1 20 453 https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/71f5edf44878427a1391ee4fe3f9f708.pdf c25446cfc18c1695f957b6add93a871c PDF Text Text HISTORY AND THE LIBERAL ARTS ---~<----- BY )ACOBKLEIN ---~--- �HISTORY AND THE LIBERAL ARTS by Jacob Klein Friends and enemies of the St . John's Program, visitors to the College and many of its alumni often raise the question: why is History neglected in the St. John's curriculum? They point to the obvious contrast between the chronological order in which the ••Great Books" are re a d and the remarkable lack of historical awareness displayed by the students . The time has come , I think, to deal with this question e xte nsively . I p ropose to do tha t in this lecture. Let us reflect on the role and significance of History in a libe ral arts cirriculum. * * * * * * * * * The fir st , rather simple, statement that can be made is this : Man, having the ability to understand and being inquisitive by nature, wants to explore everything that he sees about him -- the various plants and animals, the stars and the clouds and the winds, the surface of the earth, the rivers and the forests and the stones and the deserts. Whethe r this p reoccupation stems from h is inunediate and urgent need, whether his inquisitive attitude is merely an extension of his concern to provide the necessities o f life for himself, whether it is the manifestation of his very nature or simply idle curiosity, need not be discussed at this point . Whatever the origins of this desire, man wants to find out, to figure out , to know. In this sense, then , man may be said to be inquisitive not only about what surrounds him, at the present time, but also about the future: he wants to know what is going to happen to him as well as to everything else around him. And finally he wants to know what happened in the past. Out of this latter desire, we may somewhat naively say, grows History, i.e., the exploration of the past, the finding of the pas t, the description of what has happened in the recent as well as in t he most remote past . Curiously enough, as you know, the Gr eek word historia means originally , exploration of any kind. Gradually it came to mean, even to the Greeks, the exploration of the past and the description or narration of past events. Thus we have History, i.e. , historical books: Herodotus, Thucydides, chronicles of all kinds, histories of Europe, America , India, of Guatemala , of the city of Annapolis, of the Universal Postal Union , of St. John ' s College, of the Imperial Palace in Peking . Such histories may be more or less correct . Descriptions of events must be checked as to their accuracy .with the help of all the evidence available: books, old records, letters, inscriptions, etc. Special skills in exploring and checking the evidence must be developed. Historical science and the methodology of historical science become a branch of knowledge; history can be taught and learned . Departments of History and archives �- 2 - are established. Historical journals come into being, dedicated to the improvement and enlargement of historical knowledge. All this circumscribes what may be called the domain of History. Is this, then , what History is? You sense immediately; this is not quite i t , this is not a sufficient description of History and what History means . First of all , there isaspecial emphasis in the pursuit of History which is lacking in other branches of learning. Take the science of geology , f o r e xample. However important and interesting its investigations and findings might be , this science does not make universal claims , it r estricts i t self to a definite domain . There is no such thing as a " geological approach " to any given problem . And y et there always seems to be an " historical approach" to almost any kind of problem in a lmost any field . Secondly , it is not quite correct to state that history is the des crip tion and narration of past events . Not e verything that is past is "historic" . That one of us here went to Washington or to San Francisco last week or some time ago does not necessar i ly belong to any history . It might , though . From a c e rtain point of view, with regard t o a n event we judge a s ignificant one , we can - - retrospctively -- recognize the importance of e v e nts whi ch lead to that significant one . Nobody, i n d eed , ever assumed that all events and happenings a r e equally important and significant and could become r ecorded in history books . Even Tolstoy who formulated the idea of an all- comprehensive history , based on integrat ion procedures i n the face o f i n finite series of minute e v ents, of historical infinite s imals, as it were, did that mere l y to reduce hi story thus understood to absurdity . All wri t ten and traditional h istory is based on a principle of s elect i on. This mean s that we must have -- a nd in fact do have -- some y ardstick to measure the significance and importance of events whatever history we may b e writing. It is not too difficul t to discern thes e yardsticks in Herodotus o r Tacitus o r Gib bon, f or example; more di f ficul t perhaps , b u t not impossible, to discover them in Thucydides. We can even venture t o s ay that in g eneral the yardstick is provided e i ther (a) by the consideration of the present state of affairs , the salient features of which want to be traced back to their origins , in a sort of genealogical procedure, or (b) b y the desire to derive a lesson for the future either from mistakes and failures or from exemp lary actions in the p ast, which desire leads to what has been called, since Polybius, pragmatic history. Sometimes both kinds o f yardsticks a re combi ned. I say that both the universality of the tendency to subject any theme to an historica l investigation and the selecting of events or facts to be dealt with historicall y -- help us to win a better unde rstanding of this hunian enterprise called History. This ent erpri s e does not seem to be grounde d in an inherent property of events o r facts that permits us t o arrange t h e m i n a seque nce, a n histori cal sequen c e , but seems rather to depend on a certain way of looking at things which stamps them i nto an historical pattern . One might be tempted to apply Kantian terminology to this phenomenon -- and people have actually done so --: there might be something of an historical a priori, a form of our think- �- 3 - ing that inescapably leads us to see things in an historical perspecti v e . Let us consider this for a moment. Let us beware though lest we indulge in an empt y , if easy , construction . As far as pragmatic history is concerned , the solution is based on our sense of moral virtues or our understanding of practical maxims of condu ct . Hub0:s versus Moderation , Tyranny versus Freedom, false hopes and foolish fears v ersus p rudence -- these are presented and p o i nted out to us i n the unfolding drama of historical successes or cata strophes . Here , then , the historical scene is merely the enlargement of our d aily life , providing us with grea t examples in large script . History in this sense i s founded on completely "unhist o rical" points of v iew . That is why t his kind of history wri ting does not constitute a specific domain l ike Phys ics or even Poetry. Note that Aristotle, the great systematizer of h uman knowledge, in t he face of such history -the only one he knew - - did not treat it as a pragmateia , a discipline in its own right . The same Aristotle who investigated , defined, elaborated on every conce i vable a r t and science : grammar, logic, physics, botany, zoo logy, astronomy, the ology , psychology, politics, eth i c s, rhetoric , poetry, did not e laborate on history , although he so oft en pre f aces his investigations with a review of the position s and opinions he l d in the pas t . I conclude: ther e is no histori cal a priori in pragmatic h is tory . The same h o lds true of the gene alogical t ype of hist ory , a lthough n ot in the same way . The very n otion of genealogy comprises n~t ion s of origin, source , development, more gene r al lly , the notion o f a temporal order. But t h ese notions are n ot stri c tly historical one s . They also determine oul. und ers t anding of b iological p h enomena , or mor e general l y , the phenome na of change . They are not constitutive categories of historical e xper ience . They are operative in any myth, they help to picture the growth and t he decay of i nstitutions, t he e xpans i on of domi nion and power'. b u t the emphasis is on the nat ure of those institutions arid the ove rwhelming character of that power . The base s of this typ e of hi s t ory, exemp l ified in Polybius and the Roman historians, a re still unhistorical, mostly l egal a nd political. But when we turn to that universal tendency to view things historica l ly, to use the h istorical approach in almost a ny field , the p icture changes. I t seems , indeed, as if h ere the form o f History s hapes the material under consideration so as to ma k e anything we look at assume hi storical c lot h ing, as if the very bas i s of our looking at things we re we hear i t so o f ten -- History itself . When, a mome nt ago, I d e nied that thi s was the case in pragmatic and genealogical history , I implicitly asswned , by way of contrast, the possibility of such a view. The question, then, is whether this h is torical way of l o oking at things is itself a necessary form of o u r understanding. One way of answering this quest ion would b e t o app l y the following test: can we approach and solv e this problem hi storical ly? �- 4 - The pragmatic and genealogical types of history are the only ones known in antiquity and the understanding of the nature of history corresponds to them. But a new understanding of history begins with the advent of Christianity . Let u s consider briefly in wh at it c onsis ts . I shal l use two outstanding examples: Augustine and Dante. Augustine, in the City of God (XV-XVIII) , gives a Worl d History based on a fundamental distinction. Mankind consists of two parts: there are those who live according to Man , i . e., in sin , and those who live according to God ; there are two communities , the c ity of men and the city of God. The l atter is in the making and after the Second Ad v ent will become the everlasting kingdom of God . The ear thly city will the n be destroyed and its inhabitants will join Satan . As long as this world exists , both cities are intertwined. Augustine distinguishes six ages : 1) from Adam to the De1uge ; 2) from Noah to Abraham ; 3) from Abraham to David (the "prophe tic age " ) ; 4) from Davi d to the Babylonian captivity ; 5) from the Babylonian captivity to Jesus Christ ; 6) f rom Jesus Christ to the end of this world . This universa l history is conceived mainly in terms of the Biblical account ; but the great oriental kingdoms , as we ll as Greece and the Roman Empire , have their place allocated in the gen eral flow . This i s not a "Phi losophy of History "; it is rather His tory itself , i. e ., the description of succeeding ages according to God ' s providential ordering of all events . The important thing for us to note is that historical succession itself, the fact of History , the fact that men's lives weave the History of the World, is not an accidental property of t hose lives but their very essence . Our and our fathers ' years have flowed through God's eternal To-day , says Augustine in the Confessions : "from this everpresent divine 'To-day ' the past generations of men received the measure and the mold of such being as they had; and sti ll othe rs shall flow away, and so receive the mold of their degree of being. " History, t hen , reflects the essential temporality of man , but reflects no less the eternal timeless pattern of his being . In following up the chain of historical events we do not select signif icant links. We follow God ' s providential plan. Our historical perspective is our view of an eternal order, just as the flow is our way of incomplete existence. For us to "exist" is identical with to "exist historically". But that, again , means that our existence spreads out in time the timeless pattern of God's wisdom. This is neither pragmatic nor genealogical history . It is, one might say, symbolic history . History presents the symbols that unfold in succession the eternal relations between creation , fall, redemption , and salvation. Let us turn to Dante . Here , again , we see a World History conceived in terms of God's timeless providential pattern . History is the sinister chronicle of man's fall pursued through all generations of men . The Greek and Roman worlds occupy a far more important place in this chronicle than that of Augustine. The horrors of Thebes more than those of Babylon indicate the complete abnegation of God's grace . It is not �- 5 - the contrast between the city of Men and the city of God which determines Dante's general view of historical events, but rather the contrast and intertwining of God's spiritual and God's secular order, of Church and Empire. The secular order, stenuning from God, reflects but is not identical with the spiritual order . Troy and its destruction are symbols of man's pride and man's fall . "And it happened at one period of time , " Dante writes in the Convivio, " that when David was born, Rome was born, that is to say, Aeneas then came from Troy to Italy .•• Evident enough, therefore , is the divine e lection of the Roman Empire by the birth of the Holy City (i.e., Rome), which was contemporaneous with the root of the race from which Mary sprang." The history of the world is here a kind of symbolic duplication of the spiritual history of man. It is by this very nature, as in Augustine , two-dimensional. Or , to put it in different words, the horiz~n of this kind of history, or better , of t his kind of historian , is dot historical. In this respect this kind of history is akin to the pragmatic and genealogical kinds . Here , again, it is worth noting : the primary liberal disciplines listed by Dante i n the Convivio and linked to the ten heavens of the world (the spheres of the Moon, Mercury, Venus, Sun , Mars, Jupiter , S aturn , and the sphere of the fixed stars , the primum mobile and the Empyrean Heaven) a r e Grammar , Logic , Rhetoric, Arithmetic, Geometry, Music, Astronomy , Physics and Metaphysics, Ethics, Theology. History is not one of them. When Machiavelli and Hobbes dethrone classical philosophy and revert to pragmatic history as the best teacher man can have in planning and conducting hi s life, they still cling to a two-dimensional h istory to build the i r own political philosophy . But now the scene changes : Vico's New Science marks a new beg inning. Like Machiavelli and Hobbes he defies all preceding philosophy . He bases his work on the fundamental (Leibnizian) distinction: the true and the certain . Wh a t is true is corruuon and therefore abstract . Wha t is certain is the par ticular, the individual, the concr ete. "Certum and commu:ne a r e opposed to e ach other." The philos ophers pursue what is common. They lack certainty . Only history (which includes philology) deals with the certain. The most certain for us is that which we ourselves have made, the facta, the facts . "The world of civil society has certainly been made by man; its principles are therefore to be found within the modifications of our own human mind. Whoever reflects on this cannot but marvel that the philosophers should have bent all their energies to the study of the world of nature, which, since God made it, He alone knows; and that they should have neglected the study of the world of nations or civil world, which, since man had made it, men could hope to know." Vi co sets out to fulfill this hope . This is the scope of his New Science. It is historical by definition. The historian looking at �- 6 - man-made worlds can understand their innermost core . He will t hus attain a more certain truth than the philosophers ever coul d : he will discover "the common nature of nations " or the "ideal eterna l history" of nations e stablished by divine providence . The New Science will thus be "a rational civil theology of divine provide n ce. " "S i n ce divine prov idence ha s omnipotence as minister, it dev elops its orders by means as easy as the natural customs of rnPn." This also me a ns that this science i s a " his tory of human ideas" &l ot a philosophical reflec t ion on ideas). There are recurrent cycles in the history of nation s that always comprise three stages : the divine , the heroic, the human . The p roper field of the h i storian is the c ustoms of men, their institutions , their laws, their writings, their p o et ry. In understanding them he under stands truth that is certain -- truthful certainty -- preci sely what the philosophers are unable to accomplish. At first it seems as if history in Vico's understanding pres erved its two-dimens ionality, since the objects o f his findings are the "universal and external orders establi shed by providence". But the se or,ders do not exist outside of time . Divine providence is not the provident ial plan of salv ation anymore. Vice's h i story is bent on finding the laws governing the human world i n contradistinction to the laws governing the wo rld of nature . Historical rea lity with i ts recurre n t stretches is one- dimensiona l. On the other hand, the histor ian c; l one is now the true philosopher . The methods of inte rpreta ti on and of philology he has to use constitute a~ organon comprising a xioms, def init ions and specifi c rules of infe rence . In other words : Vi co 's work competes with the work of Natural History, with t he work of Mathematical Phy s i cs . We have here a rather amazing historical fact before us . Le t u s remember . Towards the end of the 16th century a re-interpretation and recons ideration of the traditional, "class i cal", mathematical sciences led to the est2.blishment of Al gebra, a hitherto obscure ar.d "vulgar" d i sc i pline neglected by al l recognized ins titution s of learning, as the eighth Liberal Art Its progress coincides with the development of a new s ymbolic di sci~ line, understood as Un iversal Mathematics , a n e w and powerful instrume nt of human knowledge which is meant to rep l ace the traditional Aristotelian Organon . The science of nature becomes mathematical physics, begins to domin ate al l human understanding and gradually transforms the conditions of human life upon thi s earth. The only force opposing t his deve l opmen t i s Hi s tory with its claim to universality, f i rst attributed to i t by Vico and mai ntained with increased vigor to this moment. I t is significa nt, I think, t h at Vico's idea of an "ideal eternal h i story" i s a derivative of the idea of a Universal Mathematics, a s hadow, as it were, that the latter casts . As Unive rs a l Mathematics is to all speci f ic mathemati cal disciplines so is t h e "ideal eternal history" to all speci fi c histories of nation s. But this parallelism between Universal Mathematics and Universal History is to be understood in the light of the distinction between that which is " abstractly true " and t h at which is " concrete ly certain". Th e new s cie nce of Mathematical Physics leaves the natural experience of nature far behind: all that is concrete vanishes behind a scre en of mathematical symbols . Any teleology loses its meaning . The new science of History tries �- 7 - to restore the dignity of the concrete, fills the gap between the abstract symbolic understanding of nature and the immediate human experience of the world around us. It cannot dispense with the notions of means and ends . It is the distinction between the true and the certain which underlies the familiar and superficial distinction between Science and the Humanities. The latter are conceived as insepearable from History, can only be approached in historical perspective , come actually to life only in the medium of History. Since Vice, the idea of an eternal pattern of history , a vestige of the original Christian understanding, although occasionally forcefully advanced , has been generally abandoned. The emphasis is on the deve l opment of what has been called the historical sense . Three consequences follow . First , the fascination with the 'b therness" of the past : the discovery or reconstruction of cultures and civilizations "different" from ours , each with a different " sense of values " ascertainable in customs, institutions , works of art , architecture , literature, philosophy , religion. This very notion of an autonomous " c ulture " underlying the various manifestations of human activity can arise only within an historical horizon . Truth itself becomes a function of " cul ture" the existence of which appears a certain fact; "re lativity of values" becomes inevitably the concomitant of the historical perspective. Secondly, the sense of participating in the relentless historical flow makes observable trends the guide of our actions . The acceptance of events and doctrines that are supposed to follow the "historical trend" is one of the most potent causes for the predicament in which European nations have found themselves in recent decades. The impact of Marxism which goes unde r the name of historical materialism and the reaction to it derive their strength from the historical sense projected into the future . The Gallup Poll is one of the most r ecent and ridic ulous e xamples of this preoccupation with trends . Thirdly, a man understands himself completely as an historical being . "Histori city " becomes his very nature , but not in the sense that it reflects some timeless pattern. His Self disintegrates into a series of socially, and that means historically, conditioned reflexes. Historicity does not means Tradition. To see our selves as historical beings means to break the invisible traditional ties in which we live . At best, tradition then becomes a romantic notion, at worst, an academic phantom. If we consider the disciplines taught in our schools, it is easy to see that all natural sciences are patterened on the model of mathematical physics . The idea 0£ a universal ma'.:he1natics as the new organon of all science, however , dies away. On the other hand , all the disciplines within the realm of the humanities have become historical to the v ery core . The study of literature, philosophy , religion, music, and the fine arts , for e xample , is almost exclusively the study of the �- 8 - hi.s tory of li.terature, the history of philosophy, the history of religi.ons., the hisotry of music, the history of art. Field s o f study of a more practical applicability as, for example , languages, political science and economics , retain a certain autonomy . The theoretical dignity they may have , howeve r, is safeguarded only by his torical considerations or, for that matter, by methods borrowed from mathematical physics. I t seems, then , that Mathematical Physics and History divide betwee n the mse lves, in a fairl y exhaustive way , the r u le over the e ntire domain of huma n knowle dge. Does this permit us to consider them as two necessa ry ways and forms of our unders t anding? If this be so , Mathematical Physics and History would come clos e to being the two Liberal Arts of the modern age. A.ny liberal art s curriculum ough t then to conce ntrat e one these two great bodies of learning in ke eping with the tre nd of e vents and in p repar ing s tudents to follow i t f ur ther . At thi s point , we can pause and ref lect on the results we have reached . As to MAthemat ical Physics, the task b e fore us is clearly not the tracing of its hi~torical development. We hav e rather to understand the methods and the nature of t he concepts that have made this development possible. We have to understand t he specific use made of mathe matical symbols, the relat ion of mathematical deduction to veri f ying e xperiments , the relations between observations , hypotheses , theory and truth. That is indeed wha t we are try ing to do in our Mathematics Tutoria l s and in the Laboratory. And i f we do not do that full y and in the most satisfactory manner, we have to improve our ways. The danger we ·a r e running in this case is the very same that has threatened t he integrity of scientific understandi ng since the 17th century and which has barely begun to be warde d off in r ecent developments : the d anger to confuse the s ymbolic means of our understanding wi th reality itself. If we turn to History, we have f irst to r emember the ques tion which gave rise to the p rec eding historical account. The que stion was: is the historical way of looking at t hings a necessary form of our understanding? The answer - - in the per spective of History -- is in the negative: the universal historical app roach is itse lf a product of , and presumably nothing but a phase in, an historical development , which cannot claim any absolute validity, no matter how "natural" and familiar it seems to us at the pre sent moment . We have to recognize, moreover, the possibility of a dangerous confusion similar to t he one I have mentioned with regard to Mathematical Physics . The results of historical investigations based on specifi c historical concepts and methods of interpretation ought not to be confused with the real picture of a real past. Not to see t hat, means to surround us with a pseudo-historical horizon of almost mythical quality so as to make us talk glibly of "Greek culture ", "medieval times ", "Renaissance", the "Seventeenth Cen- �- 9 - tury", the "Age of Enlightenment", etc. Such pseudo-mythical notions are usually i.n the minds of people who recommend that we take into account the proper "historical background" whenever we read and discuss a Book. The assumption behind this recommendation is a rather naive one, to wit, that in the effort we make to understand a Book or a series of Books we could fall back on an objective and certain datum, the general culture in which the ideas expressed or propounded in those books are rooted and from which they derive their strength and intelligibility. We ought to see instead that the commonly accepted picture of an historical period is largely due to an interpretation of the content of books and other documents which presupposes in the first place the ability to deal with gramatical patterns, to discern rhetorical devices, to grasp ideas in all their implications. In point of fact, the main task of any historian is of necessity the interpretation of whatever data he may collect. The art of interpretation and all the other arts which minister to it depend on the understanding of the function of signs, of the complecity of symbolic expressions, and of the cogency of logical relations. To understand a text is not a simple matter . To arouse and to cultivate this understanding is one of the primary tasks of our Language Tutorials. More than anything else, more, certainly, than the historical sense fed so often on sheer ignorance, an improvement of our interpretative skills could help foster genuine historical research and writing. We may ultimately get to see that the problem of History is itself not an historical problem. It follows, then , that in pursuing these goals we should ignore history's claim to universality, ignore History itself, if you please, in order to devote our full attention to the development of all the arts of understanding and all imaginative devices man can call his own. It takes courage to pursue a rather narrow and steep path hardly visible from the highways of contemporary learning. But let us remember the inscription on the old seal of the College: No path is impassable to courage. The reward may be high. � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>.  <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5&amp;sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&amp;sort_dir=d">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a> or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context formallectureseriesannapolis 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. 9 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 History and the Liberal Arts Description An account of the resource Typescript of a lecture delivered June 5, 1953, by Jacob Klein as part of the Formal Lecture Series. The typescript was printed by the St. John's College Press and sold in the college's book store around 1965. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Klein, Jacob, 1899-1978 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 1953-06-05 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource The Greenfield Library holds the literary rights to Jacob Klein's work. Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Subject The topic of the resource Education--Philosophy--History History--Study and teaching Education, Humanistic Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context lec Klein 1965 Friday night lecture Tutors https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/02c2060d67ead06fb17bb4cfc0ad2ea2.mp3 b5a5c005ba2e44f484ee925bc2de0385 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>.  <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5&amp;sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&amp;sort_dir=d">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a> or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context formallectureseriesannapolis Sound A resource primarily intended to be heard. Examples include a music playback file format, an audio compact disc, and recorded speech or sounds. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data compact disc Duration Length of time involved (seconds, minutes, hours, days, class periods, etc.) 00:39:58 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 The habit of violence Description An account of the resource Audio recording of a lecture delivered on January 10, 1959 by Stringfellow Barr as part of the Formal Lecture Series. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Barr, Stringfellow, 1897-1982 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 1959-01-10 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this recording. Type The nature or genre of the resource sound Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource mp3 Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context lec Barr 1959-01-10 Friday night lecture Presidents https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/50f23710ab61759c567a7fb8477afe9a.pdf f61d04b7862210970082476f1c0e3910 PDF Text Text ARISTOI'LE (An Int~oduction)* by Jacob Klein I Many, many years ago, I attended a series of lectures on Aristotle 1 s philosophy. The lecturer began his exposition as follows: "As regards Aristotle himself, as regards the circumstances and the course of his life, suffice it to say: life in philosophizing, and died"• most appropriate: Aristotle was born, spent his This beginning seemed to me !~ for Aristotle means to us, indeed, nothing but what we know of him, or fancy we know of him, as of a man engaged in that extrav@gant enterprise which, since Pythagoras (aecording to the tradition), has borne the name of "Philosophy". There is a difficulty, though. Whenever we try to understand what Aristotle is saying, we st11GD.ble upon something that we simply cannot ignore, and that is that his words bring up the words of another man who was his teacher and bore the name of Plato. There is no alternative: we have to face that peculiar circumstance in Aristotle's life. It is pretty certain that, at the age of 17 or 18, Aristotle joined the community founded by Plato outs~de the walls of Athens and called (from i t s geographical location) the Academy. He stayed there until Flato died, that is, for about 20 years (367 • 347). following 13 years he taught ~or In the a while in Asia Minor and was invited to tutor a young Macedonian prince who later became lmown as Alexander the Great. In 334 he returned to Athens and established, again outside the walls of the city, a spot of leisure, that is of study, called the LycetlDl. Not being a citizen of Athens, he could not own this place. He mer ely t aught there. About a year before he died, it pleased the *Enlarged version of a Formal Lecture delivered April 20, 1962 �- 2 - city of Athens to accuse him of impiety, that is, of undermining the city's life. Aristotle decided to leave Attica rather than stand trial. He is supposed to have said on that occasion that he did not want the Athenians to commit a crime against Philosophy for the second time. !!El£ Born in Stagira (Thrace) 384 (with approximate dates) Academy 367 - 347 '--· -----;----' 20 Lyceum Death 334 - 323 322 Abroad 347 - 334 '----,,.---·' 13 ·- -- y - - - ' 11 Now, if we look at what is known as The Works of Aristotle, we cannot help being amazed by both their bulk and their diversity. These works have come down to us in nearly the same condition in which they were edited by Andronicus of Rhodes in the first century B. c. There are all kinds of stories concerning the way they came to be edited. shall omit them. I We do know, at any rate, that this edition did not contain a series of other works attributed to Aristotle and not available to-day, except for the book entitled "The Athenian Constitution" the text of which was found in 1880. Above all, that edition did not contain - and was not supposed to contain - a series of genuine works Of l:ristotle, Dialogues, Epistles, and also compositions in verse, already published and well known in antiquity. fragments of them. We possess only a few As to the body of Aristotelian works available to us, it consists, beyond any doubt, of some of the material directly related to the lecturing and studying which went on at the Lyceum and presumably also at other places where Aristotle taught. Parts of that material are lectures or treatises composed with great care; but other parts are more or less loosely conjoined treatments of topical themes, �notes, perhaps mer~ compositions. There are, on the one hand, different and sometimes abstracts from, or comments on, more original irreconcilable versions of one and the same theme, and, on the other hand, identical passages re-occurring in different contexts. You have a sheet detailing the body of Aristotelian Teaching as it has come down to us since its publication by Andronicus of Rhodes. (Some of the listed works are of doubtful authenticity ••• ; some are incomplete ••• ) It seems not unimportant to note that all these writings, the listed ones as well as the lost ones, can hardly have been produced in the 11 years of the Lyceum period, during which short period, incidentally, Alexander succeeded in conquering a world. The writings con- cerning the classification, the physiology and anatomy of animals alone must have required many, many years of study and observation on the part of quite a few people. It is even doubtful whether the tremendous effort to which the extant Aristotelian writings as well as the titles of the lost ones testify can be thought of as confined within the limits of the 24 year period between 347 and 323. It seems more reasonable to conceive of that effort as having begun in the Academy period, long before Plato's death. We have indeed, some evidence to that effect. It is undeniable, furthermore, that Aristotle and those who assisted him in his work utilized studies made before Plnto's days. But it is still true that everything we read in that collcctio n of Aristotelian writings bears an unmistakable stamp: terms in which it is written. the language and the peculiar lfuB.tever the degree of incoherence or coherence in the body of Aristotelian writings, their language has always the same characteristic mould. And, what is more, the shadow of Plato is always perceivable in them. �As you undoubtedly know, classical scholarship, in the last 150 years, has concentrated on the task of finding the correct chronological sequence of the Platonic dialogues. brought to a more or less successful end. This task has indeed been Let us not forget, however: it is one thing to establish the chronological order of the dialogues and quite another to understand what they are about, what they repre• sent, what they say and do not say, and why they do so. To interpret the chronology of the dialogues as mirroring the development of Plato's own thinking - even under the assumption that such a development did actually occur - is a sign of considerable naivete or of no less considerable rashness. More recently, the attempt has been made to construetthc development of Aristotle's thinking and to distinguish a so-called "Platonic period" in Aristotle's life from a post-Platonic and finally an anti-Platonic phase. Granted that !1ristotle's thinking must have had a history, granted that what we call his philosophy did not spring out of him as Pallas il.thena did out of Zeus' forehead, the evidence presented by his work, fragments and all, is far from sufficient for establishing and delineating with any degree of accuracy such stages of his thought. Two things, however, are overwhelmingly clear: 1) the basic postulates of I ristotle's thinking are to be found in what we conceive to be Platonic - and Socratic - philosophizing; 2) there is an unshakable unwillingness on Aristotle's part to follow Plato's lead in certain crucial respects. It is safe to say, I think, that fristotle's relation to Plato is a supreme example of the true pupil-teacher relationship: the pupil's unswerving loyalty to his teacher manifests itself in the pupil's commitment to Truth, even if that commitment makes the pupil reject the teacher's teaching. Let us hear Aristotle �- 5 - himself on that subject. About to begin an investigation into what is meant when people talk about "The Good", Aristotle remarks that such an investigation is ''distasteful" to him because it involves "men dear to him" ( qdA.o t. avbp E g who introduced the doctrine of "ideas" (i;?x €Lbfl ), that is - to use the Latin term - the doctrine of "species", or - to use the equivalent English term - the doctrine of "looks". on to say: These men are Plato and his followers. Aristotle goes "But - for those pursuing philosophy, at least - it would seem that it is probably better and, to safeguard the truth, even necessary to go against the grain; for, beth one's friends~ the truth,, being dear to one, it is right and proper to give greater honour to truth". "friends" (cp O.o 1. The companions in the .Academy called themselves )• In an Elegy, a fragment of which has been pre- served, Aristotle speaks of an altar dedicated to "holy Friendship" and unmistakably refers to Plato (without naming him) as to a "man whom even to praise bad men have no right". Let us, then, keep in mind this exam.plary relation of Aristotle, the pupil, to Plato, the teacher, in trying to understand Aristotle's own way. II It would be ridiculous, you will agree, to try to encompass, in a lecture like this one, the sum total of Aristotle's philosophy. All I can do is to point to • I should rather say, to hint at • some of the fundamental features of this vast edifice. Let me first put up a somewhat simplified table of .Aristotle's main themes indicated by the following terms: �- 6 cpt10'LG 'td( L {; (nature) -t:w~ (life) cxv9pwn:o~ - 'tl!XVf} •. A.dyoG. (soul) -vou<; ( •••• ) (order) -xcfoµo<; {world) i (man) (art) ( •••• ) None of these terms is specifically "Aristotelian". They are Greek words commonly used in a somewhat confused and ambiguous way. In Aristotle they acquire - to a large degree - an uncommon and unambiguous significance. Let us look at them. Unavoidably, we have to begin with A.dyo£ • The principal and rt/ inext±guishable meaning of this word is speech. We mean by speech ( - you, and I, and everybody - ) a sequence of sounds uttered by somebody in such a way as to be understandable to others. The verb "to understand" refers primarily - if not uniquely - to speech. Hearing somebody speak, we may say: I understand what you are saying, We may, in fact, misunderstand, but even misunderstanding involves understanding. But ~ do we understand in hearing somebody speak? Not the sounds by themselves, the audible and articulated, low and high pitched noises issuing from somebody's mouth (or some machine, for that matter). We hear these noises. But hearing is not understan• dl.ng. That's why we do not understand speech in a foreign tongue. In a manner which, itself, is hardly or not at all understandable, the sounds carry with them - or embody - or represent - something else, precisely that which makes us understand, whenever we understand. This source and target of our understanding consists of units, to which single "words" correspond, as well as of combinations of those units, to which whole sequences of "words" correspond. The speaker and the hearer share - or, at least, intend to share - the understanding of those units and of those combinations of units. transposes what he ~ The speaker into sounding words and the hearer who under- �stands reverses that process in reaching back to the intended meaning. The intenc1.ed meaning is what the Greeks call "Ch VOf}"tdV, its single units are theVOf}"tcf (VOTJ"Cc.5Vbeing a verbal adjective Of VOELV ). Speech and Understanding are inseparable. Aoyor;, .neans inseparably both: speech and that which can be and is being understood,!!! speech. It is in man "nd through~ (~v8pwn:OG ) thnt>-.~o; manifests itself conspicuously, so much so that Aristotle is able to say: .man is a living being possessing speech, and that means possessing the ability to ~ders~ the spoken word ( ~cpov >-.oyov exov). But what does speech "bespeak"? The answer is: everything man is familiar with - the sky and the earth, the rivers and the sea, the living beings around him, on land, in water, in the air - the things he himself builds and produces as well ~s the tools and appurtenances that his arts and skills require to produce those things • and furthermore the lmowledge that guides his arts and skills, not only to satisfy his most elementary needs but also to establish customs and institutions in which his life flows from generation to generation, in m:i.sery or happiness, in friendship or enmity, in praise or bla111e, and to which customs and institutions he is attached beyond his most pressing wants. That's what his speech and his understanding are mostly about. I just said: n ••• are ~"· tfuat a loose way of speakingJ Speech and the understanding that goes into it and can be gotten out of it are not just "about" something. To be sure, we can choose a theme and talk about it, circumscribe it, beat about the bush. But what we say, however circuitously or confusedly or loosely, is said in words and sentences each of which conveys immediate meaning. The ~ cannot help moving in the medium of the immediately understandable. To be sure, words and sentences can be involuntarily or deliberately �-sambiguous. But they can be that only because they carry with them several distinct meanings which, separately, are clearly understood. To be sure, speech can be obscure. But it can be obscure only because the clarity of some of its parts impinges or seems to impinge upon the clarity of others. Speech, then, presents to the understanding of the listener what the speaker himself understands. but combinations of ~1l!tcf • It presents to the listener nothing In doing that, however, speech "bespeaks" all the things and all the properties of things that abound around us, all the special circumstances and situations in which we find ourselves. The question arises: do the \IOf}'t"d presented to us in speech stem from the speaker, whoever he might be, or do they stem from the things and circumstances spoken of? Does not any human speech translate the language of the things themselves? Let me turn for a moment to the way the things around us are referred to in more recent times, in the 17th century. words: "The Descartes: Harvey: ~ of Nature is written in mathematical characters". "The science contained in the great boo15 of the world". "The consulted". In Galileo's ~ of Nature lies open before us ~nd can be easily The phrase "book of Nature" is a metaphor, to be sure, but why was this metaphor chosen by so many authors? Is it not because Nature is here understood as something that can be read, read like a book, provided we know how to read it? What have we been doing ever since but reading and decoding the book of Nature? indeed imply a language which is nature's own? But does not that Francis Bacon was of the opinion that Nature is subtly secretive, full of riddles, Sphinxlike. But secrets can be revealed, riddles can be solved - in words. We persist, as you can read every day, in solving the "riddles of �- 9 - nature". In ancient times, the language of all that exists around us is taken mudh more directly (I was about to say: in a much more literal sense) as a spoken language, a language not written, yet visible, and if not visible, one to be guessed at. Human speech seems indeed to translate that visible or invisible language of things into the audible language of words. find just as the sound of human .s peech can be traced down to its ultimate components to which the letters of the alphabet correspond, things around us can be de-composed into their first rudinents, the "elements", the original letters of the language of things, as it were. Our speech, even our unguarded colloquial way of speakinc, may reveal to the attentive listener the hidden articulations of the language of things, Aristotle • no less than Plato - is always bent on fallowing- up casually spoken words. No doubt, speech can deliberately deceive us, distort and falsify the truth of thingso The fireworks of the Sophists, for example, - and there are always sophists around - make things anq relations of things assume a most unexpected, dazzling and puzzling aspect: suddenly apoear not to be what they are. things But who is doing the lying - if it be lying -, the sophists or the things themselves? A critique of speecht a critical inquisition into speaking and arguing has to be undertaken - as it was undertaken by Parmenides - by Prodicus - by Plato - by Aristotle. follows: The result of this critique can be stated as to speak does not always mean to make thinfS appear in their true light. For Aristotle, only one kind of speech, ~;,>,,&yob ~nocpa'\!­ 't (.X"b' the declaratory and revealing speecht translates or interprets the language of things. To be able to use this kind of speech requires a discipl!!.1..!:., the discipline of the >..dyoG • Everywhere in Aristotle's work one senses, to the annoyance of some and to the delight of others, �- 10 - the effectiveness of that discipline, the effectiveness of what we call the "Logic" of Aristotle. It is this emphasis on the >..dyo£, the A.dyo£ &'ltocpa v-r t xd~, which made Aristotle the great teacher through the centuries. this respect he is as much a ·pupil·· as a teacher. But in We have a significant passage in Plato's work which indicates that rather clear- ly. I mean the passare in the f~ where Plato makes Socrates meet Cebes' crucial objection concerning the deathlessness of the soul, Here, Socrates, after - silently - looking back into himself for quite a while, reaches - in speaking - far back into his own youth. He wanted very much, he reports, to find out, with regard to any single thing or occurrence, what was responsible for its coming into being, its passing away, its being the way it was. satisfactory answers. But he could not find any Nor could he learn thera from anybody else, not even from the great Anaxagoras. He had to abanc1on the way in which questions like the ones he was asking were dealt with in the various versions of the "inquiry into nature" or the "story of nature" ('JtEp\ cpl!crnwi; ten op 'a ) • He decided to embark upon a different journey, his second journey, his "next best try" ( bet5-rEpoi; TIA.oui; i'Jt\ 't~V 't~G a l-i; fob ~ rf'tflO't.V). This is the presentation he makes of his new endeavor. By looking directly at whatever presents itself in our familiar world, at things and their properties, at human affa irs ancl. actions, we run the risk of being blinded as people do who observe the sun during an eclipse if they do not l ook at its image on s ome w0tery surface. That nmy well have happened to thos e investigators of nature. To avoicl. being "blinded", Socrates thought he had to "take r efuge in spoken words" ( € (£ 'tO~ £ A.dyou i; xa-racpuydVL~~ in exchanging questions and answers with himself and wi th others, and in ~ search for the �- 11 - truth of thinr s • What Socrates implies is that the reasons for things being as they are and the truth about those thinfs are to be found in the spoken - or, for that matter; ~ilcnt - words and the \IOfJ'td they embody. That is not to say, Socrates warns, that the example of the sun, which can only be looked at through its image, is applicable here: if one compares a man who investigates things in words with one who investigates them directly, the former can hardly be said to be more concernecl with images than the latter. On the contrary, we surmise, it is the former who sees things as mere images or copies of genuine originals, ~a~ely of the VOfJ'td revealed to us in speech, in spite of the widespread opinion that "mere" words and their meanings at best mirror and usually do nothing but distort what we call "reality". "Reality" is an anglicized queer Latin term, the more adequate, if barbaric, English translation of which is "thinghood"• - It is safe to say, I think, that in one respect at least, . Aristotelian philosophy consists in the execution of that Socratic program. It is in speech, in searching for and finding adequate words, that the A.~yo{; of things, the A.dyoG of nature ( cpuO't{; audible and capable of being understood. ) becomes That's what constitutes the characteristic mould of Aristotelian language I referred to earlier. It is an unfortumite, if perhaps not surprising, historical accident that Aristotle's vocabulary acquired immeasurable weight and a fetishlike character in its Latin rendering perpetuated in almost all modern tongues. It is perhaps no exaggeration to state that something like three quarters of all existing scientific and philosophic terminology is either determined by Aristotle's latinized vocabulary or .can be traced back to it. Quite a few ti.mes in the past a revulsion against �... 12 .. that gibberish set in, We witness some of it to-day, of .Aristotelian terms endures: But the impact our corimon daily language bears witness to that.• On the other hand, Aristotle's execution of the Socratic program entails at least five interrelated modifications of some of the crucial Socratic-Platonic postulates, In trying to speak about this other aspect of Aristotelian philosophy, I shall have to consider some of the other terms in the table I put up .• Ill Socrates, in the Phaedo decided, as he said, to take refuge in spoken worc1s in order to fi~1d that m ich is responsible for any single thing or occurrence coming into being, passing away, being the way it is, The phrase character of the 0 to be responsible for•••" describes the at'tta presented to our understanding in speech, '\>Of"J'tcf Aristotle firmly holds to this view, The V'OT)'tcf are the £ rt:if) , the species, the invisible looks, on which the existence of things depends, They provide us with true answers to the question: why do things come into being, why do they pass away, why are they as they are, But the way of their having that responsibility is, according to Aristotle, not made sufficiently clear by Plato and those who follow Plato. sense has a VOfl'tdv, an that a VOfl'tdV 1 an sists. € € tbOG being? rboG 11 is 11 ? In what What docs it mean to assert The Socratic w2y of questioning per- But Aristotle's answer brings the first decisive modification of the Socratic-Platonic view. Wh'1 t Aristotle has to say about his controversy concer ning the objects of mathematical scienc es is also applicable to his controversy concerning the will not deny thnt they ~ being" ( oµ, n:cp ' L i;ou- 7 E: Lb~ : "The dispute but will be about the manner of their € L va 1., , ' ' \. a}.,,)\a nep ' 1. 't'OU- 'tp01t?O.A The l)hrase �- 13 "manner of being" will be gradually clarified, I hope, as I proceed with this lecture. The manner of being of an e {cob is that it is al together "at work" (the Greek neuter adjective is ~vepydv), that is: ~.2!· ~work £.!ght Its being can, therefore, be characterized as Jvf!pyE La. not certain whether Aristotle coined this term. It is But whether he did or not, it belongs to him as intimately as our skin belongs to our body. The being-at-work of an £ ro0£makes it responsible for the work done. -How it is done, what that responsibility entails, . is a complex matter. For the work of the £ tbob is not done by the Et~6~1:he way our hnnds, for example, do their work (although Aristotle, on one occasion, compares the functioning of the soul to that of a hand). to come back to that point after a while. I shall have What is most noteworthy about "being-at-work'' is that there has to be something else, that namely which is being worked on. This other something has to be capable of being worked on, that is to say, its character must be that of a suitable material, as wood or timber is suitable material for the work a carpenter has to perform. The chara~eristic name of that suitable mat erial is uA.ti (actually derived from the Greek word for "wood"). Its manner of beinr: consists in nothing but in its ability to play that role. Its manner of beinr is ot!vaµ Lb • Nothing, I re- peat, nothing is ~"-fl except in relation to work it is subjected to, that is, in relation to an bricks. Iron is iron. ~vtpyE La. Wood is wood. Bricks are Wood can be called a material only with regard to some operntion to be performed on it, an operation that woulcl tranl!form it, say, into a table-. 'Where do we get an inkling of the work involving£ rcob and and their respective manners of being? ~"-ti The Aristotelian answer is: in the conspicuous phenomenon of generation~ of y~VE<1L~of "coming to �-14 - be"• I mean the phenomenon, ever present before our eyes, of produc- tion and re-production, of generation and re-generation. Men generate men, cats generate cats, birds generate birds, fishes generate fishes; there are always young ones playing about; and this quite independently of any possible evolution stretched out over an exceedingly lonr period of time. Flowers and grass appear in the Sprinr, disappear in the Winter, only to reappear the next Spring; trees bud, then blossom and grow fruit, and fruit produces seeds, and seeds grow again into plants; every morning the stm. rises, every year Spring is born anew; and even moisture con0enses into clouds which in turn produce water apain. That's what the word ylve0'1.~ becoming; the thinr,s which are implies: it means both coming.!.£ fener~ted are all things The old myths tell this story over and over genesis is the very soul of any myth. story of its genesis has to be told. of their genesis has to be told. subjects of any myth. ~gain. E!!. an<l !£ rn· In fact, To understand the world the To understand the gods the story Cosmogony and Theogony are the primary To understand properly any event in human life, or the character of a people, or a city, this event and this character has always to be related, it seems, to its mythical oririns. To tell the myth of something means to tell how this something came to be. An enterprise of this kind does not make much sense unless one relates everything ultimately to beginnings which make any genesis possible. These are precisely the mythical origins. these two elements: They contain, of necessity, the Male and the Female. And however distant the sobriety of Aristotle is from the exuberance of those ancient tales, still the same aspect of the world as a chain or as cycles of reneration dominates his thought. One great and prime exar.iple of generation is the generation of livint- beings, of animals. 1i.ristotle does not assume that all �- 15 .. generation requires the separate existence of the male and the female; he !mows that i11 some cases it is very difficult to attribute the role of the male or of the female to any part 0f the generating process. But on the whole, the male and the female are distinct. This, then, is how Aristotle describes the process of' reneration in those cases in which he thinks that the male animal emits semen. ''!tlther the male .!!£!: the female emits seI:Ien £!!to~~~' they both dep0sit together what they have to contribute .!!! ~ but female, because in the female there is the material (~X.fl ) out of llhich that which is beinr- fashioned is maO.e" • 01')µ1.oupyotfµevov san, a craftsmen, a (Aristotle uses the word , which means that which is worked on by an arti~f)µt.oupydb ) "• •• Hence, of necessity, in the female that parturition takes place. it is For the carpenter is close by his wood and the potter close by his clay, and, in general, the working on the material and the last motion which acts upon it is close by the material; for instnnce, housebuilding takes place at the houses which are beiilf built. These instances may help us to under- stanc how the male makes its contribution to generation; f or not every male einits semen, ano in the case of those which do, this semen is not a part of the embryo as it develops. In the same way, nothinr passes from the carpenter into the pieces of wood which are his material, and there is no part of the art of carpentry present in the object which is being fashioned; it is the visible shape and the f 0rm (~ µ.opq>lf xa\ 't~ er bO£ )which pass from the carpenter and which come to be in the material by means of the movement that fh i::; carpenter execates. It is his soul, wherein is the form (i;b etbo£), and his knowledge which move his hands or some -0ther part of his body in a particular way (different ways for different products and always the same way for �- 16 - any one product); his hands move his tools, and his tools move the material (~X.fl ). ~ ~ }!!milar way, Nature, acting in the male of semen-emitting animals, uses this semen as a tool, as something that, by virtt1e of being !!!, .!!£!:! ( 'VEpye t~ ), has movement; just as when art, the tools are in movement because the movement which belongs to objects are being produced by any art is, in a way, in them"• The embryology implied in this passage as well as throughout J~ristotle's work is faulty. We know much more about the mechanism of fertilization than he could have possibly (We should not forget, knO't.ll• though, how incomplete this our knowledge is.) But there are elements in this description which are quite inaependent of any embryology. Let me first restate what I have just quoted in a more technical way. The material factor o;f generation is represented by what the female contributes to the embryo. It is the ~hfl • The motion which works on that material is the motion of the semen that is emitted by the male animal, and its semen corresponds to the caroenter's tools. But what, in generation, corresponds to the table that the carpenter, as we say, hns in mind, and furthermore, to the purpose that determines the looks of the table? It is Nature, qn.fo· LS, on which the motions of the male animal and of its semen ultimately depend. It is cpt!crt.c; which provokes in the living being the urge to generate:epws, desire, overpowers the living being. And that is how life ( l'.;w1'f) is perpetuated for ever. This process shows the double aspect of what we call Nature, cp\!a LS (which term is derived from the verb q>'1w meaning beget, en• gender, generate): .I cpu~qnust 'I be under.stood as £t.l:>oc; It shares in both, in ~vf!pye La~ l>'5vaµt.G • u'\ ~as U/\fl • But it is of utmost importance to Aristotle - and to us who are trying to understand Aristotle's thought - that ! v~pyE La (and, therefore, any s t~o~) �- 17 - outweighs its correla'ie bt1vaµq;(and, therefore, any nificance, in rank, in manner of being. u"-11> in sig- Aristotl.e devotes an entire book (Book 0 of the Metaphysics) ahowin·g the "priority" of !vtpye La The famous clich~ question: over l)\1vaµ t.b. what comes first, the chicken or the egg? is no puzzle to Aristotle. The chicken - I should say more precisely, the rooster - very definitely comes first. But this "coming first" has nothing to do with any sequence of time. "Coming first" means to be 11 first" in weight, in dignity, in efficacy, - in the ladder and order of being. We shall see in a moment what ultiniate consequences Aristotle derives from this priority. Aristotle's emphasis on generation carries with it the second decisive modification of the Socratic-Platonic view. The 'I £ t.bo~ is perpetually "at work", is perpetually lv£pyS'Cf , without ever undergoing any change. It is efficacious _!!! the ever changing bodies of living beings, as it is effective in the motions of celestial bodies and also - but only analogously so - in the customs and institutions of men. No need, therefore, to assign to the e; rof) a "separate" existence, no need to characterize their manner of being as one of "separation''()(wp t.CJµds ). Their purity and eternity is not affected by all the changes they are responsible fer. duplicate the world. The things around us . th i ngs has "being", has , l a, OUO' . an is There is no need to ~' • ' a. C>O<J each one of those But each thing derives its being, its ofla(a , from the ~vtpye Let of its £ {bo~ • Each thing as has being only inasmuch/it is the manifestation of the its ., E \.OOG • I am because I am "man". Brown is because it is "£!!.!"• ~vlpye; t.a of The cat that belongs to Mrs • The tiger who, this year, April first, ate a man in India, is because he is "tiJ?er".. Much more important than the ~"-11' out of which I and the cat and the tiger are built, is, �• 18 - in each case, the e{bo~ that determines the growth of our bodies, that holds the body together as a unit, that makes us act the way we do. The priority of Jvipye La over b\fvaµ LG manifests itself con- spicuously in the preponderance of what is 0 at work" over what is being worked on, in the preponderance which, in the ways of Nature, the ., e LOO{; has over the u t>~T}. And let us not forget: e tt>oc;; presented to our understanding in speech, - -r:b it is the very e {cob i:b • IV If the world need not t 1-,us be duplicated, there is indeed another duplication, an unavoidable one, which - ultimately perhaps - threatens the integrity of /lristotle' s philosophizing, - the bifurcation of the direction in which the £ {boC- "works". For it is remarkablet most ., remarkable, I should say, that the role of the £ t.ooc;; in the process of generation is repeated in the process of understanding. '1 e L bOG The same which presides over the generation, the growth and the suste: ... nanee of living beings makes us sustenance. ill~ this !!eneration, growth and We, men, - and apparently in varying degrees all living beings - are able to perceive what is around us. We have the capacity, the ability, the faculty, the power, the bdvaµ t.G, of receiving information (as we say in typical Aristotelian fashion) about so much that surrounds us. Leaving aside our cousins, the animals, we men see and hear and sraell and taste and perceive by touch and furthermore understand and lmow quite a few things. and understand are ultinately the That which makes us perceive sll>TJ • Each of us as a µerce:lr ving and understanding beinp- is said to have a soul ( 1'>\)X11 ), the function - the proper work - the af!(f:IJ of which is not only to sustain our life but also to enable us to sense and to understand beyond what �.. 19 - is necessary for our living. The ability to sense, that is the ability to be affected bodily by bodies around us, is called the power of ') (or 'tb a\.0'8fJ'tLxc1v), the ability to be affected by the ala9dvecr0aL is called the power of voetv VOT}'tcf (or A \IOUG). With respect to what we perceive and ttnderstand, with respect to the a L0'9fl"td and , these powers have a manner of being similar to the manner ., of being the material, the u"-ri , of a thing has with respect to the ., E l.bO~ , the species, the invisible looks of that thing. Let me try to describe these philosophical jargon. ~owers by avoiding all latter-day Consider • and reflect upon - the phenomena of sensing and understanding with which we are all familiar. Put aside the picture of something, as we say, uin" us that we call "mind", a sort of closed container or box. What characterizes us inasmuch as we are able to perceive and to understand is our being awake. The state of wakefulness ( lypt1yopa q; ) has its degrees, as we all lmow. We can be drowsy and half-asleep. on around us. ·we can be inattentive to what goes But as long as we are not fully asleep we are awake, and we know that we are. (The fact that we might dream that we are awake does not refute that knowledge but confirms it. How else could sleep~) 'Ibis state and we distinguish wakefulness from dream even in manner of being is a state in which we are not closed up but .2E.!:!!• Wakefulness is openness, • the very openness of a huge open door. It is !!£!. a state of activity but rather a state of preparedness, of alertness. - \IOU£ .TI!!! .. or voe l. \I state or manner of being is co.mm.only called in Greek • It is a manner of being which corresponds to the ., manner of being of any material, any U~f}, and, like the latter, it is only conceivable in relation to what transforms it into a finished product. This transformation and information is brought about by we sense and by ~we understand. .!h!!! The transformation and information �- 20 - being completed, we are~ with what we perceive, understand, know. It is not we, in our state of wakefulness, who grasp, actively, something that is prepared to be grasped. On the contrary, we, in our state of preparedness, ar e being grasped, moulded, f or ned by what is at work, by the iv~ ~a Of the " £I.Of} , sometimes, nay, mostly, through the intermediary of our s ensinr power. In our sensing we are not one with the natural thing perceived but with what works on our sensing ., £LOO~ power, with what Aristotle calls, quite consistently, the Cit 0'0f}'tdV • The relation of the E to fl a'lcr0f]'trlto the £ t~ comparable to the relation of the sounds ~ V01'1 'tcf is in speech to what we The e'Co11 afo011'td constitute, one might say, the understand in speech. very l anguage of thi np,s tha t affects our wak inp souls. The process of understanding , the process of ga ining a n insirht is, in Aristotle's eyes, ~a proce ss of begetting and generating. The o\fvaµL£Of any "natural" material, a ny ~X.1"} qn.>0'1.xtf , is here repla ced hy the s oul's capability ~f being awa~e and of reeeiV:int;. This capability include s both the capability of sensh"lg (a l0'9dvecr9a L ) and the c apability of being informed by the VOf'}'tcf • 'We are commonly not aware of this capability as such, since it cannot subsist all by itself, cannot subsist without being worked on. The closest we can come to observing it is t o l ook into the eye s of very sm"lll children. This Aristot el ian understandinr of th e proc e ss of understa nding in our souls brinps Platonic view. a third decisive dcpnrture fr om the Socratic- Since sensing- , not unlike spee ch, ma ke s us the material worked on by the £ u1.01"} 1tAOU~ , it is i mportant to r ev ert to th e , the first j our ney tha t Socrat es, in the wa ~rs Pha~do, 1tpwrro~ clai ms to in which one is ma ster ed by the h av e given up. Ther e are t wo E tbfl VOfl'td : on e is the way of the °Adyo~ , the way of speak ing and understanding, the wa y of bringing together, in our understanding , the �- 21 - vo~~d presented to us in speech, the way of the syl-logismos; there is another, in which our teachers bring us face to face with the things to be understood. This latter way is called l'Itaywy~ • The term "induction" is an exact translation Of the Greek word but has come to mean something quite different. on our being affected, thro~gh thing, by .its e {~ob • 1 The efficacy of an ~'Itaywy~ rests the observable sensible features of a 1 ttaywy" does not necessarily require many ' and varied experiences or observations. Cne case might be sufficient. But a mere glance at the titles of all the Aristotelian (and pseudo• Aristotelian) writings shows how intent Aristotle must have been on engaging in protracted observations, on listing all kinds of observable phenomena and on collecting information from all possible sources. v This activity, however, is altogether auxiliary. It serves the great and awe-inspiring goal of giving a nearly complete account of the world as a whole. This may be reckoned as the fourth radical de• parture from the Socratic-Platonic view. For Plato, it seems, did not believe it possible to reach that goal, although the philosophical enterprise he was engaged in, in its extravagance and divine immoderation, indeed demands that our efforts to reach it never cease. Aristotle undertook to satisfy that demand once arrl for nll. Only a few after him made such an attempt. The term "world" or x~aµob - in Greek as well as in English - does not mean - and never meant - simply the swn tot al of all existing things. It means r ather the peculiar way in which diverse parts are suitably arranged to form~~£ or, as we say, a "universe". An account of the wholeness of all that is implies of necessity an account of the intrinsic order ( ~cf~ Lb ) which makes the whole a whole. An �- 22 - account of this kind is what is called, though not by Aristotle, a cosmo-logy. It seems that Aristotle's philosophizing culminates in, and rests on, a cosmology. You are all acquainted with some of its features. Within the huge sphere of the world (ridiculously small in modern terms) there is a tiny sphere - the sublunar sphere - encompassing the Earth. Not that the Earth is located at the midpoint of the world sphere, as if a mathematical point could determine any location within the world lll'ithout regard to the body involved. and the bulk of the Earth that cosmos is. det~rmine It is rather the globe where the middle region of the Beyond the sublunar dor.iain a number of concentric, contigu- ous, rigid, . and translucent spheres r each up to the limit of the world, to the sphere of the so-called fixed stars. Beyond that limit there is nothing, nay, not even nothing, not even "void". The world is, strictly speaking, nowhere. The cosmic spheres are in perpetual regular motion, around diverse axes and at different rates of speed. including the Sun and the Moon. Some of them carry the planets, The combined motions of these spheres are responsible for the appearance of all the irregular motions of the celestial bodies which we observe from the Earth. This "saving of the phenomena", as the traditional phrase has it, is the task of a math& matical discipline "most akin to philosophy", namely the science of the visible , yet eternal, bodi es, the science of &a-rpo}...oy(a , the science of the fix ed and wandering stars, Aristotle follows here in the footsteps of Eudoxus and Calippus, trying to improve upon their hypotheses without preswning to have the last word as far as the number, the sequence , and the motions of all th ese spb.eres are concerned. The-ir combination and co-ordination, which r emains to be decided upon by mathemat i cal astronomers, can be r epres ented - visi bly and t angibly - �- 23 - by a man•made model. The Lyceum seems to have possessed one. Yet what, in Aristotle's cosmology, is more important than the proper encasement and number of the spheres is its intimate link with the highest discipline Aristotle propounds and to which he occasionally assigns the name of "First Philosophy" ( ip~'tfl cp t.>..oO'ocp {e,0 • This is the discipline which considers not particular and definite bodies of any kind that "are" or might be, but which considers Being 2E. ( " O'V (i;b "- 'I... Cl1t~W~ ov or ~ OV fJT ., ) 0\1 • "Indeed", says Aristotle, 11 ~ ~ is being )? - that is, ~ is being·ness ( o~O' Ca )? - that is the question of ancient times and the question now and the question always and always the puzzle one faces"• "And so", he continues, "it is in- cuI!lbent upon us, too, to consider - above all and first of all and uniquely, as it were, - ~Being, taken in that sense, is"• It might not be inapproPriate to assign to this most fundamental discipline a name coined in the 18th century, the name of onto-logy. It deals with what is ultimately responsible for t11e coming into being, the persisting, as well as the passing away of any single t1·,ing. It is within its province, therefore, to deal with what is ultimately responsible for the being and the intrinsic order of the world as a whole. That is to say, this highest discipline has to account for the "Highest", the divine, and can, accordingly, be characterized by Aristotle as the l1t1.0''t't1µ11 or qn.>-..oaoqi(a eeo>-..oyut~, the knowledge or wisdom which consists in the comprehension of divinity. Thus Aristotle's cosmological and ontological (or theological) considerations converge at the level which marks the beginning of the bifurcation I mentioned earlier. It is the level of the ,, £ t. bfl • Their manner of being, as we have seen, is characterized by ~vipyet.a , by "being-at-work". It is indeed l "~PY£ftl that, for Aristotle, answers the eternal question concerning Being !! fil!Ch. Whenever we say �- 24 - that something is or exists we imply - without being always aware of this implication .. that it owes its being or existence to • It is temptinr to substitute for that Greek word the modern tern "energy". This substitution would not necessarily falsify the state- r.tent I just made but would make it somewhat misleading, For "energy" has either a strict meaning adequately rendered only by a variety of mathematical expressions • the physical dimensions of which will always be: (unit of mass) X (unit .o f distance)2 X (unit of timer 2 .. or a vague meaning associated with somethin.P like vigor, agcrcssiveness, vitality, We observe, though, that even for us to-day, both creanings of "energy", the strict one and the vague one, are tied to the notion or picture of work done or to be done, Tradition~lly the translations of ~v~pyel.a are mostly derivatives of the Latin verb~' to wit, "act", "action", "activity", "actuality", we say: Note how curious it is that "actually, Mr. Jones does not live in Washington" or "actually, the Earth is a plunet". We may substitute for the word "actually" phrases 1 ike "in fact", "in effect", "in truth", are eqdvalent to stating: that is so or is not so, 11 indeed". Such phrases considering that which truly is, this or It is still an Aristotelian way of speaking, although the ontological assertion that being-ness means 11 being•at- work" or being "active" remains hidden behind the screen of our colloquial use of weighty words. Aristotle merges cosmo-logy into onto-logy by distinguishing two aspects of the phenomenon of VOE tv , more precisely, by reaching beyond the meaning commonly attributed to "what is called \IOU c; (~ xa>-..otfµ€VO£ voub ). " Noe:l'v ' as I tried to say earlier, is the state of wakefulness, a state of preparedness and alertness, which, in relation to what we perceive, understand, know, plays the role of the �,.. 25 - material to be worked on. In that sense - voe: 1.\1 is "passive", is the state of being mastered by something ( ••• i;b voe: Lv 'JtcfO'XE 1. v 't ( ~ C1't t. \I ) , namely b~ the impact of various e: Lb fl • this sense is somehow the mere capability of becoming what is understood (ouvcfµ.e t. m~G lO''H 't~ VOT')'t?i ~ vo'.k;) and nothing on its NouG · becomes ~ own. g_ tr"!!!!! when it is ~with what is understood, £!!..£with the VOfl'tc! have done their work. , that is to say, when the E:LOT') Only then can the vou G be said to be wakefulness "at work", to be !ve:pye: {ct 'VOUG , only then is the vou G "at its own end", is it lvtEAEXE~ VOUG• But Aristotle's thought - anticipated to a degree by Anaxagoras and by Plato - goes one crucial step further: the very being of this accomplished \IOUG is nothing but ~ vf!pye: t.a , and conversely, Being-at-work ~ \IOUG, impartible ( &µ.e:pfiG ), indivisible ( &o t.a lp E'tOG), impassive \ ( &n:a9f1c; ), unchangeable ( &va~Cwi;o' eternal ( &•f b LOG). ), undying ( &0dva-co<;), It is eternally "at work", and it itself as Being-at-work is its own eternal life (~w'1 ) and its own eternal delight ( ~~ov11). It is deity ( (~ o~pavc1,)and Nature (fj: b 9e:dG )• The entire heaven q>tfCTL<;;) hang upon ( ~p'te:'ta1. ) this kind of "Capital beginning" ( &pxrf ) • Let us try to understand the full meaning of this solemn statement which echoes Anaxagoras' famous proposition about the vou~ "ordering everything and being responsible for everything" ( b LaxoO'µ.wv 'te: xa\ mfv"twv af 't'-OG). We have seen that the et brrvo11"td are responsible for the being of everything and for all the changes that occur in the world. Now, the priority of Being-at-work over the manner of being manifested in the capability of being worked on, the priority of lvtpye: La over btfvaµ q;, on which Aristotle insists so much, demands that a �- 26 - VOfj'tdv be not only something understandable ( buvcfµEL VOf)'tdv) but also something under st~ "in fact" ( VOf}'tOV l v£pye ~Cl- ) that it may be efficacious, may indeed be an a t't fo • so The VOfJ'td can play their generatiiig role only when they are one with the vaj°G "at work", one with the productive state of wakefulness, one with the 'YOO(; not.f}'tl.Kd~as Aristotle's ancient commentators name it (relying on Aristotle's own conjoining Of't~ at'tLOV and~ 'JCOLf)'t' 1.x~v). This identity of the »OUG and the VOT)'tdv , of the 1'ooGv and the voo'1µ£ vov - as well as of the accomplished state of lmowing (~ xa't' lv!!pye 1.av ~n:1.0't'l1µ.ri)and the known object ~o ln LO''tfJ'tdv or 'tO np<lyµa) -, characterizes a state of wakefulness which is not "empty" openness but complete "fullness". only where all that ~ be has ~~ This st ate prevails realized, where there is no place for mere "possibility", "capability", "ability", bt.fvaµLG , in other words, where no material to be still worked on is in any way involved. The divine VOUG - that is to say, the sum total of all £ Lbf] as comprehended by that vou G - is totally immaterial (aveu ~Aof)G ), or - since as ~vipye La it requires some material to be worked on - it can be said to be itself material for itself (vo1f0'£WG vd11a l.G). It is thus totally "separated" from every• thing else in the world and consequently outside of time, uncontaminated ( Aµ1.yf1G ), pure . ( xaSapdG)• understanding of the "separated" Strangely enough, in this VOUG - with all the it "contains" - Aristot/lep' seems to revert to the position of his teacher. VI First Philosophy or ontology is not confined to the consideration of 'VOUG as lvipyt La• It has to take into account not �- 27 - only the manner of being labelled bt1vaµ q; but also other manners of being and furthermore the different ways in which something can be said to be responsible for somethinE! else, .As far as this latter theme is concerned, Aristotle does not deviate from the Socratic-Platonic path, There are different meanings attached to the question "why?" and, correspondingly, there are different ways of answering that question. as it is? We might answer: ~ecause material, out of which it is made. ~.ll is this lectern ~ of the wood, the particular We might also say: because the particu_lar carpenter, the oaker, made it ttiis way. We might also say: because of the shape .2!: form the maker had in mind. We might finally say: because of the ~~ this thing is supposed to serve. However important and even indispensable the first three answers might be, it is not difficult to agree that the choice of the material (~ ~A.f) ) the shape or looks ( 'tO E!bo<;) of the thing, and the performance of the maker who initiated the transformation of the material into this lectern, - that all these depend on the purpose, the end for the sake of which the lectern has been made. It is that purpose which is decisively responsible for the lectern be~ as it is. its end ( 'tO 't'ftA.o<;), is its true "beginning" { Its purpose, &pxt1 ). - All those questions and answers are perhaps not possible with respect to every single thing or occurrence, but it is one of the most important tenets of Aristotelian - and Socratic-Platonic - philosophizing that, universally, the purpose - the goal - the end - the 't{A.o<; - provides the only satisfactory answer to the question "why". J~nd this holds especially for the world as a whole. There is a characteristic aspect of anything we call a purpose or a goal or an end, namely that it is an object of £.esire. The ~~A.o~ - in the making of a thing - in the contrivance of some device - in the �- 28 - establishment of an institution - in the action of a man - is responsible for all the changes it brings about, and yet it itself remains w1changeably, "immovably", what it is. efficacy the way an instrument does. It does not manifest its It attracts - but does not get involved in the concatenation of changes which it originates. Such is the efficacy of an e: IcoG , wherever Nature rules, - the generating ,. efficacy that the e: I. COG owes to its manner of being, which is Being.. at-work. An E {COG is "at work" ~! something striven ~' as an object . ,, l" of des1re, of ope:., LG • And that is also true for the di vine as the "container" of all the e: "l.bfl of the world. The whirling spheres of the world, including the last one, the one of the fixed stars, strive to become what the best of all, the vou G , beyond all time is: this desire of theirs holds them for ever in their never ending circular motions. Thus, for Aristotle, the eternity of the world in time is an inescapable consequence of the timeless ontological character of ~v~pye: 1.a , which the e:Lofl and the VOUG possess. As to the problem of manners of being other than that of &v~pye:t.a a .!if.!h departure from the Platonic view marks Aristotle's thinking. ! For Plato, it seems, being-ness is an e: 00£ of the highest rank, an e:fboG embracing the entir e family of e:Lof) "within" it: it is a "genus". Everything that is, inasmuch as it is, falls "under" it, as it were. 1fuenever we face "being" we face Being. ~ and th~~~ kind of For Aristotle, however, it is necessary to distinguish between "Being" in the strict and primary s ense of or degre es of t v!tpy•HCI and other manners Being related to the fornier "proportionally", xa"t' • It is precisely the difference in the kind~ !?.f.. ~latio!!_ to the primary aspect of beine;, that of t •dpylt ·,a , which justifies our &.va}..oylav speaking of ''manners of being"• As Aristotle says~ .,. . " Being is �- 29 - - spoken;'lb various senses, but in every case with so.me reference to -- . one capital beginning" ( ... "~ dv }..~yei;at. 7tOAX.axwb µit'v, &X.X.' ~Pxt1v . ~7tClV ~ µ1.av /\..). This holds not only for the manner of being which characterizes bt1vaµ Lb , but also for the various attributes of things, such as their motion, their color and warmth, their number and size, their health, benificence, and well-being. The 't'd~ t.~ , the hierarchy of the spheres with their specific ~v~pyet.al. is conceived as fallowing an "analogical" pattern, too. VII Where, then, is the place of ~ in this order of things? It is not too difficult to assess Aristotle's answer to this question. Man is said, on the one hand, to rank highest among the perfect, that is, viviparous, animals. produced everything for his sake. Nature is said to have J11ilong all the animals man is the only one with an erect nosture, "for his nature and his being are di vine". And yet, on the other hand, he is not the mo st important, not the best being in trye world, as becomes perfectly clear when we consider the celestial bodies which compose the cosmos. This somewhat ambiguous position of man is rooted in the insufficiency of man's wakefulness, in the "incompleteness" and "passivity" of his You~• Man is open to everything about him. Whenever this openness is filled with the ,, EI.bf) of the world he shares in the god-like mannerof being, in the lvtp~'l!I.of the divine voub • But this sharing is an intermittent one: ever so often man is overcome by fatigue, his wakefulness yields to sleep. to lie down. He has His divinity is but a passing shadow - as his very life is. Still, he has to make the best of it. Since he is not a solitary �- 30 - being but has to live with others of his kind, he establishes familiee rears children, acquires arts, learns and teaches, forms tribes, founds states, sets up institutions, rituals, customs and laws. he has to have ~pdv~aL<;, In doing that, has to exercise sovnd judgment in the con- duct of his affairs. Aristotle provides the justification and the guiding rules for all these specific human activities in his teaching and writing on matters of the Household, on Ethics and Politics, on Rhetoric and Poetry. diction of the Adyo~ All these subject-matters fall within the juris- , which is no attribute of divinity. Only to a few is given the happiness of a philosophical life, the immoderate, though intermittent, sharing in the tuneless ~vlpyeLa of the VOU~ • Let me, by way of conclusion, report toe preposterous, yet deeply significant, story told in ancient times about Aristotle's sleeping habits. When he went to bed, so the story goes, he used to hold in his hand a sphere of bronze - I presume the sphere representing the whole world -, while on the floor, close to the bed, beneath his extended hand, lay a pan. As soon as Aristotle would fall asleep, the sphere would slip off his hand, fall on that pan, and the ensuing noise would wake him up. and over again. This procedure was apparently repeated over Aristotle could have hardly survived such an ordeal for any length of time. claim to immortality. But no story could more aptly relate his �The Body of Aristotelian Teaching as it ' has come down to us since its publication by Andronicus of Rhodes in the 1st century B.c. Categories On Interpretation Prior Analytics, 2 books Posterior Analytics, 2 books Topics, 8 books Sophistic Refutations l The "Organon" .. ....... Physics, 8 books On the Heavens, 4 books On Coming to be and Passing away, 2 books On Phenomena high above, 4 books On the World On the Soul, 3 books On Sensation and Sensibles On Memory and Recollection On Sleep and Waking On Dreams On Prophecy in Sleep On Length and Shortness of Life On Youth and Age On Life and Death On Respiration On Breath Inquiries concerning Animals, 9 books Parts of Animals, 4 books Movement of Animals Gait of Animals Generation of Animals, 5 books ••••••••• On Colors On the Audible Physiognomies On Plants, 2 books ..... -· ... On Marvelous Things Heard Mechanics Problems, 38 books On Indivisible Lines Location and Names of Winds •••••••••• On Xenophanes, Zeno, Gorgias Metaphysics, 14 books .......... Nicomachean Ethics, 10 books Great Ethics, 2 books Eudemian Ethics, 7 books On Virtues and Vices Politics, 8 books The Crdering of Households, 2 books The Art of Rhetoric, 3 books Rhetoric to Alexander Peotics � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. 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Visit <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a> or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context formallectureseriesannapolis 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. 30 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 Aristotle (An Introduction) Description An account of the resource Typescript of a lecture delivered April 20, 1962, by Jacob Klein as part of the Formal Lecture Series. The typescript is an enlarged version of the lecture that was delivered. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Klein, Jacob, 1899-1978 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 1962-04-20 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource The Greenfield Library holds the literary rights to Jacob Klein's work. Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Subject The topic of the resource Aristotle Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context lec Klein 1962-04-20 Friday night lecture Tutors https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/8908d181ae842b8a5f7e3a6308ade933.pdf 6d521e62342a8d9c9ce342fc7660d6d7 PDF Text Text ) ~' ecte b The uni ~~'.?.:?-1 _t?_~~ ' nis material may he Copyright law (Title 11 .::>.Code) This is going to be a funny kind of concert, part Quaker Meeting; lec~--ure - part part of it is going to be talk. That is the most difficult part. Difficult be cause I shHll try to stick to my subject, music, with all the rigour I can And I want you to do the s 2Jne. muster. will subordinate the talk to the music. That means that I We can all talk aftervrn.rds, when there will be no more music - or only a little ·if requir·ed to make a point clear. During the lecture I want to let the music speak, and myself to get a word in edgeways here and there where this can be done without drowning the music. that the one will drovm. the other. music, for once, dominate,, I There is always the danger If nec essary, let the After some of the musical examples shall try to let some moments of silence elapse before t aking up the talk again. Partly as a measm.'e of , self-defence - the SD Oken music is so much more eloquent tha t a.nyfwords fall very flat after • .l- l v; but partly al so, and more in1portantly, b e cause I really vmnt the music to have its say and to be cons ider ed, So I sha ll occasionally try to give you time to consider it v hen your ears are still full of it. 1 You might even - in an unquakerish way - Yvant to jot things dov1 that occur to you. m Music has al1Nays been bedevilled by irrelevant talk. Irrelevance a1, ises all too easily - it seems almost impo ss ible to avoid it. I continually c atch myse lf at it. suffer from i rre levan t t alk; All subjects but thi s one mos t particularly, for some fairly obvious and some more comp licated reason s . One of the obvious reasons is that not all people experience music mus ic a llv ( t118.t 1 s a.n und eI'statement) £md there is a �- 2 - .. conspiracy to pretend that they do. Therefore we get a lot of talk ostensibly about music that is not really about music at all. I am not saying that the unrausical cannot or should not talk about nm.sic - they can and they should : the discovery of true extra-nmsical analogies may depend on them. But this matter of exnerience nm.st always be kept firmly in mind. By experiencing music musically I mean something that involves the whole person, including the mind, the active, participating mind. Not the mind that, Yihile there is music going on, concentrates of half concentrates on something else - be it the Bible, p·~to, or mathematics; or the mind that drifts off to visions, d1"es1ns, or reminiscences. Befo:;"'."'e we start I should like to make some remaI•lrn about the voluminous document you have been given. Actually they are pretty close to the heart of the matter we want to discuss later. For the texts that are not originally in English that is, when the composer set them to music - for those texts I have It does not scsn like given a rough and ready translation. is the original. It fis:~ neither singable nor entirely literal, noj_" in any way loyal to a s t'lle - it is rough. Its purpose is mainly to give the gener•al sense of the whole snd the exact translation of the keI vrords in the original. The latter•, the exact translation of key words, :ls v1hat matters most: bees.use the listener should kn.ov1 what certain vrords mean that have entered into union yrith cei-·tain musical phrases. l\Iuch of the point of the best kind of vocal cm:T~losi tion (and all the e:o::01n~1les to-night belong to the best ki:1C1 Cchough there is not a single operatic exam:pleJ)much of the point of such a corn:::iosition is lost if the music is actually or mentally �3 (in the listener's mind) forced into an· adulterous union (however loose) with different words. In this kind of vocal music j_t is not just the general drift of a verbal statement, or even the precise MetLlJ.ing of the vrhole statement, that has been corribined with music, but often it is single vrnrds or groups of tvrn or three v;ords that are t1expressed 11 , by - that are .§._\~ t1accom:panied 11 vdth particular notes or groups of notes~ Not only in such glar•ingly obvious cases as that of word 11 th~ charms 11 in the E:;cam.ple you will hear first (Hat once it charms the sensell) or the sliqhtly less obvious not only in such cases as tle 11 grieven; "jarring seeds 11 ruJ.d the nscatter'd a t oms", ouu also in a case l:lke that of the llwox•ld below 11 ar:d ...-A ., .L "the spheres above 11 - right up fu::c. ther to a case of such 0 sublimation or sublimi t;)T as our final sung example to-night., So, to get back to the use to be :made of this docu:rient, I Viould advise the follovJine; : don't x·ead ahead. Sufficient unto A..n.d as v1e get to some Examples, I may say something about the words. Example, I think, needs no advance e::c_planation .. The first <:i'-r ( .12.i-t'...$ 1) - 'Tis nature's voice, 'tis nature's voice, Thro all the movinc; wood and creatures understood, The universal tonsue, the universal tongue, To none of all her num'rous race unknovm, From her, from her it learnt The :mighty, the mighty, the mighty art To court the ear> or stri1rn the heart, At once the passions to ex_;;iress·and move, At once the passions to express, to express and move. We hear, and straight v!e grieve o:c· hate, We hear, and straight we grieve or hate, rejoice or love. In unseen chains it does the fancy bind, it does, it does the fancy bind. At once it charms the sense and captivates the mind; At once it charms the sense and captivates the mind. �- 4 - .. Soul of the World, inspired by thee, The jarring, jarring seeds, The jarring, jarring seeds of matter did agree. Thou didst the scatter'd atoms bind Thou didst the scatter 1 d, ~Le scatter 1 d atoms bind, ·which by thy laws of true proportion joined, Made up of various par· ts, !"1ade up of various parts, of various, various parts, Made up of various parts one.perfect, One perfect, one perfect, perfect harmony. .. . Thou tun 1 st this world, this vTOrld. belo33_, The spheres above, Who in the heavenly round To their own nmsic move. However persuasively put, this is a bunch of pretty bold claims. They were made - not uniquely - you will be f aro.iliar with most of them - by one Nicholas Brady. the music, is by Henry Purcell. 11 The persuasion, These two were chosen by The Musical Society". in London to vVJ:>ite an Ode for St. Ceci- lia's Day in 1692 (Purcell also wrote others, but this is his biggest).· Cecilia, as you may know, was a Rom.211 matron and becsI!le a Christian saint. blind - and of music. She is the patron .saint of the . «S Musical literature is full of pieces written in her honour, but Purcell's great OdeA.the greatest, because the most musically relevant, the most magnificent, and the most assertive. (The composer himself, incidentally, sang the number with which we started and from which I,took my title.) The words, I said, are by Brady (a less distinguished poet than Joh.tL Dryden - but just listen, one day, to the Dryden/Haendel Cecilia Ode and you will be able to disprove for yourselves the wisdom of Beethoven's desire to compose the words of poets worthy of his efforts, like Homer or Schiller.) The vrords of this Ode, then/ are by Brady. did not sheets. ~ite But he probably all those repetitions that you have on your Those are by Purcell - and I only put a minimum of �- 5 - them down - in the polyphonic choral number even more repeating goes on between the different voices• repetitions? Because if~ou repeat something often enough, even a lie, it will be believed? fancy bind n? Why did he put all those "It does, it does, it does the Or ttat once the passions to express and move, at once the passions to express, to express and move. 11 At any rate it is That may be the most crucial claim of all. one that is most volub"ly and most heatedly discussed nowadays. Here is what the 11 anti-expressionist 11 Stravinsky says: 11 I consider that nmsic is, by its very nature, essentially powerless to e:x:oress anything at all, whether a feeling, an attitude of mind, a psychological mood, a phenomenon of nature, etc ••• ~E.x:oression has never been an inlierent • . . property of music. That is by no ment:,- the purpose ••• (E.A."}lression is) an aspect which, unconsciously or by force of habit, we have come to confuse with its essential being ••• Music is given to us with the sole purpose of establishing an order in things, including, and particularly, the coordination between man and time. Its indispensable requirement is constructiOll:Construction once completed, this order has been attained, and there is nothing more to be said. 11 Q.~"'s 11 0rder.c.the coordination between man and time. ~t (PLAY Ex. 2) / " G o t t e s Zeit, Gottes Zeit ist die allerbeste, ist die allerbeste Zeit, die allerbe s te, ist die allerbeste Zeit. II Some of you may remember that. Bach's Cantata all 11 • 11 It is the opening "of God's time is the best time - the best time of The cantata is also called the Actus Tragicus. a funeral piece. It does not sound funereal. win then : it expresses nothing? It is Does Stravinsky Or the "expressionists rr vdn : it expresses the Christian joy at a departure to a better life? Or does Stravinsky win after all, because it "establishes an orde:r ••• between man and time 11 - in whatever sense you may choose to take that - either by its statement of the fact that "God's time �- is the best time 11 - 6 - or by the very nature of music? Let us ha.ve another example. (Ex. 3) Ich bin vergnilgt mit meinem Gliicke, das mir der liebe Gott beschert." 11 A slow waltz. 11 But hardly gay. You may have caught the words: Ich bin vergnngt in meinem Glilcke 11 - the lady says she is gay, or content, in her happiness, or good fortune. The oboe, and indeed the lady rs vocal line, seems to say. ·something different ri t~ h ·;; c.~ ...eJ.~J"A-~ ~.. · """":• ""-e_.,.~.,.,-..J!... ~---""'"~Ji- ;t!J?~o ·,,. ..... l'J. . . ~~·'· e ... ·~<:~...t.L.,.$~"'£\ 1,;...... ..,,_s..,_,...,,-~ · (-c:>r something extra?). J ·The next example, which I want to give /'you for the sake of comparison, does not seem to me to be a far cry: Ex. 4 11 Erbarme dich. o. 11 It is, most of you know it, 11 Erbarme dich 11 (Have mercy, Lord), the plea for mercy af·ter Peter's betrayal and bitter tears in the St. Matthew Passion. Let us have the whole of that passage: the three-fold challenge, tlJ.e three, increasingly emphatic, denials, and the remorse. It is Example 5 and you have all the words on page 2, with a rough English translation beside them. It is the Gospel story. Try to stick to the German words and only refer to the English when necessary. Ex. 5 ~ (Ex. 5) Petrus aber sass draussen im Palast, 'Und es tra t zu ihm eine Magd und sprach: Und du warest auch mit dem Jesu aus Galil!la. Er leugnete aber vor ihnen allen und sprach: Ich weiss nicht, vrns du sagest. Als er aber zur T-8.r hinausging, sahe ihn eine andre und sprach zu denen, die da waren: Dieser war auch mit dem Jesu von Nazareth. Und er leugnete abermal und schwur dazu: Ich kenne des Menschen nicht. Und ilber eine kleine V!eile traten hinzu die da sta.n.den und sprachen zu Petro: 'Wahrlich, du bist auch einer -Von denen, denn deine Sprache verr~t dich.' Da hub er an sich zu verf luchen und zu schw8ren: Ich kenne des l'.Ienschen nicht. Und alsbald kr!ihete der Hahn. Da dachte Petrus an die Worte Jesu,, da er zu ihm sagte: Ehe der Har.in kr!llien wird, _ 11 �- 7 Wirst du mich dreimal verleugnen. Und ging heraus und V1einete bitterlich. Erbarme di ch, me in Gott, u:.m me iner Zfiliren will en. Schaue hier, shhaue hier, Herz und Auge weint vor dir, Weint vor dir bitterlich ••• 11 And now let us have the other, the gay lady once more. (Ex. 6) (Ex. 6) ~.course when I say she says she is gay, I am not hinting subtly that I think Bach is bungling his job. rr express" That he can when he wants to "express t1 in the usual, if I may call it that, most prosaic sense, he shovrn in his treatment of the words llweinete bitterlichn. I could give a lot of examples for that kind of expression. There are, however, other kinds too that need illustrating. TheT'e is a penitentialfanfilta, 11 Her1", gehe nicht ins Gericht 11 (Lord, enter not into judgment) vrhich has a suitably dovmcast, . . ContrJ.. te b e"'01."' nni· DP' an?t t'nen , on . -o, -'-~ +:'.l~.le ~ ,,-rords na.enn vor di· r 1.uird. .- kein Lebendiger gerechttr (for in Thy sight shall no man be justified) breaks into a lively dance. Is Bach bungling again? There is no time for this first chorus fyou will have to take my word for it), nor for the whole of the incredibly beautiful but long aria on the vrnrds 1 "~Yie zi ttern und wanken der sunder Gedanken 11 (How the sinners' thoughts quake and tremble). most incredible beauty comes in the development. The Unfortunately I can only play the very beginning of it and I want to play that because of its obvious rhyth'!lic connection with the concluding chorale. words 11 The chorale (Exrunple 7) starts on the ?Iun, ich weiss, du wirst mir stillen mein Gewissen, das mich plagt 11 (Now I 1:now Thou wilt still my conscience ••• ) And the "stillingll is shown in the orchestra. The singers have a quarter note per syllable, and to begin with the strings �- 8 - " quake below with 4 sixteenths per syllable, just as they did in the soprano aria, then the~, calm dovm to triplets, then to two eighths, then to nearly one, namely a quarter and an eighth in 12/8 time (with the singers still in 4/4), then, ·when the singing has stopped, to simple postlude. lJ;l(\ ~tN.~EAA % A.cccH.f~(H.e-NT ( --D1l J { ) / T7I ~, / \,' J ~- ~ 1J ~ / .L ~(J t1 J' { 1-- ,, ~~ t f\ {" l /;;' \_/' ~ \./ 0 ~\ ~ - ~ ~~ ~, ,,,l E~ k t&ei'~ 1'd3.. . .2E:,~, J~ q~arter .---, I' notes, in the ~~\-l,l lu..i v % e.v, lt j J1~ 1 fl i , I ((\ ,, "" \J L l l' "~· A simple trick? 0 ___.. ( \ (. / r / ~tl / \ ~ ? } '' \...../ ,) But effective. Bach was perfectly ~apable of more complicated rhythmic tricks; but I want to leave those till later. Let us first go back before the Fall, before Sin, repentance, and anxiety. Let us listen to the Creation of Man, as ~:l..- presented byr:,_Joseph Haydn. words on page 3. It is Example 8 arid you have the The recitative comes more or less straight from Genesis: Und Gott schuf den Menschen Nach seinem Ebenbilde, Nach dem Ebenbilde Gottes Schuf er Lh..n. Mann und Weib erschuf er sie, Den Atem des Lebens hauchte er In sein Angesicht, �.. - 9 - Und der Mensch vrurde Zur lebendigen Seele. The aria comes more or less straight from Milton - whose version you can see below. Haydn's version goes: Mit wiirdt und Hoheit angetan, Mit Sch8nheit, St!irk 1 und Mut begabt, Gen HL11Lmel auf gerichtet Steht der Mensch, Ein Mann und K8nig der Natur. Die breit gew8lbt' erhabne Stirn Verklindt' der Weisheit tiefen Sinn, Und aus dem hellen Blicke ~ Strahlt der Geist, Des Sch8pfers Hauch und Ebenbild. Actually M::iJton said (-when Satan first sees Adam and Eve): ••• the fiend Saw undelighted, all delight, all kind Of living creatures, new to sight 2.nd strange. Two of far nobler shape, erect and tall, Godlike erect, with native honour clad, In naked majesty seemed lords of all: .And \'rorthy seemed; for in their looks divine The image of their glorious Maker shone, Truth, wisdom, sanctitude severe and pure (Severe, but in true filial freedom placed,) vfnence true authority in men. We only have time for Or expressive? One can virtually -~ Man rising, and stand upright. But then something happens in the music that has no visual correlative. In the passage about man's sublime brow and his wisdom the music provides a perfect non-pictorial image of the nobility and complexity of man 1 s mind. Let us hear that part again. (Ex. 8b) Does it not seem to correspond in a startling way to Iv1ilton 1 s 0 image of their glorious Maker"'? (Ex. 8c) Let us have it once more. It does not do it in words or in pictures. Gesture comes closest to it, perhaps, but does not solve the �- 10 - .. When one trie$ to convey what happens in riddle either. the music, one is likely to use two hands to show the diversity in the unity, the divergence of the lines of horns and strings and their juxtaposition with the voice. But one is just as likely to throvv up oner s hands helplessly, for this kind of miravle cannot really be explained, although one ca~oint to this and that that goes on in it. It is not even that the various parts that make it up It is that we are confronted with are so many or strange. the nature of music. how? It conveys something - but what, and Or perhaps I should hy%,enate that and say "what-and-how"? Perhaps the 11 What 11 and the 11 How 11 are identical. My next example is much more complicated and quite frankly so. I can only pick out a few elements of it. It is the opening chorus of the St. Matthew Passion. I hope the words, which you have got, ·will be of some help. I would ask you to look at them now, rather carefully, so that later, when you listen to the music, you need at most to glance at them. First, though, let me say this: forces in this piece : Bach employs considerable two entire and separate orchestras,, two choirs of four parts each, plus an extra choir of sopranos, called Ripieno. The two orchestras start, slowly, After a while the first choir comes in and sings sadly. words that maan something like lament 11 - 11 Come ye daughters, help me with some repetition, but I have by no means indicated all repetitions in the text you have in front of you; I ~' hovirever, tried to indicate the difference between the passages where four to eight voices polyphonically have �- 11 - their words at different times (and often have many notes to a syllable) between such passages on the one hand, and the passages where they are all together, on the other hand. have underlined the latter. underline~) : 11 Sehet 11 - 11 Choir I goes on (altogether, Behold 11 - never mind the stresses fall1img differently in English - follow the German (and to say 11 11 see" or look" would not help either, or not much, because it only has one syllable; like 11 him 11 , and one cannot add a monosyllabic object, because the exchange between the two choirs that follows keeps changing que's tions. "Behold ii, says Choir I, 11 So let us just take Whom? n asks Choir II, says Choir I, and goes on : "See him 11 • 11 I Like a lrunb 11 , is the answer; 11 11 11 behold 11 . ) the bridegroom", How 11 , asks Choir II and as though this word "Lamb 11 had triggered something, the Ripieno choir enters, slowly, deliberately, sounding almost unconcerned, heartless, inexorable, with a choral tune no Lamm Gottes unschuldig 11 (0 guiltless laJUb of God). I have sometimes tried to cheat a bit to get the exact English word underneath the corresponding German word, but mostly I have simply used the English word order and I run fairly sure you will see which Germa...n words mea...n what. of course, what \vord is wedded to -vvhich note. It does matter, That is why it seems to me best to perform a piece in the language in ·which it 'Nas composed. One can always supply a translation for the listener to refer to and must hope that he won't concentrate on the trac"lslation instead of on the music.) The slov-r can tus f irmus, that is the chorale melody sung by the Ripieno choir, goes on (IN CAPITAL LETTERS) 11 am Stamm des· or slawrh tered Kreuzes geschlachtet 11 that is 11 butchered/on'-'the tree of the cross 11 �- 12 - while the two other choirs carry on with the lament and the pointings and th0 questions and answers about the bridegroom, (The . can tus f irmus is given in capital letters the lamb. thr our;i;hou t. ) Comes a s11ort orchestral interlude. resume their exchange. Be.hold - what? - behold the patience; and the cantus firmus takes up . ' d espiseQ l1 • Then the two choirs 11 always four1d patient, hovvever Then another short orchestral interlude, still in J the old rhytbrn, with the insistent in the basses and grou:;Js of eighths, tied in different ways, above - sometimes a dotted quarter, namely three eie;hths, tied to the fi :st of Nt l~/ .. /~ .t~ ~ ( / next gJ:ouIJ of ,,l . ·Tl ,, ' J ·"' / ~l ,l l ltt 9- t~ll3 t j J ,) ' / t<f'\ / } ) ,i' r._7 eight11s, tht1s ..i 'l:r r' 7 ~ > ... J' I rT1 .- ... :!_. I }! 1 J. ~ ; ..\ j ~ [j_( tl1~ece Lr_r 't. -) w~ o_,;_J' l " .\... .~ ;.. ,r,• cJJ. ()...{.,· .,._.., ;) '-"'l v- (;}vi?_. ,( ~ .f\ ~ck ~;A,_.-e~} f But suddenly the pattern ch£'Lrise s. '-" The obstinate bass continues, but above it there are now g;rou _ of three staccato eighths. _:;s And the Y1o:eds? our guilt. 11 Look - at what, R_t vihat.,, 2t what? - look at Surely it is no accident that this Protestant 11 Cantor, vrhen it comes to the confes:=;ion of guilt, emplo:rs the musical equivalef\t of the Catholic triple striking of the breast. Thou bo::r.ne 11 (it is all rather 1~e:miniscent of th,3 Latin ·1:0::..•c.~; of t:i::; U'.::iJ·s qul '-_ • toll''" ""'"CC".\+-.., J.. "'' l"' c .. v c; 0. -~11ndJ" • i1) l<l ·'- ~ - tteJ.~,e • 1••1,1 e 11 .Agnus sh_ould hqve to des_c,1 ai:r 0 - Then the two choirs point to Christ carrying his own cross to Dei • �- 13 his execution and the Ripieno choir ends by calling on Jesus to have mercy - just as the corrt8ponding part of the Mass concludes ~1 miserere The two choirs once more point nob is 11 • to the Bridegroom, the Lamb, then comes the orchestral 2ostlude. This introductory chorus is a long number and straightaway sets the tone for a great and long work. As soon as its starts ·we knmv we are in for 4 and a half hours of it., or should be. That, too., is an aspect of the role of time in music. time Stravinsky was talking about. music. To ~ The One has to give time to One cannot have it an.d something alse at the same time. act as though one . ~ is self-deception and has serious, diabolical consequences. So this great work starts with a grand and long number, which by the clock usually taKts 10 or 11 minutes (the way Schvrni tzer advocates and Scherchen actually takes is s ome.v1hat quicker. We m:>e now about to hear a 11 standard 11 version-} - but, whatever the basic speed, the number itself contains two distinct orders of time - or an image of time and eternity. The two orchestras and choirs operate in one, the ripieno choir clearly in another. Its basic unit per syllable is a dotted quarter or three basic units of an eighth( that the others work in. The difference, the distinctness, is further empha- sised by the distrihution of the phrases of the cantus firmus over what goes on belov1 and by the fact that it is a major tune and much of what the others utter is in minor or where it is not imt'~nor is harmonically slanted in a way to contrast vrith thE clearly ma:;.,.,ked melody of the Ex. 9 (Kormnt ih...r T8chter) ~· (PAUSE. Then: ) C&'l. tus firnrus. (Ex. 9·} �- 14 - You lr.now~the quotation from Stravinsky which I at the beginning was incomplete. I ~ave you ga'4e it in the form in which it is given in a book of the "expressionist" school of thought that has appeared relatively recently: nhor, by Donald Ferguson. Sally, a straw man. Music as Meta- Ferguson clearly needed an Aunt So he made half a Stravinsky into his stre:w man and quoted: 11 I consider that music is, by its very nature, essentially powerless to express anything at all, whether a feeling, an attitude of mind, a psychological mood, a phenomenon of nature, etc. Expression has never been an inherent property of music. That is by no mea.-ris the purpose of its existence, •• ~xpression is) an aspect which, unconsciously or by force O.Lfiabi t, we have come to confuse with its essential being ••• Music is given us with the sole purpose of establishing an order in things, including, and particularly, the coordination between man and time,,,Its indispen$able requirement is construction:-- Construction once completed, this order has been attained, and there is nothing more to be said, 11 That is the Ferguson quotation from strawman Stravinsky, Now, let me give you the real Stravinsky: 11 ••• For I consider that music is, b:T its very nature, essentially powerless· to express anything at all, whether a feeling, an attitude of mind, a psychological mood, a phenomenon of nature, etc •••. Expression has never been an inherent property of music, That is by no means the purpose of its existence. If' as is nearl a~ ~' music a-:Jnears to express some hin.iz is is oniv an~illusioil no ·a real t • is s_mp -~nal a ri'biT£e-.,...v.....,·rn.-.i-;-,~--- and inve erate - acit greement, we~ t'11rU:St un~~ a conve~- in ·d}lort, an ~ich, unconsciousl~force of habit, we have come to confUse with its essential being. Music is the sole domain in which man real.,.,. s the pres en' the inroer ec vi:m of is - "GU· , ma·1 is doomed t su m -1>0yhe p.assag~1e - to i s cav :ories of s~w~~ p a le o ive su sta.i'1ce, and therefore -~ ~i'Z.gorv oj_ ne o:'ip:-71.>-;-:o~~-i-v:-.-----~1-ienomeno of music is given to us with the sole purpose of es ab_ishing an order in things, including, and particularly, the coordination between man and time. To re put into practice, its indispen$able and single requirement is construction. Construction once completed, this order has been attained, and there is nothing more to be said. It· ...._ would be fu til.e to look for, or expect anything else from .... · it. It is precisely this construction, this achieved order �- 15 - which produces in us a UTulUe emotion having nothing_ ~~~+-~ in uuHm1on vn.l,n our or d. .inarv_s_e.J.~.ons ancl our resnonses ~iliLI~p.i1-asiiDD.s nf (;LS j J ¥-i.u_a__ t-efte- "'H~o-t-oe tter define the sensation c D.y music thf:Jll by saying that it is~~'cca with that evoked by the interplay of ~_1rtJitectural forms. Goethe thoroughly underC' ct that when he called architecture petrified ~------'-' _. ~-) What interests me most in the part of Stravinsky suppressed by Ferguson G'is the last bit about it being "precisely this construction, this achieved order, ·which produces in us a unique emotion. 11 The s&'lle Stravinsky, incidentall,, said some time later, ·when asked about religion and the 1Nri ting of relie;ious music (and as you know he writes it) : that it cannot be done without faith. And he did not, I think, just say that to bamboozle the burghers. 11 A unique emotiono •• We obviously do not all feel it 11 who are properly moved by it. s~me harmful to pretend But there is something in cornraon between those that we do. to the ~nd It is useless when we listen to music .. The same thing in them responds thing in the nTQsic. One can also be improperly moved,, by extra-musical associations. The improper movement can be ezploi ted and manipulated by Movie and Muzak other Merchants. .And I 8Jn make1~s and convinced that unless v;e drive them out where theJ have no legitimate business, and keep them at bay, Hi-Fi, transistors, and all, we will be driven out of our minds. It is precisely because it is the universal tongue that music must not be ubiquitous. Let us, however, return to proper motion or emotion mid to our last I~x.runple. V!e ~~ moved - bod:Lly and in ou:r souls. 'i'I'nat is it that does that? the v-railing on 11 Come In this instance it was not just ye daughters .... 11 ,_, It is the ·way that musical phrase has been used in a musical structure, not only �. - 16 having the "llih'1loved 11 cantus firmus superimposed on it, but also -being switched about, mo-ved and used here and there, either as the stressed or as the unstressed part of the larger unit, and used with different words. All our exarnple s to-day were of music with words - though I think the most exciting part of the Haydn is the purely orchestral part - still 1 it comes in a context of sung words. You may have noticed that I omitted opera. This was not done to rig the argument in any way ( it doesn 1 t actually - opera cuts both ways ) but in order to keep the field of discussion manageable. On the other hand I do want to end with ·a_ few words a~out instrumental music. .. It moves too - even_, and especially, when it is far removed from any association with words • . You 1mov1 .tl1a_t I __could give exs.mples of instrumental music that seems to express emotion. Much of Mozart rs instrumental music is dovmright operatic, reminds one of dr&'llatic situations and characters singing. But for my last e:cample I have chosen something to whic:h no emotional label will stick. And yet ~t moves. So let Mozart have the last 1,wrd. (Ex. 10, Minuet from Serenade in· C-minor) � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. 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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. 16 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 The universal tongue Description An account of the resource Typescript of a lecture delivered in 1963 by Beate Ruhm von Oppen as part of the Formal Lecture Series. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Ruhm von Oppen, Beate 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 1963 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College has been given permission to make this item available online. 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 lec Ruhm von Oppen 1963 FaFi-Ruhm von OppenB024 Friday night lecture Tutors https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/39bbe47e04fc008ff2c151cbcfe14c85.pdf 45e1f0016e49968cda4828a9c6965b19 PDF Text Text THE STUDENT'S PROBLEM LECTURE ON THE LIBERAL ARTS Eva Brann Collegian Supplement, ~tober 1967 �St. John's College is a small liberal arts school, co-educational and non-sectarian, with campuses in Annapolis, Maryland and Santa Fe, New Mexico. Editors. . . . . • . • . . . . . . . • . . . . .George and Meredith Anthony Associate Editor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . • • • . • • .Richard Sohmer Assistant Editors. . . • . . • . . . • . . . . . . . . . . . • Steve Forman Masha Zager F<1.culty Advisor . . • . . . . • . . . . • . . . • . . . • . . . . . • Eva Brann Cover Design . • . . . . . . . . . . . . . • . . . •.•.. Gabrielle Bershen St. John's College Annapolis, Maryland �The Student's Problem Lecture on the Liberal Arts, given at St. John's College in Annapolis on Friday night, September 22, 1967 Eva Brann, Tutor Fellow members of the Community of Learning, There is a sickness, traditionally called melancholy, which is particularly at home in communities of learning such as ours. Its visible form can be seen in the engraving by Duerer called Melencolia Prima. Amidst the signs and symbols of the liberal -arts, especially geometry, sits heavily a winged woman. Her eyes are fixed intently on visions of nothing - she is a figure of "careless desolation" surrounded by unvalued riches. Almost all the older members of this - and any - community of learning, be they teachers or students, are well acquainted with her. So will you be, who are fresh to our enterprise, the later the more devastatingly. However, not only we, but students throughout this country, over a quarter of whose citizens are now entering schools, are subject to this malady which has, in fact, in this very decade reached epidemic proportions. It therefore seems right to take account of it publicly, the more so since its cause is a peculiar version of a fundamental human problem which is just now beginning to cause this nation what will turn out to be, I think, its most characteristic agony. It is the problem of poverty amidst riches. I shall try to talk about its intellectual aspect not in those facile current terms which can do little but give the victims the bleak satisfaction of having a disease at once choice and popular. I shall not mention either "identity crises" or "alienation, " nor shall I talk of "middle class values, " rejected or otherwise, and "trends in society, "rapidly increasing or the opposite. Instead I shall begin by referring to a book which is a compendium of the traditional wisdom concerning the nature of human unhappiness, written when the human soul had not yet become a "field" for experts. In the beginning of the seventeenth century an English scholar, Robert Burton, wrote for his own relief and for the comfort of his friends a book called The Anatomy of Melancholy, in which everyone may find his particular misery acknowledged as a human condition. Burton makes a distinction between chronic suffering, a true disease of spirit, and the occasional type, of which he says simply that "melancholy in this sense is the character of mortality." I -3- �think that by the "character -of mortality" he means the knowledge, implied in every feeling that has any urgency about it, that the time of our life is finite. Melancholy, however peculiar and complex it may be, is essentially the sometimes paralyzing and sometimes frenzying dread of "missing out, " which comes to those who have had tantalizing intimations of earthly happiness. It is the stronger the more remote death is, and so strongest in the young, for in them every day demands the renunciation of a hundred possible futures for the choice of one actual life, and the very riches of this indeterminacy may stymie the energies and induce listlessness and restless sloth. Consequently the opposite of melancholy is riches in poverty, a serene ardour of the sort perfectly described in a : Buddist song of which the translation is as follows (I have, of course, no idea what the original really says): Well -roofed and pleasant is my little hut, And screened from winds:- Rain at thy will, thou god! My heart is well composed, my heart is free, - And ardent is my mood. Now rain, god! rain. · Melancholy is, then, a human sickness attendant ort the in · vestrhertt and expenditure of living time. That this is the case is shown by the kind of reliefthat that part of the youth of this country is indulging in which negotiates its future for an instant bliss and sells its hopes for a high moment, as the slogan goes, "right now." Their prototype is Dr . Faustus, the melancholy scholar who buys "experiences" of the devil at the expense of all time to come; there is,. in fact, a very perceptive novel of student life by John Hersey, called Too Far to Walk, which exploits this very legend of the melancholy doctor in modern dress. This then is the sickness which particularly afflicts students, and I shall now inquire why this is so. Our freshmen will soon lea.rn that the English word "school" is derived from the Greek word ''schole" which means "leisure." A student at school is a · person of leisure, a human being with an abnormal wealth of time free from business, left free to confront the acknowledged riches -of the spirit. And yet he often finds his appetite inept to this food, so that he who must have come because he wanted the life of study as a whole, cannot bring himself to study this or that assignment and spends his time in the frame of mind of which Paul says: "For what I would that do I not; but what I hate, that do I." Why does this happen? -4- �There are certain reasons for student discontent which I shall not consider much since they do not seem to me to go to the heart of the matter. One has to do with the restrictions and con formities demanded by the school as a semi-public institution. A college is a civil association grounded in the body politic and en tirely dependent on it for its survival. Its members, in joining this association, have in fact agreed to conform to the laws of the land. There remains, however, the vexed and vastly exaggerated question of conforming to its conventions. Here a subtle argument applies, and a student's appreciation of it is the measure of his understanding of the nature of a liberal education. For as I shall try to show later, a proper school harbours within itself such depths of true dissent and such abysses of true radicality, that an unobtrusive cloak of ordinary behavior is essential to its internal and external survival. Those who are considering growing long beards and sporting bare feet are, though they may not know it, supported even by classical Western authority, for the last great pagan, the Emperor Julian, showed in his essay called the "Beardhater" that it is a sign of Christian impiousness to despise beards, which are, even when thickets of lice, the philosopher's attribute. And who has read Plato's Symposium and does not know that bare feet are the very marks of the demon Love himself? But it is precisely because he appreciates the significance of such external signs that a serious person can afford to avoid them until he is sure that he knows what he is doing and to whom - to call such deliberate conformity hypocrisy is extremely simple-minded. Much restlessness also arises from the fact that students, who are in these years by the plan of nature at the peak of their sexual desires, are required by serious schools to observe the rites of celibacy. In this, more than in any other respect, the rules of school - life are no mere conventions, for whoever knows anything about the life of learning will not entertain the frivolous notion that it ought to be a very natural or satisfied life, but will understand that it requires a certain tension of soul and body and a certain reserve of deferred desire. µi the Symposium Aristophanes, whose business as a comedian it is to pursue the logic of ordinary and natural human behavior to its absurd end, gives a picture of constantly fulfilled desire as a frontless, faceless "two-backed beast" within which the mediating distance through which Eros needs to move has been closed, with the result that love and its attendant learning are at an end. And indeed, most of us have felt a certain loss of ardour in ageneration which feels free to proceed -5- �immediately to that end. Such then are what appear to me false irritants. There is, of course, also a genuine reason for the universal student disgust, and this has no cure but revolution - just such a revolution, I be lieve, as took place when the present program was instituted at this school over a generation ago. * Let me describe, justly, I hope, what seems to me the position which must be overthrown, the position of the vast majority of those engaged in the vast busi ness of higher education. They consider that there are at hand ready made bodies of information and disciplines which constitute the heritage of human learning. These must be made available to the student, who may, however, be expected to choose among them and who is therefore expected to desire to learn the ones he elects. Moreover, a certain randomness or freedom is granted in the manner in which the subject is to be absorbed, and some resistance to the mental food is not only expected but is actually considered healthy. Incentives such as marks are certainly used, but it is recognized that the best feeders ingest because they are hungry. The finest of the teachers under this view of learning are usually those who have themselves become in turn absorbed in their subject and are contributing.to its advancement. The institution of learning which corresponds to this ·'view is a vast clearing-house for the private predilections of people who are, to be sure, usually very much in earnest. This storehouse of specialist knowledge is the university, with its two major divisions of the sciences and the humanities and its combination of freedom of choice and formalization of presentation. The activity carried on there is diverse and stimulating, and yet efficiently organized, as Kant already observed, like a factory, on the principle of division of labor. It is in the nature of the set-up that the latest, the most effective and the most highly technical and theoretically elegant field is found most captivating by bright and . fresh students, and that the universities should become the breeding grounds of sophisticated theories and techniques. ~ *The program of St. John's College requires every student to· pursue the elements of the linguistic as well as the mathematical arts; and to consider seriously certain books belonging to the reflective tradition. -6- �Now why is it that this veritable smorgasbord of learning is more often than not stale and tasteless for its students? It is, I think, because this view of learning regards everything whichis not the latest technique as rriere history, somehow fascinating to those who happen to be curious and fond of sight-seeing, but not inevitably interesting to all who are human: "For to converse with those of other centuries is almost the same thing as totravel," says Descartes in the Discourse. The effect of engaging in such historical, or "objective", investigations of other people's affairs and opinions can be deadly. Let me read you what the most prophetic critic of our contemporary life, Nietzsche, wrote about the universities of 1873: . . . The young man is kicked through all the centuries; boys who know nothing of war, diplomacy, or commerce are considered fit to be introduced to political history. We moderns also run through art galleries and hear concerts in the same way as the youngman runs through history. We can feel that one thing sounds different from another, and pronounce on the different "effects." And the power of gradually losing all feelings of strangeness or astonishment, and finally being pleased at anything, is called the historical sense or historical culture. The crowd of influences streaming on the young soul is so great, the clods of barbarism and violence flung at him so strange and overwhelm ing, that an assumed stupidity is his only refuge. Where there is a subtler and stronger self-consciousness we find another emotion, too - disgust. The young man has become homeless: _ he doubts all ideas, all moralities. He knows "it was different in every age, and what you are does not matter. " . . . No, such study of history bewilders and overwhelms. It is not necessary for youth, as the ancients show, but even in the highest degree dangerous, as the moderns show. Consider the student of history, the heir of ennui that appears even in his boyhood. He has the "me thods" for original work, the "correct ideas" and the airs of the master at his fingers' ends. A little isolated period of the past is marked out for sacrifice. He cleverly applies his method and produces something, or rather, in prouder phrase, "creates" something. ·He becomes a "servant of truth" and a ruler in the great domain of history. Ifhe was what they call ripe as a boy, he is now overripe. You only need shake him and wisdom will rattle down into your lap; -7- �but the wisdom is rotten, and every apple has its worm. . . Thus Nietzsche. But I shall not linger on this genuine cause of student des pair either, since you at St. John's College are not, I think, confronted with it. If the sin of the universities may be defined as the perversion of tradition into history and of the liberal arts into special techniques, then the deeply conservative revolution by which the program of this college was instituted may be described as a return to the tradition of learning and the liberal arts. But as ,the freshman will learn all too soon, this campus too is the scene of much confusion of the spirit resulting in dreary apathy or danger ous wildness. Whatever the particular circumstances of those afflicted, in some central way our program of study is responsible. It too occasionally induces melancholy, and that in some of the most serious students, who sometimes feel a stultifying lack of fit between their human necessities and the store of learning provided, to whom the wisdom of the ages sometimes appears as a grotesque formalization of their vital problems, for whom the course of study sometimes runs aslant of, or counter to, the course of their lives. So I shall address myself now to this particular problem which I recognize as the central legitimate difficulty of the life of learning: Why are we sometimes unable to accept the riches we have inherited? I shall do this by investigating what the liberal arts are and, in connection with this, what is meant by our tradition of learning. For us it is not so important to know that there are traditionally seven liberal arts as to understand why these are divided into two groups, the trivium of grammar, rhetoric and logic and the quadrivium of arithmetic, geometry, music and astronomy. This division mirrors the double nature of learning, namely that it is always done through words on the one hand, and that these are always concerned with learnable objects on the other. The trivium, the arts of the word, deals with those skills by which thought, that which is internal to human beings, is brought out, expressed and made communal, while the quadrivium, the arts, one might say, of the world, deals with those skills which help us to acquire as knowledge what is in the world, apart from and outside of our speech. The first group was sometimes called "exoteric, "suitable for the uninitiated, since words are that of which all human beings -8- �have sufficient natural know ledge to be ready for artful instruction. Thus grammar, the art of using words correctly is, as Cassiodorus, the sixth century author of a book fundamental for the whole subsequent liberal arts tradition, says, the principle, source and foundation of the arts. The second group was, correspondingly, called "acroamatic," meaning the arts "to be heard," namely by fewer and more advanced students. This distinction goes back to Plato's Republic, in which all citizens receive some sort of education in poetry, while only certain chosen C'>nes study precisely those arts which were later to be known as the quadrivium - arithmetic, geometry, astronomy, and music, dealing in turn with numbers, bodies, moving bodies and audible moving bodies, understood as the intelligible elements which constitute the natural world. I mention this ancient and medieval distinction because, with acertain shift of meaning and blurring of lines, it still dominates the schools. The devotees, as we all know, of the literary fields often think of mathematicians and scientists as practicing black arts alien to humanity, while the latter think of the former quite simply as occupied with "trivial" matters. Now that I have said briefly what liberal arts traditionally exist, let us take a look at their name itself. The liberal arts are the "free" or "freeing arts." But isn't the phrase which names them a contradiction in terms? Listen how John of Salisbury, a medieval defender of the trivium, defines "art" in his work called Metalogicon: "Art is a reasonable procedure which, using the shortcuts proper to it, brings about a facility for achieving the naturally possible. For in this procedure reason does not promise to undertake or effect the impossible, but having in view those things which can be done, it opposes, as it were, to the wasteful circuitous road of nature a short cut, and brings into being, if I may put it this way, a faculty for mastering the difficult. For this reason the Greeks speak of art as 'method,' a 'short way, ' which avoidi? the extra expenditure of nature and makes straight its winding circuit, so that that which is to be done can be done more di rectly and easily." And Thomas Aquinas says: "Art, then, is a method, a set course, whose pursuit has become a habit, a second nature, and whose aim is to do something and to do it efficiently. " (It goes, of course, without saying that the activities of people called "artists" at present can be called arts only insofar as these people are fully in command of their work. But we are, in any case, not now concerned with the so-called productive or with the mechanical arts, but with the arts of learning.) -9- �Now to be able to do things in this way means to be a train ed expert. The notion of efficient theoretical know-how, acquired by habit-forming training, by the internalizing of precepts, which dominates the modern instructional business, derives, therefore, strange to say, from the traditional liberal arts themselves. The arts are understood as curriculum subjects, scheduled and insti tutionalized learning programs, or as John of Salisbury himself calls them: "compendia," sets of precepts governing a range of particulars. Since the body of such precepts needs to be developed and perfected by the concerted and continued efforts of the masters of the arts, arts-learning is always "traditional" in the two senses of the Latin word "tradere," namely of "handing on" and of "betraying" a heritage. For the accumulation of know-how is on the one hand passed down, mostly in books, from generation to generation, and regarded as a valuable inheritance, but on the other hand, insofar as improvements and advancements in learning are made, each generation is very willing to forget and deny the perch from which it took off - and obviously, the steeper the flight, the more vehement the denial. To give an example: for almost two millenia the great tool of learning which tops off the triviwn, logic, had had its most authoritative statement in a body of treatises by Aristotle called traditionally the Organon or "Instrument." At the beginning of the seventeenth century Francis Bacon published, as part of a huge plan for the re-organization of human knowledge, a work significantly and boldly called the "New Organon," in which he writes: "For after the sciences had been cultivated and handled diligently, there has risen up some man of bold disposition (he means Aristotle), and famous for methods and short ways, which people like, who has in appearance reduced them to an art, while he has, in fact only spoiled all that the others had done." And that from a man a good quarter of whose vocabulary is, I would think, Aristotelian! The point, however, which I mean to make is that the arts-tradition, characterized by the conception of art as method, is as much behind the iconoclast as behind the scholastic. Let us take a very brief and inadequate look at the history and meaning of this word, "method. " The Greek word m~thodos means simply "a way to follow" or a "pursuit." In the dialogue The Republic, Socrates uses the word in just this way. He speaks of the "pursuit" of mathematical studies which will end in a unified view of all of these, and then goes on to speak of the "way followed by dialectic, which alone travels in such a way that it gets rid of hypotheses and comes to the source itself . . . . " If someone -10- �were to translate "the way followed by dialectic" by the words "the dialectic method" he would be very much misrepresenting Plato's text, for the way of dialectic, the way of questions and answers about the nature of things, is, as I shall try to show, fundamentally different from, if not diametrically opposed to, the artful, abbreviated, problem-solving procedure which is signified by the word for us. Gradually, largely under the influence of medical writers, who particularly appropriate the word and mean by it a rationalized technique of treatment clearly communicable to an apprentice physician, method comes to be a key word with very nearly its present meaning. An obvious and essential part of this meaning is that such a technique must be teachable, that is, - there must be handy, rationally organized compendia of precepts such as are associated with a program of studies; an art must have "elements," first beginnings through which a student is properly introduced to it. In fact, in time "method" sometimes comes to mean simply "curricular subject, " any organized public presenta ti on. By the sixteenth century interest in "method" as the pedagogi cal side of arts learning had become rampantly exaggerated. An outraged scholar (I'urnebe) of the period says: "Method - no word is more popular in our lectures these days, none more often heard none give a more delightful ring than that term. . . . " And Ramus, the prolific rhetorician whom he is attacking and who is the great proponent of method at this time, says: "But method is used not only in the matter of arts and curricular subjects but in every matter which we wish to teach easily and clearly." Our modern "textbooks" are the consequences of this trend. In the next century the method of method undergoes one of those great betrayals of which I have spoken. Having been so far largely in the service of humanist training, particularly rhetoric and logic, or, in terms of the liberal arts, in the service of the trivium, it is freshly appropriated now for the inquiry of nature, it becomes "scientific," always with the intimation that no previous method was a true method. The work most characteristic of this development and most influential in the new understanding of the meaning of science (although by no means in the actual pursuit of it) is Descartes introduction to three physico-mathematical treatises setting out his own discoveries in optics, analytical geometry and metc:;orology, called significantly a Oiscourse on the Method of Rightly Conducting the Reason and Seeking for Truth in the Sciences. It proposes essentially the introduction of quantita- -11- �tive, that is, mathematical, methods into the speculative or liberal arts. Descartes says: "Most of all I was delighted with mathematics because of the certainty of its demonstrations and the evidence of its reasoriing, but I did not yet understand its true use, and believing that it was of service only in the mechanical arts, I was astonished that, seeing how firm and solid was its basis, no loftier edifice has been reared thereupon." And later on: "I have never made much of those things which proceed from my own mind, and so long as I culled no other fruits from the method which I use, beyond . that of satisfying myself respecting certain difficulties which pertain to the speculative sciences . . . , I never believed myself obliged to write anything about it, but so soon as I had ac quired some general notions concerning physics I believed that I could not keep them concealed . . .. For they caused me to see that it is possible to attain knowledge which is very useful in life and that, instead bf that speculative philosophy which is taught in the Schools, we may find a practical philosophy by means of which, knowing the force and action of fire, water, air, the stars, heavens and all other bodies that environ us as distinctly as we know the' different crafts of our artisans, we can in the same way employ them in all those uses to which they are adopted, and thus render ourselves the masters and possessors of nature. " (Incidentally, the phrase "practical philosophy" contains that very self-contradiction I am on the way to pointing out - for what in the world might an "applied" love of wisdom be? - whose end-result is that thorough debasement of philosophy whieh Hegel, with vicious humour, il lustrates in his Encyclopaedia by a new book title he found announced in an English newspaper, namely "The Art of Preserving Hair on Philosophical Principles.") Speaking very broadly, then, ever since Descartes to be "scientific" means to introduce the Cartesian method or to approach matters of any sort as a natural scientist. As one little sample of the scope and pervasiveness of the method, I might quote from just such an application, Emile Durkheim's fundamental essay on sociology, called "The Rules of Sociological Method." In this book he says: "that what the method demands is that the sociologist put himself in the same state. of mind as the physicist, chemist, or physiologist. " I have introduced this insufficient little disquisition on method to complete the description of the arts side of the liberal arts. Arts are rules for the direction of the mind, binding precepts. Medieval writers, who are still much concerned with the nature of the curricular arts, emphasize this by their understand-12- �ing of the etymology of the Latin word "artes" itself. The same Cassiodorus I mentioned before, as well as Isidore of Seville, claims that arts are so called because, in Latin, "artant arte" (translated: "they bind strictly"). Thus the arts appear to be the opposite of free or freeing. Again Cassiodorus - the work, inci dentally; in which he introduces the pagan liberal arts into Christendom is called the Institutes of Divine and Worldly Arts - recognizes this problem by rather shamelessly claiming that "liberal" comes from "liber, "book, thus turning the free arts into the bookish arts, a characterization which does, of course, in view of the traditional nature of the arts, have some appropriateness. John of Salisbury, again, catches another aspect in understanding "liberal" as pertaining to "liberi, " children, so that the arts are here interpreted as the education of children, which also has some truth in it. A last medieval writer, Hugo St. Victor, in his very acute discussion of the liberal arts called the Didascalicon, the "Teacher's Manual, " takes full account of the fact that the arts are con straining and that they are, perforce, taught by masters to. the immature: "They are indeed the best instruments and rudiments for preparing the way for the soul of a full knowledge of philosophi cal truth. This is why they are called the three-way (the trivium) and the fourway (the quadrivium) . . . . Of Pythagoras too it is said that he employed in his studies · a special custom." (I should remark here that the introduction of the quadrivium is traditionally attributed to Pythagoras, a Greek "mathematician" of the sixth century B. C., , the same one who is said to have introduced the word philosophia, literally the "love of, or friendship, for wisdom"). "For seven years," Hugo continues, "obviously corresponding to the seven liberal arts, none of his students might dare to demand of him a reason for what he said, but the words of the master had to be taken on faith until the student hadheard everything and could thus find the reason for himself." With this story Hugo acknowledges that the very arts intended to make the independent search for knowledge possible must come to the student as to a child, in a constraining and authoritative way. We all know that this aspect of the teaching of the arts is usually predominant. At the beginning of the eighteenth century appeared a work which crystalizes the development which I am sketching, and which 0 oreshadows, in an almost uncanny way, the problem of our own :ducational situation, Giambatista Vico's expanded lecture On the Study Plan of Our Time. Vico understands what he calls "the genius of his time, " his modernity, in terms of the menacing -13- �dominance of the scientific method; the whole work is a reaction of somewhat concealed but vehement opposition to Bacon and Des cartes. He describes the method of the latter, which he calls the "new critical philosophy," as intending to be "the common instrument of all our arts and sciences," which "supplies us with something fundamentally true of which we can be certain even when as sailed by doubt." There are also particular instruments such as the telescope, the microscope, the universities, the printing press, which assist in the discovery and mastery of nature and in the wide dispersion of that knowledge. But of all these the most powerful instrument is "analysis," that is, algebra, which represents the method in all its characteristic aspects, in its brevity, ease, communicability, power. Vico, although he acknowledges these virtues, is at heart disturbed by the predominance of training in these swift and certain manipulations in the study programs of young men. He believes that "the greatest drawback of our educational plan is that we pay an excessive amount of attention to the natural sciences and not enough to matters of human conduct." Vico, who delivered this lecture in his official capacity as Professor of Rhetoric at the University of Naples, wants to lead the university back to an emphasis on the uncertain, understood as the probable, which, he conceives, was taught in traditional logic. He wants the imagination again to be trained by poetry, the common sense by the wisdom of the ancients and the judgement by the opinions of contemporary men. In short, he wants the universities to give more weight to what we call the humanities, which are for him comprised in rhetoric. He is initiating, under the guise of the then current topic of the quarrel between the ancients and the moderns, the deeply shallow division of university learning into the "two cultures" of humanism and science with which we are more than ever afflicted. Now note what lies at the root ofthis quarrel. It is the difference between method and non-method. Let him who is not to be a physicist or mechanic, Vico says, "not spend much time as a boy or afterwards in those studies which are handed on by method." The founders of such studies are compared to tyrants who scatter the inhabitants of a eity to prevent opposition, who hobble individual judgment with rules, and gravest of all, who know nothing of free speech. The distinction between studies is based only secondarily on the nature of the objects involved, and primarily on the kind of approach used. But this distinction leads to an almost paradoxical classification. The natural sciences alone are artful, in the sense _ being methodical, while all that of concerns not the experts but humanity in common is artless, that -14- �is, free, but only in the sense of having no strict procedure, and being dependent on the taste and talent of each individual. Vico himself does not fail to issue a demand for the unification of the study plan of universities, but, I submit, his own understanding of the di vision of studies makes this unification permanently im possible, as the present state of universities, 250 years after Vico's lecture, shows. For so long as the sciences are regarded as the rigorously reasoned but inhuman business of a group specially habituated to a certain theoretical procedure, while a vast con glomeration of interests called the humanities are in the hands of professors who do not take quite so great a professional pride in their ability to think rigorously as in the meticulousness of their sensibility, clearly no power on earth, not even that benevolent coercion, an interdisciplinary credit requirement, can persuade very many students to study seriously in both divisions. For everyone will plead that his preferences are really the expression of his aptitudes and that he has, as the case may be, that famous "block" against mathematics or against languages. And so the liberal arts disappear, torn apart into the humanly rudderless artfulness of scientific method and the willful freedom of organized idiosyncracy. As I have tried to show, this division, driven to pernicious extremes in the universities, is in fact already inherent in the very notion of the liberal arts and in any liberal arts program, and our problem raises the possibility that the very neces sity of the paradox points to some understanding which, instead oi perpetuating the division, will heal it by showing it to be an indis pensable and yet a merely intermediary phase of a truly humar education. To point out this possibility will, among other things, mean giving aid and comfort to that serious student whose diffi culties with our program are precisely that it presents himat fixed and perhaps privately inappropriate times with prepared problems and procedures, which may all seem to shunt aside rather than meet his own concerns and doubts. In particular, there are those well-known scandals, the so-called classics of tradition, the foremost food of solid schools, which, although presented as containing what human wisdom there is, seem to insist on speaking in terms infuriatingly remote and "academic." And yet every student acknowledges with his act of matriculation that he is in need of an organized community of learning where there will perforce be a set sequence of studies such as can take little account of the con tingencies of the single human soul, and that whatever skills and arts there are can hardly be transmitted otherwise than in the terms of those who perfected them, so that in the beginning, at -15- �least, their rules and precepts and requirements must be submitted to. What troubles him, and rightly, is how he himself fares in this beneficent assault, how the tyranny exercised by the arts can ever succeed in setting him free from confusion and impotence. The problem can now be formulated m this way: how can the arts be the freeing arts? Let me put that same problem one last time in te rms of a simple and pointed formula. Human inquiry proceeds either .£y setting problems or by asking questions. I would by no means claim that the distinction between them which I am about to offer is simply a general fact of language usage; in fact, the Cartesian work which formulates the "rules for the direction of the mind" toward problems specifically terms these "questiones." But it is sufficiently pervasive at present for my purpose. Vico had, very accurately, seen the essence of Descartes' new method in an instrument which he regarded as a great danger to the human spirit, in "analysis" or algebra. Now Descartes himself received this instrument from a great but insufficiently acknowledged predeces sor, Franciscus Vieta by name. His fundamental essay, which has the significant name "Introduction to the Analytical Art, " ends with the following stupendous claim: "Finally, the analytical art appropriates to itself by right the proud problem of problems, which is: TO SOLVE EVERY PROBLEM." We are still or rather, more than ever, dominated by Vieta's immense ambition. We see everywhere and in everything problems which we expect to solve by the application of some general method - that is why we submit to the tyranny of a training. We speak of the "problem of freedom" or the "problem of God." Our griefs a::re called "personal problems, " and if they are expressed in a form annoying to others, "personality problems;" our aches and pains are "health problems," our vices "drinking problems" and the like; our public statements, especially lectures, frequently recur to "the problem under examination. " What is a problem? Again it will be useful to go back to the original meaning of the word in Greek. A problema is simply "something thrown out before" us, anything from an outwork, that is, a defensive structure thrown out before a military camp, to a task set before someone to be done. The word was also used with a special meaning in geometry, where it signified that a construe tion was to be furnished rather than a theorem demonstrated. For instance, the last book of Euclid's Elements culminates in a series -16- �of problems, the constructing of the five regular solids; and the propositions read, in abbreviated form: "to construct a pyramid", "to construct an octahedron, " a cube, an icosahedron, a dodecahedron. An ancient commentator observes that in some sense all problems are theorems, for "we regard the generation that takes place iu them as referring not to actual making but to' knowledge, " and Euclid presents his problems in this theoretical way. But there is a procedure which is special to problems as distinct from theorems and which the Greeks called "analysis;" here is the source of this important method, which consists essentially in imagining the construction as having already been done, and then analyzing it, that is, breaking it up, to discover how it could have been do.n e. The elements which, as the technical phrase goes, wUl "do the problem" are then put back together or "synthesized." Furthermore, Aristotle, using the word "problem" in a logical context, distinguishes it, in his Topics, from the straight-forward interrogative proposition by the manner of the response expected; the problematic form constrains the answer to be an affirmative or a negative, as, for example in the question: "Is it, or is it not the case that animal is the genus of man", while the propositional form simply asks: "Is animal the genus of man?" We see that there are three related aspects to a problem. It is first of all a challenge, a publicly enunciated task requiring a solution in its own terms; secondly, its solution usually has the nature of a construction which may well be a th·e oretical construct; and finally and fundamentally, a problem is characteristically that which requires a solution, that is to say it requires its own aboli tion; a solv;ed problem is no longer a problem, and problems once solved are very legitimately forgotten. Take as an example the famous problem of squaring the circle, attacked in the past with veritably fanatical persistence. When in 1882 this problem was solved, or rather resolved, by being proved to be insoluble, the many clever efforts made in its behalf all, at a stroke, lost their interest except for antiquarians or slightly unhinged characters, like Public Prosecutor Paravant in Thomas Mann's Magic Mountain, who, laying out a piece of string on the circumference of a circle, attempts to catch the problem napping, as it were, by suddenly pouncing on the string and stretching ,it into the shape of a square. This self-destroying nature of a problem is acknowledged by Bacon and Vico and Kant, who all use for their new method, the method which turns every question into a soluble problem, the metaphor of Ariadne's clue, the thread which lead Theseus out of the laby-17-· �rinth to safety after he had killed the monster at the center. Problems have a fourth aspect, which is the one most relevant in my present context. In the Republic Socrates makes a special point of introducing problems into the quadrivium. He says: "Then in astronomy, as in geometry, we should employ problems and let the heavens alone . . . . " We have some evidence of what he meant by "employing problems" and "letting the heavens alone," since Plato is said to have set for his students the problem of rationalizing the irregularity of the visible heavenly motions by going beyond them to form mathematical hypotheses. The word "hypothesis" as used here designates the solution of the special kind of problem which calls for a mathematical fiction such as shall, without itself laying any claim to being true, provide a rational underpinning for the errant appearances of nature. What hypotheses are produced is never quite so interesting as that they should be produceable. From this point of view Socrates' call for the use of problems by learners, that is, the demand that they should construct hypotheses, is a demand that they should learn by exercising their skills on questions the answers to which are fundamentally indifferent. We are all very familiar with a rather low example of this teaching device: the practice problem. For instance, an analytic geometry textbook may present a student with the problem (I choose one of a multitude): "Show analytically that the latus rectum of a parabola is of length 4a. " This is the very model of a problem, showing explicitly what every problem at least implies. To begin with, the author and i:he student are both aware t,hat the problem is not waiting for the latter to be solved - his solution is in itself of no interest. Furthermore he is to "show analytically" what is required, and he understands immediately that this means "show by constructing an equation, " "show algebraically. " Just as the arts have in them the seeds of the scientific method, so the very notion of problem has in it an invitation to analysis or algebra; you will remember that analysis was originally a geometric procedure in which a construction is regarded as accomplish ed from the very beginning and then analyzed. But this is precisely what the fundamental algebraic form, the "formula" or equation, does for general numbers, for when I write 3x=l2, I am putting down a mathematical sentence which requires no question mark, much as if I already knew the answer, and all I need to do to make that answer explicit is to analyze out the unknown number by re organizing the equation. Now I can simply read off: x= 12 == 4. 3 -18- �The solution, four, does away with and abolishes the problem, for when I substitute it in place of x, the equation becomes an identity, a useless tautology. But most significantly, the unknown is fourid wholly in terms of the original problem so that the solution reaches in no way beyond it. Now, this procedure, although most nakedly apparent in mathematics, may be used in any art, and, as some people think, even in those human enterprises which go beyond the arts, if only their terms have been compacted into recognized obstacles, outworks inviting attack, that is problems. This is in fact our predominant way. Let me now say what a problem is in terms of all that has gone before. A problem is a sham question, a counterfeit question. For a genuine question is the desire for an answer, and it does not dissolve when an answer is gained anymore than love necessarily disappears because its object is won. A genuine question does not demand an answer in its own terms or on its own level, but seeks its desire wherever it may hope to find it, remaining open to any intimation its object might give. Nor will it rest satisfied by a construct or a fiction fabricated only to set it at rest, for it wants only what is in itself worth having. Problems are ultimately exercises, mere means, but questions are the serious and final hu man business. Let me try to formulate this once more. Is there something which human beings have for themselves, which is so very much our own that if we found a creat:Ure that possessed that same ability we would count it as human, no matter what its shape? Or, to put it in the opposite way, a very contemporary way: is there not something that we can be certain the most complex computer can never do? There is such a thing. The most sophisticated machine can never ask a question. For it can never feel the desire to know, which is the heart of a question. This desire, the desire in a true question, is not for apre-conceived x, hidden but present and entangled with all the terms at hand, but for something beyond. If, for instance, I seriously ask "what human learning might be?" I do not want my question transformed into the . problem of describing learning "systematically" or of "measuring it methodically," or of finding its "correlative phenomena, " or even of "constructing an effective theory" of learning, ·· but I want to gr asp what it truly is whenever it takes place. Here my very question implies that everything that is presented to me about learning, in observation or in books, is external and insufficient; I want to know for myself, and yet, in the common langu-19- �age of human beings, what makes the thing what it is. I am not looking for a pre-conceived x, unknown for the moment but so involved with and defined by the problem itself that I need only to re-arrange the terms cleverly enough to get a solution, but I want something beyond these, namely the reason why the thing is what it is, and I want this reason to be freely communicable. Every "academic" search, particularly the kind nowadays called "research, " moves strictly within the set terms of its discipline, and is therefore usually of interest only to the expert specialist, while many others can live without it: the quest of a question alone is after that without which we can hardly be said to live our lives, at least as human beings. So it is the genuineness of the desire in a question which keeps it open, keeps it from pre-judging the answer by setting it terms. There are no "traditional, " inherited, ques tions; every question is my own, and yet every such question is generic to human beings, insofar as they are human. Here now is the place to say something about "the Tradi tion" and its relevance to the quest for truth and the love of wisdom. The unreflective opinion of the times has it that human wisdom is both cumulative and automatically transferrable. We speak all the time of "our rapidly increasing knowledge," "our recent achievements and advances, " "our breakthrough" in this or that field, as if each contemporary human magically acquired the results of the research carried on by thousands of different people. Ridiculously we talk as if human beings were no longer born as naked little babies who have to begin the learning process at the beginning and who have perhaps a quarter century to invest in it. Now the Pla tonic dialogue The Statesman does envision a race of men born old and, perhaps, wise, who return in the course of their lives to a first childhood. But this race lives when the world's time is reversed, in the Golden Age when a god sits at the temporal tiller of the cosmos. In our present, mortally governed, world we have to begin at the beginning. Undeniably, the disciplines of the quadri vium, more modernly speaking, of mathematics and the sciences, are "progressive," in the sense of being capable of becoming more and more sophisticated and potent tools of research and manipula tion. But this does not for a moment mean that the young man who "inherits" such subjects in their advanced state has inherited accumulated knowledge. The wisdom of babes may indeed be powerful, but it is almost always bought at the expense of a re flective understanding of the terms and first elements of the science in question, for such an understanding becomes almost inaccessible -20- �when the beginnings of a disciplinewhich arose progressively, that i's, as a continuous sequence of problems, are relegated to mere history. Most possessors of such latter-day knowledge are, I say, prodigious babies, Peter Pans of wisdom who, incapable of remembering their past, lightly fly hither and thither over their o\vn fantastic islands, · having lost their mother and the groi.ind under their feet. . Those, on the other hand, who are willing, as you are, to go more slowly in order to keep solid ground underfoot, will soon find themselves involved in the dialogue of tradition. It is a telling fact that a work by the very founder of modern physics; the one which introduces ·the New Astronomy tb the public, is itself written in dialogue form and includes among its participants his Greek predecessor: in Galileo's Dialogue Concerning the Chief Two World Systems, Aristotle, the founder of the ancient physics, is literally present in the shape of a book in the pocket of one of the interlocutors; this is Galileo's way of acknowledging that thebasis of the New Sciences is the responsive repudiation of the tradition. On the other hand, in those studies which are not progressive in their original design but only insofar as they are forcibly assimilated to the natural sciences, for instance, in psychology, anthropology and sociology (the accounts of the soul, of man and of community) the tradition is yet more than the grolln.d of the present - it is that present itself, for quite aside from the incidental fact that our times seem to me to show a strong decline of wisdom concerning these matters, the tradition, just because it is not progressive, consists of a conversation in which the participants listen to each other, circumvent, re-invent and echo each other, so that while temporal in its parts, it is timeless, or ever-present, as a whole. It is in this sense that it seems tome possible that our West alone. has a tradition, that this strange dialogue of contemporaries who are yet bound into their times, this sequence .of acceptance and betrayal, can take place only through books in the Western sense, ,hooks of arguable "theory" rather than of spiritual practice. This 'conjecture is supported by circumstances of the following sorts: the the Indians , for instance, seem to have no word for philosophy, for that search for a wisdom which is a communicable activity rather than a silent possession. Now how are · the members of this tradition established? This is the general version of the perennial question: how do we choose our seminar books?, for the tradition comes to us through books. What books are these? Are we entirely at the mercy of our -21- �library catalogues? We are indeed. It seems to me just as possi ble that there are momentous manuscripts which are quite unknown as that unworthy books become canonized. But all in all, I think we can trust the consensus of reading mankind as shown in the quantity of the propagation of a book. We can do this so much the more safely because of a human fact which I have always marvelled at - that worthy works attract the professional industry of legions of people who have no interest in their contents. A principal example of this in my own experience is the crowd of classical philologists, those "scientific language microscopists," as Nietzsche calls them, who fill libraries with comment on the attendant circumstances of wisdom. What single trait dis tinguishes the persons acknowledged as belonging to the tradition? Here we must refer once again to the distinction made between history and tradition. The persons of history, if there be such a science, must be, as Hegel says, nations. The persons of tradition are single and special human souls. If there be such an item as "the Greek mind, " if for instance it was the pervasive quirk of canonical Greeks to believe in visible gods, then the authors of the classical tradition have probably overcome that quirk and are certainly not of that mind. For these authors are usually radicals; this is why they are at worst ignored and at best considered dangerous in their own times. So that if, for instance, the Olympian gods appear in the Homeric poems, they may safely be suspected of playing there a role deeply different from that which they played in the mind of "the Greeks, " a problematic, perhaps even an ironic, role. Hence so-called "historical backgrounds" can never help to understand the central intention of works of tradition (except, perhaps, to set off the foregroundofthought by contrast), since history does not make that which is valuable in the tradition - although the tradition sometimes makes history. For the authors of tradition sound a reflective descant on the common opinions of mankind and the peculiar opin ions of their nation - and so these opinions sometimes modulate. The tradition is, then, always problematic, and it is for this reason that no one is born into it. As children we become entan g led in a web of accepted opinions and conventions; in youth we begin, largely by means of books, to break out of this cocoon into the light of the tradition, and this cannot help but be .a laborious but monumentous phase of our lives. Nowadays most of the earliest serious reading done is contemporary, and this raises a question which I -22- �will put very outrageously: Are contemporary writings ever part of ·the tradition? or, what is the same thing: Are contemporary writirigs ever relevant to the hurtJ.an condition? There seems to be no inherent reason why they should not be, though it is, perhaps, as unlikely for a "contemporary" to enter into the realm of trac:lition as for · the camel to go through the needle's eye, simply because it is'. essentially the agreeably conforming, even if apparently shocklng, which instantaneously fascinates and becomes pbpu lar, while the' tradition is always somewhat uncomfortable, not to say repiilsiv~ . .· · Especially at present, the contemporary, with its accent orl the new, the changeable and the young, tends to be sham radfral, and i.t s problems tend to be derivative and, in fact, antiquated. ·. For to begin with, it is self-defeating to insist on newness 'and youth as independent goods, forgetting that newness and youth are conditions which by their very nature have no future. But more important, the easy revolt of the contemporary scene is an opposition almost entirely determined by that which is rejects, a mirror image of common current opinion; conthlning all the flaws of the older opponent in reverse, a counteraction in the manner of ·a brute body whose reaction is equal to the action upon it. Such mere :qehavior is truly "reactionary." . I will give an example. In 1864 · Dostoyevsky published a manifesto of genuine despair over ciV:i.l:faation,calledLetters from the Underworld, in whieh he wrote: hF solerrip.ly declare to you that I have often wished to become an i'ns'ect; but couldliever attain my desire." In this century, over a ~eneration ago; Franz l(afk~ wrote a dreadful story called "The Metamorphbsis, " in which one young man, a travelling salesman, in silent 'desperation over what present day jargon would call ''middle Class values" painfully turns himself into a great cocktdach'; In . the 19pO's, finally, a whole swarm of youngmen turn therhselves into Beatles with the most exuberant facility, and the fuldej:'ground man emerges in amiable companies, his eyes shield: ed' against the Unwonted sun, his inardculate wisdom pinned to him on a printed button, his ways mildly lawless, his uniform complete• ly determined by opposition to rosily wholesome suburbanity, a harmless, institutionalized latter-day version of the prophetic, criminal outcast of the Western traditicn. It is, then, the very radicality of the tradition which mikes it so· inaccessible. For to become absorbed in the tradition means quite simply to break away both from one's own private idiom and the current public jargon into the language of humanity, to com tntinieate; not in the current sense of "being effective" or "making -23- �contact," but in the sense of entering the human community. The traditional authors, who speak that language, must always seem somewhat forbidding, for this human tongue is much more boldly simple and subtly complex than the dialect of our place and time. It takes time to grow simple and subtle and requires a certain willing trust in the wisdom of these initiators and guides, who are as yet untried strangers, but such an expense of present, youthful time is the best way of insuring a future in which ardour will on the whole outweigh melancholy. For at best a faithful student has hope of sharing the experience of Dante in his journey through the world of the soul, when, in the face of hell, his guide and teacher Virgil "placed his hand on mine, and with a cheerful countenance, which comforted me, led me into the secret things. " And at worst he will have learned to make a knowledgeable and dignified retreat into the decent pleasures of the practical life. But, you will recall, I entered upon this consideration of the tradition after I had defined traditional problems as sham questions, almost as if traditional learning of necessity interfered with genuine questioning. For questioning is that situationofdetermined openness in which the soul, willingly attentive to the apparent and the immediate, encounters even in its deepest delights certain difficulties and perplexities which, out of its very love and concern for things, it is determined to face and resolve, or not think life worth living; it is the "ardent mood" of the soul which is well -composed and free. If this enterprise is carried on with a certain trust in its possibility, it is called the love of wisdom. But the traditional questions come to the learner as "problems, " by which I mean as another's question, which is, if anything is, a contradiction in terms. In sum, all formal study, perhaps even all purposeful conversation, must give up living thought to "formulations." Nay more - evidently Western tradition itself must needs progress along the road, which Nietzsche characterizes as leading from the forms of Plato to the formulas of algebra. I cannot resolve this, the problem of my lecture and the question in my mind. I herewith hand it over to you, without,of course, myself relinquishing it. The study of the liberal arts, which are the public and adequate learning procedures, and of their fruits, which are the various bodies of knowledge, as well as the absorption of the reflective tradition which is based on them, can only provide materials, tools and a language for questioning; the love of wisdom itself cannot be gainedby study; and for that portion -24- �of our life of learning in which our unknown source fails us - for it is more arduous to maintain the condition of openness than a state of levitation - we must expect to be sometimes prey to the mortal's malady, the confusion of the soul induced by the futile passing of precious time. But in this understanding of that sickness there is implicit the suggestion of a cure: .to fix stubbornly and determinedly on that present preparation, that acquisition of the problem-solving arts and the problem -posing tradition, which is certainly at least the pre-condition of a questioning life, a life worth living. In the words of the tradition as represented once more by the Didascalicon of Hugo St. Victor: "Therefore it seems to me that first an effort should be made in the arts, for here are the foundations of everything and in them pure and simple truth is opened up; most of all I am thinking of the seven of which I have spoken which are the instruments of all philosophy . . . . But philosophy is the love and the pursuit and, in a manner of speaking, the friendship felt for wisdom; not, however, for that wisdom which is concerned with some kind of hardware and any sort 9f applied science and expertise - he says: quae in ferramentis quibusdam et in aliqua fabrili scientia notitiaque versatur - but of that wisdom which needs nothing and is living thought and the sole original reason for things - vivax mens et sola rerum primaeva ratio." -25- � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. 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Visit <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a> or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context formallectureseriesannapolis Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 25 pages Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The student's problem: lecture on the liberal arts Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1967-09-22 Description An account of the resource Typescript of a lecture delivered on September 22, 1967 by Eva Brann as part of the Formal Lecture Series. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context lec Brann 1967-09-22 Relation A related resource The Collegian, October 1967 Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource text Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College has been given permission to make this item available online. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Brann, Eva T. H. Deans Friday night lecture Tutors https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/f64eefb7fdef7464186b1d0eb11f962d.mp3 579185b92b6980ec2eed8d080d8a352e Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. 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Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data audiocassette Duration Length of time involved (seconds, minutes, hours, days, class periods, etc.) 02:56:32 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 On Copernicus Description An account of the resource Audio recording of a lecture delivered on December 6, 1967, by Jacob Klein as part of the Formal Lecture Series. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Klein, Jacob, 1899-1978 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 1967-12-06 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College has been given permission to make this item available online. Type The nature or genre of the resource sound Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource mp3 Subject The topic of the resource Kant, Immanuel, 1724-1804. Ethics Copernicus, Nicolaus, 1473-1543 Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Tape_280 Friday night lecture Tutors https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/21695765030a399c5d9c38253cc31fad.pdf 4fad9d8e3a98172ea169d93407ced55a PDF Text Text A READlNG OF THE GETTYSBURG ADDRESS Eva Brann Expanded Version · Friday ~ight Lecture 1968 �Final text of the addre•• delivered at th• dedication of the c..etery at Gettysburg Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on. thla continent, an• natlon, o-•tv•d'ln. Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all •en ar• created equal. Now we are engaged in a great eivll var, testing whether that nation, or any nation ao oencelved and so dedicated, can lo'ftl endure. We are 118t on a great battle-field of that war~ We hav• coae t• dedicate a portion ef that field, as a ft.na~ reatlng ptaee fer those who here gave their live• that that natien •lght .live. It ls altesether fitting and preper " that ve ehould do thl1. . lut, in a larger aenae, we ean net d•d1oat• ... we oan not consecrate • we ean Mt ball•w • thl1 greund• TM brave •en, llving and dead, who 1trugsled here, have conaeerat•d it, far a"v• e>ur· · poor power te add or detraet. the world will little n.te, nar long re11•ber tlhat we say h•r•, .but it oan never for get 111h.at they did . here, It is for ue the living, rather, to be dedicated her• te the unflnlahed · werk which they whe fought her• nave t:hu1 far •• nobly advanced. It la rather for us te be her• dedlt!ated ~ tlut great task reaaln.ing before ua - that fr•• t1-•• honored dead ve take lncr••••d devotion t• that cauae for vhleh they gave the last fwll ••••ur• of devotion • that we here highly reeelve that th••• dead 1hall n.t have died ln valn • that this ~tlon, under God, ahall have a new birth of (rHdoa • and that geverna•nt of the people, by the p.. ple, fer the peeple, shall net perl1h fro• the earth. Abrah.,. Llnceln Nov•b•r 19, 1863 1. the Speech •• a Whal• It la probably beat to .begin by ebaerving what la aoet ebvlous about thle "Address Delivered at the Dedioatloo of the Cemetery at Gettysburg" (p. 734)* - its brevity. It . oen•i•t• of t•n eentenoes which can be spoken ln a little over two airutea. It la ao short that on the eccaslon of lte delivery in the open air, before a orovd of more than 15,000 people, though the speaker delivered hla wurds •tn a cl•ar, full veloe.• he d to have finished before his voice had really begun t• car~y. •re.. Perhaps this very (ugltive character of the live speech has something to do wtth its enduranae as a piece of pro••· We know that Lincoln meant the speech t• 1urvlv• as a written tut, since h• ht.aaelf prepared ••.v eral copies fer publl•ation, the laat ene over three months after its dellvery.2 · And although Lincoln punctuated thi• 1peech, aa he did allhi.1 epeeohea, in the . .nner of an orator, as it was to be heard (cf. P• 47), using especially ~ . At'th•• Ltnqf~na {brary, 62. *All page references to Lincoln's speeches co• fro• Speechee !ml ·· Writ:iD&•• ed. R. P. Bailer, Uni.versa H.ll �the ce...s of grammar to . .rk th• ~o. .as o~ 1peaker'1 pau1e• of the rhetorle, yet there ta ••••thlng peoµl l.&rly .•1et_ dew• and permanent about lt. · •· · · · · · · · ' , . ' ·· furtheraore we know fro• Llneoln hl•••lf that h• ohee• hie format quite deliberately. Fer he answered _Everett- vh9 had , generously· written t• bi• that "I ahould t>e'"sl•d if . I could flatter •yself that I ca- as near te the central ldeae! the oeea1ion in two hours •• you did in twe •11tut•a" that _ , M•n In our respective p&rtl Y••t•rday. ' ye~ oeul.d net ha-.. exouaed te uke • ahort addre1a, no·r I a leng on• (pa 737) • • •~ • J Edward Everett, whe had been·· both a ~·t•a:ler ~t Gr•'• k •t Harvard and a d:l•t inguiahed atate1un 1 bad been oheaen to be the t1aln apeaker at the dedication as a national ce-tery of th• piece of ground beught by the eight~-.n ~orth~r~ ~tat~e ;wtio had l••t aen at the battles ef Getty1burg. · · Linceln, aa chief. of aiate, bad been invited only two weeka be!ore the · oereuny and £verett had court. .usly sent hi• his own two-hour 's peech, 3. ctoapoaed _ the olaaat.alzing lp , style. for which he vaa famous, ao that Llneoln alsl\t 'aenelder lt in writt.rg hie own (p. 738). We •1ght then ...-otL1neoln'• speech to be oo. 1POa•d aa a eounterpol••- t• Everett•• 1 ln !apt, ln eplte of 1 Li.neoln'a expressed adalrat1on (p~ 737) • . it ." •ett•s to be, a tacit· and tactful repudiation : ef auoh learned rnetoric. : . .' Everett be~ina vitha re!erence ·to th• funeral cere•niee for tJ1e so).dlers of ancient· ·Athene, reporte~ by thuc.ydidee in the ~-e~ond ·book of t-h• PtltRtoDI• ttn ~ (para a. · 35 ff.) , ..-:td end a by quoting Pericles• speech, ·aa Thucydides givee it. Evk"•tt'• speech wae thus intended to be, and wa1 readily reeognlzed •• bet.ng1 ••elass1cal • ln t&ne. In a aal iolous but not totally inept editorial, the Richmond ~9111)1r had said of Everett'• perfor•anc~a •so f&J! the play was strictly classtc•1 and then o! Lincoln's 1peeoh .. To suit the gert•ral public, ·however, a little ad•ixtt.Fe .e f the •re irregular ro•antlc drau was allowed"• the latt;.,•r tena •ight conceivably be applied te a apeeon which, in its reveal.,ns brev i ty, was 11.ke the aerteua obverse of a Llncoln!ai\ anecdotfh . .Here are certain other points in whloh the twe apeeche1 differed. Everett'• waa heavtlydaotylica a stress verelon ' of the Greek epie _ foo~ of. one , long and two short ayllablea appeared eften, , beginrill18 with the first words 1 · ·· - I I .. . ' Standing beneath this serene eky, through phrases Ilk•• " the .. - I . . · . , ' . I ~raves , o! our brethren beneath our feet;, ,., I • · I . . I . . the -eloquent ·Silence of God and Nature, · ., c~ .,.. I I .. I I It was appeil'\ted by law in Athens;· · to the final wordsa �·l~ I I I that whtoh r•latel to the Battles of Gettyaburg. Lincoln's speech, on the other hand, has the prevallina diayllabic pattern, . . stly lamba, ·natural .to sober Engli1h apeeah. So after the two long beats of a grave and 11e>urnful apondee the pattern sets ina I I I I I Four score and seven year• age, and in the last paragraph partioularl~ sequences of laablo penta•eter are dlaoernible. In respect t• diction, Everett'• prose vaa «=la11loal and Latinate, while, lt ha1 been reckoned, Llnoalil on thi1 eccaaion uaed only 32 words of Latin orlgin9 in contrast to . his praotlae vhtll'l addressing a aelfM!t body, for instance, Congreaa; aa ln th• pererat. lon of his Annual Heaaage of 18611 With a relianee on Providence, all th• 110re fir• and earneat,"1et i•:: t · us proceed ln the great task which events have devolved upon · It ".'., (pa 635) e . . us Aa for eettl~, Everett conaeived hie effo~t ae part ef a 11onumental tradlt1.on of aeldler~ funeral oratory. He: ende by ••belliahill8 upon P•rlolea• . .snlloquent saying that •tbe whole earth ls the sepulchre of llluatrloua men.• Lincoln,,ln aontra1t, asslgn1 to the dead neither the earth wlth which he end1 hi• apeeeh, nor th& continent with which he begin•, nor even the battle field on which he dwells in the slddle, but soberly, a aere . .deat •postlon of that field.• So also Everett, beginnlng •• Periclea had, with a reference to the law in Athena, aakes aucb of the am;t.que 1anctlon for such cere•nle1 1 whla!h included an ebllsatory funeral eratlen delivered by an orator chosen for th• purpe1e. Llnoelft• en th• other hand, in hia first draft aaya brusquely, -•thle we aay in all propriety do" (p. 736) 1 intiaating that such dedication• are an indulgence of the livl~, and aoderates this in delivery to a brief statement of co11aon propriety• It ls altosether fitting and proper that we ahould do thl•• (p. 734, cf~ P• 728), . only to go on to call the whole cere11e>ny in questlan1 But 1 in a larger aenae, we can not dedicate - we oan not consecrate - we can not hallaw • this ground. The brave aen, living and dead, who 1truggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power ' to add er detract. Lincoln ls lmplioitly ..klng the aignlficant point that it is !!IS the l~w tn Aaeriaa to have such oaaequles and such speaker1, that honor, particularly for the dead, 11 not an ••tabll1hed publics concern 1n A••rlca. �In content, · what la ••t atriking t.1 that Everett touahe1 on a nwiber of •attere .on whioh_L1neoln has . not one exp11clt word. Everett re!era te the Confederate "lnva1lon11 of Maryland and · Pennsylvania and ceaparea 1t te the Peralan invaai•ft~f G~•eae. Lincoln, en th• ether band, ~d. ln a letter to General Ralleek, specl.fically objeeted t• a phr••• ltke ·11 drlv• ti. invad•i' tr•• our 1011•. uaed by General Meade ln hla order thanklng the aray for the victory at Gettyabur· . Fer, Lincoln. · aaid, "th• male country g is our soil,• alndful ef the faot that th• opponent vae not a fore~ner • .. Hence h• aaye nethin.g of the _ atratestc a1.roW11tamea of" th~ battle credited with ending th• danger of a Colilfederat• occupation ef the North which aake up:.:, the bulk of Everett' a tut, nor . doea he, aa Everett, assign reaponaib111ty fer· .the var, _ tak• up epeciflc conatltutienal queetiona or aention explieitly the fundaaenta} issues of alavery and Unt.on. It 11 worth ••ntlont.ng th.ea• oal1alone, because, as will be shown, in a way they ahape the apeeea. · Thus Linooln preeenta an alt•rnatlve te the olaa9loizlng atyle, an unde110cratle style daalgned, at bttttoa, fqr the secret and eeparate satle!actlon of the speaker and conn.laaeura. Thi• appears aost cleaaly at a _polnt in Which Lincoln in~e · algni!loant contrast with the claaaloal •delatheaaelvea, vi.th Thuaydt.d•• and his Pericles, net by way ot .E:verett'a learned fllter, but 1. .edlatelyt nor aa a etudent of the P9lo~ont1110 !!II: (there ls n. evldence that ,_he was), but as an Aaerican vth an Athenian 1tate1un. Everett•• ·- cholce of aedel had, after all, been an aead••ic, a polltleally bl ind cholcje, fer in the Aurlaan tradition P•rloles 11, of neceaaity, a dubious figure, the leader whO, aa Al•xander Haallton aaya tn ~he sixth F1de;9ll•~· was fer peraonal aottvea · ••Ille co••• aucber •f tha• fa-.ua aM -ta1*al , war._ wbl~h •• •• tenlnated in the · ruin of the Athenian co..,,nw•alth. ~h• prl•lalv• ~ It is only necessary t• cal 1 that var a o1v11 var to sn" that . Perie lea la Lincoln'• - roper antique antagenl8t. The queet~n here la1 hov p do they contrast with respect to political rhetqric1 · The single sentence or th• 1peech wbieh had the greateet eff'9Ct at the tiae and was aoat singled out for anecd(>te and quetatlon (for instance, by the P~iJ1d1lpbi1 Pr•10 Ind Htrptr'• Wtfi\y) vas the follovln~ generou• alsehooda . The world vl,11 little n0t:e, ner long re11e•ber what we aay here; but lt can never forget what they did here. The word In 5UJl was the only word underecered (F1tet Draft, P• 736). this emphasis on the soldlers• deed, LtncQln, of oeurn, _expresses hie senae of urgency in that late fall of 1863, vb.en after the SWiiier battles of Gettysburg, auch to his dlsappointaent~ · expressed in urgent letters to his generals (cf. PP• 711-12, 726-27), there had been only indecisive 11aneuvering ln the eaat. Lincoln _ �felt oppressed by unf1nlshed buslnass and had said that hia speech would be "ehort. short. ahert." the "unflnt.ahed wark." "the gr••t task reraalning before ua• curtail the foraat of the a~ech, and in the precipitous elllpsea of the last sentence, .affeet lta gr-.r. for the sentence lacks all the conneativea here eonjeeturally supplied a · It t.a rather for us to be here d•dt.cated .to the great taak reaalrit.~ before ua •[vhlch aeana] that fro• th••• homred dead we take increased devott.en to that cause fer whioh they .8ave the last full •aaure of devotion - [and] that we here hl~ly resolve that these dead ahall not have ·dlecf t.n valn • [aoJ that this nation, under God, ahallheue • new birth of lreedo• • and that govern111tnt of the people. by the people, for the people, shall not perish fro• the earth• But the 110re significant aspect of Linaoln'a depreciation of "what we say here• can be beat seen by contrast with a correepondlng sentence fro• Perlolea' open1"8• He says! · Moat of •Y predecessors t.n this place· have ee-ended hia who •de this speech part of the law,. telling ua that it ia well that it should be delivered at the burlal o( thoae ·who fall in battle. For •Y••lf, I should have thought that the worth which had displayed itself in deeds, would be auff\,ciently rewarded by honours also ahriwn by deede1 such aa yeu now see in ·this funeral prepared at the people's coat. And I oeuld have ·Wished that the reputations .of many brave •en were net to be i•perllled ln the 11outh ef a alngle individual, to stand or fall aooordlng as he spoke well or 111 (II, 35). the deprecating phrases barely hide Periclea• persuasion that the dead must rely on hi• fer their life in the elty•s aeaory, !•r ho,,ar,n~· that his speech ia worth a battle; as Thucydides thought hls history worth a war. With that, contrast Lincoln'• assertion that the dead are beat honored by their own deeds, that they do theiaaelvee honor, that the task at hand overshadows all ceremony, and hie avoidance of the pronoun "I". · Hore of the rhetorical character of Peri.el.••' apeech le writ large in Plato• s d lalo~ue . Htgrcenu1, in. whieh Spcrate1 . recitee to Menexenus an excruciatingly ~own-up caricature of Pertelea• funeral oratory, which he elai•a to have learned fro• Pericles' hlgh•elaaa whore Aepaeia. It ls essentially a pervers ton of the •noble lte• of the Republt.c (414f .) • For tn it the Athenians are•·teld that they are all autoebt:henoue, deseended fro• those whe sprang fro11 the earth, their aether, and so share equally in a h1gh and heroic lineage (M!poxenue, 237 ff.). By th• prolonged repetttlen,·of i thla and other false facts, erateri, .a11 Socrates deacribea . lt, bewitch our soul•·•••o that even I, Henexenus, when so lauded by the• feel thoroughly noble, and eaeh tlM I stand and listen enthralled and think that I have becoae suddenly �bigger and nobler and Mre handso•e• •• And this exaltation re-ins wlth ae for •ore than three days (235). Nov co•pare a speech in which Lincoln deals with the aatter of traditional colebratl•n•, his Chicago speech of 1858 (p. 401). He calls attention to the natl.en'• rutn•aboriginal nature, ta its beginning 82 years ~gor he calla th• faundera,"aen we clala ae eur fathers and ~randfathers," not hereee, but •tron aen"t he apprevea of the annual celebratien of the ancestral founder• ef eur present prosperity and saya drily that "we go fro• these 11eetinga tn better humour with ourselves.• But · then he stops and r--bera that half the preaent citizens of the country a,re not blood descendants of the founding fathers, and he finds that the true co. .on •rather• of all Amerloana is in fact a declaration of "soral principle,• and through lt all AMerieana are "blood of the 'blood, and !leah of the flesh, of the Nen who wrote that Declaratien" (p. 402). · In Lincoln's rhetoric, then, general prosperity take• the place si~nificant founding act replaces continuity of . habitatlont •nd a peraanent 11eed of sober self-approbatlcm subatitutee for the 'exaltati•n of the days a tradition e! principle euperoedes a llnea~e of blood, And fer all these reasons together, the Aaerioa.n speaker ls net a •aster aani.pulator, but a ftlitlcal t11g~.al'• the only course open to a man Who believed, ind etinct eppea tion to the thesis that •so.e ••n are too isnor•nt, and too ylgloul to share in ~overnment" (p. 279), . · of proud deedst a that n:. aan .ls ~ood enou~h to ether' 1 c1 naent ( p. 304) • ~overn another -n, · wttl]!ut . ~ The Gettysbur~ Address will, accordingly, turn out to be a distlllatlen of Lincoln'• political phiteaophy, which he, . en thle occasion as on many others, atteapted tG infuse tnt,o t;he natien at· lar~e. a nation distingulahed by the !aet th&t its proaperity ."hae a philesophical cause" (p. 513). It is !or this reas. n that the vrltt•n o versions of the apeeeh have no foraal ealutat ten. - it la addressed to all citizens. And the brevity that aade its ten sentenc•e at the . ti•• so fugitive in the hearing, aake them a "peraanent peea•••lon• , ln later readings. For because ef it the speech is readily learned by heart, and la, ln fact, learned by ·heart by aany aehool children. But that ••ans that it aay aucoeed in lodging in the ~t in the fora of seund sentl11ent, e! "virtue and v1~1lance" (p~fh, theee very propoeltlons, essential to the national life, which are too difficult - and perhaps too dubleus - to be continually kept in !!.lm!• Lincoln reco~nized that . . In this age, in this country, public sentlaent ls everything, since in A•erica si~nlfloant political action depends entirely on such sentl•ent. Consequently, as a republioan stateeaan, he aade lt his continual rhetorical task t• guide it,- that i1, te ••nvert the founding doauaents' sound principles. into the ot.ti&•n•' sober passion, in unoensclous accO'rdance wlth Monteaquieu•a advice in the §piri!= ~.ll the L!n• For he says in the chapter "Of Educatien in a �-7Republlcan Governaent" that the ~ullar republican virtue, •teve of the laws and of our country,• requtr•• a kt.nd ef aelf•renunolation., a "constant preference of public to private lnterest," and that "to inspire it ought to be the principal business of educatien" (II,S). But such love of things public la precisely the product of propeaition transforaed int• sent1aental Llnoeln'• rhetarlc la ba••d en the conversion of politlc•l principle into "aoral sentlaent" (p. 401). ••Y•• · Thus Lincoln, who deprecates what ht aust •ke every word i>nl8n&nt with a werld of -•nlng, a~ hia eonte.porarlea reoo~nized that he did just that. Th• Spr\ng!lfld Rfpubllean ce~nteda Hts little speech ts a perfect g. . a deep ln feeling, coapact ln thought and expreaalen, and tasteful and .elegant in every word and eo...... Turn ba~k and read it over, it wlll repay atudy as a 1t0del apeeeh. Strong feelings and a large brain were · its parents - a little palnataklr« lta tccoucl\§y[• •ad• The be~innlng of suctiatudy ls beat with a acanning of the whole, which will brlng out the g~and fraaevork of this little speech• · In time it spans the past ("Feur score and seven years ago"), the present ("Now we are engaged in a great civil war") and the future ("this natlen ••• ahall have a new birth of freedoa"), ¥hil• in apace it coraprtaes the battle ground, on which it ls delivered (aiddle sentences), the continent on which the nation was ~rn (first sentencE and the earth which it ls to aave (last sentence). · 11. The First Paragraph Linaeln- begln•• Four scere and seven yea~s ago ••• "Four score," vi.th its long •h's, repeated in several assonancea, and the first of 11any alliteratlena, sounds a abre mourttful and solemn ·, note than the wards "eighty-seven years," but th• choice of the phrase is not only a J1Atter of sound1 it also carries a · speclal iuant.ng. It ta· the language of the Btble, as in Psal11 90, 101 The days 'o f our years are threeacGre · yeara and tena and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is th•ir strength labour and sorrow.a for it is soon out off, and we fly away • . With the psala in mind ·the phrase ••ane- jus~ beyond the .ae•ry of 1 anyone new alive, too long ago for living lleaGry. Now ve know that from youth on Lincoln was concerned with a peculiarly Aaerlcan dangers the death of sound political passion. In hie speech on "The Perpetuati•n of our Political lnetltutlons" of 1838,s Llnceln drew a clear parallel with the early cofllltlnlty e! Christians, whose danger lay ln the fact that the first generation of disciples and eye• witnesses was followed by a second which had only heard by word of �-8- mouth, by a third which had begun only to have read of Christ, and a fourth which had begun t• fer~et. So in the Aaerican co11munityi the ecenes of the revolution J2.! so universally known, nor so vividly felt, as they _,,the generation juat gone to r••t (p. 84). CtQDlt ..r. The ••n who had seen the Revolution, who were its "l tving history•• are now genes They were the pillars. o! the temple of llberty1 and now, that they have cruabled away, that teaple 11ust fall, unless ve, thelr deseendanta, .supply their places with other pillars, hewn fro• the aolld quarry of s&ber r~ason (p. 84). The danger that the enthuslaa11s of the Revelutlon aight beco11e mere myths .has advaneed to a fact in 1863, the ti•• of the fourth generation fro• that eventa the national edifice has to be rebuilt "fro11 the solid quarry of sober reason." This la the age for a deliberate 11ining of the ft.rat aceounte, for rereadl~ ·the founding docuraents·. Se, then "Feur 1oore and seven years ago" points to that quarry, that alne, ef reasen. Subtract .87 fr•• 1863 and the result 18 1776. Lincoln cen1idera that th~l natt.gn was both conceived l~ and born with . the Declaration .2! ln1'pt_enc§• ·· on July 7, 1863, in response to a serenade en the eccas ctn o the . victory of Gettysburg. under the influence cf the providential coincidence that both the victories of that battler . and Vicksburg had been announced on the Fourth or July, and that Jefferson and John Ada11s had both dled on that day, he had said1 How long ago ls it • eighty odd years • since -on the Fourth . of July for the first tl•• in the history of the world a natien by its representatives, assembled and declared as a self· evident truth that "all 11en are created equal•• That was the birthday of the United States of America (P• 709) • ... And in earlier speeches he had often counted back the et'ghty or eighty•two years to 1776 (pp. 39!, 393)• In repeatedly fixing on the signing of the Declaration as a crucial date, Lincoln ls making a deliberate pelltieal judgment concerning the 'hierarehy of founding events, different for instance fro11 the of Toombs of Georgia who · had begun a speech ln 1850 in this waya Sixty years ago our Cathers joined together to form a more perfect Union. and to establish justice ••• (of. P• 216), refe.-ring the foun<1log Sl[ ~republic to 1790 (the date when the las~ ­ ori8lna1 , state ratified the Constitution), and quoting frora its Preaable. Lincoln's veraien ~ives rather the birth .2.{ Sh!! nation. �- q .. He goes on~ ••• our fathers brought 'fbrth on this continent, a new natlon, conceived ln Liberty, and dedicated to the propoeltlon that all men are created equal. The "fathers" - he calls them fathers, although they are only forefathers, to bring the Revolutlon close - are a very deflnlte group of men. In another context he had said• I suppose the "t:hirty-nine" who st.gned the original instrrn..nt (here the Constltutiona.ay bf!' fairly called our fathers who t'r••d that part of th• fresent Governaent (p. 517). In this speech, then, "our fathers" must be those men, tn .part identical vlth the signers of the Constitution (p. 305), who devlsed and signed the Declaration, ~specially Jefferson. · · . .. These men "brought forth"• thts is again Biblical dlctiona ' the phrase ls used, for tnstance, . ln ~ 1, 31 in the annunciation of the Messiah's birth. They •brought forth on this continent" (all . versions but the last two had "upon•) L ther.e are undertones here of "begot upon the body of this land,• "fathered on thla .fallQv contlnent a1 aother•a the child nation ts safe tn the ' lap of a whole continent, capable ef protecting it from foreign: interference and o! providing those unlimited riches whlch are ita material condltlon. The new nation was •conceived ln Liberty• ("liberty" being the only noun capital lzed beald,,.~, "God") 1 not conceived in love aa are blessed children, but conc,lVed in the love of liberty as are bleased nations \Cf• P• 315)~ Thus the ~gettirut of this nation was a begetting of reason (so. also "bringing f'orth" can mean · "uttering reasons," cf. 11111!} 41.21), primarily a male acta as in Aeschylus• &U!!ent.deo the begetting of the wisdom of Athens, the conception of Athena, is exclusively male (1. 736)1 America ls a fatherland, not a Henexenean aotherland, and this lend' Lincoln's •patriotis111• a special cast. Upon this conception, thtJ nationchild vaa dedicated to a proposition as in a baptism. The proposition, "that all men are created e.ual," was tn quot,tion marks ln the first draft (p. 735) since it com.ra. from the second paragr4ph of the · Declaration of Independence. · I! these are the tmplications of the first, and shortest, of the three paragraphs of increasing length, what ts its sign1flcance7 Consider ftret the continent, the first Qf a nation's three parts, which are "its territory, its people, •nd its lava" (p. 676). The second Federal1et says Thia country and this people seem to have been made for each other ••• �-10- De Tocqueville makes the s&11e point of the United States1 ••• God hlaself gave the11 the 11eans of remaining equal and free, placing the11 upon a boundless continent, ••• (De10s;racy !n A11eric1, I, xvii). · by Lincoln too, especi-ally in hia ·Annual Messages to Congress, spoke . almost with awe of the continent, "the ever-enduring part" of the nation, whose riches give llb~rty an object, whGae 1.11pregnability fosters an unlnvidious patrl~tls11-, and whose integrity makes secession a chlmaerae Physically speaking, we cannot separate (1861, P• 586) ••• the land we inhabit ••• would, ere lo~, force reunion, however auoh blood and t;reasure the s•paratio!l might have cost (1A62, P• 679). Such a contl~nt makes the fittest ground for a aeed of principle, for a continental spac• is needed te safeguard the first e11bodt11ent of the deaGeratlc ldea. Next• What of the blrthdate of 17767 Censonant . with the second Fedgallst, Lincoln held that the Declaratlcan of Independ•nce ·was . ~~te- by the Union, for~ally established by the Arti~les of Assoc atian 1774, and was ft~~ceeded by the establishment of the Constitution in 1787 (p. 5~. This sequence was of the greatest stgniflcance, for 1.t ·aeant - that the nation's birth was a birth of principle, whose issue was •ads peaslble by the ali~htly . antecedent union of the people, and whose nature was kept safe by allowing the practical . lnstruaent of its life to wait on its conception. · Thus, usln~ phrases borrowed fro• Proverbs 25,11, Lincoln, wrote of the principle .. Liberty to all" as expressed in t:he Declaration• · The assertion of that principle, at .tl!!£ ,.t.111§., was the word .. fltly eppktn .. which has proved an "apple--orgold .. t;o us. The Union and the Constituti•n are the pictut:s! of §ilver, subsequently fraaed around tt ,(p. 513). Herf! "subsequently .. 11t1st, ln the case of the Union, mean not later in tiMe, but in pelltlcal priority. Lincoln. then, held the Declaration ta be far more than a declaration ef independence (cf. PP• 574, 577), and lndeed, it would in that case have been a peculiar docuaent to cite in a war to. fight secessi•n• But 1.t 1§. llUCh mores for its wri.ter, Jefferson, had the coolness, t:orecast and capacity to lntroduce 1.nto a Merely revolutionary document an abstract truth, ••• (p. 489)1 and lt is precisely 'by the o•lssion of this truth that the various ' "merely revolutlenary .. Declarations of Independence adopted by the Union's adversaries are characterized (p. 607). And so Llnceln eaysa �J have never had a feeltng polltlcal.ly that did not sprlng frofti the eentlraente embodied in the Declarat.lon of Independence.,. It wan not the 11ere 11atter of the separat \.on of th" Co lonles fro11 the •otherland1 but that sentiment ln th• D•clar.atlon of Independence whlch ~ave 1 t.berty, not alone to the peopla of thl ; ; country, but~I hop~, to the world, for all future time (Adores~ 10 ~Jl~1J11en!"t1nc,; ll!ll, 186 l, P• 577, cf. PP- 362, 513). Now what l8 of pt·lme lmportance ln the speech ls Wu! these pr lnc lplft~, which mark the tru.t beg hmlng of the nation, are hel d . tincqln denomlnatf!~ t h ers "concrp'lgn§'" nnd "Q!oposi~12n~." In the Of!claratt.on the fftthers hact he rl that they were "ltelf-~vid11a.nt Truths .; So11ftthln~ hae happened between the foundln~ and the present: which forc~u Llncoln to c4ll the axi.011s o! the Declaration mere proposltlo n Th la le 'fhllt had happened 1 tpe Declarat: ton had been cal led ln publ lo. 11 a aelf·evlchmt l le, .. a phrase Lincoln often clted with rfl!pu~nanoe (pp • . '314, 331, 489, cf, P• 275), for i.t qreates a f a tal sltu11tlon1 One would ~tart wlth great conf 1.dence that he coulo convlnc any sane chlld that the et11pler proposi.tlons of Euclid are trueJ but neverthole~se he would fall, utterly, wlth one who should deny tho de!tnltiona anc1 axioms. The pri.nciples cf Jefferson Are the de!inltione •nd axi.01110 of free soctety (p!. 489). That Llncutn hac'I 11ade a epecial effort to study t~xte concerned with . itnrt to ponder the natUJ;e of, axt.or1att.c sel!·evtdence and logical conaequeno• is k.nown. In hls short autoblo~raphy he particularly nientiQne that he had "studt.ed &nd nearlv 11astered the six books of F.:uclld tttnce he wae a me1'1lber of' Co~res; .. (p. 549). He understood that melf~evldence le a peculiarly delicate affair. since once impugned, one~ only dented in publtci · a,self•evtdent truth turns lnto a debatable proposition. Yet as the axtom, precisely by reason <>f lts eel!•evldence. was unprovable, so the . proposition has no · rational proof from hi,gher prtnclples, but can be verified only fro~ its consequences or • draadful prospect - from the fatal consequences of ite oontrary. !hie, then, ts the peculiar danger or a natlon which lives on a tradition of expl{clt prl~ctple rather than of ingrained myth, • prlnclple afflr~ed at its very beginning in one event: whose impact no later ones, wlth l:he unhappy exception of 1Jo11n catastrophe, ce.n match· that it grows blind to the selfevldence of lts conceptiona untll a catastrophe opens lts eyes. And now, what.,more precisely, are these principles whose s tandi r has changed? In the words of the Declaratlon they are1 that all M~n are preated equal, that thoy are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rlghts, that among these are Llfe, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness. Bere equality of creation, equality before God, precedes, and ls the condltlon of, the other rl~hts, of whlch only some are named. One etrlkln~ o~teslon ls of positive importance, slnce wlthout lt Ltncoln could scarcely have cited thls document ln that year which had be~un, ln the Emanclpatlon Proclamation of January · t, lR63, with what was ~dmitteoly a destruction of the property of many Americans ·1. ·.· �-12- (p. 6At). In Leok•'• teeurrent f•raula .. ll!e, liberty and preperty (or eG.. •qulvalent fer l••t• ni. Itt•t~lf .It C1Y.1l ~'!.!,nuot• ••8• par••· 123, 11,, lli),• •r•en•~ 1ubitltiited ?Or prepert:y .,the Purault ef ff•J>plne11, • l••vlns the , erl9lnal p"ra•e to be pt.oked up in the Con1tltutten (p. 524). Exoept fer thi• sub•tltutlen th• Deelaratlen -.euld b.ardly have been •• t• the heart ef Lt.nceln, wtMI r ...•bered wt.th apprnval th• 11 S•J•?f cl••• that ttw Je!feraon party were foraed upon it• ~UP'8••<t 1upet:'ler devetlen t• the peraenal rtfht• ef aen, holding th• rl1hi• •f property te be eecendary en y, and a•••tly t.nferl•~•·•• (p. •&&). But a ••••nt v•r dead epeelfleally • r • reuin, th• ef natlenal erisle and t~• ee•••lGn •f ••••... rating lt 1earoely an eppertune tl•• te ·dwell en the per1onal rlgftts te life and th• pursult ef happlne••• eut et: th• Deelaratlon, tir•t equality •nd then libert1• Nov Llneeln ••••• in thl1 epeech ta reverae tht1 erder in setting l 1berty as th• orla1M1 ··oe'n.eeptlen, •• he had befere tented "Liberty to all," ~ principle of the Deelaratien (p. 513). Jut el eevhere he 1aya a · · 1 I believe that the deolaratienthat "all "'fin are created equal" l• the gr••~ ('und1••nt:al prlnaipl• upon vhlch eur f9M t i.Qtih.~~l- . i"••~ "f ~ 1 ·479) I . l.t le tha feundt.ng prinelple to be kept: tn vlev, !er ln1t•na•, when the terrlteriea pa1a eut ef a state ef nature and the !•undatiena of aeeiety are latd. What do•• Llneeln censider t:• be the real relatton •f these twe prlnclple•? De Tequev1ll• lri th• ohapter inquiri"' .. Whr10. . .oratie Natlana Shew a More Ardent and Enduring Leve o! lqual tty than •! Liberty•. (n. .1yr11y in AMtlll• II, ii, t) een1lder1 lt.berty and equality two d v•r•• aM in •P•ndent thtng1 1 ef vhloh equality pertain• pri-rlly ta th• •••lat, liberty t:e the pelltlcal sphere. Yet he ad•lta that ultl..tely, radlaally, ceneldered the t"t are what weuld be called tn legtoal ter•a •co•..naurately unlveri,t,• that 11, they i•ply eaoh other• · It la pe•alble t• l••8ine freedom and equallty veuld •••t an I extre•e polnt at which and blend. Lincoln take• exactly tht.a '*extr•••" .ul•• · '.ff8, bbit11-'111"r'i1•t• eut hl1 underatandlng of the prlna1ple ef equal1ty with respect t• the alavery que1tlen, whlch would appear to be prt.aarlly a queatlen of 11berty • On the ether hand, ...h•. lnt~rprete equal lty ef ereat; ion t:• -•n •r•ol••lY the .PO•••••l•n'ef 11 unallena-le rlght•"• chief wh1eh le peilltt.eal liberty. The Deolarat:1en. alttwugh by ne aeana declaring •en equal J.n Ill [!lltct1, ••Iii �- 11- At the Srime time> true t:o the openness_ deman<ted by the prtnc.i.ples he usually abstains from the rhetorlcal compulsion of specific pleas, these sentences of his .last public address, deallng with~ burning problem of the moment, are typlcal1 In the Annual Message of Dec. 1863 and accompanylng Proclamatlon, I pre~enterl ~ plan of re-constructlon (as the phrase goes) which, I proml!ied, if adopted by any State,- should be acceptable to, and sustalned by, : the Executive gov.e rnment of the nation. I distinctly stated that this was not the only plan which mi5ht: possibly be Rcceptablea ••• (p. 797). · Instead of att~mptinp, to compel the people t:il ·a co1:itse deduced . dogmatically, in the manner of an ideoloe,tst:, h~ presented in the words of the London Spectator, A poli.tlcal transparency, ln which the nation could see an lndivldual character of great power working out the problems set before them all ••• He manages to make these problems supremely absorbing, and he does it by making almost every speech an interpretation of the founding documents, in whlch he reveals at once their inexhaustible radical t.ty and their enduring applicability - by g.lvlng ,Americans a secular complement to the Scriptures (p. 84). With respect to the promissory character of democratic principles, Lincoln 1mder:scores lt by projecting the . growth of the past into the futures There are already among us those, who, if the Union be preserved, wl 11 l lve to see lt contain two hun<1re<1 ann fifty mll 1 ions. The struggle of today, ls not altoP-eth~r for t.oday .. it ls for a vast future also (p. 635, cf, PP• 681, 75f1). The present is thus understood as being the sponsor of the futures yet the future · ts, 1.n turn, nothing but t[le magntftcation of the past (cf. p• 656). But polttlcally the American past ls of a. pecullar sorta it ts not an extensive, unbroken tradition but t:he memory of a s1.ngle, lntense event - just as a fabric of reason beg.1.ns with a principle from whlch lt is derived, so the history of democracy beglns with the Revolutlon. Lincoln intends to assure that that beelnntng ls present to the futur", that that event remains the tradltion which governs the future. For the prlnciples of the fathers are, by their \lery nature, the r.oot of the future insofar as it ls good. An<l finally, wlth respect to the passive and incurious mode in which the democratic principles of equality and liberty tend to be accepted, it is significant that Lincoln himself never attempts to raise the question of their truth, nor even .to supply a defl.nl.tion, exc.ept in extremely slmple, and negative terms. So he says, �-14- state of nature exists, Cengreae. with the aid ef that "standard •axia for free society" (p. l61), the principle of equall.ty, 11 laya tbe foundations ef society" (p. 479) • pelltlca precedes eeciety, not the reverse (p • . 279). Thua, since 1001.ety ls 1ria~qallf based on pell.ti.cal pri.neiplea, which .theaaelves nave a -r• and, finally, a rtl\g11u1 basia, Aaerican lite depends ulttaately en a higher source. And ••• by his reference to the principlet ef equallty, Lino•ln realnda the natl•n which laeka the earth-born equality of coa•n · blrth, teuted for Athena t.n the Her•QUI• ef a coamn high . paternal origins it la a natien equal •un er God." III. the Second Paragraph Now we are enga$ed in a great ctvll war, testing whether that nation, or •ny natten so conceived and .so dedicated, can long endure. In hie •iddle paragraph Llnooln passes fre• "four acere and aev&n years age• and •our fathers" to "nev" and "we•, fro• the Aeneratl•n of the Rev•lution to the generation ef the ' Rebellion, ef the "great civil war", which, ln its enor11lty, he had in the·daya •f the victory ef Gettysburg teraed, in Hiltonlc language, a "stgantlc Rebell ton .. (p. 709, ala• P• 702). Indeed there was to hi• aeaetht.~ ef the .Fall ln the wanten destructien ef our national fabric, with all its benefits, tta 11e11ories and its hopes, •••• Will you hazard ao desperate• step, ••• while the eert·a1n ills you fly t•, are greater than all the real enes yeu fly fre11? (First Inaugural Addreaa, P• 584) Yet in that very a,..eoh Lineoln aaintained the right of revolution (p. 587), whleh he had already aaaerted in the House as a "sacred right" during the war with Mexico, in a speeeh attacki~ the President fer waging, without. consulting Congress, a leng, aggressive and 1..,ral var (p. 209). · But, he aalntat.nec:t,11 the actl•n of the seuthern st•t•• was not revolution, er aecessien, but "rebellion" (p. 602), · · Why was it net seceaslon7 The word, he declared to Congress, i11plles the legality of states leaving the Unien as statea. But, he had said, I. hold, that ln conte•plation of universal law• and ef theCanetltuti.on, . tpe Union of these States 1s perpetual (p. 582)~ This ls · because the Union represents the fundamental social caapact1 aa Locke says in Ihe S~con!! treatise 2f Ctvtl Goverm1ent1 That which ..akes the coaaunity and brings aan out ef the loose state of nature lrito one politic aociety ts the agreeaent which �everybody has with the rest to incorporate and act as one body, and s.o to be one dlsti.nct commonwealth. The usual an.d almc~t only way whereby t:hl9 union ts dissolved is the inroad of for\.'ign force making a conquest upon them ••• (para. 21 t, of, 243). Secession of any sort therefore does violence to pollt:lcal society itself and ts simply insupportable. But formally lt was a theory of statehood .which allowed Lincoln to maintai.n the absolute p..,rpet:ulty of the Union, a theory which again turned about the date and wordi~ of the Declaration of Independence.. He observed that that document first declared the "united Colonies" "free and independent st:at:es" (p. 603), so that the Union, whlch had preceded independence. hlid certainly preceded statehood. Accordingly he denied that the new Confederacy was right ln claiming that the Art i.cles of Coo.federat: ion adopted by Congress in the year af'ter the Declaration, .according to which MEach state retains its sovereignty, freedom, and independencett (Art. II), repreeented a kind of prototype pertod, a state of nature ~ so to speak, for the States, in which thelr original sovereignty · dlsplayed itself. For the Union, having prec~ded the Declaration, . !! fortiori preceded any organic law, as shown by the Preamble of tht: Constitution. which speaks merely of ·establishing " a ~ perfect Unton"' (p. 582). The states had never existed 11 out of" the Uni.on, . but had entered it, insofar as they were entitles at all, only as colonies, or, if territories, from the state of nature' (p. 479)1 Our States have neither 11ore nor less. power than that reserved them in the Union by the Constitution - no one of them ever · having been a state out of the Uniona The orlglnal ones passed into the Union even ~fore they cast off thelr lirltlsh colonlal dependence, ••• ,. The new ones only took the designs.ti.on of States on comtng into the Union, while that name '-ra.s f tr st adopted for the old ones in and by the Declaration of Independe < : •••• Having never been States, either in substanc~ 'or in name, outside of t:he Union, whence this magical omnipotence of "State rights", asserting a claim of power to !awfully destroy the Union ltself7 (pp. 603·604. cf. P• 572) • .... " Hence the assumption of the states• power of lawful witttdi:awal ~as a "sophlsm" (p. 603).. Lincoln's term "civil war", i.11pl'les precls~ly the denial of the Confederate view, that it is a "war between the States.• · ' This 1s only apparently an appeal to•er~ dates. · Here history, ln the providential course lt . seeras to run on this continent, dlsplay the nature of the case, for the Unlon comes naturally before the states, b~ing the ground and guarantor of that popular goverl'l.lll,ent which is the incarnation of the founding principles. Thi~ le . expres$ed in its instrument, the Constitution, in two places. Fire ·~.: ln its Preample1 the very phrase, .. We, the people", le meant to ind lcate t,hat only a unlted people, ·speaking in it:e own voice, can sanction republican fundamental law - as Lincoln had pointed out, it: had been precisely this phrase which was altered in the new ,southern �-16document to •we, the deputl•• of the sovereign and independent States•, in aeoerdance with the fact that the new Deelarat1ona had. omitted the words -all ..n are ereated eqwa1.• •Why thla dellberata preaalng eut •f vtew th• rlghta of •en and the authertty ef the pectple7• he ••k• (p. 607). seoendly ln lte bodya the Cenatitutlon provides that "The Unlted St:atea ahall guarantee to every atate ln the Union a republican fora of gever1t11ent• (Art. IV, Sec. 4), •• that if a atato ••Y lawfully g~ out of the Union, having done so, lt uy alee dlseard the relf)Ubllcan for• of Gevern11ont1••• (p. 608, ef, P• 740) • · the Union is reapenalblle not eniy for th• eatabliahaent but al10 for pervasiven••• of republican institution•• But «le T•equev111e ••Y•• Th• •overetgnty ef the Union la an abatract beln.l•••t the sovereignty of the atatea if perceetibla by tho eaally understood, and constantly active {DtlJllC[ICY !D Aurtc1, l, xvltl } , ••n•••• Lincoln's effort ia, without detriment to tho dl1tlnctlveneaa of the states (p. 446), to turn this abstraction into a palpat.le feeling, as 11Uch •• anywhere ln thla speech, ln which out of tactful respect for the fact that .it is a natlerual but not a federal cemetery which is being dedicated, the w.rd "Union• never appears. Now the right ef aeceeaion being rejected, what happens to the right of revelutlen? Lincoln thinks on thi• crucial matter as a radical conservative. That le, when charged with revolutionary vieva he protest• his eeneervatlaa'i What la conservatiaa? ls it net adherence to the old and trl•d• against the new and untried? We stick to, eentend !or, the · identical old policy on the point in controversy which w~s adopted by •our fathers who fra11ed the govermaent ·under which we llve" (p. 528), . · but alnce the controversy referred to is the extension of alavery, which Llnceln opJ>Gsed with all hls ai.ght, his v"ry opposition to change t.1 made in the spirit of the Revolution. ' In other wrda, in this country, whose original government vae cenatituted by revolution, the aoat pregreaaiv• side tries most faithfully to return to the beginnings, so that even innovations are aade in a context of rational arguMent with the fathers (p. 525). It haa once and !or all preeapted the Revolution, embodied in the process of change by majority decision, so t~t henceforth all rebellion is counter- · revolution • . In a well-f11unded pol tty, justice ls almost o•lncident with organic law, and a sense of justice with the intention to preserve it. In practice this means, on the one hand, that bad laws �.. I 7 .. should be repealed as soon as possible, still while they - contlnue 1.n force·, for the sake of exa11ple, they should be religiously observed (p. 81), · even 1.f 1.t is expected that they will be .held unconstitutional (p. 58 ~ and on the other, that no law or decision need become 9• a rule of polit:ical action" (p. 418, cf. p .. 396) until it is judged to harmoniz( with t.he intent ion of the Founders. · The right to revolution does remains however it ls clearly c1rcumscr.ibed, n.nd :tn such tP-rms as to reveal the chief function of the Conatltut'-on in a working democracy c If, by mere force of numbers, a majority should deprive a · ~lnorlty c.•f any clearly written constitutional right, le might, tn a moral pob1t of view, justify revolution .. certainly would, if such a !°-ight were a vital one (p. 5'84). The issue mu~t, then, be one of constitutional rlghts dented, or extra-legal action upon i.t constitut~s an upris1ng against the people• So Lincoln says of th~ aecessiqnisttu .These politicians are subt i.l-e and profound on the rlght:B of. mlnoritieB. They are not partial to that power which me.de the Con~t:ltution, and speaka from the preamble. calling 'itself "We, the People_" (p. 606). Thus any sectional or factional uprisif\S, upon a mere feeling of dissent or discuntnet, or ev"n ort a plea of "social just tee", no matter how worthy of sympathy, b~ing dir~cted against that government which ls itself the first living and prospering incarnati.on of the r~volutionary principle, conoucing ~ore essentially to the ends of civil and religtous liberty (p. 76) than any previol!sly known, wi.thout ' vlable alternative, and moreover as Lincoln emphasized, containing the means of lts own a~endmenc wt.thin itself {p. 587)~ ls a catastrophe of a p~culiarly _ allful sort. Llncoln d~cl ined to participate in it even where hla sen•e of jt•stice was completely outraged (p. 3]6). For the man who proposes to abandon such a Government, . would d<.' welt to consider . in deference . to what princ-lple it ls that: he does it' what bette· he i.s likely to get in U:e !l!teach .whether the substltute will 6lve, or be intend~d to give, so much of good to the people? (p. 607). . . The question is thus always, in Lincoln's a<laptat1.on of Hamlet's weighing. of suicide (III, i, 82)• Will you hazard so desperate a step, .... whi.le .the certain llls you fly to, are greater than all the real ones you fly from7 (p. 584). �·18- Thle , v.ar, Lincoln goes on to say., ls a .tJ!.1..k• The oriaia has the nature of a teat, because, aa he had aatd 1.n -iits ..aaage to the Congress vhlch he had called into special session to aeet on that fateful . date e! July .4, at the beginning of the war ln 1861, thla goverruaent ls an experl•enta · · Our pepular govern•ent has often been cal led an experlaent • Two points ln it eur people have already eettled - the auoceaaful t•t•rl19hi~, and th~ eueceaaful 1~11ni•f•{1Dft ef it. one atlll 0 re11a ne • ~. auooeasful 11tifilY'nc1 aga net a foraldable internal . attempt to overthrow 1t (p. . • · . . As a final phase of 4n experiaent the war represents one teat for all cases, a aodel caae of a natl.en established' on expltcit prinoiplea, ln which two rutceasary foundi~ conditions, na•ely the vtade• ef the fathers and the reeeptivity of the contin~nt had been optiaal • lf. this ?14tlon fails then it la de11onatrated that "any natlen• muat fall. Thia ls how the American enterprise had. been underatoed fro• the founding1 lt 1ee11e te have been reserved", says the ft.rat Federal tot 11 to the people of thie country, by their conduct and exaaple, to decide the i11portant question, whether oocletlea of aen are really capable or not, of eetabl iahi"R good govet·!Wetlt fro• reflectlen and choioe ••• , and this very thlng h•d •oved de Tocqueville to write his book (I, xvli9 end). When the Thucydt.dean Pericles calla the whole city "an edueatlen to Greece .. (II, 41)he •eans that Athene 11 the· unique and t.ni•ltable cynosure of the Greeke1 when Lincoln calls the government an experiaent and the present war a teat.1for all natl•n• he offers Amert.ca as a practical poli.tt.cal pattern to the werld. The funda11ental iseue, whlch t.n the course of the war had beoo•e "distinct, staple and inflexible• i1 an lssue which can only be tried by war and decided in victory (p. 787). But how can a war be a teat of anythi.ng? The var vlll, .Llnceln says at lt11 beginntnai, teach th~t when ballots have fat.rly and constitut't.onally decided, there can 6e no succeaa!ul appeal baak te bullet•••• (1861, P• 608). Is Lincoln rutt aelf •contradt.ctory here? How could the suooeasful u1e of bullets tn thi• var preve that there can be ne succeeeful appe•l te bullets in republlca7 Or, lf the argu..ent ia that strength at war ls the converted strength of the ballet box, will it not be necessary to say that every outco•e proves the principle of popular eoverelgnty? Certainly, Lincoln f&und his old "faith that right 11akea might" (e.g., P• · 536) corroborated by the popul.• r aupport the Unlen ' co!Ulanded {pp. 606-7, 764, 786)1 to hi• the solid conservatism of the 11ajortty was a sign of political soundnesa • . But as the war went on �he looked ure often to a higher judge, to .. the God of battles .. of the Revolution (p• 264) ,· who• the theoreticians o! popular governnem: had not been able to aveld invoking. In the Seoon~ Ireatloe g.! Civil Goyer~en;. Locke says, not perhaps with much inner conv1ctlon, but rater driven by the argu. .nt, that where there 1• no judicature on earth te decide eantroveraiea amongst men, God in heaven 11 Judge (par••· 241-242, of. 168). And the Second Inaugural Address (1865) ls a fervent reference to Psalm 19,91 qth• judg••nta of tha Lord, are ttu• and righteoua altegether• (p. 793, of. Letttr ~ A{ G, Qqd111 1. Aprll 4, 1864, Which anticipates · the Inaugura ). . . And in a private ••dtaation on the divine will "net written to be seen of men• in 1862, he ascribes the dlreotlen and the outcn•e of the war entirely te the will of God who uaes the contestants ae his •huraan instruaentalitles" (p. 655, cf. P• 610). While there ls still peaoe, Ged'a juds•ente are ~lven by hie •8Nat tribunal, the A•erlcan people• (Firat Inaugural, P• 587), but ~nee at war, the Almi~hty adjudicates. Frcn• the day Lincoln left for wa·• hington, as Prealdent~e1ect, he did what the A•ertcan people have always expected their fallible fellow citizens who rule the• to do - he co•mitted himself te God, (p. 568), aa the only power htih enough to oversee the tendency •f the whole, and in this spirit he CGnttnued1 I olalm not to have controlled events, but confess that eventa have controlled me. New at the enp of struggle the nation's cenditien la not what either any 11an deviaed, er expected. God alone can clat.11 !2. A, q, H9dge1. April 4, 1864). plainly three y11tars party, or it (LetterI Exactly what the test · was to prove Lincoln had· stated already in his •Perpetuation• speech o! 1838. It was to b~· a practical de•onatratian of the truth of a propositi•n• which had hitherto been cnna1dered, at best no better, than proble11atloal namely, the ~rAtltv 2! A pegple IA gove~n themoelyes (p. 82, cf. P• 1 • "The experiment is successful", he had then added, but as the self• evldence of the axlom · e! equality had begun to fade, se it• practical oonsequence, the gevernaent, was thrown t.n doubt. The more precise forra of. the questlon n.w lsa . ·whether di.scentented indlvlduale, too few in nmnbers to contr•l ad11lnistration. according to organic law, in any case, can always, upon the .pretenses 11ade ln thle case, or on any other pretenses, or arb.ttrarlly, without any pretense. break up their Government, and thus practically put an end to . free goverlll'llent upon the earth •• �-20•ts th•~•· in •11 republtoa, thls inherent and fatal weak"-••T• •Huat a Geverftll8nt, of neoe11lty, be too tor the 11bei:tl•• of lt• own peeple, or Kl!k te •alntaifi?ta evn ex1~teneet• n1ou t•• (p. 598). · That • natien, heir te the •tuM••ental bl•••lna•~ •! th• •falr•et portion of the earth•, lnvulnera~l• t• lnva1l•n• •• ~•11 ••tea fref· gover1111ent, eeuld enly "die by auieide• (pp. 76-77) had lene see1ied plain te Lt.nceln, though at ·the t i - (lRl8) 1'• had tboual\t that thi• internal trlal would take th• fer• of that p•rv•,•l•n of de11c .cracy, whioh he called •ubeeracy•, in vhleh. JtMPl• l.Wt.• vldt1ally forget te ~evern thnaelv••• Nev lt tum1 eut that ln hit century the teat of endurance baa taken th• for11 't elvll war, i n whl<·h a whole a•g•nt of the Mtian refuaea td aubaltl 'i• lte !'.'I t• StY!·~~rtl• t:: . ··~. :-::~ .. Lincoln goee ona We are .•et en a Areat battle•fleld o! that war. But he avoids any particularization of the circu••tancea ef the battle of the great . war 1 iV§tC~.~. tit4 treated that at length. p,re~ . test Lo::·-··.-"·"" -' ··- ·" ,::;: . :... - .~---=a:~..--:r..:::::::.-q:;::.r:;ctr.J•P"' We have colle to dedicate a pertlon of that field, as a · final resting place fer thoae who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It ls altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. A pi.rt of the fi.eld, which had, incidentally, been called Ce•etery Hl11 even before the battle, ls being eet aside as the earthly dom .ln of these newly dead soldier• vhe, ae the father• gave the nat1 .on birth insured lt11 continuing life. IV. The Third Paragraph But in a larger sense we can not dedicate we can net consecrate • we can not hallow • this ground. The third paragraph has features of an incantation, repetition and rhy11e, but it ls a negative incantation. It begins by warding off an 4!rror1 fit and proper though it may be in a narrow sense to comtuct dedication ceremonies, there la danger that the present gem,ration, txhat •we", •ay substitute the redundant rituals of ded~ .catlon, censecrat1on and devotion for dedication in the sense of the fathers, 'that dedication of a piece of ground may take the place of 1:he larger ded'lcation to a proposition called for. by the great war. So one can hear tlhe steady lambs of Lincoln's three-line rhyritng ref'raln perturbed by a warntnge11.phasls on "we 11 • �•21- The brave aen, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add ~r detract. With this sentence Lincoln honors at ol'\ee the Union dead, the Union aurvlvora, and genereualy but tactfully, the enell)', fer the phrase "the brave men, living and dead, who atruggled here", with its intranaitlva. uae ef the verb, applies also . to the other alde of whom about an equal number, 23,000 aen, had died (p. 712). Lincoln, unlike Pericles in speaking to the Greek Athenians, always keepe before hl11 the· terrible fact of the civll war, that Alierlcana are fighting Aaerican1. He aaya not one derogatory werd of the transient enemy a -three weeks after the Addreaa, Lincoln issued a Proclaut;.ien ef Aanesty and Reoonstruction giving tull pardon to all ordinary ct.tizena whe would resuae allegiance to the Unt:on (p. 738 f.). As . always, he ·av•lda 11.aklng dlviaiena, fore Our strife pertains to eurselvea • to the passing generatlens of mens and it can, wlthout convulal•n, be hushed forever with the passing of one generation (p. 679, of. P• 588), 1 and What I deal wt.th ta ~9.9 AIJ'.&! .f9!': malicious deal 11)8 (p. 650) • He goes ona The world will little note, nor long remeaber what we say here, but lt can never forget what they dld here. · as It la. known that Lincoln considered the speech a failure a speken speech, for he h.ad told a friend right after its delivery1 •Lamen, that speech won't ocour. It is a flat fallure and the people are disappointed.• The ea11e thing had happened with respect to hls second moat renowned speech, the Second Inaugural, ·about which he had written to a friend• · I expect the latter ta wear as well as • perhaps befter than • anything I have producedf but I believe it is not ilQlediately popular (p. 794)• In view of Lincoln's correct appraisals of hi& ~peeches, the sentence cannot be regarded as a conunent on the Address1 rather, besides carrying the meaning siven above, it serves as the counterpart of one in his previous Annual Messaget We ~ we are for the we say this (p. 688). Union~ The world will not forget that The state11ent of ai11 has been once and for all made, and now all is concentrated on its mil ltary !9.9.~.!e~..!•~Jlli• t:=,";;:, .. ~ ... __ ...... _ ~· • ••.:.::::.:..• ,; ; .;..:.-:.~~.~:.. ··..:·...~....:;;.. ;;;..,1. ~ ;. ;::-,.-:-..:;~..;.:-:;; =-~:::;,.. : ... And then come the last two sentences, . half the speech in length, wh1.ch develop its expl lcit theme - the second dedtcat\qn. of the �-22· natt.nn, ln this consecrated pl•~· ll!Dt (Lincoln reaoved a fourth .. here" fr•• th• ft.ul veraten), "' " · Tt l• f•r ua the llvtns. rat:her, to be dedlcated here to the un!tnlahed WGrk whloh they vha fou,!ht here hav• thua far so nobly advanced. lt t1 r•ther fer ua to be here dedtcated to the great task r•••lnlng before ua • Practt.cal ly, th• "un!lnlehed work"; .. the great t.a11tk r••alntng before 11 , ta the winning o! thtt W'-1" (ef. Jh 791) • bttt in 1lgnlftcance it . ta ao••tht.~ Ar•ater, tl\e 1ueeeelt!ul .PMl'l•t.en ef the expert.11ent nf ~npular !•v•rn••nt. · tJa - ·;·:,.~.":""'~~~~:~· · :-:.';: .~:. ~~"-~~:-~:!.. · ~~t.: : ." ' ;" :'" .~~·;:.·~ ..;~ .-~-J?-~ .• ~ Th• next two clau1e1 1 ·~•lft in that 1pell•l t.ke .diction which gtvea eucee11\ve cola ldentlcal er n••r-tdentlcal endlnge, give the nat.ure qf thl1 new d8dleatlon1 it •••ns · I that frGa these honered dearl we take lnere&$ed devetlon t• that caua• !ftr whleh the~, ~ave the l•st: ful 1 l'leasure of devothm • th.at we her• hi8hly reaolve that these dead shall nftt have dled tn va1.n .. In invok1"8 the dead, Lt.neoln t.a touohing what ln hla Flrat Inaugural he ttalled the 11)'11tlc ohotc1e er •e•ory;'. atret:chlng fro• every battle•.fi.eld and patriot ~rave, to every 1 lving heart and hearth-etol"tt• •• (p, 5ftA). .. . I 'fe '10 thle hf.It al~lftB the la~U&f';t!t of (!hurch and . legielatlve assemhlye 'fhe dedloat:lon, · the eena•cratt.en, .t h• hat lowing, the .devotion Lt.ncoln i1r••• 1.a ofen a h1.s Rf'ttltch pol ltlcal . sort. He had uried lt .already 1n 1R3R, in "The Perpetuation nf our Polltlcltl Inatltl;ltlons .. , Let rfJv«trence for the lawa.~.becol'le thsJ91\t;1 0 alte11~1on of the natl.ant and let the old"!'and the you ·. 1 the rt.oh an ·the po«n'• th8 ~rave a~ the 8•Y• nf all sexes and tca~ues, and oolai-• and eendltlena. aaorlflce unceattln81Y upon lts altars (p. Rt). · nu•an Llncnln ls dftllberateiy ooneecrati.1\A poll.tlc1, and the ~reat agency of reverenee la , •••ery, wtl~fQ .,1 l th\naa .. Se•• hallowed" (p. 191. The laat: two olauaee !lV• the efteot. of that thi.1 f reedoll - nattnn. undf.tr n,.d, ~he new dedicatlona ahalt have a new birth ef �-23The wonds 11 under God" were not in the flrst draft1 they were .reported in the newspaper verslons of the ap•ech as delivered and incorporated by Lineeln later (cf. 1s. 752). Why did he add the117 ·· I¥• Under th_, heading "Of Clvll Reli~ion", the last in Sogial C1ntr15t, Rousseau describes the clvll rell~i•n of repub cs wh{ch it le the business of the acverelgn to set out, not as retl~loua de1t•a1 but as 11 8entlaenta •f 1octablllty". They ought t• be staple, few ln nuaber, preclaely fixed, and without explanation or co••nt. The existence of a powerful, wlae, and benevolent Divlnlty, vhe fer••••• and prevldee .t he life to 0011e, the happlness ef the . juat 1 the puniahaent of the wicked, the .. sanctity of the aeeial contract and the laws ••• (IV, viii). This la precisely the nature of Lincd~'s faith as continually set out tn hla public pronauncMtente (pp. 65~, 727, 757, 793). The natlen 1.a under a "beneficent Father who dvelleth in the Heavens" (p. 728). . It has a double parent•~• • the !ore-fathers and the F•ther above. Wlth the1e words, Lincoln, then~ tnvokes at once faith, the pe1:sonal trust in a auperlitr betng, and religion, the public obligation to reverence. · · Thia natlonwill have .. a ·new birth of freedo•"· Thoee werds were not, at the time, felt to be at all innocuous• Nor are they, if "of freedo•" la read not as an objective genitive, so that the natl.on is said to ~ive blrth to a new freedom, but as a parallel to •conceived ln Liberty•, ae that the nation itself ts said to be rebnrn. The Chteago ~. tnreperttng on the speech, aald that in thia phrase "Mr. LIJ\COin did foully traduce the 11otlves of the tHm who were elaln at Gettysburg", for· they fousht only to preserve the eld govern11ent. Now, as has been shown, Lincoln in fact &8reed with thla conservative vlew of the struggles he bad sai.d so explicitly1 · I ••t I am exceedingly anxious that thla Union, the Constitution, and the libertle1 of . the peGple shall be perpe~uated in accordance with the ori~lnal idea for which that strt.lggle was aade, and I ehal l be raost happy indeed if I shall be . an humble lnstl'Uaent. · in the hand . of the A1111.ghty, and this, . hls almost chosen a people 1 for perpetuating the object of that great struggle ' {p. 57:>). And yet theChidago Times was right to 1.ntentlon, a ra teal oppost.tlon to the conserv.atta• expressed ln their slogan the Union as t.t was". ln 1R54 Lincoln suspect an underlying radical De110crat!.c party' a klnd of "The Constltutlon as i.t is and had satd at Peorla1 Let u~ re-adopt the Declaratton of .Independence, and With lt, .the practices and policy, whlch har110nize wt.th lt. Let north and .south • let all A•ericana - let all lovers of liberty everywhere .. join in the great and good work. If we do this, we shall not only have saved the Unions but we shall have so saved lt, as to make, and keep 1.t, forever worthy of saving. We shall . have so saved it, that the succeeding mtlllons of free �-24- kappy people, thft worlrt ovt!r, shal 1 rl8e 1.ip, and cal 1 us blessed, to the latest generatlons (p. 315)" The last phrases are a para.phrase of the Hagnlfleat, the words of the ntother-to•be of the Messlah1 "For, behold, front hence forth all ~e""ratlons shall call nte blesse"" (Luke t, 48). It i8 Lincoln's aweso11e lctea that the generatlon of the clvll war, undtitr his leadership, ls 81: once the savior and the par.ent of the . savior nation,· that America is to pol itlca "all'fto.8 t" as Israel was to the spirit• That means that for th& Union side the war ls a kind of second comlnA, a second brlnglng-forth, after four score and seven years. Llncoln has converted Jefferson's extravagant opinion that "a llt:tle rebellion, now and then, is a gt>olt thing" (Letter 12. Hadlsin, January 30, 17R7)- into a serious view concerntng the perlodlc rP-hir.th of the Revolution - to occur, evldently, in fullest force · ln·the fourth g"neratlon, once ln a century. . In this idea Llnooln recognizes that a country founded ln a revolut\on ls bounc1 to have a Aeneratlonal problell• . For the document. con~tltutl~ lts p;overmaent is ordalnerl and · eRtabllshed. as- the prlnclple of popular government demands, ln the ftrst p~rson plural; lt beglns1 "We the penple." Yet thls can mean literally only the · r.atifylng generation, thereafter the fundamental act . of self· govern~nt ls lnherltec1 - but self-determinatlon by tradition ls a ktnd nf paradox. This dlfficulty lay hehlnd Jefferson's advocacy of · re~ular revolutlona Can one generation bind ariother,·ancl all others, ln succession forev8r? l .~hlnk not. The Cr~ator has made the earth for the living, not the dead..... A generatton may bi.mi itself as · long .a s lts majority continues ln l lfea when that, has dlsap• peared, another majority ls tn place, holds all the rights and powers their predecessors once held, and may change thelr lawe and lnstltutlons to suit themselves. Nothlrig then ls unch11n~P-able but the inherent anrl unalienable rights of 11an (Letter~ J• Cartwright, June 5, 1R24). · Jefferson's radical solution to the problem of changlnS. generations was opposed hy Lincoln on the ground that majority rule itself as · well as mlnor\.ty rlghts were guaranteed by nothing but a commitment to the fun<Jamental law and the governmP-ntal institutions. The very raaterial success of "the popular principle applied to government" . acerbates the problem • . Lincoln, on several occasions, for instance to Congress ln 1R61 and 1862, had given exultant accounte of the fanta8tlc .increas., of population, elsht-fold ·. since the founding 11nd contlnui.ng, incredibly, even throu~h .. the )lar (pp. 72R, 761), with the expectation at the sAme rate of growth of 250 nitlllon by 1910 ann a proportionately even greater lncrease of prosperity (pp. f.'34-615. 6R1). But when making up Auch an account a quart?er of a century earl ler, ln the speech "On the Perpetuation of our PolttlcAl Jnstltutlons" he had a<t<leda �-25- We, when 11ountins the stage of existence, found ourselves the legal inheritors of these fundamental blessinss. We toiled not: ln the acquirement or establiahllent of them - they are a legacy bequeathed u1, by a ~ hardy, brave, and patriotic, but ~ laaented and departed race of ancestors (p. 77). · The generational. dileraaa raised by success ls that the epigoni, the successor generation•• bred in that most desirable ignorance, the ignorance of anarchy and despotls11, and 11tatak{ng the drained habits of their parents for the tradition, will in the low ef political passion areuae themselves by giving current problems a cataclysmic cast, that they aay, developing an appetite for unknown terror, be · willing to cure dlasatisfaction by catastrophe. A deliberate return to the founding revalut~on alone can forestall · e~ch an event, or if, as in the case ef the Clvil War, it beco. . a a fact, can turn it into an act of salvation. Lincoln bei\tinually mak&a the effort to . convert the war in this way, even coflparing its financial funding to that of the Revolution (p. 602). , There ls, of course, an assuMption in this which goes beyond Jefferson's reliance on the mere principles of 1776. It is that constitutlonal severn11ent is, in fact, the best 11eans of realizing the11, and ts, therefore, to be equally cherished. .. Lineoln held · this asau•ption ln full awareness of the 11lxed and ma1111ath character which the nation was to atta1n in the next century, and this is why . he saw the incidents of the Civil War as "phllosophy to learn wisdom fro11" "for any future great natienal trial" (p. 764). f a .Z:::st.ftW l llH A - - ..f. What then, 1Mre precisely, does Lincoln aean by •a new birth .of freedo11"7 As ·the nation was cenceived in liberty and dedicated to equality, so it ls to be reborn ln freedort• That 11eanethat . ln this speech 11 freedom 11 covers both equality of creation and the Latinate "liberty•, that ls, civil freedom, which Lincoln elsewh~re calls the jewel of liberty within the fartily of freedom1 it stands at once for ••n's riature as a creature under God and for hls means .of fulfill!~ that nature in civil seciety, as part of a natiop (cf. P• 403). , This means ls self•gavernaient, which Lincoln res~ects equ.lly with its end, calling it •rtgN&~absolutely and eternally right" (p. 303). In fact, he defines it coextensively with liberty, which means for "each 11an to do as he pleases with himself" (p. · 748) 1 I trust I und.e rstand and truly estimate the rtght of self• government. My faith in the propost.tion that each man should do precisely as he pleases with all which ls exclusively his oWn, lies at the foundation of the sense of justice there is in •e (p. 303, cf• PP• , 394) • . I11pli.ed in this is first, that poltti.cally, where there must be submission to a govern11ent, this must be by the consent of the governed, understood as . A 11ajority, held in constraint by constt.Uuttonal checks and limitations, and always changing easily with deliberate changes of popular opinions and sentilllents ••• (p. 585), �-26discovered in elect1ens 1 for We can not have .free government without electlonst••• The strife of the electien ia but huaan-nature practically applied to the facts of the case (pp. 763-764). And. secondly·, ·~•no•ically, that a 11an ~•t be abl• to acquire and hold so11ethlng of hia own, -.iat have, not the assurance, but the possibility of acquiaitlena Lincoln 11ade this a1Jit")t aelf• govern11ent a subject of hla firet Annual Heeaage t• Ceqre11 ln 1861 (pp. 633, ef. P• 501). . . ·. of ••t Now when Lincoln in the decade before and durlng the war out his vlews on freedoa, h~ did it almet lnvarla)>ly in refarerac• to lts antithesis - slavery (cf. P• 303 and P• 347). By •a new birth of freedom• Lincoln 11eana the readoptlen of the Deelaratlen in a . very specific sen••• a aenae which the ordinary •conae~atlvea• strongly disapproved. During the war Lincoln expressed his views on the slavery · question succinctly in a private letter. They are charaoterletic of the double nature of his politi.cal opinions, rever•M• for the laws combined with radioa11ty •f principle. He ~alda I am naturally anti•elavery. If slavery la not wrong, nothing la wreng" . .I can not r•••ber wben I did .not so thlrik, and f'eel. ·: .And . ·iy•t 1 I, hA•·· never understood that the Pres idericy conferred upon me an unrestricted rlght to act offlclally upen tlhiai judg11ent and feeling (April 4, 1864, cf. PP• 395, 652). For, as he said in his Firat Inaugural, not only did he have under the Constitution no lawful right to do so, but he even held hl•••lf bound by his oath of office to en!orcethe constitutional provtatpn for the reclai11ing of fugitive slaves (pp. 492, 580-581) - it wae more i.11porta.nt . o preserve the very bas 1 e of 11.berty than to secure t iml'lledlate justice. At the sa11e time he found hi•s6lf. able to base his uncompromising public opposition to slavery~on the ~plnlona e! the . founding father3 (e.g. pp• 272-273) and on the found\ng doouaenta io Whether or not he knew of Jeffereon•a "pblllppic against Negro slavery which Congress had deleted fro• the final draf~. he had no question that the Declaration meant . to include negroes, a view he set · out ln his debate with Douglass I should like to k°"w if taki~ this old Declaration of Independence, which declares th11.t all men are equal upon principle, and raaking exo•ption to it, when will it atop7 If one aan says it· does not mean a. negro • why IlC)t another say it does not 1ftean some other man?" (pp.: 402-403, cf. PP• 360 ff, P• 479). And he had equally no question about the intention of the Constitution He often repeated, the argument from .. necessity .. , that to get the Constitution at all the framers had had to compromise, but that they �-27· had found a way to save in the long run the principle which they could not assert at the J'llO•ent (pp. 304, 313, 358 ff., 403, 423, 479), for When ~he . fathers of the goverruaent cut off the source of slavery by the· abolition of the slave trade, and adopted a systent of restricting lt from the new territories wh&re lt had net existed, I maintain that they placed it wh~re they understood, and .a ll sensible men understood, it waa in the OIJHme ef ultimate extinction (October 13, 1858, et. PP• 394, 416). Accordingly Lincoln whe, as a responsible parti.clpant tn political l lfe, could not support the extre11e of abel ltion, became the laplaeabL~; foe of the 7xttn1ion of slavery • thia single ·issue doatnatea his speeches ·be ore the war (e.g., 170, 339) • a net in !act . brought . him, as lt had Jefferson (p. 272 , back lnto politics, t.n which be had been losing interest (p. 512 • It was an lsaue important to him ln some part because it was so peculiarly connected with the question o .f the axiomatic character of the founding prlnclples, namely wlth the question of their uniyersall~y, (cf. PP• 308, 477). Such proposltlona, ·precisely because they are prlnci.plea of hwu.n nature, pronounced concerning •all 11en", must eventually either altogether fall or altogether preva1.1, both in respect to lnetitutlonet p!. I believe thl& government cannot endure, permanently half slave and half free (1858, P• 372), and to (ndlvlduals1 This ls a world of compensations• and he who would lll! no slave, must consent to .b.E!.! no slave. Those who deny freedom to others, deserve it not fer themeelves1 and, under a just God, can not long retain lt (p. 489, cf. PP• 136, 473). Lincoln. did not regard it aa l11poss1.ble that the nation alght fail, that ls, that the false principle might become generally accepted so that the natien would degenerate into despot·tsm (p. 335) t:o prevent this wa.s precisely hla pol it teal task. So, ance the war had turned out tn be the final means of resolving .the question, for . the very reason that his .. para11ount object.. .wa,s to save the Union, and •••I!S!.t. either to save or destroy slavery (1862, P• 652), he recogni.zed, in hts Second Inaugural Address, that the "ei.ghth of the whole population" who were slaves, were "somehow, the cause of the war" (p. 792), and ·that tn giving freedom to the tlave·, we assure freedom to the ~ ••• (p. 688), for slavery was "that only thing wh:tch ever could brlng thls nation to civil war" (p. 759). And he gave this not only a political but, �-2R· as was in the nature of the case, an economic interpretation, on the principle that bad labor drives out good. So he told a labor dele ... gation that ' ••• the exlsting rebellion 11eans more, and tends to 1110re, than the perpetuation of African slavery • that l.t ta, in . fact, a war upon th~ rights of all working people (March 11, 1864, cf. P• 343). . .· Ihis ls why, just after the victory at Gettysburg, he had been able to call the war a gigantic Rebellion, at the bottom of which ls an effort to . overthrow the principle that all 11en are · created equal•·•. (p. 709). . . . Lincoln had s. veral time.s made a point of the fact that the e word Jtal•v•t!Y"' :de's 'riot appear"·tn; the CofteC:ltutien1 · Thus, the thing ls hid away, lri the constitution, just as an afflicted lll8.n hldea av•y a wen a cancer, which he dares not cut out at once, lest he bleed to death1 with the promise, nevertheless, that the cut·t tng may begin at; the end of a given tl.11e (p. 313). • . ·. . or So also this speech does not contain the word, . but for a different reason1 as the founders had to violate their feelings about it out of political necessity, ao the ti11e had come at the beginning of that year, 1R63, when Lincoln couldlndulge hi.a out of Military necesalty. He used what he considered to be the Prealdent•s war powers to put the Emanci.patl.on Precla11&tlon ln force the states in rebellion (p. 691), a mve he defended with the argUJMnt that the black regl11ents were indispensable to ml.litary success (Letters of Apr~l 4 and August 17, 1864)• Since the Union slave states, l'lke Maryland (p. 749), were proceeding wlth voluntary emancipation, it was plain · that the thing was on the way out. The Union was to be rec•nstru~ted without slavery, . nd so the irgclamat1on. 2.( 6•efta A!!!\ Reconstruotio j. a Lincoln issued three weeks a tftr the Gtt~yabµrg _d_rees provided . (pp. 73R ff., cf, PP• 796 ff). The "new birth of freedom" 11eant for Lincoln the re-adoption of the Declaration ·(p, 315) and the amend11ent o( the Constitution (pp. 679, 785) to make explicit their true intention1 it meant "returning . slavery to the posltiori our fathers gave it" (p. 315), and restoring the republican example to •tta just influence lil the world .. , by · averting fro11 it the charge of hypocrisy (p. 291) • . Llncaln made of the war a purlflcatlon1 · the nation was to be p~ged of inconsistency • for . t.. And now the last clausee and that government of the people, by the.people, for the people, shall not pert:l.h from the earth •. �-29How, to begin with, should we i11agine that Lincoln read this phrase concerning govermaent, a memerable expansion ' on •popular governm~nt''7 Did he streaa the preposltlona •ef•, "by"• "for•• or the noun "people'' which they govern? The diaayllabic rhythm of the speech is best pres~rved by reading trochees• I I I I I I of the people, by the people, for the people, a rhythm which gives equal weight to the people and its relation to the governaent. As was the beginning, se tbe. end of the epeechis directly adapted from the American oratofical tradition, namely fro11 an abol ltioni1t seraon siven_. appropriately, en July 4 of lRSR by the Rev. Theodore Parker1 who had 1•td1 . . De110cracy le direct aelf-government, over all the people, for all the people, by all the people. Besides changin8 the rhythm, Lincoln had, significantly, softened "over" to •or•, avoiding even a hint of deapo.t ism. Thus the people govern 1. by repre1entatives, 2. chosen fro• aMorig theaselves, 3. who rule in the popular interest - a deacription President Lincoln himself exemplifies (cf. P• 756). · . Lincoln does not .say 11 thle government as he had . said "this" nation, for it ia the preservation of popular, that la, elected, govertlllent anyybere which is at stake, though the i..ediate cause for resortil18 te force was certainly the preservation of this . government. But that came to the same _ thl.ngr thus near the beginning of the war Llnceln had teld Congress, called by hlm into special session, again on July 4 of 1861, that he regretfully found • • , J I the duty of e•ploytng the war power in defense of' the Government forced upon hi11 ••• no popular Govermnent can long survive a · marked precedent that those who carry an election can only save ·the Government from iNmediate destru~ion by giving up · the main point upon which the people gave the election (p. 609). Lincoln had begun with the Revolution an~ its statement of principle, the Declaration1 he ends with government and its instituting docUJ11ent, the Constitution. This represents the dl.fferenr in the commitments of the first and the fourth . generations '( As the patriots of seventy-six did to support the Declaration of Independence, so to the support of the Constitution and Laws, le·1 every American pledge his life, hts property, and his sacred honora ... (p. 81, cf. Declaration, end). · · It also represent~ the relation of the Declaration to the Constltuttont the latter ls merely the i.nstrument of the former, as shown tn a sentence Lincoln quotes from the second paragraph of the Declaration 1 �.30:.. . That to secure these rlghts, govern11ent~ are instituted among men, DERIVING THEIR JUST POWERS -!o""ROM THE CONSENT OF THE GOVERNED (p. 304). The gover11111ent ts a metns, and thus a compromise of evils • Madiabwr1 says in the fifty-first Feder1li1t1 But what is gover1111ent itself but the greatest of all reflections ori human nature? If aen were angels, no govern•ent ·vould be necessary. and he warns1 Don't interfere wt.th anything tn the Constitution. • That 11ust be . . tntained, for it is the only safeguard of our liberties (p. 345). And so the preservation of . popular goverruaent is linlced · to .the defense of the American Constitution~ I' _ _ ...:u; ..--~ ..- ... ~;;.-:.'.!".=:::::.•.- .............,..,.... -- ··· This goverill'lent "shall not perish from the earth",· that is ~he "work", the "task.. , the "cause". Lincoln has ended, as he began, with language heavy with the Bible• The good man is perished out of the ekrtha ••d there is none upright amng 11en1 they all lie in wait for bl•ed1 they · hunt every man his brother with a ne• ~M~cah 7, 2), If . this rebellion prevails, this allusion warns, so that "these institutions shall pert.ah" (p. 609), aen will return to that universal state of war, the war of each against all, which prece4es the institution of government1 the Rebellion would undo the Foundlnga for when men, b4f! entering .into society apd civil govertllllent, have excluded force and 1ntaoduced' laws (or the preservation of property, peace, and unity amongst the~selves, those who set up force again ln opposition to the laws do rebellare that ls, bring back again the state of war - and are properly rebels' ••• (Locke, Second Treatise 2.[. Civil Government , para. 226). �-31- Tn Lincoln's words 1 Plainly, the central idea of secess.i.on, is the eesence cf anarchy. A majority, held in restraint by constitutional checks and l~mitation~, and always changing easily with deliberate changes of popular opinions and sentl11ents is the only true sovereign of a free people. Whoever rejects tt, does, of necessity, fly to anarchy or despotism (1861, P• 585). And finally, there is the allusiDn to ·Jere11lah.tO,tl1 The gods that have not made the heavens am the earth, evt!n they shall perish from the earth ••• False gods shall perish, but the ; government of the people shall perish. ~ V• the Speaker After having, at length, considered the speech, it is leglti11ate to consider the speaker. Lincoln ts, at his height, a publtc mane If ever I feel the soul wt.thin me elevate and expand to those dlmen•••ns not wholly unworthy of its Almighty Architect. it is when I contemplate the cause of my country ••• (1839, P• 112). But the American speake~r who, like Lincoln, means to put his whole heart and ambition (p. "Ill) in the service of the body politic. has a peculiar problem, rooted in the quality of American life, which de Tocquevil l& describes in the chapter "Of Some Sources of Poetry Among Democratic Nations".· -1 Nothing concelvab.le is so .petty, so lnslpbt, so crQwded with pal try interests . - in one word so anti-poetic - as the lt.fe of a man in the United States (pemocracy 1n America, II, t, 17). ' This ls because democracy has given up ln dlst&ste the source of aristocratic poetry. the past, while its very principle. that of equality, deprives it, by maklng ' all contemporaries equally mediocre, of -the present. There remain, de Tocqueville says. only three sources to democratic poets• the nation, the future, and God - and thls precisely anticipates the theaee of Lincoln's public poetry. But, as he observes in · the chapter on "Why Ameri.can Writers and Orators Often Use an Inflated Style'•,, lt is difflcul t to oresent these themes at the middle distancea · ln democratic communities, each citizen is habitually engaged in the contemplation of a very puny object t namely, hinlself. If he ever raises his looks higher, he p~rcelves only the hnmens., form of society at large or the stl 11 more imposing aspect of mankind. His ideas are all either extremely minute and clear or extremely general am1 vaguea what lies between �-32- ls a veld (.i!?JJ1., lR). For thls American proble11 of the middle void the very nature of U1e pr\nciples of equality and liberty is responsible, Flr1t 1 11no~ they are axioms of ~penness, that is, pro.positiona et reaaon wh \ch are yet not ~ntended ' as the .theoretical bases of a tetal 1yste•• they provide ne specific authoritative "public ph1.1i.iitiphy 0 , 10 that each issue. ,.aust be dect.ded ·anew on the basis of prlnolplea whose nature lt' ls precisely to give no univocal guldanciet ~e b• politically aware is to be uncertain. Second, sin~• they ar• . intended precisely to insure "the pursu_ t of happ1.n•••'', that t.~ ,. 1 i a prosperous privacy, they becoae less palpable the . .re euqoe.~tully they are at work, for, ln echolaatic terms, they are prtnclpl•• of pure potentiality.- the possibility of goods but not theileelvea goods, and certainly not public good.as sigrilflcantly 1 Fr•nch "fraternity" has never co11pleaented 1 iberty ~nd equalcl.~y t.n A•erica. And third, · insofar as they are self-evident proposltlnna •f reason they, unlike objects of faith, · become less .and not ao~e objects of hunlan concern as they are more e!ficact.ously at work, •o that they tend to.drop simply out of sight in the dally conslderatlone of national llfe1 private business induces public apathy. · In his speeches, Lincoln wrestles with just. t:hee~ dlfflcultiea, which might be characterized with the aid of a clasalo•l ter•• by the very nature of their . pol itt.cal foundation Amed.cane tend to act not as a p9l\s, a pol t.tlcal colll1lt1nity held togethfttr by .rrt.endahlp (Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, VIII, i, 4), but •• a aoQlety, a col _ection of private persons who jostle each othetr into 11toae eC'rt l of balances his effort in his speeches is precisely to prove this tendency inessential, to persuade the nation that it la held toge~her by •bends of affectlan" (p. SRR) • . To Lincoln, then, the problem of filling the agitated natto~l · void with sober sentiment •hewn fro11 the solid quarry of sober reaaon" represented by the . founding principle8 is ~ probl•• of the natleth Once the spentlanef)us conimit11ent of the Revolution l11 gontt, he aaya ln his speech· on "The Perpetuation of Our Politi.cal Tnstlt ... tiona"• a n.ev situation arises a · Passi.on has helped uss but . can do so no more. It wtlt 1.n the future be our ~nemy. Reason, cold, calculatt.ni, . unt.11pa1u1toned reason. rwust furnish all the materials fer our future support and defense ... Let those materials be 11oulder1 lnto 11ner1} . intelligence, souQd morality, and, in particular, ! [IY!Itnct for the constitution All2. l.!l!l•••<PP• A4-85). Lincoln's solutien of the "historical• problent, thft recedtng t'lf the moment of greatness for ·succeeding generations., h1 bald 1 he .,fffl!rs a new, sober passion, a passion of reason - reverence, a lawyer-llke love. for the tnstrumentwhlch has accomplished the 11lracle of a stable democracy - his rhetoric incorporates, and so ftllclta tt. �At the same tlmeJtrue to the openness demanded by the principles he usually abstains Crom the rhetorical compulsion of specific plea.st these sentences of his last public address, dealing with the burning problem of the mo11ent, are typical• In the Annual Message of Dec. 1863 and acco111panylng Proclamation, pre8ent~d A plan of re-construction (as the phra•- goes) which, I promiaed, if adopted by any State, should be acceptable to, and sustained by, the Executive government of the nation. I distinctly stated . that this was not the only plan which might possibly be 11cceptabhtr ... (p. 797). · I Instead of attempting to compel the people to a course deduced dogt1ultically, in the manner of an ideologist,· he presented i.n the words of the London Spectator, A political transparency, in which the nation could see an individual character of great power working out phe problems set before them alt ••• He manages to make these problems supre11ely. absorbing, and he does it by maki.ng al11ost every speech an interpretation of the founding docu11ents, in which he reveals at once their in~xhaustlble radlcali.ty and their enduring applicability - by giving A11eri.cans a secular complement to the Scriptures (p• 84). With respect t<> the pro11iatmry character of democrat le principles, Lincoln underscores lt by projecti.ng the growth of the past into the future1 There are already among us those, who, lf the Union be preserved ¥. will llve to see lt contain two hundred and fifty mllliona. The struggle 2! today-, is not altogether for today - it is for a vast future also (p. 635, cf. PP• 681, 756). ' · The present .is thus understood as being the sponsor of the ,future1 yet the future la, · 1n turn, nothing but the maanlfi.cation of the past (cf. P• 656) • . But politically the American past ls of . a peculiar sorts it ls not an extensive, unbrokentraditlon but the me11ory of a single, intense event - just as· a,fabrtc of reason begins with a principle from which it ls .derived, so the history of del'locracy begins with the Revolution. Lincoln intends to assure that that beginning is present to the future, that that event remalns the tradition wtiich governa the future. .For the principles of. the fathers are, by their very nature, the root of the future insofar as lt is good. And finally, with respect to the passive and incurious mode in which the democratic principles of equality and liberty tend to be accepted, lt ls significant that. Lincoln himself never attempts to rai.se the question of their tcuth, nor even to supply a definition ~ except in extremely simple, and negative terruJ. So he says, �-34- The world hae never had a good definitlon of the word l lberty, and t .h e .A11ertcan people, just now, are 11Uch ln want of one. And he provides lt ln the simple tertae of the possibll ity for eelf-real.lzatien - liberty means for each •an ta do as · he pleases wlth himself, and the product · of hl1 labor ••• ( P• 748) ·1 wht.le he expreasea .hie "idea ef del'locracy" in the for11 of the fa11illar rellsloua precept "Do not do unto others as you would not have them do unto you"• As I would not be a §lt'llh so I would not . be a maoier. Thia expresses 11y idea of de110cracy. Whatever d lffera ~ro11 . thts, to the extent of the difference, it not ~eraocracy (p. 427) I Thus he treata the principles af A•eriean politics as s1.11ple precepts for the . happineaa of hu•anity, which are at the aa11e time standards of llOral perfeotlon, and about whleh he offers no theoretical re f'l ftCt ton• I The Saviour, I eupp«t••• did not expect that· any h1,111an creature could be perfect ae the Fat.her tn Heaven1 but He 1ald1 11 Ae yeur Father in Heaven le perfect, be ye also per!ect."·~·so I say in relation to the principle that all men are created equal, let it be•• nearly reached as we can (p. 403). Indeed, such public inquiries would not be to the point of ht• rhetoric. Fer the strictly rational basis of democracy ls to be found in the theery of wnatural rights" aet out by Hobbes . and Locke, a theory which regards precisely what ls "natural", that ~~. conrmon, in Mn: and not what ie high, so that it is scarcely conducive to a public feellng of plety. What Lincoln does lnstead .ls, by speaking ln dellberate analogy to Christ (p. 403), to ralee these princlple111 fro11 1elf-evld1tnt propoaltlone to arttclea Q{ faith, thu• returning, as de Tocqueville ahow~d (QR• .cit.•• I, ~). to a . foundation · 1n fact deeper than t.hti! rational begrrlnlngs provided by the found lng fathers. _ . . .· · , . · To explain why "the oolr\t g.i rells1on and the ru"?lrtt !lf l tbert\( are anclently lncorporated wlth each other ln A11ert.ca, de Tocquevil l ~: had appealed to the classical tradltlon concerning the nef'td for public pl8ty to support the body politlc1 · Llberty regatcts religion as its companl.on in all lts battles and ite trlul'llphll, a& the cradle of t.t8 infancp and the divine source of tts . clal•s (21?, • .£!..t•• I, 11). · And he had found this theory corrobor~t.ed in A111erlca1 �-35Religion in Arnerica takes no direct part ln the government of society, but it must be regarded as the first of their political lnstltutt.ons (SlQ• ill•, I, xvii). The older Lincoln came to a view which is. the insenuous converse of this posl.tion of expediency1 not religion serves polities, but the reverse - republican government is itself a great religious lnstitution1 in his own words "the only greater institution• ta the church (p. AS). The rock of reason of Washington's foundation has the sa11e basis as Peter'e church. That reverence for the laws which Lincoln calls "the political religion" of the nation (p. 81) derives froN a trans-political faith. It Nuet be urged that this is not an opinion l .. lncoln holds routinely or perfunctorily .. for .hi.a, the Republic, which puts the sood of the whole finally into the hands of a numerical majority (p. 785), ls plausible to the ••ul only as a community of the faithful, protect~d by a kindly provision that few shall be totally without gracP., that of all those who conte into the world, only a email percentage are natural tyrants (p. 301). Were . it otherwise, democracy would be a continual garAble wtth the body politic at stake. Accordlngly the Gettysburg Addrfi2SR begins and ends not:. only wt.th phrases hftrrowed fro11 American oratory but with the diction of the Bible. To Lincoln.the people of the Revolution ls also the second people of the Boo¥;, the "al11ost chosen people" (p. -575) • All 1\mericans, he said in his Second Inaugural, read the same Bible and pray to the same God ••• (p. 793). Lincoln himself was not only, as 110st backwoodsmen, hr. ught up on o the Bible, but he wrote to hls friend Speed in the year .before his deatha I am profitably engaged t.n reading the J:S1Dle, and in the same year he said to a committee which .had presented a Bible 1 It is the best gift God has given to men. All the good Savior gave to the world was communicated through this book. But for it we could not know right from Wrong. All things aost desirable for 11.an•s welfare, here and hereafter, are to be found portrayed in it (September 9, 1864). Lincoln's commitment to tihe Bible ls not .that of an orthodox Chrietian, for, as he sald, I have neverunited myself to any church, . because I have found difficulty tn.glvlng my assent, without mental reservation~ �-36- to the long• complicated statement 11 of Christ tan doctrine whlch characterize their Articles of Belle! and Confessions of Faith (Remark to H. c. Demig, c. 1R62, cf. P• 186). For h111 the Bible is rather a palit ~cal ••vr•• book, and that in two contrasting respect•• On the one hand it lends hi• a lan~uage at once high and popular, beyond both the de11agogue and the intellectual, a language of salvation with which to ••gnify the A11eri.can enterprise 1 wlth i.ta dlcti.on he speaks as ••Father Abraham"• As the first patriarch of a new generation of founding fathers. And on the other, it supports him in a view of the n•ture of things which, when publicly acknewledged,da11pa the hysterical activity filling the American void, and reduces it to ~hat 11elaneholle deliberateness on which the public buain••• thrivea. F•r Linceln had been fro11 h.18 youth a believer in an inner counterpoise tt> political liberty, which he understood to be called the "Doctrt.ne of Necessity", that is, that the hu•an mind ls impelled to action, or held ln rest by some power, over whtch the raind itself has noi: control ••• (p. 187-188J. . · · . That power ls God who, though •not a person••, can yet directly exercise his will in human affairs• By his mere great power on the 111nds of the now contestants, he could have either eav•d' ( or destroyed the Union without a human contest (Hedltat1.ou 2Ji the . Divine~. 1862, P• 655). This ~od, in who11 Lincoln, by the peculiar power of hla falth, recognizes ·at once •Nature's God" and the God of the Bible, le Lincoln's and the people's political 11B.ster1 he constitute• a direct limitation on the power of hu11an contrivance. 1he humanity . which ls the consequence of Lincoln's view ls embOdled ln Lincoln's last speech to the natlon before his assassination, the Second Inaugural Address, which is evidently the clae~ical American poem drawing particularly on de Tocqueville's third source of democratic poetry, God. · t::.::.;.::.;:;:=.~::;...-..:-:.·- -,........~ .:~::=-~,.::a:=a=::E. '.Z.;l1 The sarne speaker who is so eminently democratic ln theme is, however, the very reverse 1n form. Again de Tocqueville provldes the criteria in h!s chapter on •Ltterary Characteristics of Democratic Times" 1 · . . · Taken as a. whole, literature in democratic ages can never present, as lt does in periods of arlsto~racy, an aspect of order, regularity, science and art1 its form, on the contrary, will ordinarily be slighted, sometimet11 despl8ed. Style will frequently be fantastic, incorrect, overburdened, and lotn!le, almo8t alwa.ys vehement and bold. · Au~hors will aim at rapidity of execution more than at perfection of detail. Small productions wlll be more common than bulky books ••• (Democracy!!! America, II, i, 11). �Now, thl:s oth;:~rwise sn accurat~e .1k~scrtpUon ti:; ci>rH~picnmrnly ~ nc.tppl tcablG to Linc..~oln° s; h'rit i:ngi The ~;~!·.ttY§..hU£t~ t\d~!tS:!il! is small, to he sure., hut: lt W35 not r·aptrny exf ~cuted - Lincoln had brought a worl\~d .. over tlraft from ~va:~hingtonr he rf~-w1n ·k,z·:rd this in Getty sbtff('.; on t::h1:i ~V(~ of dt:~l t Vt?r~·, and h(~ {!mended e<~ch n f · thf;• thr-e .-~ kn.own co'pi1~s he m~de ovn-r the nf:'xt three m{H1l:bs.. A 1 thoor;hf as he sa ld, not: a master: of langt..H:tge nnr tn po:s1H,:ost.o n n f ;1 flne e<lucat ion ( fh 39:3), be !!~~ careful 1 · · Gentlem(mt' Jud iv:~~ noue;Ias informed you tha.t th t. s Spt~f!'Ch () r In tH <'~ was p1:-ohahly ca1:--efully pre{A11.rede T •:hirnit. i.t wan (p .. 392). By thio ca1:·e he SlK'C<-:eded tn glving hi<> thuu-r~hts their almost unalt.Grahle f,n·nh For..· thts purpose he had 1• ~ft·er t:he agB of twenty~ t:hreef Bet lli.mself t i } study~ E.ngltsh 8~:'.f;\lliffi.:U~~ "lmpl"!-:rff!Ctly~ uf COUt:'Ge~ but so as to speak and l~'i'C:t~ as wGll a~~ he does nuw" (l8hll, p~ 5.'.}9). enabli.ng him to write to a man whn had submit.tH1! t:o h1m an ecHt(~ii ve~·&ion of one of hi.n. speedv:.•81 So f;:ff as ·1.t la tnt:ended me.r~.:, Jy to i mprov'1:" 1n gicarn.rnar, .aml elegancE:-~ .zy.f comp•oslt. l&n,. I. am qul t .e agceed 6 hut I do not. w tf~h the st•nsc~ change.•d, or rii.odifi.ed,. to· a hatr~s .breac\t:h. i\nd you, not havtng ntudi.t.~d parttcular points <:>r~ cl:o1.rnly as 1 haV<:"i·· ,can not be qutte sure that you do not at\8.n!';H the , sens~ whl'.:ln :yo_l clo L ,..lif t:''t: ~ . not. ~t.nten'J ~t ( p., .J4J; ct., p .. c:3 8,) ·• . :> :. .· . . Hts style.I> . ton-t ts the very oppu.sltu of that of t: ~1~ typical cternocrat i c wrltert descrthe-d by dt~ Iucqmwi.lle in hiv chaprer on "How AmerlcHn nemoct.~acy ha6 Morn.n .P.·d the gnslioh :Langua.ge" (J.h.!:S:1~1' IIP L; 16) Wh<~t out of lack of . egre ~ lmH~ of chang~ und <lesire fo:r blgn~ss, us~G old words in indeterminate seasen~ i.ntxodue~s vast rn.m1bf~t-s of rn"w wonlslt usually borrowed · fl.'£.'\'.tn technical vt-.cabul.artes, and 1o<ids hl'8 speech wtth abstract ar.ttt gew:,r.a1. expreastor'\s. ne TocqttevU lo had called lawveis t.he ar:tstocr~'its (}f Am~d. ca (i.bld ... J xvi}" and ln part Li.ncoinf s caN'fu1ness tn that: of a lawyei.=-·1nrt~.r:pr~~i-. ln.~ law. But t .he lapidar·y precisi.tH'l of form which earrh;;s the p:n.:ri.a.rcb3l gran~eur of Ltn.coln~ ~ rhe-toric . ... h. e W<'HJ. Lm~1h~e m•rrniy to 1 P.C1:_ur13 . (p .. 54t) - !.~ sometctnng 1~:H"fd~~ it. is a Blf>;n ot a HO\H~l ki..nd of aristocracy ~ republi.ca.n arlstocracy. L\.nenln had t ..~cttly r<~jected Everett• s cold L~lasslc1..sm a.s inapproi:,wiat:e t.n a, democ.r-r.tt'ic speaker, \.-Knse object must not be to dt:aJ17onstrate or 8xert h r.s (lWn. superior ity. Hts amblth1Tt '\>;t,'lSv r«~ttu~r.·, as he told hlo f1-ien1I H'~ tndont "to bi;~ d}. stinct:1y under.·stood by th~! '('ornmon pt:>op1H'' (p~ ti5)~ dnd to U:'>i".: blfl power as had hts mo~fol, Clay, in t:he tHffvtce of d~mot:rat t c d~c; a r'\ll hiE< i:J;ffortn were mad~ for practtcal effect~ Ho new~r spoke merely to l>e l1eard •. H.e never 't~el i v<~red a .Y11iurth or J111\r cn:ation" o.r an eulogy on an occaGlon 1 Lke tbta U'\!19.Bl'. ~,~.Q lfC'nrv f,lay, July 6, 1'852f cf. P• 269} ~ -- Yet hts rhetori.c Hhow~ pn~ctse1y th~ fundamental chH:CiH:'!terist' i.cs of ancient artstocratic wrltt~rs. of whi.ch de Tncquev) l le, i.n thi~ ch;;ptf"'r �') •· ••ll • ,, 1- "Th~ 'Stucty o:r Greek and Lat t n L i.te. .r.atur c ts Peculiarly Useful in Of:mocrat:ic (}o'Tlmuniti.es" wrtt:ese. · ent ltlect Nothing tn thE::ir wol."ks seems done haoti.ly or .at :candomw · eve:r::y 1 inH is writt:e1'1 ft"H: · the eye of the conno lsseur and i.s shapod after .some \.~cmcept ton of lt'.iea1 . b~m1ty • No l it:e.r ature places tht.rne flne . qu~•t itles ln . \4hteh the wr: i.terc, uf democr:-ach~s . <:i:r.e naturally dHf'].cl.ent in bolch~r relief than trH~-=.l. \'.,f 'i:he .anct.ent:t:11' no l iteraturet thm 'efort• ~ ou:.~ht to be rno.r.e -stud s_,.:>d h1 democrat 1.c t: tmt~s 11, t, 15). <w..si . , Llncoln h\rna.elf ls~ 1: h<.:Hl 10 in de Tncqw?.>vtlle' s s.•~m'!'e an aristoeratic writer\\ cwen tu t:he point ·of flndlng hit~ sourceo tn tru:- par.t. The msn who had had f·r·om y'1'uth the .. pecul lil:r amblti(mn · of betng truly esteemed of my fellow men, by rern.1erl.ng myself . worthy o.f the!.r esteem (p~ 57 v ef ~ Jh 48)), and who Ga id he tnped h1~ UW:it?rStO~tri "th~{.t Which CQlll3t itub.HJ the tns ide c•f a gentleman'' (p .. 414-).c · eould have no quC!rn· .'l wtth thp- essence of , " m-i.stQcracy. In faet11 in the weak~1 ju5t before the d•:>ltvery of the · .Qc-tt~yfil.>~ [likh:e~ he had .had vlsi.tot~s whn urged him a.t ~he (rn,r;-1 t~nt occ~tii.on t<:.i prest:mt the Uni.on. to the 'public ~·a_s . ftght'htf.~ the batt1 e of democracy for .all the wor.tdn and th<... war Hs being one ~~ of 't:JH5 people s.ta tnst the arlstocratsv; l .he had accepted the former ~'lnd rejected the l.att:er st.1.gge~th.;1h F'or hl~ w~H hbnself s eorroboration of Jef.fer~on w o contentton, set out tn hlH .cor.re.operndence with Adams (Octob!!.•r. .2H t 1 Al :J) ~ that md.stocracy an6 dsrnocn~cyi' the t~ule (!~ f the best etnd the rule . of the ,peopl~'" have been marle t:o111patlble in the United St~teG, t:hat the: citize'n~ tn fre~· -eleott6n can and will nln ~enaral •• choose from among · thernselvt~s the "rtatural ~ls,t.Q\ , the best by nature" The ~~q;b_ur.,g iHJQ.rgJ}£. ts thu u'Ctr..~r.ance o.f such an §.X.i§tsu~. t <) man at 'the s-ame thnH ex.celle•nt in the arit i.que sense and good in the common um1eratarLding .. 0 �1 · For a desert pt ion of tht~ events of the Gett.y s hurg ded l.cat ion and a collect ion of crnnmentari.~s on the ~meeches see :Car:l Sandburg r Abraham Ltnool.r!t JJt~ l l i ~.• New York ( l 939), Vol. !I~ PP• ~452-4~ 2 For an annotated col lectlon of the vartous versions seL~ Ihe Colle~t;!Zd ~ ~J.~~~l!l Linc9...ln~ ed. Roy · p, Ih"lsl-01-·" Ne;;-Drunewlck 'CT95"3), Vol VII \.l8b3·lJJb4)t ppe 17~·23 . . 3 Edward Evere,ttf ill.:..E!.'tlOfl..§. ill1f1 .S~fil'Jl.~11 liostun (1892) 11, Vol~ IV, }lp. 622~659. see Harold l:ysklnd, ~'I\ Rhet.ori.~a.l linalyE.d;s of the Geti~'sbur.g Addre·s6 1' , J.21!£.lli!l u.[ Q.ene..r~l J~Qn~ Vol~ IV (1950)., PP• 202-212. 4 5 .For an analys ls whtch .doe-s just ioe to the awesome i.mpl icat ions of the,. speech see. H~!l~Y V ~ Jaffa~ ~JJi ( 1 9 :> 9) t pp c l 8 J"' ~ 3 L ~ tl S.~ l:!Q~~ .Jl};y1d~ , , 61 ' n t h' i ng out these paragraphs J. rec~ 'i ved much . i.nk help from Geor,ge i\naat:aplo. ~§ Q.'l th.«r; f.l!:fil~ t\11\endmett..t .t.g .tl!!t. ~2!1~~1.t:ut .!Q!! J2i. the Un .. cd St;at:es· ~ Ductural. Hisser.tat ton,, Univer~i.ty of Chi~go U 64 v ~l\ppentlix I, 6, p .. 600 'ff~ 7 8 Prom a spee< ch lnd irectly repo1i:t.ed in (1890). Vol~ !I, P• lilS. S~e Carl L. Becker., P• 142 .. J!le: ~:.!]litfu.1~§. !JJ.l~Ql nf Chicago ~la!£!~tiqn ~2( !D&~.Q.fill.£!£11 E~t New "York (1958), ... � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. 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Visit <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a> or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context formallectureseriesannapolis Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 40 pages Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource A reading of the Gettysburg Address (expanded version) Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1968 Description An account of the resource Typescript of a lecture delivered in 1968 by Eva Brann as part of the Formal Lecture Series. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context lec Brann 1968 Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource text Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College has been given permission to make this item available online. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Brann, Eva T. H. Deans Friday night lecture Tutors https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/9f30d9dedce7e126628cad52c4dd947b.pdf 3f77f010c5c261f0ca471cdd8776e62b PDF Text Text SPECUIATIONS ON LIBERAL AND ILLIBERAL POLITICS BY Laurence Berns A revised version of a lecture delivered at St. John's College, Annapolis, Maryland May 24, 1968 Now he [Socrates] was not eager for his companions to become able speakers, able men of affairs and able contrivers, but before these things he considered it to be necessary for them to acquire moderation. For he believed that those who are capable of these things without being moderate are both more unjust and more able to work harm. First, indeed, he tried to make his companions more moderate about gods. Xenophon, Memorabilia, IV. 3. �Speculations on Liberal and Illiberal Politics* by Laurence Berns** We live during a time of vast and rapidly moving social, political and economic changes. This most obvious fact seems to shape the back- ground and foreground of almost all academic political discussion today. To enable us to become well-informed about this most complex of societies new techniques of sununarizing, condensing, tabulating and distributing information have been developed. Corresponding habits of rapid reading and machine-like memorization, reading with a minimum of reflective thought, seem to be appropriate for the imbibing of much of this material. These changes, changes in the conditions of political and social life, are, for the most part, consequences of progress in the medical and technological sciences. They confront us with apparently unprecedented practical problems, increasingly complicated interdependence, relative affluence and overpopulation, the control of nuclear weapons, to mention only a few. causes. However, a distinction may be drawn between conditions and The conditions delimit the range of alternatives possible for human action. The primary causes decide which alternatives are chosen. They constitute what is called human nature. It is in no way evident that human nature, in the decisive respects, has changed as have the external conditions of political and social life. Among the causes which account for human behaviour are reasons, and Bcise<l on a le(;CW..:: delivered at St. John's College, Annapolis, Maryland, May 24, 1968. ** Tutor, St. John's College, Annapolis, Maryland; Ph.D.,The University of Chicago, 1957. -t �even those causes which are not reasons, like appetites, passions, and desires, are rarely unmixed with reasons. Reasons can be right or·wrong, more or less right or wrong, true and false, etc. Human behaviour cannot be understood adequately without understanding the adequacy or inadequacy of the cognitions guiding, or accompanying, the behaviour, the prejudices, or opinions, false or true, or the knowledge guiding the behaviour. An adequate social science then, one capable of distinguishing between knowlege, opinion, and prejudice, would have to be a philosophic social science. The study of human nature, of the persistent causes of human behaviour, has more to do with meditation and reflection than it has with technique and technology. One learns about it from those, regardless of when they lived, or live, who are most of all masters of reflection and meditation. It may well be that, along with misguided scientism, the habits of study and thought, formed in pursuit of solutions to our most urgent problems tend to make the reflections of those writers from whom illumination is most needed less and less accessible. sobriety is easily lost. Freedom without This attempt to articulate certain sobering re- flections, that once were much more the common property of educated men than they are today, is undertaken with some sense of urgency. Such re- flections could never be brought to light by any technique cir manipulatory skill, however sophisticated. The aim of this paper is to arrive at an adequate notion of what it means to be liberal. It is divided into five, sometimes overlapping parts: 1. Classical Liberalism, 2. Historicist Liberalism, 3. The Radicality of Classical Liberalism, 4. The Conservatism of Classical Liberalism, Liberalism. s. American �3 CLASSICAL LIBERALISM By classical liberalism we do not refer to the doctrines associated with Locke, Adam Smith, John Stuart Mill, laissez-faire economics and what historians frequently call individualism. liberal as it is used in classical Greek. 1 We refer rather to the word The liberal, the e~E.U IJ{fU) $ (eleutherios), belulvwa like a free man in contradistinction to a slave • . But true slavishness is baseness, being enslaved by the baser parts of one's nature. The liberal man is liberated from control by the baser side of his nature: he is free from the love of money, free from domination by bodily desires and from domination by fear. He is free from vulgarity. Freedom from, however, is not enough, and one of the Greek words for vulgarity points to what the liberal man has been liberated for: that word is ' \ C(1t£'f" I<. «.1. <./ ci( (apeirokalia), literally, lack of experience with nobility, with beauty, lack of experience with things noble. The liberal man does what he does for the sake of the noble. a devotee of the Muses. He is a cultivated man, a liberally educated man, 2 1. On the grounds of modern, as distinct from classical, liberalism, see Laurence Berns, "Thomas Hobbes", in History of Political Philosophy, eds. Leo Strauss and Joseph Cropsey,Rand McNally, 1963,pp.359-63. Cf. ibid.,Warren Winiarski, "Niccolo Machiavelli",pp.273-75; Stanley Rosen, "Benedict Spinoza", p.417; Robert A. Goldwin, "John Locke" ,pp.453-64; and esp. Leo Strauss, Natural Right and History,u. of Chicago, 1953,pp.181-2. 2. Cf. Plato, Republic,403 C; Xenophon, Memorabilia,bk.4,ch.5; Oeconomicus, 1,17-23; Aristotle, !!.• Ethics,1099 a 11-20; Leo Strauss, Liberalism Ancient and Modern,Basic Books, 1968, chs. 1 and 2. �4 What has all this to do with politics? The cultivated men, for Aristotle at least, are not what one would call ae$thetes, they form a definite political class. of. virtue. They are not non-partisan, they ai:e partisans They are united not by common social origins or common eco- nornic situation, but by their common goal, the love and pursuit of excellence, of virtue. They look forward to a political order that encourages and fosters this love and this pursuit. HISTORICIST LIBERALISM This characterization might be accepted by many who call themselves liberals today, but only as partial descriptions of themselves. For the word as it is most often used today points not so much, or so directly, to the noble and the base, and therefore implicitly to the good and the bad, as it does to another set of distinctions. to conservative, or reactionary. Liberal is, of course, generally opposed We frequently speak of men and proposals as progressive or reactionary, assuming automatically that to try to go back to some older way or older idea is bad and to move towards the new is good, or that "forward looking" is good and "backward looking" bad. The conservative is thought of as incapable of appreciating changed conditions and the need for corresponding political, social and economic changes. It is as if the distinction between progressive and reactionary were to replace the distinction between good and bad. But the term progress, of course, implies not only change, but change for the better, the term reaction, as it is used in politics, usually means change for the worse. These terms often suggest that the issue of good- ness or badness has been prejudged or is trivial, the decisive consideration is the attitude towards change. The new distinctions are time- ~T hi~tory- �5 oriented. The power of the historicist assumptions underlying them, at least in the .intellectual community, can hardly be exaggerated. almost all of our discourse about practical politics. them is usually taken as a sign of lack of cultivation. They pervade Not to respond to The inadequacy of an approach that identifies rightness with change and wrongness with opposition to change would seem to be obvious as soon as it is made explicit. Its persistence, however, is a sign that perhaps some more serious concern or issue underlies it, or is reflected in it. that more serious issue later. We shall address ourselves to 3 The classical liberal, if not every reasonable man, wants to conserve what is good and to eliminate what is bad, to promote change for the better and to prevent change for the worse. He will be conservative, progressive, and even reactionary (in the sense of going back to an older policy), according to what is called for by the circumstances. From this perspective the simple opposition between liberal and conservative makes little sense. To take another approach to this problem, Book Five of Aristotle's Politics is frequently called the book on revolutions. But somehow the word revolution is too fancy for what Aristotle describes. The word rebellion, the word used in the Constitution of the United States, is probably closer to Aristotle's meaning. Rebellion is old-fashioned, common-sensical and personal. Revolution is more scientific, impersonal necessity is suggested. The term is a scientific term in mathematics, physics, and astronomy: a sphere is generated by tj_ie revolution of a semi-circle about its diameter; Copernicus writes about the revolutions of the celestial spheres, the revolutions of inanimate bodies. 3. See below, p.20. �6 The word rebel is usually associated with the image of a man who strikes out against the government, the word revolutionary with an intellectual fighting for an elaborately articulated cause. Aristotle in Book Five was, one might say, concerned primarily with rebellions, those political controversies and conflicts of beliefs and opinions, those conflicts about justice, which arise, so to speak, naturally between political men, that is, from the consideration of political and personal issues alone without any explicit or direct intervention of theory or science. When appeal to higher authority is made in non- philosophical, non-theoretical, political life, it is usually to the gods or God generally accepted by the religious conununity of the country. Aristotle articulates political arguments in a political spirit, and, as far as I know, only in his Politics introduces oaths to Zeus into his arguments. 4 The notion 4. 1281 a 17 and 1281 b 19. Cf. Abraham Lincoln, To the Voters of the Seventh Congressional District, July 31, 1846. Fellow Citizens: A charge having got into circulation in some of the neighborhoods of this District, in substance that I am an open scoffer at Christianity, I have by the advice of some friends concluded to notice the subject in this form. That I am not a member of any Christian Church, is true; but I have never denied the truth of the Scriptures; and I have never spoken with intentional disrepect of religion in general or of any denomination of Christians in particular. It is true that in early life I was inclined to believe in what I understand ts called the "Doctrine ef Necessity"-- that is, that the human mind is impelled to action, or held in rest by some power,over·which the mind itself has no control; and I have sometimes (with one, two or three, but never publicly) tried to maintaift this opinion in argument-- the habit of arguing thus however, I have, entirely left off for IN:>re than five years-- And I add here, I have always understood this same opinion to be held by several of the Christian denominations. The foregoing, is the whole truth, briefly stated, in relation to myself, upon this subject. I do not think I could myself, be brought to support a man for office, whom I knew to be an open enemy of, and scoffer at religion.--Leaving the higher matter of eternal consquences between him and his Maker, I still do not think any man has the right thus to insult the feelings, and injure the IN:>rals, of the community in which he may live.--If, then, I was guilty of such conduct, I should blame no man who should condemn me for it; but I do blame those, whoever they may be, who falsely put such a �7 of revolution is usually tied in, not with popular religion, but with what has come to be called ideology. Ideologies have been called, not inappropriately, secular political religions. In the post-Kantian development the distinction between progressive and reactionary usually plays a role, because the ultimate appeal of these ideologies is to . a theory, or an alleged science, of history. Revolution rather than rebellion seems more appropriate to a modern technological society, a scientific society, an enlightened society. The movement called Enlightenment could be considered as the attempt to replace revealed religion by popularized philosophy. The two most outstanding characteristics of ideologies, at the risk of further oversimplification, are: 1) as regards their theoretical foundations, history replaces nature as the standard of right and wrong and good and 2) popularized philosophy replaces revealed religion. bad~ and One way to under- stand the origins, if not the rationale, of our IOC>dern theories of history might be to see them as attempts to surIOC>unt the difficulties consequent upon the radical separation by Kant of thought about freedom from thought about nature, of the IOC>ral realm from the natural. Theoretical history aims, so to speak, at bringing the two realms back together again and at relating them within a doctrine of the whole of human life. 5 charge in circulation against me. Cf. also Winston s. Churchill, letter to Lady Randolph, 14 January 1897, in Winston~ Churchill, by Randolph s. Churchill, Companion Volume.!_,~~' 1899-1900, Houghton Mifflin, Boston, 1967, pp. 724-25 5. "ldee zu einer allgemeinen Geschichte in weltbuergerlicher Absic1rt.• "Kants Werke, Akademie - Textausgabe, B. viii, pp. 15-32. "Idea for a Universal History from a Cosmopolitan Point of View." in I<ant, 2E_ History, ed. Lewis Beck, Library of Liberal Arts, pp. 11-26 �8 The more general problem behind all this would seem to be the difficulty for a science of human nature based on modern mathematical natural science to account for morality and science. 6 A passage from Kant's "Conjectural Beginning of Human History" may serve to illustrate the spirit of the Enlightenment. Kant presents his account in that work in the form of a commentary on the book of Genesis, chapters two to six. at every point to He invites his reader to consult the Biblical text see whether the way that philosophy takes coincides with that of Holy Writ. Towards the middle of the piece he speaks about how man became aware of how nature has raised him above community with animals. "The first time he ever said to the sheep, 'nature has given you the skin you wear for my use, not for yours'; the first time he ever took that skin and put it upon himself (3:21) - that time he became aware of the way in which his nature privileged and raised him above all animals." He refers to, but does not quote, Genesis 3:21, which reads, "Unto Adam and to his wife did the Lord God make coats of skin, and clothed them." What the Bible attributes to the action of God, Kant's philosophic conjectures about history have man do for himself. Ideology is supposed to incorporate Enlightenment within itself. Enlightenment looks forward to a vast expansiop of man's power to control his own destiny, a vast expansion of human ambition. relation between ideology and ambition. Let us consider the The Chorus in Oedipus declares, "I pray that god may never abolish the eager ambition (the rivalry), that keeps the city noble." 6. Ambition is a subtle passion: it can drive a "Muthmasslicher Anfang der Menschengeschichte';ibid., pp. 107-23 cit., pp. 53-68. Sophoclei;-necrrpus Tyrannus, 11. 880-81. Trans.,~ 7. 7 �9 hardy soul like Macbeth to raging tyranny and, on the other hand, as Sophocles's Chorus says, keep a city noble. The craving for glory, for honor, is a selfish passion, yet a passion that attains its objects most readily through public service. A public man might think that he loves the people because they are loveable, but he also might think that he loves them because they have the power to bestow what he really loves more, fame, honor, or glory. Ideology and the philosophy of history tend to focus the attention of the educable away from the analysis of the lives and the souls of individual men. Nations, social, political, or economic classes, "cultures," societies, trends and movements become the individuals concentrated on. Such concentration makes it easier for political men to disguise their own personal ambition from themselves. How much demagoguery and political fanaticism might be prevented, if the politically aspiring, or their educators, were once again to be educated by those classical authors who made it their business to try to train political men to appreciate the subtlety of their own ambition, to train them to master their master passion? 8 It might be instructive in this connection to compare Jack Cade, the rebel, as Shakespeare presents him in the second part of Henry the Sixth, with the revolutionaries Vladimir Lenin and Adolf Hitler. Cade, one might say, is the demagogue according to nature, Lenin and Hitler ideological demagogues. Cade is stubborn, courageous, enduring and clever. Secretly set on by the Duke of York, with pretensions to the royal title of Lord Mortimer, whom he resembles, he leads his Kentish rebels into the heart of London and almost wins the city. He seems most of all to want the title Lord, and is ready to grant a Lordship to the first man 8. Cf. Xenophon, Meioorabilia, bk. 3, chs. 6 and 7; bk. 4, chs. 2 and 3; bk. 1, ch. 2. �10 who addresses him as Your Lordship. 9 He promises his followers that "all things shall be in conmen," money will be abolished, the price of bread will be lowered by two-thirds, and that he will destroy their enemies, that is all scholars, lawyers, courtiers and gentlemen. 10 In this connection it is interesting to note that the late Senator Joseph McCarthy was relatively successful so long as he confined his attacks to government officials, lawyers and academics. He began to lose his following and to consolidate his opposition when he became so reckless as to extend his attacks to the military and to the clergy. Cade has no way of fulfilling the first promises, but enemies, or material for erunity, is always available. Henry the Sixth's Treasurer, Lord Say, for executing policies he did not initiate or even approve, has become a particular object of popular hatred. Besides, Cade charges, Thou hast most traitorously corrupted the youth of the realm in erecting a grammar school: and whereas, before, our forefathers had no other books but the score and the tally, thou hast caused printing to be used, and, contrary to the King his crown and dignity, thou hast built a paper mill. It will be proven to thy face that thou hast men about thee that usually talk of a noun and a verb and such abominable words as no Christian ear can endure to hear. Thou hast appointed justices of peace, to call poor men before them about matters they were not able to answer. Moreover, thou hast put them in prison; and because they could not read, thou hast hanged them; when, indeed, only for that cause they have been most worthy to live. Say denies the specific charges and goes on: Justice with favor have I always done; Pray'rs and tears have noved me, gifts could never. When have I aught exacted at your hands But to maintain the King, the realm, and you? Large gifts have I bestowed on learned clerks, Because my book preferred me to the King; And, seeing ignorance is the curse of God, Knowledge the wing wherewith we fly to Heaven, Unless you be possessed with devilish spirits, You cannot but forbear to murder me. This tongue hath parleyed unto foreign kings For your behoof. 9. Henry the Sixth,~~' 10. Op. cit., 4.4.39. 4.7.4-5 �11 Cade replies, "Tut, when struckst thou one blow in the field?" He orders him to be beheaded. Say speaks again: Tell me wherein have I off ended most? Have I affected wealth or honor? Speak. Are my chests filled with extorted gold? Is my apparel sumptuous to behold? Whom have I injured that ye seek my death? These hands are free from guiltless bloodshedding, This breast from harboring foul deceitful thoughts. Oh, let me live!" (11) Cade is Ioc>ved by these words, but bridles the remorse that he, but not apparently his followers, feels at Say's words; and sensible that for . . . most men the most potent mark of authority is t h e power o f execution, 12 has Say put to death. However, shortly thereafter, confronted by the force of the old and clever Baron Clifford who wins away his followers by granting them pardons, invoking the name of their hero, Henry the Fifth, and appealing to their patriotic hatred of the French, Cade is forced to flee for his own life; not, however, before he observes, "Was ever feather so lightly blown to and fro as this multitude?" Where the scientific ideologist sees masses moved by necessary and scientifically determinable reactions to objective deprivations, Jack Cade sees a flighty multitude, ready to follow the man most skillful at arousing and shaping their expectations, at transforming their notions and feelings about what is tolerable and intolerable, just and unjust. He knows that the same men in the same conditions may be led to endure, or may be led to rebel - and sometimes by being made to expect by right what no one can ever provide them. His impressive final scene, the scene of his death, begins with the line, "Fie on ambitions." 11. 4.7.32-46, 69-82, 101-08. 12. Consider the implications for the question of capital punishment �12 For all his villainy, Cade can still feel remorse and he is aware of his own ambition: he wants to lord it over other men. His counter- part, the ideological demagogue, learns from a science, or pseudo-science, of history to identify the ultima~e good with the practical and necessary success, the "historical" goals of his revolution. I quote from Lenin, "The great world-wide historic service of Marx and Engels lies in the fact that they proved by scientific analysis the inevitability of the downfall of capitalism and its transition to communism under which there will be no more exploitation of man by man." 13 This seems to be some kind of corruption of what in Kant's religious philosophy and speculations on history is called rational faith, i.e., what, in the absence of knowledge, we are obliged by reason to believe, in order to strengthen our capacity to act in accordance with the moral law. It is not too difficult for a man to be misled by a doctrine, which successfully propagated would place him in a position of highest authority. The ideological demagogue consci- entiously disciplines himself to stifle and discount any remorse or scruple that might impede success. Since for him moralities are all products of history, whatever scruples he might feel can be dismissed as discardable vestiges from a discredited past. ance. He identifies his opposition with ignor- He learns, apparently, to forget about himself. ambition from himself. He disguises his He seems to combine worst parts of intellectual, demagogue, and religious fanatic. Men like Cade and men like Lenin and Hitler, share in common the natural qualities of the talented and dangerous demagogue. What distinguishes the ideological demagogues, we suggest, is the fanatic intellectuality they add to the character. 13. 2!!.!:!!!. Theory Lenin was the author of a philosophic book like of Marxism, International Publishers, New York, (1948). (cont. on foilowing page) �13 Materialism and Emperio-Criticisrn. On Contradiction. Mao Tse-Tung is the author of Hitler could say, "It's against my own inclinations that I devote myself to politics.... philosophy. I'd have chosen the arts or 1114 New communications technology and the tastelessness of the news industry have made it all too easy for too many to be seduced and carried away by their desires for fame and notoriety. The craving for distinction, however, takes on many forms. Between mere exhibitionism and the craving to be distinguished for ex- ellence alone, c but certainly closer to the latter, is the hero. There is much in modern life, not to speak of any life, antithetical to heroism. Aspirations for some form of heroic nobility would seem to be behind much of the political and moral rebellion of our times. Some, alarmed by what corrupted and perverted heroism can lead to, recormnend the elimination of heroic ation from the world altogether. ~spir- If heroic aspiration, expressed in some form or another, is ineradicably rooted in human nature, and if nature can be fulfilled, corrupted, or perverted, but not eliminated, the only course left would seem to be to direct one's efforts towards the cultivation of taste for, and understanding of, authentic heroism. Merely debunking is hardly sufficient: again the balance of classical liberalism shows itself in its ability to articulate together both the nobility and limits of the Cf. Karl Loewith, Heidegger, Denker in duerft1ger Zeit, Goettingen. 1960. chs. 2 and 4; Stanley Rosen, "Philosophy and Ideology: Reflections on Heidegger," Social Research, Summer, 1968. The common ground, from our point of view, of these doctrines can be seen in Hegel's remark: 11 For WorldHistory moves itself on a higher ground than that on which morality has its proper station •••• " "Denn die Weltgeschichte bewegt sich auf einem hoehern Boden, als der ist, auf dem die Moralitaet ihre eigentuemliche Staette hat, ••• " Vorlesungen ueber die Philosophie der Geschichte, Einleitung. 14. Hitler's Secret Conversations, 1941-1944, Signet Books, p. 252 �14 hero. There may be no better way to begin this refinement of taste than by studying Shakespeare and The Iliad and The Odyssey and by trying to understand the differences between Coriolanus, Brutus, Henry v, and Prospero; between Achilles, Agamemnon_ and Odysseus. THE RADICALITY OF CLASSICAL LIBERALISM Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., in his letter to fellow clergymen from the Birminghan Jail, refers to Thomas Aquinas's "T.reatise on Law, 1115 in order to justify his advocacy of disobedience for segregation laws. An unjust law, Thomas cites Augustine, seems to be no law at all. Every human law is binding as law only in so far as it is derived from the natural law, the law of reason. To the extent to which it deviates from the law it is a perversion of law. n~tural The right to rebellion enunciated by Thomas is based on the distinction between human law and natural law which is in turn an interpretation of Aristotle's distinction between natural justice, ' ' (' I or natural right, TO fUtrlt<OV olK.d..lOl or conventional justice, (to physikon dikaion) , and legal TO TOi'ot l K ~ V l/i<f!f..toi '(to noI!Ukon dikaion). 16 The highest law, higher than any law promulgated by a political legislator, is the law of living reason. In Question 96, article 4, Thomas qualifies the right to rebellion, as the Declaration of Independence does, by pointing out that the possession of a. right does not automatically license the possessor to exercise the right. Whether a right ought to be exercised or not depends upon the given circumstances of the situation. If it is likely that the evils attendant upon the exercise of a right would outweigh evils justly complained of, for the sake of avoiding the greater evil the just man yields his right. In the exercise of his rights too, man is responsible for the 15. Summa Theologica, I-II Q. 95, A. 2 16. ~· Ethics, s. 7, 1134 b 18 ,.. U35 a 15 �15 foreseeable consequences of his actions. The right to rebellion as found in Plato, Aristotle, Thomas Aquinas, the Declaration of Independence, Lincoln and others serves as a reminder that no government of men is as important as are the moral principles of good government. The beautiful balance of Thoma.s's position can be seen in a passage where, pointing out that rebellion is always a serious matter for conscience, he quotes the Apostle Paul's Letter to the Romans: "All human power is from God; Therefore, he that resisteth the power, resisteth the ordinance of God." But in the middle of his quote st. Thomas adds the decisive liberal qualification, "in matters that are within its scope." The quote then with Thoma.s's addition reads, "All human power is from God: Therefore he that resisteth the power, 'in matters that are within its scope,' resisteth the ordinance of God.' ;,l 7 Why reasonable radicali ty must be accompanied by reasonable conservatism can be seen by considering the fact that he who speculates about the principles justifying all government is in that very act speculating about principles which could justify the alteration or abolition of any government that does not measure up to those principles. THE CONSERVATISM OF CLASSICAL LIBERALISM Why is government, why are human laws, laws which compel obedience through fear of punishment, thought to be necessary? Why is the natural law, which appeals to reason alone, not sufficient? Federalist fifty-one notes, "what is government itself but the greatest of all reflections on human nature? If men were angels no government would be necessary. If 17. Q. 96, A. 4, ad 1. Cf. John Calvin, Commentary ~ the Epistle ~ the Romans, ch. 13, secs. 1-4; Institutes of the Christian Religion, bk. 4, ch. 2o, esp. secs. 16ff. Cf. John Locke, ~Paraphrase and Notes ~ the Epistles of St. Paul •••• Cf. note p on Romans, 13:1, with the end of oaragraph 2 of Locke's introduction to this section, and cp. the latter �16 angels were to govern men, neither external nor internal controls on government would be necessary." Men who are primarily devoted to learning and to teaching, concentrating on the strengthening and development of their rational powers, are prone to exaggerate the part reason plays in the lives of most men, men not so concentrated and so dedicated. Although it leads to some squandering of forces, as a practical rule of thumb in the profession of learning and teaching, if one is likely to err, it is better to err on the side of overestimating rational capacities. In politics, however, this generous, and in that sense liberal, tendency can lead to consequences far worse than mere ineffectiveness. Those who expect too much from reason are bound to be frustrated; then, like disappointed lovers, overcome by a despair that can easily turn to contempt and hate, they are liable to begin to reject reasonable procedures altogether, to turn to pressure, intimidation, dire c t action and force, thus depriving political life of that limited but saving 'b . part that reason can contri ute to it. 18 Although it is certainly not universally true, and though it does depend upon the books, it still might be said that in general readers of books are more rational than those who do not read books. Thus, to make reason more effective and to correct their readers' characteristic error the great tradition of classical writers taught the limits of reason. Herman Melville, comnenting on More's Utopia and Plato's Republic, wrote with the tables of contents of his Two Treatises on Government. 18. Cf. Plato, Phaedo, 89 C ff. Cf. in this order Turgenev's novels Fathers and ~and Virgin Soil, and Dostoevsky's Possessed, for an account of how Russia's political intellectuals turned from populism to terrorism. �17 a small poem entitled, ~ Reasonable Constitution. What though Reason forged your scheme? 'Twas Reason dreamed the Utopia's dream: 'Tis ·dream to think that Reason can 19 Govern the reasoning creature man. Plato and Aristotle, I believe, would not disapprove of that poem. Aristotle's Metaphysics begins with the assertion: "All men by nature desire to know." This passage is frequently misunderstood. He never said that for IOC>St men the desire to know dominates the other desires. ones for whom this is so are rather rare. Those blessed In the preface to the Politics, the last chapter of the Nicomachean Ethics, he argues that while all men do desire to know, IOC>st men desire other things more. The presence and the power of those desires make political or human law necessary. We might, following Thomas and Aristotle, divide the purpose of human law, or government, into maximal and minimal purposes. The maximal purpose is to furnish man with the training, or discipline, (and perhaps the conditions), which he requires for the perfection of virtue, for excellence, that is, education. And because they are most inexperienced with it, most in need of it, and most capable of acquiring it, this discipline, or education, is primarily education of the young. For those whom Aristotle calls naturally free or liberal, that is with good and uncorrupted natural dispositions, words, arguments and discourses, especially parental admonitions, can provide the ethical part of this education. But most men, living as they do by passion, prone to vice, are not easily moved by words. 20 The minimal purpose of govern- ment is to restrain these men from evil by force and fear of punishment, to restrain them from harming themselves, and especially from harming others, from 19. The Selected Poems of Herman Melville, ed. Hennig Cohen, Anchor Books, 1964, pp. 169 and 257. 20. Aristotle, N. Ethics, 1179 b 5-18. �18 disturbing the peace of others. peace. The minimal purpose of government is domestic Thomas also refers to a purpose intermediate between virtue and peace, which is coordinated with a type of character intermediate .to the types mentioned before: this would be the purpose of educating those who have been habituated by force and fear of punishment, to do willingly what before they 21 . d i.d f rom f ear, an d thus to b ecome virtuous. Human law, or government, if it is to be enlightened, does keep the end of the virtuous in view. But law must be adjusted to the capacities of those for whom the law is intended. There are limits on what one can reasonably expect from the law in the way of moral improvement. Being framed for the illiberal majority, the law, according to Thomas, should not forbid all those vices from which the liberal can abstain. The illiberal majority should not be burdened with precepts too far beyond what they can be expected to live up to. For, as they violate them, they are likely to come to despise them and law in general. Thus, from contempt they are likely to break out into transgressions worse than those they began with. Thomas quotes Proverbs (30:33): "He that too vehem- ently blows his nose brings out blood." The law should forbid only those Jl'Ore grievous vices from which it is possible for the majority to abstain. It can promote, but it cannot prescribe that men be virtuous, that is, that they not only act virtuously, but do so willingly, habitually, and for virtue's sake. 22 When the conditions presupposed by laws have changed, the laws may or 21. Swmna Theologica, I-II, Q.92, A.2,ad 4; Q.95, A.l. 22. Aristotle, N. Ethics,1105 a 26- 1105 b 1. �19 may not thereby be rendered obsolete. They might still be applicable, in whole or in part, to the new conditions; if not, they ought to be changed. As the need for new legislation to adapt to rapidly changing conditions grows, understanding the complexity of the problem of change becomes increasingly important. The conservatism of classical liberalism comes to a focus in what it has to say about change in laws, the subject of Question 97 of Thoma.s's Treatise on Law. We quote from article 2: Human law is rightly changed in so far as such change is conducive to the common interest. But to a certain extent change of law itself is detrimental to the common good. For custom has great force in the observance of laws, in as much as what is done contrary to common custom, even if it should be in itself light, seems to be grave. Thus when a law is changed the constraining force of law is diminished, in so far as custom is destroyed. Consequently, Thomas goes on, human laws should not be changed unless the good attained by the change outweighs the harm done in this respect. The first objection goes as follows: It seems that human law ought always to be changed whenever something better occurs. For human laws are devised by human reason as are the other arts. But in the other arts that which was held at first, is changed, if something better occurs. Therefore the same ought also to be done in human laws. Tho mas answers: Rules of art derive their efficacy from reason alone, and therefore whenever any improvement occurs, that which was held before ought to be changed. But laws derive very great force from custom as the Phi,losopher says in Book II of the Politics, and therefore they ought not to be readily changed. In the passage referred to Aristotle points out that the strength of law with regard to compliance, depends upon the compliance becoming habitual, and, he notes, it takes some time to form habits. 23. 1268 b 23 - 1269 a 28. 23 Unlike what goes on in the other �20 arts and in the sciences, what reason alone would dictate is not simply applicable in political matters. Reason, even wisdom, must compromise with and thereby be diluted by the requirements of compliance and consent, that is, by habit, prejudice, and custom. It is unreasonable not to make due concessions to irrationality in political affairs. What seems then, to underly the common opposition between liberal and conservative is a more fundamental difference of opinion concerning the relative strengths of rational and irrational powers in most men, in practical terms, concerning how much rationality is to be expected from most men. The distinction between conservative and what probably should be called progressive would seem to be more adequate: both make serious claims to be called liberal. This disparity between what is appropriate for the sciences and the arts, and what is appropriate for social and political life is treated more dialectically in Plato's Republic and Aristotle's Politics. if not the fundamental theme of both books. It is a fundamental, Arguments for aristocracy and kingship, the rule of living reason, in Plato and Aristotle are accompanied . 24 b y arguments b y ana 1 ogy f rom th e arts an d sciences. The rank orders of the regimes in both books could be understood as being based on the degree to which the peoples of the respective regimes are capable or not of receiving more artistic or more scientific political forms, the degree to which they are capable of being governed in a liberal manner, the degree to which they are capable of conforming their lives to the rule of their most reasonable fellows. The idea of the rule of living reason functions as a paradigm, as a standard of improvement for politics. 24. It moves us to continue to search for governors who, E.g., Aristotle, Politics, 1273 b 10-12, where flute playing is paired with shoemaking. The former addresses itself to the soul, especially the passions, the latter protects the body. �21 as The Federalist (number fifty-seven) puts it, "possess most wisdom to discern, and most virtue to pursue, the coilUIIOn good." It reminds us that institutions ought ultimately to be judged not by technical standards, but by the kind of human beings they encourage and tend to produce and by the kind they discourage and tend to eliminate, that is, that ethics is the architechtonic part of social and political science. The idea of the rule of living reason gratifies reasonable hopes by clarifying and articulating fully their ultimate goals. At the same time, however, it presupposes con- ditions which are so impossible, or so rare, as to preclude it as a practical political possibility. possibility.) (This would not automatically preclude it as a personal By clarifying how rare, or impossible, the pre-conditions for the perfect political order are, writers like Plato and Aristotle save idealism from fanaticism, they teach men to moderate and to civilize their hopes. They prepare men to accept the implications of the distinctions between what is best in itself, that is, what is best in the best possible circumstances, what is best in circumstances that most generally prevail, and what is best relative to any particular set of given circumstances. The chief political alternatives open to Americans and Western Europeans would seem to be the rule of reasonable law or some form of despotism, benevolent or unbenevolent. also. This seemed to be the case to Herman Melville in 1863 In July, 1863, riots protesting the draft broke out in New York City. The rioters turned to attacking Negroes and burned a Negro church and an orphanage. Melville reflected on these events, and more, in a remarkable poem called The House Top - A Night Piece - : �22 (July, 1863) No sleep. The sultriness pervades the air And binds the brain-a dense oppression, such As tawny tigers feel in matted shades, Vexing their blood and making apt for ravage. Beneath the stars the roofy desert spreads Vacant as Libya. All is hushed near by. Yet fitfully from far breaks a mixed surf Of muffled sound, the Atheist roar of riot. Yonder, where parching Sirius set in drought, Balefully glares red Arson-there-and there • ••• All civil charms And priestly spells which late held hearts in aweFear-bound, subjected to a better sway Than sway of self; these like a dream dissolve, And man rebounds whole aeons back in nature. Hail to the low dull rumble, dull and dead, And ponderous drag that shakes the wall. Wise Draco comes, deep in the midnight roll Of black artillery; he comes, though late; In code corroborating Calvin's creed And cynic tyrannies of honest kings; He comes, nor parlies; and the Town, redeemed, Gives thanks devout; nor, being thankful, heeds The grimy slur on the Republic's faith implied, Which holds that Man is naturally good, 25 And-more-is Nature's Roman, never to be scourged. The rule of law, it must be said, cannot by itself produce nobility of soul, but it may go far towards producing the best possible conditions for the cultivation of nobility of soul. Most informed citizens in the English-speaking world pay lip-service to the blessings of the rule of law. But those who would most directly and severely feel the loss of liberty its weakening would entail are those whose very calling presupposes freedom of speech, those for whom learning, study, teaching and serious conversation are habitual and regular occupations. How ironic it is then-- we hope it is not just--that the spirit of Draco should be receiving some of its loudest invitations today from institutions that are 25. 2E..!. cit., above, n. 19, p. 24. Cf. Acts of the Apostles, 22: 24 and 25 �23 avowedly institutions of higher learning. We cannot avoid considering the implications of Melville's words, "Wise Draco comes": suffer an unwise Draco, or to deserve a wise? Is it 'WOrse to It is altogether possible to suffer both conditions. The irony referred to, however, may not be something only peculiar to our times. It would seem that now, in the beginning, and always, science and philosophy come into the world with the awareness that a distinction can be made between nature and convention, or between the reasonable and the conventional. Wherever there are philosophers (a class which can include erring philosophers) there seem to arise imitators of philosophers, men who are aware of the distinction between nature and convention, but who never sufficiently reflect on the reasons for the conventions. Some would say that such men, sometimes called sophists, sometimes intellectuals, are more attracted by the honors of philosophers than by their true objects, or that they somehow confound political ambition with philosophic ambition, but whatever their motives, the problem is that they abuse the instruments of philosophy, they abuse the distinction between nature and convention, so as to undermine all conventions, so as to undermine ordinary decency. One permanent task of Socratic philosophy then would seem to be to defend ordinary pre-philosophic practical wisdom from sophistical attack; that is, to prepare, if necessary, a theoretical defence of ordinary decency against sophistical science. To avoid misunderstanding, it should be said that such polemical activity does not mean that one ceases to -U-y to understand or to learn from those one attacks. 26. We need only consider the Socrates of Plato and Xenophon. 26 Cf. Note 4, above, and Leo Strauss, On Tyranny, The Free Press of Glencoe, 1963, esp. p. 199 �24 AMERICAN LIBERALISM "It has been frequently remarked," writes Hamilton in the opening paragraph of '?he Federalist, that it seems to have been reserved to the people of this country, by their conduct and example, to decide the important question, whether societies of men are really capable or not of establishing good government from reflection and choice, or whether they are forever destined to depend for their political constitutions on accident and force.27 It is hard to conceive of a better solution to the problem of political stability and change than the American constitutional system. The Constitution provides a point of veneration and the fixed and stable framework within which the various departments of government are granted broad and flexible powers to deal energetically with the problems arising from changing conditions. The reasonability of the constitution itself is attested to by its ample recognition of and reliance upon the indecorous, but never failing, springs of human selfWe recur to Federalist, number fifty-one: ishness. If men were angels, no government would be necessary. If angels were to govern men, neither external nor internal controls on government would be necessary. In framing a government which is to be administered by men over men, the great difficulty lies in this: you must enable the government to control the governed; and in the next place oblige it to control itself. A dependence on the people is, no doubt, the primary control on the government; but experience has taught mankind the necessity of auxiliary precautions. Those auxiliary precautions are the check and balance system and separation of powers. Finding the right balance between the enabling powers of government and restrictions on governmental power is the permanent problem of American government. If one focuses not on the needs of liberal learning, but on the ordinary concerns of most men, it might be said without too much oversimplification that the most prevalent and persistent forms of injustice are bullying and cheating. 27. Footnote on the next page �25 The English-speaking peoples by means of the rule of law seem to have concentrated on preventing men from bullying one another. Like our Conunun- ist rivals, we have also been greatly concerned with preventing cheating, but have taken the precaution to deal with this problem in such a way as to avoid concentrating too much power in the hands of our governmental protectors, so as to avoid putting our protectors themselves in a position to bully us. The reasoning behind this choice seems to be that, although the two are often connected, injury to dignity is worse than injury to material well-being. In addition, he who is in a position to bully is usually in a position to cheat as well, whereas the converse is not true. What the right balance between enabling powers and restrictions on government is depends upon the given conditions of material life. Along with the introduction of large-scale technology, a new system of administration and ownership of peoperty developed in the West, devised to coordinate the resources of large groups of men in a manner appropriate to new technological possibilities. We refer to the rise of the depersonalized, that is ethically irres- ponsible, ownership of joint-stock companies, organized for profit and with limited liability. 28 The inequities engendered by this system might be traced, at least in part, to the fact that the system was developed under the guidance of a philosophy, or social science, that either minimized or denied the significance of ethics for political, social, and economic science. However this may be, the principle seems to be generally accepted now that the inequities resulting from the growth of large-scale non-governmental corporate and 27. Cf. George Anastaplo, Book Review, Levy: Legacy of Suppression-Freedom of Speech and Press in Early American History, 39 New York University Law Review 735 (1964), esp. p. 741; Laurence Berns, "Two Old Conservatives Discuss the Anastaplo Case," 54 Cornell Law Review 920, July, 1969. 28. Cf. R. H. Tawney, The Acquisitive Society, ch. 5. �26 institutional power can be effectively remedied only by a enlargement of goverrunental powers of regulation. corres~nding In addition, the licen- sing of _ government corporations and agencies has been expanded in order to perform necessary public services that privately owned enterprises could not be relied upon to supply. The American system is peculiarly well adapted to solving the problems brought on by new conditions without sacrificing, or at least with a minimum 1oss o f , l 1'b erty. 29 New ways are continually being found to combine justice and liberty, public responsibility and private initiative. By the skillful use of tax laws an amazing proliferation of private welfare and cultural agencies has been induced, performing needed social services without concentrating power in the hands of goverrunent. Large corporations under threat of increasing regulation and taxes, and guided by an increasing awareness of the insufficiency of an unmitigated profit motive, are tending to follow more public-spirited policies and even to take on a semi-public character. Within government itself the institution of specialized relatively independent corporations and authorities, in addition to the regular constitutional separation of powers both within and between Federal, State and local governments, all enable us to address ourselves to new conditions without that concentration of power in the central government that less sophisticated structures of government cannot avoid. The principle behind the American Union and the Constitution of the United States, in Lincoln's words, "entwining itself more closely about the human heart," is the Declaration of Independence's assertion of "Liberty to all." This prin- ciple in Lincoln's mind is inextricably connected with the Declaration's assertion that "all men are created equal." 30 The great and no longer tolerable failing Cf. De Tocqueville, Democracy in America, vol. I, ch. 5, last section~ vol. 2, bk. 2, ch. 7 30. "Fragment: The Constitution and the Union" 1860 or 1861, Collected Works 29. of Abraham Lincoln, Roy Basler, ed. Rutgers u. Press, vol. lV, PP• 168-6 9 • �27 of American political life, the failure to guarantee Negro citizens equal rights of citizenship, is not, according to Lincoln, a failure of American principles; it is rather a failure of men to act in accordance with those principles. Lincoln commented on that statement in his speech on .the Dred Scott decision: I think the authors of that notable instrument intended to include all men, but they did not intend to declare all men equal in all respects. They did not mean to say all were equal in color, size, intellect, moral developments, or social capacity. They defined with tolerable distinctness, in what respects they did consider all men created equal--equal in "certain inalienable rights, among which are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness." This they said, and this they meant. They did not mean to assert the obvious untruth, that all were then actually enjoying that equality, nor yet, that they were about to confer it immediately upon them. In fact they had no power to confer such a boon. They meant simply to declare the right, so that the enforcement of it might follow as fast as circumstances should permit. They meant to set up a standard maxim for free society, which could be familiar to all, and revered by all; constantly looked to, constantly spreading and deepening its influence, and augmenting the happiness and value of life to all people of all colors everywhere. The assertion that "all men are created equal" was of no practical use in effecting our separation from Great Britain; and it was placed in the Declaration, not for that, but for future use. Its authors meant it to be, thank God, it is now proving itself, a stumbling block to those who in after times might seek to turn a free people back into the hateful paths of despoti~m. They knew the proneness of prosperity to breed tyrants, and they meant when such should re-appear in this fair land and commence their vocatio~ they should find left for them 1 at least one hard nut to crack. The difference in nature (the Declaration speaks of the "Laws of Nature") that these natural rights are based upon, rights which all men share, is the difference between rational and irrational animals, between men, animals capable of thoughtful speech, and beasts, animals incapable of thoughtful speech. This difference both for a classical liberal like Aristotle and the Founding Fathers is elementary and fundamental. 31. fo~ Aristotle goes on to Speech at Springfield, Illinois, June 26, 1857, emphasis in original. f �28 divide men in terms of the different ways and degrees that they possess this capacity, but the differences of ways and degrees can never be as significant as the difference between animals lacking the capacity entirely and those having it in any degree whatever. Part of what Aristotle and the Declaration of Independence mean was spelled out by Kant in the work referred to before, where he uses the book of Genesis to speculate about the various stages man might have gone through 32 . . . in h. progress t owar d s un d erstand. is ing h. uniqueness among t h e anima 1 s. is Kant minimizes the importance of eating from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. fig-leaf. For him the epoch-making event was the institution of the He interprets it as follows: this removal of the object of inclination from the view of the senses reflects man's first awareness of a certain degree of mastery of reason over impulse; that he is a moral creature. this was his first hint His partner's similar action, this implicit refusal, forces man, moved by sensual desire, to become aware of the moral qualities of the objects of his desire, the rational and moral qualities of his fellow human beings. Thus he becomes able to be moved not only by sensual, but also- by more inward spiritual attractions; he becomes able to move from animal desire to love, from the desire of possessive enjoyment to the simple appreciation of beauty. Through self-restraint and refusal men come to deserve and to recognize each other as worthy of the dignities befitting free men. St. Jorrn•s College, Aunapolis, Maryland May 24, 1968 32. ~cit., above, n. 6. � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. 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Visit <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a> or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context formallectureseriesannapolis Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 29 pages Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Berns, Laurence, 1928- Title A name given to the resource Speculations on liberal and illiberal politics Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1968-05-24 Description An account of the resource Typescript of a lecture delivered on May 24, 1968 by Laurence Berns as part of the Formal Lecture Series. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Bib # 53004 Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource text Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College has been given permission to make this item available online. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Friday night lecture Tutors https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/4b69435d438d653a0ba63dd6ebc2da9a.pdf 6130864e91b296ec861c4f34541e8682 PDF Text Text GRATITUDE, NATURE, AND PIETY IN KING LEAR LA.tJRENCE BERNS Revised VersionOf AFomal Lectlll"e Delivered At St John.'s: College �27 GRATITUDE, NATURE, AND PIETY IN KING LEAR LAURENCE BERNS And they go to trial on a charge on account of which men hate each other most, but go to trial about least, that is, ingratitude. And him who they know to be able to return a favor, but does not return it, they also punish severely. For they think that the ungrateful would also be most neglectful about gods, about parents, about country, and about friends; and what seems to follow upon ingratitude most of all is shamelessness, and it is this indeed which seems to be the greatest leader towards every baseness. -Xenophon, Cyropaedeia [1.2.7] I In the fourth act of King Lear the cruelly blinded Duke of Gloucester is saved and guided by a man disguised as a mad beggar. The strangeness of beggar guiding duke is compounded by the fact that Gloucester's unknown guide is his son Edgar, who had assumed this wretched disguise to escape the sentence wrongfully laid upon him by his gullible father. Edgar serves not only as his father's eyes, he becomes his provider, the nurse of his broken spirit, his teacher, and the saviour of his life. He saves him from Oswald's murderous attack and from a more formidable foe, despair. He concocts what for Gloucester is a divine miracle, to arouse within him the strength to live ; and he preaches the lessons that enable Gloucester to avail himself of that strength. Edgar fulfills parental offices, and more, for his father. The once masterful father, helpless as a babe, is, as it were, fathered , sustained, and educated by his own son. This unsettling reversal of normal stations is pitiful and thought-provoking.1 Small debts of gratitude can be paid without much difficulty. But what recompense can be made to those who are the very sources of one's being? Does not every recompense fall short, is not every recompense simply disproportionate to what is owed? Since one is always in their debt, the command "Honor thy father and thy mother" can be invoked almost without any reservations.2 Although this debt of gratitude is normally impossible to discharge, Edgar either did discharge it or came as close This article is a revised version of a lecture presented at St. John's College, Annapolis, May 1969. Laurence Berns is a Tutor at St. John's College, Annapolis. l Oedipus in a questionable way assumes his father's position through violence. Shakespeare's Edgar behaves as a father to his father with perfect justice. Cp. the beginning of this scene, 4.6, with Matt. 4.5-11, and with Prospero's "miracles~· in The Tempest. 1 Cf. Aristotle Nicomachean Ethics 1161a 20 and 1163b 12-29. �28 Interpretation Q.J;;;_ I 'I 'T «, to doing so as any man could. The story of Edgar and his father seems to have been designed to show what would be required for such a debt to be paid in full. The mercantile aspect of the language of gratitude~ebts, payments, owing-is vaguely offensive, but apparently unavoidable. Lear, raging in the storm, calls out: ... Spit, fire! spout, rain! Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters: I tax you not, you elements, with unkindness; I never gave you kingdom, call'd you children, You owe me no subscription: .. . [3 .2.14-181. The hunted Edgar, consoling himself with the thought that "The lowest and most dejected thing of Fortune/Stands still in esperance," goes on to say: .. . Welcome. then, Thou unsubstantial air that I embrace: The wretch that thou hast blown unto the worst Owes nothing to thy blasts [4.1.3-9]. Nothing good received, nothing owed.3 But what i(just being itself is good? Although we prosecute and punish those who buy or borrow and do not pay, such offenses do not evoke the gravest condemnations. But "sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child." And ingratitude is a "marble-hearted fiend, more hideous when thou showest thee in a child than the sea-monster." The seriousness of the wrong can also be reckoned roughly by its effect. Kent speaks of "how unnatural and bemadding a sorrow" is the filial ingratitude that Lear suffers. When that sorrow has nearly done its work, Gloucester addresses Lear as "O ruin'd piece of nature." Gratitude is akin to grace and graciousness, as their etymologies indicate. 4 Capacities or incapacities for gratitude seem to be direct reflections of character; the obligation when regarded as genuine is self-incurred. It becomes suspect when external compulsion is in the background, when it does not "come from the heart." To pay one's bills grudgingly is not gracious but does not violate the spirit of commerce. Can gratitude be paid grudgingly? Coming from within, it seems to be a natural movement in the sense of the Aristotelian distinction.5 In this way it is akin to love. Gratitude might be thought of as being between justice and love. Like a Cf. 2.4.179 ff. and .252, 3.4.20, and Regan's (!) morally indignant words to Gloucester, "Ingrateful fox" (3.7.28). She probably means that he is ungrateful to his country: he is referred to as a traitor twelve times. All line numbers are from the Arden Ed., ed. Kenneth Muir, Harvard, 1959. ' Cf. Aristotle Rhetoric 1385a 16-b 11, Cope ed., Vol. II, pp. 87-93. 6 Cf. Aristotle Physics 192b 7-23. Cf. 215a 1-5, 230a 19 ff., and 254b 12 ff. �Gratitude, Nature, and Piety in King Lear 29 commutative justice, which seeks arithmetic equality in exchanges of goods and services, gratitude involves an element of calculation. 6 Gratitude should be proportionate to benefits or favors bestowed. 7 But unlike the demands of commutative justice, these obligations are unenforceable, at least by any human court. Unlike commercial and contractual obligations, here there is no explicit promise to return an equal value for what has been received. s What occurs depends entirely upon the grace of the benefactor. The beneficiary cannot be forced to pay this kind of debt, which is also a debt that he was in no way responsible for incurring. Whether he pays or not depends upon the kind of man he is. Is he to be held responsible for the kind of man he is? Gratitude then, in so far as its payment is unenforceable, in so far as it must be rendered willingly, and in so far as it reflects the character of those engaged in it, is like love. Where benefits causing- gratitude and where love depend essentially on the personal merits of the benefactor or the beloved, distributive justice, which concerns itself with the proportionality of rewards to personal merit, comes into consideration.9 Despite their connections or parallelism, gratitude and love, at least noble love, may be distinguished. Lear's failure to appreciate this difference seems to have been an important part of what led to his downfall.to II Lear introduces what has been called his love test with the following words: Tell me, my daughters, (Since now we will divest us both of rule, Interest of territory, cares of state) Which of you shall we say doth love us most? That we our largest bounty may extend Where nature doth with merit challenge11 [1.1.48-53]. 8 Xenophon's Socrates defines ingratitude as a certain kind of pure injustice: Memorabilia 2.2.3. See also King Lear 1.1.183. 1 Cf. Aristotle NE 1163a 10-24. s In circumstances where either rejection or acceptance is possible, acceptance could in some contexts be understood as implying such a promise. 9 Cf. Aristotle NE 1160b 23-62a 9, 1163a 24-63b 27, 1167a 15-22, 1167b 16-68a 27. The subject abounds in difficulties. Cp., for example, 116la 20-23 and 1162a 4-9 (where it is shown why, in accordance with justice, children, like subjects in relation to their kings, should love parents more than parents should love children), with 116lb 18-30 and 1167b 16-68a 27 (where it is shown why, generally speaking, parents love chil.dren more than. children love parents). Cf. Eudemian Ethics 124la 35-b 11; and Thomas Aquinas Summa Theologica 1-11, Q. 100, A. 5, ad 4. Cf. also Plato Republic 330c, 457c end-458b, 462a-e, 463c-465c, 472b 3-6. 1° Cp. Kent's love for Lear with Cordelia's. The love between Kent and Lear seems inseparable from "service." Cf. 1.4.4-7 and 1.4.92-93. 11 The last line is difficult. Nature here could refer to filial or to paternal affection; merit correspondingly could refer to good deeds, that is, obedience and �Interpretation 30 He will give most, he says, to that daughter that loves him most, and the implication is, each daughter will receive a share of bounty proportionate to her love for her father. If Lear intended to test or to measure the amounts of his daughters' loves by their speeches, he would have waited till each daughter had spoken and each speech could have been compared with the others before making his distribution. But after each speech, before hearing those remaining, he disposes of a share in accordance with what appears to be and is once explicitly referred to by him as a prearranged plan (1.1.37-38). Moreover, the plan, which had been discussed with, or at least presented to, his advisors and council, seems to have been a sagacious one.12 The love test then may first have been thought of by Lear as a mere formality, staged for the sake of a public ratification of a well-thought-out succession scheme. The question as to why this form was used still remains. It is through Cordelia's actions that the love test becomes decisive for Lear and for the play as a whole : For Cordelia's love and being sure of her love were, more than he knew, overwhelmingly important for Lear. Cordelia's experience in scene 1, in important respects, prefigures Lear's. The Duke of Burgundy and the King of France are in Lear's court to sue for the hand of Cordelia, Lear's favorite daughter. When Lear strips Cordelia of all her inheritance, of her dowry, and of his paternal favor , the difference between Burgundy's and France's loves becomes plain. Burgundy will take Cordelia only with the portion first proposed by Lear. Lear says: . . . Sir, there she stands: If aught within that little-seeming substance, Or all of it, with our displeasure piec'd. And nothing more, may fitly like your Grace, She's there, and she is yours. Burgundy replies, "I know no answer." Lear intensifies his condemnation and urges France not even to consider his former suit. France wonders what Cordelia's offense could have been. She replies; and he addresses himself to Burgundy: ... My Lord of Burgundy, What say you to the lady? Love's not love conformity in ratification of the settlement Lear here proclaims, or simply love of Lear. According to Muir, nature means "'paternal affection' and merit, in the context, means 'filial affection' " (Arden Ed., p. 6). u 1.1.3-7. Cordelia and her consort, with Lear so long as he is alive, are to occupy the larger strategic center, balancing Goneril and Albany on the north and Regan and Cornwall on the south. Cf. Harry V. Jaffa, "The Limits of Politics: King Lear, Act One, Scene One," in Shakespeare's Politics, Allan Bloom and Harry V. Jaffa, Basic Books, 1964, pp. 118 ff. This present essay is, in a number of important respects, an attempt to develop points first stated by Harry Jaffa. �Gratitude, Nature, and Piety in King Lear 31 When it is mingled with regards that stand Aloof from th' entire point. Will you have her? She is herself a dowry. After Burgundy applies to Lear again for her dowry, is rejected, and withdraws his suit, Cordelia says: Peace be with Burgundy! Since that respect and fortunes are his love, I shall not be his wife [1.1.247-49]. France speaks again: Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich, being poor; Most choice, forsaken; and most lov'd, despis'd! Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon: Be it lawful, I take up what's cast away. Gods, gods! 'tis strange that from their cold'st neglect My love should kindle to inflam'd respect. "Inflam' d respect" might well serve to characterize noble love.13 After being stripped of the accoutrements of power, wealth, and favor, Cordelia does learn who loves her for herself, for herself and her virtues, as France puts it, and who loves her for what she possesses, whose love "is mingled with regards that stand/ Aloof from th' entire point." The dismantling of "so many folds of favor," including the favor of gods and fortune, not only reveals the qualities of her suitors' loves, but, more importantly, reveals what she is herself, reveals her lovability. France, as Kent conjectures (3.1.28-29), may have some political reasons for wanting to marry Cordelia: these, however, need not be incompatible with those manifest reasons that lead him to love her for her own sake. To believe that she could have deserved the condemnation she received from Lear, France says, "Must be a faith that reason without miracle/Should never plant in me." Positively put, reason without miracle confirms Cordelia's virtue and her lovability. France's love then could be described as a kind of rational faith based on what he has learned about her character. It is not easy for a king, a princess, or anyone with large and evident powers to bestow benefits and ills, to learn what people truly think of them. Lear finally learns who loves him and what those about him think of him, but like Cordelia, he must be stripped and must strip himself of the trappings of majesty first.14 u In Cordelia's speech (1.1.248) respect probably means "looking again" or "looking back," respectare, to something else beside herself, to her fortune, that is, comparison and calculation. In France's speech (1.1.255) the word means honoring or esteem, but also involves an element of "looking," .of calculation, or estimation, of personal worth. The sense of distance suggested by the admiration, estimation, and deference usually associated with "respect" makes the unusual conjunction with "inflam'd" all the more poignant. Cf. also 2.4.24. 14 Cf. 4.1.19-21, and n. to I. 20, Arden Ed., K. Muir, ed. �32 Interpretation III Private and public interfere with each other for Lear: The very proposing of a love test evidences a certain confusion about the properly public and the properly private. To command public declarations or testimony in the execution of one's office is certainly appropriate for a judge, magistrate, or king; but Lear seems to have tried, as it were, to absorb the private into the public, to have confused what can be demanded and enforced by right of law and majesty with what can only arise naturally, what is beyond all external command or control. 15 However one conceives of the Lear of the love test, 1 6 his vulnerability with respect to Cordelia is crucial. Lear deserved gratitude from his daughters, perhaps especially from Cordelia. And gratitude, or thankfulness, should be proportionate to how much one has to be thankful for. But Lear demands professions of love. He fails to appreciate how demeaning it would be for Cordelia to allow her love to seem to be proportionate to the magnitude of the fortune he bestows on her. The preciousness of her love is tied necessarily to its proud independence from mercenary influences or threats. It cannot be bought, not with fortune, power, sensual pleasure, protection, or anything else less than virtue . Cordelia's refusal 15 See notes S and 9 above. Cf. Immanuel Kant, "The End of All Things," in On History, ed. Lewis W. Beck, Library of Liberal Arts. 1963, pp. 81 -84. Ausgewiihlte kleine Schriften. Taschenausgaben der Philosophischen Bibliothek, pp. 89-92. [The end of the second paragraph, p. 82, Beck ed., should read: "for it is a contradiction to command someone not just to do something but also that he should like to do it" (auch gem tun solle).] Should not the "love" referred to by Kant, p. 84, 1.5, be, more strictly, gratitude? 19 There is great division among the commentators. We may distinguish four alternatives: 1) Lear is a weak, senile, old man in his dotage. Can this be reconciled with the deep and powerful Lear of the rest of the play, with the man whose favorites had been Kent and Cordelia, who wisely favored Albany over Cornwall, who killed the man (probably a captain, 5.3.27) hanging Cordelia? 2) Lear is a sagacious, though not a wise, king. He is not altogether incognizant of his elder daughters' characters and hypocrisy : he never accuses them of violating their love oaths. He could have regarded the love test at first as primarily a ceremony to ratify and to sanctify the succession; but being particularly vulnerable in relation to Cordelia, he allowed "her most small fault" to wrench his "frame of nature from the fixed place." It was this vulnerability, he rebukes himself, "that let thy folly in, and thy dear judgement out." Why then did Lear in Act 2 seem to think that he could rely on his elder daughters? 3) Shakespeare sim_ ly took over the old story and did not concern himself with p consistency here. 4) There is no inconsistency: A man can be .a weak, foolish dotard and under great suffering reveal heretofore untapped great depths of passion and powers of insight. The argument of this essay is most compatible with the second of these alternatives. �Gratitude, Nature, and Piety in King Lear 33 to participate in Lear's ceremony, her disobedience (and Kent's also), is correctly diagnosed by Lear as rooted in pride.1 7 Lear, however, fails to see how that pride with its occasionally offensive honesty, necessarily goes along with the Jove for which he craves. In its critical pride such a Jove reflects the lover's estimate of the intrinsic merits of the beloved.is If Lear had succeeded in humbling Cordelia, he might have destroyed what he loved most. Lear never accuses Cordelia, as he does his other daughters, of ingratitude. Her love, or certain evidence of her l~ve, is what he wants. He loved her most, he says, as if this gave him the right to command her to love him most. But even if love, or noble love, could be deserved, it cannot be commanded. There does not seem to be any court competent io grant compensation for the "pangs of dispriz'd love."19 Lear, it seems, needs Cordelia's love because it would be evidence for himself (and for others) of his own excellence. If he were a wise man or a philosopher, he would "know himself" and perhaps not need such confirmation.20 But Lear is not a philosopher. Regan is not the best witness, but she is not entirely wrong when she says of Lear, "He hath ever but slenderly known himself" (1.1.294, cf. 1.4.238 and .260). In commanding, or expecting love where he could only rightly expect gratitude, in thinking that he could simply disclaim "Propinquity and property of blood," in expecting full honors of kingship, after having relinquished power and responsibility, Lear presumes upon an intrinsic authority and self-sufficiency that he does not, and perhaps no man could, possess.21 IV "In none of the fifty or sixty versions of the Lear story in existence before Shakespeare's play does the old king go mad."22 Gloucester and Lear suffer most in this play. Reflecting on the madness of the king, Gloucester says to himself: Better I were distract: So should my thoughts be sever'd from my griefs, And woes by wrong imaginations lose The knowledge of themselves. It may be that her fault is "small" only when compared with ingratitude, for, as Don Quixote says, "There are those who will tell you that one of the greatest sins man can commit is pride, but I maintain that ingratitude is worse." Part 2, ch. 58, Putnam trans., Viking, p. 889. See also Ulrici, in Variorum Ed., ed. Furness, p. 456. 18 Cf. Aristotle NE 1159a 22-25, 1167a II 21, 1170b 8-14, 1172a 10 14. tt Cf. Don Quixote, Part I, ch. 14. 20 Aristotle NE II 77a 12-79a 32; and Jaffa, op. cit., pp. 133 ff. r1 Jaffa suggests that "In proclaiming love of himself as the principle of distributive justice," Lear was "pretending to the attributes of divinity," op. cit., pp. 132 and 133. Cf. George Anastaplo, The Constitutionalist: Notes on the First Amendment, Southern Methodist University Press, 1971, p. 791; and 2.4.252. " Kenneth Muir, Arden Ed., Introduction, p. xliii, n. 1. 17 �Interpretation 34 And yet the contrast between the two shows rather how much more pathetic Lear's suffering in the mind is:23 The loss of eyes-the wayfinders for physical movement, the conditions for independent actionis not so pathetic as losing the light of reason, the intellectual guide that lets us grasp the general meanings of things.24 There is a connection, it has been observed, between pride and madness.25 Proud men do not like to justify and explain themselves. Their rectitude, they feel, should be taken for granted. They balk at the inferiority, or equality, implicit in being required to explain themselves, for example, Lear before Albany, Kent before Cornwall, Gloucester and Regan, and Cordelia before the court (1.4.248 ff., 2.2.61 ff., and 1.1.87 ff.). The proud see or feel themselves to be within a definite hierarchical order. They prize their place within the order and, accordingly, the order itself. They are most sensitive to insult and most prone to the passion most consequent upon insult, anger. Anger, unlike grief, contains within itself a desire to strike back. And, most importantly for our argument, the desire to strike back for most men, if not for all men, exists even when there is nothing to strike back against. Men derive relief from cursing the table or bench they have knocked against. When loved ones suffer some grave and irremediable illness or misfortune, men can speak, not of misfortune, but of "affliction," thus, as it were, striking back in speech against the causes of the suffering. All the affections of what is poetically · called the "heart"26 may tend to personify, and thus obscure, the difference between the living and the dead, but anger seems peculiarly prone to personification. Something similar often happens in love. It seems that men desire what they love, or what they think they love, to love them in return, whether such love is capable of being returned or not. Hope rises from desire. Hope and desire find fulfillment in fact or in fantasy. Cf. 3.4.6-25. Cf. 4.1.27-28 . u Cf. Thomas Hobbes, Leviarhan, ch. 8, Everyman's Library Ed., p. 59, and Elements of Law, ch. I0.9-11; and G . W. F. Hegel, Enzyk/opiidie d .p.W., III. Die Philosophie des Geistes, § 408, Zusatz, fJfJ), "die eigentliche Narrheit." Cf. inter a/ia, Sophocles Ajax; and Euripides Herakles. ze The word heart occurs rather often in King Lear (about fifty times). In general it seems to refer to what is responsible for coordinating men's appetites, passions, desires, thoughts and wills, their loves and hates. Cp. Dante's "animo" in Purgatorio, Canto I 7. The word heart enters into Thomas Aquinas' discussion in the Summa Theo/ogica, usually when citations from the Bible or Church authorities need explication. Sometimes he interprets it as practical reason or conscience (e.g., II-I Q. 94, A.6. Cf. A.5 ad I, A.2, and I, Q. 24, A.I) and frequently as will (e.g., 11-1, Q. 4, A.4; Q. 6, A.4 ad I; Q. I9, A.8 ad I, A.IO ad 1 sed con; Q. 24, A.3). Nonmetaphorically he speaks of the heart as that organ that initiates all bodily, all vital movement, the "instrument of the soul's passions" (e.g., I, Q. 20, A.l ad l; 11-1, Q. 17, A.9 ad 2; Q. 37, A.4 ; Q. 38, A.5 ad 3; Q. 40, A.6; Q. 44, A.I ad l; Q 48, A.2-4). Cf. Plato Republic, the discussion of E>uµo~ 439e-442d; and Timaeus 69d end-72c 1. {L 'lt.~L+-_'.,_ '"L ~~ 1:J .......___ J 1.18 -J.~. 13 u s-. q .. �Gratitude, Nature, and Piety in King Lear 35 In some of its extreme forms this personification is what is called madness. Lear insists that it must have been the unkindness of Poor Tom's nonexistent daughters that brought him to such lowness (3.4.48 ff.). He will take a joint-stool for his daughter and Poor Tom and the Fool for Justices, if that is the only way he has to bring his daughters before the bar of justice (3.6.20 ff.). Lear's pride, his self-respect, his sense of where he belongs in the hierarchical order of things, is, so to speak, the point of origin for his orientation in the world. As his self-respect is assailed, he finds it increasingly difficult to be objective, as Edgar says to Gloucester, to "Bear free and patient thoughts," that is, thoughts free from the presumption that everything that happens in the world has been personally directed with a view to its effect upon himself. His pride and his love of justice lead him to refuse to accept the existence of the world where his worth is denied. He will try to see the world as it is only if the world makes place for his pride. And yet one of the measures of his worth is the intensity with which he struggles to save his sanity. lf his pride did not have some basis in truth, even his own love of truth and justice, his madness could not be as significant as it is. v In the early acts of the play Lear swears by those specific divinities, the sun, the night, Hecate, Apollo, and Jupiter; he also calls on the heavens and calls nature goddess. He seems to see himself and his kingdom as part of one grand natural and divine order, a just hierarchical order, with the heavenly powers, the gods, especially Jupi~er, at the summit of the cosmic hierarchy and himself correspondingly at the summit of that subordinate order, his kingdom. When his daughters, his ~ol, and his shame, the correlate of his pride, destroy his self-respect, "abuse," "subdue," "oppress," "ruin," and "bemad" his nature, what is bemadding is that at the same time they are destroying the basis of his orientation in the world, driving his soul into a storm of questions, doubts, and partial insights too heavy for his patience and judgment to bear.27 The disorder in the moral and political world is associated in Act 3 with tumult in the cosmic order, the rage in Lear's soul with the raging ! 7 Cf. Robert B. Heilman, This Great Stage, Image and Structure in King Lear, University of Washington, 1963, pp. 72-74. Cf. also Laurence Berns, "Aristotle's Poetics" in Ancients and Moderns, Essays on the Tradition of Political Philosophy in Honor of Leo Strauss, ed. Joseph Cropsey, Basic Books, 1964, p. 82. In that essay the division on p. 82 should be marked "Epilogue"; part II begins on p. 72 and part III on p. 79; p. 70, last line, first paragraph, "man" should read "men" and "his" should read "their"; p. 72, eighth line from bottom, "Book" should read "chapter"; p. 80, 11.7 and 23 shonld each have a comma after "for the most part"; p. 85, n. 16, 1.6, "flow" should read "flaw"; p. 86, 1.14, in n. 16, "what lies bcnea:h" should be inserted between "civilizing" and "politics"; p. 86, n. 23, 1.2 "Politics" should read "Poetics." �36 Interpretation of the heavens. The gentleman who meets Kent speaks of how the "impetuous blasts with eyeless rage" catch Lear's white hair in their fury. But for Lear lightnings are "thought-executing fires," and the elements are addressed as seeing and thinking beings. At first he bids them, "Let fall your horrible pleasure." They owe him no subscription. However, that soon changes: But yet I call you servile ministers, That will with two pernicious daughters join Your high-engender'd battles 'gainst a head So old and white as this. 0, ho! 'tis foul. His outrage seems to tum toward the gods themselves.. But his faith is not yet entirely destroyed. He realizes that patience is what he needs. Perhaps his suffering is some divine affliction, later to be redeemed? He calls out as if the storm were herald to a day of judgment when justice and honesty will prevail and he will be revealed as a man more sinned against than sinning. Let the great Gods, That keep this dreadful pudder o'er our heads, Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch, That hast within thee undivulged crimes, Unwhipp'd of Justice; hide thee, thou bloody hand, Thou perjur'd, and thou simular of virtue That art incestuous; caitiff, to pieces shake, That under covert and convenient seeming Has practis'd on man's life; close pent-up guilts, Rive your concealing continents, and cry These dreadful summoners grace. I am a man More sinn'd against than sinning 28 (3.2.49-59] . Later, after he has agreed to enter a nearby hovel, he says, "I'll pray and then 111 sleep." But he does not pray, if praying means addressing divinities.29 He directs his words not to the high, to the gods, but to the poor, the wretched and the low: Poor naked wretches, whereso'er you are, That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm, How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides, Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you From seasons such as these? O! I have ta'en Too little care of this. Take physic, Pomp; Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel, That thou mayst shake the superflux to them, . And show the Heavens more just [3.4.27-36). zs Cf. Kent's speech preceding and Mark, 13, esp. 13.12; see Variorum Ed., ed. Furness, p. 339; cf. Sophocles Oedipus at Colonus, 11.266-67. n Cf. 1.5.47-48, 2.4.192, and 2.4.273-80. �Gratitude, Nature, and Piety m King Lear 37 Like thoughts are expressed later by Gloucester, as he gives a purse to the man he believes to be Poor Tom: Here, take this purse, thou whom the heav'ns' plagues Have humbled to all strokes: that I am wretched Makes thee the happier: Heavens, deal so still! Let the superfluous and lust-dieted man, That slaves your ordinance, that will not see Because he does not feel, feel your power quickly; So distribution should undo excess, And each man have enough [4.1.64-71). Lear's statement goes further: The very justice of the heavens is called into question. 30 The decisive point in this process is reached when Lear strips off his royal garments, after he has encountered Poor Tom, the exemplar of human wretchedness in the extreme.31 Gratitude, its bonds, its cosmic and divine implications, have proved snares and delusions for Lear. Here, with Poor Tom as his model, undeceived by a groundless reliance on gratitude and the flattery of pomp and majesty, he thinks that he can see the truly fundamental situation of man. Is man no more than this? Consider him well. Thou ow'st the worm no silk, the beast no hide, the sheep no wool, the cat no perfume .. .. Thou art the thing itself; unaccommodated man is no more but such a poor, bare, forked animal as thou art. Off, off you )endings! Come; unbutton here [3.4.105-12]. 3 ! Tom owes the worm no silk because he has no silk, the sheep no wool because he has no wool. Lear takes Tom, the unaccommodated man, as the "natural man." But does Tom have nothing? He has his life and he has his misery; and as gratitude is one of the chief roots of natural piety, so fear and wretchedness can theologize and moralize as well. Tom has his catechism: Take heed o' th' foul fiend. Obey thy parents; keep thy word's justice; swear not; commit not with man's sworn spouse; set not thy sweet heart on proud array [3.4.80-83]. Each of these six commandments corresponds to one of the Bible's Ten Commandments: the last most tenuously to the Bible's Tenth, Tom's fifth to the Bible's Seventh, his fourth to the Bible's Third, his third to the Bible's Ninth, and his second to the Bible's Fifth.33 Lear has proclaimed ao "And show the Heavens more just" is the last line Lear speaks before madness overcomes him. See 3.4.48. In Aristotelian terms this is the point at which the reversal, or peripety, occurs in King Lear; Poetics 1452a 21-52b 13. Cf. also Laurence Berns, op. cit., n. 27 above, pp. 75 and 82. 11 The extreme must include madness. at Cf. 2.3.7-9. 11 Tom's replacement of the Fifth Commandment's "Honor thy father and thy mother" by "Obey" corresponds to a replacement of gratitude by fear. �38 Interpretation twice in this play that "nothing can be made out of nothing."34 If nothing comes from nothing, everything that does come to be must come from something, something which itself does not come to be, that is, is unchanging. It is not altogether unreasonable for Poor Tom and anyone who would take him as the man himself to regard what most men call God, the ultimate source of his misery, as a foul fiend. Tom's first commandment corresponds to the Bible's First Commandment: "Thou shalt have no other gods before me."35 The question about filial gratitude, about what children owe to their parents, to the sources of their being, is here extended to the limit: What is owed, or due, to the guiding principle, or principles, of life as a whole, to the sources, or source, of all being? When Lear strips himself of his royal garments, those "\endings," he tries to strip himself of every vestige of royalty. When Kent asks him, "How fares your Grace?" he does not even acknowledge that the term could be meaningful and replies, "What's he?" His divestment of his royal garments is the outer sign of his soul's divestment of its former protections and supports, of those beliefs and convictions that heretofore had sustained and guided his activity in the world. He thinks that now he is in a position to come to know man, to know himself, to philosophize (1.4.238 and .259). But the conditions required to make him want to philosophize are those that he declared earlier would make a truly human life impossible. "O! reason not the need," he replies to his daughters' questioning his need for attendants of his own: our basest beggars Are in the poorest thing superfluous: Allow not nature more than nature needs, Man's life is cheap as beast's. Thou art a lady; If only to go warm were gorgeous, Why, nature needs not what thou gorgeous wear'st, Which scarcely keeps thee warm. But, for true need.You Heavens, give me that patience, patience I need!-38 (2.4.266-73]. Not only does Poor Tom become the representative of humanity for Lear, but because he of all men is least likely to have been blinded by gratitude or flattery, he becomes after Lear's divestment the philosopher for Lear_ "First," before accepting fire, food, and shelter, "let me talk u See 1.4.134-39, 1.1.90, and 1.2.31-35. Shakespeare's presentation of the "Angstphanomen," Lear's "eye of anguish" (4.4.15), seems to have been unnoticed by Martin Heidegger, Sein und Zeit , Niemeyer, 1957, p. 190; cf. n. on 199. 35 Exodus 20.1-17, Deuteronomy 5.6-21, and King Lear, 3.4.80-83. The statement following the Second Commandment tells of God visiting the iniquity of fathers upon their children; Shakespeare, less mysteriously with a view to considerations of justice, visits the iniquity of children upon fathers. See 3.4.74-75. Cf. A. C. Bradley, Shakespearean Tragedy, Macmillan, London, 1961, pp. 222 ff_ 18 Cf. 3.6.4-5. Edith Sitwell suggests that these lines were written under the .infh1ence of Plato's Phaedo 64d-e 1; A Notebook on William Shakespeare, Macmillan, 1965, pp. 75-76. �Gratitude, Nature, and Piety in King Lear 39 with this philosopher," he says. His first question is: "What is the cause of thunder?" Shortly before divesting, he apparently had no doubts about the cause of thunder, that is, Jupiter. I do not bid the thunder-bearer shoot, Nor tell tales of thee to high-judging Jove [2.4.229-30]. But now such questions have become open. He never addresses a god by a personal name again. During all the time of his madness he speaks of the divinities ("Gods," 4.6.128) only once. Lear seems now to be in a position to see deeper into the nature of things than he ever was before. The word nature and words with nature as their root are used fifty times in what has come to be the generally accepted text of King Lear. The word unnatural occurs seven times, more than twice as often as it occurs in any other play of Shakespeare. Lear uses words with nature as root more than twice as often as any other character in the play.37 These usages could be classified under five, not always clearly distinguishable, headings. Nature sometimes means (1) the general order of the social, political, and cosmic whole within which the activity of any one person or group can only be a part; (2) the constitution, or character, of an individual as a whole, that is, the unity arising from both endowment and habit; (3) the original endowment of an individual with the powers directed, though not necessarily compelled, toward definite ends, or purposes. This is the meaning expressed most often by Lear. Nature also means (4) the original endowment of an individual with powers supplied to be used howsoever their possessor wills. This is the meaning expressed most powerfully by Edmund. (5) Nature is twice personified as goddess: once by Lear conflating meanings 1 and 3, and once by Edmund conflating meanings 1 and 4. The play has often been understood as presenting the world as a great arena where the principles of ethical and unethical nature contest for dominion over the whole.38 The disagreements of the commentators are just one more reflection of the fact that Shakespeare has been far more explicit about raising the question of nature, Nineteen times. Gloucester is next with nine times. (Unnaturalness occurs once.) Cf. G. Wilson Knight, The Wheel of Fire, Meridian, p. 179; E. K. Chambers, Shakespeare: A Survey, Hill and Wang, pp. 240 ff. and esp. pp. 215-16; D. A. Traversi, An Approach to Shakespeare, Sands, revised and enlarged ed., p. 185; John F. Danby, Shakespeare's Doctrine of Nature , A Study of King Lear, Faber & Faber, 1949, pp. 15-19; and esp. Robert B. Heilman, op. cit., n. 27 above, chs. 4 and 5, and pp. 115, 133-34, and 179-81. Heilman's careful work is a fundamental book, perhaps the fundamental book, for any serious study of King Lear. By carefully and searchingly tracing out and relating the amazingly intricate patterns of imagery in the play, Heilman lets Shakespeare's philosophy speak for itself. The book's deficiencies, deficiencies generally shared by critics of pre-nineteenth-century literature, stem from an insufficient understanding of certain key notions of classical philosophy, especially the notion of natural right (see Leo Strauss, Natural Right and History, Chicago, 1953, chs. 3 and 4) and the notion of "intuitive reason," that is, nous (see Jacob Klein, 37 38 �40 Interpretation raising the question about the relation between nature and morality, than he has been about presenting any definite solution. There is more clarity, however, about who is wrong: The transgressions of Edmund, Goneril, Regan, and Cornwall lead ultimately to their own destruction. Nature repels simple viciousness. And about the meeting of Lear and Gloucester in Act 4, scene 6: "What could better point the transcendent issues Shakespeare has developed . . . than this encounter of the sensual man robbed of his eyes, with the wilful man, the light of his mind put out."39 Royal Lear's understanding of how morality is effected within nature is certainly not adequate. He conceives of the relation between morality and nature as being more organic than it is (3.4.14-16); he overestimates the power of law; he is insufficiently attentive to the limits set by nature to what authority and law can command. He relies overmuch on divine enforcement of nature's directives, and consequently is unaware of the extent to which the accomplishment of nature's purposes is left to chance and, on the basis of the conditions provided by nature and chance, to human prudence. In other words, the substitution of divine intervention for chance leads to an underestimation of the possibilities for evil and an insufficient awareness of the need for prudence. Lear's faith in the rightness of the divine and natural order is shattered by his suffering. But what does his shattering experience open him to? VI In his madness Lear becomes estranged, not only from the divinities he swore by before, but from nature as a whole, especially from nature as the source of generation.40 From the outset in Lear's mind the themes of generation, gratitude, and justice are intertwined. In his first great storm scene he bids the thunder, as if it were a divinity with authority and power over nature, to: Strike flat the thick rotundity o' th' world! Crack Nature's moulds, all germens spill at once That makes ingrateful man! [3 .2.7-9]. Destroy the world's pregnancy, he cries: Destroy nature's means for producing man, who shows by his failure to appreciate rightly the sources "Aristotle, An Introduction," Ancients and Moderns, Essays on the Tradition of Political Philosophy in Honor of Leo Strauss, ed. Joseph Cropsey, Basic Books, 1964). Thus Heilman tends to identify · "reason" with calculation, so that insight and the perception of "value," that is, the good according to nature, are attributed to a "non-rational" imaginative awareness. See pp. 161, 170, and King Lear, 4.6.132-33, .177, n. 13, and pp. 30-31 above. at H. Granville-Barker, Prefaces to Shakespeare, quoted in Edith Sitwell, op. cit., n. 36 above, p. 47. In later editions Granville-Barker has apparently substituted, less aptly in our view, "despot" for "wilful man." .'° Cf. 4.6.115-16. �Gratitude, Nature, and Piety in King Lear 41 of his being how undeserving he is of the gift of life. What Edmund can speak of as "the lusty stealth of nature" is, for Lear, associated with: hell . . . darkness, ... the sulphurous pit-burning, scalding, Stench, consumption; fie, fie, fie! pah, pah! Give me an ounce of civet, good apothecary, To sweeten my imagination [4.6.129-33). Mad Lear comes to a view of nature somewhat similar to Edmund's, nature as the primitive, undeveloped beginnings of things. But his anguish and revulsion indicate how much more he originally expected from nature: He feels and suffers the absence of what he can no longer believe in. Like Jesus he speaks against the Old Testament sentence for adultery.41 He goes to extremes and, as if all possibility of redemption were lost, declares: "Let copulation thrive." Jesus was more sober: After delivering the adulteress from condemnation, his last words to her were "go and sin no more" (John, 8.1-11). Lear, however, condemns women generally, confounding sex with Biblical, mostly New Testament, images of hell. In his condemnation of the world's justice, Lear cries: Thou rascal beadle, hold thy bloody hand! Why dost thou lash that whore? Strip thine own back; Thou hotly lusts to use her in that kind For which thou whipp'st her. The usurer hangs the cozener [4.6.162-65). Again we are reminded of the New Testament: "But I say unto you, That whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart" (Matt. 5.27-28) and "He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her" (John 8.7). Yet universal sainthood failing, decency requires that offenses be punished whether the intentions of the punishers be pure or not. Should thoughts and actions be equally punishable? Do men have as much control over their thoughts and desires as they do over their actions? Are others harmed by thoughts directed against themselves when those thoughts are neither divulged nor acted upon? If in the New Testament, as some would claim, these are deliberate rhetorical exaggerations, Lear seems to have lost the capacity to make the required qualifications. In a farmer's dog chasing a beggar, Lear says: There thou might'st behold The great image of Authority A dog's obey'd in office. Through tatter'd clothes small vices do appear; Robes and furred gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold, And the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks; u Lev. 20.10. He "pardons" an adulterer rather than an adulteress. Cf. 2.4.12933 and .233-35. �42 Interpretation Arm it in rags, a pygmy's straw does pierce it. None does offend, none, I say, none; . .. If none does offend, and consequently none can rightly accuse, at least none who are not themselves spotless, perhaps none could ever rightly accuse: "Judge not, that ye be not judged."42 Edgar's commentary on this speech is: "O! matter and impertinency mix'd; I Reason in madness." An attempt should be made to separate some of the reason from the madness. The farmer's dog does often chase away the thief, but the dog cannot, unfortunately, distinguish between villainous and innocent, not to speak of undeserved, lowness. Authority and law are usually more rigorous with the poor and weak, partly because they are less capable of protecting themselves, and partly for less simple reasons. Wealth, power, and authority usually go together. And just as the unsuccessful can exaggerate the part played by chance and accident in human affairs, so the successful can flatter themselves by exaggerating the extent to which their good fortune is owed to their merits. By reasoning obversely about the misfortunes of others, they can allow themselves to become obtuse and callous to the miseries of the unfortunate, smothering charity in self-complacent rigor.43 Such is the man "that will not see I Because he does not feel . . ." When Gloucester in the fourth act asks the disguised Edgar who he is, Edgar replies: A most poor man made tame to Fortune's blows; Who, by the art of known and feeling sorrows, Am pregnant to good pity. The sufferings of Lear, Gloucester, and Edgar would seem to be the remedy for this, the occupational disease of greatness. 44 Yet if suffering of such magnitude is required, the price of sufficiently educating authority in mercy or equity is hopelessly high. Few can do as much, perhaps, as the educator Shakespeare, who by his art, his presentations of feigned experiences, has made it possible for some to feel, without fully suffering, what they might need to feel in order to see. Lear's suffering, however, and the perspective he has come to adopt, have not prepared him for governing more responsibly, but rather ·for a renunciation of the "world." His suffering has completely destroyed him as a political man. Perhaps the most poignant expression of Lear's death as a political man is his reception of Kent in the last scene. Kent's affection for Lear is never severed from a political context. He always approaches Lear, even in defiance and in death, as servant to master, never simply as man to man. 45 At the end, although other explanations are possible, Lear's u Romans 3.1 -18; cp. 3.10-12 with Psalms 14; and Matt. 7.1-5. Lear is open to the charge the Apostle Paul said was made against himself, loc. cit. 3.8. " Cf. Laurence Berns, op. cit., n. 27 above, pp. 75-77. " For another approach to the problem see I Henry IV, 1.2 and 3.2; and Henry V, 4.1. " Cf. n. 10 above. �Gratitude, Nature, and Piety in King Lear 43 cold reception of Kent indicates that Kent and what he stands for have faded into almost complete insignificance for Lear. Yet his renunciation of the world is not complete. The desire for vengeance remains: "And when I have stol'n upon these son-in-laws, I Then, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill!" (4.6.188-89). VII When Lear awakes after his long sleep, "Our foster-nurse of Nature" (4.4.12), "the great rage," the doctor reports, " .. . is kill'd in him" (4.7.78-79). Clad in new garments, the images Lear uses are resurrection from the grave and entry into a new life, a life characterized by the interchange of blessing (from Lear) and forgiveness (from Cordelia) and mutual love.46 After the battle and their capture, Lear is given over almost entirely to love, the love of Cordelia. Come, let's away to prison; We two alone will sing like birds i' th' cage: When thou dost ask me blessing, I'll kneel down, And ask of thee forgiveness: so we'll live, And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh . •'\s if we were Gess spic1r aAd we'll wear e1d,ati~ ~, o-J... Talk of court news; and we'll talk with them too, ~~~ Who loses and who wins; who's in, who's out; And take upon 's the mystery of things, As if we were God-s"sPies: and we'll wear out, In a wall'd prison, pacts and sects of great ones That ebb and flow by the moon. Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia, The Gods themselves throw incense. Have I caught thee? He that parts us shall bring a brand from heaven, And fire us hence like foxes [5.3.8-23]. Lear seems to be perfectly fulfilled. He has no lingering regrets. The worth of being reconciled in love with Cordelia is beyond price: It cannot be measured by any of the measures Lear used in the first scene. No sacrifice, be it rule, extent of territory, honor, even freedom itself, seems too great, or even comparable with what Lear has gained. And with his love and the prospect of love's joy that he holds before himself has come patience. His patience and his love go together with his renunciation of the world. His desire for revenge is as dead as his pride. When Cordelia proudly says: For thee, oppressed King, I am cast down; Myself could else out-frown false Fortune's frown. Shall we not see these daughters and these sisters? Lear answers, "No, no, no, no! Come, let's away to prison." And at the •a Cf. also 4.6.33-80. �44 Interpretation moment of his death, with the dead Cordelia before him, it is clear that Lear can live no longer in the world where even these last hopes are dashed. He dies in a vision of reunion with Cordelia living once again. There has been extensive debate about whether these scenes are to be understood in a Christian sense or not.47 Was Lear's moment of joy at his death "based on an illusion"?4S Or, was it the triumphal culmination of his purgatorial, his redemptive suffering, a loving glimpse into that better world to come where all righteous hopes will be fulfilled? What we have been describing is the development of attitudes and a perspective that Shakespeare has presented in terms that are recognizably Christian. 49 This development in King Lear, however, is presented as a natural development. What was Shakespeare's perspective, as distinct from Lear's? The dramatic poet does not speak in his own name. His perspective can be inferred only from the play as a whole. "Hard were it for me, as if I were a god, to tell of all these things," says Homer.50 The poet stands as a god over the world of his play, but a god limited to what nature leaves to possibility and to chance: For nature, or the poet's understanding of nature, provides the framework. "ls there any cause in nature," Lear asks, "that makes these hard hearts?" (3.6. 78-79). Shakespeare seems to have asked: "ls there any cause in nature that makes these Christian hearts?" Nature, or the problem of nature, as articulated by classical philosophy, we suggest, provides the framework for King Lear.51 The major classical philosophers, Plato and Aristotle, of course, never elaborated an answer to what we suppose was Shakespeare's question. This could be due to historical accident. The serious question is: Are the principles and the framework they first articulated adequate to comprehend such an account? Must not the rise and triumph of Christianity be explained? Can the decision about the best way of life be compelling unless all fundamental alternatives have been examined? It is incumbent upon classical philosophy to try to see whether the revealed religions and the souls formed by them can be rendered intelligible to natural reason. Shakespeare seems to have been exploring this possibility, especially in King Lear. Yet, it could be argued, nature has its place also within the Christian 41 See K. Muir, Arden Ed., pp. Iv ff.; Barbara Everett, "The New King Lear," in Shakespeare: King Lear, Casebook Series, ed. F. Kermode, 1969, pp. 184 ff.; G. W. Knight, op. cit., pp. 187 ff.; and Susan Snyder, "King Lear and the Prodigal Son," Shakespeare Quarterly, Autumn 1966. 48 K. Muir, loc. cit., p. lix. " Cf. Heilman, op. cit., p. 78; n. 11, p. 309; and esp. n. 1, p. 331. '° Iliad XII, 1.176. 11 Aristotle NE 1134b 18-35. Cf. Leo Strauss, "The Law of Reason in the Kuzari," Persecution and the Art of Writing, Free Press, 1952, pp. 95-98; Allan Bloom, op. cit., 11- 12 above, Introduction; . and Howard B. White, Copp'd Hills Towards Heaven: Shakespeare's Classical Polity, Nijhoff, 1970. �Gratitude, Nature, and Piety in King Lear 45 cosmos. Could not Shakespeare have been showing rather how God's invisible law might, "from the creation of the world," have been written by nature in men's hearts? Might he not have been showing what would have to be endured by a "natural man," that is, a man with no knowledge of Jesus Christ and the Bible, for that law to begin to become visible to him?52 If the issue were to be put in terms of the primacy of compassionate love as compared with the primacy of insight, Shakespeare may have provided a clue to his own opinion in Act 4 of King Lear. An unnamed gentleman describes Cordelia's tears while she reads of her father's sufferings as "pearls from diamonds dropped." "Tears of compassion are pearls; eyes are diamonds ... ": Tears of compassion are compared to rare and precious stones, but eyes, that is, insight, are more precious still. 53 "Hath not God," wrote the Apostle Paul, "made foolish the wisdom of this world?"54 For Paul the "foolish" of faith possess a wisdom far deeper than anything accessible to natural reason. Is this what Shakespeare suggests by echoing this language about wisdom and folly in his articulation of the problem of morality and justice in King Lear? The Fool tells Kent: That sir which serves and seeks for gain, And follows but for form, Will pack when it begins to rain, And leave thee in the storm. But I will tarry; the Fool will stay, And let the wise man fly: The knave turns Fool that runs away; The Fool no knave, perdy [2.4.78-85]. In this play the word fool moves through a range of meanings. The official Fool in motley is "foolish," funny, and privileged because he seems, or is licensed to pretend, not to know the most ordinary conventions. In general, a fool is a man who does not know what every man is expected to know. Somewhat less generally, assuming that in everything a man chooses to do, some benefit to himself is intended, a fool is a man who does things that harm himself, who lacks judgment about what benefits himself. This is the elementary meaning of the word in the play that is presupposed by the four meanings following. The honest fools, best exemplified by Gloucester and by Edgar of the Cf. Romans l.20, 2.14-15; and I Car. 2.14. Heilman, op. cit., pp. 155-56. Cf. King Lear, 5.3.189-90 and l. l.56. 5• I Car. 2.20 and ibid. chs. 1-4. But cp. A Midsummer Night's Dream, 4.1.1026: and cf. ibid., 4.1.218-21 with I Car. 2.9: ibid. l.2.22-99 with I Car. 9.22: ibid. 1.2.8,15; 3.1.1-81; 4.2.30-end with Galatians 2:11 ff.: also ibid. 5.1.195-96, 311, and 360-62. 52 53 �Interpretation 46 early scenes, are overtrusting and, as in Gloucester's case, overcredulous about heavenly influences on human actions. They fail to understand people unlike themselves, to understand vice and malice. They are easily gulled by those clever and unscrupulous enough to exploit and betray their trust. The loyal and dutiful are "moral fools ." So Albany is regarded by Goneril and Kent spoken of by the Fool. The same could be said of the servant who mortally wounds Cornwall and is killed by Regan. Lear in acting on the expectation that his elder daughters would be bound by filial gratitude and duty is another kind of "moral fool." The moral fools tend to act as if moral laws were as inviolable as natural laws, as if moral laws were natural laws. They are regarded as fools by the "worldly wise" for not appreciating sufficiently the arbitrary and conventional factors in morality, the bestial elements in human nature, and for not appreciating sufficiently how self-seeking usually masks itself in moral guises. For the worldly wise self-seeking is the only kind of seeking sanctioned by nature. What the moral fool senses or sees and the worldly wise are blind to is the extent to which the humanity of any one man's life is a function of the larger moral, social, and political orders of which that individual life can only be a part. Examples of what we might call the "noble fool" are France, the Fool, Edgar, Cordelia, and Lear: those capable of being touched and moved by noble love, by "inflam'd respect."55 By their willingness to risk themselves and everything that could be subject to calculations of worldly success, they exhibit their own conviction, and rouse admiration and hopes, in those capable of appreciating them, that mankind is capable of attaining states of being that are simply good in themselves. The worldly wise are blind to this possibility. In the light of what the moral fool and the noble fool see, the knavery of the worldly wise reveals itself as the final folly. By their blindness to what raises man above the beasts, the "wise" knaves finally bring themselves down with those whose justice they violate. By their blindness to what directs men toward the divine, to what is good in itself, they are deprived of nature's graces, the love and friendship of the noble. But do the love and insight that Lear and Gloucester attain fully redeem what they have suffered? What is to be inferred from the disproportion between their sins and their terrible suffering? "We glory in tribulations," wrote the Apostle Paul, knowing that tribulation work.eth patience; and patience experience; and experience, hope. And hope maketh not ashamed; because the love of God is shed abroad in our hearts by the Holy Ghost which is given unto us. [Romans 5.3-5]. And from the Apostle James: Be patient therefore brethren, unto the coming of the Lord. Behold the husbandman waiteth for the precious fruit of the earth, and hath long patience for it, until he 11 Cf. section II above. �Gratitude, Nature, and Piety in King Lear 47 receive the earlier and the latter rain. Be ye also patient; stablish your hearts: for the coming of the Lord draweth nigh. It is Cordelia, her love, "The holy water from her heavenly eyes" (4.3 .31), that near the end sustain Lear's patience. The gentleman describes how she read Kent's letters recounting Lear's ordeal: Ay, sir; she took them, read them in my presence; And now and then an ample tear trill'd down Her delicate cheek; it seem'd she was a queen Over her passion; who, most rebel-like, Sought to be king o'er her. "O! then it mov'd her?" Kent asks. Not to a rage; patience and sorrow strove Who should express her goodliest. You have seen Sunshine and rain at once; her smile and tears Were like, a better way; those happy smilets That play'd on her ripe lip seem'd not to know What guests were in her eyes; which parted thence, As pearls from diamonds dropp'd. In brief, Sorrow would be a rarity most belov"d, If all could so become it [4.3.12-24]. Later Cordelia prays: All bless'd secrets, All you unpublish'd virtues of the earth, Spring with my tears! he aidant and remediate In the good man's distress! [4.4.15-18]. In the reconciliation scene, Lear asks, "Be your tears wet?" He answers himself, "Yes, faith." These scenes too are often taken as argument that "King Lear is a Christian play about a Pagan world .... "56 Sunshine and rain, however, suggest natural growth, that Cordelia's smiles and tears were· nature·s means for curing Lear's abused heart. It does seem, however, to be a most Christianlike use of nature. But, unlike Lear, Cordelia, whose patience is so movingly described, is proud to the end. She never asks for forgiveness. She is prepared to "outfrown false Fortune's frown. " Is she prepared to live out her life "in a walled prison"? She has not renounced political life: She calls Lear king and queenlike puts down her rebel passions. She is ready to confront her sisters: "Shall we not see these daughters and these sisters?" Yet what is perhaps most significant, though obvious, for the question of Christianity in King Lear is that there is no promise or expectation "for the coming of the Lord." The word patience is ambiguous. In the Christian sense it seems to mean bearing tribulations in the loving faith that their promised miraculous reversals will surely come to pass. In the classical, or stoic, sense of the 58 I. C . Maxwell, quoted in Muir, op. cit., p. lvi. �48 Interpretation word it seems to mean endurance: endurance that does not anticipate miraculous change, that accepts evil in the world as a necessity, that bases itself only on rational hopes and the conviction that what is itself good deserves loyalty whether that loyalty receives any other reward or not. The unforeseen mischances of the world that bring down the just and innocent too often with the guilty, in the classical view, engender the wish for particular providence at the same time that they constitute evidence for its absence. It is not incompatible with the love of truth to respect the love of justice that is the father to that wish. VIII Who is the paradigm of virtue m this play? The gentleman says, addressing himself to absent Lear: Thou hast one daughter, Who redeems nature from ·the general curse Which twain have brought her to.57 Why then was Cordelia killed? Cordelia's honesty, her proud refusal to join her sisters in their demeaning hypocrisy, precipitated the catastrophe of this play. Her death raises the question about what the moral limits of proud honesty in an imperfect world might be.58 Pisanio and Cornelius in Cymbeline avert tragedy by, as they put it, being false (to the bad) in order to be true (to the good) (1.5.43-44 and 4.3.42). In Sonnet 94 those "who rightly do inherit heaven's graces I And husband nature's riches from expense" are also those "that have pow'r to hurt and will do none, I That do not do the thing they most do show." This last line could never apply to Cordelia. Edgar is the character in King Lear who most of all does not do the thing he most does show. He successfully assumes six different guises in the play. During the play from a brother noble, Whose nature is so far from doing harms That he suspects none; on whose foolish honesty the practices of a confirmed villain ride easily, he develops into a model of virtue armed and resourceful. Edgar seems to be a mean between his father and his bastard brother. Their opinions about heavenly influences over human affairs are at opposite extremes. The father is overcredulous, Edmund undercredulous. 17 Does this indicate that ingratitude more than prideful disobedience is chiefly responsible for the "general curse"? See n. 17 above. 58 Cf. Ulrici, Variorum Ed., ed. Furness, pp. 456 57. See also Gervinus, ibid., pp. 459-60, on the significance of her leadership of the invading army for the question of her death. Cf. H. Granville-Barker, Prefaces to Shakespeare, Botsford, 1970, pp. 23-24 (277-78) and 51 (305) on Cordelia's silence. �Gratitude, Nature, and Piety in King Lear 49 Both are perhaps equally at fault intellectually, but the moral fault is clearly more the son's.59 In Shakespeare's world he who scorns all idea of heavenly influence on human affairs rarely comes to much good. Edgar's speech to his dying brother gives the last word of the play on the adultery theme and constitutes an answer as well to Gloucester's "As flies to wanton boys, are we to th' Gods; I They kill us for their sport." The Gods are just, and of our pleasant vices Make instruments to plague us; The dark and vicious place where thee he got Cost him his eyes [5.3.170-73]. Edmund replies, "Th' hast spoken right, 'tis true. I The wheel is come full circle; I am here." Edgar spoke of the gods, but Edmund speaks of fortune 's wheel. Lear preaches to Gloucester, drawing lessons from man's beginnings: Thou must be patient; we came crying hither: Thou know'st the first time that we smell the air We wawl and cry . ... When we are born, we cry that we are come To this great stage of fools• 0 [4.6.180-85]. Edgar preaches to his suicidal father on the same theme: Men must endure Their going hence, even as their coming hither: Ripeness is all [5.2.911]. This sermon is more adequate because it is more comprehensive. It considers not only the beginnings but the middle and the end as welJ.61 Man's chief concern, the image suggests, should be not with what happens when the fruit falls and dies, nor especially the beginnings, but rather with coming to fullest maturity in the world. IX King Lear is based on two stories, the Lear story and the Gloucester story. Critics have long been concerned by the apparent lack of complete unity between them.62 The unity of King Lear comes to sight on the level of reflection, reflection on the one philosophic theme underlying both stories, of which both stories are necessary and complementary parts: 58 Cf. Immanuel Kant, Critique of Pure Rea·on , B 857 58. All the world's a stage in Shakespeare for him who, like Lear, Jaques, and Antonio, is coming to feel himself to be an "exile in 'this' world." Macbeth (5.5.25) is a special case. 61 I am indebted for this observation to Hilail Gildin of Queens College, N .Y. 62 Cf. Bradley, op. cit., pp. 118 ff. ; Heilman, op. cit., p. 32 and n. 28, pp. 298-99; and "The Unity of King Lear" in op. cit., ed. Kermode, n. 47 above, pp. 169 ff. 60 �50 Interpretation namely, that nature, while constituting the ground and limits of convention and law, requires in man the cooperation of law and convention for its fulfillment. Lear in trying to command love and gratitude fails to see that the natural growths of noble love and gratitude are beyond the control of law and political authority. The Lear story illustrates the natural limits of legal and political authority and the tensions that arise between nature and law when those limits are not rightly observed.63 The Gloucester story, the adultery theme, and the stories of Lear's elder daughters illustrate the other side of the same coin: how certain natural passions and powers, most manifestly the power of procreation, need to be controlled by conventions, laws, and authority.64 Ordinary love and passion, not to speak of base love and passion, need to be controlled by law and authority. Being conceived outside the "order of law" (1.1.19), Edmund was banished from the family circle. He is, not altogether "unnaturally," devoid of family feeling. As the bodies of Goneril and Regan are brought in, the dying Edmund exclaims, "Yet Edmund was belov'd: I The one the other poison'd for my sake, I And after slew herself." Goneril and Regan as well as Lear seem to have died for "love." How would nature and convention, or law, be related when cooperating harmoniously? Nature provides the materials, the human materials and powers, and ordains, or manifests to natural reason, what purposes and ends would perfect the materials and fulfill the powers. But the accomplishment of nature's purposes is left to chance and to men: On the basis of the conditions provided by nature and chance, the responsibility for forming the materials and developing the powers so as to function in accordance with those ends is left to men themselves through custom, habituation, training, law, art, and education .65 Human nature is so constituted as to require the formation of conventions and laws for its fulfillment. Edgar does represent the natural man in this play, not as the poor, bare, forked animal Lear saw, but as he is in himself, the man of many disguises, the educable man, whose heart does not enslave his mind and whose mind does not silence his heart,66 whose heart and mind remain sound no matter bow his outward trappings change. He is the natural man, not in that sense of nature that means only primitive beginnings, but where "nature" includes fulfillment, "ripeness."67 ea Cf. Jaffa, op. cit., p. 131. 14 The control is, of course, guided by other natural powers, such as reason and judgment. France, the king, acknowledges the law's authority even over his noble love for Cordelia (1.1.253). u Cf. Plato Meno, esp. beginning; and Aristotle NE Book ii, ch. 1. H Cf. Leo Strauss, in Jason Marvin Aronson, Three Funeral Addresses, University of Chicago, University College, December 6, 1961, p. 8. 17 Cf. Aristotle Physics Book. ii. �Gratitude, Nature, and Piety in lGng Lear 51 The same consummate irony that led him, correctly, but for the wrong reasons, to be called "the thing itself," that is, the natural man, by Lear may be at work also in his being called "philosopher."68 Edgar, though not the most tragic, nor the most pathetic, character in the play, is the true hero of patience in King Lear. es This is not contradicted by the fact that Edgar is the only major character in the play who never uses the word nature or any word with nature as its root. Cf. n. l, above. � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>.  <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5&amp;sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&amp;sort_dir=d">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a> or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context formallectureseriesannapolis Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 26 pages Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Berns, Laurence, 1928- Title A name given to the resource Gratitude, nature, and piety in King Lear Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1969-05 Description An account of the resource Revised version of a lecture delivered in May 1969 by Laurence Berns as part of the Formal Lecture Series. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Bib # 53000 Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource text Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College has been given permission to make this item available online. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Friday night lecture Tutors https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/8b7f58fd064c06069918ccd89878b4e4.pdf 5f9c68551158547d8d3303fdbddd539d PDF Text Text j .St. P Clc.+ (0 Oc.)- I 0 Col/~e_, s;,t-,..,'_1 V0'1 q L,, +<-~" c..v', 1'170 AVI"'"rci.:l Bla"'Lu~h~'-VI 0 &. c..o/a 61- ,,_, 1 !-1.C 0 IVY. 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'' )oo~:; '1)-,.\0(' »f""'? 71 ([ ""0 ' j''rijf?'hf';;t_fiyf7(Y)(J?\l(7 '' II I /'-'cit/ AN 'MV 'V! '''"l"''V11'/ Cu...,, 1 )I · -1 , """"'·"""" ~"-' (If V C ~IAAVfl V>~?;,\3 'l'l ' (-1.-_-,. AN '1\f\/ ~ '''"'-/"'Y>,..-fj '7"'<'7-,-,li,, ,/'1c!o<;ol''1c/'-'43-'hJ "~~ y~l 'n Jr-~::; '7"'' """7 <1 ,, ;\('/ Y'\lO?>?v\/J f/ ""'W ''.'"7"~"'/ 0 7 '1"','""'"!-f />?{'''([ f'-"YJ:b;..r1 ') M(;y r; Y\',,-,,.,jr t -t '1,.,."'7 F111 "CT VV'ft-11 "'"' ,l-f""""'~_..c/x3 l:t cpj J.N 'wtr::r<;; '.,;(PI'M'i!.jO ·r•w7 ..,'"'1~/;"d 0?(.' JY1"9 "J(I "Tf1 fO /,"!}'i''fl J''A"'f''/V 7lJ.L '- "f':::l I If') 1"""-'"'LL ? u cp_j xv.''"fl '+Af7 7!1N '1'f"''"'0 -r"~ADJ '1f'""r -+~'?/ ''?/ IJ.,M_L ,, OLb/-ly'}bf ''/ (1{; ;!.""'hi i.f II"? , I c/ ? j ··'('~ '/"'?'J-f ?-'lly-:>>7 1 �Lecture Schedule 1969-1970 Sept 26 Oct 3 Oct 10 Oct 16 Oct 24 Oct 31 Nov 7 Nov 14 Nov 21 Dec 5 Jan 9, 1970 Jan 16 Jan 23 Feb 6 Feb 13 Feb 20 Feb 27 Mar 6 Mar 13 April 10 April 17 April 24 May 1 Robert Goldwin St. John’s College, Annapolis P. von Blankenhagen Jacob Lateiner, NYC Robert Goldwin St. John’s College, Annapolis Harry M. Clor Kenyon College, Gambier OH Malcolm Brown Center For Hellenic Studies, Washington DC W. J. Fishback Earlham Coll. Richmond IN Edward Banfield Harvard U. Cambridge MA Victor Gourevich Wesleyan U, Middletown CT Mortimer Adler Institute for Philosophical Research, Chicago IL Jonathan Fineberg Harvard U. Cambridge MA Deborah Traynov St. John’s College, Annapolis Alfred Sugg Western Coll, Oxford OH Br. Robert Smith St. Mary’s Coll Beaux Arts Quartet, NYC Thomas Settle Polytechnic Inst. of Brooklyn, Bklyn, NY David Lachterman Syracuse U., Syracuse NY Dieter Henrich Columbia U, NY, NY Evelyn Harrison Columbia U. NY, NY Joseph Cropsey U of Chicago, Chicago IL Leo Strauss St. John’s College, Annapolis Bernard Kruysen, New York, NY Robert Horwitz Dean’s Opening Lecture “The Program of the Parthenon Concert “St. John’s College Asks John Locke Some Questions.” “What is Obsenity, and What’s Wrong With It.” “Rhetoric and Dialectic in the Phaedrus” “Groups- Galoi’s Great Gift “The Unheavenly City “The Relationship between Ethics and Politics in the Philosophy of Hegel” “The Common Sense of Politics” “Kandinsky and the Concept of Abstract Art” “Logic and Logos” “Prometheus Bound” “Two Concepts of Comedy” Concert On Galileo “The Natural History of the Experiment” “Selfhood and Reason” “The Basic Structure of Modern Philosophy” “The Marathon Painting” “On Descartes’ Discourse on Method” “The Problem of Socrates” Concert “Aristotle in Hawaii” �Lecture Schedule 1969-1970 May 8 May 15 May 22 May 29 Kenyon Coll. Gambier OH Paul Lehman Union Theological Seminary, NYC Laurence Berns St. John’s Coll. Annapolis Robert Osgood and Morton Halperin Elliott Zuckerman St. John’s College, Annapolis “New Testament Paradigms of a Politics of Confrontation” “Rational Animal, Political Animal” Special Dual Lecture on Vietnam “On A Measure in Mozart” � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>.  <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5&amp;sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&amp;sort_dir=d">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a> or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context formallectureseriesannapolis Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 4 pages Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Office of the Dean Title A name given to the resource Lecture Schedule 1969-1970 (handwritten & transcribed) Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1969-1970 Description An account of the resource Schedule of lectures and concerts for the 1969-1970 Academic Year. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Lecture Schedule 1969-1970 Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource text Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this publication. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Relation A related resource May 15, 1970. Berns, Laurence. <a title="Rational animal, political animal" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/show/1094">Rational Animal, Political Animal</a> Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Goldwin, Robert A., 1922-2010 von Blankenhagen, P. Lateiner, Jacob Clor, Harry M., 1929- Brown, Malcolm Fishback, W. J. Banfield, Edward C. Gourevich, Victor Adler, Mortimer Jerome, 1902-2001 Fineberg, Janet Traynov, Deborah Sugg, Alfred Smith, Brother Robert Settle, Thomas Lachterman, David Rapport, 1944- Henrich, Dieter, 1927- Harrison, Evelyn Cropsey, Joseph Struass, Leo Kruysen, Bernard Horwitz, Robert Lehman, Paul Berns, Laurence Zuckerman, Elliott King William Players Friday night lecture Lecture schedule https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/9ce8fc344f0288ef0b23555da32b3bc2.pdf 7d663c3b4e2138c937f2adb547233b25 PDF Text Text RArIONAL ANILlAL - l'OLlflOAL ANIMAL: . . · Natur- and uonvention 1.n auma.n Speeoh and Politics• bJ Laure.noe Berna•• In tne beginning of his Poli tioa Aristotle argues the. t "man ia b7 nature a politioal animal." .· In faot man ie more a politioal animal than a111 bee or a.n;v herdin~ anim!il, for "man alone of the uimala ha• apeeob, 11 "man alone of the &nimala baa reason," "man alone of the an1JD$la haa loaoa." A word should be said about this word logo1, whioh oan be translated ae ward. speeoh. aooount, • araument, rat1Q, or reaaon. Logos ie oonneote~ to the verb l~,:2 whioh mee.na to 1peak .and to piok out, to seleat, to oount. ·words oolleot, aeleot, and eleot are oonneoted with the Our a~me ~erb. Logos la aeleoted, eleoted, and ohoaen speeoh, meaningful apeeoh, thoughtful B.Pe•oh. 'When people •peak of Arie totle' s definition · ot man aa the rational animal t hey are referring to hie statement that man alone of the animala poaaesaes logos, possesses thoughtful spee r«·.· ~riatotle goes o~ to say: Uow voiae funotions us a aign of pa i n ~nd pleasure ~nd thereforo is possessed by the other animale too (for their naturehd& gone ~s far as having eenaat1on of *"' leoture diven at ~t. John's College, Annapolis. May, 19'10. ••1utor, St. John's uollege, .&\nnapolia; Clliougo. ot Ph.D., 195'1. rhe University �2 pain u4 pltaaure ·Uld 1lgnifJ't111 tb9•• thing• to • • e.noth••). a.s h&D. i• to• aald.q ol• u th• a4••'aa•ou• a.n4 the h&l'lltul~tllereto•• •1•• th0 jaat and th, un- ju1t. Por thia_ l• a.,.oial to • • alo~• 019pare4 wlwl\ ·t h• otbar entaala; h• alont has 1.u ,~ tioa. or soo4 ci:;. 4 1 bad. and. jut an4 • j u t and tba Uk•. 4D4 th• o~t7 et th••• tbtq• ...... a houa•hel.11 UMl a 1IJ.&•... · (12$l• 9-18) -- a po11t10.i ~' .•ltf• !!IP• au.. · 01•u 1'bl•h P••tuppo••• an anr.n••• t~.• h~, th• uvuitq•f)U and ot tlbat ' 1• 1004 tor . . . •4 llhat 11 bd, 1d11•h tor Qilatotl·• ,. ..., 11bat la in &o,or4 , . I . With nat••• --·~ ·11atue, an4 11bat l• .oontr..,. to :natwa·• · f'bla a~p.,l .ill rouab~. apeeoh1 uul ;Mqbthl 11Wt~ -.tai~a aw..euaa la h...,• . . th1ak1ag aboUt bw .• at la.. abar•4 la · toi.be 411tr1bu.ted., . . -. ' th• ahariq ot thl• a•a•n••• aak•• lt ·po••ib1• tor a.n to · ~oui4er . . •' . .•' how tll• a4Ta.nta1••• 1n4 th• h&Ntu1 ·. . - ~· ....._t ·t• be 41•t•1ntedi '.•bared., amt ·e.ppo,.,u.one«, lti •••• lt po••t•l• ,,,. • • t• eonattu 1'• ,Jut' nity,, er· ·•M~iq, aa4 41he unjaat. .ft• ee: aa4 unju.at . •Ak••..a bou••hol4 ·&114 . a . ;a•llt • •t th•t ·. 10•4 an4 b .. , ju.at.· 1•. what . . . . • .oeaT antt7, an4 a polt,toai o• ·, unltJ pr-Ula11J, la ita ~-r " 0~21 tq a ', i . .. - ' . 1004, . that goo4 11 ju1t1••, nuel.J, awaell••• .r i.&9... ..,_t ia oon•etiY-4 ·ot . •. .. u ih• rilbt . 41•t•1b~t1on ot . a4Y•taa•• . - huu • Po11t10.i .a· ot9tl•• o •a·'.·then. b•. oharaotei-laed in t...U ot th• oonoept:lau ot jut.toe, I tbG . . . ·.. . . • •~-i>tiou ot the •~lht 4tatrlbutlon ot a4nntaa•• &n4 ati•• or authoritatiYe, in eaoh. 1 . .. . t•• baM io I Moat of *1; -·· '~~ 1'al'31 ••l4, J; h-1e>1, S.• nt~ . ua4er1tand. •. Bu.tabO'lll.4 "'not b• bothered. l>J at lea1t k•~ t•l'N ~u~' ~J•f.P4T . '1-~' w . J .... u.a,. of... ••of~' purti•~Nl7 ~u ttN nat~~- ·: ~tu• ,,. 4o ,1tb. goo4 . ~4 l,);~f . .~ ~ J••tlt• Q4 . ln~1t~••., .. ~ I• ·not th• b1atote11Q oonoeption ot natue obaol•t•T Do·•'* •' not . .. tean what nature tPCm 11•4.e rn n&ttµtal aoiene••, aDd traa· ••an• !~~~; ii~i :9lAt! 0f·J~ 1t1!23t J1b-1it3J~ 9af. 1i.;. 2f13J2Z'~c! ! 012. b l; '•' �.3 the aooial aaienc•a t hat model themselves on them? But before taking up the theme natur• and Ari•totl• 1 a unde:rstan41iag trr Ntture we should, perhapa, explain wh7 we oonoern oUl'a•lves with Aristotle I sball try to deal with taat queation under t'j.ve heada, at all. 41aouaaed ·in 1nor•aa1ng order ot importance • . 1) Ariatotl•'• a;pproaoh to nature and philosophy- was t he approach oppo1ed by th• found.era ot the modemaoientitic approaoh. a1 •••ing what they ••r• reaoting againat, what they rejected, we come to underatand better the point ot view dominating our tb•usht an4 O\U' tlm••; we aoa• . to under1tand ouraelvea b&t.t e:r, Pi'em thia point ot view we approach Ariatotl•'a philosophy aa a hiatorioal datu.. 2) Aooording to the view ~hich trie• to understand modern lit• in 1uob • vay,; ·they olaim, as 11 appropriate to the unique- ness o~ our situation, the Exiatentialiat, or HistoriQal Relativist, or Radical Hiatorioi•t, or Heideggerian view, world views are pri- marily creative projeets ot ditterent ages or different men in 4itteNnt as••· True openness, openness to determine the way which would ba the •ut~entia impoaed upon ~· were •oat way tor ua, requires treadom trom the blind.er1 bf our tradition. deol•i~• in torming the A.r1atotl• wa1 &DlOng tr~ditiQn. thoe ~ To clear out. who ~he cobv•ba, to liberate Oiu'aelvoa :rrom th• ti-adition fn ourselves. since it la a tradition of thought, requires µnderstending it. _ Liberation from the · tradi.t ion, baaed on undars tariding 1t, ia require., in order to · open ourselves to the broader perapeotivas that a unititH planet requ1rea. 3) · There· ia what oan be called the of the Modern View or Nature. Cr~sia of Modern Science, That is, modern scienoe, the :m.odern �4 vl•v et aatuae ••- . te b• ua'91• to aaJI• liqae ot .._ ...-u •t th••• 111d.ll9• wbl•h uaa moat :•o ua,t i.-.'betn1•t 1•04neaa • batl.a:aa·a , ~d.Jia••• • uafalNe••• n•1Dl1U•J,• bu.uaa, be1.11117 • ql.:ia•••• _. ·aeten•l•tie •••ial ••i..o• ••-b'-b uazdq, ol po•t• that ••1entitlo r' ~· ••U• •._otJ •••"•~la•• "•due juq--~~.• .. . Inatea4 ot r•ti..-1 J•l••ipl•• et aatt.. guitaaoe ar 'WUlea••• ·• J.a1•*•t1•'• v:l.•-ot I•• 111• l• · abtuil4""•• to wul•• ; _ at .be•t1 wo ,.u.:Ltl•• ot 9~•41•97· ••._.and. JnilU. t:.&.9•• •"'•1• th91e 4!atln•"1•• nieh.v• flD4 ......... uaad.neJWl. t • . . pr•.. ••'•'itt.o ·1•aottea1 'between go04l · U14 ba4, ,souild view li•••· •taillaetlcma • •*• aeue. ·o t h"taail Jit• v• 1111• th• 41ataw'l•· ~ itJt.• ...., _.., .upporwtq a look t~ ••• it pel'bapa AIPl~tMl•'•­ viev. ot ria,ua 1• aet to lte alt•s••h• Ua Q i:teti I· •' t•'·· . 'Qll:der the h•a4 ot tlb8 C-S"i•i• · ot IH4-. · ••ii.ea• . th•~• l~. ' ..i.e ~~ prob1• of tshe lntelli..,lli'r . et mo••• •tlb...atl.oal Pbl'•ioc, 011 ••••ta41na tlbat . 1,,....... au 1111.at ltj --~d· p .......... . ot und.w.1tan4tng.how it »olatea .t o ou.· lu4.._11d •"l>•l•o•. ~ a •lp, 'but OlllJ' tlh• clullioal ••tan, •f '1b.at ·• • .,... ••• ~-t U. oout•e Oza•• WGl'4 ,_ •o'•··· ft1p,ti'ilt\:. . IP'•tw'i 4P•• · aaaa •Oien~·., but ic alilo lile.a JmoW1e4a• . and ude•1faanitl.q • . Theugbtt\ll 1tdu.ta ot oluaiaal O.ei.k nOlf uattat4' :b•tOll'• tliUltt• lat;" •Ri•tilli wtth tU wo1'14 aoien••• beeau• ·to ua. 1oien::lai· · uuall,- uana _.. . ••tenoe, pr•-.t.••ntl7 ~t.thematiloal ~•1••·· I.DA .,hla aoi~n•• d••• 8" • • • to 1>• n.e......s.17 acoc..,anle4 "' lllJ.dat-atandtng. 4) Some look to u11totl• with a Yia·E to tM aeed OQ!ll'•eh•naiv• natu.iral pb.iloaephJ' llhleh aoul.,,t u b •11puation ot ae4•ftl . r.. a •en.a• a.tt ot the ••t.ao• hCli 'ih• vu14 ot tnaan uaalag b7 �s relating both within a unified view ot th• natural vorld. 1 .$) We atu47 Plato and A.riatotl• beoau•• we auapect that th.~y may have articulated and claritled moii• ad•quatel7 than •llJ'On• •l•• the preauppoaitione and prinoipl•• ot tbenatUl'al human underatandlng, that ia, pre-aoientitio or pre-pbiloaophio thinking, . that order ot un4eratancl1ng with vbioh ·•very aan muat begin all ht• thinking, that order ot underatanding which the ditterent ot, kinda ot aoi•nt1t1o thinking are neoeaaarllJ aoditic·ationa that order ot understanding ot thing• Wb.ioh la :r•••aled through our 41acou:r1e about th• object• ot ordinar1 experlenoe. .. . . 'I'hat aen . ue oampell•d to think about .thiqa · in certain preaorib•d va7a . ; doea not ••tal:tli•h that th• tliqa thought abou• ln th. .elv•• are, or are not, •• they are thought to be. It ve want to a9'o14 dogmatic t14ei.am (th• unp•tloaophioal faith tpat~ t~nga a• ju1t a• ve experienoe them) or 4opatic •o•ptioi•• (th• dOf!'Pl& that we know that thing• 1n th ... elv•a cannot .be u v• e.q>erienoe th•) a mu.oh more povertul dogaatlam . .ong· the lea.med ot our ve au.at be open a~ · ieaat to the poeaib111tJ tha~ tilll••• th• orientation ot the natural human understanding e.nd h\llllan diaoowae ma1 be that inatrum•nt ot 1.•arning, underataDiing m d oaamnm.icaticm. · ope~ emplo7ed by vhat ia perhapa th$ only animal and to the eaaeno•• ot things. to the whole Ve turn to Plato and Afl•totl• tor help in exploring thi• po1aibilit7. Ariatotl• take• hu.mftn ap•eoh very aerioual7 becau1• the ••aning .of, th• · lmplioationa qt, ordinary apeech, properl7 refined, aore . than an7thin; •l•.• , aooordins to hia, aoJte, ••Y• than a,.ltelio 11atlh. .atsics, . -.-.-g-.. . . . ••7 lead u• --.2..- ."!""uf""" ... .... . J. A. W•i•ll•ipl~. . , . , "R'l Jl!:t•\ lfeio,. M&linua L:yo••• BJ.••~ ~··~· Ill. t 9SJ, · · . I Al,.bertu11 �The 14•• ot nature hu . al~•J• opcn1pl•«S1 a, it not· th• ·~ k•f position in Wbat we o~l th• •••t;•r" tr-41tion ot thollgbt •. . ·. . .. .·· . . .. · at v•at•:rn Tbroug1lout tbe ·h111i91"J , . thC)\lpt tbe ~-enta.). la fuel v•r• ~su•4 in t•"'8 ot oppo11itlpu ela•: Hat'Ul"• an4 ~aoe, ~Jtw-_. · and aoa,t).l.inc_ b•tw•• . . . Jfatiire an4 Supernatui-e, th• nat11zt,i ~ · the 41vine; b•tv-.i.1 Hatur• all4 AJ-t; b•tv••n JI'~~- and Con••ntiPlll . between NatUJ'• anA- Pr•,4Qll; between ~ft~• an4 Spt;1,, ·an,4 ~•twf•D BatUJ1• and Hi•to17. 3 •ons ocm.e, l~to th• . ~- tact Aria1io11•• eno•. thema•lv•• . ; other•, f~f•1;• .,hi~~aoptiJ ~d r;o!- world . vfth the 4l•oov•l"J ot ~·~\11'•.4 There . v•r• and. at1ll ~· . P•OPl• Who hav.- ~ ,,.. 4l•t1not ~d~a.. "of ' D.~'W'P· . .. •. , . . . . . . -. . . . . . . ,. ..... ... . ~ . ' . ' I .' • • •• . ' •· , '. ' . ' • ' • The_10or41 nature . an4 nat\11" ~. ( Gre.-k Vi{.~l• and . $J•llf~~ 4() 110~ · . oootQ" in th• Ol~ .' . . . . Teat. .nt, or in the ao,pel'. -~•f oooQI'. t~~,\·~~ thl•• in th• l•tt•r• ot th• mo•~ aophl.i;io-tecl ~~ 'h-. ••nt vritera, th• .J.po1~le th• lf•V fa\ll_ ·a¥ , ~'1 in T•ilt~ent.5 He;. tf v•·o1;her 'l'~:JtiJ• . · pl$<fGf1 iJl Betol'e nature vu 411oove:r•d, vh•ii _Q,ouahttul m•n von4eed t an4 ·41•oourae4 mbout about th• soda~ logoi. · The why thin&• The theoiosot. are tbe ·vai th•7 are, tb•J talk•d th• gt!}olo.ot. - ~r•o•ded gods ordered and oomand•d thing• to wallc : o~ . to go 1:':: th•il' ouetom..PJ' W&J'8• The word way_ (4erek) oooura over: 1700 3-• . The iut··:·~•• ~•t1.ll"al 1foieno• -'d 4~ tu -~1!0t~ ·oppo1:it:Loti• ·Pl'.•\\PP~•~ -tb~~aatur.• -. .,t .ao4••· oQ~•ot•4 wt~la _"o•c"•~t ot J'latw..Y~." . ~1• . diaouaa:l.on.: .la ~u.ad '. pbt*P11f \on; :th• cllaoua•lon in' IA• o• "1'.'•· Strau••a Hf!t!p!J. Rlftf P4£!'tlf,(041o.~J -1953),. oh.~. _. . S. · miese ·:. en•••~ ena, ,. ;I) '.i4 : _,iii - qw t.t: i1HQ1t\1fl.· Otnttr• J !.mo• to the Bibl• • . ll!ePdaana,· (1955). . �7 ....a th• 014 teataaent ·and (ho4oe) ••·leu•: 83 time• in the lev ut.it. ~••t­ Th• god1 ordained that tire ebould bura. olouda gi'W'• rain, that th• earth ahould bri,.ng ,.torth crop•• that voaen .a:t).ould bear ohildr•n. that aoae 1hould · ot eat pig ••at n ~ others ahou14 not kill oowa, that ••• ahould bury tb•ir .dead &n4 that other• •hould bUftl th-, that . 'JltbdU'era •hou.14 b• put to death, or that th•J should pa7 thett- vlot1• 1 • relatives at lea.at one ox. the gods -ver• deli••red to tba The oomwan.4• o:t' anoe1tora· who were, oloaer ·to th• an4 tranaaitted by elder• to th•i:r ott1pring bJ word ot ·mouth or b7 . writt" :reporta. Authority went v1th age, Vltb nearn•aa t• the Of IOUl'O. authority •. At a certain polat ••• eui-1·eu.a uut thouP,•.flUl. aaa 11111•. ll••• not1oe4 that . •o•• th.tn11 an• aome wa1• are alva71 ••• ••• ao 1Utta. . . still oth••• would var7 hca tilll• to ttae thea h11ppen th• ••• · wa7. between th• .n•o•••&PJ" and t•- 11.m• tao ti.at -- : ' what any one doe1 aluM.1t th-, an4 eth••• v.., .ao•e if aen B• b•1in1 ii• be•Qll• •'-a»• th• aooidea~al. th• aa4 · ,. dU or 110· 1 ll&1M the 41a.ttr ,~ ti · a•o•••U7 an4 tllle cu.;. tcnary, and the n•o•••UJ ·and th• urat:flioial. ••Z-• to beocae .a .tra.v•ler, lit• &l.•o notice hov •*• wa:ya are tho . _ . •••l'J It the .... ·aanor one like bia Herodotua, h• then von14 Vb•••• -tor u-.ple, ti•• b'lirna tb•••• ••7 -both b-1'• and in P•Mia. ud other va7aYar7 1'P• plao• t• plaoe ua4h1111 -uibe, to ~,lbe • . ·..- What •1U1.t . hav• be•Q. laQJ.~ . •~r1k.1q , at tt:rat; b,t c•q•· th•J' uat oontradiet · ••ov ••J• ". '11ii-e th• wa.7a that •UJ' trait tribe to tribe, the way• :that depend aoat on d•oiaiona aacl op1rl1Qna ot ,,,.,~; �8 beeau1e th• optnlou ..n hold about the wa7• *hat VUJ .t'!'ca plaae t~ plaoe oont~a41•t eaoh others ·••I•, the deacl au.at be b•l•dJ theJ au1t not be burl••• but bUJ!"ll•d· !b••• oontra•iotion• l•a4 to even •o:re 1\md•ental oontradiotOl'J' opin1on1, oono•rning the veP, originl ot th• 1041. on• JlrQI poi~t ot view one lea.ma th• truth about auoh aatt••• . ' . li•t•nini obed11tntl7 to th• aqthor1tat1v• voio•• ot the -.1dem1 ~,. 1 tram an'ther o~• l,~arn• aoa~ alv.,-1 in th• . t"'-th l»J aat,•r• hav• aad.• a 41ati.Qat1on •v14•n•• and •••1"1 tor on•••lt. that eat one oan~;·~•1iie .: '.· b• : •an•at an4. •••inc t• on•i•lt. tund.-~-al . . au ••naient an4 , 4••1•&t1-.e. ~·~v••n h•ertaJ 'lb:• ,u1plolol\ .b4tlim to a1•• •••.,.•I'• •• ,_. '" Dl!it\df, •tla•• tkW• tba- ilbe " . 1_ 0 •••* i-•~ •••-.4.ti ~1'£n1• J\~th•r-, 0'1~ ditteitent, P•rllap1 tb•ir •o V~~~t. »•r- &Jt• ••aon4~, o•• their ••i•t•ao• te t•r•ihoupt1 £! la• nqa\•Q4d• u• Han aut •ti • ...- .· t~•ir -.a1• ••1•tl•no1 '• lo••"' Thq1e illlin11, wh:\cala • • eya""'*•ltl t)t• ,._., tda1oh i i not •vi,•ntly dep•nd ppoa 4eo1atona ot •an ••119 t• do ¥ha• tq•• do b7 th•••lve1, thPough e<m• internal power ot th.air own. I aan Who h•• b•oOlle ·aware ot IUi•b betwe•n that th••• dlatinotiona begin• Th• .• ' vbJ.~h 01.11" W&7 11 riS)lt and !bl· V&J1 .~ the W&J to 41stln· aooording to nature, food· in it••lt beoaus• it i• in aooord with nature and that wb.$.oh 11 rigt:lt and goo4 beoauae it ·bd been in1tltute4, l•sialat•4 etr ooma111d•d b7 . Th•l'e.tor•. to IU9lll'i&e, o~ on the bMili autborit1ea • or the dletinotiona between that wh1oh 11 ever,t.here th• • _. and that which varios from place to plao• and trca time to t.w and trom tribe t o tribe, �9 l»oitv•• W.at • • .IM .••• . . .. . . .-. '·: · - - ;e-4• on Qn•••lt U\4 vb.at one Jl.•u• trcm authoii- tQI" ' - Q..'\ totion• qt 4eo1•i~ > i;o ••• in11o an4 r-..J.p. :ln . ,1~ts 'f•f ·~~J~ -- Oll· th• bull -.~ - • b•i1:11 1 bet.'-!~en qur 4'14 ••7 MA 1;~ . . Qt th••• 4i•t!Ji•tj,on1 th-. ~~1,ll•Yd q4'tiot) tu t~.a. ~O. ·~i.~nt;l•t a, ~tl1• t~. 'tbJii1': !~1J••Qnµ -.••••ltr, ·ozt - ll7 In ·~ol\)V,l\t18'' • - u'••• ••• ·~ nft · ~Wq iao•1i n••cltul~ bt pt\M'• a:n4 •at 1• ·_ ·4o~v•:ntlon.; good ~'''-~' Oi'\J.O~al it JI po•it•f• q.t~ - po:l.~t,,.qtl • tthi~rJ. Plato•• ll!z!blio, 1n 'th• - great-· debate abCll t th{'! ,, nature and worth ot juatioe~ . ia truly good -arid what tnl.7 C\9epit• peat 411as:r•-•nt1 .. · in acooaMllo-•vith nature, oonventiona an41ava tr• thil point l&OJ'• are ot view ' ... llhat •ha• th• Humu. ooBAuota evaluated not -in . oo~ona .Ol' ab~·::. ,apeo1.tioa117; :i.a _that or goQd b7 nature. . terma t.t Vheth•r tb•J' '· bu, all th• interlooutora premi•• that the good, Wh•t•v•r it •1 be whioh ia Qt •••~• or v~ 1• ,.,11t tbat ~kno•l•4&• f't thia 11t.ppuaatl7 l•s1•1•'''' b,•.,.... leld down, or .philosophy. . •. ,_. o,.. ,o .b• 'al.1~4 ~wa·o~-· _ 'l'h• 4i•ti.U,.~1Q~ -ll•tvetii 1')1.a.~ ~· - goq4 gQ04 ._J l•lf, • . .-,.t""-'•' t , aq. 1iht qr•• h~, . ~d nD~1... •t 6 ' o_ th• ot-... • · 0•1'taia -JND1 n up i~to · - . 11 ' - not 140 di.vine iav, but are in aooord with, •• agi.in•t, nature;· aln b•o••a 1"'.!:>:~tha th.,- p~v•ra:t~. Philo,ophy, b-qma th1• po~t of ,vlfli, beo~,. - ~e •f~ .,~iO\d ot _ -lwll.4 Pu.l"•ult,. - But . w~t-•v•r 1illare - ~• ~h~loeopb'r'' a clua all vhichcan lJaolll4• •r•l!1$ p~~P•~••• ~lltr• •~f'l' , t~ at-1~~ ~tatora, or - magea, ot ·pi,J.1o8QpAe,a, ••ii 'llho Ar~ •W~• At tb• 41,at~potion i between l\.tQJ'e and Q(m\'Jl91\tion, l>ut .6. L. · Straua•, . ~· o\t. tJ P• ·*Q ~·v•r ·~ti.c~·n~l.1 ~~t,).eot on 90. �10 . ·oan th• rea•ona tor th• oonventiona; tlho tail to under•tand hov it be natural !or aen to live in aooordano• with oonventiona. Suoh .. ••n, oall•d aophiata or int•llectuala, abua• th• diatinotlon between nature and oonventlon ao aa to und•l'min• undel'mine ord.1D.U"J 4•e•o7. undepatood 1D thi• ••'1• a ~,l oonventloaa, ao u to On• peraaaentt••k ot philoaopft7, then, th• Sooratio va7, I believe, voul4 b• to 4•- tend · ordlnar7 pre-philoaophio practioal ·w1a4-· h'Gm ~:Qphlatlcal at• tack'; to pr.par•, it n•o•e••l'J'• a theeretiea1 4•1'•noe e:' ~•t1u~197 4$.;. o•noy agai]\at 1e:phlaticai aolenti•• .·~theraere, Plate'• 4t.ale8"•• voul4 ••ea to auggeat that vh•r• there 1• 11toorru,pt1on ot the 701UP)l," aophiata produce lt, but both aophiat• an4 philoaophera pa7 tor it. One task ot politloal philoaoph7 then wuld b• W. edtatt•• philoiaoph7 trait the opprobrium brought upon it bY its 1.aitatora. II Ve r•turn to 0\119 thtm•; ality, hi• having ~~goa, In hil di•cuaaion ot ~b••-,o~eotiQD. ~at\ir• and hia being by th• •ooial and between eOC)DOL- 1!. 0 -.ii'• :ration- a political a~1mal. preoon41tiona ot polit• · lcial 11t.e .&J'ia·totle ret•r• . twioe to tba Oyolope ator7 in bo~ U.•.o' Tb• Cfclop• 1toi-y migh~ be thought ot •• Bom•~,•• the : 04>•••1· 7 anticipation ot Karl Marx • . ••11•4 on, 'l'h•noe •• 8J'i•v•4 at heart, and we cam• to th_ land ot th• C7olopea, an overv•en1ng .c d 1.awl••• . • tolk, Vho, trusting in th• illlnortal god.a. plant noth1ns with their _ an4• nor plough; but all _th••• thing• apring h up tor th• without ·~11ing or ploughing, . Wh•at,e.and . · barley, and vine.a, 'Whloh bear the rio~ oluater ot wine, ~ the rain ot Zeua g1vea tb . . increase. Heither ...... bliea ~or oouncil have they, new appointed lava, but tba7 dwell on th• peak• ot lofty m.ountaina 1n hollow oavea; and. eaah one la lawgiver to .·b1a . ohildren arid hi• vlvea, . . . 7• . fo11tlot. . 1252 b 22 ..: 23 and 12.S.3 . . a .S. · �11 u "'4 ~•J n~t t;.-.,b~_• kn.ow~ 047•••ua not a,t;4!)•t • • ~9t~~· - _ I th._•lv•• (11. 105-11, .. ) . al.l that yet want• "to go and JU.k• trial ot tho•• aen, - to l•un 1dlether·th•7 are both inaolent uid wild and not juat. or 'tihether they love atranger• an.4 -ue go4-.r•u1ng .1n thought. " -( 11.· 174-76.) 9 - The OJ'olop1, Polnhemu• vaa a . aonatroU. •an, •who •h•ph•~d•4 hi• tlooka alone an4 a.tar, and DliDgl•d not with othqa, but lived apart v1.th hi• heart aet on lawl•5eneaa." 187-89~) (11. Odyaa.u1 oave. -v!t~ twelve ot hia beat OOIU'a4ea He aupplioatea the C7ol~p• en~4ra th• Oyolopa• in th• nan• ot Zeua, the go4 ot atrangera and gue1ta. h"• _ •mm so I apoke, e.nd h• atraightv-.,. 11t.ade anaver with pitil••a b•art: 'A tool a,~ thop, atr~g,r, pt 0(90 lf-ff.18, •••ing tbat tbau-bid4eat ae .eltb•r to tear or to th• 1"-' • P• ~· C,ol~P•• t~• ~o · t~cn~lJl• tos- z.,,., Q" Who beara th• aeg1•, nor of' th• .blea11t.1d goda,, ainoe . - v•r11~ wi. b•ti4•r t~ tb91l t ••1"' N'-Ir, ..\ll.d l, ~P '~ the wrath ot Z•ua, · apar• eithe- th•• · .Ill' th7 OOlll"ade•• r u• ~·~t •bic>ul4 pld ••· (~l. 272~7a,) Sho~tl7 tb•r•~ter. havlAg.blop-•4 o~~ i:fb,• w:t.l,•a MY QtlQl CJ~lops kill• Ind ••i;• t!•o ' oa•• o.-•4••., ot OdJf•tnW • .. -..:t~,,~1 ~· ~·• Qle$.f th&t h• int"14' t~ UQ ~~· ~Ml• ~~ - •11 ~t ~~.., - <>41.1•a•iw ~~•~v'~ .• :p:J.'° t<a P¥t out r-..IJlda ot hi• •M q~l ...,. Qµ~ tti, Of~l-,P•' .,~, •::.- 1'}l~1.- . 1-•· ~-~ - I, ~· - J1-•tp,10 ft>,, A• . ~ wi,t~ tnt •f~•' out a.ad. Q~Jl~ to ~av••· •ll th• QJ'olqp~ l1ytns .ftt'tifbJ Th•Y tb,rpng ~\'>out outa149' "~ ~~v' ~ Nf Vb.ether some ~ t• - k~lliN ~ ·bJ ~~~ .·I... Q79lf»pll 1~ th'~~ '4l"f .•il• W l'J· f""Q~, ~' ~Pwf ~. ·· !':4 ~~ :.:-:traula:tiontiP,An,taett.. ..1Lof1b;:Olu.._,••1: .td.bJtu,... . 9. _ Inaolent and vlld ••_. 'o ha tlalanoe4 . 96•1nst . lOT1ng . WUangRa ..... ,qt;::: Jmt .a•:tn•tl b•iN .....,,• ...._ ... t . . . .t. . 10. Coneider Buripides• addition to the atol"'J', C1clo.£!, 11. ~Jl- 43 ,_··582r4. _ · �12 OctJ'CJe\UI b.aO. tol~ !Wa that hie nam• i• M--., h• repl!•a, '' . .1•n4•, Hc:iaan i• killing me br guil•tnot by toro~.· no aan le 4o1~ 'l'h•f anawer that it' 7ou violence, p•rhap• it 1• Zeua, ao prq to om :tather, . Lor4 Po••idon; and then th•7 leav•. 04J•••ut later oon- trlvea hi• eaoape tr• th• oave. The uoilOlllio needa ot the C7olopa ue provided tor bJ .the soda. Co.naequentl7 eocncaiopr•••ur•• do not pl"od th. ., aa pr1ait!v• u• uauall7 pro44ed, ••n into ~o~ing larger oa•untti•• tor th• liake . ot mutual aid, .ooopera.tion and. uoh~•· · Bttoau.aethe7 ·eenever moved to tora • · l~ger 11001ety, th•J never 4•v•loP IJrt arte or ora.tta be7on4 the JJinimal •kill• needed ttr a 11tl•pherd 1 a lit•. live in oavea, ~ot have no •hip•' .and 'fl167 houau, ·and, HOlller •f•Oitioall'J' -.nttona, they no ••n to •ale• 9h1f~' •o.tmat; the sea and viait the oitiea ot otb9• folk u moat. ~ortantl7 b1 never rOl'llling oitl••• th•J ~t oro••· oth9r aen 201•!•• '°· But ce~ioti••• p°'itloc.l they n•ver .davelpp th• utaot .olvili••• cl!•oourae, the uts8 .or cc.matm.l.oation. 1 ~ Th• C)rel(;pa !a toelecl b7 a man .aJdllet in th• . . art· ot uaing wor4a ~ . !'lleii' laok of aldll; 01' . uit ·with V.Aa make• it iapoaeil>le tor .th- to cooperate, . ,o a i 4 their teµov . n hi• . i time ot nee4. Wot .on17 are tha O)"olopa tiTated, but deapit• th• t'aot entire!.7 to th• · aeda~ ~hat b~utal,llawleaa, tt~4 th•7 owe th•:l.r material p18!1t7 th•1 -ar• imlJioua. and, :lno14enta.11J. ·oonoo1ted. A.a the Cyolepa•i!a7a _we "pat a• h••• ••.• to th• t!'Ul.7 we are better ~'Y uno'11- tar ~leased, goda, •lnce than theJ• 11 (11. 2TS-76.) 11. One ot tM •oat ecmaon .etjaGJ.ocl•• 9t tl\t .JIOJI~ octlllllU?ij.•ation · traoee it b&e>k to ~oota . .aalq llUri.at a11&U, ·QM.;.11P1Pi1, • . fS.tJ• wall. · �. 13 In hia GU"JU.ll Ideolog Marx give• •n all too bri•t gl1apa• at hla . picture ot ~he tinal OODllllW'liat · aoeiet7 1 1'bere not the 01J11Pian. goda, but machine technolog7 and oomau.nlat ·organization will ~ro•id• . - a•vyman wit~ · all. hi• · •oonc:aio need.a t~Treb7 making poaaib~• ~h• tinal treedoa, tl-••4oa t'rCllJ the diviaion ot labor~ or d1Yia~on· ot . tunotlon, or I ~lvia~Ol\ . ot nature it••lt. ~ttr It vlll be •poaaibl• . . to do one thing toda7 and another tcaorrov, to hunt ill th~ · .m orning, ti•h in th• atternoont rear oattl• 1n the •Y!ln1ng, oriti. 011• atter dinner, juat aa I • ti•~ •• h•rd•••~or 1 . .. 11~•. w~tbout •••r beo.Un• a hunter, a.oritio.•12 . Boli.w•.;;Qll th• oontrQ7, p••••117• ·uMa 41-.•lpline o:r eoonomlo neoeaa1t7 .and ~at .1ou· vlll ••t 1• qot a new :hl~ti'l•f ¥- augs••t•: .Liberat·e .-11 aen troa the .•au:il7 :t'ult1lled. bre-4 ot ·~· ·but a rao• ot CJo~of,• . In one ot th• .. many plaoea 'Where he touoh•• on the relation between uonoaio n•c11a• •• • "' . .l 1ity and the 4•velopaent o:t aan•a higher taoultiea, A.ri1tot~• •P•illr• ot how .t h• polia, the politioal. o.-unlt7, the c~i ty la . the ' com.plat• ommmtt7, ·111 !oh, att•r . th• toll7 all4 the village, haa o•• to tho ' point ot tull aelt-aut"tloiene,-: Be then aay• : "1nd~ed it baa \•18' to• th• sake ot lite, ·b ut it (12s2 b Jo. >13 ~ tor the 1ake of the f,,• .~ ~ood lite.• · · a••·· ' . Deuta~ 13ao1011•t a.I.A.I. 1D D" ' Pr\\hacbritt~~, p. 1, iitijj "'aaoh ·-· ,... ueh· lJ. Hom.er•• treataant in tba Cjalopa atar7 ot tht tll.at of •h••"• on th• ona 9'Ult, ••••ua \ille• •f aet.1 and! am ol 12. ble .,.a..r, I9JJ, •h• the ait7, on tih• •-••• lbnll. be . oont~aatad •i·~ 1111.t Blb11••l . a~4&Nnt et C._in u4. Abel • . Ot. •ea11sJ ellap. 4. ci. !aaao tl, 1 · "Comaenta1'7 on the Bible," ~ v • ~•11.tio 1 Plail•• , ecla • . · Ralph Lerna.: uid Null•ia _,.1, • ·· , & • •. ao•'1, "".O... · potnte ot 'Yi_,, V• ·t9 _,. t~ S~ riatJ, !£;:": , · A - 6 ti. D, . 781 I - 78l A. CB tae la•taP- ••• L•• ••aut4 , L~ll•l&,I' AISJ.12' ~f, "Mod.•r~, Ba1111• ,.,,11., 1968. PP• l.,.~. . . �III Tho•• .,.rk1 ·ot Ariatotl• oall•d logical reoeived that name beoauae th•y ar•, in general, 4evote4 to th• underatan41.na, th• di•o1pllne,. ali4.. .taaa ~••tton -ot logo•.14. In th~ tl••t ohapter . ot Op · Int•rpretttlog : Ariatotle ·upl&!m that;. l) •.itt911 vorda are . •111bol• ot ••1oecl or apoken vor4•, 2) . apo.ken word• are aJllbola an4 aigna ot exp·e Flqoea, OJI pa11lon.1, . ot th• ltoul, . that _1• peroept~;.i?IU)• thought• and aenaationa, an4 )} the.experiea.oeaoot the aoul are liken••••• ot thlqa • . '!'he vor4 .1Jmbol . oc:mea trm .two Greek worcla . .uiing to throw or to put together. put together b7 ••• SJllbola are alwa71 made, or The 1°1rat. thtq .Arlatotl• not•• about vrittea and apoken •Jmbola ·11 that they U• not the••• tor · all aen, '6hereaa the upe•~•no•• ·~ . h• t tor all. aoul . and the thlngil ~heaa•lvu are tM · .... Ve nee4 onl.7 to think ot what h & ppem ••el"J till• w• uiaAei-- •tand •C!ll»thlngwittan or apolcen 1li a -~eip language . Th~t • ouncla r•t•rring to· the aaae thil\I• titter trca tribe to tribe or nation to nation polnta to th• taot tut the 1oun4a Ao not ot th•- . o ~lvea aign1f'7, or r•.t•r to, the 9.ZPerl•no•• ancl thins•. theJ' are • t 1D11 ot, that 11. the7 ar• not aignitiout, or aeaningtul, b7 nature, th•7 are aignitloantb7 &1r!8••nt, b7 OC111Paot, 1>'1 convention. ' Oon• iu ft•t..ln ..t. . .1. l'll••-tiM&it, tMIR• ··. ·~· -u.U. ..... '·I t!.).-.· , .... · . f:Jt-.. .ttiui..W•dlJ' ••••l-.9t1...•he li.Uio· teria and the ~ ~ Altuab1~ ~l!t . :· 1 . ·: ~- •. ·. ·~ · ~t~· u4 4••a•t baok iilto . $~ Platon1o ea-y-. ar•. t• l>• ._., Mt. .. . :. l afloonoa •@••••ting ·t• •ll•a1-t.1''f • • •· ,ef; ·-~• ·91MfR&: tM· ..~•1'1'1 · W '·U4M'·• · .. . by . ~an• or . the Cat!S!1'1~1• . On . 1..i~ . ... ~~·(Cl lllf. ~ ietlc 3tK~ ona~i.i\4 cloa to tiu. . l!•tj.g • . - ~ · .,. P. BOgg•••, . ara i ..and · • etQric 1 tu., Ca'ta,•v.'fit.t.., l' Pbzt!B- . !•1•, Vol. xv, 110. 1, 1970, pp. 86-90. al•o ThOlnaa AQ.uinia,::sem'iire:q on the Poaterior Anal ztioa o.t Al'itcotle, Magi Boolca, Albm7, 1970'; orevord, pp. ·1-3. · , itm1•!-JiiJ' .· · ! ••=:: ., - .,,Prw. ·.·.:tm:. ' !l'ofiio• . ·S••. �1$ trarivtee, · th• .xi:»•rienoea ot the soul, th• peroeptiona, though.ta and sensationa are .the aale tor all md do not depend upon human agreement tor th•ir ·aeanlng; · the7 reter to Whitt · they signitJ' b'f tha.aelvea,not tbro\18h th• ••41at1on o:t anTth1n8 else; thtt7 ar• . . 1~ a1gsd:t1oant, or ••anlngt\11, b7 nature • . . Let uw anal7•• the ap~k•n a~ol material ot th• •Jabol i• yoioed aore olo••lf. aoun~, . whioh ia . b7 au. The medium or produoed natuiaall7 . Th• peeuliu . o-'tination, o'l'ganisa~ion and ·to'.1"lat1oa o:t ·the · voioed aound.• ·ao · a• . ~ ' to aignifJ' tbt• 'xpe:tiaoe, ·:.tald118 ·th,a• ~ particular aQUDd.a to •1pitf · that , patloular experience, · th• :tom!ng . · ot th.• aaterial of th• •Jmbol depend• . upon human inatitution, vp':;,n oonvent~on. "°'' · .Other 1oun4a 'ould. clo aa : v,1~, but o~qe the aoun48 tor a pu-tioular oonoeptiqn beo~a .'aett1•4 it ar• •sr••d onoe th• deciaio.ri i• a a1atak• to ua• tho•• aounda. another wq, to . point to acil!llething el••• . Unli~• . . "'oana ot th• aiok. ao?'•ma ot t.n-o• .~ laUght••, •P••oh ·aoa4. at-.U• th•~ aign1t1oat1on through · . . . . . ' .. ' ' ·' .r. ' . .. : :- . :: ct &l•totlli ·'ftMau t!·tS. II, •.pp. 23-29. ·.; ftt•9~•t!jtp· it h~• An4 ~~t·~~~~··•. Ol'.Jetu• . liQICI ; ·eM!llS?.·bl iaon '!he vor4 ·~~ol •• ua•4 ~ t~A 41'7~ 7.i«r~e'Urr,- tett with it• ult!Jaa-• reraren~ and•ratood aa naturall7 ~1v•n ahoUld be diatinguiahe4 · t'r• th• "od•rJ> aatheaatiof.1 •1l'~ol lob Ot\o m•~1! . . . i• 4~t•Jlllin•4 P•lll&11i17 by •ho•e •ul•• or aetbo4 governing th• • olgenerating 1ntell1gen ce ~ a elf and th• a7at91Jatiq 00'1-t~ o-r •J11L Qi.t1l thin 'llldoh U7 PU'tiollial' •Jllbol 00011Pa. ISH Jacob Klein, ~1' Hath!!!atioal ThorJJ¥4~ t~lGi! ot~~·~t-• M.i.T. iap.,Clia\)t'D' 9.1 • ;i T ,W, ,lia • 12, · A and 8, pp. l ! J178, 192·211. · Por Vieta 'l'h• lett•r •tsn deaip~t•• the ~tent~OJV' l obj•ot ot a iate~\ion• ••• , n ...17 ot a concept Which it••li · direotl,- inte!lCla another Cl'9no•ft and. no.t • 1l~J b•W•" 'l'h4t ret•Jtent th• lett•• alil'f o 'the •Jllbol in ita merel'j"JIB'••ible · 4•'b•nalnat-en•11•, · ia aooord•4 a oert•in ,i~ep~clenoe vb.lop J>•~t .. · i • to be the ·aub j•o• et 'ca1ou.lat1on.al' dperation•." The•• aJmbol:to ·t:oaatlon• t.J!•, t~---• itq.th th• &14 af... 1l1la'. w••1n•t!•n bf : tbt :tr:;:""1~ol. goaora•1D8 int•13 tgenoe aa .. dir.aet.1 7 .. .Ppr•henaibl• .b eingi "whose merelJ ~otential - ob3aottvit7. l• . nderat.ood..aa · an llOt'q41 ob.j~o.tivltJ. "· ~•ip, . u lbl4. 174-75, . 20f-08J; . Th• .Val' 1• open•d .. tor a spbol-g•n•ratin_s. ln~ . , 'titrigeno• which in a ·~·~ 'Preacrib•• to natv• ita .Q>o~•~J,e/ l,va t. in order to 41aoo•er lava Which voul.4 never be . given" to th• h1D1.ttn " under• tanding by nature 1 ta •lt •. · o' ••••eacl ;e' . Pr•••• t;sn �16 The illpulae to f'Ol'9l hu,.p 1?l4·tit\.•tlon, anJ to •hue 8peeoh ari••• natui-aUy among aen wherever the7 a.r• tound to ~Jmbola exi~ t. 'l'h111 natural illpul•• to 4•v•lop thWl J.hat.ru.a't:ali't t.n that allow tor the COllalUDio.at1Qn and. ahu~~ ia perhapa the moat ~•ing ot thougbte and t••l1Dga, et experlenoe, 4•~1•iv• ot thoao ph•n01aen4L that :point to man• e; We have returned to b7 nature a aooial an4 pol1t1oal animal. th• th•• w'lth 11b.loh •• began. '11111• natural impul•• coupled with . th• deair• -tor mutual uncleratanding• &lil()ng other thing•, poi~• to th• enda or tUnotiona ot the 11peeoh 1)11bol: living togethe:P, l•arning ·togethe:P an4 -.utual under•tanding. In aua, tbr•• ot the tour oaua•• aooounti.ng tor th• 1119bol are natural, th•7 ue th• matvial oauae, vooal aoundJ the ettioient cau••• the iapulae; and th• ttnal Th• to....i, er organ- oau1e, th• and, . living and leal"nlng to1•ther. ising, oauaa whioh give• each •Jabol 1ta 41•tillotiv• a·ign ia conventional. c~aoter a.a a To generalize: aan i a req,uir•d b7 natur•, b7 h1a natur• a.a a thoughtful, apeald.ng an4 poli tloal an1lnal to · tol'a oonventiona, th• ao•t iaportant ot v:hi.ob are -tho•• conventiona tha• 4••lgnate 081't-lu 4etin1t• oClfbUiatto•• 1i •o1Pl4• •• r•r»e1911.ta·ttv• or a1p1titant -.r ~•i-t•1n 4•tln1t• aot;iou ot th• atn4. u.tur• 1• ao _oODit1t"t•a u to r•q~• th• t•~ kin4 ot Qal:y.•1• it• tulttll»ept. · Th• ·~ Huaan to.--.tto11 ·ot •oa•a11ou · poiii~ina to t}J.e ua4 t• -the ooopeJ:1"atio11 ·at na~ve and •DllYWlltotL' a~pt b• aae4 •to 01. .1.f )' · .Vi1totl•'• view ot t~• · J?P\ll• ot the po;\it.lo.t.l. o~lt7, 1.t••li'. HatuJ-• proYid•• th.• a.;.terialt the •••• 11atuall7 Utteienti•t•cl in . their oapa.o1t1ea to .ta.ltill the1r o• . ~4 eao)i alao provide• th• •tt1o1•iit 0&\18•, ·vtth1n th• m~; to• otb•»-~" n••d1; pol~tioal au4 th• ttnal o•ua•; tht g&od natna• ud •ooi~l 11QlJJ.1·t ~: l~t•, the lit• •Q~o:rding to natur•• 'l'h• toraal 0&1Ml8, howevel', tbe lava and SOV0Dlll81lt-1, inati ... �tuttan._ whi•,._ 17 ~ailg•• organise and o:r:d,•r t h• •en towarda th• •4 1.1"• .aupp11e4 by ut, · th• l•si•lato:P 1 • art, and convention. · Thia, h0wever, •• au.l' earli•r ' diaouaaion qt 41atrlbutiv• ' juatio• •howa, 4•.., enough • .· Po• law• ue aa4• by and U G 4o•• not go »•tlactiona of\legialator1 . lele, OP 'llhat kliul .er aen, ue to b• l•gi•latta•• ant\ gOT•~nc~• 1• · 4•t..-in•~ b7 tha ..... lund.. .antal OIMler o~ dtaurlbuti~• B•o• flk• aabigultr ot l)elltJ', or r•.s..... 1hap•1 th• ap1n101U1, laalt•t• and ••~nta 11 juat loe, th• leg1elatoi-". to-. h• who -. wioh the OIHl•r ot •••per •.PAD4a 1• a l•ai•lator in a ••n••· The aort tun4•111Dtal. . t1oa •t th• polltleall o• a entt.,,, •o th• extent that Alotl"ibutive ju•~le• ba•·• . ' . it 4•t.S.Uit• f"9 aa• 11 not all.. .• 4 ••1•17 ~7 otr•uaat~oea, t 1 4erlvat1v• hi• av.oh a l•ai1latiY• ut, aa a.rt vllloh it aight h~ said 11 111.S .alatiYe prtau-111 over loso!.16 Let ua try to b• aor• preoiae a.bou.t th• oha:aoter ot tho11e .ex• peiencee or pa11ion1 ot th• 1oul•. wbioh · aooording to th• pa••-.• have been analysing. are lik•n••••• and thereb,. natural aigna . o·t Wo are .t alking ab cut what V• ar• aotualizing. what wo underata.ncl .. ancl do not ••rely h•a.r, . expertanc•• or the wh.~;1..t we ·~- ,. . · t~ und-~atan4; . when . ac:aeone .1s •"7in8• The .. •oul; J.r111totl• ••,.., f):r e the . . . . tor .a ll • . It v e are oo:rreot .in · the ueumption . that un4erl1ea moat ot our pral\tioa1 · . 0 d 1&cour••· that When •• talk to eaoh other we are .talking about, or •Ul• intending to talk abo11t. th• thing1, there muat be something a.bout thing• whioh can be the same tor all men, that 1•. according t o . . . --~'Xr&~.---0P-o~n-.~1~a-er, tor ~~)G What oone.titutea the unity '. . ~·in Plato' 1 Re l:tlio, ' b d. We are ignoring illitinotion between o 01 · and !lthoa. S•• Le.urenoe Bern11, 415 ot tho her" tbe . Ariatotl•' " e . , •4. Joa•p),l ~Cl>• ey • Baa ic Bocka, l~9'.h pp~ 77 ... 7 • • on· pp~ 8!) ..86; note l. above; Mont ~1J qui•l ·~ \ 1 §!Pt1t !1U: -lo1!, ~1vr• XXIX. ehap. XIX; and Abraham Lincoln, Pragmenl on tlie Con1tttu.tion and th9 Union,'' 1860 or 1861• 1:n l•oted Work•• Baal•r ed •• Rutsera Univer11ity . Presa. 1953, vol. I 1 · · PQ •tic•, " in a 11 t 301.. . pp. n>B-i9. I ' . �18 ~l•totla, ,_•1• 1ntelltgibl• _._. point to ~· charaot•~· What c:rur wor4• •llllifV ot th• liken••••• e.r aotualiaatlona 4.n ua ~ iiitol- J.iltlbl• chq1.&lte:riatlo1 or things. · To. put ,i t in another 11a1r !.t · th~• ia s•Uln• Jm«*l•ds• ot thillg• 1n th...•lv••i or it v• u• tso · avold talld.q abou.t Miat •• know ot unlau>wable ~inp in ~h~~lv••, aoocw41ng to A.11totl•, thiqa -.et lut.1'1.Y• s.ntelltgibl• ohuaotulatt,.Ja : . •ioh laiitJ+icibl• •Q'ao!b•Pf..•tlc• or ia_.4 41h•ir llkena•••• o- b• aow.s.1- al.Ute bJ all w1J. ..1tunotlontng hwaan int•ll•otia. 1 7 9'• -blte111&1.;;; bl•, -beoe.v.•• it •I . t .. •iC\11, ••I• tl'Ul.v the .... in r\l:·•t·•t... ·hca•-*1• .•oi.nt 11 th• ao1• ~- .. :aoat a~.t.1• ttklq aooea1tble to Jn•t• b•lDC•· ,., tM• !l•UOll 11t11tu.lllM•»•tu4im.a ot th• thing• l~Pi-tb~l-:bt - ~:w..aas~- idtlH. the hmllia e--.m!tJ a oo :uniom more 1nt'1mate than t~at e>t .any othel' ant.aal..18 :H•• til~ on• ••U.wle I ll?V•l, Ol" 4caeat1o tor it• ett•qt l,lpOD tragedy, not to unt;1o~ 4•Nt1o ~••4J 1 th•t eaeentialit " P fta.J'tnttt that int!maoy oan ·onl7 ooa• ti-ca •utual \U14tf•tqcU.J1$11. 1•11•• t1)•·4ter;,••t � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>.  <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5&amp;sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&amp;sort_dir=d">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a> or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context formallectureseriesannapolis Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 18 pages Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Berns, Laurence, 1928- Title A name given to the resource Rational animal - political animal: nature and convention in human speech and politics Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1970-05 Description An account of the resource Typescript of a lecture delivered in May 1970 by Laurence Berns as part of the Formal Lecture Series. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Bib # 53003 Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource text Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College has been given permission to make this item available online. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Friday night lecture Tutors https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/e9723a83b6c01a61556f5396c78413d7.pdf 65bb45d784bf4a5eff1496049b9304fd PDF Text Text /970 /171 J+ J;,t,,.,') {_,J/~'!L' A""~/,..1'.1 a. A!/,_. ,, (f~t,,O.JJj)V!V ' I I ~1,,,-/c I I 1)1 L .«.J.-!.) ,, / J 1 /v-,v -";>""') , M j) Ah,,.....A."' f3,,,_Ld- Uc/- -ZD !fa><.\- Ge.v'::J &,,d,,w-.'--1/ /-/e,~k/~1 Jc,,:;;J 1!~,~/Jh,'J &.,...~)' t.~,J, 1/,, W\ _Jf .:r;,f.t"~ ,Du- li U, pr.'Y"""'-' C,/J. An"-A(,.f,:, !Z"d~,~,f /14,/C-e<- YAle.. U. I ;!/0A/I-i~<vw. cr Leo., lwJ_i. J'f- J,t-.~·, Cell~'(.' /1"""/'"j,_, /11 {,d'L\ 1n he\ 1 J!,wvwci Feb. S ;tf '' ?(., Ww. bv,,!J" ;:r,1.w. L,"~'" V Jutvy I MA Q +r~r~~ NY ... Zovv;.. .JfnJ Q,~,...vi-L.f- Chaor/o J,2;f-~Jm J"""'s. 1-J,,r(L'"J ~~~ g,)h~-wv« 4/:1 IAJ1 /f,M-Y~ lJ.wL'( .Jf JOI;"'' Lalleyc, .JM-<.Jn Fe. 1 /1 Cov.t'-'.+ ,, f CPv."'J p, <-+'!' vVi M ~•• .,~~h II �\> ~'f/-1' ~_[" ~1'7'9 ?-ff· C,f''l"""-::.l l/7 ,_,.,,,_,~ ~..,I' "":"''1-Vh ~p::J '1 ''"~•..[' ')-.' ~"'11 '1(! ;/ J-f'"~([ f'""l''!l"?'fl 1"/'7''7/ -1-1 (, """"!I I M ·I I ''t••/,,"""17 I ,r,;I!"J 7fVi -:>jMt II ' 3/,1 ."f''V<V/ -/v' Q "1~'"'-'.L ! . t·,"''1Q(' h """' (' ..n: ~"'rv '1 (' 'PI '1 Oc>"£ "f"'·fVL'.l_ j "'10"f<iJ 'v'Y Q .Y7 II v 1•"' "'?""'IW '"'IC;.,' (] _,. """"'1''"''9 "''1 "£ ~>'? a (; '() "'T 1 " ' ' " •'-'/ T"J } 11 v 17 \4,.__,:::1 ('An>rc&vty /.,,..,v .p:;; :z ·--;:; JIJ ''-f-"V17 'A'f"j :."11 f""""7 '"'f"~"Z(f /'f"'7'~r ~'11' .'11 "f'J.0...<1"""11i! '~JC'"""a -r- ·~·?·reb., '/ 0 7 7a ~''1 r1M t!W F"I ""'"'/"' n "ti I ""'1 "''[/ VJ '"4'V"Wfi'N' I ~, w>? J"+r I'"'A'J"-9 ''I,J'"""" l>" 11"7 '· "'JT ·f I IA\A'?,1f/ ''I"';:,"""V '?c,;roJ :1 '1/1 r; "'"'"r :.;r fTMVAfj 0~7 ~~~rcA,Ht7 ·II•J ,·,'"1"£"fr JL(,r 1 5 .,...,,w �Lecture Schedule 1970, 1971 Sept 25, 1970 Robert A. Goldwin St. John’s College, Annapolis Oct 2 Allen R. Clark Silver Spring, MD Oct 23 Alexander Bicket Center For Advanced Study in the Behavioral Sciences, Stanford CA Oct 30 Martin Diamond Claremont Men’s Coll., Claremont CA Nov 6 Noel Lee Paris, France Nov 18 Hans-Georg Gadamev Heidelberg U, Heidelberg Germany Nov 20 King William Players St. John’s Coll. Annapolis Dec 11 Richard McKee Yale U., New Haven CT Jan 8, 1971 Leon Kass National Research Council, Washington DC Jan 15 Douglas Allanbrook St. John’s College, Annapolis Jan 22 Muhsin Mahdi Harvard U., Cambridge MA Feb 5 John Logan SUNY, Buffalo NY Feb 12 Iowa String Quartet Feb 19 Charles Singleton Johns Hopkins U, Baltimore MD Feb 26 William Darkey St. John’s College, Santa Fe Mar 5, 1971 Gisela Berns St. John’s Coll. Annapolis Mar 12 Leo Strauss St. John’s College, Annapolis Apr 2 Eva Brann St. John’s Coll. Annapolis Aprt 16 Gabriel Stolzenberg Northeast U, Boston MA Apr 23 Eastern Chamber Ensemble New York, NY Deans Opening Lecture “Philosophy of Law” “The New Supreme CourtProspects & Problems” On the U.S. Constitution Piano Concert “Plato As A Hermeneutic Problem” Henry IV, Part I Concert Biomedical Advance and Ethical Problems Harpsicord Concert “Religion and Politics in Arabian Nights” “A Concert of Poetry, With Comments” Concert “The Structure of The Divine Comedy” “Books and Experience” “On Hippolytus” On Machiavelli On Thomas Mann’s Death in Venice On Mathematics Woodwind Quintet Concert �Lecture Schedule 1970, 1971 Apr 30 Peter Brown The Urban Inst., Washington DC May 1 May 7 Leslie Epstein & Douglas Allanbrook Curtis Wilson U. of California, San Diego CA John Graham & Douglas Allanbrook Allan Bloom U of Toronto, Toronto Ont Canada Jacob Kline St. John’s College, Annapolis William Pitt Rabbi Bernard Ducoff Bureau of Jewish Education, San Francisco CA May 8 May 14 May 20 May 28 June 4 “Some Moral Issues in Metropolis Finance: Can I get Away From It All in the Suburbs” Harpsicord & Recorder Concert “Kepler, Newton and Planetary Motion” Harpsicord & Viola Concert “Emile” “About Plato’s Philebus” “Logic- Beyond Modality” “On Translating the Bible-Then & Now” � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>.  <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5&amp;sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&amp;sort_dir=d">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a> or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context formallectureseriesannapolis Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 4 pages Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Office of the Dean Title A name given to the resource Lecture Schedule 1970, 1971 (handwritten & transcribed) Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1970-1971 Description An account of the resource Schedule of lectures and concerts for the 1970-1971 Academic Year. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Lecture Schedule 1970-1971 Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource text Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this publication. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Relation A related resource March 03, 1971. Berns, Gisela. <a href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/show/1093" title="Nomos and physis">Nomos and physis: an interpretation of Euripides' Hippolytus</a> May 07, 1971. Wilson, Curtis. <a href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/show/3647" title="On the origins of celestial dynamics">On the origins of celestial dynamics: Kepler and Newton</a> Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Goldwin, Robert A., 1922-2010 Clark, Allen R. Bicket, Alexander Diamond, Martin Lee, Noël, 1924-2013 Gadamer, Hans-Georg McKee, Richard Kass, Leon Allanbrook, Douglas Mahdi, Muhsin Logan, John Singleton, Charles Darkey, William Berns, Gisela N. Strauss, Leo Brann, Eva T. H. Stolzenberg, Gabriel Brown, Peter Wilson, Curtis Bloom, Allan Klein, Jacob Pitt, William Ducoff, Rabbi Bernard King William Players Friday night lecture Lecture schedule https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/c5bc8027630bb866b754661a6baf700e.pdf b8e87c27e75385f2ef4cb986f5936413 PDF Text Text NOMOS AND PHYSIS (An interpretation of Euripides' Hippolytos} Gisela Berns St. John's College, Annapolis The na_ tural order of presentation might seem to be reversed in a title which focuses on Nomos and Physis as ·two related aspects of one and the same theme. Is not Physis (Nature) an indispens~ble ground for Nomos (Convention) and therefore a key to its unders,tanding? The · the seemingly natural order can be found arising from ~uripides' play ~ippolytos, rea~on ~n the for reversing suggcs~ion, that, in the case of man, Nomos is as indispensable an end for Physis as Physis is an indispens~ble ground for Nomos, that Physis provides the potentialities, Nomos the actuality of man, and that therefore Nornos comes to be the key to· a final understanding of man's Physis. II Immediately following Aphrodite's prologue (1-57); the play presents Hippolytos, offering a wreath of ·f lowers· to Artemis (58-87). In th_ dedication of the wreath, preceeded e by an enthusiastic hymn to the goddess's beauty and exaltedness (58-72), Hippolytos reflects on the'possession of �-2"olllcppoodvn" and its connection to his companionship with Artemis. ' "ooL tdv6~ . lcLµQvo,, ' 1lcxtov otlcpavov it &xnpdtou 1 6lo101.va, xooµ~aa' cplpw, lv&' o~tc 101.µ~v &t1.ot cplpBcLV Sot~ o~t' nl&l 1111 a(6npo,, &11' axnpatov µllt.OOa lELµQv' npt.V~V 6t.lPX£Tat. al6~' 6~ 1otaµCaLOL xnxcdcL 6~&00~'' .. , . ' ,;, '-'to owcppovctv c1.lnxcv tt.!; ta xavt. ac , _, QA).' I Wf(An 6l0101,VQ, XP00la!; x&µn, ' I \ ava6nµa 6lta1. _ xc1.po' -'· µ cS v w 1. yap ; £• o t' t. T o0 t • &10. c~acSoo, • .I c µ o '1. y &:; p a ' . Bp o T Gh.1 • ' ' .f ' .I • 001. XQL tuVCLPI. XaL loyoL, aµc1.Soµa1., # \ .f x~uwv \ ~ J! µcv auu,.,, oµµa 6 0 ;i_ 0 ,I oux opwv to oov. 0 I - \ The dedication unfolds in two parts. Each part begins with an appeal to the goddess and ends with a reflection, the first one on the possession of "owcppoodvn" ,_ the second one on Hippolytos' companionship with Artemis. Both parts, though they correspond to each other in structure, differ from each other in tone: the second one · applies to Hippolytos personally what the first one elaborates in general. In the first part of the dedication, Hippoiytos claims �-3- that only nature and divine allotment can truly account for the possession of "aw,poadvn". This claim is ~xpressed iri ·three, increasingly abstract statements: first a description, then a poetic image and finally a philosophical discussion. The description of the inviolate meadow, where the flowers for Hippolytos' wreath were gathered, distinguishes not only · between flock and iron on the one hand, and the roaming bee 1 on the other hand, but also implies a·distinction between the flock, something in nature, and the iron, something from nature, developed by art into something again.s t nature i tne sickle. This increase in supposed violation of the meadow, inherent in the sequence of examples which are set off from the example of the bee, has two opposite effects: its immediate . effect, supported by a grammatical "a~>.'" (76), is separation. Furthermore, the repetition of the watchword "ax~patov" (73; . 76) · ties the example of the bee rhetorically to Hippolytos' offering of the wreath, and sets them both off from the examples of flock and iron. Yet the · interp.o sition of those examples, implying violation, between the examples, implying no violation but rather fulfillment, suggests at the same time a separation between Hippolytos' offe~ and. the example of the bee. This more subtle effect is to be weighed carefully, since the description of the roaming bee carries ove+ into the poetic image of "al6111~"· The extension of the one into the other is grammatically effected by the implicit continuation �-4of the direct object 11 A£ l.).JiiiV) ax~patov" (76). In keeping with the ambiguous character of the link between Hippolytos'-offer and the example of the bee before, the granunatical conjunction \ . "6t" (78) between the example of the bee and the image of "at6c)s" can at the same time be understood to connect and to separate. Furthermore, the image of "al6<.3,", gardening the inviolate meadow, contains in itself a strange alloy of .wild and tamed nature, of nature and culture, and therefore seems to question Hippolytos' claim that only nature and divine allotment can truly account for the possession of "awcppoa~vri", the theme of the final discussion of the dedication's first part. Mentioning the gathering of flowers ~n the end of this philosophical discussion however suggests, that there is one continuous interpretation of Hippolytos' offer, which is consecutively exp-ressed in des~riptive, poeti'c, · and philosophical language. The key term in Hippolytos' philosophical conclusion . \ is "To awippovetv" (80). Like the center of two concentric circles, it.is surrounded by two pairs of correlated terms: "ev tf,\ ,,Soe1." and "er>.rixev" in the inner circle, \. ~ri6ev" and "To~' xaxoto1. o' opposition between the 11 ' 61.oaM'tov 06" in the outer circle. The accept~nce of 'the 'bee and the rejection of flock and iron from the initial .d escription repeats itself . . \ in this final stage of the argument as the rejection of "to 01.1>1ppovetv" as "61.oaxt~v", against the acceptance of correlated with "Tot' xaxoto1." 11 't'~ oooqipovetv" as "ev T~ ftfoe1.", correlated with "eC>.rixev". The opposition is emphasized rhe- �-5- torically through closeness to the center and affirmative statement for what is accepted, remoteness from the center apd negative statement for what is rejected. Grammatically, an "a>.>.'" (79), like an echo of the one above, which isolated the example of the bee from those before, isolates the inner circle from the outer one. The connectiQn between the poetic image of "at6~i;" and the philosophical discussion about . "T~ owq>povttv" is controversial. The two possible constructions are: one --"'at6~i;' gardens with river dew for those to whom it is not taught, but in their nature· allotted to be 'owcppwv' with respect to all things all the time, for those to pluck, but for the base it is not right;" the other --"'ot6~i;' gardens with river dew; for those to whom it is not taught but in their nature allotted to be 'a~cppwv' with respect to all things ali the time, f9r .tho$e to pluck, but for the base it is not . right." In both . readings, the sentence structure is highly complex: In . the first reading, where "at6~i;" is supposed to "garden for those, to whom it is not taught but in I their nature allotted to be 'o~cpp(l)v' things all the time, for those to with respect to all pluck~ · the repetition of the indirect object, once in relative, o·n ce in demonstrative form, seems to overstress the connection between "at6~i;" and "T~ awcppove:tv." At the same time however, the iength of the relative clause separates the repeated terms more than appears natural. In the second reading, where 11 ·•at6~s;' gardens with river dew; for those, to whom it is not taught but in their �-6- nature allotted to .be 'a~•pwv' with respect to all things ba~e all the time, for those to pluck, but for the it is not right", the lack of any_grammatical relation between the first sentence and the followi~g relative complex poses the problem as to the connection between "at 6~ s" and In addition to that, _ the necessity to supply "to\ho1.s; opl1ca601." from "ou 11 "t ~ a <1Hp p ov £ t v" • -&lµ1.s;" for .&lµ1.s;" predicated for "xaxota1.", makes the whole relative clause with its discussion of "t~ aw,povctv" rather suspect. 2 The problematic character of the.dedication's first part will become clearer through an analysis of the second part and the correlation of the two in their respective three levels. The introduction of the second appeal to the . goddess by "aA.A.' 11 echoes those passages from the dedication's ,·first : part that stated the basis f~r acceptance·and thus prepares the _ground for the more personal character of the second part. The _goddess, now addressed as friend, is bidd.e n to accept a gift that previously was only offered. The justification ftxc1.p~s; cuac~oOs; im~gined &10 11 recalls the po~tic image of "a[6~s;", as . gardening the sacred meadow. The account of Hippoly- tos' companionship, closely linked through "y~p" to the mention-' i~g of his piety, seems to correspond to the discussion of \ "To awq>povetv" in the dedication's first part. ·1n keeping with the positive and 'more personal character of the second part, _the emphasis, indicated by the order of discussion, is now rather on the supernatural gift than on the natural en- �-7- dowment. The correlation of "iv t~ 9t1a&1.tt and "tC>.nxtv" from above, which centered around "t~ O(l)cppovetv", seems to reappear in the correlation of "yip as" and ~Tl>.os 6~ 1i~µ<1;a1.µ • ~al:tP eCou", nptcl\Jnv which center around the description of Hippoly- tos' and the goddess's companionship • . 'l'here is . nothi~g in the second part that corresponds explicitly to. the negative references in the first part, though the "i:ots xaxotoi. 6' ou " seems to be implicit in Hippolytos' exclusive chosenness, the "61.6axt~v µn6~v" in his wish for concord between the beginning and the end of his life (a notion, that is supported rhetorically by the position . of "tt'>.os" at the beginning of the statement and contrasted. granunatically with "6~" from the implications mentioned). The central account of Hippolytos' devotion to Artemis is puzzling in so far : as it describes a companionship'. which is characterized by the exchange of ">._ yo 1.", & the mortal hearing the voice but not seeing the eye of the immortal partner. This detail beqomes significant, if one recalls that the rational aspect of "T~ owcppovttv" had been que•tioned, if not deniedJin the first part's negation of \ . and its correlation with "JC.a>eotai.." Apart from the fact that "01.11cppoo~"Vn" is to be expla.i ned etymologically 3 as "61..6axtov" "thinking sane thoughts" or "saving one'~ . good sense" and therefore implies a rational aspect, the question arises whether the excha~ge of 11 .A.&yo1." can base itself merely on divine. gift, allotted to one in his nature 4 , or whether the �-8- . qualification "xA.Jwv \ µEV \ au6f\', !µµa 6 'OUX . ' op&'rv TO OOV 11 does not suggest that Bippolytos lacks insight 5 into the nature of his companionship as well as of the virtues connected with it. Ju~ging from the correlation between the two parts of the dedication, Bippolyltos understands "t~ awcppovttv", meaning chastity6, to be aided by "f&L6~~". meaning shame, and both to be equated with "tua~tltLa'~, mea~ing pious devotion to Artemis. 'l'he lack of insight, supposedly indicated by Bippolytos' not seeing the e~e of the goddess., vould pertain to three· : related aspects of his - understandin,g:.First, the meanin,g of the virtues . 11 . \ . at6c3,, To awcppovttv, tuallitLa": second, their origin; and third, their interrelation. The fact that Hippolytos understands the meaning of these virtues exclusively in terms of his companionship with Artemis 7 , determines at the same time thei,r origin and interrelation •. Yet the ambiguity ' of. grammatical and rhetorical links in the dedication's first, more. general, part seemed to question the interrelation between the virtues and therefore also their meaning and .their origin. The unarnb~guous character of the ~orresponding gra.mniatical links .in the dedication's second, more personal, part only reinforces the impression that Bippolyto~ the complexity inherent in both the \ of "to has ineani~g ~ost s~ght of and the origin G~fPOV&tv". III 'l'he issue in question might be articulated most clearly by considering some philosophic texts, which are concerned �-9- with the relationship between "at6~'" and "awcppoa\SvJl", the terms most problematically related in this cruci~l pass~ge of Euripides' Hippolytos. One might object to the attempt to clarify a dramatic statement through the analysis of a philosophic text. The objection however can be met by the fact, that Euripides himself employs philosophical language in such a way that it becomes an integral part of the drama. In Plato's Charmides,,a dialogue about "owcppoodvtln, we are {>resented with a .number of definitions that are discarded, one after the other, as insufficient.·Though all insufficient in themselves, their order of presentation fJ:'.om a less ra·tional to a more rational understanding sugge~ts the possibility .that . . " all of them play a part in a definition which, though never . . . reached, might comprehend "ow9poodvn" as ~whole.a S~gnifi­ cantly for ou~ purpose, Ch~rmides, in his'second attempt, defines "awcppoodvn" ·as tt~~ep at6~'" (160e). The refutation, which is based on a very inappropriate quote from Homer, ends with the assertion that "at6~i;" is neither good nor bad (l6la-b) and therefore fails to define "oll>11,i:>ool1~1l,., admittedly something. good. The questionable character of the refutation reveals itself in two aspects, which are borne out by the drama of the dialogue: When Socrates, after comparing Charmides to a beautiful statue (154c) , first asked him whether he posaessed 11 awq1poa1'vn 11 (158b), Charmides blushed and looked even more beautiful than before, since his shame became his youth (158c). Tracing out this apparent connection between 11 at6~'" �-10- and "01.11,pood"n", Charmides pronounces his second definition after courageously looking into himself (160e)., an act that later will supply the basis for one of the highest definitions of "01.111ppoad"n" (167a). A closer examination of Socrates' - or~ginal question (158b-c) will provide us with an answer, as to why Charmides' second definition was nevertheless refuted. Socrates considered first, whether Charmides was by nature sufficiently endowed for 11 011>1ppoo1Svn" (158b), then, whether· he was already sufficiently "a~fp11>v" (158b), and finally asked him, whether he would say that he participated sufficiently in "ow1ppoadvn" (158c). The stress on a natural presupposition that, oz.i .the one hand, is fic~ent nec~ssary, on the other hand insuf- in itself, explains the statement that "at6~c" is neither. good nor bad (16lb). The comparison of Charmides to a beautiful statue ·might point to the fact that he possesses "a1.111ppoo .~vn" only in the static form of its natural presuppo- sition9. The last chapter of book IV of Aristotle's Niccmachean. Ethics deals with the same problem in a more elaborate form. "At6~'" is not considered a virtue, · because it has to do with the body (1128b 14-15) and therefore . is rather a a "ltL~" "~d~o~" than (ll28b 10-11). Concerned with the same issue, Aris- totle.' s Eudemian Ethics (1234a 24-35) provides the criterion for the distinction between ''11d~n" and "ltt1., 0 : the former are "!vtu 'lpoaLplatw'" (1234a 25-26). This however does 1'ot mean that there is no connection between the two: _he "11d-&n", t �-11bei~9 "tpua1.xcl 11 , can be understood as leadi~9 into, "ipua1.xal &peTaC", which are distinguished from "apeTa\" proper thr~ugh the latter's being "lltT~ fPpov!faew'" (1234a 28-30). The example of ''at 6..,, .. , / leading into "011Hpp oa.Svn", is commented on in pa- · renthesis, that for that reason people define "awcppoadvn" in this genus, namely "at6~s;" (l234a 3.2-33). The difference . ' ' ' between "fPU<H xa" apt Ta 1." and "ape T<H" . proper is made even more explicit in book VI of Aristotle's Nichomachean Ethics by calling the latter "apeTa~ xdp1.a1. 11 .(ll44b 3-4) 10 • Now applied to virtue in. general, the passage in book VI not only . '. · tries to clarify the similarity ("1&01. yap 6ox£t lxaaTa Tiav ~-&ii>\I U1t.dpxe1.v cpdat1. t(l)s;", 1144b 4-5) and dissimilarity (xa~. y~p 1a1.al xal ~np(o1.' at tpua1.~al U1tdpxoud1. l~&L,, &11" &v~u voO SlaJh:pa\ ipa(vovTa1. oi'oai.", 1144b 8-9; _.,cf. H.A. 588a 17- 589a 9) between the two forµis , of virtue, b'ut also. understands their distinction to be based on a highly rational principle.· While the two passages from the Eudemian Ethics spoke successively of 11 1tpoa(peat.s:" (E.E., 1234a 25-26) and "cppdvnai.s;" (B.E., 1234a 28-30), the passage from the Nicomachean Ethics speaks of "vous;" (N.E., ll44b 8-9). Significantly for our purpose, the example illustrating the lack of "voOs;" shows a man of strong body (the natural presupposition), who lacks s~ght;. (the rational component) and. is therefore likely to fall heavily (ll44b 10-12; cf. lll4b l-25). As the passage frQm the Eudemian Ethics warned of confounding virtue with its natural presupp6sition (e.g. defining "awtppbadvn" as �-1211 at6ws;"), so the passage from the Nicomachean Ethics warns of confounding it with its rational component (ll44b 17-36) and suggests that it be understood as "oux av£U tppOV~C7£ws;" (1144b 20-21). The fullest treatment of the question is to be found at the beginning of book II of Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics: 11 .tt Out • .t .If \ .f • ' • I apa lpu0£L OUT£ wapa 'uOLV £YYLYVOVTQL QL apttaL, • t alla ' •£fUX&OL \.l~V nµtv oltaa~aL auTas;, T£A£LOU\.llVOL$; 6~ OL~ Ton l~ous;" (1103a 24-26). What in the passages quoted above was . distinguished as '11 aptta\ 1pu0Lxa\ 11 and ·"cip£·ta\ xdp1..cu", is here articulated in terms of "odvaµLs;" and "cvlpytLa" (ll03a 26-28). 'l'he difference between the two stages has to be bridged by "l~os;" and "6L-6aoxal{a 11 (1103~ 14-18), their proportion depending on whether the virtue is "n~hx~" or "6Lavont1ox~", though the aspect . of teaching - and learning, ~·:hich is illustrated by. examples from "tlxv11" (1103a 31-34 1 ll03b 8-13), seems to become more and more relevant even for.the moral virtues (1103a 31-1103b 2, 1103b 13-22), for instance "aw1ppoadv11" (1103b 1-2, cf. llOSa 17-llOSb 18). If matters were different, Aristotle ' points out, there would be no need for teaching, . . · but we all would be either good or ba. (1103b 12..;.14). d In such a case, as Plato's Protagoras remarks (323a-324d), one would never praise nor blame a · man ·for the presence or absence of a virtue, since only nature or fortune would be responsible for it. Significantly for our purpose, the passage directly preceding this one, Protagoras' Prometheus_ myth �-13- tella about how Zeus sent Hermes with the. gift of "aL6~'" and "6C•ll" .(322c) to all men in order to prevent the threat of their mutual destruction. What the myth, appropriately for a d~vine. gift, called "ato~s" and "6(xn", the following dis- cu~sion about political virtue calls a11uppoa.Sv11" and "61.xcua.Svn" (323a ff.), representing the addition of a rational component in an ending indicative for abstract nouns.11 The one feature which is common to all the texts, quoted in this excursus, is the rejection of exclusivity in the account of virtue, be it .by teaching, ~Y training, by nature, ·or in any other way (Plato, Meno, 70a). The last possibility most me~ni~gfully would con\bine all three ways~ 12 'l'he one passage that not only brings lthis·· whole '~.discus'sion into focus, but also opens up new perspectives to be followed up in the analysis of Euripides' Bippolytos, is the fundamental definition of man in the opening pages of Aristotle's Politics (1253a 1-39): "tavcp~v, St1. ••• 6 &v~p~•o' tdac1. ~ol1.t1.x~v ~;o~" (1253a 2-3). The "'dat1.", which is replaced, in thee~ laboration on the definition, by "61.~ ,do1.v" and in that form set off from "61.~ Tdxnv" (1253a 3-4) ·, states man's being political as inherent .necessity and differentiates thus the species "man" from others within the same . genus "animal". . . Bei~9 ' political, on the other hand, does not seem to be an exclusive differentia, s'ince ~t applies to other animals as well. (Significantly for our purpose, the examples chosen are· the bee and herdi~g animals, thus linking together the two �-14stro?gly contrasted in Hippolytos' dedication to Artemis. ~f Hippolytos' acceptance of the bee against the rejection the flock might be seen in the l~ght of Socrates' myth in the Phaedo (82b), where those who possess "awippoadvn" without philosophy and in thinki~gwill, a later life, take on the form of other political animals like the bee). Th~ difference, which girll'es the differentia "q)\fo£1. 1ol.LT .1.lCdv", added to the genus "tijlov", differentiati?g power, is a difference of degree ("61.dt1. 6i 1ol.1.T1.lC~V o &v8pC11•os tll'ov xcfons i ~d -~'t~ll~ .:,.:a.\ · •1:1\>'t~S &y&l.aCou t'ou µa~l.ov, 6~l.ov", 1253a 7-~; cf. H.A. 588a l7- 589a 9), based on man's exclusive possession of tt>.&yos" (">.&yov · 6~ µ&vov av8p(l)IOS lxt1. TWV '~(l)V", 1253a . II \ \ . fY • \ \ . - ta µEV ouv QAAa tll>V ,. If t~~\I . . A \ • · \ µuAl.OTa µEv 9-io, cf. 1332b 3-8 ill ty _f . ,u~EI. ' ill l';y, . ' µ1.lCpa ~ ' ' c ' ' 1;V&.C1 lCa.&. Tot' t;-&£01.v; av-&p(l)IOS 6£ lCal. . l. _Sy..,1 µ&vos yap . 6' t;XEI. A&yov' WOT£ 6ct Ta0Ta au~,wvc?v aAl.~l.01.s. ~o>.>.~ y~p nap~ TO~!; ' \ ' . \ \ l81.dµous lCat. Tnv ,da1.v 1pdttoua1. 61.a tov ~&yov, ·' Eav 1c1.aema1.v ch.All)!> f)(e1.v all.tt.ov."). This natural possession of "l.dyos" (1253a 9) allows for universalization with respect to the sensation and expression of pleasure and pain, shared in by ~ll animals (1253a 10-14). While the sensation and expression of what is pleasant and painful is always occasioned by and bound to some particular occurrence, Which involves one individual and takes .place in one present time, the possession of "l.cSyoi;" allows foruniversalization of both through the notion· of what is convenient and harmful (1253a 14-15) This �-15notion, that is based on abstracti~g .from a particular present as well as from a particular individual, leads over into the notion of just and unjust, good and bad (1253a 15-18). The connection between the two prominent forms of the dif f erentia ' "tdoe1. 1tOA1.·ri.xov" and 11 . Adyov cxov" has to be gathered from the contrasting examples of the be~st that is unable to, and the. 9od who does not need to share in the notions of just and unjust, . good a~d bad (1253a 27-29) 13 • The reference to man's being the best of animals, if and when perfected, the worst, if and when disassociated from "vc5µos:" and "6(x"" (1253~ 31-33), . suggests, in contrast to either beast or. god, the capability for perfection on the basis of having "Adyos:". The difference in wordi~g . between "being political" and· "having AcSyos:" mig)lt point to the likely 'f act that having "Adyo.s:" potentially makes for bei~g poli~ioal bei~9 actually,.but that political actu- ally .makes for having "A6yos:" actually. The difference between bei~g and havi~g would .become apparent in the possible lack of having "Adyos:" actually, in the possible failure of man to . ' use his natural .weapons for the intended purpose: "9pdvna1.''' \ . . . and "apetn" (1253a 34-35), a failure .that would cause him to remain 11 UVOO 1.fh<ITOS: \ JC.CU ayp 1.chCITOS: 4Vt:U mp etl\S:" (125Ja 35-36) • IV The thematic passage (73-87) from Euripides' Hippolytos, if it is seen in the light of this and the above discussions, . seems to be concerned with one fundamental problem: the connection between Physis and ' Nomos • . Hippolytos' rejection of �. -16\ ""to awcpp ovctv" as "ch 6aM "tov" can be interpreted as a rejection of the natural weapons, with which man is born and which are intended for the perfection of his nature, i.e. for the perfection of Physis through Nomos. Hippolytos' fault then would lie in his failure to recognize the fact, that what is natural for all animals is narrower in content than what is natural for man, the only animal which is by nature endowed with the possession of "Adyo~" "A&yo~"· His failure to rec~gnize the role of in human nature leads him to neglect the fact that .in the case of man NomoS is as indispensci.ble an. end for Physis as Physis is an indispensdble ground for Nomos, that Physis provides the potentialities, Nomos the actuality of man, and that therefore·Nomos comes to be the key to a 'f inal understanding of man's Phys is. Hippolytos' wish for concord between the be-. . ginning and the end of his life reminds one of the description of Charmides as a beautiful statue, a description which indicates Charmides' insufficient possession of following an~lysis "awq>p oa\S.vn". The of the play will attempt to show that the play can be interpreted as a development of the thematic passage we have been concerned with. Indications_ given so far by Euripides as to the insufficiency of Bippolytos' view of himself and of human nature can be detected in .content as well as in form: in content - from his bei~g together preferably with beasts and a_ goddess; in form - from the grammatical and rhetorical analysis of Hippolytos' dedication to Artemis, which revealed the implicitly ·contradictory character of the ex- . �. -17- notion that "T~ a111q>pov&tv" is allotted to plicitly stated one in his nature by divine gift. The fact that the paradigms for acceptance in Bippolytos • dedication, t~e example of th.e bee, visiting, and the image of "atof.11'"• . 9ardeni~g the sacred meadow, imply a fulfillment of ·natural potentialities_- questions . Bippolytos' understanding of the origin ot 11 T~ ac.1Hppovctv". · ... \ Moreover , that "a t 6111 s " . and " T' a (.I) cp p o v e: t" " • equated with " ·c uo l Bc 1. a" , o seem to be at the same time grammatically disconnected and very closely connected, questions their relation meani~g. ·of the i~9 as well as their The climax of Hippolytos' dedication in the description excha~ge of. ").cSyo1." with Artemis, Bippolytos only hear- the . voice but not seeing the eye of the:. goddess, reminds . one ()f Aristotle's example of 'the man with strong body, but without sight, who is likely to fall heavi~y. Aphrodite's characterization of the · rel~tionship between Hippolytos and Artemis as seen in the "µc(l;t11 BpoTc(as 1pocncawv 0µ1.).(a!;" l~ght (19), if it is of the Aristotelian simile, would suggest that Hippolytos' hearing the voice but not seeing the eye of the goddess symbolizes his failure to appreciate the role of "Adyo'" in man's nature and the li.J<elihood .of his fall for . that reason~ The failure to appreciate the role of ").dy()!;" in man's nature would show itself in the failure to appreciate the ways in which man's nature, perfected by convention, overcomes nature simply (cf. Aristotle, Politics, 1253a 31-33) 14 • �·-18- v In the prologue, Aphrodite proclaims her vengefuln~ss towards anyone who dares to affront her with "µlya cppov£tv" (6). Hippolytos' companionship with Artemis, yet even more his der!Jgatory attitude towards herself ("Alyct. xax(a'tnv 6a1.µcfvwv 1t£q>uxlva1. 1511 , 13), strike her as falling beyond any human bounds ("µcCtw BpoTc(a, 1poo1ealilv 0µ1.A(a~", 19). Artemis, in turn, refers to the fatal revenge Aphrodi~e takes on Hippoly- tos by accusing her of wrath over his "01.111ppoodv11" ( "K1hp 1. ~ ••• aei>ppovoOv'tL tixae'to, 1400-1402). When Hippolytos finally X'.eal- .izes, which divine power destroyed him, he expresses his recognition with a verb that represents the neutral component of . ' 6~ 6aCµov" n µ' &1~A&acv", 1401). Between t.he two characteri- zations of HipP:olytos, as "µ,ly11 cppov&iv" by 'A phrodite, as "a1A>1ppovGv" by Artemis, stands, like the fulcrum of a balance, Phaedra's prediction: "awcppovctv µa.e~oc'ta1." (730-731). This prediction appears to be in striking contrast to Hippolytos' own . understandi~g ., . \ ' \ . of nyo a11><ppovctv" as "µ11 61.oax't&v", where "61.6axtov" was rather correlated with "xaxoto1.'' (79-81). In accordance with this notion, Hippolytos' claim to .b~ "or!cpp(l)v" se~ond revolves around the task to prove or disprove, in the half of the play, whether he is base natured or not ("ct xax~, ~lcpux' &v~p", 1031, 1075, 1191; cf. lb71 "ct 6~ xaxcf' · ye cp a (vo µ a ~ 6 o H ii\ t £ a o (" ~ , l lf. 5 2 " b> cp ( 1. 't a .e , w s y £ vva t o ~ € xcp a ( v ti \ 1la'tpC "). Together with the thematic discussion of "'to awcppovctv" �. . ' as "µn -19. 61.6c:un~v", the triad "µlya ,poviiiv" - "awq>povctv · µae!fac-ra1." - "awqipovwv" s:u9gests the question whether the center separates or mediates between the two opposite characterizations. Before being able to answer this crucial question one would have to explore three related aspects: first, the broader context of Hippolytos' rejection of teaching in the \ . ·. case of "To Oll)q>povetv", second, the internal and external causes behind this rejection, and third the meaning of Hippolytos' predicted learni~g to be "a~eppwv". The last consideration, concerning itself initially with the relation between teaching and learning (cf. Plato, Meno, 70a}, will be decisive for the final discussion of Hippolytos as tr~gic hero. In the scene (88-120), which follows Hippolytos' initial address to Artemis, his old servant involve's him in a conversation that aim~ at questioning his exclusive devotion to one . goddess. At first, the cautious question is, whether the "vcfµos" of "cu1tpoanyop(11" (95), established among men (91) and supposedly ("eCu:p", 98) following the "v~µo1." of the gods, has obliging force even where there is no inclination, as in the case of Hippolytos towards Aphrodite (106,113). The old serlord changes. significantly _ from "!vat" (88) to "1at" (107) 16 in order to indicate that. Hippoly- vant•~ appeal to his yo~ng tos' attitude of mind ("To~s vlou~ y~p oo \.IL\.lnTlov q>povouvTas o~Tws", 114-115) has to be accounted for with his youthful (118) immaturity and therefore to be fo:rgiven (117). The final postulate of superior wisdom on the part of the immortals (120) �-20- does not promise fulfillment, since both, · Aphrodite directly . (99, 103), Hippolytos indirectly.(93, 94), . are charactel;';i.Z~d by one and the same epithet; ''a ell\> cf, n • Aphrodite' s enmity 17 ~gainst Hippolytos in her prologue was not so much provoked by his companionship with Artemis, as by his haughtiness,, which expressed itself ·in derogator:v statements about .herself (13, cf • .~, 330-342, especially 333-334). Bis attitude appears uniquel~ provocative, in that he alone of the citizens of'l'roezen (12) does not acknowledge Aphrodite's claim to .all pervadi~g fame (1-2, cf. 103, 445, 1268-1281). In acqordance .w ith the emphasis on what she is called or said to be (2, 13), her qualification "µ&vo~ 1tOAt.Tiv" recognizes the worship of the gods to be .a public matter·, closely · tied in, ·w ith 'the· ''-..J4...a;o "" of the "'lcH" '". In contradistinction to that, Hippolytos ·' , stresses not sq much the ou~st.anding posi t:i:on he has amo~g the citizens as among all mortals (84). This abstraction of himself from conventions, bound to time and place,. and understanding himself as mortal in relationship to immortals, shows a radicality that, goes both beyond and against the "v&µo'" in question: beyond, in so far as it tolerates no compromisel 8 of principles; against, because through this lack. of tolerance his attitude points to the meaningless superficiality of a "vcSµos;" which is indifferent to the principles i'nvolved. Hippoly- tos• · answer to the old servant's challenge to conform to the 1 "vcSµos;". of "cu1poanyop (a" with respect to Aphrodite; • ' ' ' autnv ayvo' al ~v "11:pcfolll~ev • I • aa1a,oµac." (102, cf. 113), indicates that one �-21cannot, at least not uncompromisingly (104), worship at the same time Artemis and Aphrodite •. (The close connection between 19 the two goddesses , Artemis being not only the goddess of but also of childbirth, completing, as it were, vi~ginity, the work of Aphrodite, does not render their incompatibility less striking). The sequence of the first two scenes, Aphrodite's prologue and Bippolytos •. address to Artemis, presented, ·as thesis and antithesis, the principles o1 the play. The third scene, the conversation between Hippolytos and the old servant, poi~ts, · as to a synthesis, · to a possible though improbable untragic solution. The fact that Bippolytos' only reply to the old ' servant's final exhortation ("·uµata1.v, xpe~v", ">' ' c.i •. '!tat, o<uµ&v(l)v xpt\a-&a1. 107) is in turn an exhortation to .his fellow hunters . (108-112) is ("xpe~v", u~derlined by ~epeati~g an expression of necessity 107, 110); the old servant speaks of the necessity to use the gifts of the_ gods, Bippolytos of the necessity to have his horses prepared for exercise. The insistence on necessity in both cases, one implying immortal, the other mortal will, appears to hint ironically toward Hippolytos' terrible end, the destruction through his own horses. Hippolytos' last, con~mpuous .I . • \ ,, ~ " . ' \ \ .f 1 ine ( "tnv .c:rnv 6e Ku11p1.v 'ltQAA • ey(I) xa1.pe1.v 1\e;yw, 120), together with his n~gative attitude towards acquiri~g "aw<ppoalSvri" through teaching, defies the old servant's hope that his young lord may mature and come to his right senses ("vouv lxw" oaov a~ 6£t", 105). The question, which arises �-22· from the unity of these three introductory scenes, is, whether the appearance of debunking .the tho~gh H \I cfµ o s;" of "£ u po o ray op 'a" , even · it it involves incompatible principles, is compatible with the possession of "a.wippood\lra", claimed by Hippolytos, and whether his attitude towards 11 \ldµos;" in. general is significant for the truth oi: untruth of his notion about the origin of VI Th~ "vdµos;" of "tultpoonyop(a", which was discussed in the final scene of the introduction, comes to be treated more specifically in the conversation between the nurse and Hippolytos (601-668) , on the one hand, and Hippolytos and Theseus , '. (902-1101), on the other hand. The two conversations are. grouped .around Phaedra's prediction for Hippolytos, "awcppo\lttv µa-&!fot-rcu" . (731), and spe1:1 out what Hippolytos' .rejection of the "vdµos;", specifically what his rejection of Aphrodite, means in a broader context: Rejecting Aphrodite, on the one hand, means rejecting family, on the other, rejecting political society, the one being the basis for the other and both an expression of man's · 11 ,do 1. , .. ., represented thro~gh "vdµo1. 11 .; This representation has its roots in the possession of 11 ).dyos;", which enables man to perfect his nature from potentialities to actuality. As a speculation, one might say that a rejection of Aphrodite, the . 90. dess that initiates, even if unintentionally, family and d political society, means, even if seemingly the opposite, a rejection of th~ perfecting role of "A&yos;" with' respect · �-23- to human nature. Seen in this light, Hippolytos' negative . attitude towards Aphrodite leads directly to his denial ~f \ . "To ow,povttv" as "61.6axT&v", as result of a process of per- fection rather than as a gift allotted to one in his nature. The correlation of the two aspects of Hippolytos' rejection, the rejection of family and political society, suggests itself both in form and in content: In form, the synunetry of the play (with Aphrodite and Artemis providing 'the frame 20 and Phaedra's prediction the center) .• keeps the two scenes be~ween the nurse · and Hippolytos and Bippolytos and Theseus in balance. In con• . tent, both are inextricably related through their exchange of roles: In the earlier scene, which points toward the rejection of family, Hippolytos accuses , and condemns, and Phaedra, . through the nurse, is accused and conde..mned. In the later scene~ which points toward ;the rejection of political society, Phaedra, thro~qh Theseus, accuses and condemns, and Hippolytos is accused and condemned. · aippolytos' condemnation of women as universal evil (608, . 616, 629, 632, 651, 6.66), with its ironic c6nclusion "~ vdv TL' aoT~' OWtPOVttv 61.6atdTw, A x&µ• ~dtw Tatcr6' l~tµBa(v&l.V a&\n (667- 668), ix:onic 21 if seen in the light of his rejection of teachi~g ' as source for "-ro awcppovetv" (79-81), shows a fundamental flaw in his understanding of human natu:t:"e: . His ju~qement women are alike in nature, ruled by passions, ~heir that all passions served by reason; his suggestion to surround women with mute beasts rather than servants in order to avoid corruption through �-24exchapge of . words (645-648); and his absurd recommendation to buy one's children rather than to continue the human race thro~gh women (616-624), all three attest to his .failure to appreciate the role of ''A&yo'" in man's nature. Judging all women to be alike in nature makes .him misjudge Phaedra through the nurse, Phaedra's nobility thro~gh the nurse's vulgarity, Phaedra's reference to the Nomos as criterion for the struggle of reason over -the passions thro~gh the nurse's reference · to · Physis as criterion for the triumph of the passions over reason. Towards the end of the conversation between .Phaedra and the ·nurse, the nurse had tried to persuade Phaedra of the senselessness of . fighting against love, a drive that is natural to all creatures of all elements, including the gods (437-439, 447458). Only to have been different decrees and b~gotten diffe~ent . ("tpuTe~e1.'1", 460) under gods would, in the nurse's eyes, justify Phaedra's uneasiness with respect to these "v&µo1." (459-461). Phaedra's attitude, on the other hand, points to the essential distinction between all creatures of all elements, including the gods, and man: his not being fixed in his nature by universal powers but being responsible for the fulfillment of it on the basis of having "A&yos" 22 • Hippolytos' absurd recommendation to buy one's children accordipg to financial ability in th_ temples of the gods e would be a solution to the problem of continuing the human race without..women, but it also would be a way to avoid all · responsibilities that family life naturally imposes on men: �.-25- Responsibilities between husband . and wife, between parents and children, that form .men in their fulfillment of human nature, in their perfecting themselves and eac;h other through "v~µo1. 11 , bringing to actuality the potenti~lit;ies. . '~cpda1.!;". of . Despite manifest disagreement between the riurse and Hippolytos, . ' . . there is a strong resemblance in their fundamental vd.~w' of · . . human nature. Though the nurse acceptsandllippolytos rejects .· . . the triumph of . the passions over reason, both . presuppose that · man's nature is fixed and therefore not to be . altered by education. The nurse takes her standard from all creatures of all elements, including the gods, Hippolytos his from most men, close to -beasts, and himself, clo.s e to gods~ Yet this similarity in form between the· nurse's .a'rt.d Hippolytos' view should not obfuscate the dissimilarity in ·content between the two. Hippolytos' intoleranc~ of baseness arid his radical 2.3 . understanding of morality not only separate. him from the nurse, but also bring him close to Phaedra. Both Phaedra and ' Hippolytos are driven into tragic conflict by the moral choice 24 between violating a sacred "vdµos" (in the case of Phaedra the "vdµos" of yielding to suppliants, in the case of Hippolytos the "v&µos" of keeping one's oath) and saving themselves from shame and death. The fact, that both preserve the "v&llos" rather than their own lives, becomes the stepping stone to tragedy for both of them. Yet this similarity in character between Hippolytos and Phaedra should not obfuscate the dissimilarity in tragedy between the two, shown by _the difference �. -26. of their deaths. Phaedra is conscious of her fault and the,ref.ore ·kills herself., while Hippolytos is not conscious of his and therefore is killed. The ,similarity a,nd . dissimilarity between Hippolytos and ·Phaedra appears to be ..mos.t ambiguous in Phaedra's central prediction for Hippolytos . "tn~ v&aou o~ .; ti\a6l µoc. xoc.vfh l.IEtaax~v owcp·povetv µa-&rto£tac." (73d-7. 31) ·~ . . . . Judging from the correlation of the .s cenes. dire·c tly · surrounding this prediction, the sickness alluded to seems to be Hippolytos' misjudgement of Phaedra, followed by Theseus' misjudge.. ment of Hippolytos • . Both .involve a self-contradiction: Phaedra contradicting her love with hate, Hippolytos contradicting his hate with love, though the one is a true, the ' othei:- ori:l,.y an alleged self-contradiction. The question which carries over into the sec.a nd ,E>art of the play is,· way Phaedra•s :prediction "a(l)cppov£tv wh~ther µa.e~attac." and in ·What 1 will come to be fulfilled. The discovery of Phaedra's note drives Theseus into ·blind and unrelenting accusation of Hippolytos (790-1101). Theseus' conviction of Hippolytos' guilt, in full support of Phaedra's charge, springs from his knowledge of young men in general (967-970), from the knowledge that they are ruled by passions, letting their passions be served by reason (920, 926, 936, 951, 957). This misjudgement of Hippolytos uses against him the same argument (916-920) he himself had used in his misjudgement of Phaedra (616-668, cf. 921-922, 79..:.91): the impossibility of teacl)ing anyone to think aright and be, "awcppw\1 11 who �-27\ is by nature "xaMos;" (94.2 , 945, 949, 959, 980). Hippolytos' attempt to clear himself . from. . guilt (933 cf. · 73l) ' and to . . Lute Theseus by demonstrating that he is sup~rior re- not only . to· the · ways of young men, .but to the ways of ·men .i n general (994-: 1001), makes him even more· suspect in the :eyes of Theseus. A man, who claims to be a companion of the gods and a,t tpe . same time rejects the most natural and sacred ways of men · (to have '. . .. . . a family and to participate in political· society), has to be suspect (949), or else the gods or the most natural .and sacred ways of men, s anctione~ by the gods, would be suspect. This however is a thought Theseus is not willing to embark on (951). Hippolytos' desire to be first in the "ay~v" rather th. n in a the "lt~AH" (1016-1017) shows a lack of commitment that reminds one of his .recomntendation . to buy one's ch_ldren in . tlw, temples • i of the gods r~ther than to depend on women for the con.tin~ation of the human race (618-624). Both instances could be .excused by the fact that Hippolytos is the son of an Amazon and therefore by nature averse to Aphrodite and family life, and the son of an Amazon by Theseus before The's eus' marriage to Phaedra and therefore by convention excluded from political ieadership. Yet, far from excusing himself, Hippolytos judges his lack of commitment to the most natural and sacred ways of men to prove his freedom from all human passions, which in his view are nothing but all too human. The reason why his acclaimed bei.n g "a~q>pCA>v" (994-1001) - (by hipiself and by Artemis) - is accused as being "µlya cppovwv" - (by Aphrodite and in one or the other �-28- form by all characters of the play) - can be found most openly in his boasting about it (73-87, 102, 994-1001, 1100, 1364..,. .. 1365), as if · it were something to be recko.n ed t,o· himself rather than to nature and fortune or to · nature and god-:~Jiven fate,· as he himself professes (78-81). The difference in judgement . . be~ . tween the goddesse$ provides the frame for a deeper search into the meaning of "T~ owcppove:tv"~ provoked by thecenter line "ow1ppovti:v µa-&nae:ta tos~ L", which seems ·t o contradict not only Hippoly.,.. understanding of himself but also his understanding Of llippolytos• understanding ~f himself apparently remains the same throughout the whole play.: he sees himself as 11 th~ rrios:t: ow1ppwv" of all mortals (994-1001). Afte.I'.. being banned from his homeland,. and ready to' depart from it with his horses (which at the beginning of the play he had ordered to be prepared for exer- · cise) (110-112), Hippolytos appeals to Zeus as witness of his innocence: " ZtD, · ~ µ11M£T • ttnv • • xoxos \ £L i l 9ux • avnp ••• " • ' c1 1 91- · , · 1193). In the following account of his .death, which might be understood as Zeus' answer, one aspect comes to be pointed out as most tetrible: that Hippolytos, t ~o was so familiar with horses (1219-1220); cf. 110-112), should have been killed by his own _horses, frightened by the appearance of the godsent bull out of the sea (1204, 1218, 1229, 1240). Even in the last scene, in the presenc~ of Artemis and Theseus, the fatal race of his horses rouses Hippolytos to a more heartre·nding ·1ament (1355-J..357) than the fatal curse of his father (1348-1349, �-29- .1362-1363, 1378). The self- defending reappeal to Zeus, which refers to his being · outstandingly "ot:·µvoi;", "~£o<H~1tTwp" and "owcppoalSvt1 nav"ta& uitt:pox~v" (1365-1366) . reminds . one of the early scene with the old servant who exhorted Hippolytos to behave more in accordance with the "voµos" of men and . gods. The analysis of Hippolytos' i=ejection of the "voµos" of "&6•poonyop(a" and of his natural and bonventional disposition towards such rejection will receive decisive clue.s from considering the circumstances of his death. Hippoly.tos' confrontation with the bull recails Theseus' encounter with the Minotaur .':'he significant difference between the two events can be seen in the nature of the man as well as in the nature of the beast. Theseus, on the one hand, represents himself, l1is family and his city. He is lead through the labyrinth with the help of Ariadne, who had fallen in love with him and had given him the famous thread of Daedalus. The beast, Theseus finally conquers, is a monster with the head of a bull and the body of a man. Hippolytos, on the other hand, is without responsibility for either family or city, the one by nature, the other by convention. In addition to that, he is banned from his homeland and therefore represents solely himself. The lack of experience in family and political life results in a lack of judgement about man and human nature. This lack of judgement made him spurn the thread he could have received from Phaedra, had he learned to be "owqipwv" , in other words had he learned to have respect for the labyrinth �-30- of human nature. The symmetry of the play, with Aphrodite and Artemis providing the frame and Phaedra's prediction for Hippolytos the center, suggests not only, as mentioned earlier, the correspondence of the scenes between the nurse and Hippolytos, and Hippolytos and Theseus, but also the correspondence of the scenes between Phaedra and the nurse and the description of Hippolytos' encounter with the bull. The development of the scenes between Phaedra and the nurse from a mad alternating between the passions and reason (198-266) to a clear account of reason and the passions as warring powers in man's soul (373-430), is answered in the description of Hippolytos' encounter with the bull by a development from self-control to a complete loss of control; in other words, to a complete getting lost irt the labyrinth of human nature. Unaccustomed to that labyrinth and to the hidden crossways between and the deviations of the rassions and reason, the beast Hippolytos is finally, though indirectly, conquered by is not a monster, half beast, half man, but wholly beast, ·Lhough of monstrous size 25 • Hippolytos' complete rejection of the passions, which he thinks renders himself above man and human nature, results in a complete ignorance about then and ., therefore in an extreme vulnerability with respect to them. The fact that he was not killed by the bull, but by his own horses 26 , frightened by the bull, shows a lack in his understanding of himself as a man, a failure to appreciate the interrelation of the powers that make up human nature. The picture of Hippolytos in his chariot 27 , losing control over his horses, frightened by the bull, reminds one of the picture Plato paints of the �-31human soul Hippolytos, as charioteer, represents the con- trolli~g elern~nt of reason; the horses, tied to the chariot, represent the spirited element, in the case of Hippolytos usually under control, but able to be swayed either by reason or the passions; the bull, rising out of the sea, represents the passions, frightening the spirited elemeni and finally overriding the control of reason. The·fact that the bull comes out of the sea, the element always and everywhere in flux, · might be a symbol for the difficulty of understanding the nature of the passions. The fact that Hippolytos' horses, frightened by the appearance .of the bull out of the sea, race across the land and throw their master against the rocks, the hardest form of the firm element, the earth, might be a symbol for Hippolytos' uncompromising rigour. The circumstances of ~ippolytos' death bear out the implications that contradicted the explicit statement of the thematic passage about "t~ awcppovc~v" in the beginning of the play: The fulfillment of natural potentialities, implicit in the example of the bee, visiting, and the image of "at6ws", gardening the ~acred meadow, together with the ambiguity about the connection between "a.t.S~s" and "t~ awcppove:i:\I", between the natural presupposition of ' "aw,poadvn" and "awcppoadvn" itself, suggested that Hippolytos' explicit statement about "t~ . awcppove:tv", its not being taught or to be taught, but being allotted to one in his nature, was highly questionable. The circumstances of Hippolytos' death seem to reaffirm the questionability of that statement. The �-32- complexity of human nature, represented by the complex of charioteer, horses and bull, would suggest that virtue has its origin not simply in nature but also in training and teaching. Hippolytos' rejection of the two latter stages of development and the wish for concord between the beginning and the end of his life means a rejection of the natural weapons towards "qip&vna1.s;" and "apE-r~" (Aristotle, Pol., 1253a 34-35) and results somehow in remaining "avoa1.1hcnos; xai ayp 1.chatos; &.veu ap £Ti\s;" (Aristotle, Pol., 1253a 35-36) I rather than fulfilling human nature and becoming truly "autapx~s;" (Aristotle, Pol., 1253a 1, 25-29). In terms of the thematic passage at the beginning of the play this would mean that Hippol.y tos posses!R.s"a l 6ws;", the natural presupposition of "t~ owq>pov&tv", but b~cause he rejects training and teaching~ does not possess "t~ owqipovetv", as he claims. His overestimating the divine makes him underestimate the human, a trait that marks both his way of life and his notions about life. A reason for that seems to be his awareness of the fact that where\{er human affairs are concerned, there is rarely the possibility to adhere to principles, but more often the necessity to concede to compromises. This awareness, one could say, of the difference between Physis and Nomos, distinguishes Hippolytos from most men; yet it is this distinction from most men which illudes him about himself and what it means to be a man. The fact that Hippolytos is killed in the end without �-33- ever having acknowledged the presence of any flaw in his nature (a fact that contrasts strikingly with Phaedra's recognition of her guilt followed by suicide) raises centna.1.ll.ne "owqipovttv µa-&~atta1." a question about the which acts like the fulcrum of a balance, both parts of the play representing the s. ales c in correspondence to each other. One aspect to be accounted for in this context is the discrepancy between Hippolytos and Phaedra in their connecting or disconnecting "aw1ppoa~vn 11 with either teaching or learning2 8 • The question which arises from this discrepancy is whether Phaedra's prediction for Hippolytos 11 awqip ovt t v JJa.&tfat ta 1. 11 (731} is in contradiction to his own understanding of "t~ owqipovttv" as something not taught or not to be taught, in other words whether his denial of teaching allows nevertheless for learning. Learning without teaching would take place, if Hippolytos, out of his own nature 29 , were capable of developing his natural potentialities to the actuality ·of being fully a man, in which case the "tl>.os:" of his life would be, as he wished for, truly in concord with its beginning. Yet Hippolytos' repeated selfappraisai 30 as the most "awqipwv" among mortals reminds one rather of Aristotl~'s description of those that by talking and philosophizing about "acucppoa\1vn" believe that they are "awcppwv", while they resemble the sick that only listen to the physician without following his precepts (N.E., llOSb 918). Hippolytos' life, which is spent in the concern for the hunt and in the company of horses, dogs, a small circle of �-34friends and supp'?sedly the goddess of the hunt, seems to leave little room for learning, in the sense of comprehending the nature of man. Yet the disillusionment with his .. horses, followed by the disillusionment with his _goddess, ~t the end 31 of the play , opens up the possibility for a final fulfillment of Phaedra's prediction for Hippolytos. The disillusionment with his goddess (1440 ff.) significantly is expressed in terms that resemble the earlier description of Hippolytos' companionship with Artemis (85-86). There Hippolytos spoke of exchanging 11 A&yo1." with the goddess, here of obeying her ">i.&yo1.", there he spoke of hearing the voice but not seeing the eye of the goddess, here of darkness touching his eyes an indication that his believing himself in the friendship of Artemis was, at least from a final point of view, an illusion. The problem of a friendship, either with beasts or gods, arises out of the difference of their natures with respect to man 32 • Beast as well as god, the one unable to share in a companionship which is based on the possession of ">.c!yo!;"; the other not in need of it on account of his "a \n dp XE:" a" 3 3, are fixed in their natures (cf. 13, "itlcpuxa") below and above man and therefore no fitting partners for human friendship. Human friendship, on the other hand, flourishing most and most ,stable where it is based on equality, has as its highest goal the perfection of the friends through each others company, though the perfection has to stay within the limits of remaining human. Hippolytos' death in the company of his father, after �-35beasts as well as gods have deserted him, might be understood as a fulfillment of Phaedra's prediction: "awqipov£tv µaa~ottai". His pity for and forgiveness of his father 34 seem to be motivated by respect for human suffering (1405, 1407, 1409) and therefore to display a "awq>poo~vn" that is much broader then the one Hippolytos prided himself on throughout the play, a "owq>poothn" which was to be understood exclusively in terros of his devotion to Artemis. Nevertheless, the fact that his forgiveness occurs only after the appearance of Artemis and . in obedience to her (1435-1436, 1442-1443, 1449, 1451), makes one wonder whether a 11 au1cppoouvn" ordered by divine intervention can be truly regarded as "owqipoouvn". In Aeschylus' words: it makes one wonder whether Hippolytos' "awqipov£tv" at the end of the play not only comes to .o ne who is unwilling to accept it, but also comes as (Aischylos, ~-' 11 lta-&c1. µciao!;" and therefore as "xapc.~ l3L'a1.o~" 174-183). The question left at the end of this analysis concerns the divergence of judgement between the goddesses, "irlya cppovwv" by Aphrodite, "crwcppovwv" by Artemis, con- ••t cerns the exact meaning of Aphrodite's 6" Et, (µ' (21), which accounts for Hippolytos' violent death ~µapt~xe" ("tLiawp~ooµaL 'I111to>.otov f:.v tij6' TJJJEP'}", 21-22). VII ' · Racine, in his preface to his "Phedre", justifies changes he made in the character of Hirpolytos with the fact that already the ancients had reproached Euripides for having presented Hippolytos 11 commc un philosophe exempt de toute imper.- fection: ce qui faisait que la mort de ce jeune prince causait �-36- beaucoup plus d'indignation que de piti~" Cf4). This charac- terization of the Euripidean Hippolytos seems to be .at the same time right. and wrong. Like a philosopher, HippQlytos does not feel himself bound by a particular, commonly accepted "vdµo!;", the worship of Aphrodite. The philosopher's reason for feeling himself superior to any par~icular "vdµos", is. the recognition, that all particular "vdµoi.", compared to the ground they stem from, compared to "qnfo 1. s", are only t'fa.n s~eht ~~ct, depend in their coming into and going out of being on accidents of time and place. Nevertheless, the philospher recognizes the inherent necessity in man's nature to develop particular "v&µo1.", that is he recognizes the necessary connection between "qnfo 1. s;" and "v&iro s" 35 • Unlike a philosopher, Hippolytos rejects the worship of Aphrodite in the name of the worship of Artemis, which means merely to supplant one particular, commonly accepted "v&iros" by another particular, though uncommonly accepted "v&µo!;". The rejection of the worship of Aphrodite in the name of the worship of Artemis seems, at first sight, to be a rejection of the passions in the name of something purer. The ways, in which the worship of Artemis expresses itself, by ~Lre, on the other hand, certainly tainted passion: chasing and killing animals as a hunter does not attest to a nature that would be divested of all animalistic feelings. In Racine's opinion not being tempted by Aphrodite was enough ground for having Hippolytos resemble a philosopher, cxempt from all imperfection. He consequently not only changed �-37\ the title of his play to "Phedre", but also believed that he should give Hippolytos nquelque faiblesse" (~4), meaning "la passion qu'il ressent malgr~ lui pour Aricie" (§4) •. Thus Racine, in a Christian rather than classical spirit, takes away the rea~ son for Hippolytos' only flaw: his feeling of superiority over all human beings on the basis of being . by nature not tempted by Aphrodite. The more radical "faiblesse" Hippolytos suffers from in Euripides' play is, that he does not recognize that his by natu: and convention being predisposed to live a life dedicated to the worship of Artemis and therefore not being tempted by Aphrodite, is in itself not enough reason for being better than all men. His understanding of "owq>poauvn" as something allotted to one in his nature leads him to restrict its meaning mainly to chastity (87) and therefore to mistake what man is by nature potentially for what man is by nature actually. The fact that man is an animal, but an animal which has 11 >.ciyo'" and is political, ne- cessitates the perfection of human nature through the development of "ldyoE" in the society of other men, which means a perfection on the basis of nature through training and teaching, the latter two more or less depending on the former. The basic flaw in Hippolytos' understanding of himself and man in general seems to consist in his failure to recognize that in the case of man "vdµo, 11 , through ~hich expresses itself the . development of ">. oyo s;", is as indispensollle an end for "qnfo1.!:" as "qnfo1.!;" .is .=\n indispensable ground for "v&µos;", that "cpuol.!; 11 provides the potentialities, "voµo!;" the actuality �-38- of man, and that therefore "vo1.1os" comes to be the key to a final understanding of man's 11 ,~aLs 1136 • It is for this failure that Hippolytos is not a philosopher but a tragic hero. Seen in the light of Phaedra's prediction: "awqipovti:v 1.1aencre:TaL", his constant failure to recognize any flaw in his nature (1455) makes his death fall short of being truly a "nd8e:L µdOos", of representing a "xaPLS SCcuos" rather than mere "BCa" without "xapLs". This aspect of the play, and of Euripidean plays in general, is demonstrated most harshly through the presence of gods, that if they are gods, ought to be wiser than men, but that far from it, only set and clear the stage of human tragedy without ever redeeming it. What Goethe in his Song of the Harper expresses unambiguously: "You"-meaning . the "heavenly forces:r __ "into life lead us ahead, You let the wretched become guilty, Then you deliver him to grief, For all guilt is revenged on earth" ) this feeling of the tragic situation of man, Euripides expresses ambiguously with the Deus ex machina, with immortals apparently solving conflicts, which for mortals remain unsolved and unsolvable. This, I think, is part of what Aristotle (Poetics, 1453a 29-30) 37 means, when he speaks of Euripides as the most tragic of the poets. �-39- NOTES 1. For the symbolism, involved in the image of the bee cf. 'Knox, "The Hippolytos of Euripides Yale Classical Studies, 13, 1952, p.28. It might be interesting to compare F. Bacon, Novum Organum, I, Aph. 95,. and its elaboration in J. Swift, The Battle of the Books, Prose Writings of Swift~ ed. w. Lewin, London, 1886, · p. 178. · B~M.W. 11 , 2. For the philological controversy over 11. 78-81 cf. w.s. Barrett, Euripides, Hippolytos, Oxford, 1964, pp. 172-175. tnv "lv.ae:v 11a\ owQlpocnSvn'J TOUT,., ltpooayoptlSoµ"£Vti;i 0v6µat1., w~ o~i;ovoav 't~V fP0\11'\0I.'#." 3. cf. Aristotle, N.E., VI, 1140b 11-12 4. H. North's ("Sophrosyne, Self-Knowledge and Self-Restraint in Greek Literature", Cornell Studies in Classical Philolo , Vol. XXXV, Ithaca, N.Y •., 9 , pp. .assertion: wit regard to the origin of vJ.rtue, ·inclqding sophrosyne, Euripides is firmly of opinion that physis plays the chief role" disr~gards the fact that the one pronouncing the theory in question . is killed at the end of the tragedy. Euripidean fra9ments like Fr. 807 (Nauck) "µly1.otO\I °!p' 7iv ;, rpuo1.s;•t~ Y~P Max~v ouot\s; tplcpwv xpncnav &v ~e:Cn ltott" do not have to be interpreted with H. North, following E.R. Dodds ("Euripides the Irrationalist", The Classical Review, 43, 1929, p. 99) as attesting to the "moral impotence of reason", but can be understood as a claim to nature as a necessary but not necessarily sufficient source of virtue. The fact that in the case of man reason is a part of nature makes the claim to nature as chief source of virtue rather ambiguous. Dodds' (op. cit., p. 99} "Euripides• characters do not merely enunciate these principles, they also illustrate them", meaning "the victory of irrational impulse· over reason in a noble but unstable being" ought to make one cautious in separating them out as "their authors thoughts" (op. cit., p. 98; cf. "The At6~~ of Phaedra and the Meaning of the Hippolytos", The Classical Review, 39, 1925, p. 103), expressing "systematic irrationalism" ("Euripides the Irrationali~t", p. 103), opposed to "Socratic intellectualism" ("The At6ws; of Phaedra", p. 103). · co 5. cf. 1004-1005; for an elaboration on the distinction between hearing and seeing with respect to "the quest for the first things" cf. L. Strauss, Natural . Right and Historl, Chicago, 1953, Ch. III, "The Origin of the Idea of Natura Right" pp. 86-89. . 6. For a discussion of the different meanings of "awrppoo~v11" in Euripidean tra,gedy cf. H. North, op.cit., pp. 68-84. �-40- 7. Plato's Euthyphro explores this question with respect to "&6crletLa": The original definition of "t~ oaLov" as "t~ ~&ocpi.>.b;" (7a) appears to be insufficient on the basis of differences among the gods as to their likes and dislikes (7b~ Se). The amendment of· this insufficient definition to "t~ · !aLov" as "t &v ~dvtts o~ ~to\ cpLAoOaLv" (9e) is o~ly an intermediary step on the way towards a more fundamental inquiry into the nature of "T~ oaLov". The follow up of the crucial question, '/Jhether "t~ oaLov" is 11 001.ov" because it is "-&toqi1.>.~s" or whether it is "-&tocpL>..~s" because it is "001.ov", in the discussion of "t~ 001.ov" a~ "µlpos Toi) . 61.xa(ouft (12a-e) points to a more universal definition which goes beyond the scope of th~ dialogue. 8. cf. H. North, op.cit., pp. 153-158. 9. For a comparable relationship between "ato~~" and "owcppoo'1vl'l" cf. Xenophon,~, II, 1, 22, and H. North, op.cit., p. 92. 10. cf. F. Dirlmeier, Aristoteles, Mikomachische Ethik,Darmstadt, 1969, note 138, 9, pp. 471-472 and "Der cpJotL - Charakter der Arete" in "Die Oikeiosislehre Theophrasts", Philologus, Suppl. 30, l, Leipzig, 1937, pp. 39-46. 11. Therefore, "owcppooi1vn" does not seem to me to be synonymous with "ato~~", as H. North, op.cit. p. 87, claims. 12. For the same disjunctive question cf. Aristotle, N.E., ll79b 20 ff.; Pol., 1332a 38-b 11 and H. North, op.ci~p. 208; related to "tu&cuµov(a" on the basis of "aptTn", cf. Aristotle, N.E., 1099b 9-llOOa 9, E.E., 1214a 14 ff •• For a discussion of acquisition and loss()f""11 crwq>poovvn" cf. Xenophon, Mem., I, 2, 21-23; Cyl., VII, 5, 75 and H. North, op.cit., pp. 123-132, especial y p.131, with the discussion of Cyr., III, 1, 16-17, the problem of "ow,poavwn" as "na.enµa" or "µa-&niia". 13. For the exclusion of the lower animals and the gods from considerations of virtue cf. Aristotle, N.E., ll49b 27-llSOa 1, ll78b 8-18 and H. North, op.cit., p. 2'05andnote 30 ibid •• 14. For a harmonious view of "v&µos" and "'tcri.:.!;" cf. Euripides, Bacchae, 11. 890-896 and E.R. Dodds, Conunentary, adhuc, 2. ed., Oxford, · 1960, pp. 189-190; Ion, 11. 642-644; cf. Philemon, fr. B7(K). - 15. Ironically enough, Hippolytos' notion of a fixed nature is answered with fatal revenge by a goddess> the only k~nc;L of beLnq,. to whom it truly applies. Of course, the judgement "xaxLoTnv O oaLµovwv", with its implicit hybris of mortal judgement over immortal nature, carries more weight than the otherwise true notion of a fixed nature in the case of gods. �-41- 16. Comparably, the nurse changes her usual address to Phaedra from "'lat" or "tlxvov" to "6la1to1.v''~ where Phaedra has shown moral strength (433) or at least moral indignation (695). \ 17. For the ambiguity 9f 11 a£µvoc" as epithet of Aphrodite as well as Hippolytos cf. w.s. Barrett, op.cit., p·. 187. 18. Cf,; B.M.W. Knox, op.cit., p. 22. 19. cf. B.M.W. Knox, op.~i t., p. 28. 20. cf. B.M.W. Knox, op.cit~, P• 29. 21. I doubt whether this is simply a "good sententious peroration", cf. w.s. Barrett, op.cit., p. 286. 22. cf. Philemon, fr. 87(K}: "t( ioTt Ilpoµnitds, ~v Alyoua' ~µas 1tAdaa1. xal ~!Ala 1tdvta . tlat Tot £ µ~v enp(oi.s l6wx' £xdat~ xat~ ylvo~ µ(av ~~01.v; &1tavT£S ot Alovtls tta~v &Ax1.µ01., 6c1.1ol 1tdA1.v £tns 1dvtcs tto~v oL Aayw. • • • • ' , • \ • _f OUM EOT QAWltn~ n µEV £1.pWV Tij ~u0£1. no' au~lxaatos, aAl' edv Tpi.aµup(as &A~ltcxds TLS auvaydy~, uCav ~oai.v a~ata1aowv · S~cta1. tpditov e' lva • • p \ \ , \ • \ nµwv 6' oaa xai. Ta awµaT • • \ Tov api.~µov EOTL xa~· £vds, 1ooodtou5 loti. xa\ 1pd1ous t6ttv." ' \ . 23. cf. E.R. Dodds, "The At6ws of Phaedra", p. 103. 24. cf. B.M.W. Knox, op.cit., p. 15 "The fact that the moral alternatives are represented by r-ilence and speech is not merely a brilliant device which connects and contrasts the situations of the different characters, it is also an emphatic statement of the universality of the action. It makes the play an ironical comment on a fundamental idea, the idea that man's power of speech, \.'hi ch distinguishes him from the other animals, is the faculty which gives him the conception and power of moral choice in the first place." 25. For the significance of the bull in Greek mythology cf. E.R. Dodds, Euripides, "Bacchae", 2. ed., Oxford, 1960, p. XX; ll. 920-922 and note pp. 193-194. · 26. cf. the etymology of the name Hippolytos, either to be analyzed as "Breaking in horses" or as "Broken by horses". 27. For the symbolism involved in the image of the charioteer cf. H. North, op.cit . , pp. 380-381, especially note 3. �-4228. cf. Plato, Meno, 70a. 29. cf. Xenophon, On Hunting, I, 11; XII; XIII, 4, lSff •• For great parts of it, this treatis~ oi Xenophon :3oun<ls like a · commentary on Euripides' Hippolytos, attempting . to demonstrate that hunting is the best preparation for "awq>pocn5vnn and that it is best to be taught "itap~ aihns; Ti'i' q?lfo&ws;" (XIII, 4). 30. cf. F. Bacon's interpretation of a similar myth in The Wisdom of the Ancients, IV, "Narcissus 11 or "Self-Love", The Works of F. Bacon, ud. Spedding, Ellis, Heath, Vol. VI, pp. 705-706. 31. cf. B.M.W. Knox, op.cit., p. 22, referring to Euripides, Hippolytos 11. 141, 1451. 32. cf. Homer, Od., IX, 105-566; both,the Cyclops and Hippolytos, are representatives of the same phenomenon, the "choA1.s;", though the Cyclops on the side of the beast, Hippolytos on the side of the god. 33. cf. Aristotle~ Pol., 1253a 28 with N.E., 1158b 29-1159a 12; E.E., 1238b 18;27; l24'4b 1-22; 1245b 14=rg-and F. Dirlmeier, op.cit., note 180, 3, pp. 520-521; cf. Plato, Lysis, 214e215c; Euthyphro, 14e 9-15a 10. 34. cf. B.M.W. Knox, op.cit., p.31. "The play ends with a human act which is at last a free and meaningful choice, a choice made for the first time in full knowledge of the nature of human life and divine government, an act which does not frustrate its purpose. It is an act of forgiveness, something possible only for human beings, not for gods but for their tragic victims. It is man's noblest declaration of independence and it is made possible by man's tragic position in the world. Hippolytos' forgiveness of his father is an affirmation of purely human values in an inhuman universe." 35. cf. Leo Strauss, op.cit., pp. 151-153. 36. cf. Leo Strauss, op cit., p. 145. "In the language of Aristotle, one could say that the relation of virtue to human nature is comparable to that of act and potency, and the act cannot be determined by starting from the potency, but, on the contrary, the potency becomes known by looking back to it from the act." 37. cf. G.E. Lessing' s remark in the "4.9·th-· piece of.. the "Hamburgische Dramaturgie": "Aristoteles hatte unstreitig mehrere Eigenschaf ten im Sinne, welchen zu Folqe er ihm diesen Charakter erteilte", and his speculations about the passage in question. � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. 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Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 42 pages Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Berns, Gisela N. Title A name given to the resource Nomos and physis: an interpretation of Euripides' Hippolytus Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1971-03-05 Description An account of the resource Typescript of a lecture delivered on March 5, 1971 by Gisela Berns as part of the Formal Lecture Series. 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Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Friday night lecture Tutors https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/50404cc7271572a66359c05c004cdb30.pdf 6e6095339363c425cfe02dec53b7ff61 PDF Text Text On the Origins of Celestial Dynamics: Kepler and Newton (A revised version of a lecture given at St. John's College in May, 1971) -Curtis Wilson- �-1- I wish to consider two moments in the emergence of - what we have come to call celestial. dynamics or mechanics, a Keplerian moment and a Newtonian one, seeking to explore what the development of such a dynamics meant to its a,uthors. Da,vid Gregory, a follower of Newton, writing in 1702, spoke of the riew celestial physics that "the most sagacious Kepler had got the scent of, but the Prince of Geometers Sir Isaac Newton trought to such a pitch as surprizes all the world". Actually, the Keplerian dynamics and the Newtonian dynamics differ in important respects, but Gregory's singling out of Kepler and Newton makes sense. Kepler was the first to introduce a dynamics into the heavens in the sense of hypothesizing a quantifiable influence of one celestial body on the motion of another, and Newton's universal gravitation is the same kind of thing. Moreover, the mathematical results Kepler arrives at by pursuing his hypothesis coincide, almost, with Newton's results, derived from a different dynamics. Meanwhile, in the period intervening between the appearance of Kepler's hypothesis in 1609, and the appearance of Newton's Principia in 1687, there were various attempt s at proposing what may be called mechanical causes for the celestial motions, but none of them allowed of mathematical formulation, or led to an astronomical calculus, a way of predicting positions of planets. The egregious Mr. Hobbes imagined that, as the southern and northern hemispheres of the Earth differ with respect to the proportion of dry land and ocean, therefore the aethereal vortex or whirlpool that moves about the Sun, having now more solid land to press against and now more of the yielding ocean, would drive the Earth in a path differing from a circle, perhaps app~aching an ellipse. M. Descartes figured out a reason why the suns or stars are off-center in their vortices, so that in our vortex the planetary paths are eccentri c but as in Hobbes' case, the hypothesis did not lend itself to mathematization; on t l"::contrary, as Descartes believed the universe to be packed with vortices inclined at various angles to one another, vortices that fill all space and interact with one another by transference of matter and motion, any simple mathematical. rule for the planetary orbits and motions becomes impJausible. �-2In Kepler's and Newton's cases, we can ask how the dynamical hypothesis and its quantification come about, what they presuppose, what they mean to their authors • • 1 Let me begin with Kepler. The first sprouts of Kepler's celestial _ dyna.mics make their appearance in his first venture into print, his Cosmographic Mystery of 1596, published when he was just turning 25. Since April, 1594, Kepler had been holding the position of district mathematician in Graz, with the task of teaching mathematics to the boys in a Protestant school, and making up an annual astrological calendar for the province, showing when to plant crops, and wh~t to expect of the weather and the Turks. He was, let me mention, marvelously successful with his first calendar: the cold spell he he.:1 predicted was so grievous that herdsmen in the mountains lost their lives or their noses from frostbite, and the invasions of the Turks he had predicted were also grievous; the provincial magistrates therefore added a bonus to his stipend. But Kepler was not satisfied with this kind of astrological hackwork. Beginning on the Sunday of Pentecost in 1595, we find him concerned with, and indeed thinking without let-up about, three large cosmological questions. At the start of the Cosmographic Mystery, Kepler say.::;, "there were three things above all of which I sought the causes why they were thus and not otherwise: -the number, size, and motions of the ~planetar.i/ orbs. That I dared this was brought about by that beautiful ha:rmony of the quiescent things, the Sun, fixed stars, and intervening space, with God the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost," That is, Kepler sees the spherical lay-out of the cosmos, with the Sun at the center, and th1 stars at the periphery, as an image or signature of the triune God, the Creator, His Being, Knowledge, and Love. And with this vision in his head, he makes bold to seek the number, spacings, and motions that the Creator gave to the mobile bodies, the planets, occupying the intermediate space between Sun and stars. Obviously, Kepler is at this point a Copernican. By no means does he have a thorough knowledge of Copernicus' theory, As he _begins his speculations, he has not read and do~s not even possess Copernicus' book; he does not even know Rheticus' Narratio prima, the book in which, in 1.540, three years before the appearance of �-Jthe De revolutionibus, Rheticus had communicated to the world the major outlines of Copernicus' theory and given an account of its superiority over the Ptolemaic theory. Kepler says that he had learned partly from his teacher Maestlin at Tubingen, and partly from his own thinking, the mathematical advantages that Copernicus has over Ptolemy. The Copernican arrangement, simply by its lay-out, accounts for certain phenomena that are left unaccounted for, are left as coincidences, in the Ptolemaic arrangement. Why do the sun and the Moon not retrograde, while the other planets do? Why do Mercury and Venus always keep relatively close to the Sun, while the other planets can be at any angular distapce? Why are the superior planets always lowest in their epicycles, when in opposition to the Sun? For these questions and a few more, the Copernican arrangement provides an answer; the Ptolemaic does not. Ey the time he had finished his Cosmographic Mystery, Kepler had apparently read (the book paraphrases a sentence or two ·from) the famous tenth chapter of Book I of the De revolutionibus, where Copernicus says, in his brief commendation of the heliocentric arrangement, "we find in this arrangement a marvelous symmetry of the world and a hannony in the relationship of the motion and size of the orbits, such as one cannot find elsewhere." But even before, Kepler was asking not merely in what the symmetry and harmony consist, but also: On what are they founded? How does man come to recognize them? And already at the start, Kepler has answers to which he wiE always adhere: The world carries in itself the features of the omnipotent creator and is his copy, his signature. To man, God gave a rational soul, thereby stamping him in His own image. It is with that soul that man can recognize the symmetry and harmony of the Copernican world. Seeing that spherical Copernican world in terms of an idea of Nicholas Cusanus, as a kind of quantitative rP.presentation of the indissoluble triune essence of God, Kepler is encouraged to raise and pursue his bold, naive questions. One of the qµestions was not new. If you were Copernican, there were six circumsolar planets, not seven planets as with Ptolemy, since Copernicus leaves the Moon as a satellite of the i!:arth. Rheticus in his Narratio prima had explained this �-4sixfold number by the sacredness and perfection of the number six: six is the first number equal to the sum of its factors. A little later in the 16th century larlino will be using this same idea to explain the role of the first six numbers in musical consonances; he will te the first musical theorist to include thirds and sixths among the consonances, as they needed to be included for polyphony's sake. Kepler will be the second such musical theorist, but here as in the case of the number of the planets he will reject the notion of particular numbers as causes. He rejects number-mysticism in that sense. Numbers, for him, are only abstractions from the created things, and theref~re posterior to the Creation; they could not therefore te used by God as archetypal forms for cosmopoiesis, the making of the world. The second and third of Kepler's questions were new. In August of 1595 Kepler wrote to Maestlin, his former teacher at Tubingen, telling of his investigations, and asking whether he had ever heard or read of .anyone who went into the reason of the disposition of the planets, and the proportions of their motions. In the margin, Naestlin wrote in answer: "No". Let me remark here that no analogous questions are likely to arise in what can be called, and indeed came to be called, the Ptolemaic System, which was what Kepler had been officially taught at the university. By this tenn I mean not the set of planetary theories in Ptolemy's Almagest, but rather the world picture, current in the Middle Ages and Renaissance, according to which the planetary spheres are nested to fill exactly the space between the highest sublunary element, fire, and the fixed stars. There is no trace of . this picture in the Almagest, but j.u st four years ago i t was discovered that it is given in Ptolemy's Hypotheses of the Planets, the relevant passage having been omitted from Heiberg's standard edition of Ptolemy, apparently from some confusion among the translators; most of the work, including this passage, exists only in Arabic MSS, of which Heiberg gives only a German translation. What I now say is based on this recovered portion of the Hypotheses. The Ptolemaic System, Ptolemy freely admits , involves conjecture, but he also �-5insists on its plausibility, as did his followers through the Middle Ages and Renaissance. Tycho Brahe was still accepting it in the 1570's. The plausibility is as follows. Ptolemy gives certain arguments in the Almagest, and again in amplified form in the Hypgtheses, for a certain order of the planets, beginning Moon, Mercury, Venus, Sun, and going on to the superior planets; I won't repeat the arguments here. (The Sun, note, is the central one of the seven planets or wandering stars.) He had a very good value for the maximum distance of the Moon from the Ga.rth, detennined from observations, namely 64 Earth radii. Assume now that the maximum distance of one planet from the ciirth is equal to the minimum distance of the planet next above it; take from the Almagest the ratios of nearest approach to farthest distance for each planet, and start constructing outward, using the Ptolemaic order. After the Moon comes Mercury . and then Venus. The maximum distance of Venus turns out to be 1079 Earth-radii, and the Sun is to come next. But there was an independent method for determining the relative distances of the Sun and the Moon, a way invented by Hipparchus~ described in the Almagest, and using eclipses. The result of that method, reported in the Almagest, was that at closest approach to the Earth the Sun was 1160 Earth-radii distance, 81 Earth-radii beyond the highest point of Venus' orb. Is this a big gap? Ptolemy shows, in the HYPotheses, that by a very slight change in the data of this determination, a change within the limits of observational error, the Sun at nearest approach will be found to use up the extra 81 Earth-radii, and everything fits. Moreover, this is the only order in which the planets can be made to fit in such a sequence of nested spheres, using the Ptolemaic numbers. In further .: justification Ptolemy adds, "this arrangement is most plausible, for it is not conceivable that there be in Nature a vacuum; or any meaningless and useless thine:: ." This Ptolemaic System was very well known during the 16th century, owing to th e description of it in Peurbach 's 'l' heoricae planetarum, which went through many editions. I suspect it was widely .accepted as filling out the heavens, and allowinz for the strange motions of these divine beings - motions which, according to Ptolemy, follow from the essence of the planet and are like the will and under- �-6standing in man. Copernicus, and also Kepler in the Cosmographic Mystery, explicitly reject this system, but I do not think any really forceful argument was made till Kepler - howed, some years later, that the Hipparchic method for the Sun's distance s I was practically useless, a small error in the observations leading to an enormous error in the final result. The question of the reason of the spacing of the planetary orbs does not, then, arise in the Ptolemaic System, because there is in fact no spacing. In the Copernican theory, on the contrary, there are unused spaces, not only a huge one beyond Saturn, separating the solar.system from the stars, but also unused spaces between the hoop-shaped regions of space that the individual planets pass through in their motions. That is the effect of the economy of the Copernican system, the elimination of the large epicycles. Copernicus speaks of planetary orbs and spheres ; whether he believed them to be real or imaginary remains a subject of scholarly debate. Kepler thought Copernicus believed the spheres to be real and solid, but in theCosmographic Mystery he is already pointing out some of the difficulties with this conception. 3y what chains or struts is the ~rth with its atmosphere held in its solid sphere? We are already in the heavens, and they aren't solid. Eut in either case, whether the spheres are real or not, there have come to be apparently functionless spaces, and the question can be raised as to the reason of the spacing of the planetary orhs. Copernicus does not raise this question. He is apparently seeking to re-do not the cosmography of Ptolemy's ~theses of the Planets, but the mathematical astronomy of Ptolemy's Almagest, and he wishes to do this job consistently with the first principles of the astronomical art. A primary principle is that there mus ·:· be only uniform circular motion; this is required if there is to be strict periodic )_ ; if the motions are not sometimes to fail, owing to their dependence on a chagg~.!!_g and thus cha.ngaable motor virtue. The intellect abhors such an idea, Copernicus says. The Copernican insistence on uniformity of circular motion will be taken up by later astronomers, by Tycho, Longomontanus, Eullialdus, and others, and echoed �-7for a hundred years and more, by both heliocentrists and non-heliocentrists. Not only had Ptolemy failed to keep to the principle; but new phenomena, discovered since Ptolemy's time, showed that there was an inequality- in the precession of the equinoxes that Ptolemy had not suspected. This was the trepidation, supposedly proved by observations of the Arabs collated with those of Ptolemy and Hipparchus. According to one scholar (Ravetz), it was this supposed phenomenon that pushed Copernicus into setting the Jarth in motion. For, argued Ravetz, if the precession of the equinoxes is due to the motion of the stars, i f this motion is non-uniform, and if the standard of time by whicry equality is judged is provided by the diurnal rotation of those very same stars, then the standard of time has been vitiated, and the entire system has become logically incoherent. The problem can be solved, Ravetz claimed, by giving the diurnal and precessional motions to the .l!arth; Rheticus seems to have a.greed, for he says that he sees no other possible explanation. In fact, the uniformity of the diurnal rotation is vitiated slightly whether one assigns the trepidation to the ~rth or to the stars. Sometime after 1588 Tycho Brahe convinced himself that the trepidation is not real, is the mere effect of the large errors in the times of the equinoxes that Ptolemy reports in Eook III of the Almagest; and this is the conclusion also of modern astronomy. No, Copernicus' original motive appears to have been opposition to the Ptolemaic equant - that point, not the center of the circle, about which Ptolemy assumes the motion on the deferent circle to be uniform. This violated the first principle of the astronomical art, the assumption of uniform circular motions only. It is primarily with this id e J. in mind that Copernicus re-does the Almagest. He is not, on the whole, looking at L "' emergent system with the wild eye of a cosmologist; certainly he is not asking for the archetypal, apriori reasons in the mind of God that will account for the lay-out. . :B etween Copernicus' death in 1.543 and 1596, the date of Kepler's Cosrnographic Mys~, there were very few Cbpernicans who spoke out. The ill-fated Eruno; a poet or two in the entourage of Henry III of France; Eenedetti, Galileo's precurso r in mechanicq; a mystically-minded :.:Jlglishman named Thomas Digges - they were few. �-8On the other side was the overwhelming chorus of denunciation. Melanchthon, Luther's lieutenant and a professor at Wittenberg, referring to the Copernican doctrine, said, "really, wise governments ought to repress impudence of mind." Maurolycus, a very competent and indeed innovative mathematician of Messina, said that Copernicus "deserves a whip or a scourge rather than a refutation". Pyrrhonist sceptics like Montaigne and his followers were fond of citing Copernicus and Paracelsus to show that there can be found people to deny even the most universally accepted principles ; this, to help show that we are so ignorant that it is even excessive to assert that we know that we know nothing. And Tycho Erahe wrote: "i·l hat need is there without any justification to imaeine the Jarth, · a dark, dense and inert mass, to be a heavenly body undergoing even more numerous revolutions than the others, that is to say, subject to a triple motion, in violation not only of all physical truth but also of the authority of Holy Scripture, which ought to be paramount." And the list of denunciations could be greatly extended. Kepler, then, turns out to be one of the early Copernicans, one of a handful, to speak out; he does so before Galileo, before his own teacher Maestlin. Maestlin praises Kepler for his first book, saying, "at last a learned man has been found who dared to speak out in defense of Copernicus, against the general chorus of obloquy," And Kepler's defence has a unique character; starting as it does from the notion of the spherical, Sun-centered world as symbol of God. It is this symbol, Kepler explicitly states, that encourages him to seek the reasons of the numcer, spacings, and ratio of motions of the planetary orbs. This symbol remains central in Kepler' s thought; every one of his major undertakings and achievements seems to be relatabl e to it. Let me mention in passing that Kepler's question about the spacings is not likely to arise for a follower of the Tychonic system, which resembles the Copernican except that the .2.rth remains stationary, and the Sun with the remaininc planets moves about the Sar th. In l .e t ters written in the late 1580' s, Tycho says t l_.,. he was induced to give up the Ptolemaic System by the discovery, from measurements of the parallax of Mars when it is jn opposition to the Sun, that it is closer to �-9the Za.rth than the Sun. This happens in the Copernican System, but not in the Ptolemaic; the Tychonic system accommodates the fact by preserving the Copernican spacings. Actually, Kepler found later that Tycho could not have determined, from his observations, the parallax of Mars; it was too smal1 for observational discrimination by the means at his disposal. And poring over Tycho's MSS, Kepler coneluded that some assistant of Tycho had misunderstood instructions and computed the parallax, not from observation, but from the numerical parameters of Copernicus' system. In any case, if you do accept the Tychonic system, then the path of rt.ars cuts across the path of the Sun, not impossible because ~ycho knows by now from his study of comets that there are no solid orbs, but still. 'inelegant. And the entire set-up lacks the centered symmetry that . provoked .the Ke-plerian inquiry. The answer Kepler finds to the first two of his ques:tions is well known; the discovery comes after he has tried many different schemes, and it comes, he tells Maestlin, accompanied by a flood of tears. Saturn - cube - Jupiter - tetrahed±on Mars - dodecahedron - Earth - icosahedron Venus - octahedron - Mercury. The structure is not built outward from the Sun: it is built inward and outuard from the Earth's sphere, which divides the five regular solids into two groups. Cube, tetrahedron, and dodecahedron, Kepler calls primary; each has vertices formed by three edges, each has its own special kind of face - square, triangle, or pentagon. rhe secondary solids, octahedron and icosahedron, have thei:c vertices fanned ty four and five edges, respectively, and have triangular faces. Th,, octahedron is formed from the cube by replacing square faces by the points at thei:~ centers; the icosahedron is similarly formed from the dodecahedron. A similar tra nsformation performed on the tetrahedron yields only anotbe.r tetrahedron. Ke pl er speaks of the secondary bodies, octahedron and icosahedron, as offspring of the cube and dodecahedron, respectively, as fathers, and the tetrahedron as mother, �-10from whom they· receive their triangular faces. The tetrahedron meanwhile is hermaphroditic in its production of tetrahedra. Of the primary solids, the cube has to come first, because1Kepler says, it is "the thing itself", meaning, I believe, that it presents to us the very idea of .corporification, the creation of body by the regular filling out of space in the three dimensions. The transformation of cube into tetrahedron is carried out by subtraction, replacing each square face by one of its diagonals; the transformation of cube into dodecahedron is carried out by addition, roofing over the cube, turning each edge into the diagonal of a pentagon. Out of the 120 possible orders of the five bodies, Kepler can say that he hP_s chosen the one that singles out, as a starting point, the very notion of corporification or the creation of body, that singles out the Earth's sphere as the very speci2.:!_ place it is, the home of the image of God, and that, given these conditions, has the most complete symmetry. And it shows at once why the number of the planets must be just six; there are only five regular solids, as Euclid proves, hence only six circumscribing and inscribing spheres; the number has been deduced from the very idea of the creation of body, of the world, by an ever geometrizing, and let me add, echoing Kepler, a playful God. And man was meant to understand these things. Kepler says: As the eye was created for color, the ear for tone, so was the intellect of humans created for the understanding not· of just any thing whatsoever but of quantities •••• It is the nature of our intellect to bring to the study of divine matters concepts which are built upon the category of quantity; if it is deprived of these concepts, then it can define only 1::y pure negations. All right; we are meant to ·see these things; but are they true? To know that, we must know that the distances in the construction jibe with the distances determined by the astronomers, and moreover, jibe rather exactly. Kepler at different t~mes expresses the thought that the imposed forms might not fit the �-11world quite exactly, but in that case he hopes to find reasons even for the deviations. The problem Kepler faces in testing his hypothesis is first of all to know what distances to take from Copernicus; the sphere of each planet must be of such a thickness as to accommodate the planet's approaches to and recessions from the Sun, but should one, for instance, allow space for Copernicus' equatorial epicycle, which sticks out beyond the planet's path at aphelion? And can one trust Copernicus' theories for Venus and Mercury, which involve some peculiar hypocyclic and epicyclic motions that keep time with the thinks it incongruous that center of the ~rth's Copernic~s ,~rth's motion? Moreover, Kepler computes the planetary distances from the orbit rather than from the Sun itself. It is with such con- siderations that Kepler begins his critique of the det3:-lls of the Copernican theories. Eut disallowing the equatorial epicycles, shLfting to the real Sun as reference point, Kepler is able to make a preliminary comparison of distances, The ratios for the intervals between Mars and Jupiter and between Venus and the furth come out with zero per cent error; for the Earth-Mars interval the error is 5%, for the Jupiter-Saturn interval about 9%. For the Mercu.....ry-Venus interval, with Copernicus' numbers, the error is unfortunately 20%. Kepler persuades himself - on the ground of Mercury's very unusual situation and motion - that for Mercury the sphere to be used is that inscribed, not in the octahed.ron itself, but in the three squares formed. by the twelve edges of the octahedron - the octahedron is the only regular solid that can be sliced through along its edges in such a way as to yield regular polygons. With this concession, the Mercury-Venus error is · r .educed to 2%; the largest error remains that for Saturn, who.se distance is the greatest and therefore most difficult to measure; the next largest error involves the Earth, whose Copernican theory Kepler has reason to doubt; and the average error for all the intervals is but J.J%. It is eminently conceivable that these errors should have turned out to be much hiGher; and Y.epler has his initial moment of elation; later on, as he calculates, there are doubts, and then again moments of ~lation. He writes to Maestlin that he suspects a tremendous miracle of God. Maestlin, older, more cautious, widely known as a competent astronomer, �-12comes to agree with him, comes to suppose that it will be possible to obtain the distances of the planets apriorl. He assists extensively in the preparation and publication of the l-Ook, in which Kepler calls upon all astronomers to help in working out the details of the hypothesis. Among the readers were those who like Johann Praetorius of Altdorf said that even if the numbers ~arne out exactly, it would not mean a thing: astronomy should go back · to its practical business of predicting the planetary positions. Tycho's reaction was less hostile: of course there are hannonies, he said, but one must work out the planetary theories on the basis of exact observations first, 'before investigating the hannonies. Tycho und erstands here that the theories must employ unifonn circular motion, in accordance with the Copernican insistence on t hat principle; and he und.e!:'Stands, too, of cours e that the Earth is at rest. This brings me to another theory that is contained in Kepler's book, one which Tycho will object to, and which even Haestlin finds, he says, too subtle. From the very beginning, Kepler had wanted to account not only for the number and · spacing of the planets, but for the proportion of their motions. From the very beginning, he had noted that the periods of theplanets follow behind the distances; so that the period of the planet twice as far from the Sun is more than . twice as great. This observation had teen one of Kepler's encouragements in the investigation of the reason of the distances, because, he says, if God adapted the motions to the orbs according to some law of distances, then surely He also accommodated the distances to sor.1e rule. The first r.1ather.1atical rule Kepler proposes for the periods is given in a diagram: N ote that the diagram is pretty. S is the Sun, AC.':_: the sphere of c fixed stars. AiJ:; and :2FC are quadrants of circles with radius equal to the radius of the stellar sphere. To a given distanc P of a planet' from the Sun, SP, Kepler imagines that there would correspond a vigor �-13of motion proportional. to the line EF. In the Sun would be the moving soul, and an infinite force of motion; at the periphery are the motionless stars, providing by their distance the space for the planetary motions, and by the non-uniformity of their distribution, a cackground against which the c.o ntempiative creature, man, can locate the planets. The difficulty with the scheme is that Kepler has no clue as to the radius of the cosmos, and without a value for that radius, there is no possibility of calculating the consequences of the hypothesis, and so subjecting it to empirical test. This hypothesis, for Kepler at this point, has a status similar to that of the other one abqut the five regular solids, in the sense that it arises from the same thought, of the world as symbol of God. The five-regular solid theory had the assumed fact of spacings to work with; this hypothesis has the assumed fact of an inverse variation of distance and speed. Kepler tries another hypothesis for the motions which is more testable, and in a rough way correct, al.though it is not the right one (the right one is the third law that he will discover only i~ 1618). I shall not describe it. Here again Kepler is looking for a pure mathematical. form, graspable because mathematical by the mind, and which when discovered will be a symbol of the creating and radiative activity of the Godhead. So he will speak of the decrease in motive vigor with increasing distance from the Sun as suitable; it was fi t ting that God should have arranged matters thus. On the other hand, he at one point paraphrases the Timaeus, on soul ceing distributed through the cosmos; and in a somewhat different vein, he a. also begins to compre the spreading out of the motive virtue to the spreading out " of light from a center; light, as he will say later, is a kind of mediating thing, intermediate between bodies and souls. Kepler is the first to quantify light intensity. It is the quarttification of the Sun's motive virtue, that will lead on to his celestial. dynamics. He is already. o:::ito an important clue to it, in eliminating Copernicus' equatorial. epicycle, which was totally incompatible with the five-regular solid theory, and in thinking about the individual planet as slowing up at aphelion, in some proportion that he is not sure of. Later on, in 1599, pursuing the same idea, he will discover the annual inequality of the Moon. �-14Between the time of completing the Cosmographic Myster;y in 1596, and going to Prague to work with Tycho Brahe in 1600, Kepler ·became involved in the study of musical harmony, and a word must be said about this investigation as it relates to his study of the planets. Kepler loved polyphonic music, which he regarded as one of the most important discoveries of modern times, ranking with . the compass and printing . In his Harmonic of tEe World, published in 1619, he will write: It is no longer a marvel that at last this way of singing in several parts, unknown to the ancients, should have been invented by Man, the Ape of his Creator; that, namely, he should, by the artificial symphony of several voices, play out, in a trief portion of an hour, the perpetuity of the whole duration of the world, and should to some degree taste of God tbe Creator's satisfaction in His own works, with a most intensely sweet pleasure gained from this Music that imitates God. For the production of polyphony one needs to be aiming at thirds and sixths as consonances, and these intervals involve the ratios 4:5, 5:6, J:5, 5:8. The ancient derivation of the consonances, as you have it for instance in the Timaeus, does not account for these ratios. The. trouble with Plato and the rest, Kepler says, i9 that they didn't listen carefully enough, before setting out to make their theory. Kepler sets out to make a new theory, without invoking the causal efficacy of numbers. His solution involves the regular polygons constructible with straight-edge and compass, which divide the circumference of the circle into equal parts. If one imagines the 1 circle stretched out into a straight line, and transfonned into a monochord, one has the divisions giving the consonances required for polyphony, including thirds and sixths, fundamentally because of the constructicility of the pentagon. The pentagon depends for its construction on the division of a line in extreme and mean ratio, the golden section, and if you are familiar with that divi::>ion, and know how i t can be indefinitely reproduced, by subtracting the smaller from the greater segme!1t, or adding the greater to the whole, you may understand why Kepler views this division �-15as imaging sexual. genera ti on, and you will thus gain an explanation of the tender feelings that accompany thirds and sixths in polyphonic music. Kepler did not suppose, and I do not believe that any theorist before him supposed, that the inquiry into the physical conditions for the production of certain intervals would account for the shades of feeling that those intervals arouse in consciousness. On the one side we have instruments like the monocho:rd, from which we can get numbers; on the other, we have subtle perceptions of harmony, dissonance, restoration of consonance. There is a strange correspondence between soul and the bodily; but the bodily, in Kepler's view, does not account for the psychic. Kepler's explanation for this correspondence takes us back to the sphere, image of the triune God. By creative radiation from the center, one gets the straight line, the element of bodily form. A straight line, rotated about one of its points, describes a plane, representing in this image the bodily. When the sphere is cut by the plane, the result is a circle, the true image of the created mind, which is assigned to govern the body. As the circle lies both on the sphere and in the plane, so is the mind at the same time in the body, which it instructs, and in God as a radiation which, so to speak, flows from God's countenance. Since now Kepler conceives the circle as the bearer of pure harmonies, and believes these harmonies to be based in the nature of the soul, he comes to speak of the soul as a circle, supplied with the marks of the constructible divisions, an infinitely small circle, a point equipped with directions, a qualitative point. This no doubt is metaphor or symbol, but it is by such means alone that we can understand (insofar as that is possible) how body, soul, and God are related. The harmonic divisions of the circle apply, of course, in the heavens, as well as in music; it is from these divisions that Kepler develops his a.Strological doctrine, and also his harmonic theory for the planetary eccentricities. I cannot take time to describe these here. J.'he five-regular solid theory Kepler comes to see inexact, an archetypal form used to determine the number of the plan~ts, then slightly modified in order to jibe with the harmonic theory of the eccentricities. Ei'.c �-16A pl&yful God, ruled by the necessities of geometry, may be forced to such expedients. All these parts of Kepler's work are omitted, to say the least; :from the corpus of scientific knowledge recognized today. Meanwhile, his great achievement in rem~ing planetary theory, accomplished first for Mars in the years 1600 to 1605, is praised, sometimes on the mistaken grounds that it is purely empirical. It is not. It involves assumptions that are rejected today. Alternative paths to the so-called Keplerian laws are conceivable, but neither could they have been purely empirical. On the other hand, Kepler's study first of optics and then of the motions of Mars_. in the years 1600 to 1605 does lead to the development of a possibility already present in his thought. He is the first to quantify the intensity of light, in accordance with the inverse square of the distance from the source. (This is a purely apriori derivation, involving no experimentation.) He does not regard light as material or corpuscular; that would have meant Epicurean philosophy, which like most good Christians of the time he abhorred. Rather, he says, light is quantified according to surface, not according to corporeality. It is one of a group of immaterial emanations, whereby bodies, which are isolated from each other by their bounding surfaces, are enabled to be in communication with one another. Another such is the motive virtue issuing from the Sun, and in about 1602 Kepler finds out how this also can be quantified, · its intensity varying inversely as th~ distance from the Sun; the empirical support consists in what is known as the bisection of the eccentricity, which he had been able to verify from Tycho's observations in the case of Mars and the Earth. A further step is taken in 1605 when he discovers that that component of the planet's motion whereby it approaches and recedes from the Sun, can be regarded as simply a libration, or what we would today call a simple hannoniG motion: this, he says, smells of the balance, not of mind. And the elliptical motion that results from combining the libration with the vertical motion about the Sun this also, he says, smells of matter, not of mind. In no way do these developments disturb Kepler's fundamental. view of the world. �-17- They introduce something that one can perhaps call mechanism: matter turns out to have inertia in the s · ns. of being sluggish, and it turns out to be pushed by an e e immaterial something in an incomprehensible way. Unexplained by the quasi-mechanism are the initial conditions, the sizes of the orbits and their eccentricities, and these must be works of mind, harmonically determined. Kepler's Harmonic of the World - of 1619 will remain his final testament. And indeed it is through the spherical symbol, ultimate source of the archetypal harmonies, that Kepler was first enabled to accept Copernicanism, and then, developing the emanative aspect of the symbol, to banish from the sky .t he celestial intelligences, ultimate relics of paganism (as he calls them), and to rega:td the planets as material, subject to quantifiable forces that man from his moving platform can measure. Kepler wanted to dedicate his Harmonica mundi to James I of Eilgland. For years, very naively from a political point of view, he had looked to this monarch as the hope of Europe, the one who could bring a religious peace out of the strife of .Refonnation and Counter-Refonnation. The relevance of the Hannonice mundi to this end was that it was a work of the liberal arts, the arts of peace as Kepler called them, setting forth the principles of the hannonies with which the world had been adorned by its Creator. Kepler thought that, could men but see these things, they would be raised above the level of doctrinal dispute. Unfortunately, no one in the 17th century that I know of accepted either Kepler's dynamics as a whole (Leibniz undertook to re-vamp it), or his hannonic even in part. And as the book first appeared for sale in the market stalls, the Thirty Years War had already begun its terrible course. ................. . Let me turn abruptly to Newton. We do not expect to find effusions about the celestial harmonies in Newton's writings. True enough, in the second edition of the Principia, explaining his rule of induction, Newton says that Nature is ever consonant with itself; and so we might imagine it as emitting some single, deep organ tone. But this is from the second edition, 171J, and the first edition, 1687, �-18does not contain the rule of induction. The third book, the System of the World, rather begins in that first edition with a set of propositions la~lled "hypotheses". Shortly after the publication of the first edition, Newton began a series of revisions, .p ertaining particularly to the early part of Book III. He wrote a series . of scholia to accompany those propositions, 4-9, which lead to the establishment of universal gravitation. I wish to read to you from the proposed. scholium to Prop.8 .,. By what proportion gravity decreases in receding from the Planets the ancients have not sufficiently explained. Yet they appear to have adumbrated it by the harmony of the celestial spheres, designating the Sun and the remaining_six planets ••• by means of Apollo with the Lyre of seven strings, and measuring the intervals of the spheres by the intervals of the tones. Thus they alleged that seven tones are brought into being ••• and that the Sun strikes the strings. Hence Macrobius says, 'Apollo's Lyre of seven strings provides understanding of the motions of all the celestial spheres over which nature i . has set the Sun as moderator.' And .Proclus (commenting) on Plato's Timaeus, 'The number seven they have dedicated to Apollo as to him who embraces all symphonies whatsoever, and therefore they used to call him ••• the Prince of ,- the number seven.' Likewise in Eusebius' Preparation of the Gospel LEusebius was one of the Church Fathers] , the Sun is called, by the oracle of Apollo, the king of the seven-sounding harmony. But by this symbol they indicated that the Sun by his own force acts upon the planets in that harmonic ratio '--- of distances by which the force of tension acts upon strings of different lengths ••• The same tension upon a string half as long acts four times as powerfully, for it generates the Octave, and the Octave is produced by a force four tim e ~:. as great. For i f a string of given length stretched by a given weight produc e: a given tone, the same tension upon a string thrice as short acts nine time:s as much. For it produces the twelfth [ 1. e. an octave plus a fifthJ , and a string which stretched by a given weight produces a given tone needs to be �-19stretched by nine times as much weight so as to produce the twelfth •••• ~et me briefly review the mathematical relation here. Imagine a series of six strings with lengths proportional to the distances from the Sun to the six planets; let equal weights be hung on the strings; we thus obtain six different tones - vei:y dissonant with one another, let me add, but Newton does not mention the fact. These tones betoken different forces~ which can be measured by taking strings of equal lengths and hanging on them different weights, so as to give the same tones. Any two of the wei€;hts will be inversely as the squares of the corresponding lengths. Newton continues_:] Now this argument is subtle, yet became known to the ancients. For Pythagoras, as Macrobius avows, stretched the intestine of sheep or the sinews of oxen by attaching various weights, and from this learned the ratio of the celestial harmony. Therefore, by means of such experiments. he ascertained that the weights by which all tones on equal strings [were produced.] ••• were reciprocally as the squares of the lengths of the strings by which the musical . instrument emits the same tones. But the proportion discovered by these experiments, on the evidence of Macrobius, he applied to the heavens and consequently by comparing those weights with the weights of the . lanets P and the lengths of the strings with the distances of the Planets; he understcG, by means of the harmony of the heavens that the weights of the Planets towa:rd 0 the Sun were reciprocally as the squares of their distances from the Sun. But the Philosophers loved so to mitigate their mystical discourses that in the p~esence of the vulgar they foolishly propoUDded vulgar matters for the �-20sake of ridicule, and hid the truth beneath discourses of this kind. In this sense Pythagoras numbered his musicai tones from the ~th, as though from here to the Moon were a tone, and thence to Mercury a semitone, and from thence to the rest of the planets other musical -intervals • .Out he taught that were the sounds/emitted by the motion and attrition of the solid spheres, as though a great sphere emitted a heavier tone as happens when iron hammers are smitten. And from this, it seems, was born the Ptolemaic System of orbs, when meanwhile Pythagoras beneath parables of this sort was hiding his own system and the true harmony 9f the heavens. I have to ·say: Newton's interpretation of the ancient texts is not a little dubio uz , Contrary to what .all 17th century Copernicans believed, the early Pythagoreans were not heliocentrists; Philolaus, the first Pythagorean to write down doctrine (for which he is supposed to have been appropriately punished), did not in fact know the Earth to be round, and his Central Fire was not the Sun. Again, so far as anyone knows ' today, the law relating weights and string-lengths for different musical intervals was first discovered not by Pythagoras but in ·the late 1580's by Vincenzo Galilei, the father of Galileo Galilei. Indeed, the discovery of this law, which can be verified very precisely i f one has a good ear (and Vincenzo was a musician) - this discovery may have been what set Galileo on his course of experimentation, seeking exact numerical ratios in nature; he started with pendulums (again, weights hung on · strings), and proceeded to motion down inclined planes, in order perhaps to ·analyze the motion of the pendulum. But the incorrectness of Newton's interpretations is not my concern here. The sheer volume of the manuscripts, the many variants and revisions, in all · of which Newton is seeking to show that the ancient philosophers before Aristotle understood the Newtonian System of the · World, . demonstrates that these views were important to Newton. Can wa make that fact intelligible to ourselve!:'- . or must we conclude simply that it is one of the queernesses of genius? I want to speak briefly about the discovery of universal gravitation. I have recently changed my mind on this matter. My previous argument (which I unfortunately �-21published) was that before 1684 Newton did not have his 'proof' of universal gravitation, therefore was uncertain about the universality, I now believe that my interpretation was wrong with respect to the 'therefore' clause. The idea of universal gravitation can seem more paradoxical than we perhaps realize. For a long time, since the 1720's, the picture was, that Newton already in 1666 had all his principal ideas, and was held up from producing his masterpiece by the lack of a good value for the Earth's radius, or according to a 19th-century suggestion, by the lack of a certain mathematical theorem. That interpretation is supported by no solid evidence whatsoever; it is a mirage which can be explained; but my point here is only that it is wrong, All of Newton's statements about planetary motion, made before 1679, imply either Descartes' theory of vortices, and/or an aethereal theory to keep the planets from receding from the Sun, Newton uses Descartes' term, conatus recedendi a centro, the tenn which Huygens in 1673 replaces by the tenn centrifugal force. Newton's thought about planetary motion during these years, like Huygen:c;;', remains confined to Descartes' analogy of the stone in the sling. There is no . evidence that, before 1679, Newton ever conceptualizes the orbital process as · the falling of the planet out of the rectilinear path it would follow i f left to itself, towards a central attracting body. Now this does not mean that during these years Newton rejected the possibility of attractions and repulsions, as possible physical causes, He was not a Cartesian; he did not believe space to be identical with matter, and all transfer of motion to be by contact• He was familiar with Gassendi's counter-argument, according to which not everything that is, is substance or accident; thus time and space need not be the accidents of anything, but may independently subsist, and so space need not be the space of something (namely body), This may not have satisfied Newton, but given Torricelli's experiment with the barometer, he was willing to grant the vacuum, and while this does not in itself lead to the granting of real attractions and repulsio n. it opens up the possibility of hypothesizing them, No doubt, to hypothesize such forces was to depart from the accepted norm of natural philosophy established by �-22- Descaztes. But Robert Hooke was doing it, and Newton began doing it, speaking of the sociability and unsociability of bodies in chemical reactions and cohesions. The forces he considered seem to have been forces acting over very small distances; his alchemical experiments were probably meant to find out about them. In 1679 comes the famous exchange of letters between Hooke and Newton, a polite fencing between bitter enemies. Here Hooke explicitly proposes that Newton work out the path of a body under an inverse-square attraction that pulls the body away from its rectilinear trajectory. So far as the evidence goes, this is the first time that Newton faced the planetary problem io such a form. And under this provocation, he makes the great discovery that a force of attraction, directed toward a fixed center' implies the equable description of areas, Kepler's so-called second law. He applies this law, which allows him to use area to represent time, to the ellipse with center of attraction in the .focus, and finds that the force follows an inverse-square law. Previously I thought that it was Hooke who first placed in front of Newton the ·idea of universal gravitation, so that if New·t on had not grasped it before, he did so now, and proceeded to look for a way to test it. But the fact is, that Hooke himself did not believe gravitation to be universal. He had generalized gravitation more than any previous author. Earlier authors like Kepler had regarded attraction as belonging to cognate bodies~ So Roberval could talk of a lunar gravity, a terrestrial gravity, a solar gravity, a jovial gravity, ·and so on. Let me quote Hooke ' . view in 1678; he is explaining a hypothesis about comets: I suppose the gravitating power of the Sun in the center of this part of the Heaven in which we are, hath an attractive power upon all the bodies of the Planets, & of the Earth that move about it, and that each of those again have a respect answerable, whereby they may be said to attract the Sun in the same manner as the Load-stone hath to Iron, and the Iron hath to the Load.stone. I conceive also that this attractive virtue may act likewise upon several bodies that come within the center of its sphere of activity, though �-2J' tis not improbable also but that as on some bodies it may have no effect at all, no more than the Load-stone which acts on Iron, hath upon a bar of Tin, Lead, Glass, Wood, etc., so on other bodies, it may have a clean contrary effect, that is of protrusion, thrusting off, driving away ••• ; whence it is, I conceive, that the parts of the body of this Comet (being confounded or jumbled, as 'twere together, and so the gravitating principle destroyed) become of other natures than they were before, and so the body may cease to maintain its place in the Universe, where it was first placed. Now Hooke is an inductivist of a sort, but induction is not here leading to universal gravitation. In his correspondence with Newton in the following year, Hooke suggests that Newton may be able to think of a cause of the gravitating principles now in Hooke's understanding, and I think in Newton's, too, to say that was to imply that gravitation is not universal, for the material cause of gravitation could not itself be subject to gravitation. In view of the passages cited and others I shall refer to later, I suspect that the idea of a truly universal gravitation became effectively present only after Newton had discovered the 'proof'. Why propose a theory which, by its very nature, precludes any mechanical explanation, which seems to preclude being tested~ and which, moreover, as Newton actually suggests once he has begun to entertain it, would seem to put the calculation of a planetary orbit beyond the ~ower of any human mind? There is the problem, also, of explaining Newton's delay for five more years after 1679. The best explanation, I believe, is that Newton does not yet think he has discovered anything very important, and sees no direction in which to pursue his discovery. Then Halley appears, probably in August of 1684, and persuades him that his discovery of the logical relation between inverse-square law and Sun-focussed elliptical orbit is important, and that he should publish 1 t, to secure the inventio n to himself. Newton sets to work, and we have a series of MSS which can be arranged �-24in temporal. order on the basis of internal evidence. In the first MS, there is no sign of the notion of universal. gravitation. Newton speaks of gravity as one species of centripetal. force - the term "centripetal. force" making its first appearance here (it is Newton's invention). There is no hint of the problem of perturbation, the disturbance of the orbit and motion of one planet by the attraction of another planet. The inverse-square law is derivedfrom Kepler's third law as applied to the planets and to the satellites of Jupiter and Saturn, and the orbits are simply said to be elliptical. The entire development, I believe, is up in the air, in the sense that Newton does not know the cause of the attraction, does not know how exact Kepler's third law may be (he had questioned its exactitude at ·an earlier date), and is merely proceeding mathematically without knowing what may underlie the derivation: it could be something that might lead to the results needing to be qualified. To mention just one possible explanation, one that Newton had thought up in the t660's and proposed to the Royal Society in 1675: the action of the Sun on the planets might be due to the inrushing of a subtle aether, which would serve as fuel for the Sun's burning. A similar but different aether might_be rushing into the Earth to produce terrestrial. gravity; this aether might be transformed chemically within t h; Earth, then issue forth as our atmosphere. The satellite systems of Jupiter and Satur might be sustained by similar circulations of aether. These several centripetal. forc r: ::. would be explicable mechanically, that is by impacts; . gravitation would not be universal, In the second MS the notion of perturbation appears: Newton is now assuming that all the bodies of the solar system attract one another, just as Hooke had before. Can the planetary orbits still be said to be elliptical? Hardly, if the ellipses are drawn badly out of shape by the perturbations, the attractions of the different planets on one another, What must be done is to evaluate the relative magnitude of these perturbations. How is that going to be possible? Newton does 1t by considering the accelerations cf .the satellites of Jupiter �-2.5towtirds Jupiter, of the Moon towards the Earth, of Venus towards the Sun • .8ach . satellite is being accelerated towards the body round which it goes, and that acceleration depends on the power of the qcentral body to attract, and so may be able to serve as a measure of that power. Of course, to be comparable measures, all three satellites ought to b~ at the same distance from their central body, and they aren't.; But we can shift them in thought to the same distance, by using the inverse-square law. What we get, then, are the comparative attractive powers of Jupiter, the .i!arth, the Sun. That of .the Sun is overwhelmingly larger than the others. But do we really have attractions here or not? Thus far there has been no e vidence that Newton's aethereal theory for the planets is wrong. What then happens, I think, is that Newton realizes a consequence of something he has been assuming. In his derivation of the comparative attractive powers of Jupiter, the Earth, etc., he has been assuming that the quantity of matter of the satellite or test body didn't (if you will forgive a pun) matter; it didn't matter what mass it had; it was accelerated to the same degree anyhow; the differences between the masses of the test bodies could be ignored. Is that right? Is it so on the Earth? Did Newton~ the downward acceleration of all bodies on the F.arth, at a given place, to be the same? Not at this moment. Earlier we know he had assumed the rates to be slightly different for different bodies, depending on their micro-structure, and the way the downflowing aether affected them. Now, in the third MS, Newton sets out to test the constancy, and this is the most precise experiment reported in the Principia. He takes equal weights of nine different materials; encloses each ofthem - gold, salt, wool, wood, and so on - in boxes of equal size and shape, to make the air resistance the same; and uses these boxes as the bobs for nine different pendulums, with very long but equal suspensions. The pendulums, he says, played exactly together for a very long time. The accelerations of these different materials, he concludes, cannot differ from one another by more than one part in 1000. ~sentially the same experiment, the EX1tvBs experiment, has �-26been performed in this century with a precision of one part in one billion. Another way of stating the result, you may know, is that inertial mass is proportional to weight. At this point in the manuscript series, there appears for the first time in history, so far as I know, a statement of Newton's third law of motion, the equality of action and reaction. Let me now put these two results together, Newton's l:!XStvas experiment, and his _ third law, as they are put together in the Principia. The first implies that bodies on the Earth are accelerated downward by a force that is strictly proportional to what Newton now call~ their mass, by which he means their resistanc e to being accelerated. If the same thing holds with respect to Jupiter, with respect to Saturn, and with respect to the Sun, then one can compare the attracting powers of these different bodies in the way we have already seen: by taking a test body, '· it doesn't matter of what mass, placing it at a fixed distance from the attracting body, and seeing how much it is accelerated. Newton couldn't do this physically, as · we've said, but assuming the inverse-square law he could find from the actual acceleration of a body at one distance what the acceleration would be if the satellite were placed at any stipulated distance. Now comes the final step. Since the mass of the test body can be ignored, in the comparison of the attracting forces of two bodies, one can use each as a test body for the other. Then A's power of attraction B's power of attraction = acceleration of B acceleration of A By the third law. of motion, these accelerations are inversely as the inertial masses : acceleration of B acceleration of A = mass of A mass of B Put ting the two results together, A's power of attraction B's power of attraction = mass of A mass of B All right, that's it. l'he gravitational force is proportional to both the mass of the attracting -and the mass of the attracted body. Inertial mass belongs to �-2?bodies merely because they are bodies, Therefore gravitational force goes with all bodies; all . bodies attract gravitationally. Gravitational attraction is therefore inexplicable by any mechanical model of matter in motion, The mechanical phil-0sophy, Newton concludes in the 1680's and 1690's, is dead; he has rediscovered the ancient mystic Pythagorean truth of the harmony of the spheres. Gravitation, he concludes, is the result simply of ~he immediate action of God. There was a tradition in 17th-century .i!)lgland, pursued particularly by . the so-called Cambridge Platonists Henry More and Ralph Cudworth, having to do with the prisci theologi or ancient theologiaps, Hermes Trismegistus, Orpheus, Pythagoras, Thales, Plato, and so on, whose pagan wisdom, it was claimed, was really derivative from that of the Hebrew prophets, especially Moses. More and Cudworth developed their interpretation of these ancient doctrines into a justification for a new and revolutionary natural philosophy, Newton, influenced by these men in earlier years, now believes he has found the right interpretation of the ancient wisdom precisely because he has found the right natural philosophy. And so he writess Since all matter duly formed is attended with signs of life and all things are framed with perfect art and wisdom and nature does nothing in vain; i f there · be an universal life and all space be the sensorium of a thinking being who by immediate presence perceives all things in it, as that which thinks in us, perceives their pictures in the brain; those laws of motion arising from life or ~ may be of universal extent, To some such laws the ancient philosophers seem to have alluded when they called God Harmony and signified his actuating matter harmonically by the God Pan's playing upon a Pipe •••• To the mystical philosophers Pan was the supreme divinity inspiring this worl r.J with harmonic ratio like a musical instrument and handling lt with modulation, according to that saying of Orpheus "striking the harmony of the world in playful song". But they said that the Planets , move in their circuits by force of their own souls, that is, by force of the gravity which takes its origin from the action of the soul. From this, it seems arose the opinion of �-28the peripatetics concerning Intelligences moving solid globes. But the souls of the sun and of all the planets the more ancient Philosophers held for one and the same divinity exercising its powers in all bodies whatsoever •••• All [!.heir god~ are one thing, though there be many names. And so Newton goes on to argue, using passages from Plato and Lucretius and many other ancient writings, that the philosophers of antiquity, Thales, Anaximander, Pythagoras, Democritus, and so on, were . really agreed upon the atomicity of ma. t ter, •·. the inverse-square law of gravitation, the universality of gravitation, and further, true mystics that they were, held th€ true cause of gravity to be the direct action of God. The unity of physical, moral, and theological wisdom is thus shown to have been present in the beginnings of the world, transmitted. from .Adam and .t!.Ve. That unity and that wisdom were gradually lost, after the corruptions of the sons of Noah; but now they have been recovered and restored by Newton. who thus takes his place among the prisci theologi, the ancient theologians. Newton is even able to find in the biblical book of Daniel the prophecy of his, Newton's, rediscovery of the truth. So the first beginnings of a mathematized celestial dynamics came, with Kepler, out of a trinitarian symbol, the three-foldness of the Sun, spherical shell of stars and intervening space in a Sun-centered world; Kepler h.atl his main idea from the beginning. With Newton it was different, and the crucial justificatory discovery came late, with a precise experiment to test the exactness of the constancy of the acceleration of gravity, and a new realization of the meaning of that constancy. And. in a world that has now lost its geometrical center, Newton accep.ts this discovery as a revelation of a mysterious, omnipresent, unitarian Cod, to discourse of whom from the appearances, as he will tell us in the General Scholium to the second edition of the Pl:'incipia, does certainly belong to Natural Philosophy. But the most famous statement of the General Scholium, presented. there as the outcome of inductivist caution, "I do not contrive hypotheses" (hypotheses, that is, as to the �-29cause of gravitation) - this statement disguised rather than expressed the deeper ground of Newton's original and I suspect persisting view, that gravitation was indeed universal, and the result of the direct action of God, so that no hypotheses for 1t could be successfully contrived. � 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/. 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Visit <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a> or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context formallectureseriesannapolis 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. 30 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 On the origins of celestial dynamics: Kepler and Newton Description An account of the resource Typescript of a lecture given on May 07, 1971 by Curtis Wilson as part of the Formal Lecture Series. (A revised version, originally entitled "Kepler, Newton and Planetary Motion”.) Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Wilson, Curtis 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 1971-05-07 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College has been given permission to make this item available online. 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 lec Wilson 1971-05-07 Deans Tutors https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/55ac56b3728278d0c3413bba25927d9e.pdf 5bfccf97b6bd59faef975dd36abdb5c6 PDF Text Text fiBOUT PLAT0 1 S PHILEBL~§. A lecture given by Jacob Kl ein a t St. John's College May 20, 197·1 To speak about a Platonic dialogue, about a Platonic dialogue, means t o do violence to it. A sense of guil t will, be t herefore~ a continuous source of pain within me while I am speaking. But I cannot resist ths temptation to shed some light, some moonlight , as it were, on the P~ileb~. I hope you will forgive ma-- I cannot-- for sounding extremely pedantic, for speaking much longer than I should, end for making it sometimee very diff icult for you to follow. Let me state fi ve basi c points on which my talking about the Philebus will rest. First: a Platonic dial ogue is not a treatise or the text of a lectur e; it is not comparable in this respect t o a work of Aristotle or, for t hat matter , to any of Plotinus' Enneads as edited by Porphyry. A Platonic dialogue is usually a drama, a mime 9 i n which what happens cannot be separated from what is said and argued about. ,§.econdly : however s erious the purpose and the content of a Platon ic dial ogue , its seriousness is permeated by playfulnsss; indeed, as ~1e can read in t he sixth letter attributed to Plato , serious- ness and play a.re The comica l aspect of a Platonic d i a iog ua .§l;ste :r~· can never be completely disregarded. l.bl!:.9.1Y; no Platonic dialogue can be said to r epresent be called and ha s been called _:the "Platonic doctrine." (Soph. 254C ) ~1hat might The dlalcgue may well hint, though never 11 wi t h perfect clarity, " at gsnui t:21 a::d ulti mate thoughts of Pla to, the thinker. The S ae~, for example~ does that most certainly. · But an unimpeachable source provides us with more direc t inform~tion ever put down in wr itinga about Plato 1 s thinking t hat he himself Thi s source is Aristotle, who spent t wenty years at that place of leisure, the Academy, and heard what Plato hi mself sai d. I assume that we have to pay a ttention to Aristotle's r eports , never forgattin.9. that Aristotle has his E.!:!.!l way of describing other peoplesv thoughts, a peculiar t erminol ogy r o~ted in his �-2~Q. thinking and not ln the thinking of those other people s.bout luhom he reports. Fourthl_y: i n the las t t tt10 c enturies scholars; not all 1 but moat of them, have tried to understand the Platonic dialogues as belonging to different stages of a "development" in Plato's own thinking. Now, it is of course possible that Pl ato, in his l ong life, changed his views on many and perhaps even on moat important poi nts. follow a Platonic dialogue means to take it as it ~' But to as one whole~ i n which the i nterlocut ors play a definite and unique role and in which uihat is s~ and what is happening does not depend on anythlng that is said and is happening in any other dialogue. Before we could understand any "development" in Plato's thinking, it is i ncumbent on us to understand each dialogue in its £!:.1ill. terms. This understanding is not helped by assignirn} a dialogue to a certain period in Plato's Yet, in the case of the Philsbuet it will not be unimportant life. to t ake no t ice of the time this dialogue was written--no t in order to track some "deve lopmental " deviation i n Plato's thinkingj but merely t o establish whether certain statements in the dialogue may refer to somebodyvs conspicuous behavior within the Academy in Plato's later days. is And, happily enough, there i s general agreement that the a~ Phileb~e dialogue, although some of the reasons for this da ting might be questionable. [i.fthly: every word in a Platonic dialogue counts, and for some- body in the dialogue to remain silent may count even more. talking .~9.2l-!1 That's why a dialogue must necessarily r emain insuff icient . And now let us approach the Philebu~. The conversation takes place in Athens; we do not learn exactly where; it may be at a gymnastic school or at a wrestling school. 1.ofJ.9. What we read is a Eart of a conversation which begins s ome time in the afternoon. three i nterlocutors ; Socrates~ ~§t:i The~e are Protarchus, Philebus; many young men , half a dozen or a dozen per ha ps, are listening. Socrates is, well~ Sacrates--a man deuoteci ta inquiries and discussions and a friend �About Pl:~d;b' s .!:b.!1~9.L.f~ and lover of youth. Call:Las. Protarchua is the son of m well known Athenian, Philebue is nnt f<no1iln at all. He is one of t.ha fe1,t1 person~· ages in the Pl ato nic di alogues 3 like Calliclea, Diotima, Timaeus, invented by Plato; if they do not remain nameless~ like the Stranger from Elea and the Stranger from Athens, their names are appropriately coined. The name of Philebua indicates that he is a "lover of youth"--as Socrates (168) is. Philebus seems to be young, but slightly older than Protarchus and all the l is tening young men around them. The title of the dialogue as it has been handed down to us is Philebus. This title is never mentioned in the writings of Plato's contemporaries. Aristotle refers to what is times, mentioning Plato once. ~ in the dialogue at least eight There seems to be no reason , however, to doubt that the title qPhilebus" is genuine. Moreover, there is one good reason which speaks forcefully for its authenticity. dialogue contains did). .£.i.36~ The lines (I did not count them, but somebody Of these 2,369 lines only 23 are spoken by Philebus (those I counted). He raises his voice altogether only 14 t imese circumstances, who else but ~~ for the title cf the dialogue? Under these could have chosen the name of Philebus There will be more to say about this matter later on. The main question raised in the dialogue is: ~? What is the best human And this question has to cope primarily with the all-pervasive feeling of mocking us. ~~ common to all living beings--haunting, filling~ All of us--without exception--want to be pleased in thousands and thousands different ways: we Beek to lie down or to ait comfortably; we like hearing things that flatter us; we en joy good companyt witty words~ good drink and food; we delight in traveling 1 in going to the theater or to the movies, in looking at beautiful things; we love caresses, precious gifts, wild emotions; we loose ourselves wi th rapture in exerting ecstasies, and so on~ and so on. power~ in sexual s atisfaction 3 in A list of pleasures like the one I have just given is not to be found in the dialogue, but an infinite number of possible pleasures is implied in the arguments we are facing. �-4-- It is Philebus who looks at Pleasure as the highest good, who sees in Pleasure not only the best of human possessions, but the goal after which all liv:i.ng beings strive. ( if I Pleasure (17001''1) is the goddess he And quite a few of us, I think, follow him. worships. Secretes does not. Ha contends that there is something better and more desirabfe than pleasure, to wit, thoughtfulness in deciding how to act (t~ ~eovttv), the apprehending of what is intelligible only (~o vo~~v ) , !be power of memory ("to )At:f"Y~~IJ"') and that which is akin to these, right opiniQD_ (i~l« 1'e0~ ) and l!'ue calculations (JJ...,e;;"Ls Jioit..o-µo~ ); but Socrates carefully adds that these powers are better and more desirable than pleasure for those beings who are able to share in the.s e powers; only to beings who have this ability will these powers be profitable , now and in the future. This juxtaposition of both contentions, of that of Philebus and of that of Socrates, is made by Socrates very shortly after we begin reading. ( 11 A) "See, It is introduced by Socrates with the following words: then~ Protarchust what the assertion is which you are .!l£!£. to accept from Philebus, and what our assertion is, against which you are to argue, if you do not agree with it. of each of them?" logue. Shall we give a summary These words are the very first words of the dia- But what strikes us immediately is that they cannot be under- stood as indica ting the beginning of a conversation; they just continus what was said before; if they were the beginning of a conversation, the vocativa Tie~"&t(eXfl would be preceded by Z (Z lfe~f".txfjE, and not simply lleJr:Q{e~E); and the words "then" (cf~) and "now" (yl)yt) would not be used. Listen again: which you are~ true beginning. "See, ~t Protarchus, what the assertion is to accept from Philebus ••• " The dialogue has no Nor does it have a true ending. sentence we read spoken by Protarchus: This is the last "There is still a little left, Socrates; you will certainly not give up before we do, and I shall remind you of what remains. " We do not yet understand why the dialogue has no beginning and no ending. But we see (and this is important), �About Plato's .. Ebi:.!EJ~ ~ when we begin reading, that Protarchus hes to take over the thesis upheld by Philebus. More about th~t later. Enjoyment and thoughtfulness are the two banners that Protarchus and (111>) Socrates are respectively waving. The life of pleasure and the life of thoughtfulness face each other. But it becomes clear immediately that Socrates is considering some other life superior to both of them. He will keep reverting to this third life. It will finally be described in the last pages of the dialogue. What follows the juxtaposition of the two views, that of Philebus and Protarchus on the one hand and that of Socrates on the other, is Socrates' insistence that pleasure has many different aspects: (12C) "For, when you just simply hear her named, she is one thing, but surely she takes on all sorts of shapes which are, in a way, .!:In~ Socrates gives two simple, though significant, examples; each other." the pleasures of a licentious man are very different from those of a self-restrained man, who enjoys his very self-restraint; the pleasures of a fool are very different from those of a thoughtful man, who enjoys his very thoughtfulness. No, says Protarchus, the sources of pleasure may be different, may have an opposite character, but "how can pleasure help (120/E) being of ail things most like pleasure, that is, like itself." Yes, says Socrates, color and figure are what they are, but colors and figures can be very, very different and even, in the case of colors, most opposed to each other, like black and white. see how this could make him change his mind. third time~ Protarchus does not Socrates tries for the this time incisively, anticipating what will be said later in the dialogue. are pleasant. No argument, he says, disputes that pleasant things But Protarchus' contention, which upholds Philebus' conviction, implies that all pleasant things are g_ood. That's what is wrong. Pleasant things are for the most part bad and only some are good. But youj Protarchus, says Socrates, call all of them good, although you might be forced by the argument to agree that they are otherwise different. Protarchus tacitly admits that pleasures may be very different from each other, and even opposed to each other, but �sticks to his main poi nt t hat pleasure s , inas much as they are ~j are ahiays good . At this point Socrates goes back to his own contention, namely that 1b.?J:19htfulnsss (<f>eov~€tS) and ~! apprehen~ion of the i~elligi~~ (voos) are good. He adds to these--for the first time--knowledoe -- (i ~t ~~1pi) end predicts that many kinds of knowledge will come to the f ore, some among t hem unlike each other. Should it turn out that some are even opposed to each other, could he, Socrates , t hen cling to the poi nt that all knowledge is alike and--not unlike Pro t archus-11 save himself" in an absurdity? Protarchus is pleased that both, his assertion and that of Socrates, receive the same treatment and is now willing to grant that there are many different pl easures just as there are many diff erent knowledges (we have to note ths.t he does not mention oeposite pleasur es and knowledges). Socrates i s satisfied with Protarchus ' concession about the manynsss within knowledge and within pleasure and spsaks as follows: (148) no concealment~ "With thent Protarchus, of the differentiation within my good and within yours, but facing it squarely, let us be bold and see if per chance, on examination, it will tell us whether we should s ay t ha t the good is pleasure or t houghtfulness or some ot her ihird thing. 11 It is the second time that Socrates reverts to the poss i bilit y that something third may be th e bes t cf human poss ess ions. He pro- ceeds by strengthening this statement by an assertion whi ch has a wide, wide range. This is one·of the transitions in which the dialogue abounds (Parenthetical remark: in the 2nd century A.O. Galen wrote a treatise enti tled ''On the transitions i n the Philebus, " which is unfortunately not extant ). f ac:ing. let me s ay a f ew words a bout the transi t:ton we are now �-1- Up to this point the talk was about things most familiar to all of us, about pleasure and about thoughtfulness and about knowledge, this last word taken in its colloquial and vague sense. about our lives in this our world. The talk was concerned What Socrates is undertaking now is to lift the conversation to a level of all-embracing universality, disregarding pleasure and knowledge altogether . He will come back to them after a short while and then launch out to an even higher level. Why does he do that? The answer is: to find the ultimate sources of what is so close to us and usually unquestioned by us. The dialogue seeks to link the most common to the most uncommon and fundamental. To find the link will require a great deal of vigor on Socrates' part. The manyness within pleasure and within knowledge leads Socrates to re( 14C) mind Protarchus of the "astounding" assertions that "many are one" that "one is many." and There is nothing par ticularly surprising and diffi- cult about these assertions if they refer to visible and tangible things, which come into being and perish. A man, for example, is also many, because he has many members and parts. intelligibles, the £ l'ott on~, but he is But when we consider of things, the "invisible looks," which can be encountered only in speech (f>I Ao~ ti ) , and each one of which is one and unique, the "ona and many" problem becomes extremely perplexing (Socrates me ntions four of the intelligibles: the One young Beauty~ man~ the _Qne Go.2.£). the ~Man, the One Ox, That's where the trouble sets in. Any says Socrates, challenging those present, any young man, once he has tasted the flavor of that perplexity and thinks he has found a treasure of wisdom, does net spare anyone, neither himself, nor his parents, nor any human being, who can hear him, and joyfully sets every possible argument in motion, confounding everybody. (16A) Protarchus feels hit. "Do you not see 9 Socrates," he says, "how many we are and that we are all young men? Are you not afraid that we shall join with Philebus and at- tack you, if you revile us?" But Socrates' challenge works. Protarchus wants Socrates to find a better road than was used up to now and to lead them on. Socrates retorts that there is a better road , which he alwa~1s loved, �which is easy to point out, but very difficult to follow. Whatever human art has discovered had been brought to light through it. Socrates' description of this batter road marks a new transition in the dialogue. Socrates calls this same Prometheus r~ad tog~ther a "gift of gods to men," which we owe to with some gleaming fire (let me remind you: Prometheus stole the fire he ga\1e to men)~ The ancients, who were better than we and lived nearer the gods, says Socrates with deadpan seriousnessi have handed down to us the tradition that all the things which are ever said to exist are sprung from.Q.o.[ and MailY and have, I "' P ) inherent in their nature, Limit (lft;fd..J) and Infinitude (oUTE'-ft..<Jl • JI We shall come back to this point in a little while. What Socrates emphasizes now is that we must , in every case, look for .si!le e 'f Jos (he uses the word t J~... hare) and next for two,, if there be t1JJO, and if not, for 1hree or some other .J]JJ!nber; and we must treat each of these <:J~J"., ir'l the same way, that is~ subdivide each of them~ until 11 we can see that the original one is not just one and many and infinite, ( ·1 60) but also 12.9~ farewe ll ta the it is." Then we may bid farewell to infinity, bid Lf€et of infinity . Protarchus wants Socrates to clarify what he has said. No wonder! Socrates provides this clarification by pointing to the letters of the alphabet. The sound which we emit through our mou'\::.h can be called one, yet it is infinite in diversity. A god or a godlike man, as an Egyptian story tells, observed, however 9 that there are distinct vowel sounds, semi-vowel sounds and consonants- -in Greek 7 vowels, OY $OY\ta..,'l;.f 3 semi=vowelsA(~je,~)~ and 14 consonants~ more exactly 10y if we include I \ the rough breathing sound h and exclude the 5 double consonants. This means that be tween the oneness and the infinitude of s ound there are definite numbers of sounds. One has to know all of them to possess the arl of reading and writing. Socrates !!llllPhasi~ the !J.1£!!ber~ of sounds and letters. But this example of the al phabet and the example cf the numbers of musical intervals, which Socrates also gives j are �AboL1t P.lat o 1 s f,11,i];_eig!L§_ meant to let Protarchus and Philsbus and us understand that t here are numbers in the realm of the (560-E) 't'[.., . Lab::ir in the dialogue Socrates will clearly distinguish between numbers of unequal units , that is, numbers of sensible things, and pure mathematical numbers of units, that is, of units which do not differ at all from each other. But (sse esp. we learn from Aristotle that Plato also spoke of eidetic number s , of ~· XIV, numbers of units which are themselves nothing but ~fd~ 3, 1090·e. find them means tc embark upon that better, but difficult road. • To try to 32 ff.) Protarchus and Philsbus do not under stand what is going on. especially does not see theme of lLlhat the ~' Philebus which Socrates has i n jected into the discussion, has to do with the alternative of pleasure and t houghtfulness, which was in question. Socra tes reminds him that t hey were wondering how each of them , pleasure as well as thought( 18E) ful ness, was one and many, and whether "each of them possessed a number before becoming infinite, " that is to say, whether there were ~I t of Gt~~ pleasure as well as of thoughtfulness, which then are dispersed among beings that continually come into being and perish and that live their li ves in pleasure and thought. Protarchus is perturbed. He understands what Socrates i s after. He cannot find an answer to the question. He wants Philebus to answer it. And he formulates the question as follows; "I think Socrates is asking (198) us whether there are or are not and of what sort they (198) does not utter a wo1-d. true, son of Cal l ies." a ~ e, f; ri.., of pleasure t how many there are and the same of thoughtfulness." Philebus But Socrates remarks: "What. you e.ay is most He underscores the importance cf this fact by addressing Protarchus ceremonially as son of Callias. Protarchus is intent on bringing the discussion about pleasure and thoughtfulness to a satisfactory end. Socrates promis~ was reached. This We learn from what he says that that he would stay on and not go home before this end ptomis~ must have been given, we have to assume , during the discussion which preceded what we read in the di alogue, and we should not forget that. Protarchus demands that Socrates s top per- plexing him and the other young men and decide either to divide him- �self pleasure and knowledg e i nto t.heir .;1'ii1 E£ t o let th,st go, if there bs some other way to solve the matte r s at iss ue among them. Socrates is willing to do the latter, end this marks a new t ransition in the dialogt1e. Socrates claims playfully that some god has just reminded him of some talk about pleasure and thoughtfulness, which he heard when he was dreami ng or perhaps when hs was awake. What he heard saying was that neither pl easure nor thoug htfulnes s was t he good, but some t hird thing, differe nt from both and be t ter than both. that Socr a tes himself had in t imated t his the ~ time. We remember , cf cour se , twi c~ . If this could be clearl y shown He doe s i t new for now~ s ays Socrates, pleasure would not be the victor and it would no longer be necessary to divide pleasure into its 'l"J., . And Socrates adds that, while the discussion proceedsj this will become still What f oll ows leads to thr ee insights: cle a r~~. 1) i t is the l ot of the Good and only of the Good to be s elf-suff icient; 2) if we take the l i fe of plea- sure and the t ho ughtful life separately, so that t he li f e of pl easure is totally divested of any thought, any knowledge, any opi nion, any memory, and the thoughtful life, on the other hand, totally untouched by any pleasure, both lives--in this bare fo rm--cannot be conceived as self-sufficient, as desi ra bl e and as good; 3) only a l ife made up of a mixture of pleasure and th oughtfulne ss and sharing in both will be the kind cf life everybody would choose.- Lat me remark t ha t Socra t es and al s o Protarc hue list under the power s associated wi th thoughtf ulness t he power of a pprehending the intell ig iblas,va~s, which in common parlance may s imply mean sood sense . role for quite a wh ile. This term will now play a central Socrates concludes: it has bsen sufficiently shown that Philebus' goddess, Pleasure, cannot be considered identical (22C) with the good. Thereupon Ph ilebus raises his voice: "nor is your va~s th e good, Socra tes ; it will be open to the same ob jections. " (22C-D ) hear Socrates' :reactiom ''!ti you s Let us perhaps, Philebus ; but not s o the �·-1 ·1- ,.. !£.Y..e vovL, which is also ~l.rJ...~J th at one, I guess, is different. I do not as yet claim for the vo~s the prize of victory over the combined life, but we must look and see tJJhat is to be done about the §_§!cond prize." Socrates goes on, still speaking to Philebus: (220} put forward a claim, one that vous "Each of us might perhaps is ,E_ssponsible for this combined life, is its cause, the other that pleasure is: and thus neither of these two would be the good, but one or the other of them might be re- [Of the combined lify." Then, turning to Protarchus, Socrates claims he might keep up his fight against Philebus in garded as the .£.~~ an even stronger way and might contend "that in this mixed life it is vo~f that is more akin and more similar than pleasure to that, what- ever it may bet which makes that life both desirable and good." As to pleasure, he adds, "it is farther behind than the third place, if J!OC ( l l E.) ~ yous is at all to be trusted at present." The emphasis in this passage is clearly on the terms vcv S and "cause" (oc~ri.ov). What remains unclear is the sense in which the term "cause" is to be taken and the rank to be attributed ul timately to the voDs • And let us not for a moment forget Socrates' own vovr. Socrates suggests that it might be better to leave pleasure and not to pain her by testing her i n the most precise lllay and thus proving her in the wrong . Protarchus disagrees. Socrates asks whether Protarchus disagrees because he, Socrates, spoke of 2aini119. pleasure. second time that pain is mentioned in the dialogue. It is the It is done jokingly. Pain was mentioned for t he first time when Socrates dealt with the thoughtful life, totally untouched by pleasure. was this: (210/E) and The way he put it then "would anyone be willing to live possessing thoughtfulness vov5 and knowledge and perfect memory of all things, but having no share, great or small, in pleasure, or in ee.in, for that matter, but being utterly unaffected by eve rything of that sort?" The question, which is supposed to be negated, when put in this farm1 actually involves a difficulty: one ~ould perhaps be willing to accept a thought- ful pleasureless life, which does not involve us in any pain. The third time pain will be mentioned is going to show pain as a close companion of pleasure and as a real evil. Protarcihus says he i~ not �~·12- shocked by Socrates' phrase "paining pleasure," but rather by Socr ates' apparent attempt to stop talking about pleasure altoge ther and because (238) Socrates does not seem to understand "that not one of us will let you go yet until you have brought the argument about these matters to an end." This is the second time Socrates is warned about leaving too early. Whew, Socrates exclaims, and predicts that a .long and difficult discussion lies ahead of them. To fight the battle of the '/OUS for the second prize requires new weapons in addition to those already used. A new beginning has to be made, and this wili mean a new transition in the dialogue . Let us be on our guard in making this beginning, says Socrates, and we should ind eed pay attention to these words. Secretes suggests that everything tha t now exists in the world be distributed in a twofold, or rather in a threefold way. The results of this distribution are very different from each other. . W They are called by Soc~ates, indiscriminately I and unpreciselyt~ti~ or rev~, which I shall translate by the word "tribes," The first two have been mentioned before as a kind of Promethean gift: the ''limitless" (ro ~7it:,fo"1) and the "limit" (r~ The third is the mix ture of these two into one. literally, as we shall see in a moment: now Socrates adds: n/e°'S ). This is not to be taken let us be on our guard. And "But I cut a considerably ridiculous figure, I (230) think, when I attempt a separation into tribes and an enumeration." (230) Protarchus wonders why. needed besides." Socrates: "It seems to me, a fourth tribe is It turns out that Socrates means the cause of the commixture of those first two. And Protarchus, who is eager to supply even a fifth, namely the power of separation, is told in affable words that this fifth is not needed now, but that if it be needed later, he should excuse Socra tes for going after it. The mentioning of Protarchus' proposal and the way of handling it cast a doubt on the necessity of the �.£.~· fourth tribe, the The:r.e might be something strange and even ridiculous indeed about that. We should be on cur guard. ,,, ' Let us consider one of the first tu10 tribes, namely r:o The following English translations are all adequate: etffEleo'/. the limitless, the endless, the boundless, the unlimited, the infinite, the innumerable, And we must not forget the homonym the indefinite, the indeterminate . ( 17E) :"''foS , meaning the inexperienced one, upon which word Plato does not fail to pun. ... I As to the second tribe, co ffG(!«f, the "limit," it becomes almost immediately apparent that, although Socrates keeps using this term, he ,,also SUbstituteS for it the phrase "that Which has limit, II G~ov, that is to say, the "limited." Protarchus and the other young men as well as we are somewhat confused. gate how each of them~ 'C"O n€efl<.J Socrates-proposes to investi- the "limitless" and the "limited," are both "one and many"; for he contends that each one of them is split up and scat(24A) tered into many. again: He starts with the "limitless," warning Protarchus "Whet I ask you to consider is difficult and debatable." Hare are special cases of this tribe~ parts of its manyness: "hotter and colder," "quicker and slo111er, 11 "greater and smaller," "exceedingly o<l and slightly, 11 "excessive and lacking." In each of them there is "the more as well as the less" JCrt:c. constantly ' J,bt<>.>.ov ,.. ,, (t"o _ "ft " ~ 'J-C-'f:o~). and never stationary--in sharp contrast to what .§_~vancins is determined by a fixed number, by just "that much": s number advances, it cease¢ to exist. • the expression i-" Each of them is A , ~JI.\ o 11 i"G 1<"' \ ~ VJ if such a What captures our attention is r; r: o Y • This expression is meant to gather together the tribe of the "limitless" and to put upon it the (25A} seal of a single nature. It is used six times in the passage we are now considering and once more much later on. is omitted. ~ the particle -Cf.. This omission focuses our attention on the use of this particle in all the other cases. are all in the dual. The verbs related to this expression And Socrates summarizes pointedly: 11 by this �- 14(240) argument the hotter and its ,Qppostt_!! become together limitless. 11 The "limitles~' is a pair. The expression "the more as well as the lass, 11 as the seal of a single nature, seals a ,E~~U·..~Y..· And this duality remains completely indeterminate. The "limitless" is an indeterminate pairq But what abou,t the "limit," on the one hand, and the "limited," that "which has limit," on the other? Lat us take the "limited" first. It is, as Socrates quite clearly states, contrary to "the more as well as (25A/B) the less"; it is the egual, and egualiU, the double, and any number in firm relation to another number or a measure in firm (250/E) ~lation to ano- ther measure, that is, everything which "puts an end to the variability between the opposites and makes them proportionable and harmonious by the introduction of number." We understand that what Socrates means by this tribe of the "limited" is what we read in the 5~ Book of Euclid 1 s Elements. This book is in all probability either a perhaps somewhat condensed copy of an original f.l.rist. Met. XII, 8jl073 b 1"lff. P!oclus, in Eucl. Cornm. (Teubner) pp.67,2ff Arist. £]_st. I,9, 991a14ff. i\!ic. Ethe X,2,11'72 b 9ff. work of Eudoxus or imitates this work. Who is Eudoxus? He was born in Cnidus, on the shores of Asia Minor, came to Athens and stayed at Plato's Academy for a while. He was an astronomer, a mathematician, and a geographer; he firmly established the doctrine of ratios and proportions, including those of numerically incommensurable magnitudes; he tried to "mix" the E: (/ti. , as understood by Plato, with all the sensible things 9 and--what is most important to us--he declared plsastire to be the supreme 9,.'2.,0d• Philebus. But pleasure was not his goddess, as she is for Eudoxus, as Aristotle reports, "seamed to be a man of excep- tional temperance, and hence he was thought to uphold this view not because he was a lover of pleasure, but because it seemed to him that it was so in truth." Socrates, as we see in the dialogue, disagrees. The tribe of the "limited" then consists of ratios. The tribe of the �About Plato 's -15- (260) scattered n11mitles s, 11 of the ~,r ~f11€H eov1 ~ £Ql1film~. in .Hs inf5.ni ta manyness found its unity in the esal of "the more and its cppcsite, 1' that is, in "the more as well as the less." Th e tribe of the "limited," the manyness of determinate ratios, has not yet found its unity. (258) This unity was only postulated, was only, as Socrates says, "referred to." ;i / was indeed a direct "reference" to the "limit" itself ( titS wo And Socrates concludes: (260) There .., 11"r!i(!clf ) • "The limit did not contain a multitude nor did we feel a difficulty that it might not be £l..D2. by nature." It is at this point that we might turn to Aristotle's reports about Plato's unwritten words t o conf irm what we found in the dialogue and to win greater clarity. b 987. '2628 In the Plato: 5th chapter of the 1st book of the ~aphysi.£,~ Aristotle says of "it is peculiar ta him [.f.e. Plat_g7 to pos±t a duality instead of the single Limitless, and to make the Limitless consist of and the Small• 111 In the 3rd book of the Phys~cs ~ 1 the Great 111hsre Aristotle dis- cusses t he liJifil(!rn' "' at great length, we read in the 4th chapter again: 203a15 11 For Plato there are two Infinites, •the Great and t he Small.'" We see thus confirmed what we read in the Philebus, except that Aristotle, in his own way 1, usas the words "great 11 and "small" without their comparative (cf. 37C and) forms. He keeps using these words, in speaking about Plato , at many other places. But, what is more important, in Books XIII and XIV of the Metaehysic:s Aristotle mentions several times two he puts it, out of which, according to Pl ato, 11 11 elements, 11 as numbers" are derived. We have to understand that Aristotle has in mi nd "eidetic numbers , " assemblages of '~ 141 • <('»I C' These ttim sources are the "indeterminate dyad" I 'C/ (ff] ii'l.C1ftl'.n::o5 G1votS') and the "one" (i:q ~Y'). minate pair of the of the L imitl e s s~ P hil~ in the 11 We recognize the indeter- i ndeterminate dyad," the duality "the more as wel l as the less." But we see now that what was named the 1'limi t 11 in the Philebus can also be named "the One ." What Aristotle calls the "elements" can be called the ultimate sou:r:~ �-16- of everything, that which has the fi~ rank bot.h as be~ and ~CJ....£.,£Wers. That is what is meant by ~'~l'X>-7 ~ in common parlance as well as in most thoughtful speech. We should not assume, I think, that Plata h&.d a definitely fixed name for each of these iie:<{'M{. The terms }Pe Good, the One, the Precis~, th~..§..~~, tpe Li~it, and perhaps the Whole are all suited to one of the :Ce)(~:, depending on ' X'1/ , the cont.ext i.n which they are used. As to the names of the second tXf the "indeterminate Dyad," "the more as well as the less, 11 and the Other (which also implies a duality) seem all of them no less suitable. In the Philebus Socrates, in putting a seal on the tribe of the >/. Of..'TT(f;(t!_ov , makes its intrinsic character perfectly cleai. But the character of I' the 114f(;~S, the "limit , 11 remains obscured. as Now lat us take up the third and of the "Limit." tribe~ the "mixture" of the "Limitles s" What does "mixing" here mean? two :Z{X,6}(.~r the "Limitless~" the 11 5.ndsterminate dyad," and the "Limit," the "One," exert their power on each other. described as follows. It means that the Wha t happens then may be The "indeterminate dyad" duplicates the "One," that is to say, produces two entities , two E~J~ , duplicates each of # Nr these E 1,./''1 --we may also say "divides" each of these E tQ7 --and keeps Me~.XIII,7~ an duplicating-~we have to assume, up to a certain point. In Aristotle's reports the "indeterminate dyad" is explicitly characterized as a daub~ ling power" (dvoJTcn/s). I t is the ultimate source of definite manyness, 1082 a 15 and of "numbers," in the realm of the B, 1083b36 the earlier passage, when Socrates first introduced t he Promethean gift t:.f'57 as well as in Oll:r world. In of "infinitude" and of "limit" and urged that in every case a definite >I£ number of f:t o'1 had to be found (Bthe alphabet helping him to clarify this point), there was hardly a discernible hint that the "Limitless" with its doubl.ing power is responsible for the _mul tipl.i£lli of >tr th~ Etol:f You will remember that in this context the "limitless," the infinite, l!las ultimately dismiss ed. Not so in the world in which we live. What happens here is this: the "Limit," the "One," transforms the "indet erminate dyad 11 .into a £ill~.Fmj~ one, that is to say , Q �-1'1- About Plato's .P.hll.~ transforms the two constantly and indeterminately changing terms of ths dyad into two stationary and determinate ones and keeps doing this, illJ produce st in other wordst a mtJltituds~ of~· (3-S' DJ Socrates can call the manyness of ratios "the offspring of the limit." That's l1Jhy We understand now what confused Protarchua and us u.rhen Socrates sub- stituted "that which has limit," the "limited," for the 11 limit 11 itself. The "limited," the assemblage of ratios, is already a part of the mixture, of the third tribe. (26A} But it represents a mixtur e or rather mix- tures of a spacial kind, mathematicilpartnar ships that can give to parts of the world we live in a certain rightness 9 ~smoue the excess and indefiniteness, and pr oduce balance and right measure. Such mathematical partnerships engender, for example, health, establish the entire _genuine art of !I!Y~' bring about the temperate_.§eason~ and all the bounties of our world, beauty and strength of the body and all the beauties of the soul. (.2 ~ £) . And Socratest addressing Philebus directly and speaking about ' ~ that proper partnership (@t 8~ JC@(. '1"'1 Y~f'L) Of mathematl.cal ratios, has this to say~ "for this goddess, my beautiful Philebus, beholding the (268-C) wanton violence and universal wickedness which prevailed 9 since there was no limit of pleasures or cf excess in , order (VtJ,,t.GttS , "" ~ IC.«t t'"~5tS) them~ in which there is limito us; I say 1 on the contrary, she kept us sa.fs." (26C) established law and You say she exhausted Socrates addresses Phllebus 9 but we cannot help thinking of Eudoxus. Philebus remains completely silent. "How does this appear Socrates turns to Protarchus: to you Protarchus?" And Protarchus answers~ "It is very much how I feel, Socrates.'' Let us conclude: mixture. the common power of the two > I otef«~ determines the Sometimes the community of this power is lacking. Socrates turns now to the fourth tribe, the £!Use. You will remember that Socrates seemed somewhat reluctant to add this fourth to ths first three. And indeed, is there any need for H7 The common power of ths �About P1 at o 1 s .E.hi~1'?.l!!!. -18- "Limitless" and the "Limit" appeared as the of what it engendered in this mixture. E~use of the mixt..ure and Listen now to Socrates' words: (278/C) "Should I sound a false note if I called the fourth the £.OUse of the mixture and generation?" And listen to wha t Socrates one moment earlier says with regard to all the first three tribes: (278) "That which fabricates all these, the cause, we call the fourth, as it has been sufficiently shown to be distinct from the others." > That has not been shown at all! / How can ultimate sources, «f X""'' , be caused by something else? If that were so, the first two tribes, the "Limitless" and the "Limit," would not be what they are. The exploration of this fourth tribe, the "cause," is left e_endi11q, and Socrates makes a new transition which helps him to turn backwards. What was the purpose, he asks, of coming to the pcint they have reached? They were trying to find out whether the second prize belonged to pleasure or to thoughtfulness (<;etv1ns). They had posited, Socrates reminds Protarchus and us , that the mixed life was the victor. We can see now, he con t inues, to which tribe it belongs, namely to the third tr i be, formed by the mixture of all that is "limitless" and all that is (2. 7 J)} "bound by t he limit. 11 And now Socrates asks Philebus to which of the three tribes his life of ummixed pleasure ,belongs. this: have pleasure and Eai.rr a limit or are they among the things which admit "the mor e as well as the less"? (27E) Philebus' answer is: "Yes, among those which admi t the more; for pleasure would not be all the good, if it were not limi t less in multitude and in the (28A) The full question is replies: 'more~'" "nor would e_ain, Philebus, be all the evil. 11 Socrates d~yly This is how pain is introduced in t he discussion for the third time, and this time decisively. For Socrates adds he would grant Philebus that both, pleasure and pain, are in the tribe of the Limitless. only pleasure, .!!.Q1 pain . We note Philebus meant Socrates' addition is decisive. �-19- About Plato's Pleasure and pain are a limitless pair. E.blJl!E..l:!.~ One of the consequences of this 't finding ia that there are no ,,J~ of pleasu~e, in the strict sense o f this word. We remember that Socrates had intimated that the discussion would show in a clearer way why it would not be necessary to divide pleasure into its 6rt1. Socrates will use this term later on in dis- cussing pleasure, but it will not have to be taken in its strict sense. The next question Socrates asks Protarchus and Philebus is: tribe thoughtfulness, knowledge and (28A) (288) shall be assigned without "For I think that our risk is not a small one in finding or not finding the right answer to what is being asked now." Philabus: "You exalt your own god, Socrates, you do." Socrates: And you your goddess, my fi'.i:end. But the question calls for an answer, impiety, Socrates explains: all the sama. 11 Protarchus intervenes and urges Philebus to answer. Whereupon Philebus says: (288) vous to what my place?" This is the look back for a ".Qi!L.vou not, Protarchus, choose to reply in ~ time Philebus raises his voice. Let us moment~ At the beginning of our reading we learn that Protarchus will defend Philebus' thesis of pleasure, because Philebus himself, as Protarchus says, "has grown tired" (the Greek word is ~J.71£[eVf&<.6, a pun on the word ~ff~<fov). Philebus has an opportunity to reg~et that he spoke up again and calls upon his own goddess to witness that h~ does regret. When the "one and many" question comes up, Protarchus remarks: "It is perhaps best for the inquirer not to disturb Philebus ( 15C) in his sweet repose." And now he will be silent all the time, even [tacit re- when pleasure, his goddess, is thoroughly discussed. What is he doing ference t o all this time? Just listenicg? the prov er b: A little later PtJ l<lV(:;l"I l<oC !j~l>' 6~ lltf.µ.oovJ Protarchus has some difficulty in answering Socrates' last question, namely to what tribe knowledge and voGs should be assigned, and asks Socrates to answer this question himself . Socrates is willing. He (28C) declares : 11 \i.lhat you enjoin me to do is not difficult," and he repeats: "It is easy." (28C) Let us be ~n our guard. All wise men agree, and thereby really exalt themselves, says Socrates, that and earth. Socrates adds: \lovs is king of heaven "Perhaps they are right. 11 �About Plato 1 s E,hilebJ:!.S -20·- What follows is indeed an easy 9 but not too convincing "cosmological" account \!Jhich ends with the statement that the four tribes which was called (30E) again, "of all." answer." (30E) "~aUJ!.~ And Socrates adds: Protarchue: veru,.S belongs to that of of all. n Notice, please ~ "nowi; you have at last our "Yes, and a very sufficient one; and yet you answered without my noticing it." Socrates: "Ves, Pratarchuss for sometimes £!.ayins provides rest from serious pursuit. ir We understand: the "cosmological" account, which makes the voG$ the cause of all the other tribes, was a playful account. is the "divine vov; " We are not sure whether this Yovt mentioned before. And let us not forget that, within the confines of human life, the best voGs could obtain was the second prize. Socrates concludes this entire discussion of the four tribes by point,.. ing to ~ovs and to pleasure. He does not mention anything pertaining (31A) to "limit" and to the "mixture." Let us r&nernber, he says, "that vo-;;s was akin to cause and belonged roughly speaking (<rk~J~v) to this tribe and that pleasure was itself limitless and belonged to the tribe which, in and by itself, ~not and never will ha~ either beginning or middle or end." Wa must add that this holds also for pain. As we have seen, the dialogue , too, has neither a beginning nor an end, and for that matter, no middle. The graph of a Platonic dialogue usually-not always--looks like this: But the graph of the Philebus looks like this : --- �-21 ... The dialogue itself, taken as a drama, in wtdch we, the readers or listeners, are involved, seems to resemble pleasure and pain. it does that, it must be pleasurable and painful. If We will have to But we need not wait to register the most important wait and see ••• ~ result of the preceding discussion. All the pleasures and pains, small or great, which pervade our lives, reflect in their duality an ultimate source, one of the ~eXD(.,t , namely the "indeterminate dyad." It is thus that some of our most familiar and common experiences are tied to one of the highest points human reflection can reach. Socrates now abandons this high A new transition is made. been considered so far. and turns to a much lower one. l~vel Only about a third of the dialogue has I shall be able to proceed much faster from The next task is to see, says Socrates, where each of them, that is, Yo~j and pleasure, can be found and by means of what affection both (318) come into being, whenever they come into bein~. Note, please, that ,. the vovf mentioned here is said to come into being and cannot, therefore, be understood as the ~ternal ,... divine vovt . Socrates takes pleasure first, and immediately adds that it is impossible to examine pleasure sufficiently apart from pain. Socratesv contention is that pain and pleasure emerge in the combined tribe, the one, we remember, where the "limitless" and the "limit" join together and form a mathematical partnership conducive to balance and right measure. (310) When this balance is broken in us, living beings, "a disruption of nature and a generation of pain also take place at the same time." ''If, on the other hand, balance is being restored and is returning to its own nature, pleasure is generated." The process of destruction is pain, and the process of restoration is pleasure. When we are being emptied, we are becoming hungry and pained; when we are filling up again through eating, we are pleased. And the same can be said of thirst. It is shown later that it is �-22 ... !!£.i the body that hungers oI· thirsts or has any sL1ch the body cannot, therefore, be pained or pleased. belong to the .!£!:ll, and to the soul only. affectlon, that Pleasure and pain But sometimes, or rather often enough, as in the case of hunger and thirst, the p9dy is involved. Whenever this is the case, we face ontkind of pleasure and pain. Another kind of pleasure and pain does not involve the body at all. It arises within the soul itself as the sweet and cheering .b_oee of pleasant things to come and as the fearful and woeful expectati.Q!l of painful things to come. Both, the pleasant and the painful expectations originate within the soul in memory. Socrates proceeds to give a circumstantial description of this origin by passing from perception to memory, to forgetfulness, to recollection, and finally to desire. But he ands this passage by reverting to pleasure and pain volve the body. which in- He points to a man who is empty and suffers pain, but who, because of his memory, hopes to be filled again and enjoys (368) this hope. "At such a time, then, a man, or any other living being, has both pain and joy at once." If, however, an empty man is without hope of being filled, a twofold feeling of pain arises in him. stress is on the duality of pleasure and pain. The The possibility of a twofold pain and--although this is not mentioned--of a twofold pleasure emphasizes the duality even more. Let us not forget its ultim- ate sourqa. Looked at in this passage is also a life in which there is no feeling of pleasure or pain at all, but only thoughtfulness and VOVf. Such a life had been considered much earlier in the dialogue and had been rejected as totally undesirabia, lacking self-sufficiency and, there(338) fore, goodness. Now Socrates calls it "the most divine life." tarchus chimes in: Pro- "Certainly it is not likely that gods feel either joy or its opposite." And Socrates agrees: for either is unseemly for them." "No, it is very unlikely; Socrates adds that they may consider .... this point later on, if it would help the argument; they might give yous �credit for it in contending for the second prize. We shall be watching . A new transition takes placaa (39E40C) What follows can bs subdivided into three parts, and the title that can be given to all of them is "On false pleasures. " This is what happens in .E~t't 'l.,n.e.: Protarchus is unwilling to agree that pleasures and pains could be false; he accepts the possibility of false opinions, but rejects the possibility of false fears, false expectations, and false pleasures; a lengthy discussion follows which culminates in the assertion that a just, pious and good man, 11 a 11 fr i end of the gods, 11 has "true pleasures," while an "unjust and thoroughly bad man" can only haus "fals e pleasures," which imitate the "true pleasures" to the point of r i dicule; and the same can be said of pains. This, now, is what happens in £.§_rt two: we are reminded that pleasure and pain are a limitless pair tied to "the more as well as the less"; any one who feels pleasure in any way always really feels pleasure; but these pleasures may be felt as present pleasures and also as beJ ~!.l pleasures to in the future; the latter ones may be false because they may not come into being as expected, not as great and intense as expected; and when, in our feelings, we are trying to compare pleasures with pleasures, or pains with pains, or pleasures ~!th pains, we may reach entirely fals! results, because of the limitless and indeterminate character of both, pleasure and pain. The thircLear't of this passage does not concern false pleasures directly, but r ather pleasures falsely understood or falsely judged. The theme of pleasure and pain is a common topic in Plat o's own tims, widely discussed by outstanding men. One of the opinions about pleasure, re- jected by Socrates, is that freedom from pain is identified with pleasure. For some men this opinion amounts to the firm denial of the existence of pleasures altogether. For them that what Philebus (44C-D) and his friends call pleasures are merely escapes from pain. men are men 11 of harsh judgments." These Socrates does not mention any names, but it is highly probable that Antisthenea is one of these men. �Antisl:.henea is ii:'epLtted to have said: "should I ever meet Aphrodite,. I would strangle h::1:r.· w.ith my own ha nds. 11 I have condensed this passage of the dialogue to the utmost. But you understand that it challenges the conviction of Philebus radicallyo Lat us look at him again. listening? He has not said a word. We know , he had grown tired. Is ha re ally Has not his sweet repose mentioned by Protarchus a long time ago transformed itself .into sound sleep? And ~Elfil!t sound, dreamless sleep, l!Je should observe 9 excludes any feeling of pleasure and pain, brings about, in other words, a condition of the 11 most divine life, n ye t a .condition not compatible with Philebus' own aspirations. Yes, there he lies, the beautiful Philebus, with closed eyes and closed ears, while Socrates continues the inquiry, imposed upon him by Philebua, Protarchus, and the other young msn. A subtle transition is brought to pass inasmuch as Socrates takes those men "of harsh judgments" with whom he disagrees as alli es. He is going to describe more accurately what pleasure means to these men, who oppose it or deny its existence. Ws have already seen that pain and j oy can be felt at the same time. The point is now emphasized: pain and pleasure do not only constitute an indeterminate pair, but they also~ with each other. This is again shown by Socrates in a tripartite way. ~mixtures of pleasure and pain a:re those in which both pleasure and pain, involve the body, as, for example, 46A) }.tchi.D..9. and ~stchir:)£,, which Prcta~chus tends to consider a "mixed 47C) evil." ~mixtures are those in which the body and the soul con~ tribute the opposite elements~ "each adding pain or pleasure to the other's pleasure and pain," as, for sxample--we have heard that before-a man suffers from thirstt is pained by his bodily emptiness, but rejoices in his hope to be filled, a hope entertained only by his soul. The third kind of mixture is the mast important; it is the one in which the soul and only the soul is i nvolved. Socrates gives as sx- amplea of pains belonging to this third kind: anger 9 fear, longing, �About Plato's mourning, love, jealousy, envy; and he asks: (47E) them full of ineffable pleasures?" Eh!1-.2..~ "shall we not find He then refars--in....,EDe SJfillte~ only--to anger and to mournings and longings in order to show the mixture Of pain arid of pleasure in them. Pratarchus f ully agrees. Socrates' next question is: "And you remember, too, how people, (48A) at tra~dies, enjoy the spectacle and at the same time weee,.?" "Yes, certainly," says Protarchus. Whereupon Socrates asks: "And the condition of our souls at comedies--do you know that there, too, (48A) there is a mixture of pain and pleasure?" Protarchus' answer is: "I do not quite understand." Socrates confirms that it is not eas~ to understand such a condition under such cfrcumatancsa, and Protarchus, on hie part, confirms that it is not easy for him. It is not easy for us either. This is the short beginning of the discussion about the third kind of (508) mixture af pleasure and pain 9 which involves only the soul. And now, surprisingly, Socrates launches into a Jengthy explanation of what happens to spectators at comedies. It takes no less than four pages, and ends with Socrates' contention that pain is mixed with pleasure-not only for spectators in the theater, where tragedies and comedies are performed--but also "in all the tragedy and comedy of life." Today, we are prone to call any horrible or simply sad event a "tragedy" and a funny one a "comedy." But that was not done in ancient timeso The expression "tragedy and comedy of life" in the dialogue is highly unusual and even paradoxical. It is almost unique; a somewhat similar phrase referring to tragedy, ll£i to comedy, can be found only in Plato's ~· Why is this expression used in the Philebus? Let us hsar what Socrates sayse Ha takes up .§!.nvi first. Envy is a pain cf the soul, but we also see an envious man rejoicing in tha evils that befall those close to him. Thus envy is both pain and pleasure. ridiculous. Socrates than takes up the The ridiculous is in the main the consequence of a dis- �position in the human soul which contradi cts the famous inscription at D~lphi. A ridiculous man is a man who does not know himself. folly of not knowing oneself can have thr ee aspects: being~ than one Thi s 1) the conceit of is; 2) the conceit of bsing more .~utiful than one is; 3) the conceit of being more virtuous than one is, especially .!!!J.ser than one is ( JoJoC'tn:P{rx). most nurnerou~. This third kind of conceit. is the Now, wa tend to laugh at men t hus conceited. cases muet be distingui shed here. But t wo Those whc are laughed at may be strong and able to r evenge themselves, and a r e then p owe rful~ and hateful; far folly i n the powerful is hateful and bass. terrible, Or they are weak and unable to r evenge themselves, and then they are truly ridiculous. When we l augh at the follies of such men, who may be our friends, we feel pleasure. But to feel pleasure at the follies of our f riends is what envy brings about, s i nce it is envy that makes us rejoice in the evils that befall these our f riends, and envy i s painf ul . Therefore, when we laugh at what is ridiculous i n our friends, we .!l!!ii pleasure and pain. It is not quite clear how all this explains what happens at comedies, although Protarchue appears to be satisfied . Socrates adds that all that was said by him so far concerned only envy, mourning, and anger (he omits 101.1ging,, which was also mentioned by him in that one sentence he uttered before passing on to tragedies and comedies). And now , Socrates declares, he need not go fuxther and Protarchus ought t o accept the asser tion that there are plenty of mixtures of pain and of pleasure. But now something extraordinary happens that s heds more light on the t heme of comedy . You will remember tha t the young man, who surround Socrates, extracted from him the promise not to go home before bringing the discussion about pleas ure and thoughtf ulness to a satisfactory end. And you will also remember that Protarchus, later on, remi nded Socrates of this �-27... promise and assured him that not one of the young men would let him go before the end of the discussion was reached. Socrate~ (500) says now: midnight come? let me off." words? "Tell me then: Listen to what will you let me off, or will you let I think only a few words are needed to induce you to How strange! Why on earth does Socrates utter these Is this the Socrates, who is known for his never abating eager- ness to discuss things? Has he grown tired like Philebus? Or is it that envy has entered not only the ~o ~of , but also the stage, the "comedy of life" presented in the dialogue? Incredible as it might (cf. Apol"" seem, Socrates appears to be envious seeing Philebus asleep, "divinely" .£'lY. 40C-E) asleep, without pleasure and pain. Does that not mean that Socrates is .e_ained by this envy and yet also pleased by the ridiculous aspect of Philebus' sleep, which manifests the latter's "conceit of wisdom," the Jof oC"<:J<p[ot of friend Philebus? But what about ~' who read or hear the words of the dialogue and are the spectators of this "comedy of life"? Well, we are puzzled and £leased by realizing that Socrates of all people is envious at this moment, and we are also Qained by witnessing what happens to him. We might refuse to accept that this is what is going on at this moment, but this refusal would only mean that we expect to be pained and pleased, it we accepted it. Yes, the dialogue is pleasurable and painful deed >1 (tPy't), in addi- tion to dealing with pleasure and pain in speech ()I.OJ'::')• And is there any need to mention the pain and the pleasure one feels in reading, or listening to, the dialogue in all its deliberately complex and inordinate convolution? We understand now, I think, why the title of the dialogue is Philebus. Socrates proceeds, of course. He takes up now--and this is a new transition--the pure pleasures--that is, pleasures unmixed with pain. Socrates lists five kinds of such pleasures, four of them conveyed to us by our (lSflsPs, ~ involving that which cannot be sensed. The firet four kinds of pure pleasure have their source in beautiful figures, in beautiful colors, in clear sounds and in many odors. The beautiful figures are !l£i beautiful living beings or paintings, but-- �-28- (51C) "says the argument 0 --a straight line drawn with the help of a ruler, a circular line drawn with the help of a compass, plane figures drawn with the help of these same tools, and solid figures constructed with (53A-B) the help of suitable instruments. The beautiful co~ are pure colors, in which there is no trace of any other color, are those that sand forth a single pure tone . Clear §.2~ The pleasures which these figures, colors, and sounds generate are pure pleasures, unmixed with pain. As to the pleasures of smell, they are, as Socrates playfully says, "lemdivine." The last kind of pure pleasure-and this is deeply serious--is that which has its source in the known or the knowable, accessible to human beings without hunger for learn(52A) ing and without pangs of such hunger. What Socrates means is .£9.!:!,- le~s 9 the dssi:re to know, as we feel it in the pursuit of knowledge. This pleasure of contemplation is felt by exceedingly few. templatioo (8€1.Jf(rs,), which is !lE.i preceded by The transition now made leads to a passage that again has three (53C) parts, of which again the third is the most important. The first part extends in soma way the realm of pure pleasures by the statement that what characterizes such pleasures is due measure. The second part makes us understand that the pure pleasures are, because of their purity, also ~ pleasures. In the third--the longest--part Socrates refutes 11 certain ingenious paople" while accepting one of their premises. These "ingenious people" are reduced a little later to~ man, and t here is hardly any doubt that this man is Aristippus, His prsmiss 9 which Socrates accepts, is that pleasure consists in a erocess o.f._~enerati9.!}_ and has no stable bei!J.£. What is rejected by Socrates is that such a process in itself is a good, To refute this assertion Socrates proposes to consider the relation that the process of .£2!!!i...!29. into being (J~Yl,ts) has to .E.&o.a (oJoc'Or). The question is: which one of the two is for the sake of the other? Protarchus re-phrases the question as follows: do ships exist for the sake of �Abcnit Plato 1 s PhilE!,bJ;!.!! shipbuilding or is shipbuilding for the sake of ships? Protarchus knows the answer to this question, of course, but Socrates gives the answer in an all-comprising form: (54C) for the sake of some ~ for the sake of being." "every inst.ance of _generation is or other, and ~ generation Now, the being for the sake of which the process of generation takes place is "of the order of the good," while the process of generation itself is !!21 of that order. Therefore, says Socrates, we must be grateful to him who pointed out that there is only a generation, but no being of pleasure. He makes a l aughing- stock of all those who find their highest end in pleasure and know that pleasure is nothing but a process of generation. highest end is not of the order of the good. (SSA) For their Protarchus concludes: "It is a great absurdity, as it appears, Socrates, to tell us that pleasure is a good." ... There is a new transition, in which courage, self-restraint and vov$ are mentioned and which begins to move the dialogue upwards. is now to consider vovs The task and knowledge carefully and to find out what is by nature filirest in them. We expect that their truest parts will be joined with the truest parts of pleasure in the desired mixed life. Two kinds of knowledge are distinguished. One is necessary to produce things, the other serves education and nurture . the "know how" of the producing arts a division is to be made. Some of The productive knowledge, is taken up first, and here again th~se arts are acquired by practice and toil, aided by guessing, and lack precision. They do not use sufficiently the arts of counting, measuring, and weighing. This holds, Socrates says , for music, as it is commonly practiced, for medicine, agriculture, piloting, and generalship. But in the arts of building, shipbuilding, and housebuilding, for example, there is much more precision, because measuring and the use of ingenious instruments play a much greater role in them . It is at this point that Socrates divides the arts of counting and of measuring (not, however, that of weighing) into two kinds. Some counting refers to visible and tangible units, which are all unequal; but there is also counting of units �P.bou.t Plato's that do not differ at all from each other. Ph!J.E~~ This kind of counting is the basis of the true art of numbering, of true "arithmetic." The art of measuring may also refer either to visible and tangible things or to entities that cannot be sensed. To measure, and to deal with, the latter entities means to be engaged in "geometry," not for the purpose of production and trade, but for the purpose of knowing. And this holds also for the careful study of ratios and proportions. These true arts of numbering and measuring serve education and nur- We eee that there is a kind of knowledge purer than another, as one pleasure is Qurer than another. This purity of knowledge brings abou t much greater clarity and precision and much more truth. ture. But there is, beyond that pure mathematical knowledge, the power of dialectic. It deals with Being, True being, with that which always immutablY. is. Protarchus remembers at this point the claim of Gorgias that the art of persuasion, the rhetorical art, surpasses all other arts. Socrates replies that he was not thinking of the art that sur- passes all others by being the "greatest," the "best," and the "most useful" to men; he was thinking of the art or the knowledge which is most concerned about clearne~, .e..recision, and thg most true, however little and of little use it might be. Socrates asks Protarchus to look neither at the usefulness nor at the reputation of the various sciences, but to consider whether there is a power in our souls which is in love with Truth and does everything for the sake of Truth. Would this power possess thoughtfulness (~eoiHJCi'<.f) and greatest purity? vovs in the Protarchus concedes that this must be so. To be in love with Truth does not mean to possess it or to contemplate it. It means to pursue it, to try to find it, indefatigably, unre- mittingly; to pursue it means to submit to the power of discourse, a power that is able to discover in the spoken or silent words that which make speaking and thinking ultimately possible, namely the unchange- able and, thereby, ~ beings. But, ae Socrates points out, the many �·~3 1"" existing arts end the men engaged in them do not submit to the power of discourse, but are satisfied with their opinions. If a man sees fit to investigate nature, he spends his life in studying this world of ours--that is to say, tries to find out how it came into being, how By doing t hat, that man toils to discover transient productions of the present, the futur e and the past, not what unchangeably always is . And Socr ates asks: 11 How can we gain anything gable about things which have [lO s t ability whatsoever?" The argument compels us thus to see that the stable, pure, and true, can only be found i n what is eternally the same without change or mixture or , Socrates surprisingly adds, "in what i s most akin ta it." He may mean the moving , but never changing celestial bodies. it is acted upon and how it acts itself. (598) (59C) This passage which deals with t he peated reference to vcu f most. ~ and This reference is the pure s~ knowledge ends with the re- 4' ft~ v'!llLS , ttihich have to be honored ~ transition in the dialogue to the passage of t he dialogue. This last passage is about t he most fulness and pleasure are mixed. desi~able life , in which thought- Socr ates undertakes now to make t his mixture with the help of Protarchus . We expected and still expect tha t the .eure plaasu:i:·ss and the QUrest kno1JJledge wi.ll be joined in this mixture. Before the mixing begins , Socrates reminds Protarchus and us of what had been said before. Philsbus had claimed that pleasure was the true goal of every living being and that these two wor ds, "good" and "pleasant, 11 mean the same thing. calirned that 11 Socratsst on the other hand, gaod" and "pleasant" mean d.i.ffersnt t hings and that the share of thoughtfulness in the good is greater than pleasure's. They had agreed , Socrates continues, that any living being , in whom t he �About Plato's £.hilebus good is present always, altogether, and in all ways, has no further need of anything, but is perfectly self-s ufficient; but that neither a lifa of pleasure unmixed with thoughtfulness nor a thoughtful life unmixed with pleasure was a desirable life. Directly related to the task of making the mixture is the t as k of winning a clear understanding of the good in the well mixed l ife, .£!:. (61A) at least an outline of it, so as to be better able to find out J?.e. what in the well mixed life the second prize should be assigned. remember that Socrates had raised the question before. We At that time the possible recipients of the s econd prize were va~s and pleasure. Note that in this last passage of the dialogue vovs has not been mentioned so far. This is now what Socrates eays jovially and playfully just before he begins to make the mixture: "Lat us make t he mixture, Protarchus, (518/C) with a proper prayer to the gods, Dionysus or Hephaestus, or whoever ha be who presides over the mixing." Dionysus leads on revellers and presides over orgies; he stands here for pleasure. is known for his thoughtful and sober craftsmanship. tinues: (6 1C) Hephaestus Socrates con- "We are like wine pourers, and beside us are fountains-- that of pleasure may be likened to a fount of honey, and the sober, winelesa fount of thoughtfulness to one of pure, health-giving water of which we must do our best to mix as well as possible." The first question is: should Socrates and Protarchus mix sure with all thoughtfulness? be safe. ill plea- Socrates observes that this would not It would bs better to mix first that pleasure which was more truly pleasure with that knowledge which wa.a m9st true and .J2!9Ci~. Protarchus agrees. But Socrates is not satisfied. ~ let ua assume , he says, a man who is thought ful about justice itself·-that is, about the ~!/os of justice, and is guided in his reasoning about �everything that. t n .:ly_ :ts by his app:t ehenslon of the intE1lligible ~ by his VOEtV , (it ia the fil'st t.ime that passage of the dialogue). vovs is mentioned in this last If this man is fully cognizant of the mathematical circle and the all-embr acing celestial sphere, but is ignorant of our human sphere and J:iJ:!..man circles, w.ill this man have sufficient knowledge? No, says Protarchus, it would be ritii~ulous "Do you mean," Socrates asks, "that the unstable and impure art of the untrue rule and circle is to be put with the other arts into the mixture? '' Yes, says Protarchus, that is necessary, if any man is ever ta find his way home. Socrates and Protarchus go farther. They put music, which they said a while ago was full of guesswork and lacked purity, and all the deficient kinds of knowledge mingling with the pure into the mixture. for a man to be concerned only with divine knowledge. (628) Then Socrates turns to the pleasures. Here again the pure and true pleasures are not the only ones to be put into the mixture. For the first and only time in the dialogue Socrates mentions "necessary plea(62E) sures," by which he means pleasures connected with the satisfaction of vital needs~ arises: and adds thsmto the pure ones. And the further question is it not advantageous and harmless to let all pleasures be a part of the mixture, just as it was harmless and adv antageous to let ~ the arts and all knowledge be such a part? Whereupon Socrates says: "there is no use in asking us, Protarchus; we must ask the 53 ( A/B) pleasures themselves and the different kinds of thoughtfulness about one another." (638) That's what Socrates does. He asks first the pleasures: "would you choose to dwell with the whole of thoughtfulness or with none at all?" And Socrates lets them answer that for any tribe to be soli- tary and unalloyed is neither possible nor profitable; ''we think the best to live with is the knowledge of all other things and, so far as (638/C) is possible, the perfect knowledge of ourselves." it is Socrates whom we hear speaking. Let us not forget, It is highly doubtful whether the pleasures can speak--and can have any knowledge of themselves. �And now Socrates turns to thoughtfulness and Vovs.(!t is the second time that vo~s ie mentioned in this last passage of the dialogue). Socrates asks then whether they want the greatest and most intense pleasures to dwell with them in addition to the true and pure pleasures. And Socrates replies for them--that is, for thoughtfulness and that the true and pure pleasures are almost their own~ Yous , and also those which are united to health and self-restraint and all those which are handmaids of virtue; they should be added to the mixture; as to the pleasures which madden the souls of men, which are the companions of folly and of all the other vices , it would be senseless to mix them with the Yo vs . This is the third time that voCs is mentioned in the passage, while thoughtfulness (~e~v,~cs), which was also addressed by Socrates, is left out. ... vaus (64A) When Socrates has finished replying in the name of both ' and 4tt<>t17(l'£$, he says to Protarchus: this reply which the vo~s has now made for itself and memory and right opinion is thoughtful and sensible?" so." Which vo~s "Shall we not say that is this vo~j ? And Protarchus says: "Very much Ia it t he "divine voGs " that Soc- rates contrasted wit h his 6wn in his reply to Philebus a long time ago? No, it is Socrates who was speaking guided by his own It is !JE.i the vo:is vov$. that the "easy" cosmological account found to be "the cause of all" and that the sagas, in exalting themselves, declare to be "king of heaven and earth." It is not the fourth tribe of the Promethean gift, which Socrates introduced, fearing to appear ridiculous by doing that . i~ure Soc:r.ates' own vo vs is responsible for the kind of mix- he makes to produce the life which combines thoughtfulness and pleasure , is the cause of this l ife. It is neither the cause of the commixture of the "limitless" and of the "limit, 11 nor the cause of these first two tribes of the Promethean gift. What does the original introduction of the voCr as the "cause of all" and the subsequent somewhat veiled rejection of this vovS mean? I �-35- think it means a subtle mocking of Plato's great pupil Aristotle~ Aristotle's thoughts must certainly have been familiar to Plato in (Cods)< Mar·cianus) his lata years. A passage in an ancient manuscript ~ that informs us about Aristotle's life, hints at lively controversies between Plato .... and Aristotle. Plato appears to have nicknamed Ar.istotle o" vovs and to have once said, when Aristotle was not present at a meeting: "The vo~s is absent; dullness reigns in the lecture room." know that the investigation of the different meanings of (~~~~~ ) and of the divine vous works. We do ~ plays a decisive role in Aristotle's What the dialogue intimates is that vo;J,J is above all a .b.!:!- man posssssi onf and that Socrates is the embodiment of this vo~s o Socrates compl etes the mi><ture by pointing to the necessity that trutJJ. must be a part of it, and then asks what is the most precious in it and the £.~ief cau~ for this mixed l ife to be most lovable. The answer is: due measure and JE.9.£.0rtion which bring a.b out beauty and excellence. body is ignorant of this. We should more properly~ No- howe\/er , consider these three 9 beau~~ truth~ due measure , as the components of the goodWe sea , first: vo~s ness of the mixture. pleasure; secondly: is more akin to t r uth than not hing could be found mor e immoderate than plea- sure and nothing is more in harmony with due measure t han voCs and v oCs has a greater share in beauty than knowledge ; and thirdly : pleasure . And now, finally , Socrates gives a list of the bsst human possessions fiE.tl something like Measurep Due in their proper order. Measure~ Propriety, and like ever ything which must be considered of the same order. ~cQ!J.fllJ!_ comes what is well proportioned, beautiful, has been completed and i s suffi ciant 9 and all that belongs to that very family. (668) Socrates continues: insist on yov~ "As to the thit.9.- -this is my prophesy--if you I' and <Pe a ..; '1 n~ , you will not wander far from the truth . " I s vavs relegated to the third place? No, it is elevated to the �-36- proper rank, if you consider the role the t.r!fili played in the entire Foutth.'l;.v come the different kinds of knowledge, the arts, dialogue. the true opinions; and f:lfthll, the painless pure pleasures of the soul, some of which accompany and some of llihich--as we ~CL~ have ssen-- accompany £2..rce_g~ (observe that knowledge was not mentioned before among the pure pleasures, presumably because the . gurs4ll of knowledge involves the desi~ in which pain and pleasure are mixed)o to know, involves There is no sixth place, says He reminds us that neither Socrates , quoting Orpheus. ~ G(><.J$ , voCs nor plea- sure is the good itself , since both are devoid of self-sufficiency . But within the mixed life , which is the victor , vous has now been given the second prize , while pleasure--as Socrates' own voCf had predicted a long time ago--is farther behind than the third place . Note that this holds even for pure pleasure and that the satisfaction of vital needs is not mentioned at all . Pleasure is fifth . We should be. aware that, according to the tradition 9 the people called "Pytha- goreans" associated the goddess Aphrodite Lilith the number five. The list given by Socrates is strangely unprecise and inordinate . It is indeed only an The >I rJ.rf'(:-1..[?oll , outliD~ of the good in the most desirable life. the "limitless , " the "indeterminate," reigns, though not supremely , in the dialogue . I shall not koep you until midnight. a discussion ••• Good night! But there will be � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>.  <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5&amp;sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&amp;sort_dir=d">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a> or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context formallectureseriesannapolis 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. 36 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 About Plato's Philebus Description An account of the resource Typescript of a lecture delivered May 20, 1971, by Jacob Klein as part of the Formal Lecture Series. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Klein, Jacob, 1899-1978 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 1971-05-20 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource The Greenfield Library holds the literary rights to Jacob Klein's work. Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Subject The topic of the resource Plato. Philebus Socrates Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context lec Klein 1971-05-20 Friday night lecture Tutors https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/87b35e3d407c47ade3299c81cfc53b01.mp3 bb9a2fd63fb225d5e3928df7584f14a4 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>.  <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5&amp;sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&amp;sort_dir=d">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a> or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context formallectureseriesannapolis Sound A resource primarily intended to be heard. Examples include a music playback file format, an audio compact disc, and recorded speech or sounds. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data audio cassette Duration Length of time involved (seconds, minutes, hours, days, class periods, etc.) 00:55:01 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 "I think, therefore I am" Description An account of the resource Audio recording of a lecture delivered on October 22, 1971 by Samuel S. Kutler as part of the Formal Lecture Series. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Kutler, Samuel S. 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 1971-10-22 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource A signed permission form has been received stating: "I hereby grant St. John's College permission to: Make an audiovisual recording of my lecture, and retain copies for circulation and archival preservation in the St. John's College Greenfield Library. Make an audiovisual recording of my lecture available online. Make a typescript copy of my lecture available for circulation and archival preservation in the St. John's College Greenfield Library. Make a typescript of my lecture available online." Type The nature or genre of the resource sound Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource mp3 Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Kutler_Samuel_1971-10-22 Subject The topic of the resource Descartes, René, 1596-1650 Philosophy, Modern Friday night lecture Tutors https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/269004295dbe7f27049d70b983ac342e.pdf 19563fc4c6600b43002737c8218f4421 PDF Text Text Annapolis, Maryland St. John's College LECTURE AND CONCERT SCHEDULE 1971-72 Friday, Oct. 1 Jacob Klein "P'lato's Ion" Friday, Oct. 8 Burton Blistein "The Quest for the Grail: Structure and Symbolism in Prufrock, lb.!! Waste .!Ji!!!!!, and fE.!d!: Quartets" Tuesday, Oct. 12 Juilliard String Quartet /'J 'J L Friday, Oct. 15 friday, Oct. 22 Samuel Kutler ...H . Jok'J Loll~~ "I Think, Therefore I Am" friday, Oct. 29 Erwin Straus "Body Schema" Friday, Nov. 5 -AM' A"'lf\At'()l.~ ~~~l.,.wt l:h\c.:.\w.·""' "The Mixed Kind of life and the Combining Kind of Mind" friday, Nov. 12 Harford Opera Society concert Friday, Nov. 19 Mortimer Adler "Language, Meaning, and Thought," �St. John's College Annapolis , Maryland 1 5 iJ'i.-0 .; 'f Uda¥, Mer. 49 Friday, Apr. 7 Lecture and Concert Schedule, 1971- 72 Page 3 Charles Bell s:::rc. _a.~k F(__ "Blake: The Dance of Eternal Death" Roland Frye U~o·ll v .{ Pevlltuy Jv ....V\.,;._ 1 tJJ.,.I~oo,l~fp~ f"A "The D evil in Milton and the Visual Arts: An Approach to Understanding Milton's Attractive Satan" I ~ Friday, Apr. 14 . oV' I I J I (The Anti-Federalis~and the Bill of Rights) Herbert Storing v/ ....j. ~i, U1;u,jO (.."·~j .. !L- J-~, Afv· / (, C..,.vl/lyv-. I ioF~"'> Friday, Apr. 21 Bernard Kruysen baritone NY'- Friday, Apr. 28 Friday, May 5 Eva Brann J ,J L 11"'~/'o},_i Friday, May 12 Eugene Thaw (Visual Arts and Liberal Arts) "The Problem of the Fine Arts a nd the Liberal A rts" {!"'ore's Utopia) Friday, May 19 u~ .. , \ aLJ· Friday, May 26 Winfree Smi th (Aristotle's Ethics) Erwin Straus {on Hamlet) a' J ,,'-{ , } �St. John's College Annapolis,Maryland lecture and Concert Schedule, 1971-72 Page 2 Friday, Dec. 3 Robart Hazo f. ft;\1,,v5k, I"A "Political Decentralization" Friday, Dec. 10 King William Players Friday, Jan. 7 Marcus Berquist (Euclid) /J ·'"iv.M<'/"'1'~ Friday, Jan. 14 Douglas Allanbrook J concert - harpsichord Friday, Jan. 21 Bernard M. w. Knox (.,"),., J;,, 11<1/,.~,;~ Sh,J"~·. iAJ, )"'":)'f." D "Medea, Hero, Goddess, Woman" (Euripides' Medea) (Friday, Jan. 28) (Great Hall) friday, Feb. 4 C (Starabin - Elizabethan Trio) l~al ter Barns 0'""' ''i, lw""-1-t /wMI. o"+ c,,",l,_ "The Constitution and Threats to liberty" Friday, feb. 11 Woodwind Quintet concert Friday, Feb. 18 Beata Ruhm von Oppen _\J?~ A,·•·•"p;,),; "Student Rebellion and the Nazis: I. The Rise and Rule of Hitler" ),, .. ) J\ ' i friday, Feb. 25 Seats Ruhm von Oppan ) L AvtktAfl~i,j the Nazis: II. The "Student Rebellion and Case of the White Rose" friday, Mar. 3 Matitiahu Braun /1/ '/( violin concert '' �Annapolis, Maryland St. John's College NOTICE The lecture schedule for the remainder of the year is as follows: friday, April 21 Bernard Kruysen friday, April 28 no lecture friday, May 5 Eva Brann 5 S'L A~'!" I'~ on More 1 s Utopia friday, May 12 Eugene Thaw -*Wednesday, May 17- friday, May 26 concert "The Problem of the fine Arts and the Visual Arts" Hi-la±-1-G-±ldin - - -en- ~ousseau's political philosophy Winfree Smith J rc... A~111·bn Aristotle 1 s Ethics - fr~day, June 2 -----c: :...~at:t-----~oiifln'l--£l:i!!:a!!!]ml~at..~ ~ * Note-that Prof~~r Gildin~s lecture will be held Wednesday evening, not friday. The Dean's Office April 19, 1972 � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>.  <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5&amp;sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&amp;sort_dir=d">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a> or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context formallectureseriesannapolis Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 4 pages Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Office of the Dean Title A name given to the resource Lecture and Concert Schedule 1971-72 (with written notes) Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1971-1972 Description An account of the resource Schedule of lectures and concerts for the 1971-1972 Academic Year. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Lecture Schedule 1971-1972 Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource text Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this publication. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Relation A related resource February 18, 1972. Ruhm von Oppen, Beate. <a href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/show/3598" title="Student rebellion and the Nazis">Student rebellion and the Nazis (part one)</a> (audio) February 25, 1972. Ruhm von Oppen, Beate. <a href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/show/3590" title="Student rebellion and the Nazis">Student rebellion and the Nazis (part two)</a> (audio) February 18, 1972. Ruhm von Oppen, Beate. <a href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/show/3589" title="Student rebellion and the Nazis">Student rebellion and the Nazis (part one and two)</a> (text) May 05, 1972. Brann, Eva. <a title="Utopia" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/show/260">On Thomas More's Utopia</a> (audio) May 05, 1972. Brann, Eva. <a title="Utopia" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/show/1236">On Thomas More's Utopia</a> (text) Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Klein, Jacob Blistein, Burton Kutler, Samuel Straus, Erwin Goldwin, Robert A., 1922-2010 Adler, Mortimer Jerome, 1902-2001 Bell, Charles Frye, Roland Mushat Storing, Herbert Kruysen, Bernard Brann, Eva T. H. Thaw, Eugene Victor Smith, J. Winfree Hazo, Robert G. Berquist, Marcus Allanbrook, Douglas Knox, Bernard M. W. Berns, Walter, 1919-2015 Ruhm von Oppen, Beate Braun, Matitiahu, 1940- Kruysen, Bernard Gildin, Hilail King William Players Friday night lecture Lecture schedule https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/ef3f7b57808aa8eac5f6a1b0ef5f62ff.pdf a98918a3c590427f4323a4f0b93edb48 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>.  <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5&amp;sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&amp;sort_dir=d">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a> or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context formallectureseriesannapolis Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 8 pages Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The Venetian Phaedrus Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1972 Description An account of the resource Typescript of a lecture delivered in the Spring of 1972 by Eva Brann as part of the Formal Lecture Series. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context lec Brann 1972 Relation A related resource The College, July 1972 Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource text Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College has been given permission to make this item available online. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Brann, Eva T. H. Deans Friday night lecture Tutors https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/177e96e8e312e1b0be5818798ff44bc1.pdf 5be9cb22af5eded8bcce8798e36275e6 PDF Text Text . -D.t~ This matenaI may be prot . · C opyright law (Title 11 u ·s·~a by · Oda) STUDERT REBELLION .AID TSE NAZIS Two lee tu ...es given by Beate Ruhla von Oppen at St. John's College, Annapolis, on 18 and 25 Feb ~a ry 1972 ..,...,.. �STUDENT REBELLION AND THE NAZIS Two lectures·. given by·.-Beat~· Ruhm von Oppen at st. JbhnAs College, Annapolis, 18 and 25 February, 1972 I. The Rise and Rule of Hitler If someone were to ask why I am giving two lectures in a row instead of the traditional single lecture, I might give as reason an experience I had about a couple of years agoo It was at a university specializing in theology -- one that had theology as one of ·its three main divisions. It was in May 1970, just after the American incursion into Cambodia. There was student unrest all over the country and talk of "revolution." There was something like that going on at that university on the day I spoke there. My subject was the relationship of the Nazis and the churches, a subject, I had been ~old~ of spec~al interest to the people there. But perhaps not on that disturbed .day. period was dismal, discussion i~possible. The question One questioner got up and asked1 ""What about studen_t protest?•• sly question; it was quite innocent and.proceeded from pure It was not a ignorance, such ignoranc·e as I was totally unprepared for .in a middle-aged questioner. So I gave' a brief and brutal answer on the history of stu~ent prot~st in Germanya that loud and massive and effective protest existed in the period before the Nazis came to power and the protesters ·were Nazis, or at any rate mil.itant natioJ'.lalists, who exercised considerable pressure· on the academic establishment of the Weimar Republic -and even more, incidentally, in the Austrian Republicr that �-2- once the Nazis were in power, there was hardly any open protest a and that the first three of the famous group of Munich students who protested in pubiic against the Nazi regime and its war, were dead within a few days .of being caught, in 194Ja the rest following a few months later. A helpful colleague, a theologian and church historian. then jumped into the breach and explained that Nazi Germany was a police state and what that meanto taken that as read. I must confess I had But the incident ·showed me that one can- not take it as read any longer and that any description of resistance must start wiih that which is resisted. Also it could be that a term like "police state," being misused too much, has lost .its meaning and like other such terms -- "genocide," for instance, or "fascism•• or "totali tarianism," no 1ong~r conveys anything precise or ·distinct. But meanings and distinctions have to be kept' clear, or, if they have been blurred, have to be m~de clear again, not ·just for love of pedantry, but for the, sake of liberty, indeed of life itself. Lies work best when there .is a· grain of truth in them. The best precaution against being taken in, is the cultivation of the habit of looking for that grain of truth and trying to see what has been done with it. of truth or the fa~ts Denying or ignoring the grain of a matter may be magnificent ideology and rousing rhetoric, but it is no defense against the better liar. Hitler was probably _the best liar there ever was. That is one reason why we are having 1!!Q lectures, the �-3first on the police state or whatever other name we may find more proper for Nazi Germany, and the second on a group of students who opposed it .and a professor who opposed and died with them. Two lectures are a risk, on two counts. St. John's does not .[Q ''history." arts. It is not one of our liberal We read Homer and Herodotus and Thucydidesr Tacitus1 Plutarch and Gibbon; ~ Vergil and Toqueville and Marx and Tolstoi We read quite a lot of political philosophy. that Firstly because We read much . history, from the Bible to the church fathers to the ref.armers tci the debunkers r . .from Aristotle to Rousseau and Kant to.Hegel and Darwin to the Documents of American political history, Yet we do not have "history" as a subject, or a discipline. The s·e·cond risk is rather peculiar to our moment in history, now; but it is probably the lesser of the two risks, here. at St. John's. The temper of m•ny of the more vocal, more audible and visible of our contemporaries is or anti-historical. is regarded as ~-historical There is no patience with history. "irrelevant~ -- unless, of cou~se, It disjointed bits of it can be used, torn· from their context, as ammunition in some campaign. The two risks may, to some extent, cancel each other out. We cultivate, perhaps over-cultivate, rationality hereo By "over-cultivate" I mean a development of' the reasoning faculty at the expense of other faculties. increasingly, anti-rational The temper of our time is, and one can see what has brought �-4- about this reaction1 the rebellion against the shallow, "functional" rationalism of the mechanised, mass-educating,. manipulative age. Our rationalism here, at st. John'~, is different -- more comprehensive -- and therefore few of us are driven into this reactive irrationalism, in fact most of us are quite good at resisting it. But I often sense a divorce from reality, human reality, psychological, political, historical reality. For instance, seminar discussions of Thucydides on the revolution in Corcyra and the attendant linguistic revolution in which "words had to chan~e their usual meanings" tend to be perfunctory1 a few contemporary examples of the misuse of words by lying politicians or commercial salesmen will be mentioned, but the discussion. lacks feeling, passion, lacks, apparently, experience; I mean1 lacks the quality of talk about something one has really experienced; it lacks the conviction that this is something really evil and dangerous -- and should be resisted or count~racted to the best of our ability. of experience abounds, The raw material But the mental, including the emotional; engagement rarely seems to take place. I cannot here go into the question of what the reasons for this inattention may be. Quantity of comment on the phenomenon of misused language proves nothing -- certainly does not prove a realization of · the seriousness of the matter. Neither does a concern for the purity and impeccability of language necessarily ensure the best politics and the most just and decent polity. But certain peccabilities are more �.. · ... -5dangerous, some more insidious in their effects, than others. The more serious linguistic sins seem to me to be very closely related to the subject at the core of these two lecturesa slavery and freedom, the manipulation of men (and women, and childr~n) and the resistance to manipulation -- a resistance that is needed at all times and is always fraught with risks and renunciations, but which in bad times may involve the readiness to stake one's life. Does that sound somewhat exaggerated? I do not think it is -- but perhaps we can discuss that later. Now I must try and describe the indescribable and explain the inexplicable. The simplest procedure may be to mention the ways in which politics began to impinge on me at the time when times were bad and getting worse. The students I am going·to talk about next week were roughly my vintage, or belonged to the same "cohort," as, I believe, the trade . 1. now calls 1t. · They grew up at. the same time in more or less the same country. But I left when I was 16. I was born in Switzerland at th·e end of the first world war and grew up, or started to grow up, in Germany. I cannot think back to a time when politics was not in the air. I re- member ·the evidence of food shortages in my kindergarten and elementary school days. I remember the feeling of insecurity communicated by all around me when the currency collapsed, that is, when there was not just the sort of inflation we have now, but something that gall.opped away in geometric or exponential progression, so that, for instance, a lawyer's or doc- �-6- tor's earnings of one day might not be enough to buy a loaf of bread the next day. Not long ago you could see, in the window of an antique shop in our Main Street,.an old German 50,000 Mark note, said to have been "used in Hitler's Germany." as wall-paper. Perhaps it was used It might be more accurate to say that it was used -- as money -- in pre-Hitler Germany, though I'd hate to refer to the Weimar Republic as just that. It was a specimen of the kind of money that helped to bring abou_t Hitler's Ger-· many. 50,000 Marks !1Q!!. would be worth about $13,000. mal" times, In "nor- the dollar has recently been devalued a bit -- 4 Marks were a dollar. The date of issue on that 50,000 Mark note was 19 November 1922. The very fact that such a note was printed and,:put into 'circulation was, of course, a sign that inflat.ion had got out of hand. In the summer of 1922 the dol- lar was worth not 4 Marks, but over 400. The next summer it And by 15 November 192) it was 4 trillion was over 4 million. (4,000,000,000,000). If my reckoning is right -- but you'd better check it -- that 50,000 Mark note issued in November 1922 was worth one-eighty-millionth of a dollar a year latera $ 1. or 1 of a cent. - 80,000~000 800,000 pape~. But expensive, too. That was very cheap wall- What it all meant, among other things, was the pauperi~a­ tion and demoralization of the middle class and the partial destrucfion of the social fabric. It was in that month, November 192), that Hitler, the �-7leader of ·a tiny party •. staged his abortive putsch or coup time, d',tat in Munich, when he tried for the first failed, to seize power. That year had also se.en communist attempts to seize power, in central Germanys foiled. Hitler was sent and they too were to a comfortable prison for a while and used his leisure to write his book, Mein Kampf. When he got out again, he adopted a policy of legality and with that he eventually prevailed • .By the time I entered elementary school, ·in 1924, a new c.tirrency had been established and money once more was money, tho~gh scar.ce. .But I noticed that my t~achers were not en- thusiastic about the political system, though we dutifully and decorously celebrated the BOth birthday of our President. His name was Hindenburg and he had been a famous· field marshal:.:. in the world war, halting the Russian advance in East Prussia. Being, as it were, a personal link. between the old, pre-war empire and the new, post-war re~ublic, and loyal to the new constitution, he was a national figure acceptable to the moderate right and moderate left and lasted a decade as head of state, while chancellors, or heads of government, succeeded. each other at a breathtaking rate. The country had many po- litical· parties. and an election system based on proportional representation, so that votes were distributed across a wide spectrum and large number of parties, and governments had to be formed out of coalitions of several of them and were correspondingly shaky and shortlived• I also remember many elections during my school iia.ys and reports of violent rhetoric �-8- from left and right, as well as physical violence, street fights, murders, assassinations. Then, after the Wall Street crash of 1929-with its worldwide repercussion·s, there was another economic crisis a mere six years after the beginning of the recovery from the earlier one, with a growing, an intolerable, rate of unemployment. It grew from 1.J million in September 1929 to J million a year later, to ove·r 6 million in 1931. With a total population of about 65·million, this meant that one in every two .families was hit. affected. It was not only working class families that were so There was for instance, much unemployment among academics too. The.•xtremist parties. the communists and Nazis, made great gains and .finally occupied more than half the seats in the national parliament, where they were now able to para-· lyze the democratic procews. They also joined, for instance, in a strike to paralyze the transport. system of Berlin.. Other/wise they could fight each other to the death, and did, with casualties on both sides, despite the general strategy of the communists at that time to treat the Social Democrats as their enemy No. 1 -- whom they called "social fascists" for the purpose -- and to flirt with the possibility of a Nazi as a promising prelude to a communist takeover. pinged of course, on a Berlin school childr vic~ory All this im- the transport strike, the posters, the polarization, the cQabination of both extremes against the middle, and the weakness and apparent helplessness of the middle. When President Hindenburg appointed Hitler Reich Chancellor �-9on JO January 19JJ, he was acting ln accordance with the letter and perhaps even the spirit of the constitution. Hitler's party, the National Socialist German Workers' Party (or "Mar.is" for short, to distin&ulsl'I them from the "Sozis," or Social Democrats), was by then the strongest party in the country, with about one-third of the vote; the Soc'ial Democrats had only one-fifths ·the communists one•sixths the Catholic Gen~ ter Party, together with its Bavarian affiliate, about the same. And there were many_gthers, but all of them had less than 10% of the vote, the largest of them the Nationalists, 8.8% Hitler became the head of a coalition government. I still re- member seeing the faces of these gentlemen in an evening paper that carried the announcement. No-one.knew wha:t it meant. had read Hitler's book. I was somewhat scared, for I I had had to do it secretly, at night, with a flashlight under the bedclothes, for my parents, like many other respectable people, ~egarded it as pornographic -- which indeed in a manner of speaking it was. longs Also it was very and that was probably why very few people read it, though once its author had become the ruler of the land, it wa~ widely and compulsorily distributed, for instance, as;presen.t to newly-weds, bound like a bible. But that did not, of course, ensure its perusal. Before saying anything about what I had found in that book, let me, quickly, give you an account of the rest of my. Berlin schooldays, to show how life at school changed in the 17 months ·before I left. There was much talk of national �-10- solidarity and the Community of the People. in personnel and in the curriculum. rate of attrition. half There were changes And there was a dramatic My own class was reduced by more than . probably because girls (it was a girls' school I went to) or their parents thought that since the new regime had set its face against too much academic education for women (who were not to exceed 10% of university enrolment), it was hardly worth struggling through more Latin and trigonometry and the rest •. up to the rather stiff school leaving exam which was normally taken at tB • . The teaching personnel changed in two waysa there were a few dismissals, of Jews -- we had very few Jews at my schoola and our English teacher, who was a Jew, was at first said not to be subje.ct to dismissal because he had not only served in the war but had even been shot in the heada but eventually he left all the same and the next English teacher was and that one was in due course a teacher trainee. r~placed ~ess good1 by an even worse one, The other change among the teachers was a change of tone and colour. A very few revealed themselves as Nazis which, they said, they had been all along but could only . now, at last, openly avow to be. (On the whole the school had been vaguely nationalistic, but far from Nazi.) Others toed the new line as best they could and exhibited varying degrees of cravenness or caution or dignity, enthusiasm or moderation or reserve. Many new things were reguired1 the Hitler salute at the beginning of classes, attendance at new·national celebrations that prol:iferated and at which you had, _of course, �-11- to stand at attention (with upraised arm) when the new national anthem was played and sung, the old marching song of the Nazi movement, with text by one Horst Wessel, sayings "Raise the flag, close the ranks, we stormtroopers march in firm and ·) " 1 steady tread. Comrades shot by the Reds and Reactionaries are marching on with us." It was the battle song of the new revo- lution. So there was all that. And there were changes in such subject.s as history and science. Let me take biology, for that is where I had my brief hour of glory. I had not done well with the dissection of tulips and the like. once biology was converted into race biology. But I shone Not only was there Mendel's law, about which my father had told me before (only that its implications and application were now rather different from what I had gathered from him) -- ~. and this is where the real fun came in, we now learnt about the German races -- "Aryan," of course, all of them. There were six, .if I remember correctly, ranging in excellence from the Nordic to the East Baltic. Nordic was best because Nordic man had created almost all the culture there was and he had qualities . of leadership. The Mediterranean race was also quite good (for after all there had been ancient Greeks and Romans and there were modern Italians, good fascists, full of leadership.) The Mediterranean race could most easily be memorized as a smaller, lightweight, and darker version of the Nordic& what they had in common were the proportions of their skulls and faces '(long, narrow skull, long face) and the characteristic �-12- way of standing on one leg, with no weight on the other, one standing and one playing l~g, as a literal translation of the German. names for them would have it. Such legs could be seen in Greek statues and such were the legs of Nordic man. Now the Falic race was the next best. It shared many ·, of the sterling qualities of the Nordic -- highmindedness and the rest -- but could be distinguished from it by the fact that it stood, squarely, on two legs. Also its face was a bit broader. No playleg there. That race lacked, somewhat, the fire of Nordic man, or let us say the thumos, but made up for it by solidity and staying power. was fairly nordic, blond .hair, blue eyes. The colour scheme So was that of the East Baltic race whose virtues were less marked that those of the Nordic and the Falic and whose features were less distinguished, ·including a broader skull· and a broadish nose. I could not quite make out the use of this race, unless it was, perhaps, territorial, to keep not a German race. th~ Slavs out. The Slavs were Then there was a German race that looked, one mi:ght say, a bit Jewish, or perhaps Armenian, but it was neither. It was Dinaric and seemed to be much the same as what earlier classifications had called Alpine. race dwelt in the mountains. Indeed this It looked sturdy enough, but not as prepossessing as the Nordics. and its head had awkward mea::rnrernt~rrt~u Di.n:lr.i.c ma.n had back to his head o '.i prominent nos·~ .~nd But he had a redeeming feature 1 · not much he was musical. Now all this, of course, was good clean fun and easy to �-1J' visualize and memorize. tures of well-known rization• pic- Indeed there were visual aids1 personag~s Hindenburg for th~ to help recognition and memoFalic race, somebody like Haydn for the Dinaric, Caesar for the Mediterranean. Then there was a picture of Martin Luth$r. the great Germ.an Reformer. and I forget now what race he wa$ said to represent. looked Slavic. To me he But.that, of course, could not be. I suppose he was declared a darker type of East Bal tic or Falic·. All this was child's play, and this child played it with zest and success• History was harder.. You could not inwardly laugh off and outwardly play it as a parlor game. ~ You had to learn, ". or appear to learn, appear to make your own to some e~tent, in some way; at least -- you had to read, say, and write the things that :h~d ~een neglected .or "falsified" in the Weimar Republic of evil memory, under "the System• {"in der as the Nazis referred to it). brought out overnight. N~w Systemzeit.~ textbooks could not be So we were all given a short brochure on contemporary history, the.recent and most "relevant" .period of Germ&ln and European. and world history. It started ,with the German surrender at the end of the world war {there was.only one then; so it needed no number), a surrender brought about by trickery ab~oad and treason at home, by President Wilson's 14-point peace proposal and the stab in the back of the un- . defeated German army, a piece of treachery committed by Jews. Marxists, and Catholics ties. feckless folk, with international These traitors then set up their system of abject sur- �-14- render abroad and iniquity and immorality at home. They ac- cepted the shame:f'Ul peace treaty of Y.ersailles. which not only saddled Ge.rmany with sole responsibility for the war. (in Article 231, which Germ.ans called the "war guilt clause• or "war guilt lie") 2 but also provided for the payment -- virtually in perpetuity -- of quite crippling reparation~ •. Germany was -unilaterally disarmed (whereas Wilson had envisaged universal disarmament) and was f~rst blockaded by the British -- after the ces·sation of hostilities -- to enforce submission, and then, in 192J, invaded by the French, who marched into the Ruhr. valley to seize German coal and steel production as re. . ~ paration payments were 111 arrears. '·It was reparations that caused the economic misery during the republican 14 years of shame. Attempts to revise the reparations schedule to make it more tolerable were fruitless and fraudulent. The last revision provided for the.spreading of payments until 1988 ' ' and the country was dying in the. attempt to do the· victors' ' bidding, . The nation would have t·o stand together and rally round the Buehrer -- or the •people's Chancellor,• as he was then still called to throw off the shackles of Versailles. The cover of this brochure had a muscular worker on it, stripped to the waist and bursting his chains. We also learnt about the parts of Germany that had been taken away by the Treaty of Versailles. that dictated peace, and about the Germans that languished under foreign domination. We learnt that German defencelessness .was further aggravated by the geographic position of the country• surrounded by hos- �-15tile powers. Thus a bombing plane could take off from France and fly right across Germany and land in Czechoslovakia, without refuellin~. . ercises. tive. The lesson was brought home by air raid ex- They were not very realistic, but they were educa- I stili ~emember leading my little troop of classmates to their several homes, staying close to th~.houses, as in- structed, to avoid exposure to imagined falling shrapnell and flying glass. That was in the first.year or so of Hitler's power, five or six years before his war. It was useless, of course, as an exercise in air raid precautionsr but it was useful for ·romenting fear and a spirit of national defence. It also showed. that the Czechoslovak Republic, even if militarily it amounted to no more than an aircraft base, was the power that enabled France -- or plane& based in France .-- to bomb the wl)ole of Germany. And in addition.-- but this point was not given too much prominence until four years later, in the crisis leading up to the M~ich settlement that dismem- bered the Czechoslovak Republic -- in addition the country was a political entity in which six-and-a-half million Czechs held over ) million Germans in subjection, as second-class citizens. Cl.early the Sudeten region had to be united with Germany. so·much for what was taught in class and done in extramural exercises under the responsibility of the school. there was one .other thing I should mention. But Schools were o- bliged to take their pupils to certain films, propaganda films that were being shown commercially. So, obediently, our class went to see the movie "Hitlerjunge Quex," the story of a Hit- �-t6- ler Youth of th.e working class whose father was a communist and whose mother was long-suffering and tried to cope with conditions and her husband, but in the end attempted suicide, by gas, from misery and despair. Quex (who was a very idea- lized version of an actual Hitler Y.outh who had been killed) first belonged to· a communist youth group, as was natural in view of his home background. But on one occasion, one excur- sion, he was so revolted by their beastly ways, that he ran away, ran through the woods, and came upon t~e camp of a Nazi youth group which instantly and deeply impressed him as his own and the country's salvation. {It was a sunrise scene, to make sure we all got the point.) clean limbs, real and hope. c~mradeship, Here were shining faces, purpose, discipline, dedication, So he jolned the Hitler Youth and·was active, devo- tedly active· in the distribution of leaflets. and all. that. He continued, of course to live with his parents in the working class district of Berlin. And one day, at dawn, the communists took their revenge and. his particular personal en~ emy, a brute of a man, pursued him· throiigh the deserted streets -- also through the maze. of an an"aa~ment park, a very effective, macabre, cinematic touch that~ and long be:f'ore ..:lU Third Man -- and finally caught up with him and knifed him. But Quex died for the cause, and when his friends found him, on the point of death, and propped him up, he raised his right arm in a salute to the German future and the camera swung up ~o the clouds and the sound track into the- marching song of Hitler Youth, with the lines •the ·flag leads us into eternity, �-11- the flag is more than death ... The trouble was twofolds that the film was most effec- tive and affecting (however corny it may sound as I now tell it) and it was made with terrific competence and with the participation of some very good actorsr and secondly that ,the school was under an obligation not only to take us to it, but also to discuss it with us. sion. So we had our class discus- I do riot remember much about it except for the fact that I decided.to play the part of aesthetic ~nd dramatic critic, arguing that, powerful though the movie was, it could have been even better if it had been less black and white (metaphorically speaking), if it had had more nuances, more human diversity and verisimilitude. Why did i take that line? In order not to embarrass or endanger our teacher who was leading the· ··discussion, who, I had reason to. believe, was very unhappy ab9ut the Nazis, and who was.a .widow with two children for whom she had to provide. Then there was a film about -Joan of Arc, replete with horrors of the Hundred Years' War. It exposed the sadism of the British and the brutality of the Catholic clergy. On that occasion I objected to the screening of atrocities; and that was· about as far as one could go and get away with it. Soon after, I got out of the country and cannot speak any further from personal experience about what subsequently·· became pos.sible and impossible. Now "impossible" is a term that strictly speaking brooks no· comparison. So let us look at some of the laws that· �existed and were passed l.ater, which limited the freedom of expression and of assembly and of organization and action. Whatever laws may exist, and be enforced, it is, of course, still possible to do some of the things that are forbidden1 but it becomes less likely that people will do them, the penalties are painful. are - inflicted. becau~e In a police state they really Actually, Nazi Germany became something even worse than a police stateJ because Hitler's shock troops,, the SS, not only permeated and took charge of the police, but came to have a whole empire and fields of activity to themselves, outside the reach and control of the police, and the army. It was the SS that ran the concentration camp~ and extermination camps and the campaign to improve the health of the nation (or the national economy) by k.illlng the in... curable. f-hey were not hampered by the law but acted di· rectly on Fuehrer•s Oi'ders, something beyond:the law. But I am anticipating. Let me mention some of the lawa that were passed and enforced. The first and most fundamental of them was .the Decree of the Reich President for the Protection of the People and the State. It was promulgated on 28 Pebruary 19JJ, four weeks after Hitler had become Chancellor and the day after the burning of the Reichstag building by arson. A young Dutch anarchist boasted of the deed and was eventually sentenced to death by the Supreme Court. Ostensibly rected against communist acts of violence. th~ decree was di- In fact it was used against all who could be said to be endangering the State, �-19including, for instance, members of the cler~ who made bold It ltOt to continue to preach and practise Christianity. only tightened up· provisions or increased penalties under the criminal code for such offences as treason, arson, the use of explosives, and the taking of But it alsQ. hosta~es. suspended "until further notice" a number of basic rights -- , . and it remained in .effect until the end of Hitler's rule. Three weeks later, on 21 March t93J, there was a Decree "for the defence of the government of national resurgence .. against malicious attacks." (It is the word Ernebung I am translating here as "resurgence.• The word can also mean uprising, but also uplift and elevation. T. s. Eliot found it untranslatable or c·hose to treat it as such in "Burnt Norton," the first of the Four Quariets, published, l think_, in 19J5 1 an:d showing an amazing remote~ess or from_ tivity to the world and language of pc;>lit,ics. insensi- I am sure he neither meant harm nor intended a sinister joke.when he wrote the passage about E~heb~ng without motion, _ concentration without elimination ••• J · ,, and this at a time when the strongest connotation of Erhtl!mg • f was not· elation or elevation. but the revolution enacted by the Nazi Movements and when concentration camps had been instituted by that Movement -- the first of them in March 19:33 ·- precisely for the elimination ot undesirables. London Times had a very goo~ co~responde~t The in Germany and Mr. Eliot must surely have read that paper occasionally.) �-20- So the Decree ·of 21 March t93J was to protect the government "of national resurgence1" and what the word Erhebung in the title meant and the text of the decree spelt out was that this protection of the law was not only for the government but also for the "organizations supportiqg it." protection of government and party organ~zations It was the against •mal•. ice" -- and "malice" was construed to include factual statements that were false or badly distorted. This decree was very effective·in silencing criticism. The Nazis even tried to sile·nce foreign critic ism -- and to some extent succeeded. suasion even abroad. They had means of pressure and per- They had hostages at home -- for instance the half million German Jews. The one-day boycott of Jewish shops and businesses on 1 April 19J) was presented as an act of retalia'tion and warning against Jewish-insti.gated atrocity propaganda abroad. (Where sensationalism had, indeed, occa- sionally got the be.tter ot factual reporting.) On 24 March 193J there parliament and limiting its ·~· the Enabling Bill,· passed by r~ghta in favor of the executive. This was the "Law to alleviate the sufferings of the People and State." I am translating the title or the law as best I can -- though the word ".f!2!," here rendered as "sufferings," or perhaps I should say "plight?"• is another of those many- facetted and multi-level German words, with meanings ranging from "misery" to use of the word.) "em~rgency." (I won't here go into Wagne.r's This Behebung (literally• I lifting1 or al- leviation) Behebung der ttot· yon Volk UQd Staat demanded· �.-21- stro11g measures and the government's hand was to be strengthened against potential paralysis by parliament. There were still parties in that parliament, though the communists, after having done quite well in the elections of 5 March, were prevented from taking their'seats, These elections, now far from free.though they were, still only gave the Nazis 44~ of the But by mid-July all other parties were aboliahed and it vote, may have had symbolic signiticance that the "Law against the formation of new parties." the law instituting the one-party state, was promulgated on t4 July ,19J). On the same day there was a law on·plebiscites, which could now be coupled with elections, The one-party rule was further buttressed by a law, of 1 December 19)J,. "to safeguard the unit.Y party an4 State, o~ Meanwhile there were also certain administrative measures and reorganizations, l!ll!& -- a term.taken There was something called Gleichschal~rom mechanics and meaning synchroni- zation or co-ordination, or bringing into line. Gleichschal- . tung was applied to constitutional and administrative streamlining, as in the laws of March and April 1933, for the Gleichschaltung der Laender mit dem Reich, that is, the co-. ordination of the Laender, or States, with the Reich, or national ·government and administration. It was aimed at cent~al~ ization and the weakening or abolition of powers enjoyed by the states constituting Bismarck's Reich and the Weimar Republic. Perhaps I should add another word to our glossary1 Reich. It means realm or kingdom or empire. The Holy Roman �-22- Empire was, in German, Das Heilige Roemische Reich. It was finally and officially abolished by Napoleon, in 1806. When Bismarck united Germany in 18?1, he founded the second German Reich, or empire. The official name of the Weimar Repub- lic wa.s also Deutsches Reich, but the Nazis did not count that and adopted the name Third Reich to describe their own though not officially, not in international discourse. But Reich, as I said, could also mean "kingdoa," as in Reich Gottes "the kingdom of God" -- and it was this over- tone that Hitler played on when he ended a long speech at nis first big public appearance after his inauguration as Reich · Chancellor with a long sentence affirming his faith in the German people and the resurrection of the nation and "the new German Reich of greatness and honour and power and glory. and righteousne~s. Amen." 4 Yes, he saids "Amen." It wa~ an allusion to, and a secular usurpation ending of the Lord's prayer. or,· the Protestant Compare this tastelessness and blasphemy with the editing of a ·sentence in John Kennedy's inaugural address, which went through many drafts. draft had a sentence that rans "We celebrate today not a victory of party, but the sacrament of democracJ•" final text this becamea The fir,st In the i "We observe today not a victory of party but a celebration of freedom." 5 The blasphemy was edited out. Hitler, unlike Kennedy a lapsed Catholic, pro- bably thought references to nationai resurrection and invocations of power and glory (of the German Reich, not the Reich Gottes) would appeal to the Protesiant majority of the �-2Jcountry -- which was much more nationalist than the Catholics and whose support he needed. But to return to Gleichschaltung for a moment1 it was not only L1ender that were being co-ordinated with the Reich, but other organizations were also brought into line, and th~ . term was also used for the change of orientation or thinking, certainly of all expression of thinking (though this meaning was not in official use, only inofficiala it often cropped. up in -private comment .by critics of the regime). Not only were laws passed for the rigid control of all cultural acti~ vities and the press and radio, not only-was there a law a-, gainst "malice," but all language bacame subject to "regulation" -- explicit in the ministries and in instructions to editors, but conveyed quite clearly by implication to the general public too. This Sprachregelung was extremely ef- :fecti ve and of a thoroughness now almost unimaginable. Even George Orwell can hardly give one an idea ·or the pervasiveness of it or of the feel of a linguistic universe in which things could no longer be called by their proper names. This was why all :forms of non-verbal communication became so very important. Let me give you two examples to illustrate this. Let us take the word "murder." of the government. It was taboo for actions When,iin the bloody purge of the summer of 1934, the Nazis murdered Erich Klausener, the head of the Catholic Action, they announced it as suicide. Mr. Klein recently gave me the issue of the paper of the Diocese of B.erlin reporting Klausener•s death. 6 The front cover is oc- �-24cupied by his picture under the title of the paper and its emblem, a lamb with the inscription "Behold the Lamb of God," in Latin. On the next page there is the announcement of his unexpected death on JO June 1934 (and everyone knew the meaning of that date), the requiem mass for him in the ~resence of the Bishop and all the members of the chapter of the Cathedral of st. an Hedwig, address by the Bishop, anm the bur- ial of the ashes -- (ashes) --, with all liturgical observances, in consecrated ground. The page after that carries the Bishop's last salute to t·he deceased, and then there are five more pages of obituaries. Not a word about suicide. Not a word about murder, But the fact that the ashes -- the Nazis had evidently thought it wiser.to cremate the body -were given· Christian burial and that the funeral was a event in the Ca~holic gr~at diaspora of Berlin, gave the lie to the Nazi version of his death. But such publicity was not to be possible much longer. · Ten years later, after the .failure of the attempt of 20 July 1944 to kill Hitler and oust the Nazis, there were series of secret show trials of the conspirators. a contradiction in terms, but I can explain• This may be admission to the trials·and reports on them were completely controlled. The "show" aspect is harder to explain, but it was real enougha those trials were filmed and the film was !ntended to be shown after suitable editing. Very little of it survives after editing by Goebbels and the Allies, The most moving moment in what those two sets of censors and the vicissitudes �-25of war spared, comes in a sequence when one of the defendants, in order to ·explain why he took part in the conspiracy, re~ ferred to "the many murders" -- only·to be instantly interrupted by the presiding judge, yelling, with pretended incredulity (or perhaps .he could really not believe his ears)a, "Murders?" He then subjedted the defendant to screaming a- buse and asked him whether he was not breaking down under weight of his villainy. ~he The accused, as far as I could tell from the film, wanted .to.treat this as a rhetorical questions but when the judge insisted on an answer, yes or no, paused for.a moment and then, quietly~ "No." saids After which there was further loud invective· from the judge.7 dant was sentenced to death and hanged. to death· and hanged in those trials. The defen- Many were sentenced But ve.ry few were able to say $.nything. so clear and unsettling to the regime as this man with his explicit mention of murders and· his final .lie• So there was this careful regulation of language and there were laws circumscribing people's freedom ot action and of expression. All the laws I mentioned before were enacted in Hitler's first year of power. that came later. I shall just mention a few President Hindenburg finally died, having been very doddery .before, in early August 1934. On 1 August 19J4 there was a law on the office of Head of State and it united the offices of President and Chancellor. had them both. Hitler now On the next day a new oath was administered to the armed forces, sworn personally to the new Commanderin-Chief, "the Fuehrer of the German Reich and People, Adolf �-26Hitler." In March 1935 there was an armed forces law, intro- ducing conscription. The Treaty of Versailles had limited the size of the German army to 100,000 men and sti~ulated long periods of service in order to prevent the training of large numbers of short-term recruits. It was that small and highly professio.nal army that now served as nucleus of the new. In September of that same year, 1935, the so-called Nuernberg Laws were passed by the Reichstag which was meet-. ing not in Berlin but in the city where the annual party ral.lies were held. '£hese laws, one relating to citizenship and one to·::the protection of German bl.ood and honour (this was the wording of the title) deprived Jews of certain civil and social right.a, including the right to marry anyone but J.ews or to· have extramarital intercourse with gentiles. Jews (and other undesirables) had already been.eliminated from the civil service by·the law for the "restoration ·or the sional civil service" passed in ·April 1933. profes~ By the way1 in 1935 it was still possible for Jews to leave the country .. But there was the problem of where to go and how to find a livelihood. This may illustrate it1 the American immigration quota for Germany was not fully taken up until 19J8. After the pogrom of November t9J8, that German quota had a waiting list. Professional discrimination and economic disabili~ies had been increasing before, but i t:··,was only the excesses of . November 1938 -- staged after the fatal shooting of a German diplomat in Paris by a y-oung Polish Jew -- that made it clear �-2?"that worse might be in store. There was a policy of mounting discrimination, then of segregation, finally, during the war, of deportation to the East, and of extermination. was .!l.Q! promulgated in a law. state secret and carried out But that On the contrary, it was a administr~tivaly, th~ Most of . victims of that last phase were not German.:Jews, but Palisi\, Russian, and other Jews from all over Hitler's Europe, The expansion of the Reich began with the annexation of Austria in March 1938 and the law bearing the curious title "Law on the reunification of Austria with the Reich," Wha'f; . was being united was the country of Hitler's birth and the country he adopted and which adopted him with such catastrophic consequences for itself and for. the world. Hitler actually ·became a.German citizen less than a year before he became .. · German Chancellor, The dodge to get· him naturalized was his appointment by some of his sympathizers and purely on paper •.. of course, as a civil servant of the litt·le sta·te of Brunswick, in order to enable him to run in the Presidential election of March 1932, a few days later. The American consti- tut1on seems a' bit more careful in that respect. There were many Austrians and many Germans who wanted the Anschlus§, the joining of the two countries. peace· treaties after the world war forbade it. had wanted itr But the Many liberals but perhaps the conditions of 1938 were the most propitious. ~ot. Propitious or no, they brought about the Greater German Reich (as distinct from Bismarck's Lesser Germany that had excluded Austria) and a flanking threat to �-28- Czechoslovakia. That country was dismembered a few months after. All this happened in a state of peace, The state of war did not come about until September 1939 when Hitler, having made a pact with Stalin, marched into Poland. without a declaration of war,, but •returning (Polish) fire,• as the offi- cial German communique had it. Poland was subdued and par-,,, titioned between the Germans and the Russians. France fell the following summer, after neutral Denmark, Norway, Holland, Belgium, and Luxembo'l,lrg, ally Mussolini joined in. That was the stage at which Hitle~'s Hitler failed to invade Britain but instead invaded Russia in June 1941. Japan and America , entered the war in December of that year, over two years ter its b~ginning, It did not end in Europe, until the a~­ Amer~ icans and t:he Russians met in the middle of Germany in May 1945, and in Asia until two atom bombs had been dropped on, Japan, in August 1945. Did all this happen because .people had not taken the precaution of reading Hitler's book? Not solely1 though it might have helped with some of their decisions if they had done so. Hitler's strongest card was the Treaty of Ver~ailies. ,_ His initial strength and his support in the period of con• solidation.of power came from the German sense of national injury and the real grievances. So long as he was just seen as the man who was working, by hook or by crook, for the revision or abolition of that treaty, he had support for his �-29foreign policy far beyond the ranks of his own party. Peo- ple were willing to . .allow some of the more distasteful components of his domestic policy for the sake of the liberation of the country from the shackles of Versailles. The first move in that direction came during Hitler's first year in power, in October 19JJ, when he took Germany out of the League of Nations as a protest against continued discrimination against Germany in the disarmament negotiations. He got this step endorsed by a plebiscite combined with new elections (only one party now to choose from) and.the result was indeed more favourable than the 44% of the previous March, more than twice as good. Before the voting~ to show the people and the world that Hitler had the backing of the greatest sages in the land and of the academic establishment, there were declarations of support (entitled, .. "Bekenntnisse," or confessions of faith) from representatives of that establishment, including, for instance, the theologian Hirsch at Goettingen and the philosopher Heidegger at Freiburg, both Rectors of their universities. 8 The declara- tions were enthusiastic, bo•bastic, and.nauseating. The language in which they were couched was very German and v-irtually untranslatable. The "official" translations appended for foreign readers cannot have impressed the world with the efficiency of the German translation industry. I shall not try now to improve on them but content myself with saying that when I made Miss Brann read the German text to me while I checked the official translation, she lost her customary �-JOcomposure and delicacy forbids mention of the number of letters in the word she used to give utterance to her reaction. Actually I did not think the word either appropriate or adequate and shall refer to the matter as the Hirsch-Heidegger syndrome. By that I denote the abdication of political re- . sponsibility and the intoxication with high-sounding and meaningless words1 the use of language not in an attempt to get at the truth of a political matter, but to glorify the winds of change or the march of history or the peoplehood of a people or the leadership of such· a leader. When this is done by a Heidegger in somewhat substandard heideggerian German, it is a very, very bad thing. He soon relented, of courses he may even have repente~. As Ernst .Nolte, one of his students, later turned historian and a great .. authority on fascism, put it in an essay on the. types of behaviour among academic teachers in the Third Reioha "It was not long before Heidegger, with his turn T.o Hoelderlin, joined the widespread tend~.ncy to retreat from t; Socialist reality ••• " 9 .:r National Nolte, incidentally, dOe$ not think that Heidegger was so lamentably subject to the mental climate because of his philosophy. ~revailing . He does not consi- der the· possibility, which I regard as a probability, that Heidegger's lack of mental resistance may have been due to his relationship with language. have been his linguistic tin e~r It is my feeling that it must that failed to warn n,im of . . people who spoke Hitler's language. And the students? One m·ust not and one cannot general~ �ize -- but they were, on the whole, well ahead of the general development, in the vanguard. Nazi students took the lead and won the votes in the elections to student organizations long before Hitler seized power aad Professor Heidegger saids "Let not theses and ideas be the rules of your beingl The Fuehrer himself and he alone is the German reality and law, . today and in the future." 10 To some extent it 1.! true to say that "National Socialism came to power as the party of you~n.• 11 But it is not the whole truth. I shall try to go into that a little more next time. I am sorry to end on such a negative note today. the ~irsch-Heidegger But . syndrome was, unfortunately, significant, and fairly widespread, and Nazi student activism not only followed and accompanied. but preceded it. Youth was in the. · vanguard of'.-the Nazi movement and revolution. Also the average age of the representatives and leaders of that party_ was well below that of other parties, a fact.from which the Social Democrats, in particular,,suffered acutely• lacked dynamisms They the Nazis had it. Next Friday I shall try to show how six members of the, universtty of Munich. five students and one professor, thought and felt and acted in the midst·of that dynamism • • �-32II. ':.:!·:;;~ The Case of the White Rose The negative note I finished on last Friday concerned the German universities, whose student organizations were captured by Nazi activists long before Hitler and his party captured the chancellorship and command posts of the country and established a police state 1 or rather something even beyond a police state. There was also that rather appalling phenomenon I called the "Hirsch-Heidegger syndrome," an intoxication1 a passing intoxication, perhaps, certainly in the case of Heidegger~ but none the less real and productive .of real con$equences ~t the time. In Heidegger's case I suggested that the loss of sobriety may have been due to the patient's relationship with language, that is, not with h. is 1 philosophy,· but with his failure to test words used in the political context for their meaning . . ~nd implications. The appeals ,·by prominent representatives. of the academic ' , : estabiishment to the German electorate to vote for Hitler after his first significant step.in foreign affairs, leaving the League of Nations, . were, as I mentioned, printed and . . translated and also disseminated abroad, as "Bekenntnisse," confessions of faith, in the new Germany and its leader Adolf Hitler. Let me quote you the official preface to thls collection of "confessions" by leading academics. I shall quote it in the official translation, for that, after all, was what the wider world read, It is a bit roughly what it meant. t~nny, but I shall then say It was headed "An Appeal to the In- telligentsia of the World" and ran1 �-3~ All science is inextricably linked with the mental character of the nation whence it arises. The stipulation for the successful scientific work,i8• therefore, an unlimited scope of mental development and the cultural freedom of the nations. Only from t.he co-operation of the scientific culture of all nations -- such as is born from and peculiar to each individual nation -- there will spring the nation-uniting power of science. Unlimited mental development and cultural freedom of the nations can only thrive on the basis of equal rights, equal honour, equal political freedom, that is to say, in an atmosphere of genuine, universal peace, On the basis of this conviction German science appeals to the intelligentsia of the whole world to cede their understanding to the striving German nation -united by Adolf Hitler -- for freedom, honour, ~tistice and peace, to the same extent as they would for their own.12 There are troubles with the translation of this document, of course. It is not very English. For "science," for instance, read scholarship, or learning. For other words it is harder. to substitute English equivalents, for in some cases there-are none. ~ental The German original of what became the character of the nation" was something called "geistige Art des Volkes,tt and that bristles with difficulties and booby-traps. Not only because the word "~" had on the one hand its denotation of "people" (and there was and is no other word of !•rac~." for~), on the other hand it had connotations -· But also a once harmless word like ttArt " meaning "kind" (or perhaps even "character" as the official translation put it) had ceased being harmless and now had a racial overtone as well, a matter later made quite clear in racial legislation which used the term "artfremd,• or alien, to refer to alien blood • .But the gentle reader abroa¢l could not know this and was �probably no more than slightly bemused by the language served.u~ to him in this document and others. What did get across, though, was the plea for equal rights, egµal honour,. equal freedom -- that is• tion against Germany. the plea for an end to discrimina- (It was over the matter of persistent discrimination in the disarmament negotiations that Hitler had taken Germany out of the League of Nations.) for "equality" had a tremendous effect abroad, This plea It really did seem no more than fair, and perhaps even aiming at a more properly balanced international stabilit_y (the ngenuine, unitiii versal peace". of the translation). But also equal rights, honour, and freedom meant allowing Germany to conduct her domestic affairs her own way. That, too, co.uld be presented and seen as no more than the right that ·91 ther was or should be the right of !!lI country. The nation state ~· after all effective political unit. a_nd it still is -- the And it was only a country consti- tuted or re-constituted after the first world war, like Poland, that had speci~l clauses on the protection of minori- ties, notably Jews, written into its peace treaty. 13 But then Poland was a country with a large Jewish population and a bad history of· anti-Semitism. Germany's Jewish population was small and German anti-Semitism no worse than anybody else's indeed until the 1920s Germany attracted Jews from Poland and Russia, because it was such a civilised country. Let me here interpolate something that is in a curious, a mysterious way both central ~nd peripheral to the story of �Nazi Germany• the part the Jews played in that story. it should have been peripheral may strik~ you as odd. on the practical plane it really was1 That But the other nations did not go to war with Hitler or fight the Germans to save the Jews. And it is a mistake •. a serious mistake, to concentrate on the fate of the Jews in that drama to the exclusion of all else. It is an understandable m~stake, because regarded -as a people the Jews did have the heaviest losses proportionately to their number. The ·Poles were only decimated, that is, they lost about one-tenth of their population. . The . ··Russians, even by their own accounts, only lost 20 million people. But of the -roughly 11 ·mill.ion European Jews between ·four-and-a-half and 6 million -- about half -- were done to death by the Nazis. 14 The exact figure is hard to establish. And it is not the thing that matters most. - What ·does is th• Jewish experience of forsakenness -- and that can never be brought home to non-Jews by numbers. But neither must it be allowed to perpetuate Hitler's heresy. What was that heresy? true theologya That genealogy is the only that it is by the blood of a "race" that we are saved or damned. That whole sad ·chapter of ·history has been vulgarized in a number of ways. The saddest of them is the vulgarization that falls into Hitler's own trap, his own way of publicly presenting or misrepresenting what he was really afters the vulgarization that sees that conflict as one of Jews and gentiles, or •Aryans .. as the Nazis called them• or as one of �Jews and Christians. That last mistake even the Nazis did not make1. on the contrary, they.were so concerned to deChristianize the gentiles -- with Hitler, of course, as the saviour of the gentiles -- that one of the forms t·heir attack on 'Christianity took was to treat it as a Jewish thing and therefore to be rejected by the Germans. One can even take this further. Hitler, the great liber- ator, once said to one of his followers who later left him,. perhaps because of this dictum and all it stood fora "Con- science is ~-Jewish invention. 015 Hitler was out to remove· the .invention and.its inventors.· This makes it clear, or at least;·;;strongly suggests, that behind the "racial" struggle stood a more.fundamental onea war of religions a not of Christianity versus· Judaism, but ot a new heathenism against the Jewish ~ Christian faith and tradition. !h!!1 was the central significance of the Jews in that drama, as central as that of the.relationship of Jews and Christians1 and of Christians -- the nominal and the other kind -- to Christianity and to humanity, But now I must get down to the White Rose, the rose that bloomed· despite the dynamism of 'the destroyers to which r·referred last week. The Nazis undoubtedly were dynamic. "The White Rose" was the name chosen by a group of Munich students and a professor and friend of theirs when they launched a campaign of leaflets against the Nazis. called them "Leaves They or leaflets -- of ·the White Rose." �-37Its blooming was brief., . its p:r;ep~ration long. As for its after-effects -- who is :to ... say what they were or may be? The one woman among them, a girl of 21, her name was Sophie Scholl, had a dream the night before her execution a.nd told it to her cell-matea It was a sunny day, and i was ca;rrying a little child, dressed in a long white gown to be baptized• The path to the church led up a steep hill. But I was holding the child safely and surely in my arms. All of a sudden I ·found myself at the brink of ~ crevasse. I had just enough time to set the child down on the other side before I plunged into the abyss.16 · Willi Graf was the last of the six,to die. 17 says that he "was not a dynamic person." His sister That is probably what makes him the most impressive of the six to me. Let me give you her phrase in its context, and in her words• Willi was not a political type of person in the superficial sense. He had no natural inclination to revolutionary action. But when intellectual freedQm. of choice is not guaranteed, or development in accordance with his own inner law, or simply being human, when a regime on the contrary negates all this and enforces.forms of thinking and of life which keep violating human dignity most deeplya then a young person with sound in·stincts and a sense of watchfulness and faith will rebel, If he is moreover plucky·and prepared for sacrifice and is confirmed and encouraged by likeminded tttends, then he must ~ctively resist such enslavement and finally become an antagonist of the spirit of the times. Thus Willi was driven to the role of having to rebel quite against his own disposition. And then she quotes the sentence which stands as motto over the whole short memoir of her brother. ( First Epistle of James, verse 22. It is taken from the She found it in a diary her brother had kept in 1933 -- the first year of Hitler's power, when Willi was 15 -- where it stood s~ddenly, all by �-)8- itself, in the midst of boyish descriptions of group meetings and excuraions1 It was this sentence• "But be ye doers of the word, and not hearers only," She then goes on•· Ever since 19)4 the .conflict with National Social~ ism had been. a burning problem for Willi and his friend~. The question 'What should we J!2 against it?• became the cardinal point of their thinking, .Even the question of tyrannicide was discussed one night at their Easter meeting in i934,.,Tha friends were agreed that it was not enough to he indignant in small closed circles. ("They discuss." she quotes Willi on a visit by relatives, "the usual stuff, see the dangers, but think they.have to stick it out1" and mhe then continuesa) ·He wrestled with' these problems, just because he inclined far more to a contemplative life and habitually subordinated politics to metaphysical values. He was not a dy~ namic person1 on the contrary, he liked to keep hie reserve and loved order. But the constant occupation of his thoughts with "our situation" (as. he called the definition of his own and his friends' attitude to their time) finally put him on the path that seemed to him inevitable. The determination to let his im~er attitude become daed grew slowly but steadily. When the war starte 1 Willi said f~om the outset that it must and that it would be lost. This conviction separated.him from many.people, even from some of .the friends of his youth who believed they had to defend their fatherland at all costs. His inner loneliness increased more and more and especially when he was drafted in January 19 0 and started training in a medical unit in· Munich,18 4 After his final arrest, Graf himself was asked by the Gestapo•. the secret police, to give them an account of his life, - And this is what he told.them• - He was born in 1918, in the Rhineland, In 1922 his family moved to the Saar. His father became a manager in a firm of wine wholesalers. Willi h~d two sisters, · The family led a co•fortable, though frugal, life. Religion was the center of the children•s education and �they were taught to respect parents and superiors. Willj's father was a man of probity in his professional and private life and demanded the same of his children. He was severe when Willy showed signs.of dishonesty or disobedience. Willy's mother was affectionate and totally dedicated children and the welfare of her family. ~o her Willy was initiated into the observances apd life of the church at an early age. and .tne seasons were filled with the spirit of religion, (By that. I suppose. he meant that he experienced the seasons conaciously a~ parts of the church year.) At the age of 10 Will~ was sent to what the Germans call . a humanistisehes Gvmnasium• that is, a high school teaching Greek and Latin. His special inte·rests were German literature, religion,. and later Greek and music1 tory. also geography and his-· He liked to construct things in his free time, worked on light and bell systems. and tried to understand the mysteries of radio. He liked to go walking, especially in the summer vacations, came to know and love his country and became a lover of nature. During his last years at school, he had a chance to visit faraway places in Germany, Italy, and Yugoslavia, and he relished the experience of dista.nt lands· and of different people with other customs. The precious memories of these walking tours sustained him throughout the rest of the year. His mother opened the eyes of her children, when they were still quite young. to the social and economic sufferings ·of others. He was taught to.do without certain things so �-41>-. that a poorer child could benefit. He occasionally accompanied his mother on charitable missions, 19 The actual phrase Graf used in his draft autobiography "Thus I learnt the significance ot per- for the Gestapo wasa sonal charity." He was clearly trying to stress the contrast to the welfare state approach of the Nazis. The document -- his police autobiography -- is characterized throughout by !!!2 thingsa the judicious omission of certain incriminating features of his bi~graphy of which I $hall speak later1 and the equally judicious inclusion of statements intended to educate his enemies or at least to put on record the convictions that animated him. By "omissions .. I mean, for instance, the discretion observed on the precise nature and circumstances of those walking tours1 they were undertaken.-- at some risk by a very c··lose-knit illegal youth group.· By the attempt to educate -his enemies I. mean references t.o "p-ersonal charity," or religion -- even the appreciation of strange peoples and their ways. This brief life then continuesa Will~ said of himself that he always had a great need for attachment and had close frJiandships with playmates and schoolmates. This was the way that led him to the Catholic youth organizations to which.he belonged for many years and where his interest in religious and literary questions was further developed by likeminded companions. His religious and "ideological"· development was fairly unproblematic. He grew from the childlike notions ·formed at home and in his first religious instruction into �the big world of faith, in whoa• docttlnes he felt secure and protect•d• Even violent and long di•cusaions with boys who thought differently could only endanger this security temporarily, but.not in the long run.2~ L•t me here mention something not altogether irrelevant. Hia trienda' famous nicknam~ tor Will.~ Pi~niah long-dist~nce was 11 111.lrmi." Nurmi was a runner -- actually he ran what would now be called middle distances -- and a hero of the Olympic gamea of 1920, 1924 1 and 1928 especially Amsterdam, 1928, where he won ) medals, Clearly Willj's friends pi~k•d on this name because of .Willi's tenacity and his capacity for independence, even loneliaees. Mr, Crockett says that one ot the most interesting things about Nurmi wae that he would warm up for two. hour.a be tore a· run. He was a th&Qldng run- ner. Willt'• (police) aut.ob~ography continues• In November 1937 he went to the university of Bonn to study medicine. Since the au11laer of 1.935.he had ~ee~.determined to become a ~ .; doctor, because, he said, he thought that would give him th·e beet opportunity to help others. "This seemed to me," I am quoting him verbatim now, •the most beautiful task, giving, as it does, a chance to put into· practice the commandment which to me is the moat compelling of all, to love my neighbour. But I also worked on philosophical and literary ques- tions in order to con~inue my intellectual education and to make finner th• ~truc~ure of my religious viewa.• 21 (Actually hia sister says that if it had not been fqr �-42the Nazis, Willi would have gone into philosophy or theology, not into medicinea and that he only chose that sub- ject of study because it was relatively free from ideological interferences yet that does not make Willi's statement to the Gestapo a lies truth, it was merely less than the whole and it gave him a chance to remind his captors of a commandment they also learnt as children, only perhaps less · well. Even the mention of the year 1935 as the year in which he decided to study medicine in order to help his.fellow-men may have been deliberate• that was the year in which the Saar. territory,· deta.ched from Germany by the Tr(!a~y. of Ver- sailles, had the plebiscite envisaged by th•t treaty and voted ~o rejoin Germany. Willi and his friends had observed devel- opments in Germany with grow~ng but until 1935 they alarms had been rr·ee from the pressures to which the inhabitants' not to say the inmates, of the Reich were subjected.) He read a lot, Willi continued his official autobiography, especially modern German ·writers and philosophical works. He had time fo~ theologic~l· and active sports and the enjoyment of music. I shall quote the end verbatim tooa •ouring these years ' I experienced the smaller and larger conflicts between the church and offices of the state and party and could not understand them, because no state can have permanence -without religion ••• All order is from God, be it the family, the state, or the people,n22 This young man of 25 knew more clearly and firmly what �even the boy of 15 had known when Hitler began to destroy the old order to build his own . New Order. an order without God ... but with the. new idols of race· and people, and with the divine Fuehrer himself ·something between prophet and deity. Lutherans had greater trouble discerning and opposing ·the ungodly nature of this new civil authority. They did not discuss tyrannicide in.t9J4, and ~ery few of them even later. Incidentally• I did not mean to advocate tyrannicide in the discussion the other day. I merely ~eant that it was a thing that might be considered in the face of murderous fanaticism. However, let us have a few more facts of Will;O;. Graf 's life.- T~eY com~ from his surviving sister, from friends, from letters and diaries. He belonged to a Catholic youth organization until it was suppressed, and then he belonged to an illegal successor organiza,ion. He made not concessions to associates he co~sidered faithless. When he was 15, in 1.9331 ije struck off from his address book names of boys who had belonged to his group and who were now in the Hitler Youth. He refused to join the Hitler Youth, although he was threateded with non-admission to the school leaving exam, the precondition ot university entrance, unless he became a member. early arrest in January 19)8 An there were numbers of arrests for activities in.· illegal youth groups -- was terminated by an amnesty to CE!'l . .2) ebrate the annexat i on of Austria •. �The autobiography he wrote for the Gestapo after his later arrest was, of course, not only aimed at not incriminating himself, but also at not incriminating family and friends• Those ;vears of semi-illegality were a good training in careful formulation, ~itude. And his qircumspection was combined with for~ Although he was kept alive for months after t~e execution of the ·others, bec•use the investigating authorities. hoped to get more facts and names and leads from him, with all kinds of threats, he did not.oblige. cut off his head too~on He had also been a So in the end they 12 October 1943. careful reader and given to writing things down that impressed him. With friends he trusted he loved to discuss the most serious" questions passionately and thoroughly, and preferably by night. The le.gal and later l.llegal youth groups also gave their members much training in the endurance of physical hardship and developed their resourcefulness and stamina. In fact Willj became exactly what Hitler wanted his boys, the Hitler Youth, to bes and he had put it in a winged word that Nazi youth leaders were forever quoting• swift as greyhounds, hard as steel." said "Krupp steel.") "Tough as leather, (Well -- Hitler actually But there was one vital differencea that w111i Graf combined these qualities with a mind of his own and an unshakable faith. A greyhound actually is a dog, though a very noble kind of dog, ?ou can condition the reflexes of a dog. condition the reflexes of human beings too. You can But you should �_45... not try to make men into nothing but conditioned reflexes. And these are the chief lessons of the Nazi period to me1 how terribly manipulable people are, especially in our twentieth centurys pulability. - but also that there are· limits to this mani- And there is a ridera we must help to set the limits and defend them. Back to Willj Graf, though. in 19.37. He began his medical .studies In January 1940 he was called ··up and trained in a medical unit in ·Munich. his old friends. This transfer separated him from He served in Germany, on the Channel Coast,, in Belgium and france, Croatia and Serbia1 finally in Po- land and Russia. In April 1942 he.got study leave and returned to-Munich. Apart tram his m•dical studies, he worked in philosophy and theology· and took an increasing interest in liturgical ques,. tions and in psychology. fencing. When there ·was time, he did some He joined the Bach Choir and went to concerts whenever he could. It was then, looking for·new friends, that he got to know a brother and sister, Hans.and Sophie Scholl, and their friends Christoph Probst and Alexander Sch~orell. With them -- the .men were all medical students on leave from the army and Sophie a student of biology and philosophy and·musical psychology. They were all agreed in their opposition to the Nazis and shared many interests, chiefly in writing that mattered .and -- despite their different denominations, they were. united by shared Christian convictions. Jointly they came to �the conclusion that they ought to engage in active propaganda against the Nazis and that this should now take. the form of 24 leaflets. This may be the moment to describe the very different route by which Hans Scholl reached that point·. had a ringleader, it was Hans Scholl. scribed as a "dynamic" .!!! ma what is delllf! per$on. Born in 1918, the same year as son of .a small town mayor. ~igger town, Ulm. If the group Will~ Graf, he was the But later the family moved to a They had three daughters and two sons, of whom Hans was the elder. They were Protestants, the mother probably more pious than the father. I am not sure what their politics were, only that the father was .opposed to the Nazis from the outset. also spent :time in jail for this opposition. what form this opposition took. Hitler •tthe scourge of God." Later he I do not know I only know that he called That may have been what did it. But it was long before, at the very beginning, that Hans Scholl, finding his father's disapproval of this great new llbvement reactionary, decided to join the Hitler Youth, and his brother and sisters followed him. 2 5 ·Ten ye~rs after Hitler nad come .to power, Dietrich Bon- hoeffer, a Protestant theologian opposed to the Nazis -- he later died on the gallows -- wrote of the great masquerade of evil. He said1 "For evil to appear disguised as light, be- neficence, historical necessity; and social justice, is sinp~y bewildering to anyone bro\Jght up in the world of our �traditional ethical conc.epts1 but for the Christian who bases his life on the Bible, it precisely confirms the radical malice of evi1.• 26 . It may seem strange now. effective, And the youn~er But the masquerade I ~ very Schells were swept away by·the idea of a real people's community, the social justice and equality promised by Hitler, and they joined the march of history. In doing that, Hans Scholl was not unlike many of' ·other young Germans opposing their hidebound parents. It was not the Bible that showed Ha.:i~ Sc.holl the error of his way. To that he only came much later. What first put him off was the fact that the fellowship of the Hitler Youth had an element of regimentation -- something of the Gleichschaltung I mentioned last time. His surviving elder sister mentions an incident that gave !l!£ momentarily -- to thinks but the.moment passed. She writes1 We were taken seriously -- taken seriously in a quite remarkable way -- and.that.aroused our enthusiasm, We felt we belonged to a large, wellorganised body that honoured and embraced everyone. from the ten year old to the grown mano We sensed that there was a· role for us in the historic process, in a movement that was transforming the masses into a Volk. We believed that.whatever bored us or gave us a feeling o~ distaste, would disappear of its~lf. Once a fifteen year old girl, after we had. gone to lie down under the wide, starry sky at the end of a long cycling tour, said in our tent, quite suddenly and out. of the blue, "Everything would be fine. but this thing about the Jews I just can't swallow." The troop leader assured us that Hitler knew what he was doing and for the sake of the greater good we would have to accept certain difficult and incomprehensible things. But the girl was not satisfied with this answer, �-48- Others took her side, and suddenly the attitudes in our varying home backgrounds were reflected in the conversation. I spent a restless night an that tent, but in the end w.e:.··were just too tired, and the next day was inexpressively splendid and filled with new experiences~ The conversation of the night before was for the moment forgotten. In our group there developed a sense of belonging that car~ied us safe~ ly through the difficulties and loneliness of adolescence, or at least ·gave us that illusion. The maddening.thing about Inge Scholl's book, if I may say so, is that she hardly ever gives a ~ fQr anything. But this sounds like an early incident to me, earlier than the·Nuernberg Laws ~ven -- let alone the pogrom of 19J8 or the deportations that started in the war. It probably took place about the time when nothing much was being done yet about the Jews,- apart from verbal an.d pictorial vilification and the removal from the civil service. But it is another.matter she mentions as an early cause of her brother's discontent, He liked to sing.and ne sang to his.troop, accompanying himself on the guitar. he sing? What did The songs of the Hitler Youth -- and I have studied their official song book (edition· of 1_941) and was amazed to find many good songs in it. But Hans also sang foreign songs -- Norwegian or Russian, or something like that. leaders forbade it. He disregarded the prohibition. threaten·ed punishment. His They He got depressed, But there was a great experience in store for him. He was to be the flag bearer for his troop at the big a_nnual Party Rally in Nuernberg. back disillusioned. He went with high hopes.J. and came The full implications of the regimentation -- not only of the Hitler Youth, but of the whole show, all �- 49 - or Get'man life as the Party clearly intended to fol'lll it in 1 ts own image -- ·al.1 this had now come home to him •. And there was the odd book his leaders would not let him read, because the author was a Jew, or a pacifist. But the final break came after a promotion: had the rank or Fll).nlei~tflhrer 150 or so boys.} for itself and Hans now (which meant being in charge or His troop had designed and made a banner sh~wed up with it at a parade before some higher-ups of the ff1tler Youth. A boy of twelve carried it. A superior Hitler Youth leader demanded its surrender. There The boy stood firm. were to be no private flags or emblems. He stood a bit less tinn when the surrender order was given for the third time.. Hans intervened. slapped the Hitler Youth superior. care·er in th~ Ri tler Youth. Be stepped forward_ and - That was the end of his . His subsequent membeieship in an illegal youth group ended in arrest and some weeks in But he too, like Willi G~ar, jail~ benefited from the post-AnschlU§.! amnesty. Gttadually all the young Scholls heard things that happened to people they knew. or disturbing events They now asked thei rather about the meaning or some of this and it seems that old Scholl did call things by their proper names and even disabused his offspring of the notion -- very widespread in all those dreadful twelve years -- that whatever horrible things might be happening, they were the doing of wild or mean or sadistic subordinates or loeal potentates or tough men -- and that the Ffth re r did not know about them. �-soFather Scholl explained to his children that this really was unlikely, Hitler knew. Fatner Scholl also tried to exp!ain how such a man could come to power. found it any easier than·I do.) (I don ··t suppose he Finally it seems that he told his children that he wanted them to be free and upstanding, whatever the difficulties, That, at last, bridged the generation gap whiqh -- like many another gap -- Hitler had exploited so skillfully. I~ al:so Rilke was not sent Hans back· to the sources. the fowida.tions. m~oh poet, Hoelde.rlin 1 Plato and Socrates, and Pascals help, neither was Stefan George. or another nor was Nietzsche. th~ Hans finally found early Christian authors, Augustine, and the Bible, whose words, as his sister says, now acquired for him a new and surprising significance, an overwhelm~ng relevance and immediacy, and an undreamt of splendour • . He was a student of medicine now. And the war came. After a while he was drafted for a medical unit and served in the French campaign~ Then he was sent to Munich as a soldier-student, a member of a military student unit. It was a strange ·1ife, commuting between barracks and the university. and the clinic. And all this in a steadily worsenlng political climate, with oppression growing harsher every day and-more and more becoming known -- piecemeal and not always reliably about the crimes of the regime. It was mimeographed copies of a ·sermon of the Bishop of Muenster against e·uthanasia, the secret killing or incura~le~ �which,, h.owever, cquld not be ·kept altogether secret, siaee ' I • ~ ' •' •: _ ~ ': 'L • •• it ~~s C:l~.r:r;,ie,d on ipside Germany -- it was Bishop Galen• s pq'Q+~9 ~~~P\90 ~bo~t this crime, his denunciation of it as not- ori,+y ilQlllsnral but also illegal, a sermon· preached in a re·I. 1i ., ': ·~::· • mote part of q,rmany, but disseminated throughout Germany in mimeographed copiell -~ secretly, of course -- that made Hans Soholl.thihk of leaflets as a possibility. He was relieved that someone, at last, had spoken, ope.nly. And, it seemed, such open speech cobld be spread. He was not alone. In partic'ul~r, he had a fatherly friend and mentor, Carl Muth, the former editor of a Catholic monthly, Hoch.}.and, now suppressed -"'." whom he had met in an almo•t accidental way and whom he thenceforth saw almost daily, learning all the while, and growing There were others too. ~learer and stronger. The underground intellectuals of Munich -- middle-aged or older men most of them, whom the Nazis had eliminated from public life -- were an impressive bunch. They included such pe.ople. as Theodor Haecker, trans- lator and exponent of Newman and Kierkegaard. 27 •.•' Arid there w.ere friends among the· students, especially ... m9ng th~ military-medical students• The closest among them was -was-·Alexander Schmorell, son of a Russian mother whom · ~~'los~ ••~ an infant and who was brought up by a Russian nurse after the family's flight to Germany, where his father married again and became great an~ friends. a well-known physician. Alex had a romantic love tor Russia, which he shared with his Then there was Christoph Probst, the only one of �them to be married, a very young father of two children, with a third on the way. And finally there was Willi Graf. Sophie Scholl came to Munich to study biology and philosophy in the spring of t942, when she had just turned 21, She was three years younge:ti than her brother Hans. She had had to do her labor yg war service before being allowed to become a student. Kurt Huber. Her philosophy professor was a man called He was a somewhat strange man, but, as far as the Scholle and their friends were concerned, the best man in. the university. his Theodicy. university.too. They all went to his lectures on Leibniz and And they got to know him better outside the And he introduced them to other people. They met for readings and discussions. In· the early summer of t 942 the. first leaflets turned up. Hans Scholl:·. had started them, and he had been so discreet that even his sister at first did not know he was connected with them until she saw a marked passage in a book he had. It was a passage in Schiller's es.say on the legislation of Lycurgus and Solon and was clearly the source of the first l.eaflet. This had had long quotations from the essaya Considered in.the light of what he wished to accomplish, the legislation of Lycurgus is a masterpiece of ·political science and human psychology. He wanted to establish a powerful, self-sustaining, indestructible state. Political strength and durability were his aim, and this aim he accomplished insofar as circumstances permitted. The admiration aroused by a superficial glance at· his achieveme.nt must give way to strong condemnation when his aims are compared with those of humanity. Everything may be sacrificed to the best interests of the state ex·. oept the end ·which the state· itself is designed to serve. The state is not.an end in itself. It is �important only as a means to the realization of an end which is no other than the development of all the faculties of man and cultural progress. If a constitution hinders this development, if it hinders intellectual progress, it is harmful. and worthless, no matter how ingeniously it is conceived and how perfectly it may function in its own way. Its durability is to be regretted rather than admired. It is only a prolongation of evil. The longer such a state exists, the more detrimental it becomes ••• Political service was achieved and the ability to perform it was developed by sacrificing all moral sensibilities. Sparta knew nothing of conjugal love, maternal affection, filial piety, friendship. ·It recognized only citizens and civil virtues ••• A state law required the inhuman treatment of slaves. In these hapless victims mankind itself was insulted and maltreated. In the Spartan code the dangerous principle was laid down that men were to be considered as a means, not as an end, thus · abolishing by law the foundations of natural rights and morality. All morality was sacrificed to achieve an end which can be valuable only as a means to the establishment of this morality ••• How much more beautiful is the spectacle of the rough warrior, Caius Marius, in his camp before Rome who sacrifices vengeance and victory because he cannot bear the sight of a mother's tears ••• The republic of Lycurgus could endure only if the mental development of the people was arrested, and thus it could maintain its existence only if it failed to fulfill the highest and only true purpose of political government. This firsi5 leat.fl(tt b.ad · lMqun w;t:bb the wends t Nothing is so unworthy of a civilized nation as allowing itself to be "governed" without opposition by an irresponsible clique subject to base inatincts. It is surely a fact that to-day every honest German is ashamed of his government. Who among us has any conception of the dimensions of the shame that will befall us and our children when one day the veil has fallen from our eyes and the most horrible of crimes -- crimes that infinitely exceed all measure -- reach the light of day? If the German people are already so corrupted and decayed in thair iniost being that they do not raise a hand and,frivolously trusting. in a questionable law of history,yield up �·~ -- .. '1l"'f."' ---------------- - #. -~· '' ' -54man•s highest possession, that which raises man above alllother creatures, if they surrender free will, the freedom of man to seize and turn the wheel of history in accordance with rational decisions1 if they are so devoid of all individuality, have already gave so far along the road toward becoming a spiritless and cowardly mass - - then, then 8 indeed they deserve their downfall ••• 2 To anticipate, let me say that there were six leaflets in all, in thousands of copies. mously and secretly. They were distributed anony~ Those, many of them, that were sent through the mails, were mostly posted in the cities to which they were sent, in order to avoid any hint to the police that Munich was the headquarters of this activity. Risky train journeys were undertaken by several members of the group to take leaflets to cities like Stuttgart, Augsburg, Vienna, Salzburg. Willy Graf even took a duplicating machine to a friend in the West and recruited friends and sympathizers and collaborators where he could. Recipients were assured that their names had simply been taken from telephone directories to free them of the fear that they might be on some list and thus exposed to punishment. The leaflets usually had quotations towards the end of their text, as this first one used Schiller on the lawgivers. The second leaflet begana It is impossible to engage in intellectual discussion with National Socialism because there is nothing intellectual about it. It is false to speak of a National Socialist philosophy (Weltanschauung) for if there were such a thing, one world have to try by means of analysis and discussion either to prove its validity or to fight it. In reality, however, we have a totally different picturea even in its first beginnings this movement depended on the deception of one's fellowman, even then it was �-55rotten to the core and could save itself only by constant lies, After all, Hitler states in an early edition of "his" boo)c.{a book written in the worst German I have ever read, and yet it has been el.evated to the rank of a Bible in this nation of poets and thinkers)• 'It is unbelievable to what extent one must deceive a people in order to rule it.• If at the start this cancerous growth in the nation was not too noticeable, .it was only because there were still enough forces at work that operated for the good, so that it was kept at bay, As it grew larger, however, and finally attained power ••• the tumor broke open, as it were ••• The ma.jori ty of former opponents went into hiding, the German intelligentsia fled to a dark cellar, there, like night-shades away from light and sun, gradually to choke to death~ Now the end is at hand. Now it is our task to find one another again, to enlighten each other, never to forget and never to rest until even the last man is persuaded of the urgent need of his struggle· against this system. When thus a wave of rebellion goes through the land, when 'it is in the air,• when many join the cause, then in a last mighty effort this system can be shaken off. After all an end in terror is preferable to an endless terror. The leaflet went on to speak of the murder of Jews ·-,. J00,000 in Poland -- and of Poles, and of the need for more than compassion. Doing noth.ing constituted complicity. they tolerated these things, Germans were guilty. Now that they had recognised the Na,zis in ·their true colours, had the duty to destroy them. If G~rmans This leaflet ended with quo- tat ions from Lao-Tse.29 The third discussed forms of government and utopias the highest of them, it said, being the City of God. present state was a dictatorship of evil. -- The Something had to be done about it and cowardice must not hide behind·a cloak of prudence. Only passive resistance could be offered, but that must be offered wherever possible. Military victory over Bolshevism must not be the prime concern of Germans, but �-56on the contrary the defeat of the Nazis. There were sugges- tions for various forms of sabotage, though no blueprint for general action could be given and everyone should use what opportunities offered in whatever way seemed best. This leaf- let concluded with a quotation from Aristotle's Politics, a passage on tyranny.JO The fourth leaflet had an appeal to Christians to attack evil where it was strongest. It was strongest in the power of Hitler • . It had a quotation from Ecclesiastes and one from the German poet Novalis on Christianity as the foundation of peace. It also had a postscript, assuring the reader that The White Rose was not in the pay of any foreign power, addingi "Though we know that National Soci~list pow- er must be broken by military means, we are trying to achieve a renewal from ~ithin."Jt Then there was a long hiatus1 for the men were sent to Russia during the long vacations between semesters~ they saw in the East confirmed them in their resolve. saw Jews in labor gangs. prevailing in Poland. What Hans All saw the miserable conditions All fell in love with the Russians. When they returned to Munich in November, they resumed their secret work with redoubled energy and it became quite feverish. There were two more leaflets, the last a special appeal to students and it began with the· shock the staggering German defeat at Stalingrad. the "intellectual w~rkers," prod~ced by The students, should not allow themselves to become the tools .of the regime, but put an end to it. A re- �-57cent incident at Munich university had shown that the students could stand up to the Party. stud.ents. The nation was looking to the It ended "Our people are rising up against the National Socialist enslavement of Europe in a fervent new breal(through of freedom and honor,"3 2 spec~acular The incident referred to had in fact been and encouragings but it had also been unique. The Nazis saw to it that it remained unique. At the 470th anniversary celebrations of the university. the Bavarian Gauleiter had addressed a crowd students, many of them in uniform, on the of abQut JOOO mea~ing q:f the e- vent and of the place of students in the German struggle. As for women students, he had no objec~ion to their occupying places at the university,· but he did not see. why th.ey should not present the Fuehrer.with children, for for every year at the universitya instanc~ a son if they were not attrac- tive enough to get a man by their own efforts, he'd be glad to send one of his adjutants to,.·each one of them and they could be assured of an enjoyable experience. At this there was unrest in the auditorium. Women stu- dents in the gallery stood up, prepared to'.leave. stopped. They were The other students, especially those in qniform on the ground floor booed so much that the Gauleiter had to interrupt his speech. Later he did speak on, but broken and he kept being interrupted. th~ spell was He was furious and gave the order for the women students to be held in custody. The leader of the Nazi studen~ organization demanded a volun- �-58tary identification of the women protesters upstairs. 24 identified themselves and were arrested at once. The SS pushed the other students out of the auditorium. When they emerged from the building they found all the rest of the men students standing outside, like a wall, and giving them an ovation. they They had stood there for over an ~roke stude~t hou~. In groups through the cordon, got inside, seized the Nazi leader, beat him up and held him as hostage until the women were set free. At that moment the police arrived. The students also turned on the police and fought their way through into the city. But some of them were atmosphere, however, was electric. The arre~ted. Students of the most di- vers,e disciplines suddenly found themselves acting together. And suddenly all were friends1 and the population qf Munich was on their" side. The Gauleiter called another meeting a couple of weeks la.ter and threatened to close the university if peace and order were not restored. The men·would be seQt to.the front, the women into the factories. his earlier speech. set free. But he also, apologized for Those who had been arrested had been Clearly the students had won, this round. But it was to be the only round. It may even have led to the end of the White Rqse. The Scholls and their friends were, of course·, immensely. heartened by this experience of spontaneous solidarity against a foulmouthed party functionary. But they may have overesti- mated the permanent potential that could be mobilized against �-59the Party. In any case they. now became bolder. things on the walls of Munich in the night• ler," and "Freedom." this. They wrote "Down with Hit- They managed not to get caught doing They were armed to shoot their way out if necessary.33 But on 18 February 1943 Hans and Sophie took a suitcase full of eopies of the last leaflet to the university, spread them about in corridors and on the stairs while lectures were in progress and doors closed, and finally threw the rest down the central lightsh~ft from an upper floor. The janitor saw them and took instant action to apprehend them. They were arrested and taken away. That was on a Thursday. Their trial, together with Christoph Probst, was on the following Monday. It was conai.. ducted by the People's Court and they were sentenced to death and beheaded the same day.34 week between th~ir There was less than a being caught and being dead. Graf, Schmorell and Huber were also arrested and tried, together with eleven other defendants, in mid-April• sentences ranged from acquittal to death. The Three women stu- dents, for instance, got prison sentences for failing to report treasonable activities,35 Graf, Huber, and Schmorell were sentenced to death, Huber having already been expelled from the Faculty of the university by his colleagues. doctorate,36 He had also been deprived of his ' . In the case of.the first three, incidentally, the Schells and Probst, there had been an assembly of the student body, called by the Nazi student organization, in the �-60evening of the day on which the three were executed, to denounce them and to declare the loyalty of the student body to the Fuehrer and the National Socialist Movement·. dance, again, at least according to the report of the Atten:.. Dis~ trict Student Leader, was about 3000,37 The parents of Graf and Schmorell asked for clemency. Hitler personally turned down the request,38 Huber's pub- lisher asked for a stay of execution, to enable his· author to finish his book on Leibniz, arguing that it would redound to the greater glory of German culture. He was allowed to work on it in his; -pr1son cell until July, b_ut he did not finish his book before they took him to the guillotine,39 There were about twenty of them in-use in Germany at that time, Willi Oraf died last, in October of that year, 1.94J. Before asking for your ·permission to add a postlude and a:.·postscript to our discussion on rhetoric in politics and the di.fference between manipulation and persuasion, I should like· to sum up in two sentences what the story of these students seems to me to shows In order to recognize manipula- tion and to think not only analytically but also constructively about politics, they needed Plato and Aristotle _and suchlike authors. To find the courage and strength needed to stand up to the power of the manipulators, they ~eeded faith, But here is a postlude, on a matter closely connected with the subject of rhetoric and persuasion. �-61~he five students of the White Rose all sang in the Munich Bach Choir, until the end. out .!h!!. they sang. was. One day I hope to be able to find But I can imagine what kind of thing it It was not all Bach but it was all serious music, I am sure, music whose words mattered. What you let out of your mouth always matters, of course. At a time when language has become debased, corrupted, mean-. ingless or prohibited, what you sing matters even more. It would be interesting to know what the Nazis allowed to be sung (and perhaps I shall have a chance to find out some time). I know that Haendel was censored -- some of Haendel. Willi Graf went to two performances of the Messiah in December 1942, his last advent season. After the first occasion he wrote in his diary that it was an indescribable experience. What pressed him ..were the faith and piety behind the work. • im~ He went again, though the second time there was standing room only. Again he was deeply impressed, especially by the ari~ "I know that my Redeemer liveth.". He mentioned it again in a letter to his sister -- they had heard it together -- his \_, last letter, dictated to the prison chaplain before his execution. 40 But Bach is much more powerful with his words than Haendel and I just w.onder what the Nazis did with cantatas and J. motets, or, for that matter, with the Magnificat -- - ... ~usicr . that, for instance, mentions God's son or servant Israel. Could they allow it to be sung when they had decided to force '-I; every male Jew to have the middle name "Israel" on his pap(:!rs? 1"'. �( \ -62This was for purposes of identification and segregation, like the later edict forcing all Jews to wear the yellow Star of David on their clothes. Could the Na~is allow choirs to sing "Sing unto the Lord a new song, and his praise in the congregation of saints. h~m1 Let Israel rejoice in him that made let the children of Zion be joyful in their King ••• ?" That is Psalm 149, verse 1 and 2, which Bach set in his motet "Singet dem Herrn ein neues Lied.• Or could they permit, even in Latinif: the singing of Luke 1, v. 54-55• 11 He has helped his servant Israel, in remembrance of his mercy1 as he spoke to our fathers·, to Abraham and to his seed forever," seeing how .Bach hammers home the "Abraham" in his Magnificat .. and spreads the seed throughout the ages? Could the Nazis allow such words to be sung, especially when they were set in such persuasive and memorable ways? Or did they insist that only songs to the !l!U! lord or idol should be sung and those that did not too explicitly conflict with the new idolatry? I do not know all the relevant deliberations of the Ministry or Propagan.da or the Ministry of Education or the Reich Chamber of Music. that kind of thing. They were the.controlling bodies for But I know, for instance, that at one of his staff conferences in April 1942, Dr. Joseph Goebbels, ·the Minister of Popular Enlightenment and Propaganda, explained that he prohibited a broadcast of the Mo~art Reguie~ the pre- vious December because, and I quote, "its very sombre and . ,. _·; ' . world-negating text would have had a bad effect on moraleln .. ... :. • • :'"~· • ·-·1-':·. the exceptionally serious situation then preva1l1ng1" adding" �-6Jthat this was, however, an exceptional case. One could not, hesa1d, "destroy or regard as non-existent the earlier cultural achievements of a people just because· the content of these cultural achievements .. ·ran "counter to a new ideology• and he explained "that a distinction must be made between a. historical approach and enjoyment of the cultural achievements or earlier periods on the one side and the development of one's own ideology on the other.• 41 The bodies charged with ideological control must have weighed the risk of dangerous Christian indoctrination on the one side against the risk, on the other side, not. only of jettisoning the German cultural heritage, but also of making the anti-Christian character of the. regime too clear. With the churches under pressure and severely circumscribed in 'what.they were permitted to do and say, and persecuted, and prosecuted, when they exceeded those limits, concert halls and choral societies were obvious places where the old creed might still be fostered surreptitiously. Lest you· think t.hat I overestimate this factor, .let me give you three examples, two on the Christian side, one on the Nazi side. A brother of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, not a par- ticularly churchy man, was in a Berlin jail under sentence of death. When the only surviving brother who was still at li- berty {Dietrich, too, was in prison) vis'ited his br.other Klaus and said how nice it was that Klaus could hear, in his mind·' s ear, the music of the Matthew Passion when he read the score he had in his pri.son cell, Klaus said a "But the words �-64also! The words!"42 Willi Graf recorded in his diary on ? December 1942 (the day, incidentally, after that first Messiah) that he spent the first part of the evening singing in the Bach Choir. thought it went quite well and addeda He "The words of the Christmas songs and of the Schuetz motet have their special meaning. It is good to be able to do such things."4J Another thing he did right up to the end was to prepare and perform church litargies with his friends.44 Despite the soldiering and the medical stud.ies !!ll! the secret political work, he found time and clearly felt a need for it. The Nazis, on the other hand, made children, and grownups, sing songs .for their Movement and for Germany, and dinned into all the doctrine that there was arid would be no Germany but-.Hitler's Gerll8.ny. And the boys who had innumerable times sung the words -Germany, here we are1 we consecrate our death to thee as our smallest deeds when death comes to our ranks, we shall be the great .seed." were, of course, singing something plagiarized from Tertullian, a perversion of Tertullian, who said that the blood of the martyrs is the seed of Christians. These phild martyrs were sacrificed, and sacrificed themselves, !or the fatherland up to the last minutes of the war, manning the anti-aircraft guns and fighting the Russians at the approaches and in the streets of Berlin -- 15 and 16 year olds formed into local battalions. As a surviving female Hitler Youth leader put ita make true the vows of their songs."45 "They wanted to �-65However relaxed Goebbels may have sounded in that Propaganda .Miniatry conference in t942, the internal intelligence network .of the SS never relaxed its vigilance where the church.es were conce·rned and kept complai,ning about "church music as a means of denominational propaganda.• "Denomina- tional" meant roughly what in America is sometimes called Sectarian," The word was used instead of "Christian," which was what was reall;t: meant. The fiction, which was very. strenuously maintained, was that the Nazi Party and Movement -- which in its official Party Program, promulgated in 1922 and.never carried out, had subscribed to something nebuloua called 11 Positive Christianity"46 (a matter I shall be glad to enlarge upon if asked) -- the fiction was that the Nas1• wanted abo"-9. all to untte all Germans and therefore had to fight the divisive activities of the Protestant and Catholic 11 denominationa." But in thls Security Service report from which I have quoted, as in others, -it is crystal clear that what they were in tact fighting was the Christian faith itself, and any attempt to foster it, This report, in October 1940, complained of the systematic expansion of performances of church music all over the Reich, both in churches and in concert halls. These events, the report said, were of high quality and very popular, made most effective propaganda for the churches, and were apt to call forth' ovations from the audiences that amounted to demonstrations.4? In April 194J, a long report on church influence on the young had a special section on the dastardly use the churches �-66were making of singing as a vehicle of Christian education. 48 In January 1944, another long report on liturgical reform and the extra-mural promotion of church music, mentioned the fact that in Alsace, for instance, the Protestant church was sys- ' tematically replacing sentimental hymns of the 19th century by musically more valuable chorales of the mation. time of the Refo·r- Even brass music was being revived in the reform movement.49 All this caused. great and, I think, ·justified c·oncern to the watchdogs of the regime. did not even realit~ What they did not say, perhaps (like the deaf adder that stoppeth her ear)50 was that brass in church music did not just add to the fun (or, as we might say here, enjoyment, as of cheese cake with. cherries) but has a rousing and invigorating effects they may not have known that the chorales of the time of the Reformation were not just musically superior to the soppy stuff of the Romantic era, but textually too. The Germans had begun before ·any other people to sing hymns in their own language. translated the Bible, creatin~ When Luther came, he not only something .that is worthy to stand beside the English Authorized Version (the American "King James Bible") but also, being very musi.cal, made the chorale into a most important and powerful vehicle of the new persuasion, making congregations sing. He put a lo~ lic Latin hymns into German and wrote more himself. of CathoSince !h!D, the Protestants in Germany have always had the better hymns than the Catholics -- until both declined in the cen- �-67tury of Beethoven, Schubert, and Wagner. When the crucial contlict W:ith the neo-pagan movement approached and during the crisis itself, most musical Christians, but especially the Protestants, realized they needed more to sustain them than the spineless songs of the t9th century, the needed words and music that really meant something. And whereas the Catholics were largely preserved from apostasy by the clarity of their doctrine and the prescribed observances of their faith, Protestants may be said, I think, to have been pulled out of their.initial confusion.not only by some of the more clearheaded and courageous parsons.and. laymen and laywomen, but also by a return to the truths proclaimed in Bible and Hymnal. And perhaps even wordless music, provided it is pure, has some such power.51 Kurt Huber, this professor of philosophy, also taught -and wrote on -- music, both the physiology and psychology of hearing and music, and, his special love, .!2.!!! music, the real rooted stuff - ... that was in fact being rooted out, trampled underfoot, by "the march of history," by this mass movement that called itself "voelkisch." Though physically. somewhat handicapped -- he had. had infantile paralysis --· he · went to great lengths to hear and preserve what still existed · of such music. A companion he once took on a musical moun- tain trip to a rather inaccessible part of the Bavarian Alps, to hear the yodelling.of the dairymaids there, reports that �-68•he·n they left and had already gone a certain distance, these wpmen sent a kind of farewell yodel after them. Huber stopped in his tracks, asked his companion for writing material, and jotted down the yodel in figured bass notation, so, tears· of emotion streamed down his face,52 know.what that emotion was. As he did I th,ink I It was the emotion that. made Victor Zuckerkandl speak· of "the miracle of the octave• and on which, if I understand him aright, st. Thomas (Aquinas) bases one of his proofs of God, the one from·"governance.• That may be an odd one to think of when the world was -- and still is so visibly out 9f joint. All the more moving, I would say, to hear or see an ex·ample, a representation, or · symbol of that governance. harmony, To hear the pre-established �-------------.. -69Notes t, See, for instance, Peter Loewenberg, "The psychohistoric.al origins of the Nazi youth cohort," The American Historical Review, volume 76, No. 5 (December 19?t), PP• t4S?-1502, 2. The Treat of Peace Between the Allied and Associated Powers and German with amendments and Other Treat En a ements si ned at Versailles June 2 Part VIII was on Reparation. Its Section I General Provisions) started with Article 231 which read1 "The Allied and Associated Governments affirm and Germany accepts the responsibility of Germany and her allies for causing all the loss and damage to which the Allied and Associated Governments and their nationals have .been subjecte4 as a consequence of the war imposed upon them by the aggression of Germany and her allies ... J. T.S, Eliot, Four Quartets (London 1944), P• 9~ 4. Max Domarus, ed., Hitler. 5. Theodore 6. Katholisches Kirchenblatt fur das Bistum Berlin, XXX, No. 28 (15 July 1934). Reden und Proklamationen 1 2t enossen.,. 1 4 • Kommentiert von einem deutschen Ze Munich 19 5 , p. 20 • c. So~ensen, Kennedy (New York 1966), P• 271. A copy of the film, what remains of it, can be seen and heard at the National Archives in Washington. A parti•l transcript of the trial also. survived. For one relevant fragment see Volksgerichtshofs-Prozesse zum 20,. Juli 1944 1 . Transkri~te von Tonbandfunden. Herausgegeben vom Lautarchiv des Deutschen Rundfunks (April 1961), p. 1221 for another see Gert Buchheit, Richter in roter Robe, Preisler, Prlsident des Volksgerichtshofes (Munich 1968), P• 24?. a. _ Bekenntnis der Professoren an den deutschen Universitaten und Hochschulen zu Adolf Hitler und dem.nationalsozialistischen Staat, tJberreicht vom Nationalsozialistischen Lehrerbund Deutschland / Sachsen (Dresden, n.d.), PP• 1Jt4 and J6-37 (Heidegger) and 15-17 and 38-40 (Hirsch). Ernst Nolte, "Zur Typologie des Verhal tens der H.ocnschullehrer im Dritten Reich," Aus Politik und Geschichte, Beilage. zur Wochenzeitung "Das Parlament," B 46/65 (17 November 1965), P• 11, For a series of lectures on the subject of the Germari universities in the Third Reich, �-10given at the University of Munich, see Die deutsche Universitat im Dritten Reich., Acht Beitr•ge (Munich 1966). Fritz Leist, one of ·the contributors, who discusses pos~ibilities and limits of resistance at universities, knew Willi Graf well and helped him and the White Rose group. 10. Karl Dietrich Bracher, The German Dictatorship.· The oriins structure and effects of National Socialism Translated from the German by Jean Steinberg ••• New York 1970), P• 268r it is a quotation from ·Heidegger's Rec.:. toral Address, Die Selbstbehauptung der deutschen Universi tit. ( Breslau 19J4), J>P• 22 ff •. · 11. Walter z. Laqueur, Young German*. A history of the German youth movement {New York 19 2), p. 191. 12. Bekenntnis der Professoren (see note 8), P• 29, and for the original "Ein Ruf an die Gebildeten der Welt," P• 5. . . . . 1 J. Treaty of Peace .between the United Statee of America, the British Empire, France, Italy and Japan, and Poland, signed at Versailles, June 28, 1919 -- especially Articles 2,J, · a.nd 7-12. Also the letter, dated June 24, 1919, addressed to M. Paderewski by the Presiden~ of the Conference transmitting to him the Treaty to be signed by Poland under Article 93 of the Treaty of Peace with Ger-· many. 14. For the most comprehensive treatment of the subject see Raul Hilberg, The Destruction of the European Jews (Chicago t 961). 15. Hermann Rauschning, H"tler s eaks. A series of Conversations with Adolf Hitler on.his Real Aims London 1939), p. 220. The quotation went on1 ttlt is a blemish, like circumcision." 16. · Inge Scholl, Die Weisse Rose (Frankfurt 1955), PP•. 101-102. For an American version see Inge Scholl, Students Against T rann a The Resistance of the White Rose Munich 1 4219 3. Tran lated ••• by Arthur R. Schultz Middletown, Connecticut 19?0). · 17. This account of his life is largely based on Gewalt und Gewissen. Willi Graf und die "Weisse Rose." Eine Dokumentation von Klaus Yielhaber in· Zusammenarbeit mit Hubert Hanisch und Anneliese Knoop-Graf (Freiburg 1964). 18. Ibid,, PP• 24-25. 19 • .!ill•• PP• 37-JB. 20. !bid., P• JS. �-?1- 22, Ibid., Ibid., 2,'.l. llll·. PP• 18-19. 24. Ibid.• PP• 25-27. 21. PP• .38..; 39. P• 39. .. l; What follows is largely based on the bo.ok by his surviving sister, Inge Scholl, Die Weisse Rose (see note 16). Dietricb· Bonhoeffer, Widerstand und Ergebung, Aufzeichnt!!ABlll aus der Haft. H.e.rausgegeben. von Eberhard Bethge {Munich 1964) 1 p. 1.0. cf.· :L'etters and Papers from Prison. Revised edition, 1967), P• 2. Edited by Eberhard Bethge {New York . Christian Petry, Studenten aufs Schafott. Die Weisse Rose und .ihr Scheitern (Munich t 968). PP• 36~42 • 28. . Ibid., pp. 1,5)-155. Translation of Schiller taken from Frederick Ungar, ed., Friedrich Schiller. An Anthology f'or our Tim.e. In new En lish tra.nsla.tions an the ori:-. gi.nal' German, • , New York 19 59 , pp.' 21 J-219, .29~ Ibid., PP• 156-158 • 30. Ibid., .l'P• 159-161, 31. Ibid., PP• 162-164,, '.32. Ibid., - JJ. Ibid., PP• 98-101. PP• 164-167, J4 • .!£.!.g., PP• 175-183 for text of indictment arid press notice about tria~ and execution. Also Students against Tyranny (see note 16), PP• 105-118 and 148, for translation of indictment, se~tence, and press notice. (n~te 27)t PP• 195~211. for JS. Ibid., PP• 119-13? and Petry text of sentence. J6. ~., PP•· 219-220, J?, Ibid., PP• 220-221. JB.. ~., J9. Clara Huber, ed., Kurt Huber zum GedAchtnis. Bildnis eines Menschen,·Denkers und Forschers, dargestellt voo sei_nen Freunden (Regensburg 1947), PP• JO-J2. 4o. Gewalt und Gewissen (see note t?}, PP• 87, 89, and 12J •. p. 21 t. �ST. JOHN"S COLLEGE LIBRARY -'\#]£~ HUI lll 1 -72- _ 41. Willi A, Boelcke, ed., The Secret Conferences of Dr. Goebbels. The Nazi Pro a anda War 1 -1 • Transla.ted ••• by Ewald Osers :ew York 1970 • P• 234. 42. Eberhard Bethge, Dietrich Bonhoeffer. Man of Vision. Man of Courage. Translated from the German by Eric Mosbacher, Peter and Betty Ross, Frank Clarke, William Glen-Doepel. Under the editorship of Edwin Robertson (New York 1970), p~ 8)2. 43. Gewalt und Gewissen (see note 17), P• 87. 44 • .!.!?.!9,., PP• 89~93 and 95. 45. Meli ta Maschmann·, Fazi t. Kein Rechtfertigungsversuch,., (Stuttgart 1963), p. 159. 46, Walther Hofer, e"d,, Der Nationalsazialisrnu,.c;;. 1933-1945~ (Frankfurt 1960), pp. JO-J1. Dokumente Heinz Boberach, ~d., Berichte des SD und der Gestapo ttber Kirchen und Kirchenvolk in Deutschland 1 4-1 44 Mainz 1971 , PP• 8, 48. .I.hi2·' p. 801. 49. .!.Q!g., PP• 877-880, 50 • Psalm 58.(57), verse 4. .51 I Willi Graf clearly felt something of the sort when he made the following entry in his diary, on 21 January 194), after hearing two cello suites by Bacha "This music has a tremendous seriousness and with it a structure of a kind rarely encountered elsewhere. It tells of an order of which at one time a man was capaple. We can only receive it for a future which is going to be quite different." (Gewalt und Gewissen -- see note 17 -- po 94.) Compare what Stravinsky wrote when he attacked the notion of music as "expression1" "The phenomenon of music is given to us with the sole purpose of establishing an order in things, including, and particularly, the coordination between .!!lfill and ~. · To be put into practice, its indispensable and single requirement is construction. Construction once completed; this order has been attained, and· there is nothing more to be said. It would be futile to look for, or expect anything else from it. It is precisely this con~truction, this achieved order, which produces in us a unique emotion having nothing in comm'On with our ordinary sensations and our responses to the impressions of daily life." (Igor Stravinsky, An Autobiography -- New York 1 962 -- p. 54. ) Kurt Huber (see note 39). P• 113, � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>.  <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5&amp;sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&amp;sort_dir=d">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a> or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context formallectureseriesannapolis 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. 73 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 Student rebellion and the Nazis (two parts) Description An account of the resource Typescript of a lecture delivered on in two parts on February 18 and 25, 1972 by Beate Ruhm von Oppen as part of the Formal Lecture Series. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Ruhm von Oppen, Beate 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 1972-02-18 1972-02-25 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College has been given permission to make this item available online. 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 lec Ruhm von Oppen 1972-02-18, 25 Relation A related resource Sound recording:  <a title="Part One (Audio)" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/show/3598">Part one</a> Sound recording:  <a title="Part Two (Audio)" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/show/3590">Part two</a> Friday night lecture Tutors https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/d9e16e6d01b0c6e705bfe60d8925470e.mp3 1649c99e84792c18c3f822050a10386b Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>.  <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5&amp;sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&amp;sort_dir=d">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a> or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context formallectureseriesannapolis Sound A resource primarily intended to be heard. Examples include a music playback file format, an audio compact disc, and recorded speech or sounds. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data audiotape (Tape 98, Vol. 1) Duration Length of time involved (seconds, minutes, hours, days, class periods, etc.) 00:59:06 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 Student rebellion and the Nazis (part one) Description An account of the resource Audio recording of part one of a lecture delivered on in two parts on February 18 and 25, 1972 by Beate Ruhm von Oppen as part of the Formal Lecture Series. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Ruhm von Oppen, Beate 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 1972-02-18 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College has been given permission to make this item available online. Type The nature or genre of the resource sound Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource mp3 Relation A related resource Sound Recording:  <a title="Part Two (Audio)" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/show/3590">Part two<br /></a> Typescript:  <a title="Typescript" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/show/3589">Part one and two</a> Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context lec Ruhm von Oppen 1972-02 (Part I of II) Friday night lecture Tutors