, is not. The diagrams in Euclid, like the Elements as a whole, present a geometry that we can recognize; the world of Lobachevski’s geometry is in important respects unrecognizable. But I do not think this implication holds up, for two reasons. First, Euclid’s own diagrams are questionable guides to the world. Lines drawn to be parallel in a Euclidean proof, in a book or on a downloaded page or on a whiteboard or on the Ziteboard app look parallel. But these lines actually may be considered segments of longer lines. And unless the most painstaking technology available is used to ensure that those �lines are strictly parallel – and perhaps even then – they will not be. If I draw two straight lines that look parallel, and those lines are extended far enough without bending them, the odds that they will never meet no matter how far extended – the universe is a big place - are infinitesimal. But for purposes of demonstration we take the lines as parallel in order to illustrate the proof. In this sense, using Euclid’s diagrams to illustrate his proofs is not so different from taking the lines that are posited as parallel in Lobachevski’s diagrams as actually parallel for purposes of proof. That is to say, the obvious skewness of Lobachevski’s parallel lines is merely different in degree from the unapparent skewness of Euclid’s. The second reason for not concluding that Euclid is a better guide to the “real” world than Lobachevski is as follows. The diagrams in both are drawn on flat surfaces – paper pages or computer screens. We assume that flat surfaces are the appropriate way to map the world. But as those who make maps of the globe always have known, the attempt to project something that is not flat onto something that is flat unavoidably entails distortions (the Mercator projection being a case in point). So what would happen if we were to draw Lobachevski’s diagram on a different kind of surface? What if we were to draw them on the surface of a Pringle? A Pringle may be seen as a hyperbolic paraboloid (Figure 2), modified for commercial purposes. On its surface, many lines can be drawn that do not cut a given line. Furthermore, the angles of triangles drawn on the surface of a Pringle add up to less than 180º. So if geometric diagrams were drawn on Pringles, Lobachevskian geometry would look perfectly sensible, while Euclidean geometry might be considered “imaginary.” It may be objected that the universe does not have the shape of a Pringle. My response is that we are not in a position to know the shape of the universe sub specie aeternitatis. It is possible that a flat surface distorts objects as much as or even more than a saddle-shaped surface does. I note that the Figure 1 is shown on the flat surface of a page – mapped onto it, one might say - but nobody would confuse the photograph with actual Pringles. Similarly, it may be a mistake to confuse the “Lobachevskian” figures drawn on two-dimensional pages – even on Lobachevski’s own pages - with actual Lobachevskian parallel lines and triangles, which can be presented undistorted only on a different kind of surface. I conclude that Euclid’s diagrams appear more plausible than Lobachevski’s only because of the shape of the surfaces upon which those diagrams are drawn. Hence, I say it follows that neither of the two geometries is more real – or more imaginary – than the other. There is another possibility: both Euclid and Lobachevski may be consistent with the “real” world, albeit at different scales. Lobachevski’s Theorem 23 may be read to say that Euclidean geometry approximates Lobachevskian geometry at small scales – that is, as p (the distance of parallelism)→0, α (the angle of parallelism)→π/2 – that is to say, 180º, which approximates what the angle of parallelism would be in Euclid. Similarly, the surface of the earth may appear flat when we look only at the small area around us, and we can sense its curvature only when looking at greater distances. The smaller the surface, the closer the curvature approximates flatness. It likewise is accepted that Einstein’s general theory of relativity approximates at the scale of our ordinary experience Newton’s theory of universal gravitation; the results of the two theories diverge substantially only at far larger scales. In all these instances, the small-scale view carries the imprimatur of common sense, while the view for larger magnitudes, while more general, to some extent at least affronts common sense This leads me to a final subject. The point of an axiomatic system is to derive propositions from axioms using standard modes of inference – what at the start of in this paper I called “logic.” Consistency 17 �with the axioms is decisive. I believe it follows that if a theorem’s logic is sound, when images used to illustrate it appear to violate common sense, it is common sense that must give way. It is a commonplace that scientific experimentation can yield important truths that violate common sense – for example, heliocentric astronomy, or the fact that an apparently solid table is at a microscopic level mostly empty space and subatomic particles, not to mention quantum theory. Mathematics sometimes has that in common with science, as Aristotle pointed out. The difference between mathematics and science in this regard is that mathematical truths, unlike scientific ones, are a priori. They are necessary truths. In mathematics we do not determine whether two lines are parallel by extending them to see whether or not they meet, we determine it with postulates and logic. Thus in mathematics, imagination, in the sense I use the word in this paper, must yield to logic where they clash. 18 �The Floating Dream: A novel excerpt of a journey to John Barth’s Cambridge Andrew Ross Our male and female, husband and wife fit. Our epic story of dreaming, swimming in darkness and our birthday marriage, a hopeful and positive love for everyone. Three stars forming various shapes and patterns, two stars. The four stars of the Orion rectangle, Venus and Jupiter rising as the outer two stars, vertical, side and side. Like the rise of Capella and its star, in a mirror. The rising full Moon the last two nights, 3/6 and 3/7, the true “full” Moon the morning of 3/7. For the full Moon of early March and early April—4/6—and the March and April full Moons of the last few years, they surround the spring vernal equinox of March 20. The last two nights of 3/6 and 3/7 in 2023, the full Moon the “Jupiter” top of triangles perfectly matching the Jupiter and Saturn and Pisces mirror triangle of last year’s 2022 winter solstice. Makes us think, the full Moon and planets and stars able to duplicate such complexity. “It’s Easter or something,” you said. “A drink of water.” An image of the two of us, hugging, in a mirror, a cartoon image. I praise you, you hug me, we love the epic story of the Universe, the relationship of male and female. One and one, we walked through my grandfather’s Annapolis, past the brick buildings, church circle, a pub that features live music, cafes, stores, the law office of a childhood friend, new houses and Parisian apartment complex, the library, to a friend’s house for NASA’s Space instrument. Driving first to Sandy Point, to test the Space instrument, possibly a joke, created together with Johns Hopkins Applied Physics lab, to decipher and codify the mathematical, physics, purpose relationships of the stars, planets, nebula clouds, and hopefully galaxies. “Decipher the mathematical and scientific relationships of galaxies,” you said. “Biological.” You took a sip of afternoon coffee. “Everchanging, that’s my code.” “Repetition mirror poetry of unknown journey,” I said. “Rain and waves.” We stepped from our Naval Academy jeep and onto the sand beach of Sandy Point Park, afternoon of my guitar songwriter uncle’s birthday. “How old is he?” “60-something,” I said. We each thought of my grandfather’s Babe Ruth baseball, of great significance to my uncle, his songs, his family my cousins. Physics, thermodynamics, water mechanics, especially of human flight, my grandfather’s life. The baseball, my grandfather’s greatest story. Our family story. Physics and its aspects, our vocation. We stood in the sand of Sandy Point Park beach, late afternoon of my uncle’s birthday, light rain, wind, strong waves. Sky of grey clouds, various shades of grey, layered clouds, light rain, strong waves, the Chesapeake Bay bridge barely visible in the rain, wind, grey. The beach a crescent of yellow sand, the sky grey clouds, rain, the Bay’s waves strong and grey and white, the same grey of the clouds. Light rain, wind, standing in the beach sand, the grey Chesapeake Bay bridge barely visible within the grey water and clouds, waves against the beach, we left for the eastern shore. We drove across the Chesapeake Bay, rain, a mist, grey. Grey clouds, grey water, the other side of the Chesapeake Bay barely visible. We drove to one of our favorite stores, barefoot shoes and nice athletic clothes. An herbal tea at a favorite shop. Driving on from Queenstown to Easton, route 50, listening to alternative music. We shopped at a 19 �Kroger, pecans, oranges, collard greens, quinoa, farro. We drove on to Cambridge, lights across the wide river in the night. Think of John Barth novels, The Floating Opera, Giles Goat-Boy, Chimera, Tidewater Tales, Coming Soon !!!: A Narrative, Every Third Thought, lights across the wide river in the night. A literature of exhaustion, story, treasure, postmodern retelling, of character roles. Tour of the downtown and out to the famous Neck District, names on roads, properties, houses. A reminder of the Annapolis play we watched, a small circular theater, about the making of William Shakespeare’s plays into the first collected book, 1623. Late into the night, organizing with you for our Saturday in Cambridge. The library with John Barth historical marker and map, his apartment near Long Wharf, where he wrote The Floating Opera, where his jazz band played. Smoke and look at the night sky of stars and Moon and clouds. The next morning, after my uncle’s birthday, an herbal tea at the local coffeeshop and restaurant. We drank and talked and wrote, and we walked to the library. The Cambridge library and John Barth’s historical marker out front, with a map of sites from his life and novels. Inside the library, the Shore Room and shelves of books related to John Barth’s imagination fictions, philosophies, aesthetics, and literary artistic beliefs. We read and read, husband and wife, libraries and libraries of books, including Naval Academy library and Bar-Ilan University. We read and read, letters and journals, secret writings and speeches never given, and plays, John Barth’s unpublished collection. The Cambridge librarian leaned over our Shore Room table and whispered, “his wife’s writings.” Now with the secret, write words, tell thoughts and stories, entertain, we walked to the John Barth historical marker map to Dream Wharf and the apartment he lived in—overlooking the Wharf and the docked Floating Theater barge—writing his first novel, National Book Award finalist, The Floating Opera. We smoked. We stood at the Dream Wharf, in front of the apartment where John Barth wrote his first novel The Floating Opera, the empty dock of The Floating Theater barge, the novel’s inspiration, cruise ship in the background similar to the cruise ship of Jean-Luc Godard’s 2010 film, Film Socialisme. We smoked a joint of organic herbs. Incredible the Wharf and Choptank River, all the sailboats, houses near the Wharf, John Barth’s first novel The Floating Opera, Jean-Luc Godard’s 2010 film, traveling on a cruise ship. “The herbs smell good,” I said. “Good taste.” “Soul.” “Constellation design.” “That’s the name of the herbs.” “Dream opera film.” [# # #] We walked from the Wharf, up High Street, past the library and circuit courthouse, visited where John Barth performed with his jazz band, then to the pizza place of 2013 novel Every Third Thought, across the street from the Arts Center, for pizza and more writing. Writing for a grad school project at Chesapeake Bay University. Very creative. Easily amused, happy, pizza and writing, memories, imaginary fictions, we left for the Wallace Trail at Blackwater National Wildlife Refuge. Sky blue of sunset, we walked the wooded trail, tall trees and leaf-covered ground of winter, blue sky through dark branches, until too dark. We drove for an evening Lotus cannabis joint before Academy Street to the local Cambridge brewery, soon herbal tea shop. “Something to wonder about,” I said. Seat at the bar next to nice locals, audience or actors or writers or directors or characters of, on, the Floating Theater. Floating the Choptank, the Bay, the Chester, the Severn River of herbs and playing, then 20 �Muir Street, and to the house for final smoke of the night. In the dark, surrounded by woods, marshland, near Todd Point and Ross Neck Road, bright stars, star patterns, lesser stars visible within the woods, forest and waterland. We smoked herbs, thought of the sideways “V” of Arcturus, Spica, and the three-quarters Moon. The three celestial objects forming the same mirror “V” of Jupiter, Saturn, and Pisces, winter solstice 2022, two years after 2020’s great conjunction. Late at night, Orion behind the house, beautiful aesthetic smell of burnt herbs, we fell asleep, the early morning of 3/12 and dreamed. [# # #] The next morning we packed our Jeep sport utility vehicle, and left for Blackwater National Wildlife Refuge... 21 �Translations TRANSLATIONS 22 �A Translation of Lines 983-988 of Theognis Quinn Rifkin Around 1400 lines of verse have come down to us from Greek antiquity bearing Theognis of Megara’s name. Together they constitute what is called the Theognidea, which is one of three substantial corpora that we have from the archaic period—the other two being those of Homer and Hesiod. It almost goes without saying that Theognis is read and studied less than Homer and Hesiod. While we can, with minimal preparation, dive into Odysseus’ world and plight as if it were our own, Theognis’ poetry comes to sight as quite foreign to our modern sensibilities. He was a writer not of epics but of elegiac verses that dealt with the mores and manners of his time. His foreignness was put by Nietzsche in the following way: Theognis is the mouth piece of Greek aristocracy (On the Genealogy of Morals, 1.5). Herodotus tells us that Homer and Hesiod gave the Greeks their gods (Histories, 2.53).Theognis, on the other hand, shows us what a life might look like under their creations; his great themes are love, friendship, war, and change. If we wish to be students of the Greek mind, we would do well to turn to Theognis. He can, for example, help us to better understand what Plato, Xenophon, and Aristotle were up to in their various writings (Plato: Meno 95c-e, Laws 630a; Xenophon: Symp. 2.4, Mem. 1.2.20; Aristotle: NE. 1129b, 1179b). So too if we wish to be students of our own time, it should be noted that Thomas Jefferson and John Adams also reflected on Theognis’ poetry for guidance concerning perennial questions of political life (Adams to Jefferson, 16 August 1813, 2 September 1813, 15 September 1813; Jefferson to Adams, 28 October 1813). Besides his didactic importance, Theognis’ verses can be strikingly beautiful (yet beauty and moral edification may be inseparable, and were surely inseparable for the Greeks). I have translated one short verse that, I believe, exemplifies his poetic power. In these lines, Theognis conveys an abiding sentiment among the Greeks about the significance of that ephemeral period of life called ‘youth.’ Jacob Burckhardt, in his seminal study of Greek culture, has expressed this sentiment better than I can: “What it comes to is that youth is the only real time of life for the Greeks, and all the rest a very dubious prolongation.” Lines 983-988: ἡµεῖς δ᾽ ἐν θαλίῃσι φίλον καταθώµεθα θυµόν, ὄφρα τι τερπωλῆς ἔργ᾽ ἐρατεινὰ φέρῃ. αἶψα γὰρ ὥστε νόηµα παρέρχεται ἀγλαὸς ἥβη: οὐδ᾽ ἵππων ὁρµὴ γίνεται ὠκυτέρη, αἵτε ἄνακτα φέρουσι δορυσσόον ἐς πόνον ἀνδρῶν λάβρως πυροφόρῳ τερπόµεναι πεδίῳ. Let us set down our dear heart in celebrations, So long as it might still bear some lovely deeds of delight. For quickly as a thought passes by brilliant youth: Nor is the first rush of mares more swift, Who bear their lord, spear-brandishing, straight into the burden of men, Violently, while they revel in the wheat-bearing plain. 23 �‫بسم الله الرحمن الرحيم‪:‬‬ ‫ض‬ ‫ت و َٱلْأَ ْر ِ‬ ‫ٱلل ّه ُ نُور ُ ٱل َس ّم َٰـو َ ٰ ِ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ح‬ ‫شك َٰو ۢة ٍ ف ِيهَا م ِصْ بَا ٌ‬ ‫ل نُورِه ِۦ كَم ِ ْ‬ ‫م َث َ ُ‬ ‫ح فِى زُج َاج َة‬ ‫ٱلْمِصْ بَا ُ‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫ِى يُوقَد ُ م ِن شَ ج َر َ ۢة ٍ ُمّبَٰرَك َ ۢة ٍ ز َي ْت ُونَة‬ ‫َب دُرّ ّ ٌۭ‬ ‫كوْك ۭ ٌ‬ ‫ٱلز ّج َاج َة ُ ك َأَ َ ّنهَا َ‬ ‫َلّا شَرْق َِي ّةۢ ٍ وَل َا غ َْر ب َيِ ّة‬ ‫يَك َاد ُ ز َيْتُهَا يُض ِٓىء ُ و َلَو ْ ل َ ْم تَمْسَسْه ُ ن َار‬ ‫ُن ّور ٌ عَلَى نُو ٍر‬ ‫ٰ‬ ‫يَهْدِى َ‬ ‫ٱلل ّه ُ لِن ُورِه ِۦ م َن يَشَآء ُ‬ ‫س‬ ‫ل ل ِ َلن ّا ِ‬ ‫ٱلل ّه ُ ٱلْأَ مْثَ ٰـ َ‬ ‫و َيَضْر ِبُ َ‬ ‫ل شَىْء ٍ عَل ِيم‬ ‫و ََٱلل ّه ُ بِك ُ ّ ِ‬ ‫‪24‬‬ �The “Verse of Light”, Quran 24:35 Abdullah Wadood By the name of the God, The Most Graceful, The Gracer: [1] The God is the light of the heavens and the earth [2] A metaphor of His light is like a niche in a lamp [3] The lamp is in a glass bottle [4] The glass bottle is like a beaming planet lit from a blessed olive tree [5] Not Eastern and not Western [6] Its light would glow although not touched by fire [7] Light on light [8] The God guides to His light whom He wills [9] And the God strikes metaphors for mankind [10] And the God knows every thing the most When one is about to recite the Qu’ran, he begins with the idiom “Bismillah”, meaning “By the name of God”. The Qu’ran adds two superlatives to the idiom, “Al Rahman” and “Al Raheem”. They are divine names. Notice that both names are derived from the R-H-M consonantal root. The R-H-M root describes mercy or grace. So both names describe God’s mercy in some way. Thus I have rendered “Al Rahman” as “The Most Graceful”. “Al Raheem” is a bit more difficult to translate. It is an amplification or hyperbole (“mugabalah”) of the word “rahem”, meaning one who gives grace. So “Al Raheem” signifies the one who is extraordinarily capable of giving grace, or the one who gives extraordinary grace. It is connected to the Arabic word for womb, “rahemun”. Both words suggest creation and sustenance. Thus the image is of a god that is extraordinarily tender, nurturing, dependable, and motherly. Elsewhere, the Qu’ran describes God as the strongest hand-hold and closer to one than one’s own jugular vein. Moreover, the “Bismillah” is an expression of optimism, insofar as an act of creation is always optimistic. No matter how despairing, pessimistic, or sad a work of art or music is, the fact that the artist could sublimate his or her negative emotions then turn them into something constructive is an expression of hope, that bad can be transmuted into good. Otherwise, there would be no art or music in the first place. The artist would still be in bed. I will now describe what I think is going on in lines [4] and [5]. The case structure for Classical Arabic (the language the Qu’ran is recorded in) is quite fluid. The word order for line [4] is: tree— blessed—olive. Arabic grammar allows for the words tree—blessed—olive to be a unity, i.e. the phrase can be rendered as “blessed olive tree”, even though one might usually expect the Arabic word order to be tree—olive—blessed. But because of that same fluidity, perhaps olive could be adjoined to the next line, i.e. the olive does not belong to either the East or West. However, that would be too uncommon a rendering. English translations of the Qu’ran have been very keen about trying to replicate the style and the authority of the King James Bible. It’s unfortunate since that tends to unnecessarily obscure the Qu’ran’s poetic looseness. The word “kawkab” I have rendered as “planet” whereas older translations have opted to use “star”. This bothers me since the Qu’ran consistently uses a specific, unambiguous word for star: “najm”. In the chapter about Joseph, the son of Jacob, Joseph describes a dream where his brothers are eleven “kawakib”—planets. In fact, the full Arabic phrase for the planets is “al kawakib al mutahayyira”, i.e. “the bewildered stars”. This is similar to the Greek word “planet” which means “wanderer”. Both phrases refer to the irregular movement of planets if one assumes that the Earth doesn’t move. When one combines lines [4] and [5] into a single image, I think there may be a description of a planet in retrograde motion. Because of the description of the planet’s beauty, I think it must be Venus. 25 �I feel that many Islamic authorities would be suspicious of my conclusion since the worship of deities associated with Venus was common in Pre-Islamic Arabia. But here we find an image of Venus that is no longer associated with the old goddesses of Arabia, but instead attributed to a single, unified god, who seems to bear both masculine and feminine characteristics, transcending the old gods. Moreover, the Qu’ran is very open about observing nature to make conclusions about the existence of God. In fact, the chapter entitled “Al Rahman” is solely devoted to entice the listener to observe and ponder nature. The Qu’ran is very sure that an honest look at nature would necessarily lead one to believe in God’s existence; its broad appeal to natural theology has always fascinated me. Line [9] was interesting for me to translate. The word in question was “yadribu”. In my opinion, the older translations are in error when they translate this word. They translate it to “present” or “set forth”. But the root consonants are D-R-B, meaning to strike or to hit. The most difficult use of the word is in Qu’ran 4:34, where the Qu’ran legalizes and commands a husband to hit (“idribihunna”) a disobedient wife if nonviolent methods of discipline, like talking to a friendly mediator, don’t work. Both medieval and modern exegetes have been embarrassed by this verse: does the soft-hearted god I talked about earlier really command such things? So they qualify the beating so that it should be light, and to avoid leaving bruises, and to avoid striking the face, and to not use an implement wider than a toothbrush or thumb, and so on. It’s reported that Muhammad never hit his wives, but he remained silent when his followers hit theirs, so his silence indicates assent. Anyways, the older English translators obscure the violence of line [9] by using words like “present” and “set forth”. More honest is to recognize the line’s suggestion of God’s sheer power, and authority. Line [10] was difficult for me to translate. Word-by-word, the line goes: And the God by/of every thing All-Knower. I am not wholly satisfied with my translation here, but I tried to balance out the superlative of being the All-Knower with the rest of the sentence’s construction. 26 �Jesse Clagett, Archway in the Alhambra, photograph 27 �Anna Akhmatova, 1911 Ansley Green Яживу, как кукушка в часах, Не завидую птицам в лесах. Заведут—и кукую. Знаешь, долю такую Лишь врагу Пожелать я могу. Анна Ахматова, 1911 I live like a cuckoo in a clock, I do not envy birds in a forest. They wind me up—and I cuckoo. You know, I can wish such a fate only onto those I hate. Anna Akhmatova, 1911 This poem is seemingly simple, but the more you read it, the more complex it becomes. This seems similar to the life the writer is trapped in. Inside their small life, their motions are mechanized and synchronized. Their wings are clipped so far down that they cannot even feel envy for those who are free—it is a life that is unfathomable. However, the shift in the second part of the poem shows an awareness and an acute dissatisfaction— that a life of precise order, led by someone other than yourself, is a life only to wish upon your worst enemy. I chose to keep a rhyme scheme in English in the final lines of the translation to evoke a similar feeling that is found in the Russian. The repetition of an “oo” ending in the final four lines of the Russian imitates a cuckoo sort of sound, that I believe keeping the “fate/hate” rhyme helps to carry forward. But—what does this poem mean to you? 28 �Francis Bacon’s Proem Walker Rogalsky INSTAURATIO MAGNA PROEM FRANCISCUS DE VERULAMIO Sic Cogitavit; Talemque Apud Se rationem instituit,quam Viventibus et Posteris notam fieri, ipsorum interesse putavit. The Great Instaturation Proem Fancis of Verulam1 Thus considered2; And set down such reasoning with himself, which having become known to the Living and Posterity, he thought for the interest of them. Cum illi pro comperto esset, intellectum humanum sibi ipsi negotium facessere, neque auxiliis veris (quae in hominis potestate sunt) uti sobrie et commode; Since it had been made clear to him that the human intellect makes trouble3 for it itself, and does not use soberly and appropriately true aids (which are in the ability of a human;) Unde multiplex rerum ignoratio et ex ignoratione rerum detrimenta innumera: omni ope connitendum existimavit, si quo modo commercium istud Mentis et Rerum (cui vix aliquid in terris, aut saltem in terrenis, se ostendit simile) restitui posset in integrum, aut saltem in melius deduci. Whence there is a manifold ignorance of matters4 and innumerable detriments from the ignorance of matters: he judged it must be attempted with all resource, whether in some way it was possible that the very commerce of Mind and Matters be restored in integrity (to which scarcely anything on earth, or at least in earthly things, shows itself similar,) or at least to be the better deduced. Ut vero errores qui invaluerunt, quique in aeternum in- valituri sunt, alii post alios (si mens sibi permittatur) ipsi se corrigerent, vel ex vi intellectus propria vel ex auxiliis atque adminiculis dialecticae, nulla prorsus suberat spes; That truly the errors which have been prominent, and which will be prominent for eternity, (if the mind permits itself to) that one by one these very errors should correct themselves, or from the proper power of the intellect or from the aids and props of dialectic, there was simply no hope; propterea quod notiones rerum primae, quas mens haustu facili et supino excipit recondit atque accumulat (unde reliqua omnia fluunt), vitiosae sint et confusae et temere a rebus abstractae; neque minor sit in secundis et reliquis libido et inconstantia; For the reason that the first notions of matters, which the mind by drinking easily and supinely receives, puts away and accumulates (from which all the rest flow,) are vicious and confused and recklessly abstracted from matters; and not less capriciously and fickly in the following things and the rest. ex quo fit, ut universa ista ratio humana, qua utimur quoad inquisitionem naturae, non bene congesta et aedificata sit, sed tanquam moles aliqua magnifica sine fundamento. From which it comes about that this whole human reason, which we use for the examination5 of nature is not well compiled and built up, but is just like some noble mass without foundation. Dum enim falsas mentis vires mirantur homines et celebrant, veras ejusdem [(] quae esse possint (si debita ei adhibeantur auxilia, atque ipsa rebus morigera sit, nec impotenter rebus insultet) praetereunt et perdunt. For while men admire and celebrate the false powers of the mind, the true [powers] of [the mind] which are capable of existing (if the proper aids are held out to it, and it be obedient to the matters, and not impotently insult the matters) they pass over and lose. Restabat illud unum ut res de integro tentetur melioribus praesidiis, utque fiat scientiarum et artium atque omnis humanae doctrinae in universum Instauratio, a debitis excitata fundamentis. There remained this one thing, that the matter be 29 �tried from the beginning6 with better assistances, so that a Renewal7, excited from proper foundations, may occur of the sciences and arts and every human doctrine generally. Viae autem contemplativae viis illis activis decantatis fere respondent; ut altera, ab initio ardua et difficilis, desinat in apertum; altera, primo intuitu expedita et proclivis, ducat in avia et praecipitia. Hoc vero licet aggressu infinitum quiddam videri possit ac supra vires mortales, tamen idem tractatu sanum invenietur ac sobrium, magis quam ea quae adhuc facta sunt. Exitus enim hujus rei est nonnullus. Moreover, the contemplative ways closely correspond to those active, oft-repeated ways; as one, from the start, arduous and difficult, ceases in an opening; another, from first beginning, expeditious and easy, leads into the remote and precipitous. Although truly this can seem something infinite in the commencement and beyond the mortal powers, nevertheless, in the carrying out, the same thing will be found sound and sober, more than that which has been done up to now. For there is some result8 of this matter. Quum autem incertus esset quando haec alicui posthac in mentem ventura sint; eo potissimum usus argumento, quod neminem hactenus invenit qui ad similes cogitationes animum applicuerit; decrevit prima quaeque quae perficere licuit in publicum edere. In iis vero quae jam fiunt circa scientias, est vertigo quaedam et agitatio perpetua et circulus. Truly in those things which now come about the sciences, there is a certain vertigo and perpetual agitation and circularity. Neque eum fugit quanta in solitudine versetur hoc experimentum, et quam durum et incredibile sit ad faciendam fidem. And it does not escape him [Bacon] how much in solitude this experiment is mulled over, and how hard and unbelievable it should be to produce trust. Nihilominus, nec rem nec seipsum deserendum putavit, quin viam quae una humanae menti pervia est tentaret atque iniret. Nonetheless, he thinks neither the matter nor he himself must be deserted, without having tried and entered the way which is the only one passable for the human mind. Praestat enim principium dare rei quae exitum habere possit, quam in iis quae exitum nullum habent perpetua contentione et studio implicari. For it is better to give a principle to the matter which is capable of having a result, than in those things which have no result, to be implicated with perpetual contention and study. 30 Moreover, since he was uncertain when these things will come thereafter to mind to anyone else, he especially used the argument, which thus far he found no one who had applied the soul to similar considerations; he decided that the first things whatever which it was permitted to complete, to dispatch into the public. Neque haec festinatio ambitiosa fuit, sed sollicita; ut si quid illi humanitus accideret, extaret tamen designatio quaedam ac destinatio rei quam animo complexus est; utque extaret simul signum aliquod honestae suae et propensae in generis humani commoda voluntatis. This was not ambitious haste, but concern; that if anything humane should happen to him9, at least a certain outline should stand out and an outline of the matter which he comprehended in soul; that at the same time some sign of his honesty should stand out and of an eager will for useful things for human kind. Certe aliam quamcunque ambitionem inferiorem duxit re quam prae manibus habuit. Aut enim hoc quod agitur nihil est, aut tantum, ut merito ipso contentum esse debeat nec fructum extra quaerere. Certainly he regarded any ambition whatever to be more inferior than the thing which he had before [his] hands. For either this which was worked at is nothing, or so much, that he ought to be content with its merit and not seek benefit beyond. �Notes [1] My goal in translating is to make as literal a translation as possible and to use terms as consistently as possible. [2] Bacon writes the whole Introduction in third person. [3] ‘Negotium,’ is often business and the opposite of ‘otium,’ leisure. [4] ‘Res,’ I will consistently translate as ‘matter,’ although an alternative is ‘thing.’ [5] ‘inquisitio,’ can be directly translated to inquisition. But this word has connotations now that are may not meant by Bacon, so examination is best. [6] Integro was used previously as “in integrum” which was translated ‘in intergrity’ but with ‘de intergro’ it means more specifically ‘from the beginning,’ but they are the same word. [7] Instauratio, the title of the work. [8] Exitus, opposite of aggressu, used above. [9] This phrase is probably an idiom for death. 31 �Essays 32 �Stooping for Excellence in Iraqi Higher Education Louis Petrich An abridged version of this essay was delivered as an address at a conference on liberal education in Tbilisi, Georgia in June of 2011. Much of the talk about liberal education, by those of us who wish to promote it at home and abroad, tends to take up its cause with platitudes. A listener who did not know better from experience might think that liberal education itself were as boring as the boosting of it inevitably sounds. But imagine how this booster must sound to people who look out the windows to see revolution spread like brushfires in the desert winds as dictators try to stamp the fires out. Even the most interesting discourses on liberal learning lose their attentive hold on students when the local dogs of war strain their leashes to be let loose. Here at St. John’s College in Annapolis, Maryland, we look out windows unobstructed by concrete blast walls, to see lush trees, fields, and the peaceful streets of the state’s capitol; we do not bother ourselves about the dust of the chalk that our demonstrations of Euclidean geometry leave behind on classroom floors, while outside leaf-blowers clear paths of nature’s autumnal demonstrations. But if we were given to worry whether the College itself might be reduced to dust before the freshmen graduate, maybe blown to bits in seconds, who would attend to demonstrations of Euclid at the board? And what would those demonstrations be demonstrating about the students who did manage to attend to them? During the 2010-2011 academic year, at the American University of Iraq in the northeastern Kurdish city of Sulaimani, I taught freshmen Iraqis (mostly Kurds, and some Arabs) to read Euclid, Darwin, and Galileo as part of the two-year core curriculum of liberal arts required of all its students. Such a curriculum is unprecedented in Iraq, unless you go back about 1000 years. All of us who taught in the core had to become the defenders and promoters of its ambitious content. Each day that I taught there, another layer of that ancient land’s dust had to be wiped away from these authors’ books, so that eyes distracted or even blinded by the glare of outside events might be persuaded to read them with inter- est and care. I could hardly blame one of the Iraqi members of the University’s Board of Trustees for storming out of a curriculum meeting, in defense of the core, saying, “Not another word about Socrates!” Even one of my American colleagues, a professor of business management, information technology, and applied mathematics, decided to use his copy of Euclid’s Elements as a door stop to his office—a demonstration of what he thought this great book was good for under the torn conditions of that ancient country. My office door continually opened to admit one or more of my sixty or so students. For they often came to see me in groups of ten to fifteen, to persuade me how to teach them more effectively: We think your questions are too hard. If you want us to succeed you should ask easier questions. This was their way, as I learned, to negotiate human conflicts: let one power present itself frankly to the other power so that the lesser may recognize its weakness and respectfully defer to the greater. Sometimes I could find ways to defer in good conscience to reasonable demands: “I will give you take-home exams from now on, and you may consult the books and work together to answer the questions. If still you fail, there will be opportunities for extra credit.” (There were times when we would not have gotten by without extra credit. It functioned like Allah’s mercy to sinners. They liked that comparison.) At other times, when their demands were not conscionable, I stood up from my desk to tell them calmly that they should have brought more bodies into my little office--at which point they exited to undertake their duties in reasonable humor. They often would astonish me at having preserved a certain sweetness of temper through the bitterness of their history, which taught them to approach any negotiation with a show of toughness and strength. They were quite impossible to cure of the kind of collaboration that we call “cheating” or “plagiarism,” and which they call “friendship” or “using the internet together.” They wonderfully possessed a great capacity for honor, accompanied accordingly by an acute sense of wrongs done them, to be redressed, seriously. Any weaknesses of character that they could turn to their advantage, they did, and some of my colleagues on the faculty paid a heavy price for weakness. It was best, as I discovered, to stand while teaching them. One also had to know where to look not to lose heart at the ever-present prospect and evidence of failure. As they looked out the windows in distraction at the tumultuous affairs of their country, 33 �I made my horizon the long-term mission of the university, whose core were the liberal arts. It was there that I tried to project my success. All the while, from the fire and dust of Iraq and the spiritedness of my students, I was getting an education, different from the liberal one I was offering in books, but no less to the purpose. Maybe more. The streets of Sulaimani witnessed daily demonstrations for months against the entrenched party interests, and occasionally the streets become violent. The two major Kurdish parties ordered their militias to occupy strategic positions around the city to maintain order. A Peshmerga raid on an al-Qa’ida haven near our housing compound killed five terrorists, a goodly reminder to restive people not to overthrow their guardians. (The Peshmerga were once Kurdish mountain fighters who had evolved over the years into the professional military of the autonomous Kurdish region. The word itself conveys “those who stand before death with a knife clenched in their teeth.”) The faculty received daily security reports about what to expect and where not to go. Our contingent of bodyguards was doubled when Osama bin Laden was killed. They sat next to us in the vans that took us to and from the university, their AK-47’s resting in their laps, like the briefcases and book bags in ours. One of them was trying to learn some English, so I tried to make small talk. He was shy, and kept looking down at his gun. We took different routes to the university for our security. I got to see a lot of the city that way. My students from Baghdad found all this boring by comparison to home. Sulaimani to them was like Peoria to someone from Manhattan. No bombs went off. One thing remained constant among students wherever they came from. Pressured by parents, relatives, and their own habits of mind to get the good grades and credentials necessary to become engineers, information technologists, or business managers, they demanded to know why they needed to read (for example) Charles Darwin. We are not going to become doctors or biologists, they knowingly declared. Will Darwin be on the exam? “Yes, you are being examined on this author,” I replied. What kind of exam? “You may think of it as multiple choice, but you will have to supply the choices and discuss them in an essay.” How many questions will we have to answer? “You may choose from among several to answer but one—but do answer it with manifold care.” There will not be enough time. “If there was enough 34 time to make it possible for a species to evolve from fish able to have this conversation, there will be enough time for you to reflect on that process in the exam.” I learned how to enjoy the students for asking me such questions. As Pascal says somewhere, the golden objects of learning are not always high and out of reach but rolling around at our feet. It is only necessary to be willing to stoop for them. Yet all our stooping under questioning, without picking up a satisfactory answer, then having to stoop again, and again, did not please them as sport. Why are you always asking us about things you don’t know? How do you expect us to know? We are the students; you are the professor. So teach. (Indeed, the sign on my office door said, “Louis Petrich: Associate Professor in the Core.” I shall not stand that entitled again, for we are all “tutors” at St. John’s.) They had a point, so I tried to answer the question they kept on asking me: Why are we reading these books? “We read Charles Darwin not to become biologists,” I professed one day, after giving much thought to the matter and to its rhetoric, “but to distinguish and appreciate the different paths that life has taken over the course of natural history. For example, there is the life of the social insects in the hive—materially secure, well-ordered, the struggle for existence decided in their favor. The path that we Homo sapiens have taken to regulate the awfulness of life--not to be defeated by it--is a thing we call ‘culture.’ Unlike the beehive, culture is devoted to knowing the geometry of its spaces and to delighting in the beauty of colors and forms even in the face of danger from all sides. Have you heard how Archimedes is reported to have died? He was so determined to finish the demonstration of one more geometrical theorem as the Roman sword hung over his head at the siege of Syracuse in 212 B.C., that he did not notice when it made its descent: Quod erat demonstrandum indeed. His preoccupation with geometry (which by the way, provided him the know-how of an engineer) is not merely an eccentricity. Preoccupations make us human, different from chimpanzees and rats, who learn to solve puzzles and negotiate mazes to earn their bananas and sweets. The choice that you face as students at this university of liberal learning is not between thinking forever like a biologist or an engineer. Your choice is between learning to think freely and bravely for yourselves, or not knowing how to think at all. In either case, the sword is hanging there, and it will fall. Yet for some things, like the �truths of geometry, it has no edge. Think on those things. Does not Holy Scripture say as much? We are all being examined on the multiple choices we make among the higher, lower, or middle paths of life. These paths are available for inspection in literature, philosophy, history, and biological science. What a pity if you fail this examination. How else, than by interrogating these books, will you know the path to take to be judged human?” I apologize if my professed answer sounds platitudinous. As I said at the beginning, this is hard to avoid, especially since I am a believer in the answer. Yet I must report that my students continued to believe in pressing the question. And so we contested the matter of their educations for a whole year. You would not have read about our contest in the news, but when I hear people talk about the outcome of the war in Iraq, I know that our contest at the American University in Sulaimani is a part of that whole outcome, a pretty good part, I like to think. But judge for yourselves. Let me tell you about a young, veiled woman named Ziza, who always sat in the front row of my mathematics class. She never said a word but paid strict attention to every demonstration and wrote down whatever I said or wrote on the board. At the end of the semester, I collected the students’ math notebooks, in which they were supposed to practice the art of demonstrating and to ponder its difficulties and meanings. Ziza used a ruler, compass, and different colored pencils to draw the diagrams and highlight the steps in the proofs, one after another throughout Book I of Euclid. Her notebook became a thing of manifest craftsmanship. It was, in fact, a kind of work of art, whose making had taken many more hours than I had intended, yet she did not reckon them up for extra credit, as others did with much less reason. As I perused the pages of Ziza’s beautiful notebook, I felt happy, yet without quite knowing why I should, for I could not say that she was learning to think mathematically on her own, rather than reproducing with great care and patience the thinking of others. When I turned to the first page to write something appropriate in praise of her hard work and to encourage her to become more questioning in her learning, I saw in the center of the page a dedication, written in English and Kurdish in graciously flowing scripts, and surrounded on the margins by the flourishing of geometrical figures that populate Book I of Euclid. The dedication said simply: To the Glory of God. Among the platitudes I was mentioning before, we often hear some version of this one: liberal education is the pursuit of knowledge and beauty for their own sakes, as goods in themselves. That saying was not good enough for Ziza. I did not write anything on that first page of her notebook. I did not write anything at all in her book. I spoke a word of praise when I handed it back, and I added my hope that she would keep it forever. Many of my male students habitually carried prayer beads that they audibly fingered in class and everywhere else. I learned to ignore the sound, or to regard it as part of the exotic, like the call to prayer that loudly issued each day around noon from a mosque a block away from the university. I learned not to go to the washroom at that time—too many men crowding in to clean their hands before prayer. I wondered if the pursuit of knowledge and beauty is also a general calling to be followed by those who hear it and recognize the need to keep something in themselves clean for the purpose of approaching the true. One of my male students, Bouwar, a Kurdish nationalist, always dressed in traditional attire (the shrwal), an elegant, trim robe with a scarf-like belt around the waist, noble and assertive. He lacked only a scimitar to complete the image of the tribal leader and mountain warrior. (Weapons, by the way, were not allowed past the two entrances through the concrete blast walls that surrounded the American University of Iraq. The signs proclaimed it, and the Peshmerga were stationed there to strictly enforce the ban.) Bouwar liked to interrupt my professing of the things we now know about nature to ask sharp, impatient questions that felt to me hostile to modern science, particularly to Darwin. What’s the evidence for that? How do they know that? Is that a fact or just a theory? Do you believe that, Professor? Are there Moslem scientists who believe that? He also fingered the prayer beads as he questioned me. To my imagination, Bouwar could have been a superbly groomed Spartan, and I an infidel Athenian. Bouwar wrote an essay for his history professor that he gave to me as well, since I had argued that Darwin’s great achievement was to turn biology into a kind of history. The title of his essay was: “The Great Deceivers.” I instantly imagined that the essay contained an attack on Darwin and other theorists of modern science. By the third or fourth 35 �sentence I realized that much I had imagined about this young man was wrong. His thesis was that the prophets were all deceivers, Mohammed being the greatest deceiver of the lot. I was stupefied and in awe, since these are the kind of thoughts, which uttered, get you quickly killed in that part of the world (and in other parts, too, if less quickly). As I read the essay, I realized where his pointed questions in class were coming from and tending. He was covertly digging for solid evidence to use against the authority of the prophets. With some concern for his future well-being, I gave him and the class Galileo’s “Letter to the Grand Duchess Christina” on how to read Holy Scripture alongside scientific discoveries, so that the oneness of truth manifested in nature and revelation might be maintained by a man of reason and faith. The little courage that calmly accepts uncertainty about how one will earn a living after studying the liberal arts ought to be all the courage one needs to follow that calling for four years of university study. How did I dare to ask more of my Moslem brothers and sisters? A letter that I shall keep among my remembrances of my year in Iraq was written to me by a young man named Bakir, an Arab from Baghdad, which a long time ago was the center of learning and wisdom in the West. But seven years before I taught him, Bakir’s father and uncle were murdered in Baghdad by a squad of Shiah during their attacks on the Sunni, and from their home the remainder of his family had to flee for their lives to Damascus. (I wonder where they live today now that Syria has taken its turn as a country from which to flee.) I should mention that the students at the American University of Iraq all had stories to tell of death, torture, exile, imprisonment, or the fear of these things, stories that have been told before, so typically they did not tell them again, unless one were new enough to ask. Bakir wanted to return to Baghdad some day to help make it great again. That was why he intended to study politics at the American University in Sulaimani, where he could also write for the school newspaper, join the debate club, and give expression to his conspicuous thymos. He could not understand why he, Bakir, the future Sunni politician, should be forced to study modern life science, at the center of which he found a godless theory. This angered him. I asked the class to consider the motto above the oracle at Delphi: Know Thyself. Where does this self of ours come from? How shall we come to know it? 36 What is its name? Is it bred into the genes of the only surviving species of the genus Homo, which some scientists speculate may have exterminated the Neanderthals and other related species long ago? Is that the story of who we are and why we are prone to anger and violence? Bakir began to listen to the arguments of life science when he saw the political connections, and so one day late in the semester he wrote me the following letter: As long as you are our professor and are lecturing us for the purpose of a superior education, I would like to have a public debate with you at the university: you are with Darwin’s theory and I am against his theory. Then both professor and student will have the opportunity to convince the audience about what we both believe. I don’t want—like many students—to have a contradiction within myself. So if you publicly refute me and convince me, I will believe in this theory. I think you can understand my situation when I believe in something and one day an American professor at school comes to me and tells me that what I believed is wrong. Darwin shocked the world by his theory, and I was shocked to hear you say to me that I am not who I thought I was! And I lived my life with a lie. So, imagine my situation currently. What we are going to decide is very essential, Professor. If this is really a university where students are allowed to have challenging personalities, then I am glad to be one of these students. And I challenge you. His words made me think of a Platonic dialogue and chivalric duel. I declined the format of his proposal, for several obvious reasons, and instead organized a class debate in teams of students on the question of Darwinism. The things that were said in that debate made an awful mess of Darwin, which disappointed me, though it did not surprise me. But one thing stood out from the mess. Bakir and his colleagues were not going to be persuaded of their origin from animals. They did not so much mind the idea of animals evolving from animals, but not human beings, not them. From this stance they would not budge. In some respects, they were thinking like the pigeon fanciers in Darwin’s opening chapter of The Origin of Species. These men proudly believed that their fancy, prize-winning pigeons were each a special kind, instead of being varieties of one species. I felt that this was closed-minded of my students, and in that �respect, I had failed as a teacher of the liberal arts. But since then, I have thought more about Bakir’s challenge and the stance that he and his colleagues took in that debate. His beloved Baghdad, like Socrates’ beloved Athens, had gone down the tubes from much war and tyranny. But his human soul, like that of Socrates, did not have to follow his city as it went down. In that messy debate about Darwin, the students would not allow the recorded or purported events of natural history to deprive them of a distinct kind of soul, prized and elevated as the image of God. To be free of stamping by the events of history—not to be stamped out by time—may we not consider their insistence on that freedom to be the root of liberal learning now begun in Iraq? We must hope so. Or else we must meet the challenge and teach them, as once, long ago, they taught us what it takes not to be stamped out. That challenge is bigger than you or I thought. 37 �Xenophon’s Role in Plato’s Philebus? A Response to Leo Strauss Sam Hage When Leo Strauss came to St. John’s College toward the end of his life, he chose to lecture, not on Plato, but on Xenophon, whom he—perhaps uniquely among scholars—considered to be the superior Socratic authority. This belief in Xenophon’s importance influenced much of the rest of his work. In another lecture on Plato, not delivered at St. John’s, Strauss makes the following offhand comment:1 Whether Xenophon is not underlying one of the Platonic characters in the dialogues is a long question. I have a certain suspicion, but since I have no means of proving it, I will not state it. I believe that Xenophon occurs somewhere, but I cannot prove it, as an unidentified character in the Philebus—I mean, and an important character there. To my knowledge, no one has ever decoded this riddle; I would like to make my own contribution. Virtually every Platonic dialogue is named either for its chief speaker or its subject matter. Two bear the name of a famous figure who is thematic for, but not present in, the work. We thus begin each dialogue with one firm foothold, at least, before quickly plunging into its boundless enigmas. In the case of the Philebus, however, Plato forces his readers to contend with one puzzle before they have even turned the first page: Why is this long and complicated work named for a character who barely speaks? Indeed, Philebus is so irrelevant in the latter two-thirds of the conversation that readers are liable to forget he is even there. The flipside of the riddle of the Philebus’ title is the question of the dialogue’s true interlocutor, Protarchus. Who is this man, and why does he become the spokesman for hedonism? Socrates identifies Protarchus as the son of Callias; scholars are quick to point out that Callias III of Alopece—the famous and depraved aristocrat featured in the dialogues of Plato and Xenophon— only had two sons, neither of which could be the Protarchus of the Philebus. They thus dismiss the 38 possibility that this could be the Callias Socrates refers to. But Plato never shies away from mixing historically plausible characters and settings with his fanciful imagination of conversations that could not really have taken place. Perhaps he wishes for us specifically to take note of this literary impossibility and question Protarchus’ identity. In hinting that Xenophon is a character in the Philebus, Strauss could have only three possibilities in mind: that Xenophon is one of the mute and nameless boys listening in on this conversation, or that Plato means either Philebus or Protarchus to stand in as Xenophon’s alter ego. It is the last that I find most promising. To further substantiate this conjecture, we must look to two other unidentified “characters” in the dialogue, Antisthenes and Aristippus. Philebus commentators have remarked that the two major doctrines of the dour and extreme ascetics mentioned at 44b are attributable to these men. To Antisthenes, that pleasure is simply the absence of pain; to Aristippus, that pleasure has no genuine ousia. (Aristotle addresses these same two famous views in Book 10 of the Nicomachean Ethics.) Plato began writing the dialogues upon his return to Athens some years after the death of Socrates. This period, which also saw the founding of the Academy, was a time of competition and controversy over the succession of various Socratic “schools,” and major sections of certain dialogues are devoted to the refutation of the doctrines of his contemporaries and immediate predecessors. But Plato—undeniably victorious in the eyes of history as Socrates’ most important successor—is selective in which characters he features by name, and thus cements in the Western philosophic canon. Diogenes Laertius, writing perhaps a less biased intellectual history, places Antisthenes and Aristippus in this crowd of prominent and consequential Socratic followers—so important that they merit their own chapters in his Lives of Eminent Philosophers. Xenophon, too, features these men as frequent interlocutors, among the likes of Critobulus, Hermogenes, and Aristodemus. Plato, by contrast, mentions them almost not at all. The list of Diogenes Laertius’ neighboring chapter subjects is highly telling: Phaedo, Euclides, Crito, Glaucon, Simmias, Cebes. All six have primary speaking (or narrating) roles in major Platonic dialogues; Antisthenes and Aristippus are almost �entirely absent. (Antisthenes is said to be present at Socrates’ death in the Phaedo, but he does not speak.) Did Plato excise these two men as characters because of some serious intellectual disagreement? That Xenophon did not similarly exclude them suggests that Plato’s disagreement with Antisthenes and Aristippus was also a disagreement with Xenophon himself. The Philebus, in associating their teachings with those “terrible” pleasure deniers, provides us a hint as to what he might have found objectionable. Perhaps Xenophon, unlike Plato, was enchanted by the ascetic promise of their anti-hedonistic teachings. This is suggested, to give just one example, by Xenophon’s highly favorable depiction of Antisthenes’ moral virtue in his Symposium, which takes place—where else?—in the house of Callias III. Perhaps, then, Plato meant for us to imagine Xenophon—in the guise of Protarchus—as the recipient of his most important Socratic refutation of this doctrine, and perhaps this is the meaning of Strauss’ cryptic remark. In light of Plato’s habit of portraying Socratic refutations of the ideas of his contemporaries, the drama of the Philebus is not surprising. That Plato would find these particular teachings so objectionable as to erase their authors from his record of Socratic philosophy, however, might come as a surprise indeed. The cartoonish portrayal of Plato is as a grim and sinewy ascetic, diligently castigating all those inconvenient needs and desires of the body as deleterious to the genuine good found in the life of the mind. But a careful reading of his dialogues reveals, again and again, the admission that pleasure is simply inextricable from human life. Human beings— divine puppets that we are—cannot help but choose what pleases us over what pains us; the best we can do is train ourselves to be pleased and pained by the right things. No embodied creature can fully renounce pleasure. Those who are tempted by the possibility confront a danger not unlike that of misology, or hatred of argument, against which Socrates warns his companions in the Phaedo. In aiming for complete asceticism, they doom themselves to failure, and so risk giving up the hope of moderation altogether. They will thus miss out on what is in truth the greatest pleasure of all—the pleasure afforded by serene contemplation of the highest things. To make a stronger case for the likelihood of Xenophon’s enthrallment to Antisthenes’ and Aristippus’ severe and consummate asceticism would require much more examination—for example, of Socrates’ conversations about pleasure with Antiphon and Euthydemus in the Memorabilia. Even then, the most we could say is that such an enchantment might at least be plausible. Whatever his reasons, Plato, it seems, did his best not to let them enchant another generation of readers. Notes [1] My thanks to Quinn Rifkin and Joseph Keegin for discovering, and circulating, this part of the lecture. 39 �40 Jules Spiese, The Cave, 2021, Pencil and Digital �41 �How Might a Machine Intend? Siobhán Petersen What would it mean to say that a machine can “think?” There is a sense that machines are able to go through a logical process similar to what we describe as reasoning; this is true in very complex computing systems as well as simple electrical systems. They can reliably generate outputs based on certain inputs, much like a responsive sensory organism. However, these are purely physical processes, which is typically understood to lack whatever it is we mean when we say “mind.” A home furnace doesn’t “know” it’s being called by a thermostat, nor does an elevator “know” I’ve addressed it when I press the button in the same way that you know when your name is called, or what Paris is, or what ice cream tastes like; the machine is wired in such a way that a current is routed to activate or deactivate the machine based on signals the designer has attuned it to be responsive to. Yet the question persists, can machines think? Can they understand, or generate their own goals or ideas? Can they be taught to be truly spontaneous, can they learn to feel? Or, will they only ever be capable of that mere formal mechanized “reasoning,” with enough instructions that we can trick ourselves into seeing minds where there are none? Let us first turn to this question. Can a Machine Understand? Philosopher John Searle talks about the key difference between minds that form understandings and machines that execute formal, syntactical processes as being the ability to have intentions, which he posits are likely to be uniquely linked to biological life.1 His thought experiment, the Chinese Room, compares the outputs of a computer that can have a perfectly-convincing natural-language conversation to a monolingual English-speaker operating on Chinese symbols by executing the instructions from a book that contains the right answers to any prompt. Searle grants that this setup would be capable of passing Alan Turing’s famous Imitation Game2, and would create a convincing impression of understanding. If you provide a simple story in Chinese about a person going to a restaurant and enjoying a 42 meal, then ask if the person paid the bill, the executor with the use of the Chinese book can reply “yes,” despite the fact there’s nothing that logically necessitates those things both be true. This is the kind of information we’d normally consider contextual, and indicative of understanding and intelligence. Under these perfect conditions, Searle asserts that no matter what, the executor still does not know Chinese and thus can never understand anything. All they are capable of is recognizing and manipulating the symbols themselves. This kind of formal reasoning is different in-kind to whatever action is happening when humans interpret. The executor is never freed from the room to see the outcomes of their work, and so can never learn what the symbols do. Thus, Searle argues, it stands to reason that they can never be said to form an intention3, merely a calculation; whatever incredibly large and nuanced set of inputs they receive, they can only use a syntactic logical process to arrive at the correct output. Is this actually analogous to machine reasoning? Algorithmic problem-solving bears much in common with this account; the actual concepts that underlie whatever the machine is manipulating symbols in reference to are semantically “empty,” as you can just as easily substitute the units it uses with something nonsensical and the computer will still follow the same logical steps.4 A concept need only be a label here. In fact, a computer will always have an incredibly exact, precise definition of any term, with a definite address for that definition it can query for information; but it will only define what it means to the calculating system, so context is not necessary beyond how to operate on it. Qualitative understandings that humans possess are not structured like this. Marvin Minsky explains this gap as the result of a “basic fact of mind: what something means to me depends to some extent on many other things I know.”5 We do not have rigid formal definitions for every term we use when we speak; minds are elastic, and our concepts are ambiguous. A formal reasoner needs those hard definitions and for their operands to be arranged logically, but humans are often logically unclear to outright incorrect while still conveying the proper meaning. The computer’s connection to a question is totally intrinsic to the asking6 – it would not have many different ways to understand “mind,” or “know,” for instance – whereas we have no special command over the world �or direct connection to the information we are trying to apprehend. We are left with a much more difficult task: to uptake the question from our environment and the context, and learn from our many inevitable errors. To find any answer, we first have to invent the question for ourselves. Perhaps, then, the semantic process is special to brains. What if we simulate a brain? Let us assume that a program can render a re-creation of a human brain as it acts in the body, down to the level of neurotransmitting molecules even, that is so high-fidelity that any mistakes in the model are indistinguishable from normal variances. Searle claims that any understanding the computer might have is only a simulation of understanding in the same way that a simulation of a rainstorm is not really a rainstorm; we can only ever replicate its formal elements to make representations. Programming is simply us elaborating an algorithm to jockey around empty symbols, which we the creators can then attach meanings to. The computer will never understand the semantics of whatever it may claim to know, just as the English-speaker will never understand Chinese. This argument places a lot of weight upon a specific view on meaning of “simulate.” I think Searle is correct to be skeptical of considering the mind as separate from body, what he calls a “residual form of dualism.” There is a deeply-ingrained assumption that mind is both conceptually and factually independent of the body, and we should not be so quick to dismiss that, “actual human mental phenomena might be dependent on actual physical-chemical properties of actual human beings.”7 However, the characterization he proposes places mind in a purely material realm, when in fact mind also has to do with information. It is one thing to simulate a physical action, and another to simulate a representational action. We can better understand this by examining the question: what is information? Information is indeed a material phenomenon, but not itself a material. It would seem it is more like an arrangement of states in materials that can represent something else. When we talk of “1’s and 0’s,” “bits and bytes,” these are abstractions for the state of many tiny switches that encode meanings; yet computer memory is just as physical as a book. However, information is not dependent on the kind of states it relies on to represent; Hamlet is still Hamlet on a Kindle or etched in stone. Further, informa- tion and representations are materially dependent; if you destroy every copy of every version of a book, the ideas represented in them are truly lost. We know this is equally true of the mind; destroying portions of the brain takes away the ability to perform mental operations, including memory. On the other hand, representations are themselves unlimited – we can represent something that has not, cannot, or will never exist without pushing the material limitations of the medium the information is stored in. We can describe impossible things, or even things that would just be materially difficult to accomplish physically, with the same ease as describing something totally mundane. What is a human doing when forming intentions as Searle presumes we can? If we accept this picture of information, it would appear the process looks something like converting Action in the world into Information, then turning that Information into novel Action. The Information in the mind is some arrangement of brain matter, and mental processes like perception and thought alter those arrangements in order to represent. Simulating this process in a different medium would involve altering the arrangements of the switches in, for instance, a hard drive, but the underlying goal of those rearrangements would be the same; the only difference lies in the arbitrary encoding scheme used. The resultant act of mind is truly virtual, in the sense that it expresses the essential feature – what a mind does in virtue of being a mind – even when lacking the material components that typically enable it. Thus, when we talk about understanding or intending, the critical question we must ask to answer Searle’s challenge is: does a brain think, or does a mind think? If it is a mind that thinks, then we must concede that it is neither fully material nor mystically nonmaterial. There is no reason to believe that a computing machine can’t perform this process. How Might We Recognize a Machine Intending? Simulating a brain may be able to accomplish the process of creating a fully-realized mind, complete with intentions and understandings. However, that likely isn’t the most efficient route to a conscious machine – in fact, merely reproducing something that we’re certain can create a mind tells us very little about the essential nature of either thing. Humans 43 �create minds all the time via reproduction, in fact, but we are no closer to answering the question: why does some matter think and other matter does not? If we want to provide an adequate account, we need to be able to answer the Composition Problem – the issue being that non-thinking matter can’t simply emerge into consciousness from total unconsciousness; whatever factors enable mind must be explainable in terms of what we know about that lower level of matter. Finding out how a machine can form novel intentions in its own way, as itself rather than due to its resemblance to a human, may be able to teach us something important about ourselves as well. In discussing the essential nature of a consciousness, we are in a way asking about the concept of the soul. Apart from all experiences, contingencies, and even specific processes, what is that “spark” we’re referring to when looking at another conscious being? How might we recognize it if we saw it? The Cartesian ideal of the soul draws a near 1-to-1 relationship between the ability to rationalize and the “spark” that reflects the divine; an immaterial ghostin-the-machine that links us to the creator and is the site of mentation. Aristotle proposes a more embodied form of soul as the animating force behind all life, and thus all living things possess “psychic powers.”8 In this model, plants have an appetitive soul, animals have an irrational soul in addition, and humans have a rational soul on top of these. The ability to move, grow or decay is the most fundamental, and it serves a nutritive function; a living thing’s pure striving for the means to go on living. Sensations delineate the irrational souls of animals from plants, but this also can include emotions and other highly-developed perceptions. Aristotle credits both of these “lower” souls with the “originative power”9 10 that would constitute an intention; a living body must contain within itself the ability to generate motions, and not merely move when it is acted upon. Aristotle separates mind and thinking into the rational soul, believing, “it alone is capable of existence in isolation from other psychic powers.” 11 This would seem to be accurate of machine thinking. Computers separate purely rational syntactic processes from the need for other sorts of mentation; but we’ve also established that, thus far, this has prevented it from understanding and intending the concepts rational thought can operate on. If this is somehow the highest form of soul, are we comfort44 able attributing the term to our PC? Or perhaps it is missing something provided by these other sorts of soul? Let us first consider the idea of an appetitive robot. Picture a machine sent to Mars for a long-term research mission and given the ability to harvest its own solar energy to power itself. Upon landing, it runs the subroutine to set up solar panels, and continuously monitors its own battery level to know when it’s time to go recharge. This is a sort of “hunger,” yet it still seems to be missing something. The Aristotelian model specifically places sensations like hunger that create pleasure and pain in the higher irrational soul, so it’s not necessary that the robot “feel” it so long as it has an awareness of its nutritive needs. Like any other computer, it embodies the “rational soul,” and now has the capacity to move by itself to “feed” itself as much as any living thing does – expending energy it contains in order to act as a whole – but intuitively, we’re still waiting on the “spark.” Is this because we don’t view this as fully “originative?” Where is the novelty in its intentions? Again our intuitions point us to a distinction between merely executing prewritten instructions and intending something, but at the same time, a close examination of the ways humans make their decisions with high-level regularity and in accordance with causal physical laws begins to make that distinction uncomfortably gray. Further, that would open the door to denying that purely-irrational animals acting on instinct possess a soul or consciousness, since these are also in a way predetermined. How might we explain this discrepancy? At time of writing, the robot (and any other program) is created when a computer programmer undertakes the representing function, supplying their intention and understandings, for the purpose of fulfilling their functions. A piece of accounting software is not being written to generate novel ideas on the nature of numbers, nor being asked to understand the cultural value of the money it records. The designer (and later, the user) provide the program with Information, and in response receive an Action. It’s perhaps most accurate to say that the program is itself a representation, at least in some respects, and not capable of creating its own. If its been supplied with an analogy, it is only following; it will never respond with one of its own. We seem to be closing in on a soul. In order �to call something a conscious mind, perhaps what we’re looking for is that process of turning Action into Information into new Action. It is in the Aristotelian irrational soul where this occurs, at the level of sensations and perceptions. As discussed, a purely rational syntactic computation has direct access to the precise meaning of any piece of information. Otherwise, it cannot function. Words like IF, THEN, GOTO or PRINT may leave room for ambiguity to a human, but can only ever mean one thing to a machine – a computation can never be asked to invent a question, because it’s never making a qualitative judgment. Conversely, living things that sense and respond to the environment must intuit information, must write and solve its own computational problems, and only then can they execute those instructions. How Do Machines Perceive? The miracle of brains are their ability to form perceptions of the world around them with lightning speed, which has traditionally been an obstacle for computer intelligence. They’re capable of doing this using neural tissue – hardware that is magnitudes slower than a computer chip – to perform an incredibly complex calculation that simultaneously recognizes the whole of a thing and compare it against every other memory of other perceptions. 12 This is an astounding display of the power of evolutionary dynamics. Already we are beginning to see machines that make very complex perceptions and judgments, such as LiDAR demonstrations on self-driving cars. They are also supremely expensive, resource-intensive, and difficult to understand even for the humans who develop them. We’ve managed to make complex behaviors out of complex foundations, but we still lack trust for these systems because of it. Complex systems are inherently more prone to failure because there’s simply more things that can go wrong. It’s one thing for a CAPTCHA to misidentify a traffic light, but it’s another thing entirely if your car does. Within the very specific fields that these systems are designed to operate in, we lend their judgments about as much credence as a precocious seven-year-old at the wheel, and that’s likely a wise decision. One major reason programmers can’t easily understand their systems’ behavior is because often they did not design them, at least not fully. Fash- ioned after the process of Natural Selection, many AI researchers are turning to genetic algorithm design, where random strategies and code are combined with each other, and a pool of randomized “offspring” is created of the most effective ones. Over many generations, powerful algorithms can be developed that a designer could not have foreseen. The machines are learning, in an abstract Darwinist sort of way. Through this genetic process, it is foreseeable that we could make a machine that can change its own source code of its own volition. Currently, we tend to design systems with a specific purpose in mind, and we consider that purpose foundational to the program’s being. In Aristotelian terms, programs verifiably have a telos; considered another way, they do not create the problems they are tasked to solve. However, there is no conceivable reason that a machine could not be given the power to change its own purpose, since that purpose is ultimately a representation that can be combined and recombined on command. It would thus be capable of altering its goals in response to its experiences, changing Action to Information – the mark of intelligence. Intention, then, seems to be a form of learning. However, if Google let loose such a program on all their data and it managed to self-organize into an intending, understanding and learning being, it’d be just as unlikely to be able to explain how it did it as we would be if we examined its code for the answer. Already we have a hard time explaining how these systems are making basic perceptions. Decoding complex behavior emerging from complex foundations is, as established, inherently difficult. Further, insofar as the machine participates in this enterprise we call mind, it will likely have similar difficulties accounting for itself as we do providing such an account of ourselves. As Charles Peirce put it: [The] senses… [furnish] something more than plain, unvarnished facts of the outer world, [and no] direct scrutiny could enable us to say what part of that which we seem to see or hear is due to stimulations of the nerve-terminals of our eyes and ears and what part is a quasi-inferential interpolation of our own minds.13 14 This self-organizing program may be capable of consciousness, but like the brain simulation, it wouldn’t tell us anything about consciousness; we’ve 45 �created matter that thinks, but we still don’t know what makes matter think. The issue here is there’s no observable gradient from complex systems that make simple judgments to complex systems that have bridged the gap to complex judgments; they’re all equally black-boxes to us. Let us look instead to nature; how do cells, simple organisms with no individual capacity for mind, work together to facilitate complex judgments? The aforementioned miracle of the brain is not only one of evolution; it is a miracle of computing, using the combination of many small processes in-parallel to efficiently ascertain information from the environment. Ultra-simple computer programs are also capable of these kinds of parallel processes. Melanie Mitchell outlines a use of genetic algorithm design on a one-dimensional cellular automata program that applies a handful of simple rules to determine from one line to the next whether a “cell” will be black or white based on the corresponding neighbors in the previous line.15 The rules themselves are chosen based on their fitness for answering the question, “are there more black or white squares in the starting conditions?” After eighteen generations, the ruleset that had been generated would turn all 148 of the cells black or white in answer to this question inside 148 iterations and with 80% accuracy on the hardest cases, when the starting conditions were close to 50/50. Its accuracy increased the larger the discrepancy, much it would for a human “eyeballing” the problem. nals indicating ambiguous regions. The creation and interactions of these signals can be interpreted as collective information processing performed by the [cellular automata]… [The] collective computation… is determined by its overall space-time behavior, and is thus almost always impossible to extract from the rule table.17 It isn’t difficult to envision the use of a simple ruleset that can make this kind of judgment. Given a black-and-white photo, a cellular automata structure could analyze each line of pixels and begin deriving information with little computing power. The ruleset was derived through chance in a short time, simply by choosing favorable traits; there’s no reason to believe these sorts of structures can’t be selected to answer other qualitative questions about images, or other kinds of information sets. There’s also no reason the squares could not be colored, greatly expanding its possible uses. Simple computers, working in parallel, are already capable of forming new information about their environments in-time. What we’re witnessing in the image, then, is a basic and clear-cut act of mentation. No particular simulated cell has a mind, yet in combination they’ve managed to reverse the flow of computation – turning the state of its world (analogous to our concept of Action) into Information. Once Information has been created by something, the raw materials exist for novel Intentions; although these cellular automata have not been tasked with making decisions based on their judgment, it is now conceivable that many more of these interactions of parallel computation can use those judgments to begin deciding. By explaining the proto-mind of simple computers, we have begun to resolve the Composition Problem. Who Else Computes? What is astounding about this graphic16 is we are seeing a machine running extremely simple parallel computations to answer a question it has no definitional link to. In other words, we are asking it for a judgment: The black-white boundary and the checkerboard region can be thought of as sig46 What we have established is that computation is a basic form of mind; nonintelligent matter can compute, but intelligent matter must be able to create and resolve computations. Computing is not itself sufficient to be a living, thinking being that forms intentions, but it seems it is necessary for those that are. The marker of life, intelligence, or “soul” is the reversal of this flow – making new Information from �Action – but is reliant on the proceeding conversion of that Information back to Action to make that information do anything, and to act in the world. Humans are certainly computers then, at least in part. Animals, too, are computing. Even appetitive beings who do not have enough complexity to support a neural system are capable of changing Information into Action; from single-cell organisms18 all the way through plants, life reads and executes DNA instructions to constitute, feed, and reproduce themselves. This comparison of DNA to computer instructions isn’t merely incidental. Seth Lloyd refers to this as one of the earliest Information Revolutions19, and that is no metaphor. DNA is fundamentally an encoding scheme for information that contains executable instructions for heritable traits, behaviors, morphology, and most importantly the instructions to construct the very machine that will execute those instructions. If human speech and digital computers are made powerful by the ability to make recursive statements20, DNA is powerful for the very same reason. This is a radical proposition. Saying that DNA is a computation entails that some matter in nature is suitable for computing. Computing is then more fundamental than life itself, and if it is a sort of proto-mentation, then it firmly places the grounds for mind outside of biology. Can we go any further with this? What other matter computes? The fundamental building blocks of the universe, subatomic particles, are a candidate for carrying information. They are themselves physical (analogous to our previous uses of “matter”), and capable of holding arrangements of states that facilitate interactions. For instance, when electrons, neutrons and protons interact, they form “outputs” that consistently display structures of the basic elements, which in turn interact to form molecules. Every “query” between an oxygen atom and two hydrogen atoms results in the same “answer,” a bonded state suitable for further calculation. Given our expanded understanding of Information that subsists in the material and commands Actions, it is difficult to draw a distinction here that forestalls the conclusion that all atoms in nature compute. Further, there are already designs for computers that use the essential qualities of atoms and particles – quantum and molecular computing – that present only engineering challenges, not theoretical ones. Just that fact on its own entails that all matter is already suitable for computations. If atoms are a computation, what’s the computer? The universe itself, stemming back to the likely-story of the Big Bang, appears to be an unending chain of these computations; is the universe the computer? To our best understanding, to be a machine that executes instructions, it needs the capability to Read, Write and Address: that is, to assess the state of a unit of information, update that state if necessary, and to know where to go next. It’s in this last step that we see the importance of time in computing – addressing requires futurity to use the concept of a “next,” and it needs the power to move to the next stage of the sequence temporally and with purpose. Time is the engine that drives a computer; this is why the most basic component of the Digi-Comp is the clock plates, and the clock speed of a microprocessor is directly correlated with its power. Understood physically, time is a thermodynamic phenomenon – the dissipation of concentrated energy is irreversible, and pushes the forward motion of time. Any attempt to re-concentrate energy necessarily creates more disorder in the scale of the universe; burning fuel to charge a battery creates a concentrated locus of energy, but will always lose some to sound, light, and waste heat along the way. This is what’s called entropy, and it sets the clock of the physical world to its drumbeat. There are ways to speed it up and slow it down, but as far as we know, there is no way to set it in reverse. Every subatomic interaction results in more entropy, just as any calculation actually consists of three things: input, output, and time. Non-living and non-computing matter doesn’t have much use for time; things that only act when acted upon have no need for futurity, they have no drives. Similarly, a single bit in a digital computer doesn’t have use for time either; whether it is in the 1 or 0, On or Off state is of no real consequence to it. If, again, the physical interactions in the world are creating and using information, the physical objects we observe are the data points, but the driver is that which makes use of time itself – i.e., the universe itself. It makes use of Information to generate Actions. Minds and living things make great use of time, however. Time has an incredible evolutionary advantage baked into it – for beings that deal with information, there is a massive efficiency measure in not needing to know everything all the time. 47 �A heat pump’s capabilities are embodied in its wiring, and it is not capable of being reprogramed without being physically reconstituted by an external force; but given that it’s not very complicated, this is not necessarily an issue. A tic-tac-toe game made of switches with a strategy pre-wired in cannot adapt that strategy; it may be advantageous to be able to react in-time, but the game is uncomplicated enough that this doesn’t prevent it from functioning reasonably well. Chess, however, can legally consist of 1040 possible states. A pre-wired chess machine need not necessarily account for all of these, as any strategy will reduce the possibility space as it goes on, but that’s still a lot of wires. Computers and intelligences bypass these requirements by instead recognizing patterns and responding according to a set of rules. By not needing to know everything all the time, they’re able to focus their energy and resources on making the best decision now. But this also requires some sort of time; minimally, a memory, where patterns that have been encountered can be applied. It needs the capacity to change without changing the fundamental nature of itself; it needs to be a universal machine. When something is capable of directing those changes itself, it is applying that memory – it is learning – for the purpose of generating a novel Action – it is intending. What else generates novel actions, based on the states of information from the past with the goal of driving to the “next?” What is doing this under its own power, supplying its own intentions? If these are the markers of mind, it is again difficult to forestall the conclusion that the universe itself is capable of it. All the capacities we have discussed that separate computers from other matter apply to it, and all the capacities that separate intelligence from computers also apply. The answer to the Composition Problem casts the raw materials of mind out into the universe, but their completed, complex totality is embodied as a single whole by the universe itself. How might a machine intend? By emulating the world around us. 48 Notes [1] John Searle, Minds, Brains and Programs, “VI. The Many Mansions Reply.” [2] Alan Turing, Computing Machinery and Intelligence, §1. [3] Intention here can be understood as a novel, self-generated impulse towards some action. Searle makes no attempt to explore what it is to be capable of “intentional states” and instead stipulates that humans must be capable of them. I supply this definition to account for the “causal powers” he attributes to the mind; a thought is not a simple If X Then Y formulation, and thus is closely linked to understanding the context and broader consequences of any “input,” which then factor into a decision. [4] This is similar to valid but unsound arguments in formal logic. [5] Marvin Minsky, Why People Think Machines Can’t. [6] In the broader philosophical discussion, it can be said that computing machines have a kind of Direct Reference à la the Logical Positivists, where meaning is contained in the referent and names essentially denote. [7] Searle, ibid. [8] Aristotle, De Anima, 413a20. [9] Ibid, 413b. [10] Aristotle’s choice of words here is particularly interesting. See Ada Lovelace Note G, “Notes by the Translator” to Sketch of the Analytical Engine Invented by Charles Babbage; see also C.S. Peirce’s solvet ambulando, “Logical Machines,” American Journal of Psychology Vol. I, No. 1, pg. 167. [11] Ibid, 413b25. [12] Daniel Hillis, The Pattern On the Stone, pg. 114. [13] Charles S. Peirce, “Our Senses As Reasoning Machines,” The New Elements of Mathematics. [14] This idea appears frequently in the literature. See Turing ibid, §6(4); Hillis ibid, pg. 153; Searle, “I. The Systems Reply,” ibid, Ed Fredkin, On the Soul (draft version). [15] Melanie Mitchell, “Life and Evolution in Computers,” History and Philosophy of the Life Sciences. [16] Mitchell, ibid, Fig. 8. [17] Ibid, pg. 378. [18] Notably, single-cell organisms are also capable of basic forms of mind; they are able to learn via habituation (lessening reactions to repeated stimuli) and there is early evidence that they are also capable of Pavlovian associational learning. See Samuel J Gershman, et al. (2021) “Reconsidering the evidence for learning in single cells,” (https://doi.org/10.7554/eLife.61907). [19] Seth Lloyd, Information and the Nature of Reality, “The Computational Universe,” pg. 94 – 95. [20] Mitchell, ibid, “Self Reproduction in Computers.” �Two Variations on a Theme Ben Crocker 1. 200 years of Great Classic Hits: On the death and resurrection of musical invention I delivered my first music class in a poky old classroom in North Turrumurra, on the bushy far-northern fringes of Sydney’s upper North Shore. Blue Gums whipped noisily in blow-dryer hot breeze outside, leaves peeling off branches and melting onto flimsy windows. Inside, sweaty, disheveled teenagers peeled themselves off the back of plastic chairs, their eyes melting onto the floor. I fiddled around with a laptop and pushed play. For the next two minutes I strode stand-offishly across the front of the board, turning around occasionally to sketch out what I heard: Intro; Verse 1; Chorus; Verse 2; Chorus; Solo Break etc… Someone had told me that when teaching Pop, I should start with Bill Haley. ‘Rock Around the Clock’ was simple to follow. An easy guide to verse-chorus song writing. At 2 minutes long, analyzing the song would consume little of the precious remaining cognitive powers of a room full of sweaty 16 year olds. Each consecutive segment is a simple repetition of material already heard, and the core melodic cell (think of the emphasized words in the first verse - ‘put your glad rags on) was a simple three beat hop through an A major triad. To complete the idea, the triad is repeated with a slight rhythmic variation (and join me hon’): Bill Haley - Rock Around the Clock (1954) [Verse 1, fragment] There were more reasons than mere teachability to start with Bill. Rock around the clock is about 70 years old - written a statistical human lifetime ago. Though strictly speaking Bill was a Rock-N-Roller, the runaway commercial success of his hit marked the definitive start of the ‘Pop’ era. He’d beaten the Beatles to the starting blocks of celebrity culture by the better part of a decade: Haley’s song was the very first international ‘smash hit’, notching up 25 million sales worldwide. With ‘Rock around the Clock’, musical audiences made their radical break with the listening culture of years past, and cruised effortlessly into the easy epoch of consumer culture. My Grandfather, born in the mid 1920’s, used to delight in the rickety-rockety rhythm of a Haleyesque jive. Unable to read music, Papa had taught himself to play by ear in wartime Ceylon, later refining his art on a piano donated to his employer, Trinity College, by Louis Mountbatten, Viceroy of India (and mentor to his nephew Prince Philip). He would sit us at the piano as kids, delighting us by improvising with well-humoured grandiosity on the bluesy kind of riffs that he’d heard spinning out of mid-century America. Papa passed his love of music on to my mother, and after emigrating the family to Australia, saw to it that she went one step better than he was afforded, by learning notation, harmony, and counterpoint as a schoolgirl in 1960’s Australia. In those days, one in every five Australians were educated by Catholic nuns, priests, or brothers. They were stern, but famously effective teachers of classical music: Simone Young, the current Chief Conductor of the Sydney Symphony, once credited her rigorous early musical education by the Sisters 49 �of Mercy for laying the foundations of her brilliant career. This high musical literacy - the kind taught by those dedicated nuns - affords one the ability to access art of a radically different quality to that which I taught (well, was forced to teach) upon entering the teaching profession. There’s nothing wrong with Bill Haley, of course, but there may still be great value in looking further back in time, to discover a higher musical virtue than Bill and his Comets can bestow upon us. To keep our timeline tidy, I’ll go back another 70 years from Haley, to the closest thing late 19th Century music had to a runaway hit. Anton Bruckner’s 7th Symphony was first performed in 1884. It is set in four movements, and runs to approximately 80 minutes in length. It is a magisterial work - masterful in formal construction, with a pervasive sense of mystique. It was a breakout success, earning huge acclaim amongst the Viennese audiences who had hitherto been lukewarm to Bruckner, preferring his contemporary, Johannes Brahms. Bruckner labored over each of his Symphonies, revising them almost fanatically. He was known to toss completed manuscripts into his fire, such was his thirst for sonic perfection. That perfection was not born of narcissism either. On the contrary, his contemporaries - Gustav Mahler chief amongst them - admired him for his humility, simplicity, and (often unnecessary) deference to others. There was no international record market in Bruckner’s day. Not until 1913 would the Berlin Philharmonic record the first complete orchestral work - Beethoven’s 5th Symphony - under Arthur Nikish. Still, having won the approval of the city of Vienna, Bruckner’s 7th, was for a time - just like Bill Haley’s tune - the western world’s undisputed smash hit success. The manuscript made its way quickly to America, premiering in Chicago in 1886. I bring these works side by side to draw the reader’s attention to the extraordinary diminishment of relative listening attention demanded of, and by, popular audiences between the late 19th, and mid 20th Centuries. Whilst it is true that comparing a song to a symphony is not comparing apples with apples, we must still see that here, with Bruckner next to Bill, we nonetheless contend with the two great hits of their respective days. This is an important comparison to make, if we want to observe how music reflects our cultural values and intellectual temperament as men of different ages. To illustrate this, recall that Haley’s tune was only 2 minutes long, its core melodic material - the A Major triad - passing in a mere second, and hovering over but one static chord. Below here, by way of contrast, is the opening theme from the opening movement of Bruckner’s 7th. This one theme, presented first in the cello, lasts almost as long as Bill Haley’s entire song. It has a range of two octaves. It implies a varying spectrum of chords and keys. Listening to it is rather like reading a sentence by Alexander Hamilton: One must deploy considerable focus to hold in contention the tonal subject, as a string of conjunctions spill the ear from subphrase to subphrase, adding to in substance, and coloring in character, the nature of the whole as it gradually unfolds. Bruckner said this vaulting, mystical melody came to him in a dream: he woke in the night, recognised its genius, and furiously wrote it down by candlelight. By looking at the two melodies on paper, we can start to see that it may not be just the aesthetic - the apprehended quality of the sound, if you like - that is important in making an assessment about this music’s innate quality. Rather, it is the formal scale of the melodic design that in the first place provides strong evidence of how a radically more sophisticated listening experience was considered ‘mainstream’ in the late 19th century, compared to the mid 20th century. The point I make is thus: A disinterested person could listen to Bill and Bruckner side by side and say that the orchestra sounds more sophisticated, and though he would be right, he would be missing the point - the point being that the music sounds more sophisticated because it is constructed in a vastly more sophisticated 50 �manner. The disinterested person is expressing a truth because he is impressed by Bruckner’s thing, but he cannot articulate the generative source of that thing’s impression. I have sometimes experienced a variety of this ‘correct but not known’ musical judgment at the Sydney Opera House concert hall, when, descending from the boxes at intermission, a brooched, bare-shouldered Mrs von Posh n’ Swish gushes that the music is ‘magnificent, just magnificent my darling’. She is not merely keeping up appearances - she detects an appreciable elevation of quality in what has unfolded. But still I could ask, “yes, Mrs Swish, but why is the music magnificent? Anton Bruckner: Symphony No. 7 (1884) [Mvt. 1 - Opening (Violoncello)] On a handful of occasions, I’ve been able to ask Mrs Swish that very question. Sometimes her response is enlightening, sometimes faintly ridiculous. Usually it is well meaning, but somewhat confusing - a muddle of “oh well yes the violins…and the…oh just the conductor…the way it moves…oh…OH…” As a fan of both Mrs Swish, and the music we both like to dress up to listen to, I usually endeavor to respond with a version of the following statement: The music we love, the meticulously organized sounds now abstracted into arch-premium cultural product, the crown jewels of Western Civilisation’s artistic heritage, created in a blinding spasm of creative fury between the start of the Enlightenment (Bach was born in 1685), and sputtering out somewhere between the two horrific 20th Century wars… that music is magnificent, darling, because of its quality of invention. Our burden as consumers of music everything today is to live with a poverty of invention. In the 20th and 21st Centuries we have become inured to repetitive sound. Aristotle might say that we have habituated ourselves to our own paucity of sonic virtue. We are no longer disturbed by the exacting sameness of all things, in the way that we are no longer fascinated by the exacting sameness of both factory machines and the squillions of identical widgets they produce. The scheme of a pop song - a scheme which has accompanied our lives for 4 generations now - relies on mechanized, factory-economical repetition to meet its aims. A pop song cannot, by its very nature, be composed, because its structure - with some rare exceptions - provides no prerogative to work through the demands of a truly dynamic artistic picture. The pop writer does not have that artist’s palette of infinite variables - variables which become his burden in fashioning material first to coherent 51 �form, and then into transcendent beauty. A pop song, by way of its structural confines, is merely produced: It states, it repeats and it returns, with a minimum of rational effort. This remains true in almost all cases even when the song’s overlaid instrumental or vocal effects are of spectacularly good quality, as in the case of Whitney Houston’s sublime ease of delivery, Taylor Swift’s remarkable capacity for emotive empathy, or Mariah Carey’s thrilling propensity to both delight and discombobulate by way of her vocal acrobatics. There is an invention in pop music, and in the best cases - the Mariahs and Whitneys (but not the Britneys) - it is an admirable and enjoyable one. However this enjoyableness in performance is not remotely comparable to the raw quality of invention one finds in high classical composition from Bach forward. Returning to Bruckner’s melody, we are presented with one aspect of this quality of invention, and that aspect is scale. Bruckner makes high quality musical invention possible because he opens up the imaginative canvas with a melodic exposition of titanic proportions. The 7th Symphony claims greatness for Bruckner as a symphonist in the way that the Sistine chapel claims greatness for Michelangelo as a muralist. There is fine detail in both, but in the first instance, it is the audacity of the idea which humbles us, the observer, before a seeming godly power of creation. Art like this suggests to the human soul that it may be capable of apprehending so much, and so in turn sets on fire our potential to apprehend the world with unlimited awe and wonder. This is not, however, to say that scale is the only ingredient required in the construction of high quality musical invention. Nor is a preoccupation with scale necessarily required at all. Examples abound of works both petite in scale and rich in authentic artistry: Chopin’s piano preludes for example, or Igor Stravinsky’s petite ‘Dumbarton Oaks’. These works are by their nature confined. They have an intensity of invention, over an expansiveness of invention. One of the finest examples of this intensity of invention comes in a work which needs no introduction to either the serious or casual listener. Happily, Beethoven’s 5th Symphony also provides a lovely congruency to our journey back through music history - It pops up in another (roughly) 70 year hop back in time from Bruckner’s 7th. Beethoven’s 5th was the breakout hit of 1808. It is a radical work. Aside from it’s well documented French revolutionary flavor, and law-breaking harmonic progression, it is also the first symphony to use the trombone, the piccolo, and the contrabassoon (to this day, the loudest, highest, and lowest instruments in the orchestra, respectively. But these features, wonderful though they are, don’t point us to the real locus of Beethoven’s genius. To find this, it might be helpful to leave Bruckner behind for a moment and compare Beethoven directly to Bill Haley. If, when we do, we restrict our criticisms to melodic ideas, we will quickly see that we can’t indict Bill with quite the same culpability we did when we placed him alongside Bruckner. That is because, stripped to their bare tones, there is scarce appreciable difference between the quality of Bill’s and Beethoven’s two musical ideas. As if it needed any introduction, here is the foundational musical idea from the first movement of Beethoven’s 5th: Ludwig Van Beethoven: Symphony No. 5 (1808) [Mvt. 1 - motif] Perhaps the tempo and placement gives the Beethoven a little more inherent drama. Still, there isn’t much difference in quality between three short G’s and a long E flat (Beethoven), and the three short notes (A - C# - E) played in sequence (Bill). The point being, that when we compare each little tune against the other, at 52 �heart, it is impossible to say which is better. Here then must arise a question that every listener should ask themselves when trying to make a judgement on the objective quality of any piece of music: How does a composer develop his musical ideas? Pure musical development is the arbiter of objective compositional quality. If classical music is a kind of church, then the composer’s sophistication in development sorts the high priests from the common folk. Beethoven’s talent for inventive development is unrivaled. His ability to take the smallest of melodic fragments and build an uncontrived, expressive, and substantially lengthy train of musical development, is the substance of his genius. Beethoven’s mastery of invention is so absolute, that when we listen to the first movement of his Symphony, we must fight our own consciousness to remember that we are dealing with a creation born of only the tiniest of musical fragments: There is so much music here! And, its growth is so apparently organic, that one quickly forgets its birth was indeed embryonic. We might hold Beethoven against Bruckner here, and consider the two types of artistry at play: Where Bruckner’s claim is to the audacity of the man who sets out his broad canvas in plain view, Beethoven’s claim is to the magician’s secret toolbox. His is the hidden intricacy of the working unworkable. He is both artist and geometer - opening up rhythmic and harmonic space where none by right exists. From simple melodic material, Beethoven builds a swirling, unfurling, melodic-harmonic universe, one coherently threaded together at every weaving turn. Assuming one’s soul has achieved some kind of sympathetic disposition, then that soul cannot help but be taken - somewhere - by Beethoven. Bill Haley’s equally simple, and almost as meritorious melody does not develop in this way. Insofar as it does develop, it merely repeats. This is what a modern pop song does. It confirms, comforts, and conforms to both itself and the prevailing musical zeitgeist. It does not truly expand possibilities. It does not move the soul beyond superficial reckoning with the stated facts. Repetition without true development is reassuring, and can be mightily entertaining, but it does not pose any kind of fundamental challenge to the soul. Sir Roger Scruton said that listening is the process of internal dancing in sympathy to a particular musical work. I would further say that the act of listening is the soul’s conversation with an external idea or group of ideas - ideas not limited by the need to comprehend speech or consciously identify particular epistemological features. This means that listening to music affords the soul a unique conversational freedom. Alongside this freedom comes a unique vulnerability, given that there is a certain passivity to the soul’s act of listening: Once the ear ‘lets in’ the sound, there is little one can do to consciously resist both the affect and in turn, the effect of a given musical work. This brings us to the crux of the problem in deciding what we should listen to as human beings susceptible to the stultifyingly mundane aural influences of the world we inhabit. If we have accepted that the soul may be served well by objectively better music and served poorly by objectively worse music, have we now stumbled into making the case (as surely Socrates would delight in!) for the censorship of music in the city? At the least, we can certainly say that we have arrived at a strong justification for the individual to control the artistic inflows to the city of his own soul. Though we are instinctively chilled by the thought of censorship, we cannot escape the truth that Socrates points us toward. There is an undeniable beneficial effect that musical censorship can secure for the soul, if not for the greater good of the polity itself. This is the conclusion that scientists researching the “Mozart effect” on babies in the womb have arrived at. It is the same conclusion realized by school principals who make substantial early investment in childhood musical education, and seem to find a correlation in lower 53 �disciplinary issues and higher mainstream class engagement. My doctor has perhaps also arrived at this conclusion - I am assuming that’s why he plays Haydn string quartets in his waiting room! Ludwig Van Beethoven: Symphony No. 5 (1808) [Mvt. 1 - Exposition: Opening fragment; the entire first section of the movement is made up by the uninterrupted development of Beethoven’s four note motif] It is also the same conclusion that I find myself daily arriving at, albeit in reverse: The more I read Plato, the more I yearn for the calm inevitability of Mozart’s aural insight; the more I read Aristotle, the more I lust after the explosive, creative speculation that Beethoven can draw from one tiny granular musical observation; The more I read Rousseau… well, I don’t read Rousseau if I can help it - the gargantuan Romantic symphonies 54 �that comport with his oeuvre make for an impractical use of both the day’s listening time and my own cognitive focus. St John’s College is a fine place to read these authors. The foundation of the ‘New Program’, which saw St John’s return - definitively - to the great books, also coincides with that same interwar period where fidelity to the great forms of musical composition was abandoned - definitively - by the European musical establishment. In the German speaking world, classical music’s heartland, these were the years when the steady seriousness of the listening culture was shed, in favor of both the practice of musical experimentation, and more importantly, of the ethic of musical experimentalism. In the halls of Conservatoria the world over, ‘Weimar’, is a name synonymous with the ethic of 21st Century musical progressivism. Its best attributes include stylistic intermixture and radical re-imagination, and its worst, the wholesale dismemberment of a beautiful inherited tradition. Stringfellow Barr was President of St John’s College during this same time, and with Scott Buchanan, co-founded the school’s ‘New Program.’ In a quote posted on the walls of the building named after him, Barr says that the books contained within the program must be ‘read listeningly.’ What a wonderfully musical thing to say! If there is something missing from the world of music today, I would say that it is found in the mirror image of Barr’s statement about our beloved great books. For if we are to faithfully comprehend great music, then we must listen readingly. If we do, then we might guide our listening appetites back from the nadir of modernity’s lust for banal, repetitive aural tyranny, to a place where a studied love of great invention rules music once more. 2. Our Music, Our Higher Selves Beaux-Arts Chicago Federal Building By the end of the CD era, I had worn out my sole physical copy of the great French conductor Pierre Monteux’s 1961 recording of Cesar Franck’s Symphony in D minor. The internet mercifully intervened: Monteux’s interpretation with the unsurpassed mid-century Chicago Symphony Orchestra now lives on YouTube. Monteux and the CSO did a great service to the musical world in recording the masterworks of the western canon during his tenure. But as they were recording Franck’s symphony at 220 South Michigan Avenue, bulldozers were moving in to the west, right behind Symphony Hall. Chicago’s iconic Federal Building was being reduced to a pile of rubble. Like the Franck symphony, the building was a first-class cultural product from the late 19th Century. It represented the Midwest’s premier example of the French Beaux-Arts style that had once 55 �characterized much of America’s civic architecture. The irony was stark: Monteux, the great conductor, was beloved by American audiences. But as this great French artist perfected his craft in America’s preeminent musical institution on South Michigan, a great French architectural style once the darling of American city planners was being ground into dust by America’s preeminent political institution—the federal government— across the street on South Dearborn. In the place of the Beaux-Arts Federal Building rose the Kluczynski and Dirksen Federal Buildings and Courthouses— two of the most menacing objects ever to dominate Chicago’s skyline. Public square, or the monolith from 2001: A Space Odyssey? With Pierre Monteux’s record still ringing in my ears, in Texas last month, I conducted Franck’s Symphony in D Minor for the first time. It is still one of my very favorite works. Since first hearing it seventeen years ago, I have thought about it at least once a week—sometimes for hours, but most often for a few shimmering seconds, long enough for the 3rd movement cello melody to waft lazily through my head, or to be startled by a heroic trumpet call momentarily piercing my horizon. It transfixes me in the same way it did listeners a century ago: in 1899, the Boston Herald noticed that the symphony exerted a “certain weird fascination” on the public. For half of the 20th century, the American public shared my fascination. The New York Times reported last year that the Franck Symphony in D was the Beatles before there was the Beatles. In that blissful time when art still held primacy over the artist, Franck’s forty-five minutes of triumphal orchestral lyricism easily filled stadiums in East Coast capital cities. So, what happened? Should we despair that the music that fills today’s stadiums is of a significantly lower intellectual and spiritual order? The deep appeal of civilization’s greatest music lies in its beauty and elusiveness. Franck’s Symphony in D Minor, a stunningly captivating aural picture, shows us how. It sings lustily, mourns sorrowfully, and dances irrepressibly. Its first movement moves between menacing and joyful. The second is sacred and even, at times, medieval. The third movement drives the listener to joyful ecstasy during each and every listening. 56 �Cesar Franck (1822-1890) Despite my long-held love of the work, I’m at a loss when trying to describe what the piece is truly about. No one can say if it is properly Belgian, French, or German, or if it has indeed become American. Musicologists argue over whether the middle movement is sacred or secular. Composed in 1888, does it agree with the 19th century, or does it paint that long artistic epoch with mocking irreverence? In music, this elusiveness, the inherent indefinite in not knowing precisely what a piece is, frees us to know what the piece does to us when we hear it. We know that the Franck uplifts us, that it unveils a cast of noble characters and invites us to journey with them. The symphony gives us time and space to learn who these characters are, without ever fully seeing them. We adventure with them through the two outer movements – soaring above the clouds with the trumpets, running faster than humanly possible with the violins, and serenading lovers with the wind instruments. In the middle, there is respite - some time to meditate, and to pray. These unique kinds of expressive capacities reveal a work’s innate musical potential. Great music contains beauty without literal meaning. It presents itself as ineffable; it doesn’t tell us explicitly what it is. Rather, it demands that we take the musical journey and work that question out on our own. We listeners must hold ourselves in collaborative sympathy between the work’s phrases, entering its argument without ever having its facts dictated to us by the composers. Through this process, we practice our highest reasoning faculties—we sift truth from falsehood, tie off loose ends (thank you Plato), and habituate ourselves toward the higher character the music presents to us (thank you Aristotle). Great music then, is dialectic. It is an exterior harness to the soul’s self-conversation and can only reveal its ineffable meaning by way of the rational listener’s individual agency. This can be difficult to grasp, because it is something we take for granted, or at least don’t realize is happening when we listen to music. Consider this: a piece of music where the chords remain the same, the beat remains the same, and God-forbid, the voice is auto-tuned to remain the same, is essentially dictated to the listener. Listening to it requires no collaborative effort. There is no conversation happening within the music. And without this conversation, an authentically sympathetic journey is impossible. This remains the case even if the work’s emotive nature convinces us we are listening sympathetically to a given song. In this way, the great works of the classical tradition are akin to the great works of classical philosophy. The great composers lead us dialectically. In listening to the great classical works, the composers take us by the hand in the Socratic manner—they interrogate our souls by way of the intellect in a similar way to that of Socrates in Plato’s Republic. Through sympathetic interrogation, they encourage, aid, guide, and sometimes even cajole us to the discovery of truth and beauty, but they never dictate its terms to us absolutely. 57 �Platonic Socrates believed that bad music might beget bad people. It is on the topic of music that he provokes one of his first—and perhaps his most memorable—dialectic expositions within Republic, when he notes that protecting the souls of the young from corruption will require censoring the city in speech’s music. Countenancing this notion is a tall order for citizens of free and modern societies. Allan Bloom wrote in his introduction to Republic that his students at Chicago, Yale and Cornell “tended to be surprised that music above all else should be the theme of [Plato’s] censorship when what seemed to them to be the likely candidates were science, politics, and sex.” So, today faced with an orgy of sonic choices, should we defy Socrates and permit ourselves to listen to “bad” music? In reality, the decision has already been made. Pop, and the other gradations of “bad” music, whether they be the shoddy imitations of classical-lite compositions, the death cults of deep-metal, or just plain lazy artistry in any genre, are here to stay. That is ok. The world won’t be rid of their ilk, but their presence needn’t precipitate our moral disintegration either. We should listen to the music our fallen culture has generated. And, if I dare say so, we should even enjoy it. But we can give Socrates his due by acknowledging his wisdom. Good sense demands limits to our consumption, limits to our tolerance, and limits to how regularly we expose our children to music which we know to dull our faculties of reason, when we ought to be enlarging them. As Socrates showed us, there is risk in exposing the young to art that encourages the destructive tendencies latent within every human soul. When we engage in the arts in general and music in particular we should be most concerned with the problem that Aristotle draws our attention to in his Ethics: the habituation of the soul. We need to habituate ourselves to the beautiful, the uplifting, the heroic and noble, and that’s impossible if we’re engaging in artistic practice that denigrates these virtues. When we choose to listen to bad music, we are habituating ourselves to life as mere repetitions of bland stereotypes. We are, in essence, telling ourselves that we are as poor as the form we step into as listener—as brief in intellect as the passage of a radio hit. But when we listen to Beethoven, to Bach, to Brahms, or to my old friend Cesar Franck, we commit ourselves to extolling human virtue, not diminishing it. We are telling ourselves that our powers of reasoning should reach for the broad and expansive form of the great symphonists. We are telling ourselves that our creativity might hustle to keep pace with the inventive genius of a Mozart, not a Madonna, and that our innate tendency toward nobility might owe more to Beethoven than Britney. When we listen well then, we are telling ourselves that we are our higher selves. Each great art form has its innate strengths and weaknesses, and as time progresses, those strengths and weaknesses allow each great art form a greater or lesser degree of agency in advancing or destroying our common culture. One of music’s greatest strengths is its transmissibility. Many great paintings lie behind private walls or in public rooms in far-flung cities. In those cities, thousands of beautiful buildings which spoke of proportion, exposed citizens to geometric truth, and gave visible life to the ratiocination of the architect’s genius, rest today as dust beneath the grotesque ego spectacles which replaced them. London is a today a visual sewer, New York a beautiful, but ageing dame betrayed by a hundred years of vain facelifts. But our greatest music cannot be commercially withheld in the manner of a 17th century canvas, or physically destroyed in the manner of an early 20th Century American Railway Station. Whilst music does not escape the destructive effect of cultural decay, it can regenerate at a comparative minimum cost. As such, it lies dormant as the artistic skeleton key to personal and civilizational renewal in times of ugliness and decay. In music, our higher selves are so accessible, if only we reach out to truly listen. 58 �Aschely V. Cone, Gabon Landscape I, 2022-2023. Oil on canvas, 4’ x 3’. 59 �Aschely V. Cone, Gabon Landscape II, 2022-2023. Oil on canvas, 4’ x 3’. 60 �Aschely V. Cone, Gabon Landscape III, 2022-2023. Oil on canvas, 4’ x 3’. 61 �Interviews 62 �A Portrait of Peter Nesbett Abdullah Wadood I wanted to call him “Mr. Nesbett”, but he insisted I called him “Peter.” Tuesday March 28, 2023. We two sat next to each other at Old Fox; he ordered an Americano in a little mug. “12 ounces,” he told the woman behind the counter. I ordered nothing myself. He asked about the G.I.; I answered awkwardly. We talked about his haircut, which matched the haircut he was photographed wearing back in September when he was appointed the new Director of the Mitchell Museum. Then we talked about Annapolis’s unaffordable real estate. This small town, capital that it is, is just as expensive as D.C. I nodded sympathetically. I felt the need for a transgression, a movement from niceties to business, so I asked Peter about his previous work at the WPA, the Washington Project for the Arts. “Artists are atomized and marginalized,” he told me. “They live in the shadow of the Smithsonian.” Peter then told me about one exhibition: the WPA rented out an empty boutique store where an artist placed a single $8 shirt in the center. The shirt was surrounded by advertisements which the artist carefully manufactured. “You pay for the packaging,” he said. The purpose of the WPA, Peter said, is to give artists a chance. It’s been more difficult than ever for artists to self-organize, to gather funds, to experiment and express themselves. Everything’s been made worse with money. Why did you come to St. John’s? Wow! The whole school has been doing this for a really long time. When I was in school we would start with the primary source and then immediately jump to what everyone else thought of it. That’s not the case here. The challenge for me here is how to develop an exhibition program, it’s a new challenge for me. We have a really sweet space here. It has a modest footprint—I mean, it’s tiny—but it feels grand. The museum is reflective of the school as a whole: the campus is tiny, but it has a grand ambition in defense of its pedagogical approach. I had a warm reception here. There’s a real openness in the administration. The administration is looking for new possibilities. It really felt real. There are places where they tell you they’ll be open but really they aren’t. They have an entrenched art department that has their own vision and expect you to follow that vision. But here I’ve felt a real openness. Nora’s advice for me is to not tread lightly. I want to find ways to make the museum relevant to the college experience, not to imitate the great books. I think people want or expect St. John’s art museum to be filled with Rembrandt, but that’s not satisfying. I don’t want people to come here to see a piece of art and be in awe of it as if it’s a timeless, eternal object. No. The new mission is about the ever-changing student body. So I ask, ‘How can the art program be reflective of the experience of questioning and inquiry?’ There needs to be a reset. It’s gonna be different. Most of the students here don’t remember what the museum was like before; it’s been under construction. The seniors who did get to experience it didn’t like it all that much. There was little student engagement. I want to upend the decorum. Tell me about the exhibition where Johnnies were able to draw on the walls. I really loved doing that. I felt rejuvenated. Really, I felt like a child. I’m really glad to hear that. Really, I am. How do I maintain that openness and welcoming quality moving forward? Museums are such unnatural places. In everyday life, you can touch things, interact with things, but not at a museum. Nothing is more freeing than desecrating a sacred place. When adults came into the exhibition, they were hesitant to draw on the walls themselves. They couldn’t bring themselves to write on the walls. [When he spoke of these things, it seemed to me his eyes would almost well up in tears and silence overtook us.] My first job I worked at an auction house. It was one 63 �of Van Gogh’s. It was sold for a then record-breaking amount of money. How could a painting be valued like this, with all this money? I turned the opposite direction and head for the hills. What is Art? [I asked this question with the slyness of a Socrates. I was really saying, ‘Oh you who are so knowledgeable in art, tell me what art is!’] “That’s a good question,” Peter replied nonchalantly. He thought a bit. He couldn’t find an answer. “It has something to do with valuing expression of what we’d consider ‘non-art.’” An artifact in a museum is separated from daily life. It’s timeless in a way. It has an alien quality about it. When market value is added to it, even more so. When you go into a museum, there seems to be two reasons you can’t touch the artifact. One, because you don’t want to ruin it. And two, it’s worth a whole lot of money. So the art at a museum is separated from life, it has a sacredness to it. The artifact is almost completely remote and inaccessible. So how do you recognize art in life?” [I mentioned Robert Pirsig’s Zen and The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. There’s a distinction between rationals and romantics when it comes to recognizing art in life. Romantics appreciate driving a fast car on a coastal road; Rationals appreciate the machinery under the hood.] “Oh, I read that book in my late teens. I wanted to ride a motorcycle until something terrible happened to someone I knew, which dissuaded me.” People don’t see the art in their everyday lives, we agreed based on our reading of Zen. Peter settled on this answer: “You ought to be concerned with that which sits on the edge of art and non-art.” Why is ‘Art in Life?’ so important to you? We value certain experiences we might otherwise overlook. If art is too separate from our lives, we start to believe art is only the product of skill, only made by Michaelangelos. We become reticent about applying art in our daily lives. Art becomes highly ritual64 ized, it becomes a prescribed thing, like Halloween. Art gives people permission. Moral transgression makes people uncomfortable. If separated from life, that permission never transfers, the space for transgression never opens. People could not express themselves, for themselves. Art makes people feel courage. It keeps things moving. I remember I had a professor who told me to keep my livelihood and my art separate. Yes, I know it’s a little idealistic, but it’s true. It’s the only way to keep your art honest. �Interview with Peter Kalkavage The occasion of this interview is the completion of Peter Kalkavage’s forthcoming book, Music and the Idea of the World, to be published in 2024. The conversation has been edited lightly for clarity. *construction noise* Peter Kalkavage: The music of life is often interrupted in that way. <laughter> Colloquy: Yeah, well, the question of tone and noise is one that has been on my mind actually, so maybe we can talk about that. I know that I’m giving a number of prefaces here, but another one before we begin. We’ve spoken before and if you recall, I don’t have any formal musical training, so I might ask you the silly, obvious question to try to get at the heart of something that’s technical. I’m an ideal audience - I’m the innocent reader, as you put it in the preface. Peter Kalkavage: It’s always good to have an innocent reader. The book is like the serpent, tempting you to eat the fruit of knowledge Colloquy: As long as I only have to eat it once <laughter> Colloquy: You mention the fruit in chapter 6. I found this a really difficult chapter, the technicalities, and I haven’t read Doctor Faustus. Peter Kalkavage: This is the chapter on Thomas Mann and Doctor Faustus. Colloquy: I’m curious, well, I’m coming in a roundabout way here because I’m starting at the far end of the book. You say here, this is in reference to Heinrich Kleist’s A Puppet Theater, “The essay ends with a paradox: grace will return, along with lost innocence, only after we eat again of the Tree of Knowledge. The paradox may be Mann’s way of reminding Germany that after its unspeakable sins, any recovery of health will require a full recognition of its descent into hell. It will need to take another bite of the apple.” Peter Kalkavage: Yes Colloquy: I’m wondering, and perhaps this isn’t the best place to get into this, but when you lay out twelve-tone music in this chapter you say that Schoenberg and Webern conceived of its development as health-giving. Peter Kalkavage: Yes, a recovery. Colloquy: A recovery, yes. In Mann’s novel, the nature of Faustian bargain is demonic. How is Doctor Faustus, for you, operating in reference to twelve-tone music? Peter Kalkavage: Excellent question, and that’s a good place to start. First of all, Mann, for one thing, didn’t care about twelve tone music. He didn’t like it, but he threw himself into describing it with amazing accuracy. But I think he would say that contrary to what Schoenberg and the others claimed, it was not health restorative but something corrupting. In fact, it was the exercise of a kind of will to power over the tones, an imposition. And maybe even, as I argue, a musical image of totalitarianism. So, yes, Mann did see that as, not necessarily 65 �adding a demonic element to music, but enhancing a demonic element that for Mann is always there. I try not to take a Thomas Mann stance in the very opening of the chapter so I could present 12 tone music as faithfully as I can. But then once the novel gets going, we see that its claim to health by restoring order is precisely what Mann thinks is connected with, maybe not the source of, but definitely connected with the demonic. Because it’s not a divine order, it’s not a good order, or a beautiful order like the order in Timaeus. Everything Timaeus sang the praises of, Mann is inverting and making it into something devilish. Colloquy: Is it fair to characterize twelve tone music as a human order? Peter Kalkavage: I think one can, but it’s not the human in search of something like a right, natural order, but rather making music what you want it to do. Colloquy: Well, It’s interesting to me. I have some curiosity about twelve-tone music, and I guess I have for a long time. It’s strange for me, since I’m not educated about music, I haven’t really entered into it on the intellectual level of technique and composition. It’s more hearing it and trying to understand ‘what is happening’ and feeling that I want to understand, so I come back and listen to it. I guess on some level, hearing it often, as an organization of sounds, but very strange, mysterious sounds. Peter Kalkavage: Yes, and since you and I are both students of Zuckerkandl, the key – well, I shouldn’t say key – the idea is that all the dynamic qualities are gone. They’re destroyed. The whole point is not to have them because it’s the dynamic qualities, as Zuckerkandl understands them, that establishes a key. That’s where a key comes from. It comes from those pointers. And that’s exactly what you don’t have in twelve-tone. So yes, it seems to me right to characterize as you just did as organized sound, schematic, schematized sound – and so pitches, pitch distances, things of that sort. Colloquy: You refer to it as “a total materialization of music”. It’s a reduction of music to acoustical pitch. Peter Kalkavage: I think that’s right. But then it has musical possibilities that I’m compelled to acknowledge. Colloquy: I’m interested in those possibilities. Peter Kalkavage: I’ve been listening to Alban Berg’s Wozzeck and it’s incredible how he uses twelve tone music to depict, express the most violent passions and events. It’s really a stunning work. He uses it to effect. Berg, as people often say, was more successful at communicating a kind of coherence, if you will, meaning, than either Webern or Schoenberg. I think that’s fair. The Violin Concerto of Berg I think is quite moving. In some ways a beautiful work. But the beauty is coming from sound patterns and again not from a directionality, not what we would call a melody. It’s cerebral. It’s the cerebral character of twelve-tone music wedded to the expression of raw passion. That’s what Schoenberg wanted. And those two things come together in Dr. Faustus with the help of Adorno. Lots of help from Adorno. Mann was able to cast that in terms that are humanly meaningful. Or to put another way, he makes the quest for the abstract humanly important and terrifying. The novelist can do that. It’s extraordinary how he contextualizes twelve-tone music to make it yeah humanly important but forbidding and terrifying because of its implicit inhuman character. Colloquy: I admit, now I want to read Doctor Faustus. Peter Kalkavage: I once did a preceptorial on it some years back, and it attracted the musicians among the students. It went very well. Part of that enterprise was our effort to listen to twelve tone pieces and try to hear what’s there, as it were give them a chance, what kind of music is this, what is its goal, what in it if anything is humanly accessible. But it was a struggle. We listened particularly to Webern who was the purest version of twelve-tone music. 66 �Colloquy: I want to come back to the classroom, given your experience, but before that, you mentioned the cerebral character wedded to the violent passion in twelve-tone music. At one point in Chapter 6, you say that the range of emotional expression is limited. Is that a question of principle of construction or is this personal expression, is this because of Webern, Schoenberg...? Peter Kalkavage: It’s a good question. I think with the twelve tone row, no matter how ingenious you are, no matter how brilliant, there’s only so much you can do with a schematism And if you want to express light experiences, or genuine human warmth, you’re not going to – it’s difficult to imagine the Contessa, in the Marriage of Figaro, sadly lamenting her fate with anything twelve-tone, or Don Giovanni and Zerlina singing ‘Là ci darem la mano’ twelve-tone. It has to be graceful. It has to be light, light as anything, and therefore very seductive. There has to be a sweetness, a lightness, a mock innocence, maybe even a real innocence which is certainty conveyed in the music. I just picked Mozart because he’s the most obvious example of ranges of emotion, and he gets a pretty big range. Now, are there certain things that Mozart’s language either cannot or does not want to express? Yes, past a certain point if violent expression comes into music, it’s no longer music. He writes to his father, ‘everything has to be controlled. It has to be genuinely musical no matter what the passions are doing.’ He more than fulfilled that. There’s a kind of light heartedness, a genuine light heartedness that would be hard to convey. It’s very good for the expression of - it’s very interesting, in the novel and I think Mann is right, it can express parodies very well. You know you can take a waltz and make it into a twelve-tone waltz, so it’s a parody of itself. You can take conventions as Adrian in the novel often does, perfectly conventional things, and make them into caricatures. Colloquy: It has a mask-like quality. Peter Kalkavage: It has a mask-like quality, yes, when it’s not the Schoenbergian raw expression, which Adorno liked. He thought that was the music that was more honest, because it wasn’t so to speak inside of a frame inside of the frame of something like the conventions that he and others thought were falling apart. It’s a fascinating phenomenon – twelve tone music. I find it endlessly fascinating Colloquy: It seems strange that this music was realized that is somehow more appropriate for melancholy, maybe because twelve-tone does seem so cerebral. I mean, it’s not unusual at all to want to listen to certain music when you feel the onset of a mood. There’s nothing strange about that. Peter Kalkavage: Quite right Colloquy: But that a certain composition of music would somehow narrow into that range particularly. Peter Kalkavage: It’s very good for statements of nihilism. Tailored made for it. Now, in the Berg Violin Concerto, it’s genuine grief, I think, made as musical as twelve-tone music can be. He picks a row, a twelve-tone row, that’s very friendly to triads. He manages to get consonances, as it were, smuggled in, because of the row he picks. Every row has different musical possibilities. Colloquy: One of the difficulties with twelve-tone, if I recall, because you don’t get that tension and release, it levels the consonance and dissonance. Peter Kalkavage: Yes, there are degrees. Degrees of consonances, degrees of dissonance. Colloquy: But it’s still possible then, as you say, to smuggle it in, that it’s still possible to fashion this tension and release within the row. Peter Kalkavage: Well, I’m not sure. You can get transitions that are not as jagged, but you’re not going to get 67 �the equivalent of tri-tone resolving to a major chord or something like that. If you did, it was because as a twelve-tone composer, you intended to play a joke. That would be shocking. You might shock your audience by actually putting in a tri-tone that has a dynamic character to it that resolves. But you wouldn’t want to do that a lot. Once and no more, I think. Colloquy: Well, you even say it, that it has the potential to turn these significant features into clichés. Peter Kalkavage: Yes, Thomas Mann had an interesting take on twelve tone music. I have said in general that he didn’t care for it, but he had a more specific way of putting it. He said that in twelve-tone music, ‘I miss the diminished seventh chord’. He’s thinking of the late C minor of Beethoven’s piano sonata with its prominent diminished seventh chord and other things especially by Beethoven. It has its expressive power. It’s two tritones stuck together. Very often they are used for dramatic purposes. In the St. Matthew’s Passion, the crowd screams ‘Barabbas’ they use the diminished seventh chord. And I bring that up because that goes with the idea that there must be a tonal context so that a particular dissonance has a musical meaning. It’s not merely dissonance. It’s a particular kind of disturbance in the field, to use Zuckerkandl’s language. So that’s what Mann is thinking of. Mann is thinking of not so much Mozart but the 19th century romanticism and Beethoven pieces of an especially romantic character that have this high drama of the diminished seventh. But it’s not going to work unless it’s counterposed to consonance. It has to stand out as an effect or the contrast, the effective, pleasing, useful contrast between tension and resolution, dissonance and consonance, for that to work. It can’t be all dissonance. Bach’s chromaticism is another case in point. You’re going to have pieces that are intensely chromatic, but there’s a key. So, tones chromaticism is different from no key. Colloquy: Going back to something you had said about Mann, that he thought twelve-tone music was a corruption.. Peter Kalkavage: Oh yes, and thought it had political implications that Schoenberg had no... they had no – they were writing music that put them on the bad side of the Third Reich. It was called musical bolshevism, cultural bolshevism – I forget what the exact term was, so it’s not as if they were (can’t hear), on the other hand that doesn’t mean they weren’t unconsciously expressing the spirit of the age. Colloquy: I’m interested in this idea that Zuckerkandl suggests and he does it both in Sound and Symbol and The Sense of Music. I think actually we spoke about this in a previous conversation. In The Sense of Music he relates that the development of harmony and polyphony coincide with the development of the concept of space in the Renaissance and Enlightenment. He asks a question in Sound and Symbol that I take as related, “Do we perhaps take time more seriously and know more about it than other periods because we have heard Bach’s organ fantasias, Beethoven’s symphonies, whereas other periods have not?” That we know more about time now than during a period with Gregorian chant. There’s a progression. Peter Kalkavage: Yes. Colloquy: And Schoenberg thought of twelve-tone as a progression. You end your book with a discussion of Poulenc and the return of tonality. Is the return of tonality a return to before twelve-tone, did we have to pass through it? Peter Kalkavage: I don’t think there’s a literal going back to Mozart, but I think you can use tonality as a general musical home in which to do creative and imaginative things. How does Poulenc do it? Very quirky dissonances. As I say in the chapter, the dissonances are embedded in chords that for the most part have a harmonic dynamic function. That function is somewhat muted, and this is part of what I think Poulenc intends. The dissonances he adds to these major or minor chords, it makes them colorful, it makes them interesting, the ear delights in them. There’s something intensely pleasant about dissonances well used. It really is, at least it is in Poulenc. I mean it was Poulenc, conducting his choral music, who taught me how intensely pleasant dissonances can be. They just sit there, and they shimmer. Often this is not all for a diabolical pur68 �pose. Quite the contrary, you want something to sound miraculous and revelatory in a good sense like the Nativity. And so, he’s going to write music that has that scintillation, and you’re not going to get scintillation from a major triad, so he adds dissonances. Sometimes he does this to express boundless joy and exuberance. It adds a kind of Dionysian element to joy that you wouldn’t get from a straight major triad. It’s really astonishing. Poulenc is the one I know best in that tradition. Stravinsky also does things like this. I’m thinking of the Symphony of Psalms. Extraordinary work, but Poulenc I know the best because I’ve conducted him and I’ve thought about him for many years. He strikes me as an especially good example of what a lot of composers were doing in the wake of twelve-tone music - turning away from it. And I think it’s a certain kind of, I wouldn’t call it progress as if it had been going there all along, but it was a reaction. Colloquy: When I brought this up in our previous conversation, you said, maybe I’ll misquote you, but you said something to the effect that they are different worlds, the world of Gregorian chant, the world of Beethoven, the world of serialism. Peter Kalkavage: That’s what I try to capture in my book. The world is nature, the world is history, the world is a cosmos of tones, and the cosmos of words. Those are terms from Doctor Faustus. But there’s also the world or cosmos of an individual piece of music. There’s the world of Mozart, but there’s the world of the Magic Flute, the world of Don Giovanni, they are very different worlds. Colloquy: And your book is titled Music and the Idea of the World – actually, I apologize for asking this question – it should be obvious – because I see that you’ve laid out these various worlds of music and it seems like Zuckerkandl gives you the language to enter into them as a world. You call it a journey, but how is the whole book operating in terms of music and the world? Peter Kalkavage: That’s an excellent question. I must say, as you know, especially with the little conclusion I added to the Mann chapter, that Zuckerkandl is the great influence on everything I say in the book. Not that I’m always in agreement with him, but I’m looking at everything in terms of what he says. Because I find that sparks fly when I do that. Thoughts come to me that don’t otherwise come to me. And so I found that very helpful. It’s also helpful to me to think about how the tonality that Zuckerkandl is describing is not present in Renaissance polyphony in Sicut Cervus, which is atonal you could say, on the other end. Not because it celebrates dissonance, quite the contrary, but because it doesn’t have those urgent, determinately established dynamic qualities – tritones resolving at cadences, a key established, a key change, a key rendered ambiguous. That’s not the way they’re thinking. You have momentary regions of the center. It’s extremely flexible, beautifully so, say in Palestrina or Byrd, and it was enormously helpful to me, always has been, to think about Zuckerkandl’s dynamic qualities not being in full play there. It helped me in a positive way, so I could ask myself if that’s not there, what is? What is polyphony without what we would call tonal harmony, without the functional chords and all that. Well, what you get is Sicut Cervus, what you get is Byrd and Josquin. Those extraordinary composers that you wouldn’t say Sicut Cervus in A flat major. It would be meaningless. Is it more or less in A flat major? Yes, but it’s not as if the chords are intending that to be an explicit structural feature. It has a freedom. It moves in and around A flat comfortably, but it’s not as though it’s interested in going to other keys or using relative major and minor. It doesn’t really do that. So, it’s really quite free in its composition, governed by voice leading and the genius of the composer. But it’s different, so Zuckerkandl’s explanation of tonality isn’t helpful when you turn to the renaissance composers and I’m okay with that. Colloquy: You have a footnote from Adorno that says twelve tone music is contrapuntal in origin. Peter Kalkavage: Yes, it is a return to counterpoint, that is true. And that’s played on greatly in dark ways in Thomas Mann’s novel. And that withering thing that Adorno says, I don’t know where he got this from by the way, I wish I knew, that Bach was a harmonist – apparently, something in one of Goethe’s letters, I don’t know. But Adorno picks it up and so does Mann, it becomes a theme, that Bach is not primarily a contrapuntalist, 69 �but a harmonist, which means that he doesn’t go back far enough to the origins that have to be recovered. Complete independence of parts, not subordinated to vertical structures, that’s how I would understand it, whereas in Bach, the harmony is part of what’s gorgeous about it. Colloquy: In the preface you mention that this book will focus primarily on the union of words and tones, and that instrumental music requires a different kind of inquiry. How would the inquiry be different if you were approaching instrumental music? Peter Kalkavage: That’s a great question too. I don’t really analyze any instrumental music much in the book. But Schopenhauer would be an excellent example of the supremacy of tones without words, of tones over words. It’s the tones, and Nietzsche too, the Dionysian character of Tristan and Isolde is coming from the tones, to which the words are quite subordinate. The words are at the level of the surface world of daylight, but the tones are welling up from the depths, and they take you to the source. The words don’t. That element is in the book, but I don’t really do anything with that, partly because my experience is mostly with vocal music and choral music. By writing the book I learned a lot more about opera than I did before. Musical dramas have now become a major interest for me. But I didn’t have anywhere nearly as strong an interest as I do now that I’ve gone through the book, so it’s changed me. It does make me eager to go to instrumental works and to ask myself: alright, you have this extended inquiry into music and words, that kind of world where the cosmos of tones meets the cosmos of words. What about that cosmos of tone? In what sense is that a world? What pieces would I look at? Maybe Beethoven’s late string quartets. Maybe a Mozart symphony. Certainly, a Beethoven symphony. A Bach fugue. These would be examples that I would want. If I were going to write volume two, it would be about the structure of instrumental pieces that I find deeply moving. Ones I love. You write about what you love. Especially Bach’s fugues. Maybe the Goldberg Variations. That would be very hard. Colloquy: I was listening to some of Glenn Gould’s late contrapuntal radio documentaries and it reminded me of something Zuckerkandl says in The Sense of Music where multiple voices speaking at once produce a cacophony, but multiple voices singing together, produces harmony. Peter Kalkavage: I put it this way in my book: the words are riding on the coattails of the dynamically connected tones. It’s the tones that are making, what would otherwise be chaos, order. They’re distinct because they have their careers, but the career is not in the word, it is in the tones. That’s where the continuity is. It’s in Zuckerkandl’s tonal dynamic continuity, not in the grammar of the words. Zuckerkandl is right about that. He picks something from Verdi’s Otello to make his case, an ensemble piece, though one could do equally from Mozart’s Figaro. Colloquy: This was something that I found difficult with Zuckerkandl. There’s a distinction between words that point to the world of objects, and tone. Peter Kalkavage: I would look at it in a more positive way. In his wonderful essay Words and Tones in Song from Man the Musician, he talks about how tones bring out a meaning and a connectivity, a connectedness in words, that the words can’t do by themselves. This is one of the great questions for me in the book. What can tones do, with words, that words can’t do for themselves? I try to come back to that over and over again whether it’s the beautiful A minor Soprano Aria from Bach, or it’s Tamino’s love song from The Magic Flute, or Poulenc. What the tones are doing to express correspondences and a depth of meaning - not merely adding feeling, but meaning, something in there to be experienced. Perhaps not in a fully articulate way, but nevertheless an enhancement of meaning. Colloquy: I was largely convinced in Chapter 6 the way you presented what happens with twelve-tone, that it becomes material. That it becomes merely sound, in a Zuckerkandl sense, rather than tone. It leads me to wonder whether or not twelve-tone music might capitulate in the face of many of the arguments he puts to the musical experience in the 70 �early part of Sound and Symbol, trying to describe what it is that is meaningful in tones, that allow us to distinguish sense from nonsense in their succession - that it’s not association and habit or something by the objective measure of music. I mean, for Zuckerkandl, maybe you could measure twelve-tone music objectively… Peter Kalkavage: He may actually say something like that. If not, he certainly could. I would agree, so, the registering of pitch. For Zuckerkandl, as you know, tone transcends pitch, and is an immaterial aspect of tones, which are nevertheless external, as you can’t say, ‘Well of course they have something internal. The internal thing is our psyches.’ Zuckerkandl wants to say ‘no’. There’s really an inwardness in the external world and music plugs into that. Akin, I think, to the Timaeus, not in the same way, but that I think it is in this respect, that it assumes the world is somehow ensouled. That there is an interior, an inner life, and music brings out of things. It gives voice to what would otherwise be inarticulate about the world itself, so it’s not just self-expression, but disclosure, discovery, revelation. Colloquy: You chose Timaeus to make that example, not Schopenhauer. Zuckerkandl might suggest Schopenhauer, at least, he does quote him when speaking about hearing the core of the world. Peter Kalkavage: He does, and that’s where I thought I had better put something in the Zuckerkandl chapter about how he differs from Schopenhauer. Schopenhauer is always talking about music as self- discovery. That the modes of will are our modes of will, and we’re finding the core of the world as our core as well. For Schopenhauer the external world is an illusion, and for Zuckerkandl it is most definitely not an illusion. He’s going to champion real externality of the external world. The world is not merely phenomenal. It’s phenomenal but not illusory. So that’s one difference. The other difference is the whole setup, for Schopenhauer music is important because it distracts us from our misery by putting us in touch with the generalized passions and soul conditions that drive us crazy. But we’re not feeling them, Schopenhauer says. When we’re listening to music, we’re not feeling these things, we’re contemplating them. I think he overdoes that. We are feeling. How could we not be feeling? But it’s interesting how far he wants to go in the direction of music as something that takes us away from feeling to aesthetic contemplation. Then Zuckerkandl is going to say that he doesn’t go for pessimism in Schopenhauer. Music is celebratory, life affirming, and the world is not an illusion and music is not just me all over again. 41min What Zuckerkandl means by will is the will of the tones. Now does he also mean the will of the world? I think he does, but he doesn’t get at the negative connotations, the miserable pressure of the will. You won’t find Zuckerkandl talking like that. The will is something positive. This is crude, but Schopenhauer is more the existentialist and Zuckerkandl is more the phenomenologist. That’s not too far off the mark, I think. Colloquy: I do recall in the beginning of Sound and Symbol, he gives the example of the blind and the deaf, and quotes a Baudelaire poem, Rêve parisien I think, about a soundless world. So, there is a possible world that’s actually quite melancholy. Peter Kalkavage: Yes, and he also says Beethoven’s misery was not, so much, not hearing music, but not hearing the world. Not having connections with other people. There’s something poignant about that. I’ve been thinking about this for years. It occurs to me, while I’m looking at a tree, I’m hearing the rustling of the leaves, and how important that second experience is to my experience of autumn. Not just the beautiful look of the trees as they change color, but the sound of the rustling, the sound of the wind. Sound, it’s what our soul wants. We want to see, but we also want to hear. We are open in that way to the world coming to us. We are not looking at it, it comes to us. Sometimes annoyingly when we’re trying to get work done and there’s noise. Sometimes we welcome it because we want to hear what the world sounds like. And it’s very difficult if you can’t hear the sound of your friend’s voices, or the sound of the voice of the person you love. There’s some sense you are profoundly cut off. Colloquy: In Man the Musician he lays out a possible world, the world where we understand the musician as a kind of genius that possesses what others don’t have, namely musicality, and if there are no geniuses, then we seem to have 71 �a real absence of musical values. And that conception of music seems to be a real problem. He says in the preface of The Sense of Music – or I took it this way, that this is why we need to have listeners able to discourse intelligibly about music. This is why, in a sense, why he writes The Sense of Music. Peter Kalkavage: Yes, in Man the Musician he says we have a false idea that the professionals are up there on the stage and we are the happy receptacle of someone else’s genius. But for Zuckerkandl, the origins of music, music in its primordial stage, in its original phase, was communal. Even if you had some member of the group standing out for a moment to sing, he represented the group and then he would come back in, such as in early folk songs. He mentions Gregorian chants. It’s part of a communal celebration. And probably at least implicitly, an attempt to touch the divine, the divine forces at work in nature, or the god you worship, bridging a gap by means of music, praying, celebrating. So, there’s another conception of music that’s important to remember. But, Zuckerkandl isn’t interested primarily in folksong. It’s just important to remember that music started there. He’s interested in art music. Colloquy: Speaking of community, I want to get back to the classroom. Please correct me on these details, but you’ve taught at St. John’s for many years, and you also had some hand in writing the undergraduate music manual. Peter Kalkavage: I wrote some of the things that appear in it having to do with Pythagoreans and the Timaeus. Other people worked on it as well. Colloquy: Right. One thing I’m curious about, and I’m assuming this happens in the classroom all the time, what happens when we don’t understand music? Or to put it more concretely, what happens when we don’t hear, over and over, a theme recurring? That seems to be one kind of understanding. But in a more general sense, what does it mean to understand music? Peter Kalkavage: My first response is an analogy between poetry and music. Especially short poems, they can be remarkably difficult. Do I think it is possible to be moved by that which we do not understand? Absolutely. I can read something, and I’m moved by it, but I can’t – I must have gotten something, but at what level, it’s not at a discursive level for sure. It makes me want to go to the discursive. I want to know what is moving me here. I have that experience with music too. Music though, has an immediacy. Poetry is in that realm of words, so I can read a difficult poem, and maybe I’m moved by it, but my guess is that I stand more of a chance of being moved by music I don’t understand than poetry I don’t understand. But both can happen. There’s something about the immediacy of music that gets to us. It often has a deep effect. Sometimes we’re just utterly perplexed by what we’re hearing, and we know that. What we try to do in the music tutorial is to listen to things carefully, sing them – not just listen to them, but make the music, communally. Make music. It has that in common with the laboratory. You know, the animals we’re studying are pieces of music, and in this case, we get to know them by being them. So, we make the music and we ask, ‘what was going on there?’ Things are revealed in the effort to sing a piece. Say, Sicut Cervus, you discover why it’s hard. You discover causes. What makes it’s so difficult to learn that? It’s not the tones, they’re pretty easy. The timings are hard. Hard syncopations. You’re singing one thing, someone else is singing another. It’s not homophony. Mozart’s Ave verum corpus, on the whole, is a lot easier to sing and learn. There’s an experiential element that has to be there or we’re not talking about music. But then our discursive intellect wants to know what is going on here. What is this thing that we call music? Well, let’s take this particular piece of music, what does it ask of us if we are going to understand it? Do we hear a beginning that’s recognizably a beginning? Is there an end? Do we know when it’s over? Is it just because the music stopped, or is it because something persuaded us that there was a conclusion? What was that? What does motion even mean? This is where Zuckerkandl comes in with his fabulous ‘what is it’ question – ‘What is music?’ ‘What is motion in music?’ And so the effort in the 72 �tutorial and it can be involved quite a strenuous effort just in listening for the things our minds are discovering in the sheet music. You can go both ways. You hear something – I’m always telling my students ‘Don’t just go by the score. Listen to the music and if something stands out, let that be your guide.’ So, it sends you to the score and now you want to look at causes. What produced that effect that so struck me? It can go the other way around. I find a diminished 7th chord and my eyes and mind tell me that. Well, how does that register when I actually hear it? What is its purpose? How does it fit into the whole? But you’re constantly trying to wed, and this can be very hard, analytic elements with experiential ones. The idea is to get them to come together for a fuller understanding of music. It’s hard to do. You have very different levels, not just in background, but levels of receptivity. You really have to make an effort to hear things eventually that you’re not hearing right away. That’s an effort. You have to be open to that, so when you say that you’re not hearing the tension in the raised 7th that Zuckerkandl talks about, well, keep listening. Colloquy: That we have to be persuaded, that reminds me of something Zuckerkandl writes, “Such a [tonal] development makes sense only when we recognize that at certain times composers discover new meanings in tones and gradually persuade the change resistant ears to accept and understand them”. This idea of persuading change resistant ears. This seems provocative given the argument. I would think you wouldn’t be persuaded given that we discern music not through something like habit. Or how does persuasion happen? It’s strange at first to think that change resistant listeners have to be persuaded to accept new meanings in tones. Peter Kalkavage: The perceived ‘oh I didn’t know that could happen’ is not coming from something that is merely psychological. I’m not being re-habituated, but something is being disclosed, a potential that wasn’t there before. The best example is Zuckerkandl’s brilliant discussion of the opening of Tristan and Isolde and the opening Tristan chord resolves to a dominant seventh chord. It resolves to a dissonant chord. And we go, yes that sounds like a resolution. Now, it’s not the same kind of resolution you would get from a tritone going to the five seven chord going to the one, but it does sound like a tension has been resolved. And Zuckerkandl says does that mean we were re-habituated, that we no longer heard it as a tense chord? No, that didn’t go away, but something new was added and it took Wagner, almost like a sorcerer. So it’s not merely psychological persuasion, we are persuaded because it is persuasive. Colloquy: That an act of persuasion has to take place… Peter Kalkavage: And what does it mean to be persuaded? Of course, Plato was very worried about precisely this aspect of music, because if I could use the verb, it persuades the soul, it leads it, it can lead it down some pretty bad roads. Certain modes contribute to disorder, other modes to order. Colloquy: Maybe we can even be persuaded about twelve-tone. Peter Kalkavage: Schoenberg thought we could become habituated to hearing twelve-tone as naturally as we do tonality. Colloquy: If twelve-tone has no tonal center or dynamic quality, then it seems like it could be the case in lieu of Zuckerkandl’s argument against associationism, that well, couldn’t associationism actually be a case for habituation and persuasion. Peter Kalkavage: Right, that you’d get used to it. What would it mean to catch on? Not for the intelligentsia, because they have an ideology in play, but for regular listeners. It’s hard to… well, what do we want out of music? What are the tunes we want to sing and why? Now, can we be habituated to music that is not good for our souls? Yes, we can. I think there has to be something catchy there, maybe perversely so, but nevertheless it has to be catchy, the way one speaks of a disease, it has to be something that infects because it can. It’s inside of us. 73 �Colloquy: Twelve-tone definitely is not catchy. Peter Kalkavage: And it means not to be. It doesn’t seem like the composers were striving for familiarity, but celebrating… well, the unkind way to put it would be to say it’s struggling to be artsy, to be of a higher sort. But that’s not all they’re struggling for. It could be a will to power, a forcing of a certain scheme onto the nature of things. Although, what I come back to is twelve-tone music as music, especially when it’s done by these brilliant composers, does reveal something about the soul and about the world. Maybe not what they thought, but one only has to listen to Berg’s Violin Concerto or Wozzeck, especially. The story and the music go together perfectly. It’s disturbing, but artistically impressive, maybe even beautiful. The fit is perfect: truths of human existence and the world, an authoritarian and brutal world. We’re not just reading about it, we’re feeling it. It’s extraordinary. Berg in his twelve-tone world and Poulenc in his tonal world are both doing some very similar things, getting to the interior of a world and of our souls. Colloquy: There have been many musical developments after twelve tone music, say the development of synthetic sound, experiments in indeterminacy and chance operations, and musique concrete. Does Zuckerkandl still have something to say? These are worlds too. Peter Kalkavage: True, and then I wonder, in a platonic spirit, what do those worlds say about the people who conceived them? But in any case, that’s another ethical, metaphysical question. Well, as you know, for Zuckerkandl: no dynamic qualities, no Zuckerkandl. So, another version of sound, pitch, sound effects, but not, as Zuckerkandl would say, not the tone gestalts that come about only from dynamic qualities. He’s pretty careful in his writings not to say too much about twelve tone music. He says we’ll have to see where it goes. That’s pretty much where he is. Of course, if his dynamic quality is no longer present. What do we have to talk about except pitch? Could that itself be a kind of musical world? Yes. Twelve-tone music is a gorgeous example of that. There are great pieces of music written in that style. Whether I want to listen to them, I can admire them and their structure and their aesthetic goal, I suppose, certainly their ingenuity. We really come back to the question of what music is. That’s where I end up in the book. What is that? What can it sustain? What are the boundaries? Are there boundaries past which music is no longer music? And how to give an answer that’s not parochial? “Well, Bach and Mozart!” Well, but, you have to think outside the box! Colloquy: There’s a sense with Zuckerkandl that maybe music at its height really does only cover certain periods. Peter Kalkavage: I get a strong sense of that from him, but like I say, he’s careful not to go beyond that to make judgments that would be hard to know. It would be hard to know what he would do with that, if there are no dynamic qualities, then where is coherence? Where is tonality? Hard to see that would be music for him. But it is. I think what I’m trying to say is that there are limits to Zuckerkandl. Colloquy: But still a fascinating writer. Peter Kalkavage: Yes. No matter how many times I read it, and I’ve used it in my class for decades, it’s always thrilling to read the opening sections of The Sense of Music. How he gets the question of music, music as a question, out on the table. He dares to ask simple questions. Colloquy: Why is The Sense of Music not taught at the GI? Peter Kalkavage: Yeah, there isn’t a musical segment. It would be interesting, maybe there should be. It is a liberal art. I don’t know what seminar would be. Colloquy: You say it’s the most comprehensive of the liberal arts and we’re missing this in the graduate program. 74 �Peter Kalkavage: Tutors have done preceptorials on music, but it’s not the same as a music segment that would really make music, say music in connection with mathematics, and then there could be something with Zuckerkandl to explore a non-mathematical approach to music. Colloquy: Mr. Kalkavage, thank you very much for speaking with me and I hope we can talk again soon. Peter Kalkavage: Thank you, I’m sure we will. 75 �Memoria 76 �A Toast to the Fall 2022 graduates delivered on behalf of the faculty at the Associate Dean’s Reception, 12 December, 2022. Sarah Benson I know from talking with other colleagues that we can feel a bit guilty on seminar nights around dinner time when it’s hard to be fully present with kids or partners because our minds are already absorbed in the seminar discussion to come and the phrasing of our opening questions. So, having been given a platform in the hour just before seminar, my theme is tonight’s reading: Aristophanes. The Frogs. For those of you reading Jung not Aristophanes for seminar tonight, here’s a synopsis. Dionysus, the god of wine and revelry, laments the poor quality of tragic playwrights in Athens and travels to the Underworld to bring a better poet back from the dead. The poet he has in mind is Euripides, of Medea, Hippolytus, and Bacchae fame, whose tales treat of incest, slander, and adultery and end in dismemberment, cannibalism, and infanticide. Though Euripides, with this resume, seems like the right poet to return to Athens and edify the citizenry, the ghost of Aeschylus also shows up and gets into a verbal skirmish with Euripides. I won’t say who wins. In the play the servant and master get mixed up, turning hierarchies topsy turvy, and there is a chorus of frogs who croak in tragic meter. The play is a comedy. We know this from the first line, when Dionysus’s servant offers to make the audience laugh with some tried and true fart jokes. From that first line the play makes comedy, not only tragedy, its topic. Here’s what I want to suggest. We too, all of us here, participate in Dionysus’s project of bringing dead poets back from the Underworld on Monday and Thursday nights. And the mode in which we do this is in some important ways comedic. Or it should be. I want to offer a brief explanation and praise of these comedic elements of liberal education. Have you heard the one about Thales and the well? I’ll let Socrates tell it. In the Theaetetus, the dialogue that examines how we can know anything, Socrates recounts: They say Thales was studying the stars ... and gazing aloft, when he fell into a well; and a witty and amusing Thracian servant-girl made fun of him because, she said, he was wild to know what was up in the sky but failed to see what was in front of him and under his feet. The same joke applies to all who spend their lives in philosophy. It really is true that the philosopher fails to see his next-door-neighbor; he not only does not notice what he is doing; he scarcely knows whether he is a man or some other kind of creature. The question he asks is, what is Man? The image of the philosopher gazing at the heavens and falling down a hole or slipping on a banana peel is kind of funny. But why? On this I got some help from Henri Bergson, whose On Laughter is a poetics of comedy, investigating its structure and effects as Aristotle does for tragedy. First, Bergson says that we laugh when a character’s own rigidity brings them up short. In Socrates’s example, the servant wouldn’t have laughed if Thales jumped into the well. Second, Bergson says that laughter is an intellectual rather than an emotional response. In a tragedy the fate of Thales should arouse pity and fear, but that would ruin the comedic effect. To laugh at Thales we must be insensitive and distance ourselves from him, however briefly. Socrates uses the story to let would-be philosophers gain some distance and laugh at themselves. Finally, laughter is social. It is a communion of intelligences. Says Bergson, “you would hardly appreciate the comic if you felt yourself isolated from others.” These three aspects of the stumbling block of rigidity, distancing, and the social savoring of the comic are a picture of something that we do for each other in order to learn more about the books and ourselves. Both the Politics & Society seminar that I had with David Pierce and Joshua Laperche in the spring of 2021 and my current Literature seminar with Benjamin Pershall are ones where I was rediscovering the seminar 77 �table after time away; our Politics & Society seminar was the only class I had in person for a year and half at the beginning of the pandemic. Last year I was on sabbatical doing my own thinking and reading. Both these seminars were a reminder of what I find meaningful about our endeavor. What is meaningful, I see, partakes in the comic, even when we’re not laughing. The twin virtues of seminar are to make space for other people while also letting them get in our way. We need to trip over each other and the text sometimes to avoid the illiberal rigidity of Thales or master and servant get mixed up and we become the servants of our fixed ideas. Thales needs company to avoid being absurd. I thank all of you, and our graduates especially tonight, for keeping the faculty company. Here’s to the laughter that shows us what we are, to letting both the texts and our classmates get in our way, and to the newest graduates. May the comic muse never desert you. Brekekekex ko-ax ko-ax! 78 �A Toast to the Tutors, delivered 12 December, 2022. Tanya Fuller Good evening to the present Polity of St. John’s College I had a total meltdown today in preparing this toast, and I did not call my husband, my best friend, nor my pastor - I called one of my St. John’s tutors (who’s name I will not call because I don’t want to embarrass her). Today I did not need a lover, a friend, or a spiritual guide; I needed a tutor. Someone who had been in my place, read the same literature, worked the same Euclidian proofs, tussled with the forms of Aristotle and made it out of Plato’s Cave alive- someone who could guide me back off of the proverbial cliff from which I threaten to jump. I told her how nervous I felt to make this toast. I told her that I did not have enough to fill the prescribed time and that I felt inadequate. And that’s when somehow and suddenly we were translated back centuries to the Grecian Isle of Ithaca. She was the grey-eyed daughter of Zeus and, well, I guess I was that man of twist and turns, my favorite literary character - Odysseus trying to make it home. “Courage!” - she said with eyes afire – “Free your mind of all that anguish now. Come, quick, let’s bury your treasures here in some recess of this haunted hallowed cave where they’ll be safe and sound, then we’ll make plans so we can win the day.” With that the tutor-goddess swept into the cavern’s shadowed vault, searching for hiding-places far inside its depths, while I-Odysseus- hauled my treasures into the cave. The golden evenings on the deck with my family in the cave, the shopping trips with my girlfriends for finespun clothing in the cave, the extra hours at work with my beloved students - all the people and things that my studies required me to stow away for a time while I pursued this MALA degree remained safe in the cave. Once assured that I would return to my normal life soon, the tutor-goddess, Pallas Athena, daughter of storming Zeus sealed the Zoom room with a stone and led the way with a preceptorial opening question. Why are you here? I started to explain why I came to St. John’s. I felt that I was writing an application essay when she redirected me with another question, “No, why are you melted, stuck, not writing out your speech?” Then Jung and his buddy Freud appeared, saying- it’s something from her childhood, trauma, the unconscious. Then Madison joined in about government being a reflection of human nature, and Nietzsche yelled that poets exploit their experiences. I began to unravel, but the tutor goddess placed her shield over me and took a defensive stance, silencing the writers and evoking from me my WHY! I pulled myself up slowly, wiped my tear-stained face and said: “I am here in emotional disarray because of the lions.” “What lions?” She inquired and turned, armed with her spear. I responded: “The ones that tell me my students don’t need great books, they can’t understand the great ideas of history on which civilizations have stood and fallen, liberal arts education is not for my community - those lions.” In an instance another Athena appeared, a little older than the first, and with her where great elephants and corvids swarming overhead - she whispered a poem to me- I joined in: I say, It’s in the reach of my arms, The span of my hips, The stride of my step, The curl of my lips. I’m a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That’s me. The fire that burns in me to teach my students, to guard my students, to join with them in their quest to 79 �learn returned; And I could hear the Negro Poet, Claude McKay reciting, I plucked my soul out of its secret place, and held it to the mirror of my eye, … Contemplating the strange, I’m comforted By this narcotic thought; I know my soul. My two Athenian tutors smiled and said – “She’s got it.” Because I had tutors that invited me to join them on an adventure to think, and rethink, to pose questions and search for my own answers; to learn and understand; they waited for me; they guided me; they discovered with me; and for all of this I am eternally (we don’t know how long that is) grateful. I will return to my community armed with the great ideas and the great books in my heart and on my shelf. Ready to lead seminars and to tutor others that want to be liberated. I will “always keep Ithaca fixed in my mind.” I am grateful to all of the tutors of both Annapolis and Sante Fe campus of the St. John’s College and I invite you all to raise a glass with me, and toast to the tutors of St. John’s College, Thank you. 80 �COLLOQUY St. John’s College, 60 College Avenue, Annapolis, Maryland Spring 2023 Colloquy is a biannual publication of the Graduate Student Council and St. John’s College in Annapolis, Maryland. The journal is free of charge. Students, tutors, and alumni of St. John’s College and the Graduate Institute are encouraged to submit their manuscripts in .doc or .odt format by email to colloquy@sjc.edu. The journal also accepts submissions of poetry, original art, and photography. Please include your name, contact information, and the title of your work with your submission. The views and opinions expressed in the journal do not necessarily reflect those of St. John’s College, the Graduate Council, or Colloquy. Address correspondence to: Colloquy, The Graduate Institute at St. John’s College, 60 College Avenue, Annapolis, Maryland, 21401. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Covers, Aschely V. Cone 2, Melissa Moore 3. Kelly Custer 4, Louis Petrich 7, Jeffrey Boatwright 9, Leith Dagistani 10, Charmaine D’Souza 12, Sydney Rowe 13, Nick Younes 15, Roth Boaz 16, Jay A . Gould 19, Andrew Ross 23, Quinn Rifkin 25, Abdullah Wadood 27, Jesse Claget t 28, Ansley Green 29, Walker Rogalsky 33,Louis Petrich 38, Sam Hage 40, Jules Spiese 42, Siobhan Petersen 49, Benjamin Crocker 59-61, Aschely V. Cone 63, Peter Nesbet t/ Abdullah Wadood 65, Peter Kalkavage/ Jesse Claget t 77, Sarah Benson 79, Tanya Fuller 81 �� 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 Colloquy Description An account of the resource A student-run journal for the Graduate Institute community of St. John's College in Annapolis, Maryland. The issues feature essays, art, poetry, interviews, and more. 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 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 pdf Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 84 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 Colloquy, Spring 2023 Description An account of the resource Volume XII of Colloquy, published in Spring 2023. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Clagett, Jesse (Editor) Wadood, Abdullah (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 2023 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 Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived English Subject The topic of the resource St. John's College (Annapolis, Md.)--Periodicals Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Colloquy_Spring2023 Graduate Institute