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20
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�•
Marriott meatloaf.
The letter arrived in a
white
dress.
It read s0Jmeth1ne like this:
11
Ms.
the clicker's absence.
"It doesn't make a difference to me.
it's kind
be
""'i-,..,ih•~·~ where
my clicker /s
heard the line before. Even Powell
wasn't
the clear...
A short interview with Mason illuminated the case little.
"I was
here
I went
around the comer and when came
The
at a ~~~·~~·~~,
rived in the mail: pllLOtiog:raJ)hS
nost2t£e in the very hands of it's abductors. The fate of the
abacus looked bleak. But here was a tanlead. I peered at the eyes
the dark glasses meant to obscure the
eyes of the man with the clicker in his
hand. Were those the eyes of a madman?
Keith "Nurse" Bemer was one pho1 asked him why he
CLICKER continued on page 6
to observe, not normal alcohol-fests
like you can find on any campus.
At the end of senior essay Ll<=.LJ.vu
this year, the
were: what
did you write on? How many pages?
Do you like it? Have you talked
so-and-so, her essay's sorta similar.
Who's your advisor?
Sophomore year, week after break
what did you write on? How many
pages? Do you like it? Have you
talked w /so-and-so, his essay's sorta
similar. Who's your advisor?
Freshmen and
all last
week When's prank? Do you think
it'll be tonight? Do we have to do
our readings? Make it a Monday, I
wanna miss my Tuesday lab. Make
it a Thursday, I wanna have a long
weekend.
Notice the change?
Yes, I know second semester's
raise concerns that
the Freemen in H.li.•.nu.u..i.•u.
deliberate red
to
throw me off the trail. Either Schoener
wanted the case for
or he had
"''"rno.+h11-nn to hide.
So I turned to the word on the street.
There had been a new
the
of the reward
had been mailed
11
His record was
too clean ...
most
letter
were febbies-a hard-core group of
ouo1t~maK1ers,-the kind your mother
in its
The
any
die ... "
clicker.
a rat, and it wasn't the
meatloaf. I decided to take the case.
made my way to Warren
Powell. He'd known the clicker
than anyone.
anyone would have a
it would be Warren.
"I've had the clicker ever since I've
been
he
the clicker had been there before he
started
meal
didn't know how
I asked him if
he had been at the scene of the crime.
"I was out sick from
and
when I
back
it was gone."
He told me to talk to the weekend
checker, a certain Tomekia Mason. I
asked Powell how he was
2
Dear
I'm a senior, when I came to the
school, silly me, I had ideals. I
thought this was a place where
people would rejoice in our unique
method of examining things. Not
just seminars, but the structure of the
tutorials is part of what drew me
here. This is the only place where
math's not just memorized
and workbook problems, but a story
and a philosophical debate,
from the start. We followed significant threads in laboratory, even (or
especially) the false trails, to learn
what we read in popular media and
assume we know" about science is
nowhere near as cut-and-dried as
you would think. Granted, I never
into Greek, and my
French is atrocious, but
the attempts at deciphering those strange
scribblings of Racine's intricate
meter and rhyme schemes perhaps
made us appreciate just a bit more
those Dover thrift translations we
grab for seminar. Even our social life
with just the
and
was Derek Alexandertake
vuvu::>nt;u
Not that I cared about
This office has no official view on
was
because he
stole the clicker last year," was Mike
Adams accusation.
had .,, .... ,.,.i-~~" ...
anny. Sometime ago we made the
strike in what may become a war. We removed the instrument of
the
mealtime
the clutches the
oppressors.
Don't ask
We are askthe aut~swms. You will do as we say,
terror will continue to
new and horrible ways.
This is what you must do. You must
submit
to the
some innocents have
11
on the
he said he hadn't authoup was one that
wrote
in the
I showed
the
about
Resistance.
16, 996
asked him
said he'd
than first. Yes, a break would
be nice. But
an unscheduled
one? Why not have another
weekend after break? That way the
tutors can
how to alter
their schedules, and
don't
keep optimistically" skipping their
seminar readings.
For our Bacchanalia, we have the
Junior's Reality, something you can
choose to pay for or not, you know
when is, so you can skip town if
you want. Since it's more planned,
there are more activities for the nondrinkers. Yes, there are people here
who don't
either by choice or
necessity. I trust I'm not the
one
who's had a
here,
and an event centered around
class and ...... u.,,,,.u.,,"'
sanctioned
does not make it easy to abstain.
I guess I've said my
I don't
have a
conclusion, I
had
to
that off my chest. Thank you.
Unsigned
11
Dear Readers:
I wouuld like to apologize for
last week.
we could not afford to
an issue.
Financial matters have become an issue and the Gadfly will now be
ing less issues this year: probably one
every other week. If we can find the
means, we will
as often as possible. Please excuse the inconvenience.
We will keep you ~v.~u::·u
Thank you,
,,...,. ........ ~~Coonce
Editor
i
In
attendance were:
President Urich, Secretary Alexander,
Treasurer L.lc:;J'o...utc
HCl2:Q'an:t Delegates Maxwell and Freeman
(off-campus),
Truman
Silverman and Rettig
(Campbell), and
alternate
McCarthy.
'96 received $1,500 for Senior
Prank. The Gadfly request was tabled.
The
Productions charter was
item.
Politae Charter were all registered as
items.
The Delegate Council is basically
out of money, except for a sum being
for Febbie Summer use. If any
urgent money needs come up, however, go ahead and submit
and
we will see what we can do.
The Polity Court Poll
49
responses with 58% in favor of some
form of Polity Court, 34% against, and
8% responses ostensibly in
but
sarcastic enough to justify being mentioned separately.
,,Holler if ya need anything"
Yours from the Minute
Derek Alexander
:::;ec:retarv of
The
16, 1996
3
�------·------------------
Valerie
•
I've discovered that when you free
to use all their resources-menand
shift in awareness occurs. When
ers practice what is known as mindfulness-simply
attention to what's
happening-not
do
play better and win more,
also become more attuned with each other. And the
working in
harmony is a
motivating force that comes from
not from
some frenzied coach pacing along the sidelines,
obscenities into the
11
air."
Phil
Mr.
One of Mr. Nyberg's charges, Miss
Hastings Shannonhouse, coxed a sweet
race this past Friday's tie race, almost
-~~-·~·.,.... the Lead Sled to a "'r•t-n.-..·"
Mr. Potter sorely missed three of his talented stars, but two guys
stepped up to
about Mr.
Stromberg and Mr. Berney, who played
non-stop defense on A team to
the
game close. For the All Black Bee team,
Mr.
took over for the
teamed Mr. Carlson
banging the
boards and
from the low
post. And Mr. Potvin slashed to the
with reckless abandon.
The key to the All Blacks
was due to the sucoaching of Mr. Nyberg. He
played his full roster
and kept
under control
moments
A team melt down. Mr.
water. Don't let the raucaus and boisterous breakfast behaviour of the
crewbees deter you from
down
and using the
There is more to
the house than crew. There are canoes,
kayaks, rowboats, lasers, and larger
sailboats for
use. We
you on a tour of Annapolis by motor
launch. And if you want to learn how
to scull,
don't hesitate to come
down and learn. Talk with me, or any
of the the boathouse stewards for further information. The stewards are:
Mssrs. Nyberg,
and
"-tN>ui::•nc: and Misses
and Gibson.
A.D. NOTES continued on page 6
4
The
16, 1996
Mrs. Berns
comes to SJC student's musical rescue: she reminded me that the
Orchestra, at
Hall for Creative Arts,
oerrorm Beethoven's Symphony
#9 in D minor and an American work
be
19 and 20.
The
and will feature four soloists and
the
Chorale. Call them at
263-0907 for reservations__:ask
for the St.
student ticket price
of $5.00.
a tree for earth day!
the campus at a St. John's
on Saturday,
20
from 9:30 A.M. - noon. We'll gather
on the
Street side of the
campus, on the grounds between the
tennis courts and the boathouse.
and Orangina provided. Receive a free tree, soil, and
of your very own to take home.
Concurrent with the campus tree'-"................. Creek cH~art-uo
co··soonsoirea by the City of AnnapoPolitae. Creek
cleaners-both the land-combing
and those who will pick up
boat-will meet at the SJC boathouse at A.M. Provided with bags,
and boat stewards, stuwill tend our
'"""''""'"''H' until 12 noon. Interested
"' 0
students can then attend a city-wide
Truxton
I'll drive students in the polity station wagon.
For
contact Heather
Deutsch or Richard Schmechel,
Politae coordinators, x201.
Get away to the beach! On Sunday,
I'll drive the college station wagon to the beach (approx. 3
for a long day of stretching
out on the sand. Bring a lunch or eat
out.
read, stroll, sun, sleep,
be. Call me to reserve a
spot (x254).
The
6, 1996
5
�page2
With this coupon
one entree for
breakfast lunch or dinner and
second of
Does
beverage, tax, o:r tip.
Valid everday, all day.
L _________________ _
is interested in "" 1 ·~uir.n
for the team is
encouraged to
come out. Especially wanted are those
that think
will want to play next
year. Upcoming games for the club
team are:
19 versus
Washington College, and
27 verW;:i1sh1tnl!ton College of Bible. For
contact coach
"'L-~-,-·" Travis at 216-7874.
6
The
In team
the
Guardians look like to the team to beat.
They remain undefeated after two
weeks of action. We're
fine team play from the
golden boyz:
Polgreen,
Kass, Potter,
16, 1996
of sugterrorism.
"I guess it's because I'm a
as~;1s1:anlt," he said.
Bemer thought the photographs,
which depicted the clicker at "''-~'JI.,_, .... ,
were
wouldn't be
hibit A.
Photo reconnaissance
Paul
Chandler noticed other
features
such as a birth mark on one of the
clicker napper's arms
"It's light brown left elbow on the
underbelly of the fore arm," was
Chandler's report. I wasn't about to
be
over any underbellies of
any
but Chandler must have
known that...what was his interest in
it .-,,,-,·'""'ClH
On Thursday
was safe
in the
ren Powell. Powell smiled as he told
me how the clicker came home.
Turns out the clicker was found in
the
William Room on the mantle
senior Brian McGuire. He claims
he noticed it while ".,...,..n....,,.,,.,,,,y
Seems to me a shaky
Schoener vouched for McGuire's innocence.
"We ruled him out as a
on
the basis of a DNA test on the saliva
of the
in senior
of course."
At 5 P.M. on
With a_
eSCOft, ral-ru:>"'l!P•r1
the clicker from Schoener's office.
"I knew it would come back, he
''Unless gets stolen
durthe weekend."
But the return of the clicker affords
a
peace.
tions remain unanswered The faceless
hr-r'-:>nho who executed the clicker-napare still at large and no one knows
when
may strike again. We still
these
revolutionaries ended the madness as they
as began it. Have
given
up on trying to reform our food service? Was it an under-the-table bribe?
AbducSecret Air Force
tion
aliens? Did they take
it to the earth's core? Or is there still
more to come? One thing's for sure: if
you find out, you're a dead man.
I. General Cautions:
aooe;are·d. to have noticed them on front
campus and then waited for them
'-LJuc:i::.c Avenue.
the
came of these incidentscareful as we move around campus and town. We must
that
even in the last
years, students have
been
even
a few blocks of the '-'-''l.J..._,,.._.
son to
off campus.
Don't do it alone at
and
care.
II. Particular Admonishments to
i,..,..,...._,,,-1-,..n.-,r
Also
Residents:
the last few
money.
here. The Assistant
Deans maintain a ftmd
two
open
least those props
be removed in
middle of the
PO•t€I1tl<ll intruders. But once the doors and their
locks had been
the dormitories
The
r1i:::.n-r1u.or1 their clalSSJmate-ne1gn
that protection, and interfered with the
College's
to
it. If the
miscreants knew that the school
as it could to restore the
and dispatching a workman to the repair- then all the worse!
ruined
�St.
P.O. Box 2800
MD 21404
ULLLLLl./'L'HJ.
Founded in 1980, The Gadfly is a student weekly distributed free
to over 600 students, faculty, and staff of the Annapolis campus as well
as tutors emeriti, members of the Board of Visitors and Governors, and
the offices at the St. John's Santa Fe Campus. All opinions expressed
within are the sole responsibility of the author. The Gadfly reserves the
right to accept, reject, and edit all submissions in any way necessary to
publish the most professional, informative, entertaining, and thoughtprovoking newspaper which circumstances at St. John's permit.
Yearly subscriptions are available for $35.00. Tax-deductible contributions are greatly appreciated. Please make checks payable to The
Gadfly.
For display advertisement prices and information, call 263-2371,
ext. 320.
Deadline: Friday at 5:30 P.M. Submissions may be submitted in
any Macintosh or RTF format on a 3 1I2" floppy disk along with a typed
copy. Typed submissions are no longer acceptable.
Editor-in-Chief: Jennifer Coonce
Layout Editor: Nelson Hernandez Jr.
Copy Editor: Anne Kniggendorf
Photography Editor: Mary K. Lynch
Circulation Manager: Kristin Woodfin
Advertising Manager: Jackie Camm
Photos: Mary K. Lynch and Clicker Photo
courtesty of Abe Schoener
by the St. John's College Print Shop
Address your complaints to AK c/o the
AK,
I have a
I go to breakfast every morning. Not being an early
riser, I
arrive at about 8:30.
Breakfast formally ends at 8:55. It has
occurred countless times that about
five minutes before breakfast ends, I
will get up to get my much-needed
coffee only to discover that the coffee
ri• . . ,~,.,..,,._...,,. . ,,.. has been dismantled. This
angers me. I think Warren hates us.
E.
get
Warren doesn't hate
anyone. I don't think he has
to do with the coffee,
but I rarely
breakfast, so perhaps I've missed something. It seems to me that there are several things you could do to rid yourself of this apperantly very annoying
aspect of your daily routine, assuming
that you want to do away with (but
I'll only tell you the best way right
Feel free to
if you
need further assistance.
The first thing you want to do is get
in cahoots with Warren; form a bond
of some sort with him. Here's a good
way you might do that:
Engage him in a real non-commital
banter, then once you've got a rythm
going, segue into the real issue by telling him that you've done something
8
The
wrong. He'll be
as anyone
would who has
been confided in. He'll press you on the issue.
When you feel that he is ready to hear,
tell him that you've killed a man. He'll
be horrified, as anyone would who has
just been used the way one might use a
priest. He'll draw you into the bathroom
near his station and '"'"'C''"f-H-.--.f-~,,...,,
yourself of the dreadful secret which has
dappened your
so. The
of
the tale is up to you, but what you want
to do is relay to him that on the
of
the crime your mind
disturbed
that it may have been a
chemical
this way if he asks
you later how the murder is related to
premeditated to ask of
easily be able to go back to
know what I mean in
Now, bring him down slowly
because there's no
what he'll be
thinkL."Lg at this point. He'll probably
ask if he can hide you from the law in
his home. You answer, "No, that's cool;
the law won't be after me any time
soon. I'll tell you what you can do,
want you to see to it that the
coffee maker stay in
until
8:55. Will you do that? I think you can
do that."
That should take care of the problem for you. Thanks for
in.
AK
......U.LLl.LU. ........ , .
GGAREITFS
$1.90 +
16, 1996
�
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Coonce, Jennifer (Editor-in-Chief)
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The Gadfly, Vol XVII Issue 18
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1996-04-16
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Volume XVII, Issue 18 of The Gadfly. Published April 16, 1996.
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Vol. 17 #18
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Annapolis, MD
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St. John's College
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English
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text
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Text
�by Annemarie Catania '97
"We had good weather. That's all
you can ask."
Jam es
Knerr said Saturday, after the St. John's
croquet team had already won four
games, and the fifth was in progress.
Such was the spirit of the day.
Johnnies, townies, and middies
emerged from all directions to while
away the day with champagne,
nics, and floppy hats.
Some arrived early to set up tables
in the sun, or under the Liberty Tree.
Most
blankets for their
ing. A group of Naval
a ..~c:.iu
alumni even brought their balloon.
The Navy team, continuing the tradition of
over-zealous school
spirit, wrapped the
Tree with
an amusing banner, an 1ni1nrnu1=>n1i:>r1t
over the
cream of two years
ago.
Before the start of the
the
team was all smiles and poses for various newspaper and television cameras,
absorbing the growing media attention
for this
event. Press members
included CNN, the Wall Street
and St.
partner's ball through its wicket
ting his own, Mr. Spooner ran off to the
restroom. Ms. Trought confessed that
both had been anxious to use the
facilities. They won the game eventuafter the Navy team
it
I"l. ....
firmed rumors are --................... .,w.,,..,
National
also sent a ror... rn··t-or
and a photographer. We "'"·"I-'""' ........
1r.rHY""•ur:::i::u·ri for
a ladder and
staying off the playing field.
The play began with a close contest
on the first several wickets for
Silton and James Knerr. We think Mr.
Sifton's American flag shorts 1 nc~n1 1r,,,.,
the pair to
ahead for the win in a
few excellent turns on the way back up
the field. Matt Caswell and Daniel
Wood won their game rather quickly,
with Mr. Wood keeping the
seeded ground well-fertilized with his
tobacco spit. This wasn't just a
gentleman's game, it was a real man's
game.
On the third court, Jon Spooner and
Dara Trought
well ahead of the
Navy boys, though they claimed not
to be shooting well. After executing a
fabulous "punch" shot, sending his
causing problems for them near the
end of the game.
After St. John's had established vicCo-Imperial-Wickets-in-Waiting
Jon Andrews and Kit Linton came on
the field to win another game. We
think these identically-dressed Attitude Boys scared the Navy with
their sunglasses. The middies
couldn't see their eyes while they
suavely discussed their strategy.
Ian Nyberg and Carter Snead
the final game.
lost, but
thanks them for playing the
longest game, since it kept folks
around to
all the ch<:tmpagn1e.
We loved their bowties and shorts.
those alumni cute in their athletic
blazers? We vote the best dressed
person to be Twister Mamie in her
dot dress.
We had a good time and the
weather was great. That's all you
can ask.
this coupon
one entree for
breakfast lunch or dinner and get the
or lesser value, free.
second of
Docs not include beverage, tax, or tip.
Valid cvcrday, all day. Expires 2130/95.
[oftfest ']Jeer C'7 'lJest ~M.'lroan.tai in 7i1u1TJ ·
Dock
The
30, 1996
3
�------------------------------
• •
~" ,, . 1111 Ille 1Jnllimil1 ml lleali11 ·e1
,',:.
f
"
~
""
!!:
Letters Policy: Letters of 200 words or less
have a better chance
those longer. Letters will not be
grammar,
or .,v,, ...,,.;i;,
be printed exactly as submitted. The
does not print anonymous submissions,
except under special circumstances.
"
I must here remind you, . ,,,, .. , . ,
reader,
since this is the best of
all possible
everything is for
the best possible end, and so we must
be bound to have the finest Reality
ever to have existed in the
of
the universe. I must be very cautious
in case the .,.,.,...... ,.r,...•· ,... ..,,,., ..,.,.,,.,,
Committees get offended
such a
.1.eJ..aa.1..r-.., so allow me to add the fol-
Recently, issue was taken with a
T-shirt bearing the Nietzsche
quote; "When a woman has scJ:lOJlarJly
inclinations there is
wrong with her
the time
this article is published the issue
ably will have been resolved, nevertheless the complaints about the shirt
merit response. The
is from a
section of Nietzsche's book !-{,.." ".,.,r1
seniors are rec1uurea
to read for seminar. In Nietzsche's own
time the title of the book itself may
have been
and to some modem readers it still is. The
of
Nietzsche performs in the
work, and his association of the ideas
of democracy and equality with a
lowly herd
will doubtless
offend many modem readers.
times in the
have sat
and smirked as my seminar
over statements which
modem readers would consider
racist or elitist. There are many statements made
the wisest of ancients
which modems dismiss as foolish misthe social pr,e1uta1 ces
takes caused
of their time. I did not agree with my
seminars' habit of over.Loc>K1ng
occurred in the
~ AL.._..,,..,u,..__, but I accepted it
because there were several other, more
important, topics to be discussed.
However
author like
Nietzsche, whose very purpose at
times is to analyze and criticize our
modem morals, such issues cannot be
overlooked if the author is to be propunderstood. Nietzsche is offensive, and will be as
as society
holds human
as
ordained. But there is at least one good
LEITERS continued on page 6
The St.
of fashion have been
the Committee with
Not bad for a day's
work.
Athlete of
the Week hon-
Universities were co:mr>et1ne
Christie Coalwell, ...........""'-'. . ,...
debut, rowed to a second
Big John Michaels crushed the ornoo~;1... ~,a,_, ... ,~.'"" first with open water;
Mssrs. Carter and Stevens
The
Flivver Dog) won a gold medal in the
men's pair; the Women's
4Misses
&
Fremont finished ~+~~~.~h.
v~•.<U•UVi,
7
of course).
the most
Club hit the
Sat-
team's King
Crab award.
While rowing
at full presMr.
caught a crab
of such
tude that he
was launched
from the shell
in the twinkling of an eye.
We've heard of
& Thadhani
battled it out for a second
and the men's novice four of '-V'•ac:Jla.
and Van Sant finished in the money with a third. Maktheir novice debut in the 8 were
Mssrs.
coxswains
out 0Uf team of ,_,,.._mr,~+·o-1-rv~r
were Misses Dubrow and
.u.1;~.
who rowed well in women's
8,
and Hai
monster bow in the men's
8.
the
fin-
and
board a
such
but this is a first in
the history of our
dub.
·'-'·'-1 l.ULU.J.J.llo:
J.JV'.LU.•.
Athlete of the
1
this in your
you must conclude the same
as Edmund
himself did
kind
the Committee for their creation.
to see a group that is
be1tter-u:ite:nt:wraea than the Commitanyone, not even
Gonzalo
996
iH•:tsenor. '97
A .............., ....
v . ..., .......
maintenance,
She's
The
1996
5
�I like croquet, but can never
the ice from watering down my
and tonic. What can I do?
Wicket Troll
Wicket Troll,
uDraw, reach, fill, mix, give it me
without water...By the belly of Sand
Buff, let us talk of our drink"
(Rabelais, "The Discourse of the
Drinkers").
I will not ask you which is more
important: the drink or the game; I
sense that they necessarily go handin-hand as far as you're concerned.
Have you asked yourself, though,
why it is that you mind so much the
mE~lt1ng of your ice? I should think
that that might very much be an expected and welcome part of your total recreational experience (much in
the way that flat beer is part of the
total baseball stadium experience,
,v....u. ... , ...... Waltz experience), and might,
perhaps, even be seen as a signification
of the onset of
Do you insist on always playing at
the warmest time of day? If you would
begin your games either very early in
the morning or late in the evening, I
think you would more likely be spared
the discomfort you currently endure
(although drinking gin and tonic at
dawn isn't as aesthetically pleasing as
it is between noon and four o'clock, and
might cause you some other form of
discomfort). OR, a more interesting
possibility you might consider, though
I don't know that it would work, is to
use dry ice. Would that make you appear to be drinking a freshman lab
That
be cool.
Due to the stand-offishness of your
question, I suspect that you have a
problem that you are trying to get me
to solve for you without telling me all
there is to know. Are you made ill by
wa.terme:ss·? Does
sys-
tern in an embarrassing way? I don't
know what this has to do with gin
and
but let's look at Aristotle:
Now wine has the effect of re-press ion;
while water is light, and, not unpleasant, it does not cause heartburn. Now
excessively diluted wine is not light
enough to percolate through quickly, and
because it has a little wine in it, it is unpleasant; for it disturbs the sense of taste
by setting up two kinds of movement, one
produced by the wine and the other by
the water, both of which make themselves
felt. But the proper mixing of wine does
away with the taste of water and gives
the wine a soft taste, which makes it
pleasant to drink. But watery wine, being unpleasant to the taste, has a tendency to rise, and anything which does
this is apt to cause vomiting. (Problems,
B
y
a er i e
Pawlewicz/
4
Ac-
St. John's College Community
Lawn Sale. The back lawn, behind
Randall
10 AM. - 2 P.M.
11
1
Aristotle)
Have you been vomiting?
I think I've gone far en.ou!Zh.
AK
Need to find room in your suitcase
before you take off for summer
break?
to
up some
pots and pans for your new
ment off-campus?
in the St.
Lawn
5, lOA.M. -2
on the back lawn behind Randall
Hall.
i terns to sell.
your articles to
a blanket or table
if you choose, small "'"''>-nnrc
to make
and
call to reserve a spot.
and
weeks ago.
Ueuts.ch, Richard Schmechel, Dierdre
Rebekah Jongewaard, Steve
Urich and
planted and
up the campus. It was
to see
what a few
can accomplish
with a
of shovels and trash
so
inutt~
Minutes of the Delegate Council
Meeting held on Wednesday,
17,
1996
in Attendence were:
President
Secretary Alexander,
Attorney Hoggard, Delegates
Truman (Chase-Stone), Freeman and
Maxwell (Humphries), Villasenor and
Coonce (Pinkney), Dowty (Randall),
Silverman and Rettig (Campbell).
LETTERS continued from page 4
SfieffJJ's '.f[ower ~o~
1
.now.out.of.money.must.STOP
Yours from the Minute Man,
Derek Alexander
Secretary of Polity
The
possibly offensive statements, such
textbooks are available. However,
even if you personally decide to avoid
all offensive statements, and not consider whether there may be any truth
in such statements or how important
are to the authors point, please
leave the rest of us to discuss them
to advertise our having read them and
considered them.
Jeremiah Jam es '96
reason for our reading Nietzsche at St.
John's. How can we be considered sincere in our
at self-examination
if we will not tolerate the opinions of
those who sincerely criticize our most
precious ideas? We may disagree with
the ideas of certain philosophers, like
Nietzsche, but we must discuss them
openly. If instead of discussing such
opinions one would prefer to read the
works of great minds purged of all
The Film Club Charter was
amended to require members to participate in set activities, The KWP got
$200 for Automatic Love, The Biology
Club got $30 for copies, and Project
Politae was chartered.
6
business.
For those of you who
to
the last weekend at
Alternate Reality. Washington,
DC. The van leaves 9 AM., return8 P.M. Space is limited. You must
Discount Given to
St. John's Students
and Faculty
~~®
~~n~ ~eor~e $t.
~eross
1996
~rem
©ampus
............... ia..
LvJt.1.1::\~t:
all day on ~atu1~da
temative tradition has taken on a life
of its own. This year, as in years past,
15
a
some of the time
will be on your own and some time
will be
with the group. For exstudents have been
off at the Smithsonian museums for
a few
met up
at
went to different movies within the
same
met up again for dinner, and concluded the day by drinkcappucino at a coffee shop /bookstore. Some of these activities I will
others I cannot. Any questions or suggestions as to what to do,
call me at x254.
Thanks to those kind, hard-workeco-hearted students who
showed up to the SJC
Schedule
Sunday,
28 - All work must
be finished and on the
for
shelf. We will bisque them
the week so that everything
should be
to
by Friday afMay 4 is the last
You may pick your work up
8, but it may not all be
finished with the
process until
15.
Please take home all
finished
and any bisque work that you
want to save. We will be deaning the
studio and disposing of anything left
after May 24.
Aliqui sunt qui per aestatem ordine
convenire velint ut Aeneidem legant?
Certe hae barbarae litterae monstrant
ut nulla sollertia exspectetur. Si tibi
placet, ad Erik Sageng scribe. Vale.
If we are to judge from two incidents that occurred on the "'"''on-inrr
of Senior
it seems some students believe that all the customary
rules of decorum as well as all Colpolicies and state laws are susduring such celebrations.
This is not the case, and in the future
those who act on such beliefs will be
sanctioned.
The first of the two incidents resulted in Mr.
Mathews discovering much trash and vomit in
and around the Conversation Room
last Friday morning. Since the room
was needed for an
Mr.
Mathews had to clean the ~i''"°'"'''-'U... ,"'
mess himself. When "fun" results in
physical
emotional distress, or
unnecessary labor for someone
the bounds of decency have been
transgressed. Some
Mathews an
thinking of some way to make it up
to him.
The second incident was the widespread smoking that went on,..,,, . . ,~.~
the Prank show, both on the
and in the audience.
no one
imagined in advance that such blatant
of the law would ocwere made to
This will
not be the case in the future. From
now on,
indoors at
events-since it is violation of the
law-will result in the event being
shut down by Security. In ....................... v'"·
the individuals involved will be
sanctioned severely.
Please keep these admonitions in
mind as we move toward Reality
Weekend. Inconsiderateness and
violations of the drinking and smoking laws will not be tolerated.
Mr. Abraham Schoener
Mr. William Pastille
Erik Sageng
The
30, 1996
7
�P.O. Box 2800
Adve1't1s1mg 1v.1.<:1.nci12er: Jackie Camm
Innocent
Haber
Production Staff: Annemarie Catania, Juan Villasenor
Photos: Juan Villasenor,
K. Lynch
Printing by the St. John's
Print Shop
Founded in 1980, The Gadfly is a student weekly distributed free
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�
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The Gadfly, Vol XVII Issue 19
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PDF Text
Text
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Deirdre E. O'Shea
are .__ . . . ..., .... ~ . . ·~·
this means for us is
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all-
'97
N EARLY JUNE of this year, I accom
a friend to Thomas Aquinas
College so that she could decide between there and St. John's. Thomas
.n. 4 ... ,,.~v is an even-smaller-than-St.John's Liberal Arts college (c. 250 students), located six miles away from the
small community of Santa Paula
in Southern California. T.A.
to a
extent, the same curriculum as St. John's, varying
only in the emphasis the school
places on Aristotle, Aquinas, the
Fathers of the Church, and Orthodox
Roman Catholicism.
think these
authors have a grasp of 'the truth.'
went along with my friend because
I had heard very disturbing comments
from someone who had attended a seminar there. She claimed that, while dis......... "'"''"'"' Kant, the students asserted he
was wrong because Aquinas argues the
(apropos, this form of 'disputation' should sound familiar to those
who have read St. Thomas).
hear this. am acway of
viz., quest101l11I1g a text and reu ..... ,.U,.,F, upon the
it raises, but
never daring to say that one is wrong and
the other is
This
among
other
that I have a clear and dis-
I
v1..11uvc>.1.LL
our modern society.
Ms. Locke maintains that the
has a meditative value for us today.
::,a1mti2-l~h21pe~11e can continue to
to those who need
and those
who need
naturally
leads to the
of art as well
astheco:ntt~mp111tHJI
p11quea everyone's own
interests. Freshman
Caton
the brief discussion of
the mathematical aspects, while sophomore Gjergji Bakallbashi admired Ms.
Locke's "wonderful ability to articulate
that can be professional and
technical." I
most with junior
Cindy Lutz who was
with
the way the lecture seemed to flow and
unfold on its own.
2
996
which I am very far from achieving, esafter hurriedly
such difficult texts only once. I decided to see
whether the rumor was true.
We arrived in the afternoon, dressed
according to the code, which for the men
consisted of slacks and a collared shirt,
and for women, a dress well below the
knee. This dress code is enforced until 3
p.m. in the Library and is also in effect
for all classes, the dining hall, and
church, a sign announces.
Unfortunately, we could not attend
any classes because the students were
taking their finals in the math, lab, the-
on our
ology, and philosophy classes. All the
students we met spoke favorably of this
aspect of their curriculum. It is a way,
they claimed, in which all the material
studied can be finally understood. It is
really a strange thought to me though,
to
an all-nighter' in preparation for
a final on Newton's argument for universal gravitation in the Principia, for in-
stance. However, the students did mention that
do receive a
that contains all the qu,estwrts
be asked in the final.
rector of Aam1.ss1ons,
friend about different aspects
life, from religious to social, from academic to extracurricular. He and I also
contrasted the two curricula:
asked
him whether at T.A. the students experience a jading process in their junior
year, as some of us do at St.
due
to the division between
and
.,.,..,r,r1,,,.,.. ....,1-.,. to which he responded that
it does not happen at T.A. because their
curriculum is designed so that
always hold on to the ideologies of
Aristotle and
In some sense
remain as ancients. He was surto find out that we do not have
finals, and I was surprised he did not
know this, as they claim to have a good
relation with our Santa Fe campus. Finally, I also told him they read more
books than we do,
reason being that
they do not have preceptorials.
After meeting with him, we decided
to attend one of their three daily masses.
Masses are said in Latin, following an old
orthodox Catholic tradition with due
reason, for this is the language they study
is Latin. In church, most of the women
wear veils over their heads, which is yet
another custom of Catholic orthodoxy,
one only observed in Latin American
countries and others in which conservative Catholicism is the only accepted way
of practicing this religion. A Dominican
priest presided over the mass. Regrettably, this priest was far from
eloquent. He said in the homily that in order to live the kind oflife which Paul exhorted us to, we ought to follow the example of that day's name-day:
Saint Norbert. He went on to
explain how this man of the XII
Century had a conversion similar to Paul's. At this point the
priest digressed and became the
moral police of Thomas Aquinas, telling
us that he had heard that some
ing seniors were celebrating by drinking;
that as we all know, drinking is a mortal
sin which leads even to graver sins, like
concupiscence; and that these seniors
should stop and confess their sins.
What we learned from mass, which the
Admissions Director also told us, was
that the social, religious and academic
life of the college are all tied together by
a very
This unifies the polis,
but on the other
leaves very little
room for privacy.
We had dinner, which was ext:re1nellv
bad, and incidentally found out a very
interesting aspect of about the college.
The students are assigned a box, without a lock or door, in which they put
their belongings, and their mailboxes are
designed in the same way. Fear of thievery, they told us, is not a concern at T.A.,
as honesty is expected from all students.
To make this more bewildering, we
talked with a senior who ran an unattended candy bar stand where one can
take a candy and make the due payment
by leaving money in an open, transparent container. He told us that the money
helps him pay for his books.
The school grounds itself, as we were
told by a senior, on the principles in
Aristotle's Lyceum. Their dormitories
are single-sex and off-limits to the op-
continued on page 6
The Gadfly! September 10, 1996
3
�l
!
are Invited ...
Dear SJC community,
As some of you may know, Leo
soccer
the tricky balancing of
Pickens, SJC Athletic
and mythese two ways of being good: fitting in
self, Valerie Pawlewicz, SJC Senior
well and being outstanding? Aren't you
Resident for Student Activities, are getrequired here to do your personal best
ting married here at the Great Hall on
while keeping in mind the team as a
Sa_turday, Se~tember 14. I am writing
whole? It seems to me the moral balancthis letter to mform the community as
ing acts of this kind are so indicative of
to what will be going on that weekend
the human condition that team sports
and, even more particularly, to invite
are not just games, good for the body and
each and every one of you to a party.
the soul in the relaxed state, but morally
Read on.
serious real-life analogies.
Guests from across the country will
And now, having probably made it
be arriving on Friday, September 13. If
practically impossible, I want to say to
you see strangers on campus with
you: Have fun!
maps in hand and a festive air about
them, please direct them to the Health
I want to emphasize that all women
Center (Mr. P and I live in an apartment
at St.
once they sign the register
upstairs).
at convocation, and are officially maOur wedding takes place on Saturtriculated into the college, also officially
day, September 14. The wedding itself
become a member of this most awesome
is limited to family and friends. Alsisterhood of soccer players. This memthough there is not enough space to
is life long, and irrevocable.
invite you to the ceremony, everyone
Even if you missed our first practice, or
- students, staff, faculty - is invited
any number of
you are still a
to attend the live swing band party in
part of this team and will be most welthe gymnasium that night. The swing
come when you do finally heed the comparty is our gift to the college.
call of that Kuvm within.
We thank you in advance for your
Athlete of the Week honors go to two
coperation and patience while we use
endurance runners in our midst, both of
the college as the site of our wedding
whom ran in the Annapolis Ten Miler refestivities. We ask for you help in makcently. We'-re talking about tutor and suing it run smoothly, for the assistance
per athlete Mr. Page, who finished near
from some of you by working for us,
the top of all participants, and Miss
and for your attendance at the party
Adrienne Rogers. This was Miss Rogers
that night.
first ten miler!
The band starts playing at 9pm. We
The men's football (a.k.a. Jacobsen
hope to see you there.
Ball) season is off to an exciting start. In
Valerie Pawlewkz
vu...:iun•. \...LIUllJl.ll
is the text of Miss
kick-off speech to the St.
Soccer Team, the K1JVaL
Jesse
Along with the perennial sights that come with a new St.
s year, confused freshmen, humid weather and a library in perfect working order, a strange and unexpected
sight has been spotted repeatedly on campus these past few
weeks. Mr. Radoslav Datchev, the tutor with the Lennon
glasses and cool short haircut, has himself a new pair of
pants. Yes, he's stepped away from the crutch of every-day
black jeans and moved into the wonderful new world of
gray slacks.
This bold move by Mr. Datchev has received lavish praise
from the far corners of campus. His many admirers among
the student body have been swooning at the sight of this
new, improved Mr. Datchev.
Other tutors are known to set their mark, whether good,
bad or ugly in the vicious daily grind of the St. John's fashion world.
Mr. Erik
The
more
than a
wave
to this man is the bargain tie rack at Goodwill. Everything is wrong about these ties: the color, the
length, the
even the knot is too big. The verdict?
They're bold and
and they don't match his shirts.
What's not to love?
Mrs.
Seeger: Just a brief note: her exotic jewelry is
to die for. Dean Brann says it comes from going to a lot of
"anthropologically interesting" places. Hey, whatever it
takes.
Mr.
Beall: The comparison has been made a thousand times before: this man is James Bond. The well-cut
help the
but Mr. Beall is the consumjackets
mate
that attitude is the most
fashion
accessory.
Mrs. Anita
It seems that every year nem11rn::s
among the female tutors get lower and lower. But Mrs.
Kronsberg is just the one to break that mold. And she pulls
it with great grace, matching a
skirt with a very
That tie: More
cool
than a
wave em'larwn
for the ultimate in style and class.
Verdi: Picture this: about 30 seniors
in a
"""'""''-' -·'-"" McDowell room, waiting for a savior to bring to
which has been
their brains all day.
In walks the smooth Mr.
out the loud red
Hawaiian shirt.
to
that off
can tell me about
1 ~·~h,-~"
is a reminder that it's
your
that matters, but also
treats his like
So his
shorts that are a constant sight in the Igelhart weight
a thumbs up for the
purpose to
Mr. Stuart
One of my favorite mental games is
to seize hold of a very obscure analogy
and to make the most of it. This is the
Soccer Kickoff, and bears a
faint
to an opening question. So I'll pose an
question,
since seminar is more my sport than soccer I used to play soccer a lot
when I was little. Here than is my kickoff
for the day: Why play team
Like any seminar
worth
this one has all sorts of subtexts.
do sports for the sake
that is for looks and for
the
best
are best for you - for health because you
can pace
and you don't have to
wait for
team mates to have their
turn and you don't have to follow a lot
and for
because some sort
building
be most
efficient.
So if we were
a real seminar
a1scu:sSH)n, it would soon come out that
team sports are not
The
its social aspects, has
them.
one, to me very interestaspect of a team sport like soccer.
you will want to mull it over later
while
- not, should
to line up
but perhaps when you're
down in the locker room.
The freshmen among you will soon
hear, and the upper class women will
have heard
too often, the word
the Greek word for a powerful
sort of goodness. What might be news
even to them is the root meaning of
n ~.
comes from the verb
"to fit or
so
means what is fitting, what
There is also a Latin word we all know
?ften used as a translation of apn~. I~
is "excellence", and its root meaning is
that of eminence, a hill-top, something
outstanding.
Now isn't it true that team sports like
coach
the season opener, the Guardians defeated the Druids in a dramatic seesaw
battle. Making superb debuts for Gold
were Mssrs. Swann, Berkobein, and the
freshman bonus baby Mr. Israel. The
Druids are to be commended for their
record turnout: 22 Rude-Boyz showed
up to play. Theirs is the moral victory!!!
Some old Business: in the seasonending marathon, we promised to award
the runner with the fastest lap, the most
laps, and the fastest average of three laps.
Well, it turns out that the sophomore
phenom Mr. Potvin won all three categories. Mr. Potvin, please, walk, don't run,
to the bookstore to pick up your well
earned awards.
Another Bit of Old Biz: Last year's
Outstanding Athletes (those students
who through their participation have
earned the most Blazer points) were Miss
(with an amazing 407 points!) and
Mr. Carter with 321.
And the Final Word on Old Biz: Last
year we retired the jerseys of Mssrs.
Carter and Snead for earning over 800
blazer points.
You Make the Call: In soccer, a player
makes a throw in and throws the ball directly into his own goal. First one to me
with the right call goes to the Bookstore
on me.
The Gadfly! September 10, 1996
4
The
September 10, 1996
5
�3
yourself booked this Satfor the
Wedding
as fun and beautiful as
my
and show off
ballroom moves. It's bound to be
fun.
""·"n'T"T
posite sex at all times. Some are
into dorms.
classroom facilities
These are far from what Aristotle could
have considered as
pleasing.
Here are some of the highlights a senior gave us: she said that there is an
objective truth which can be discovered
after having gone through the Thomas
Aquinas program. Also, at her school,
men are
to be men and
women to be women, which means that
men are expected to be gentlemen, to
work to support a family and women to
stay home to raise children in the Catholic faith. 'It's selfish that women should
have a career: she claimed, because it is
'natural' for women to take care of children. She used
in the way
Aristotle defines and uses the term
nature' (Physics, II, 1 1-32).
l'.l~'"''·~t·,,~,,_"',,_.vv) women art
equal voice and respect in an
setting at T.A. and
are free not to
follow the submissive mold that God has
created for them, for after
we live in
a democracy. She also
of the views of Descartes, Newton and
Kant because they are
to
those of Aquinas, thus substantiating the
academic rumor I had heard.
she
and the Admissions Director both had
the
habit of
in Aristotelian Latinisms, such as qua, which I
but were
to my friend.
I understand that ide:o1c>gH~a 11
ing, St.
and T.A. are ..1~~~r+1"
St.
the meettives who could not
there seems to be a whole lot of
on.
Note: students may sign out
at any time, day or
at Switchchess,
'-''-''F.F.~~, and many varieties of Trivial
Pursuit. Check 'em out.
Letters Policy: Letters
have a better chance
Letters will not be edited for
Jut:ii<1i;:,, and will
the St. John's motto; rather, they
cH)':,H<'-'~l intolerant
H.~v, who go out into the world
pn::parea to defend a
truth and
not to give way to any other possible
views,
Thomas Aquinas College,
if you will, a sort of Marine Corps for
l".,U:.l......_,_. ..
Catholics.
However, I must also say in all fairness to Thomas
that I very
much envy the student body's feeling of
,,,~,,....,,,,... safety, and more importantly,
trust. This is present, but to a minimum
degree and unfortunately always h~
nescing, in the student body at St. Joh~ s.
that such a feelmg
It is very
exist among the college community, because it creates an non-hostile environment. For instance, if we had such a feeling among ourselves, perhaps all ~e fuss
over the Women's Group or the offenboth of which
sive' t-shirt for
really
the campus last year may
not have h::inneniea.
I am not denying that the feeling I just
described is not present when we are in
the company of our closest friends. I am
referring to the student body as a
whole. Proof for the lack of this feeling
in our student
may be
our honest answer to the following
would anyone at St. John's be
unatt1enc1ea candy
who take
to create an arena in
ferent
social and ethnic backcan come toi:~eu1er to discuss
pagan, Christian, and secular authors in
an open-minded forum.
At Thomas Aquinas, people who are
atheists or non-Catholic are 'discourfrom
these views, and are
admonished to embrace Orthodox Catholicism. The college does admit such
people, however, perhaps in. o~der. to
comply with federal anti-discnmmation
laws. I must say I object to Thomas
Aquinas College's biased way of teaching
the Great Books because they are not
'free adults out of children,' to
Frt~shmE~n are "'u. ''-'·"'!"'i
as well. You will not be allowed to continue into the second term of your
year without
passed this test.
If you are coJ:lt1<1e11t and therefore
feel no urgency about this test, or if you
feel there is little chance that you will
before extensive ,..""""'''A'
take this test anyway. In the worst case,
it will be a
exercise that will
indicate to me who needs what sort of
attention.
this hurdle will no
den for either of us.
Erik
vd~lt:.Ht",
The Placement Office will be hanrei;~1strat1on this year. Look
for announcements around campus for
and procedures within
a
Karen ...... ..,..........u""
Placement Office
The "TAKE A TUTOR TO LUNCH"
I.
up from rainwater.
Where is my snorkle?
IL
Descartes
victim of the great deluge
I don't want to buy.
11\1-::.,·t.o.,.·u
III.
Need the book for classwet came I from mama's womb,
thus wet shall I go.
by Stanley Hai-Kubric
is
invite a tutor
for that matter, anyworks for the college) to have
you in the
room now
and
for free. Just tell the person
at the door. If you are not on the meal
you can still do and you youra free meal too
not too ofneed to say).
~~ .. -.... ,_,, you may be surprised to
hear, eat mortal food every
so they
will
this occasion for conversing with you. Most tutors are very
pleased to be asked.
on the other
hand,
to
host in the easiest
way, and to have company of someone
you may have wanted to know better
a
The Food Service and the Dean's
Office sponsor this plan, and I would
like to see it used often and well.
means: Not the same tutor five
times a
Eva T.
Dean
To the .._.., ........ ," ... L:orr1mun1ty:
As always, the Dean's Office is open
for three kinds of business:
1. Real
2. Realer
3. Realest
1) Real business is office stuff. The
other kinds are 2) life in general and 3)
life in particular (e.g. the program, papers, books, great and middling).
On whatever business you may
come, you will be welcome.
Eva T. H. Brann
Dean
Here is the class schedule for the
1996-97 school year:
Aerobics
(begins Saturday, September 7)
4 PM FSK Dance Studio
Kara Fenske
"""~n .,,.., 4 PM FSK Dance Studio
The National Library of
has
announced that $48,000 in prizes will
be awarded this year to over 250 poets
in the North American Open Poetry
Contest. The deadline for the contest
is September 30, 1996. The contest is
open to everyone and entry is FREE.
Any poet, whether previously
lished or not, can be a winner. Poets
from the Annapolis area have successcompeted in past years. Every
poem entered also has a chance to be
published in a deluxe, hardbound anthology.
To enter, send ONE
poem,
any subject and any style, to: The National Library of Poetry, 1 Poetry Plaza,
Suite 1989, Owings Mills, MD 211176282. The poem should be no more
than 20 lines, and the poet's name and
address should appear on the
of the
page. Entries must be postmarked by
1996. A new contest
opens October 1, 1996.
The National Library of
founded in 1982, is the largest poetry
on;anL1Zatt10,n in the world.
Vira Feliciano
VV€~a.n.esc1ay 4 PM Gym Dance Studio Vera Feliciano
Thuu;datv 4 PM Gym Dance Studio
Rebecca Michael
4 PM FSK Dance Studio
Kara Fenske
~at:untav 10:30 AM FSK Dance Stu-
dio Re bee ca Michael
6:45 PM FSK Dance Studio
Rebecca Michael
Ballet
(begins Sunday, September 8)
Inter/ Advanced 7 PM
Gym Dance Studio Dani Schaffel
Sunday Beginner 7 PM Gym Dance
Studio Beatrice Robbins
Ballroom
(begins Wednesday, September
The YWCA of Annapolis and Anne
Arundel
needs volunteers to
serve in a
of capacities. Volunteers are needed
lence Program, Career Services,
Parenting Services, the West County
Support Center, the Teen Infant Program at Meade Senior High School.
Volunteers are also needed for
fundraisers and committees.
The first Volunteer Orientation will
be held on Tuesday, September
from
7:30 to 9:30 PM at the YWCA Building,
1517 Ritchie Highway, Arnold. Persons
wishing to attend Volunteer Orientation must RSVP. For more information,
to volunteer, or to register for Volunteer Orientation, call the YWCA at
(410)626-7800 or 974-0147. The YWCA
is a United Way agency.
HHa...-..uc')',
circumstances.
The
6
The
September 10, 1996
7
�P.O. Box 2800
A.nrlaP<)llS. MD 21404
Editors-in-Chief: Jennifer Coonce and Deirdre E. O'Shea
Layout Editor: Nelson Hernandez Jr.
Photography Editor: Mary K. Lynch
Gadfly Online: Jesse Berney
Business Manager. Jesse Berney
Production Staff: Annemarie Catania, Ian Kelley
Photo Credits: 1994-1995 Yearbook
Extra Special Thanks to: Seth Milliken, a.k.a. "Savior"
distributed free
Armatpcilis campus as well
as tutors emeriti, members
Board of Visitors and Governors, and
the offices at the St. John's Santa Fe
All
expressed
within are the sole
of the author. The
reserves the
to accept, reject, and edit
submissions in
way necessary to
the most
informative,
and thoughtnn1vc1k1nv ne1wsn;i1-iPr which circumstances at SL
su1)scrir:•tic•ns are available for $35.00.
Please make checks
and information, call 263-2371,
Printing by the St. John's College Print Shop
�
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Founded in 1980, <em>The </em><em>Gadfly</em> is a weekly student publication distributed to over 600 students, faculty, and staff of the Annapolis campus.<br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="The Gadfly" href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=16&sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&sort_dir=d">Items in the <em>The Gadfly</em> Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.
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The Gadfly, Vol XVIII Issue 1
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Text
�Zebleyf '99
Dear
After Mr.
very kind words
in the last
about my
I
+h'"'H,,.h+ I
renew my standing
challenge to anyone who would like to
to
me a tie that I will not wear.
conditions are that it can't be
A~C~r>~O anditcan't
out~~·nH"~~
offensive.
You should not .,,,,.,.....,..,,...,.r.ca
way, that I wear these ties because others think
awful. I have
found
this
lecture was a venture
for the average
the
n<..:r•rn,rnolTI::.l "IT'H method of Sigmund
Frederick Crews broke
with usual custom and
decried a program author. And while
the
assorted
u
..... i
.........u
.. ,,"'
his brief
C>.C:lCUULc;l.L•o.A,
with the model of
that you
in my
mailbox. Since
life-size Ste.._ ... ~i--"-A'''- was built as a shrine for a
............. F.J'"'-·U.
;:,a:mte-'-._n<:ip~~ue
know themselves as both shrine and
I will
somevery valuable inside
this miniature church remind me of
its purpose. Thank you.
Patricia M. Locke
Letters
Letters
words or
less have a better chance
Mr. Crews did an admiMost of the u.1.1.u.c:.1.);.•a. ........... ~
to
that
ates I
tended to pay closer attention to
Freud when
to him in the
senior year.
Mr. Crews was very
to be
at St.
and
eager to bethe question and answer 1...1c:JL.1.v•....
he did not seem to
to
for someone
to suggest a Freudian
for
him to disprove. In the process he
passed up many topics that could
have made fine lectures themselves.
Senior Heidi Jacot thought that the
lecture would have been much better if Mr. Crews had taken the time
to explain what had initially attracted him to Freudianism and
what eventually drove him away.
In his assertions against Freud
and his principles, Mr. Crews
seemed to depend heavily upon
rhetoric. Quite often he would supa
that the
critical evidence exists. Sophomore
Richardson thought Mr. Crews
to be a sophist who used laughter
and charisma rather than reason. In
many people's judgement, free-association and other Freudian principles, such as dream theory, were
never
reasoned argument.
Despite the drawbacks of the lecture, Mr. Crews' lecture did bring
up some good points. He was right
in asserting that whether or not
Freud's theories are correct, one cannot understand the twentieth cenwithout understanding them.
He was also
to challenge the
tradition of
around program authors.
in criticizFreud's work he should have
his own work
made an effort to
above reproach.
Haiku
Showers in Pinkney.
Suddenly, a toilet flush.
I scream like a bitch.
anonymous sui'Jmzsswr.is,
circumstances.
2
Stanley Hai-Kubric
In "the land of the free and the home of the
" as
our own Francis Scott Key called our country, we will be
choosing between two main candidates for the office of
president. This year, in a trend not likely to surprise most
of us, Americans will get more of their information about
the candidates through that wonderful medium called television. All it takes, say some, is a good speech (televisionwatchers adored Elizabeth Dole's Oprah-esque one), or a
minor snafu (Dick Morris' unholy lust sure livened up the
Democratic Convention), or perhaps a show of good oldfashloned patriotism and resolve (made for television, of
course) to persuade voters to vote for one of the many candidates for our highest paid (idealistically speaking) public
service position.
Some Johnnies, or rather, most Johnnies, have displayed
their distaste for the rhetoric, the equivocal statements, the
conventions, and those onm1Lpresent American flag backdrops by
boycotting the polls
Others have found solace among
supporters of the presidential candidates of the Libertarian, Green,
Anarchist, or Socialist Parties.
Underrepresented (and perhaps
unrepresented) on campus are the
Ross Perot-supporters. Very few are
staunch supporters of either of the
two main candidates.
that it is a choice between the lesser of two evils, they have
decided to hold their respective noses, and select either
President Clinton or Mr. Dole. The president's power to
appoint Supreme Court justices concerns many, and this
seems to be one of the main reasons to
either Mr.
Clinton or Mr. Dole. The candidates do have dedicated supporters who back them for other reasons, however. Interested
voters are more interested in bigger
than whether Al Gore's Macarena is better than
rendition of "Soul Man." Which candidates do
to
vote for on that most important first Tuesday of the year?
"Bob Dole," answers Nathan Suma. Hailing from Cleveland, Mr. Suma ('99) feels that Mr. Dole's values are closer
to the those of the average American. "I know that in the
bigger East Coast cities you have a lot of
but you
have to realize that the rest of the country is much more to
the right," says this Independent. One reason that Mr. Dole
can count on Mr. Suma's vote on Election Day is this: Mr.
Dole's plan to cut the income tax by 15%, across the board.
Skeptics, including President Clinton, have argued that the
tax cut will not yield as much economic growth as Mr. Dole
or Mr. Suma would like.
Chicago native Adam Marker ('97), is one of those taxcut skeptics, as well as a Clinton supporter. Mr. Marker,
performance duroffice this summer, believes Mr.
ing the past four years has earned him the right to another
four in the White House. Sometimes sounding like a
cian himself, Mr. Marker supports "the President's objec.tives to shape the country into one in which people will
have the opportunities to succeed on their own, and with
government assistance when necessary." The President's
positions on civil rights, the
and health care
have also influenced Mr. Marker's decision. Neither Mr.
Marker nor Mr. Suma were concerned about the so-called
character issue", which has arisen from the many lawsuits
against the Clintons, as well as Mr. Clinton's admission that
he had smoked, but not inhaled, marijuana
college.
Some St. John's students,
are concerned about the
President's private life.
Calling Lancaster, California, home, David Bohannon
('99) is a Republican who plans on voting for the aging Mr.
a sloDole. Mr. Bohannon
gan he heard while at the Republican Convention in San Diego, AnyBea ts Clinton." For Mr.
the so-called "character
issue" does. matter.
"(The)
Whitewater (investigation findings)
and the Gennifer Flowers (alleged
sexual impropriety) incident have
degraded the respect for the Presi" said the former supporter of
neht-wun.2'E~r Alan Keyes.
Mr. Bohannon would be a member of what many consider the "religious
" the socially conservative
of the
Though a self described fundaMr. Bohannon is "not too sure about
teaching creationism in public schools."
Mr.
~~.H~,,>A.,JH' like most
conservatives, supports Mr.
Dole's anti-abortion
stance. This
more
divides the country, and even the Republican
into two poiar1zeu
But this issue,
to most
is
not as
to Messrs. Suma, Bohannon, and Marker
as the basic role of the government.
Mr. Marker argues that "everyone needs some kind of
assistance. Those of us with good
structures get assistance through them. Those without these structures may
need help from the government. But we as a society have a
responsibility to ensure that we all have the opportunity to
succeed."
Mr. Bohannon disagrees. Although he thinks that some
people can be helped by government assistance, he sums
up his political philosophy by saying, "life's tough. In the
end, the responsibility for your life rests solely on you. If
you want anything in this world, you are the one who has
to get it."
11
/1
The
3
�____________
,
I
a
Thaddeus Kosens, G.I.
in response to the article by
last week's
entitled
'-V.U.C)';,c."
I am not an "".,_,.,.,.,..,..,,."
have
never visited
but neither is Mr. Villasenor
attended one
ur~·•i- 1 -n.rr
G.
enco1Llrc:tgE~d. to be men and women to
be women," " i.e.
men and h'"' 1~"+-"'"i"they think these authors \..n..•~u.Jcua"',
have a grasp on "the
" i.e. they
...._.,,.......LJ, ........ J""'"' dogmatists-not the way the
the
.--~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~---.
adults.
critical ::in,~ n1,c.1c.
its reliance
consistent
incontrovertible facts rather than rhetoric and tone to
reader. The earmark
reader of critic01nn1enc tary is the
to extract from the
extract from Mr. Villasenor' s
which constitute his
I
is what I find
reveals his
mistake: his
su1ppc)Sealv directed at St. Thomas
the belief of the faithful with fundamentalism. He confuses
faith-based
LAUA•i,,iA•/-..1
4
The
a mortal sin. Too bad for Mr. Villasenor that sardonic
hr-..no""' about a tenet of faith is a mortal sin.
he
11rr10r;ant of his error, but I doubt it.
In
statement, Mr. Villasenor
of St. Thomas Aquinas College as creating "short-sighted,
m1:0l(~rant, :i::,i.£1uL~au::"' who go out into the world tJA•~tJ•AA~ ...
SU'PP<OSE~d. truth and not to
way to any other
,.,,.,.,n-o,..,,,,,..,,,..,, educated Catholics to Marine
Mr. Villasenor sets
with his sarcasm and
the
an
indoctriand then cuts it down.
Most of his facts are based on hear-say and what is more
curious is that he criticizes the academic
withattern1mg a class!
t-nr1110,n s1::>pJhist1cate,ain their
igrtor;an<:e of the Cathoeducation.
a few minor errors to
with: The Latin mass is not
an old orthodox Catholic ..,..,,..,.." ..""'"' "but one that is vitally
, , . ..£""''""+and
today. It is
in 1965
Paul
in the Vatican
that there is now an
mass at all. The "far from elowhich Mr. Villasenor heard was probably in
orthodox Catholic
as there is
more
.,,_,,_,_,_.,~~AA, n.ounsJnm,g than
about one of Her saints,
the Catholic mass is a matter-of-fact,
and solemn experience; it is a sacrifice and not a celebration. Th
Priest is less an evangelist who moves the congregatio
than a
directs the
to Christ in the Eu
charist and in His saints. The sermon is secondary to th
sacrifice, and a
Priest need not be eloquent, only
humble and
·
Mr. Villasenor does not know much about the Catholi
..__,_,, ..u~~·, hence he does not understand the concept of a
Catholic College. Instead of enlightening himself to these
he reduces them in his mind to only their superfi-:
reduction. He see
authc)nt:v, necessary exclusion of error, and su
hnnsielt, would never
"to say that one is wrong and the other is
" This statement reveals not
his
for the necessary absolutism of the Church on some
but also his dishonesty.
Mr. Villasenor is au:;mg;enuouls. I wonder on what authe St.
tutors determine which of the
"Great Books" are
is absolute as
must
exclude other texts that are not believed
to be
I am
Mr. Villasenor is not
srn)rt::;1g_nte,aness of the college
in
and not others-sounds like an
academic Marine
The ri ,.,.,.,.,,.,., "'~,,.,
/1
q·ueE;t10n and recome from?
of
nr,::><;:,,rYr'\ACO.:::>rl before one thinks a
I wonder
purpose of a St.
education is if not to
make decisions upon the
of an idea.
allow one
Of course we are to
out the errors in a text as it comes
before our
we have no choice. We become relativists if we do not. We devolve into skepticism and eventually into the dogma of absolute
a contradiction
in
of course, but inevitable.
Mr.
writes, in a context of
"there
001ectrv·e truth which can be discovered after having
gone
the St. Thomas
" I am not
completely sure whether or not Mr. Villasenor writes this
in a
you believe
manner, but if he does, then I
for being at St. John's
ask him what his ultimate
College?
it is to be
"a free adult out of a
but only truth may set one's mind
the objective truth
of one's one
perhaps.
"1T'"""''H
Mr. Villasenor disagrees with the ,,..,..,,.,,,,.... ~
Church's absolute moral
he can not
a
student to disagree also. A Catholic colCatholic
lege is, after
a Catholic college and not a secular one. It
neces:sainlv has different
and pres11p1prn31tions.
A Catholic student may disagree on a moral
however, if he is
confused and in doubt, but in the
he must accept the Church's teachings or else leave
the Church. It is entirely
for Mr. Villasenor to deif St.
decides to give Aristotle's
priori obedience to its
philosophy. This would go
directly
the
of St.
College and its devotion to reasoned discourse about intellectual
as
well as moral
Mr. Villasenor should not expect
St. Thomas Aquinas College to go against its "God-given"
grain either.
I stated at the outset that Mr. Villasenor, in his piece, is
comparing an
to an orange. The distinction noted in
"'"''-'""",JLL'"' his error. But
and oranges are
and even
the two
are
de:tmtteJy distinct, they are also very similar. What attracted
me to St.
was its
to stand up to the
nonsense of academia with its
to
the
great works of our Western
St.
the face of the overarching arm
imaosoJu«~a~rtatm1~that~n,,~~"h•~h
period. Some in academia would call that fundamentalism,
intolerance, and shortsightedness, as did Mr. Villasenor with
those very words impugn the inexorable convictions of St.
Thomas Aquinas College. If the books we read here are
great, then is it not also great that we have the courage to
assume their greatness, and discuss and debate only their
wonderful ideas? If they are not great, than we are worthy of
the kind of vituperation that Mr. Villasenor would give us. If
the truths proclaimed by the Catholic Church are true, than a
AQUINAS continued on page 7
The
17, 1996
5
�b
Ever
tutor
Datchev came to
College '92,
faculty have been looking
for ways to emulate his
greatness. This ... '"·-'-''._,
shows us
who
the secret is
George ...__.,_,'VJLL.....
followed
y
t i e s
(x254)
On Sunday, September 22nd from 10
to 2 P.M. there will be a DK>W·-outt.
Com1nuniltv Lawn Sale. Everything
must go from storage! The sale will be
held under the large tree on the back
'-' ...,............. Randall Hall. In addition,
you, too, are invited to sell whatever
you want of your own: just bring a
blanket and set up shop. Be prepared
to make
Jerry Januszewski and
I will do some local
A
word to the wise: if you are looking to
or sell anything in particular, come
Lawn sale goers strike as soon as
are set out.
On
28is
land Avenue's Fall Festival. Gyros,
bargains,
and "collectables"
will be available
a block away.
State Circle to Prince George Street is
blocked off for pedestrian traffic and
vendors.
Thanks to everyone who had a
hand in
our
recepband party the sucwere. We
apyour campus for this
, ......... ,,.,.l-~~~1- event of ours.
LJ'c..1.1.LJ.Ul'C-
Lom1nurnt:v Praise
Choir will
a mini-concert of
gospel music at the Great Hall on
Wednesday,
18 at noon.
The choir was created almost a year
ago
Shirlette
and
her family. Borsaw was
the
choir director at three local '-"''"""'··"'c:"·
and now directs one church choir and
the Interfaith Community Praise Choir.
She is also the band director at a middle
school.
The choir includes about
people of different denominations and
different races from about ten local
chirches. Two members of the St.
staff, Barbara
and
Matthews, and one student,
Neely
are choir members.
Although the choir includes a handful of professional
the em-
is less on music than on faith
and love. Their mission statement is,
"We are an
team committed to
name of Jesus Christ
by
his word
the
ministry of music." In the past they
have sung in churches, senior centers,
homes, and even prisons.
to Ms. Neely, who joined the choir last
a1.
""°' there is a strong sense of comwithin the choir, and a
devotion to faith. Choir practice is also
Bible study. A small church even was
formed by choir members called the
Interfaith Christian l\Jl-i..-.1c+ru
The Interfaith ...............u.uu....... .,
UVVC:<;H gospel.
"''-'u.•--•u..1.u.a, but a few are
"'·"''J;.._,,, ...u coimr>os1tlc)ns by the director.
The concert is open to everyone, so
come listen and enjoy tomorrow at
noon.
.nL.LI.
lllLIP'"""'" .....,,,... ...... ,... ..... ti
....,._,....,...,,Jll.!lvUtl
u
POJ'.f!rt:en. Abe Schoener, Jesse
Reiner and Matt Braithwaite.
college based upon those truths,
still
open to debate and discussion about them and other ideas is
great. Regardless of the validity of the
Church's proclamations , if the college
is
stunting and does not
allow for
even from within the a
priori assumptions of its faith, and really does churn out intolerant brutes,
then it is not truly a Catholic College.
Mr. Villasenor has attempted to picture St. Thomas Aquinas College as this
type of
If this picture of the college
any similarity to the real
one, then he has written a good article
n
J
n's
and has done both St. John's students
and Catholics a service. If not, he has
done his readers a disservice. I am proud
of St. Thomas Aquinas College for its
firm convictions and the steadfastness
of its students. Most Catholic colleges
today are only Catholic in name, and are
as politically correct (which is truly in-
The
6
The
I
II
tolerance) as the most secular of institutions. The students at St. Thomas
Aquinas College are not dogmatists, as
Mr. Villasenor portrays them. They are
humble believers; there is a difference,
perhaps a difference Mr. Villasenor
could
see, or purposefully overlooked to prove a
September 17, 1996
7
�Editors-in-Chief: Jennifer Coonce
Deirdre O'Shea
Printing
St.
distributed free
Arma1pc111s campus as well
Governors, and
expressed
reserves the
�
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Text
�class
a.d. notes ....................................................p. 7
the College ...............p. 8
Genius
The
9
D.C. Minutes .............. ~ ............................p.
Alcohol Banned at SJC Santa Fe...........p. 11
To the Editors:
lecture can take many
~-1- ,,.,n1rn is the ext:err1pc>rai:1ecms
those whose criticisms are
and ntl1,p1•vv·1sP
di~;se:ffilln.a1:ea in our culture. Must we
;;::iu-.......... ,......... ,,.., to those voices? Can we not
listen - and hear one another?
cross the th-r·pc::t1hn1a
pus.
it
us
interested in the lines this cornm:unu.11
draws. We encourage comments
you
on this matter. Does this offend your sensibilities? Is the
this
-Eds.
Dear Students:
Nikkolai 2000
Your verse is
mind
weaker still. The
use of
"bitch" in your recent haiku indeed
not for the reasons you intend. Your haikus are re1na.rKao.Le
in that
the on~ce·ae11t
take you and
instruct,
and defeat you.
I shall
sul)mlt verse each week until the St.
freed from
-in~r,-,.,,..., la m"llSlllgS Of dull
Jn
... -. .... ~AA_, I have been
and I must break
Shriek
As
it may
1996
Those of us
suffering from
the flu may be inclined to spew and
so1;.1W~r about the incestuous nature of
St.
even those
who are happy and well would be
use words
less
like 'intimate' or 'tight-knit' when describing
their chummy campus fam. (Gosh.)
What better way to celebrate this 300
tradition of intellectual commuthan by creating a
of the
that acts more as a conversation
a commentary? The 01c:tures
selected by
Murphy (archivist)
and Sloan
arranged by
Alex Bowles in the E. Mitchell
not
intract with the patrons but
seem to discuss campus life with the
same
one would at least
to encounter in a Pascal or Aristotle
seminar.
Situated in a manner similar to
chairs around a
the
address life on campus, each
or slant.
to
"The senior oral is the .........u............
F.
activity and the four years prior are
preparatory."
"What a narrow view of the underpurpose of the program. The
study of great books imbues the devoted student with the ability to think,
u .........
to
pictures adaress {ije on campus.
a skill necessary to fully appreciate the
accomplishments of humaiUty."
"Yes, but the student cannot accomplish this alone. It is dialogue that
life to thought, not the simultaneous monologues between books and
reader. Besides, what use to the world
is a
inarticulate man?"
The project was the brain-child of
Mr. McFarland who hit upon the idea
of this mt:ro:sp~~ct:1ve retrrnmE~ctilon
while TATr•~•r•-nn
chives. He suggested this idea to Mr.
Bowles who was working in the Gal-
lery at the time.
At
Mr. McFarland
that
original contact sheets should be used
for the exhibit, but 3x3 inch black strips
on 33x15 foot white walls did not seem,
to Mr. Bowles, like an aesthetically
pleasing means of presentation. He
had the pictures
in an atterr1pt
to bring the show to life.
"The video was my own
" explained Mr. Bowles. "I have an interest
in film, and since several of the stills
depict a film crew in the act of docu~,,.......,,,....,. it seemed
to share
the finished product."
Like the camera and other film
eq1.11p1m{~nt in the center of the main
gallery space, the film lends another
dimension to the exhibit. The camera
takes up space, and the video time.
For those who still feel the exhibit is
a bit dusty and lifeless, Mr. Bowles will
give two talks: one on ::,e1pte~m1Jer
the other on November 2 Marion War...... h,,..,.J,.,,...,.,,.... ~.,.,h,., ... in the
will
a ..,~·~L ......... p1re~ser1tatio1n on Tuesday,
October 8.
the truth - a nr;H"tlCf'
turnout to
your school.
thanks.
Eva T. H Brann
Dean
all his own, Mr. Verdi gave an
incredible lecture
the works
of 20th
philosopher
Wittg1en~;tein. Students and tutors alike
were
with the
and
scope of material covered in the rushed
hour and fifteen minute lecture. Febbie
sop hrnno:re Gary
said "I think
1
talism" Pv1Pr tnentloniea, ma.KJll l>-;
the response a personal attack. Becaus
the
is not an undergradua
at St
and bec2.use he has nev
been to Thomas Aquinas College, he ·
unable to
to the only real issue
my article: whether we could achieve
social and moral cohesiveness aino
like the one that exis
our SU:LUt!TII
at T.A.
I suppose I should acknoW
there is a possibility that my ha
coirituiut:!a on page 6
job exposing
God." Many people expressed
the desire to sit down and read the transcript because of the amount of material
felt
had missed.
The lecture was divided into three
primary sections. The first section covered language itself, while the second
and third covered the realtionship of
language to psychology and philoso-
phy.
One of the many things that interested me in Mr. Verdi's lecture was the
use of chess as an analogy to language.
1...10..n""'"'""}"" is the set of rules that we use
in order to play the game. Sure, the
rules can be changed, but it's no longer
or English) at that
as
the best way to learn what a checkmate
is to watch the whole game and not
just the end
the best way to learn
the
of a
is to see how
it's used in different ways. Mr. Verdi
said that Wittgenstein gave three different ways of understanding a word:
how its used, and how its
troduced to other people.
Mr. Verdi divided his discussion of
the relationship of language to
pyschology into two sections: thinking and imagination. The key to understanding the problem with thinking
seemed to be summed up quite well
by the question "What do we mean
when we say he/she/it is thinking?"
The way in which Mr. Verdi phrased
the question leads one to ponder the
growing world of Artificial Intelligence. Another thought-provoking
The
came in discusson of the work
of modern clinical research '-"-'-"".LA... ' h
with the brain and 1mLag:m<:tt1cJn.
existence of the scientific method
makes us think that we have the means
of solving our
though the
method and
pass each other
view that many of
our problems are based on our misunderstanding our language was easy to
see from the previous parts of the lecture. "When one uses a word. . . And
tries to grasp a
of the
one must ask oneself, is this how one
actually uses the word?" Not that one
should be afraid of the unusual. Mr.
Verdi used the joke that philosophy
comes in three steps: first you see the
common sense answer, then you become so engrossed in the
that
you can not support it anymore. And
finally you return to the common sense
answer.
1996
3
�lai:1us;ze·wsKl is ID Addictions Counseu,,,,,...,-i-.,.r1 to talk to him about his
to
my own pe1rsona1
ties. But then I"-"-•'-'-'"''""'
of us know about
is what we ve
seen him do in a green shirt on the basketball court or on the soccer and football fields. So,
like any
lic-servIDt type, I took up a
noitet)OC>l< and set out to find
or
felt that he was on his way to somewhere else.
he says, is the
first
where he has felt
In
1
reer choice.
._,.,__,"'._,_..L"-his success with some of the
treatment,
very
He
as the "most """"•rrAt-_
ten area on earth." He also sometimes
feels
not
able to
-no.n.-n110 who don t Wai:lt
in
what The
...__,J,.,_,_,i::..•.vJL• Post meant when
described the architect as .. ,~.~"··~
his
"to
" and to
stimulate a vivid conversation
all who enter." vjJCaJl'>..Ull'!;!
Somehow I don't envision someone
to the speaking
need some
to finish
this is one
the desired affects architect Travis Price was ,_.vu..u.•"'
"In true St.
Lt'.! ILU.C:U. the 1..V1.J.C: j::~t'.
/1
1
as
doesn't describe it that way. He says
that in
for others he may
be
more to his own need
thID the need of others to be
and I found out that
shares my
choice of this favorite drink.
BIG conversation!"?
so.
done
will confirm that this was indeed his aim. All
are a
of
and
some time kill. Take a friend to the
One person stands in the
s
tormE~ctme
also claims chocolate milk as his favorwho knew that
he acted on his desire to become more involved with the commuand
for the
Resi"the
which includes the
._.LU''-'"'·"·
Storage
In his
suffered one of the
dewhen all of a sudden there
was
on the
how many other""'"'"'"''"
but ext:rar)ol11tir1g
,_,._,,_,,_.,,_~,__,_,.c,
away from St.
- Favorite drink for both is
ChCKOJLate milk
- Both have near1v-1m1:>0E;suHeLu-;~uc:u last names.
- Both are tall.
- Both have
4
dream.
here?" I asked
The
in the ..,.,..,.~n-. . ,,,,.,..,
suggests that ChristiIDity is
force in
peooJles' lives. Machiavelli
tells us in his Discourses that
Matthew Passion .., ...u .. c .•,_uu
proves it The Books of Paul
The
in the Bible, IDd Aquinas' arguments
are so dead
that you have to
But Lo!
continued on page 12
5
�•
Jesse
thing has started to creak.
is
always
out my abundance of
gray hairs. This summer I
golf
on TV.
So recently, I decided to do something about it. I figured the best cure
for my new old-age blues was to spend
some time
about the days
of my youth. I
it
seems like an
ago, the days
when I was
bushy-tailed
freshman: full
full of
full of shit.
cal articles for the
to
this
It seems I had to find the Ultimate
I
about
choices, I saw a
and
about 50 like
a .......~_..~,...,..,
fore. But this time a ray of
came
out of the sky and shone on my
and I could hear
The
ing been raised Catholic in a very religiously conservative
my
gone
seven Sacraments (baptism, rec:oncili:ation, first
and confirmagone to a "--"· .... "-'. . .l'my
school for three years, and my keiep1ing
in constant contact with members
curia, may impede me from
"much about the Catholic
If there was any igr1oranc:e
Catholic
it is
ing statements made in the
article:
mass] is a sai:ru1ce
a celebration" and "the
evangelist who moves the co11greg1:1tioin
than a
who directs the
6
The
UU.UCL-'.\...•C>,
a.LJU'.l.'l.J.A.,
..
for those of you not
is a combination between
catch.
throw
a frisbee up a field until it reaches the
end zone,
it one of the least
ways to break a
.l.l.L:,1.1ccc,
never, ever been
This is because
mate Frisbee must be both geeks and
and thus a large
...,.v,, • .; ...
to
UL.l.l.L'Cl.<::i:>,
l.IVl-'U.LU.,LV.S.l
,...,-1
ing Plato. I
about ge1:tm,g
gether with other freshmen and talking about how cool it is to
be on
in my dorm room
I
about
but it
whom I know
man and an excelbetter than
90% of the
.,,... ... ,..,.h..,.hllu have seen
is on the
tea1ch:mg women
to juggle.
When I asked him about Ultimate
"Frisbee" becomes unnecessary
once you're in tight with the crowd) he
said
had
the
of
from Thursday to Friday because not
~--~--r~ "''"''"''"had been able to finish
their seminar readings. But as he told
me
I
a note of sadness in
his voice.
from the scores of
Ultimate sign-up
he was
.,..,..,.,~h·-. h 1u not
much success.
not to be
I went out
saw a scene which
scribed as
in any sense of the
word.
is
is a big head count.
But I knew this year
be differwere est)eciall
ent. The
besides, I needed to
The first step was to
man who had taken on the re~m<ms>ih"''"".,..,~ ....... ~this
Ultimate
Christ." On the
the mass is a
celeb1·ation; a celebration of the Eucharist and of the
furthermore, the
who
over the mass is
called the 'celebrant'. The second statement would be true of the average diocsince I
stated that
"In basketball-as in life-true
comes from
every moment, not
are going your
from Sacred HoopsJ by
Athlete of the Week
for the
women this week goes to freshman
..,.,.,,.,,.,.,,,... enthusiast Miss Elisabeth
In her first
momtie race this
Miss
tsa1tc.n,e1c1er rowed in the
room
of the winning boat. Not to mention
the fact that she
the
crab of the season so far and
earned the added distinction of
Crab.
Athlete of the
Week honors for
the men goes to
so-ohon101~e bonus
Mr.
Berkobein.
Berkobein is not
an active
member of the novice crew team, but
he is now also
'"'""' ...i·,,.,..1._ ..... ,~1.... ..--,.,, the
Guardians in football. Mr. Berkobein
has
the
Guardians to a
3-0
Mr.
formation of the St.
Road
Club. The road cycling
and
club is open to all
staff who want to
ride on the open
train for
race against other
dubs or individual
riders. Maybe you
and others want to
cross the United
States
bi-
you want an
exercise
that is both
kinder to your body and
mt:en~stiing than run-
....................... i;:.
in from cycling guru
Vice-President for Ad-
Books colleges,
is available,
a
which is how I
the two colin what way do they apleges;
proach the Great Books, one dogmatithe other in an open minded way.
The respondent too failed to underhow the analogy between the
Marine Corps and T.A.'s students
worked. I justly compared "educated
Catholics to Ma,rine Corps grunts" be.,
cause they
trained very well in ·
what
the former are experts at
ctii:;pi.1tat10n, the latter are experts at kill-
It must be conceded though, that I
failed to properly express what the priest
said
the
about ,,,.._..,... ._,,_._...,);:;
being a mortal sin. It is true that
ing per se is not a mortal
a venial
sin.
a sin that is venial
genus can become
if the one committing the sin "directs it to soime~tluing
that is mortal in its own genus; for example, a man direct an idle word to
the commission of
Thomas, Summa Theologica, i, Q. 88, art. 2,
repleo). Soin the example
during the homily, a venial
ing, turned to a mortal one, because he
argued that a venial sin would lead to a
sin that is mortal by genus, .,..,,..,.,..,,._,._,H
concupiscence. Also, I concede that I
mistakenly stated that there are sins
to my
superciliousness" for the sake "ingeniously" invoking some silly argument which I
For
instance, in the statement "men are encouraged to be men and women to be
women, the person who said it gave that
emphasis to her words; she did the same
every time she mentioned that
something was 'natural'. I think the resp,ornje11t gave me too much credit
making my statements "too so1)h1sticated in their glibness."
The
1996
You Make the Call: In Association
after
the
on
line. First one
to me with the
call goes to the bookstore on me.
The men's soccer
league is up for grabs
this year. The defendcham pions, the
Hustlers have been
defeated in their first
two outings in tough
battles, the first
against the Waves, and
the second against the
Druids. The Druids
won 1-0 on a
Mr. Carl Smith, with an assist by freshman Land Arnold.
The Waves footballer Mr. Parker is
some of the sweetest hands
this year.
K'UVCU intramuIn this past
ral
Miss
Glassman scored three goals, and Miss
Van Luchene added another. You can
see Glassman, Van Luchene and company in action
College this Saturday.
And don't forget the Hustlers and
Kuvm go up against the Alumni in next
weekend's H.c1mi~cc•m1ml:! u'"''""1e'""r1 soc-
my
shock about T.A. is
would dare to make the claim
that an objective
which exists, can
be found out; a truth which is not the
of one's
as the
respondent claims, but a positive claim
about truth itself. The best I can dare to
come to an "objective truth" is to make
statements about
such as,
truth is not this or that (cf.
Plato'sTheatetus for example). I am comunqualified to say what truth is,
and I think T.A. students are as well.
this is only my opinion and I,
by no means, expect for "Thommies" to
"go against their 'God-given' grain."
yours,
Very
Juan G. Villasenor
7
�. For those of you already considermg your
weekend
a revised version of How To Get There
From Here: A Guide To
You
To And From
On Your
Own" will be available from Switchboard this week. The
details car,
bus,
metro, and taxi
to
get to cities, train and bus stations, and
It will give you approximate
cost of travel as well as the time it will
take you to get you to any one where.
Please let me know if any of this information could be revised further:
transportaion costs, schedules, and
routes do change. I hope this
your
Names area
rn<Jtrr1ea. I have
my name. I can
still be contacted with "Valerie"
"Valerie Pawlewicz" or even "Ms~
Pawlewicz", ("Ms." is a flexible
deference to Mr. Pickens' informal
title as "Mr. P", I am more than pleased
to be called "Mrs. P". The only names
that sound funny to me are "Mrs.
Pickens" - which is Leo's mom - and
"Mrs. Pawlewicz" - which is my
father's mother. Quite honestly, I will
tum around if I hear any of the names
listed. I
some names over
others.
UPCOMING EVENTS
will
speak at
College Theater
Arts Bldg in Rockville, Md .. Call me for
the date.
Saturday, 9 /28, from 10 am - 2 pm,
Calvert Cliff State Park
we'll visit Miocene fossils at the Calvert
Marine Museum in """' 1 "'~~ .....?~~
land. Reserve a spot
Saturday, 9 /28,
lOam m1LaalrtE~rnoon, Maryland Avenue annual Fall sidewalk sale.
Tuesday, 10/1 at 7:30
Piercy will speak on
in
Female"at UMBC. Free. Call 410-45511
The present Chesapeake Bay is
the most recent in a series of bays that
was caused
the
Atlantic Ocean over many millions of
10 million years ago, this area
was covered by a warm, shallow
...v.,..., ....... sea. The name for this ge1010,12:ic
be~~nirllg: about 15
was
the Miocene ......... ,,11..._,,....
was a time of scallop, corals, porpc>siE~s.
sea turles,
and crustacean
and small. What is regarded
as may be the~-~ . . . ~·~· exrn:)se~d ae0<)s1t
of Miocene fossils in the world is
40 minutes south from us in Calvert
the area is called Calvert Cliffs.
11.iL.Lll..ll'--'-'-•
0Il IJ«~LU.Y."8.ll• !Se1J.'teIJl1.b(i=!J
10 am - 2 pm, come
of sharks teeth and ..........u.u.;:,.l.\.::i>,
swim at the local state
it is my understandcan carry home with
them surface fossil they find. If it
we'll visit Miocene fossils at the Calvert
Marine Museum in :::io1ornons.
land. Reserve your
Avenue will hold its
nual Fall sidewalk sale on ~atm:da1v
10am
an-
ego,
to seek fame for
truths. Hall's reaction? Nothsays,- "The man can't handle dealREAL lunatic.
Genius does not desire real
says,
He neither listens nor answers questions.
you are a real
immeencounter Mr. Hall on campus.
midaftemoon.
antiques, clothing, books and knick-knacks will line
the block from State Circle to Prince
Street.
Tickets are still available for two
events:
VI
2, and
and the Anna.polis Symphony
Orchestra's
Russian". The $18
VI
tickets are sold out, but $22 tickets remain. ASO tickets are only $10.
Several wellknown authors are
"''-''"-...'"'"I'"" in the DC/Baltimore area.
On October 1, at 7:30
Marge
Piercy will speak at UMBC. Her lecture
is entitled
in Female." It is
free to the
call 410-455-2001.
William Styron, author of Sophie's
Choice
can be heard
THIS week at 6 P.M. (I've lost
call me about this). He will
Mcmt:gorne1rv College Theater
Md .. And lastly,
E.L.
16 at 5:30
Doctorow - author of Ragtime, Loon
Welcome to Hard Timesand many
more can be heard at the
Smithsonian. His
entitled "The
Politics of God", is being given on the
third floor of the Smithsonian "castle".
It is free. Call
357-2403 for more
information.
item for the next meeting. The King
William Players request was not
heard as there was no one present to
represent
the request was registered as a discussion item for the
next
A committee was
formed to review the
charters
and make recommendations at the
next meeting.
At the time of the
no
pl.Oney had been received from the
Treasurer's Office.
Yours from the M:mttte·-Mai
Derek Alexander
Secretary of
The
2001.
Saturday,10/5. Annapolis Symphony Orchestra's "Mostly Russian".
Tickets are $10.
Sunday.10/6. Henry VI
2, and 3).
Tickets are $22.
Wednesday, 10 /16 at 5:30 P.M., E.L.
Doctorow will speak on "The Politics
of God" at the Smithsonian "castle".
Free. Call (202) 357-2403.
9
�we edited Mr. Kosens' arand omitted a
stance, the student he cites was confused
about the two autnc>ntLes.
that
is crucial to his
to Mr. Kosens for
and we are
..,.,..,..,,,f
rr the .,,,,.,.,,,.,,.,..,..,,,.,,,i... as Mr. Kosens
wrote it.
-Eds.
nrt-r1Htt0>'1f
•
1 ....
in an
to
rerHa<:e old rumors with new ones.
I first heard of the Santa Fe Seducand Corrupters scandal the night
our own S&C. As I got it, the new
Fe dean was up in arms because
heard that students had sex on the
floor and that Freshmen said they
the
sexual
of the event... So a rumor about
which I now
on to
ary infractions and incidents of
struction of
at the '-"-'u.c::i::;.<::
stem from alcohol abuse. Less
urLdE~rgrai:1uate students are old
Mr. Villasenor cites one student who
derisively of the views of
Descartes,
and Kant because
ant1thE~ticalto
This
teachthen Mr. Villasenor's horrification
over her statement,·
as it does
however, the student was
with the
view of Descartes or Newton on some
..........._,,_,_,"'"'""'".,_or moral
a fortiori
rei::~an1m.12: a fundamental tenent of
Lathc>lictaith then it would not heve
di~;armronriatf' for a student
your
Please send us your unccOmJJlic:abed,
not ..... ~,~H•~·
submissions
sidered-send as many as
Deadline
submissions is ::>eiote~msend to Carole Clark in the
Business ..._,,_.__L._.._,c.
and anti-intellectual strain
of education that is anathema to St
._v,uL:i::.'-· But upon a closer readit is noted that the statement decontext; the latter is
an accurate response insofar as the statement is in the context of an intellectual
not if it is in the context of a
article between the absolute.-'"''""'"~~~~
and moral
of the Church and
Her limited intellectual ...............J.Lu.v.
tinction perh.:ips ,,,,.,,..~~,,..
talist Christian \..vLu:::;i;;.<::u,
1ll11senor, ttovll"e\rer. does not articuthis vital distinction-he takes the
1
We1d.ne~sdc=ty, at 8 PM in the
gym,
ge11era1 interest meetrhrin ""'",,.,.,{"' meditations.
We
a workable schedule. Come to find out more, or ask
sica M'or~~e111st•:?rn
rumor and re1Jrc1cu.ss1.on
the deans do.
or 1">H~1:::1..1u1.t:
scenities at sec:ur·1tv .-......,,..,,,. ..."
chairs off
bottles
In
h·
you think that you are
with these po111c1es
draw now.
,..,..,............. i u
cannot allow
infractions of
state and local law to go unaddn~ssed.
If we have reason to suso1 ct
e
is more
says the same
"If you aren't old
enough we will bust you." The severity of the
has increased
..... ,,,. ~·'"' students .."''"~ ..
kicked out are under reconsideration
by administration at the time of this
release.
vandalism is a real
campus less able to
itself as we are ours.
What I mean by a campus less able
to
itself is this. We cannot even
gossip about each other without the
rest of the campus
it all.
In Santa
say
talk less and
are
more forgiving of
'quirks.' And the campus is less centrally
which affords more
President
Dean
this is news to
some. Santa Fe students are displeased
the lack of respect for common
rec:entlV left such state that
ho1usek~2er)mg refused to enter the next
suggestive posters often
do not convey their humorous intent
to freshman. Even when freshmen get
the questionable humor, local papers ·
may not.
Some rumors to clear up: No, no one
sex on the dance floor. (Yes1
S&C
on page 11
us in line. For m~;tance ...... '"'"'~'~
ge1ttmlg kissey at the
were
and danced into
site sides of the dance floor
m~~arun_g friends. When the cage of
nolf'-cim1cf'r~ was rolled into our
another coterie of abashed ur:>DE~rcJlass
men
it and obscured its
view from the eyes of others. So even
those who don't mind a little exhibitionism get the censor one way or another. And anyone who missed the
flaming chicken descend from third
about it the next day. In
I mean to
moral su""'"' .., ,..,...,+..,in
We know each
other too well for that claim.
The
1996
quence.
say so with a
voice.
sure does: "The dance floor
You
is sacred. You don't drink on
don't smoke on it. You DON'T
the rule.
cate on it That's
1996
�Founded in
Editors-in-Chief: Jennifer Coonce
Deirdre O'Shea
Editor: Nelson Hernandez Jr.
Photo1gr<1Pi1LV Editor:
K. Lynch
Lyons
Jesse
Production Staff: Annemarie Catania, Bob Dickson, Lizzie
Ian Kelley, Erika Nesse, Juan Villasenor
Photos: Mary
the St. John's
information, call 263-2371,
ext. 320.
Print Shop
5
than anything
in the auic:J::;"i""" ...
of
,;;,;::J;::J
Glassman, senior.
"What new
thetic disaster
room, the obvious ,,......,,,;re,,....,.
(some of which have
to
inherent in the
shelves, among other
simply want to illustrate what a
weirdo this Travis Price guy sounds
like.
It should be noted that '""""'' ..... ""' .........
on the library are varied. Here are a
few of them:
"That
window in the basement
is
"Mike
. . . "'"'''"''' . . . . ..,.,, and "sublate" casual con~~-~-~.~~ not to like Pearl
the words
�
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<em>The Gadfly</em>
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Founded in 1980, <em>The </em><em>Gadfly</em> is a weekly student publication distributed to over 600 students, faculty, and staff of the Annapolis campus.<br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="The Gadfly" href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=16&sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&sort_dir=d">Items in the <em>The Gadfly</em> Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.
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Coonce, Jennifer (Editor-in-Chief)
O'Shea, Deidre (Editor-in-Chief)
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The Gadfly, Vol XVIII Issue 3
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1996-09-24
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Volume XVIII, Issue 3 of The Gadfly. Published September 24, 1996.
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Vol. 18 #3
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Text
�that the remainder of the letters
and articles cannot be readily concentrated on.
occur when the
jolting is justified
the merit of the
letter or article it accompanies.
Mr.
notion that the previous haiku is not sufficiently or appropriately vulgar is not without some
small interest. And yet it is neither of
importance to the campus nor of much
value as
criticism. The Gadfly
should reserve its perogative to print
something so disconcerting and unpleasant for important occasions. Otherwise the Gadfly will find itself in a
like that of the constant curser:
unable to find strong language for
strong occasions, having weakened the
strong speech
constant wear.
I, and surely a few others, would like the
to be reluctant to
so
lest
some of us become reluctant to read the
Gadfly at all.
...... u ..nu•J.;:>, it was good of you to
this question to the community, so in
gratitude, I am
From the Editors' desk:
Warm thanks to all of this
contributers for their seriousness and,
in some cases, their irreverance.
There are a few things that we need
from all the people who submit articles
to The Gadfly.
--Turn your article in on a disk,
typed on a Macintosh, in RTF format.
Ask us for a disk or for time on one of
our machines if you need to.
-- Write your name, phone """""'"'n·
and the name of your article on the
disk.
-- Turn in a hard copy of your article
in case so-me·trnme goes wrong
with the disk.
-- Expect that we will edit your article without
you about
changes. We do not have time to call
every author before ...___.,, •. _. ....
welcome to come in on
to see
changes we make to your article.
-- Write well
means
and
and check your
grammar. This will reduce our urge to Sincerely,
edit.
Derek Alex<mcle:r, '99
-- If you don't want your article edturn it in as a letter. In that case,
your letter will have a better chance of
being
if it is 200 words or less. Dear Editors:
on Fri--The deadline is
This letter is a response to the sensePlease
this.
less, disgusting poem you vuLLHJl;:>1.1.t::u
- all in the SU'DDCJSe·d
defense of the tender sensibilities of his
hamlet. As Conrad wrote: "You shall
judge of a man by his foes as well as
by his friends," I should be embarrassed to merit such a ~L·~A>-~L··"'
Rather than offer that opportunity with
a vulgar poem, I make my verse frivolous. I'd rather be challenged to see
who can be more silly than more sick;
our community could stand more levbetter than it could more perverbut pertinent
decline stupid
and advance
own
pledge to the community: I vow not
to
a poem in the
every week.
Haiku c01noosE~d in the space of four
paces.
Any hack
Can write a tasteless Haiku
And publish see?
Haakon L. Maxwell
P.S. Let me be .,.., ...".,...'"'"". I decline all
break anyone.
1
More
has Mr.
at a haiku affected my
seJnSilbiLities, but more
it
has completely
forms of sensible intuition, .,.,..,.....,.,._,TT
intuitions of space and time. As a reall objects of possible experience
are non-existent for me, my pure concepts of my understanding are useless,
and my schemata cannot seem to
I am left with one last resource, which
is to find within me the possibility of
intellectual intuition, so that I may be
active in the realm of ideas for ever and
ever. If this fails, I will sue.
L ' - A H , _ , .• .._
for all of your conThank you
this year's
tributions, and for
Gadfly a success.
Yours,
Deirdre O'Shea
<;:uni.Lei Coonce
Co-editors
To the Editors:
Last week you asked how the community felt about the
of exma terial like Mr.
Haiku.
Here are my two cents worth:
2
T11e
I commy own Haiku in the time it took
me to walk four paces. I intended to
submit it to the Gadfly in
to the
aformentioned poem, but
that a profane poem would only ofI sanitized it. I offer it below in a
PMRC safe version.
real concern however, was the
possibility that I might prompt one of
our
Knight-poets (What's
with all the anachronism around here,
to throw down his
gmmtlet ... iriom on high," challenging
me to duel him in a machismo-inspired
and demented contest of "watch-me-
October 1, 1996
r\O>'l"'i,DU11rl<7
that the way in which I could best assist him would be to phone The Capitol
Dear Editors:
and call attention to his struggle. So, I
I am a
I've been one for
i'-1-,.ucu that
had been "sent" to warn
so long that when I saw Ol'Papa
him that he "was heading down the
eyes dripping from
way of the Seven Headed Beast" and
at me
that his ego would devour his soul if
from behind my own words as uuvLc-:u
he continued to put public recognition
in Ms. Catania's article last week, it
in front of his message. In response, he
didn't surprise me very much. There
first pointed out that my statement was
were my words, "He couldn't handle
a fear from my own mind and, as such,
dealing with a REAL lunatic." I'm sure
had my own soul as its object and then
that I said them. I was probably chuckbegan spewing out seemingly unreling pretentiously to
I did.
lated quotations from Marx, Lincoln,
there is a benefit in
and Gandhi. He
self-acknowledged hypocrite;
ended by explaining the that the only
~'~-·~··~·.-. to the introspective marshthat can recognize genius is anmallow roast we all need to have once
other genius, and giving accounts of
in a while. Ms.
myself, and the
the several schools of which he's been
of the St. John's co1nn1ur1itv
kicked off. Sounds like a nutba12:,
whose opinions I have heard have beFunny. He was right.
haved improperly to Thomas, The Man
I haven't mentioned my opinion
Would Call Himself Genius. Thus
of Thomas. I believe him to be an exThe two most common ,..,..,..,,,,...., ~~·n
ternal, physical manifestation of my
........n,..._.._ .... .,,.. ,!"-. TMWWCHG are;
own deluded mind that was created by
He is a real"'"'''''-'·...,
my soul so that my mind would be able
we should be h~l-~r,;~~ '::11!-!-,-,•..-.f-nrr.hr\
to confront its illness. Before anyone
2. "He's a .uuLu.1•"'"'-•
redecorates my room with padding,
the guy has got a
allow me to
For as long as I
make him f***ing Yoda"
to
can
I have had a serious
Brad Pitt for the previous tidbit of esoChrist complex. The most dangerous
~~ pro~
The
of the delusion involves its valiwith the latter hypothesis, by
dation to the Self. The argument, at
far the most commonly
is that if
least for me/ goes something like this;
it were true, we would have been com1. Truth is never recognized by the
a gross
in our dealings
'masses" closest to it. 2. If one is
with him. If the man was a
the
scorned and ridiculed
the masses,
proper response should have been
it must validate one's belief as truth. 3.
and
not ridithe masses will recognize
ridicule is just what Ms.
one's brilliance and one will be lauded
less
as Savior.
humorous and less than subtle innuThis delusion leads the deluded to
endo. He's a lunatic? Is it not more
persecute himself in order to feel actwisted to
kick the menceptable, and I had it bad. So, my soul
are down?
invented Thomas in order to force me
I initially approached
to confront my problem. He stuck
because the functionally
around just long
for me to exinsane have always fascinated me. I
my problem to myself (through
--·~, .... ,~.. ··that
some delusional
and then .... Poof, Particular
repartee
entertain me. Upon my
Samsara complete, One less of the Ten
approach, Thomas informed that he
Thousand Things to deal with, and
was a Genius who could assist me
another point for the Big Guy. I feel
causing me to confront my problems.
better about my delusion and am closer
He
that as he had no
to solving it than I previously ever have
~e could never directly answer quesbeen. I speak as one to whom Thomas
tions I
pose to
but that if I
delivered what he promised.
g~ve him a piece of my
his geI would like to apologize to the
mus would provide the insight necesentire community for any inconvesary to solve my problems. He told me
att1~m1ot
Very
yours,
G. Villasenor
The
nience my deluded ego
have
given you while it took on human
form. As for hypocrisy, I can only hope
th~t my own will clear up in the dry,
wmter months ahead, but if you should
see any other external,
manifestations of my character flaws, please
go easy on them because, as Mr.
Polgreen informed me last year, 'Tm
sensitive."
Stanley Speaks
To the illustrious
in the preceding
of a poem, similar in
form to an Haiku, who intends to
"break me" by means of the aforementioned poem and who oh1v11n.1 ..,h,
never showered in
Greetings.
Despite your aggravated personal
attack on
and my work, I, out
of a feeling of magnanimity and brothlove, have resolved not to belittle
your person or your creative endeavor
but instead to provide you with the
guidance necessary to bring your ideas
and your writing skills to their fruition.
Thus, in the true St. John's spirit of
piety and charity, I, after a close inspection and analysis of your poem, have
rewritten it in a manner which I believe
improves greatly upon the original
idea.
Reek
The crisp pop of flesh
As Warren's fingers
meat.
Digestion now asunder.
Form of The Haiku
Haiku starts with five,
Then seven in the middle;
Five syllables last.
Hai Ku-Ku-Katchu
Shriek
Sophomoric Gimp
Writing about his sister
Calling it Haiku
The Hai-Kubla Khan
October 1, 1996
3
�22-24. This is somehow signifiIn
means "corpse"; in
means the dead
the
souls in Hades." The dead person is
almost
referred to by name, by
.._, __ J,,J.vo, or by nekus.
With only two
to my knowledge, the expression "corpse of so-and-so" does
not occur in Horner. The corpse is the
person. Instead, we find the soul of
so-and-so". Note, similarly, that in the
fourth line of the poem, the heroes
themselves
are said to lie on
the
while their souls are sent
down to Hades.
The exceptions to this usage are interesting:
occur at 17.240 and
24.108; 17.240, in particular, represents
an extraordinary situation. It might
serve the
at this
to consider the corpse in question a mere
corpse, and not as the person himself.
Note also the
Pxr1rf'~~s1cm at Od. 11.37, 541, and 564:
/1
1 don't \'\'ant to be
The
says I'm a senior, but in no way do I want to sound as if I speak on the
behalf of the rest of the seniors. I am
of
the senior class; think of a
of about 80 stars,
that one of them, at
is blue. That would be me.
Hrn ... that was a weird way of making a point. I know
what it is-I mean, I opine it to be due to my nostalgia for
Ptolemy; ah yes, good ol' sophomore year, when there was a
God above who loved us, the glory of the Greeks fresh in our
and we weren't freshmen anymore. That was the time
when I still did my homework, too. Look at me now-spending my time writing some
article for the Gadfly when
I could be
over Hegel. I'm a senior-a proud, strong
Senior nourished at St.
College,
supposed to be at ease, have
to fear (except maybe my
Essay) but
the dis-ease, then,
the long nights of oneeyed
I can feel the same
Year
f"t>Dllr'IO" of F,'-Ll'-.U.U.
'-HAOO'-Oi
very
and sure,
but hmrn ... at one point I even
became a little
and came down with a 'stupid
person's cold' (as
call it over
for getting a cold in
the summertime instead of
So I took a day off work
is
pas over
such an 'American'
to
and went to visit one of the Buddhist temples up in the
mountains to
some
into my life. I also like chantwith the monks when have a
since my voice has
that extra timbre.
there was a small crowd of
at each of the
doors to the
gazing at Buddha's visage. After
a while of
the
and statues, the incense started to get to me, and
I sneezed. The
is, it was
one of those sneezes that come
so
so suddenly and so
insidiously that you have no
time to
to aim
or grab a handkerchief.
had enough time to decide
that I didn't want to sneeze on
the back of the poor old grandmother who was praying so
earnestly about the
of
is What
All Korean Grandmothers
so I turned around
and ended up sneezing on a hand
a very thick book.
eye zoomed in on the title: Kukkaron. My god, it was
Plato. Tlze Republic, and other
in Korean. It wasn't
that there was Plato in Korea that was so shocking, but that
normal people
read
and carry him
around in public. I could tell
the
that it
was one of those
sold
presses at half the J.L>o:ct.a•.......
4
The
October , 1996
How glamourous.
So I looked up, and he looked at me dangerously. A look
that said, You spread your miasmic effluvia all over my Plato.
Needless to say, I was immediately, rapturously in love.
He had an ascetic virility about
a Marine corps crew cut
and a bearing to match. I began to make apologies as profuse
as my sneeze, oh dear oh my I am so sorry omigosh espefor sneezing on one of the greats! one of the ancients!
Plato! What can I do, can I buy another copy for you?
That's alright, he intoned-it's just a book. Yes, yes, I
thought, he's not one of those
who worship relics, yes,
yes, he understands, the cover don't matter, he's not one of
those superstitious people that Spinoza ranted about, yeah,
he's one of us.
I lead him over to the
on the pretext of washing my handkerchief to better dean his book and
and
conversed with him
in that feminine
and
it got to the
where he asked me whether I would not
mind
some cool tea with him? It was such a hot day.
Yes, I am
and tired too, let us go.
To make a long story
it was in the tea-room I found
out, in trying to get him to talk
that the book-to my
chagrin-was his uncle's, whom he considered rather foolish
to be studying such
when he had a
to take care
of. I agreed. We
finished our tea, talked about
America and ancestors, then went our
ways.
Wasn't that ridiculous? I mean, for Pete's sake. I'm not
that attached to this place, am I? Sometime
my St.
career,
Plato became sexy for me. Go
on a second-level
it all makes sensethe man had
that I didn't have and wanted;
hence ...but
doesn't make sense here.
Plato fetish I take to be my
to be back here, to
our
school, in the States, lovin'
wisdom and talkin' wisdom and
all that sweet stuff. Yet-I'mhere,
I'm out, I'm in the open, on liberal
free and in the
land of the free-so why this dull
attitude?
should go join
Jesse Berney for some Ultimate
Frisbee. I even have, in the Gadfly,
this unique privilege of complaining in public each week,
should I need to
any kind of discomfort.
though, in writing this paragraph, another pocket of time,
gone forever...
Senior Year, I think, more than any other year, is full of
pathos and dread. Freshmen Year, is full of underlying tension, of course, but it's cute and nowhere near the tragic scale
of the fear of the Senior Essay, Oral, and Life After Graduation. Sophomore Year, you have absolutely nothing to worry
about, so the administration injects small doses of stress
PATHOS continued on page 5
accents and
age is very
is used
four times
my count of human beand then either i) by
about
their bodies above [Od.l.53,
or
prospectively
worried
about the fate of his own corpse should
he die in the upcoming combat. The
one exception to this pattern is at
where it
to a pluralof human
not seen, I
from the
of a soul.
2) vt:Kpoo: used
means" dead, dead
with the person when
dead: e.g., once he is
is
c,..,,v-c.n of as o vt:Kpoo.
/1
U.!./!./<..U.'-.1.LU
VEKlJLllV
This must mean something like 'the
*Certain
improve by repetition.
*Certain topics certainly don't.
*Life's too short to read textbooks
Gerberized Great Book).
*Life's too short to read Great Books
obscure, culturover everyone
since the Seniors
count because
over the hill
out, and have to worry
suckers. So what
have learned on this
bucolic campus, this Great Books ~e<...,i•A,,,
U.S.A.?
that expresses
itself in obscure words and ideas.
*Not to judge a book by the race or gender or meta physical status of the author.
*That all have fallen short of the glory
of the u-,~~~·..,,.,,...
*To show someone that
in class is not a
ego !..'ClLH1c.1..
*Dean Brann gives new meaning to
alma mater.
*The Program is not supposed to be one
academic tribunat but something
I'm not sure what yet.
~1/\k>+-~h,,..,,..,. the unimportant happen is
the most educational thing
one could ever do.
*What a petri dish of psychoses this
place could be.
At this point I would like to apolomotions of this,
for the
mv article; I was once scolded by the
D~an in Greek and Latin in a letter for
being too rhetorically minded, so now I
avoid rhetoric like I do over-perfumed
Things are a little maudlin for
me now; I think I'm being over-cautious.
and act irriI go about my business,
tatingly cheerful at times, play soccer,
but beneath it all is this proud, inhibiting desire to leave this place with no regrets, no bad after-taste. I wouldn't
The
souls of the dead above', or, perhaps,
'of the corpses who have died.' Line
26 of our play echoes this expression,
but that does not remove its ...... ~..,.,.._,..,..._
ness-in either text. Also note the
Homeric origin of 29, Antigone's statement of Creon's prohibition: a'"AJ...a i;1.,
µm i:aui:a qn'"Aoo OLEAE)(a'to
KH'tat nap vioo1., VEKuo aK'°Aaui:oo
aearn:oo
[Il.22.386
This is spoken by Achilles about
Patrodus. This echo of Homer is not
really a surprise in the context of the
version of Il.1.5 that
OLWVOLO yAUKUV 86-aupov ... npoa
xaplv ~opao represents. It is unclear
on the whole whether
is folL~·~ Homeric usage in the way that
she speaks about her
the
corpse.
HJ ••
esp.
II. some
in Athens
a) burial is
for
heroes, but within the precinct of the
ANTIGONE continued on page 7
worry about this if I understood my demons, the ones causing these
inhibitions that can strangle words and
teE~ln1gs before
even surface; but I
worry, because I know those demons are
I remain unenlightened because
they have not surfaced and shown themselves yet.
If
I was creative
to think
up of some rakish alternative to beat the
1nc•u•t·::ih1111-u of
to transcend these
senior year blues; but no, instead, the
motivation goes out of me, I lie down
and select a big piece of sky and stare at
it, or stand stock still in a semi-fit of abstraction, half
to be a
of Stonehenge. How
like a
exhilaratingly illogical. This will probsound even
but I've been
thinking about the afterlife, and you
know, come to think of
Johnnies
are
wholesome. At most we'll
each of us spend a couple of days in hell
for all the sins we've ever committed.
And it would probably even be a good
experience, good for character and all
ain't too decadent.
that. Yeah, this
But it's charming all the same.
5
�Pawlewicz,
(x254)
lis
Symphony Orchestra tickets are sold out for
Saturday's performance, but there still
are a few tickets available for the
Shakespeare Theatre's Henry VI (parts
1, 2, & 3) this Sunday, October 6, 1996.
It's a 7:30 performance; the van leaves
at 6:15pm from Chase Stone parking
lot. Tickets are $22.
Cheer on skipjack races, slurp down
fresh oyster, and listen to bay stories at
theannualcnles1aoE~a~:e
Days,
and Sunday, October
4 and 5, 1996 at Sandy Point State park.
The Park, located near the foot of the
Chesapeake
bridge, will be bustling with boat handling demonstraskipjack cruises,
food, lecturers, singers, humorists,
book and
stalls, an oyster shucking contest, and a soup cookoff this
weekend. Admission is $5.00. Hours
are lOam to Spm. Parking is free.
The storage sale two weeks ago
went well. Part of the money raised
went to Student Activities to
ticket costs and
pay for the two
major
I sponsor. In addition the
SPCA and the Lutheran Mission thank
St.
leftover sheets, towels, and blankets.
The mission will use the bed linens at
their unwed mother's
the
SPCA will use the towels to dean the
dogs.
There will be
weekend
shuttles to Baltimore-Washington International
and train
station. On Friday, October 11, the van
will leave Chase Stone parking lot at
Sam, 12pm, and 4pm. Call to reserve
your spot, ext. 254. Call me if you
would like the schedule a
on
October 13. The van will pick up students at from baggage claim 1.
Anne Arundel '-'-'AA''·'''-'-'
invites St. John's Students to attend
6
The
their Reggae
featuring Mama
Friday, October 11, from
in the AACC
It's free.
AACC is
about 3 miles from campus, over the Severn River Bridge, on
Route 2/Govenor Ritchie Highway.
For any students in town over long
weekend but who would like to be
somewhere else for a day, the polity
van will drive students to DC on SatOctober 12. In addition to hanging out at the museums, consider witnessing the AIDS NAMES Project45,000 quilt panels will cover the entire National Mall. Van leaves Chase
Stone parking lot at lOam, returning
at 4pm. Call to reserve a spot, ext. 254.
Call for any questions about the
NAMES Project.
Upcoming Events:
Saturday, 10/05
Annapolis
Symphony
Orchestra's "Mostly Russian".
Maryland Hall for the Creative Arts.
Spm performance; van leaves Chase
Stone parking lot at 7:40pm. Tickets
are
Sunday, 10 I 06
Lansburgh Theatre, Washington,
DC. 7:30pm performance; van
leaves from Chase-Stone parking lot
at 6:15pm. Tickets are $22.
Friday, 10/11
Long Weekend BWI Shuttle. Van
leaves Chase Stone parking lot at
and
Call ext. 254.
Friday, 10/11
Anne Arundel Community
College's Reggae Festival. Mama
performs in the AACC Quad
at 7:30pm. Free.
Saturday, 10/12
~=:..=~ Van leaves Chase Stone
parking lot at lOam, returning at
4pm. Call to reserve your spot, ext.
254.
10/13
Long Weekend BWI Pickup. Van
picks up students at BWI' baggage
claim 1. Call to arrange, ext. 254.
October 1, 1996
a.d.
Derek
A99
Already, the Political Forum has welcomed Prof. Jean Bethke Elshtain to the
campus, for a successful and informative Political Forum. This is only the
beginning of an exciting election-time
schedule.
Today, Tuesday, October 1, the forum
welcomes Admiral Long, former Commander in Chief of the Pacific Forces to
speak on Military Politics at 8:30 in the
Conversation Room. Please come; forums are
opportunities to see
many of the ideas found in Seminar play
themselves out in the
This
and the
two
Wednesdays are the days for the three
Presidential Debates. Join other students
and tutors in an relaxed setting to watch
the debates, enjoy great refreshments,
and benefit from informal conversation.
The debates start at 9:00pm, but we'll
look forward to having each of you beginning at 8:45 in the Conversation
Room. What better way to watch these
exciting venues of election rhetoric?
On Tuesday, October 22, at 8:00pm,
in the Conversation Room, the Political
Forum will welcome former Dean
Slakey as he discusses his year in Prague.
More events are being scheduled
even now. If you have someone you
would like to come speak with us, or
someone you could invite
please let me, Derek Alexander, know.
Just as important, if you have any suggestions, ideas, or comments contact me.
On the other
if you would like
to play a consistent role in the Political
Forum, guide its activities, and elect its
archon at the end of the semester, then
the Political Forum Council. To do
so, you need only express your desire to
be on the Council to me in writing. I
hope to see each of you at some forum
event this semester. Each of you funds
the Political Forum with your activity
fees, and each of you has the opportunity to make the most of the Political
•onLJm-1ust by
up.
I . f 11'11.Hf.l/f.rKA
or town.
moral and
his friends. 'Muscular Chrisis Christianity applied to
treatment and use of our
bodies,' insisted an American admirer of Tom Brown. 'It is an
enforcement of the laws
by the solemn sanctions of the
New Testament. m
from James Naismith,
Gentle readers, how is it that we've
had no winners for the You Make the
Call, the most important part of my
weekly column, for the past two
weeks? Certainly a $5.00 gift certificate to the bookstore is well worth taka shot, no matter how wide of the
mark. So, here we go again. You make
the call: In association
a
kick is taken and the player who has
kicked the ball touches it again before
it has left the
area.
The women's dub soccer team, the
Kufo KtovtjJm were narrowly defeated
the women from Washington Colthis past weekend, 3-2. Nearly
15% of the women at the College were
out to
The Kuvai do not sub one
or two at a
but in huge packs. The
women are to be commended for their
'"'"'!H"""''"'"' and generousity with each
other. At other
teams
have to win; here, the women have a
much more difficult task:
must
to win and make sure that everyone gets their fair share of playing time.
Mr.
who coached the team
did such a fine job that he receives
Athlete of the Week honors.
Many of the Kuvai played well. In
Miss Deutsch had a great
game, and Miss Levy made a nice debut in goal. Miss Choi was responsible
for one goal, and Miss Glassman scored
the other with a beautiful assist from
Miss Van Luchene.
Miss Monberg and Miss Van
Luchene were named co-MVPs, and
also Athletes of the Week.
on page 7
Sometimes the astu
b) all dead, even unknown foreigners, must be buried (scholium to
Ant. 255).
c) the return of war dead is regarded as universal law
4.97-
99); refusal of opportunity for burial
is called "impious".
d) scapegoats and traitors are
The ::;part.ans defeated the Guardians in an exciting football match last
Wednesday to tie them for the overall
lead in the football standings. Mr.
Millikin, Kashiwa, Bilik, Leslie,
Hendrix, Cohen, and Dempsey, all
played well in their winning effort. Mr.
and
played well for the Guardians. And
what about the G.I. Mr. Kosens? Does
this guy have a set of wheels, or what?
Anyone who runs Mr. Leslie down
from behind has got to be fast.
sometimes chased into the sea or off
The Guardians are
out to
be the Cinderella team in our soccer
league. TheydefeatedtheHustlerslast
weekned 3-2. Great play was shown
by Mssrs. Linton, Potter, Smoll, Israel,
Johnson, Temple, and Pursely, and
Swann, and Misses Monberg and Levy.
The Guardians
great team ball,
and Linton and Smoll finish well.
prevented by civic forces (similarly
the punishment that Antigone attributes to Creon
within the"''"'"--"',,
The Druids
the poor
5-1 in the nightcap of last
Sunday's soccer doubleheader. Especially noteworthy was the play of
Dominque Crapuchettes, who scored
twice, and the solid defense of Mr.
Jumonville, who also does a superb job
directing the team from the back line.
sheer cliffs so that 1) burial is impossible, but 2) no corpse is ex1Do~'ea
in or near the city.
e)
the
robbers and traitors to
are forbidden burial within
the city, and even within all Attica
(Xen. 1.7.22; Thuc. 1.138.6, 1.126.12).
Extraterritorial burial is not forbidden, nor are the corpses exposed,
maimed or destroyed.
No one is ever, it seems to me, simply forbidden burial; no burial is ever
able).
On the other hand: Rehm in Marto Death (p.181, n.9; Princeton
1994) reports a yhfisma (decree of the
in
demned a man to death without
burial" (citing no ancient source but
a contemporary book not in our collection, La mort, les morts dans les
societes anciennes ). I do not believe
that the city would have prevented
his extraterritorial internment; if it
did, it would have violated its own
It's great to see Matt Freitas out of
the goalie mouth and running the field.
What a sweet set of feet the Wave coGrinch has. And what a nice goal Mr.
Joe "Surf's Up" Manheim scored.
The
claims, as reported in Thucydides.
In addition to Rehm, Parker, Miasma (Oxford: 1983) is a
source.
7
�social gatherings, which foster public spirit. What will happen now js that in SF (already a less unified campus) people
will no longer meet together in large social groups but will
cligue-ishly meet in dorm rooms to chug a bottle of bourbon.
Neilher healthy nor social. Now if, hypothetically, the small
group of immature idiots who have been responsible for most
of the vandalism (which this alcohol policy aims to remedy)
were to meet in someone's room for nice social jug of Jack
Daniels, do we really believe that they would not, then, go
out. and smash shit up? They had no qualms about
vandalising before, and it was never acceptable according to
school policy, so
should
stop such activity now?
So, in fact, this new alcohol policy will neither stem the flow
of disrespectful behavior nor will it foster what's really needed:
community spirit.
Individuality is all very well, but one has to find a balance
between social unity and isolation. You see, in a relatively
Now, the response of the administration was not to ad- united community, one would be more easily redressed for
dress what we see as the cause of the
namely a lack one's lack of sensitivity. If someone lacks the self-restraint to
of community sense, but instead to attack the drinking of al- act reasonably here, people would remind the person that he
cohol. We say
we appreciate that alcohol may contrib- was out of line. In SF, the illusion is that everyone is less acute to this
as does the use of drugs (another fac- countable to the community, and members thereof, because
The truth is,
that
some see as not dealt
as
as necessary on the everyone is more
Johnny Santa Fe is just as accountable as Johnny Annapolis.
SF campus) but that's a subject for an
diferrent aras outlined in the letter sent to all the It's the social code: accountability and respect.
ticle. The new
So, to summarize. What is needed is not an attack on alcostudents at SF
in last week's
hol consumption per se, but an attack on irresponsible alcohol
u-...,_,A,L'A' may [only] be consumed at
hosted by
most importantly, on irresponsibility in
consumption,
Lu1..1.ci::~c itself (e.g. Senior dinner at the president's house) .
general. What is needed is reinforcement of the notion that
students of legal age, in small
we are all accountable and
and should therefore act
~!athE~flill::!:S in dormitory rooms," rn.:>ror"; ottar'+ni·ohi r.11ch,1nn
in a
sensitive and
way. The only effecthe use (and abuse) of alcohol undei~gr<)Uild
tive way to sort things out is to have a
concensus
be
at all. The letter ends thus:
that to ammeliorate the community spirit would be a good
you are unable to comply with these po.L1rn2s
thing. Peer pressure works both ways.
now." These
mean business in a
We submit that what is needed is an ern:ottra:gerne11t
in
it seems that
tor. What is to blame is the
face
our sister campus in Santa Fe. The facts set
true and where
are
are, to the best of our
based on hearsay we have taken
that out. The
aim of this article is not to be
but precisely the
question of sorts that will
opposite. We see it as an
lead to a
and constructive intra- and inter- campus
discussion about Santa
and the nature of community in
The goings on in Santa Fe came to a head last week when
the administration sent a letter to the entire Student body
ouunung the new Alcohol
in last week's
Gadfly). The stated reasons for the ctr rirront
..... •~....... ,~,., here.
S& C
Fe's Seducers and
was said to be
racy this year. In a letter to The Moon
campus patutor David Starr wrote: "before the end of the
J;:.C:.llC:JLU.L
11
well as coition.
It is no
of this sort was .un.u.iL..1.ucn.u•J;:.
wE~lcc>m1ng to freshmen.
of the year.
are the freshmen's first
the home of
discourse? As David Starr says in his letter to The
Moon: "We cannot afford treat each other this way; wona.1.1..•a1Ju: students we have lost in silent pro__,:~.~-~,., an instituas Mr. Starr
St
eral uneasiness about the S & C
sparked more specific
'"' ......... u. .. L._, regarding the overtly male-orientated nature of the
aim of the party. The lack of naked
of men was exolalmE~d in the
way: When the S & C
guy
went to
the magazines for his posters he felt as if the store
clerk would raise an
or two if he
up Playgirl
as well as Playboy, so he
picked up copies of the latter
kind. You can imagine him waddling out of the store weighed
a stack of copies
etc.; happy that he hadn't
raised any eyebrows!
The other main reason for the new rules is the
widespread vandalism that seems to be
the campus.
from chairs to vv1.uc:a, off the balconies, seems to be a common occurrence in Santa Fe. There
have been occurrences of garbage cans being thrown through
windows and a common room left in such a state that houseof behav... ".'.1."lo--1-nrr
venile de.Lmi:irn::nts,
from
a
communitarian
in their
11
L'V'U.-'-'-"" and this seems to be ~~·~,...i- "
commons area ... others auui•=='--'-'cn-=
smallest group, treat this
able
for a weekend bash and then
" The fact
that the 'smallest
of students can use,
and then
._....,.,.....,,.... v,,., a common area, is not
selfish and inconsiderfrom within what is su:oniose~d
nent-·Kn.lI ,.,,._....-,..,,..,,.,.,,h, Much less so from snnn os1edl
furttterm()re, it is almost UJ.1.uu..1.<...-..u.v ..1.c.
'"-h.,-.i,.,.,
a tutor in SF, wrote in The
act outside class reveals
that
are not
of
the truth
from the books and conversations the least bit seriously." It
seems then
students and tutors alike agree that there
is an urgent problem in the St. John's
at Santa Fe,
which reflects the
between in-class and
n11t-nir-c1ass behavior. Titere is also a concensus that a small
number
are the chief cause of the problem. But the administration has addressed this problem by
banning
from the
realm of the community,
hoping thereby that this ban will somehow make impotent
the irresponsible behavior of this small, but strongly disruptive group.
The
is
this: it is not necessarily the case
that alcohol is to blame for the events of these past few weeks
1
0 "
of human
8
The
October
1996
for the
tance of
What we mean by living politically
is to be a sensible and sensitive member of a community and
being cognizant of other people and their needs and sensibilities. If you are a
person on a fundamental
then you will remain so even if
had a
couple of beers. You may not be coherent or even upright, but
chances are that you won't throw garbage cans through winurinate
places, or smash up
bathrooms.
if in a successfully functioning
one were to act in
such a disrespectful manner, the other members of the community would take it upon themselves to make clear what is
acceptable and what is not. The fact that people can get away
with
garbage cans through windows (and be aca
lack of community
for doing so)
were '"''""U.'-'......
ner and advanced groups.
games
.,....,..,.... r1. ,,..,,.,r1 the
results:
In the beginner rounds, Mr. Kashiwa
Mr.Simpson,
and Mr. Simpson won. Mr. Moser played successfully
against Mr. Davidoff. Ms. Catania defeated Mr. Goree. Mr.
Holbrook won
Mr.
and Mr. Carpenter
prevailed over Mr. Cowhend.
As a result of this first
Mr. Holbrook
Mr.
Carpenter and Mr. Moser played Mr. Simpson. Mr. Carand Mr. Moser came out ahead, and proceeded to
the advanced bracket. Ms. Catania played Mr. Wood on
Sunday, and lost.
In the first advanced
Mr. Berney played Mr. Wood,
with Mr. Wood the victor. In a game scheduled between
Mr. Leslie and Mr. Pease, Mr. Pease won by Mr. Leslie's forfeit. Mr. Opalinsky defeated Mr. Verhoff quite unexpectedly. Mr. Bravo won against Mr. Rettig, and Mr. Lee lost to
Mr. Rogers.
Mr. Marshall bypassed the first round of advanced play
and surprisingly upset Mr. Opalinsky. Mr. Pease showed
what he was made of in a very close, long, tough game
Mr. Wood, who came out ahead. Mr. Rogers played
Mr. Bravo, taking the victory.
Third round players and semifinalists played on SunMr. Wood defeated Mr. Moser, and Mr. Rogers won
against Mr. Marshall. After defeating Mr. Carpenter, Mr.
Rogers played Mr. Wood.
The final match was a very close game pitting the everflamboyant Mr. Rogers
the "steady" Mr. Wood. In
the end, Mr. Wood survived by a narrow two wicket margin of victory. And so, much to everyone's surprise, Mr.
Wood became the winner of the first St. John's College
Homecoming Croquet Tournament.
Everyone appreciated Ms. Marcetti's sandwiches and
cookies, the sales of which benefitted Reality '97. Next year
the tournament should be bigger, with plenty of alumni (and
alumnae). Thanks to everyone who
and be
seeing you next year.
The
October 1, 1996
9
�The gallery talk
ME Warren is on
October
not the 8th.
In his
President Nelson discussed the image of
fatherhood in the Aeneid. He
with a smooth transition from welcoming the returning alumni to discussing the importance of tradition
and remembering the past. "We look
back in order that we may look forward with a clearer vision."
President Nelson focused on nine
specific images of fatherhood used by
Vergil: Jupiter and King Aeolus;
Aeneas and his
and Venus; Anchises and
Aeneas; Tyrrhus and the incident of
the stag; Mezentius and
Priam
and
Aeneas and
and
Aeneas and Iulus.
A
of the lecture was
focused on the role of Anchises in encouraging Aene~s and providing him
with the vision necessary to be
of the Roman ve~:Jo1e.
in this respect
to the world below. In the
Anchises' shade shows
Aeneas, his
ancestors, and his
great descendents. Aeneas finally has
something more concrete than the
promise of the gods to
for.
Aeneas has
some
for, he has some one to live
or rather
generations of someones who will call
him father." In a small detour away
from the text, President Nelson then
talked for a moment about leadership
and vision in general, and how those
. "'" ,., ... apply to us. "If we have a
great leader, one deserving of our trust,
one who genuinely wants what is best
for all-not to secure himself some
!J-'-'"u.'•v.1.u v er:sm1al ~ri.,~,~i-~,~" we will
still have a leader who had vision more
pure than its
is
to be.
This does not make the vision a bad
one, precisely the
If our visions are not more grand than our achow will we ever
know what to strive for? How will we
make the choices we're
11
1
The main
of the lecture was
the role of the father in controlling
rage and protecting offspring. Takthe
of Mezentius and
Priam and Polites; and to
some extent Aeneas and Pallas, the
one feels for them may be exby the fact that the fathers
were forced to watch their sons die
before them-a violation of natural
law and
Jupiter's control of the storm roused by King
Aeolus is an
of a father conunwarranted
and
unbeneficial rage. This control is
what Anchises urges Aeneas to practice: to conquer, but to spare the conIn this sense Aeneas can be
in the role of a good
father
Turnus in the end.
For he has already
a
1) Get in touch with one of us, either via
or campus mail, and
set up a time to be tutored.
Felix Leslie
Greta Pittard
Adrian Stollof
James Keidel
Ben Carlson
Lauren
Geraldine Perkins
Lura Groen
Brendan
267-9218
216-9524
x302
x301
x290
x288
x297
263-0089
x296
x300
and review
sessions on
and Sunday
"'"''.,..,,,-..,ye from 7:30-9;30 in room 12.
c~~~·n~therrnnn11101·0~
3) BE IGNORANT!
the son who was entrusted to his care.
If you can't decline your
or
you don't know the techne or the
call us, we can
but on further
Seniors
and
Braithwaite were elected.
anJ L''-1.1.UOl.l.ll,.H:;
were elected to the Financial Aid Committee. Mr. Marker was elected to the
Committee. Messrs. Urich and
Alexander were elected to the Campus
Committee. Mr. Bohannon
was elected as
to the
Board of Visitors and Governors.
The
Council now has
$7,488.60 and would love to give some
of it to you
meaning chartered
clubs, not impoverished Johnnies). In
fact I'll even give you a Budget Request
Format for absolutely free. Contact me
Campus Mail today!
Yours From the Minute Man,
Derek Alexander
Secretary of Polity
Hu
Sam Davidoff
Stark
Keith Bemer
'-'V.'-lU..HJ.l.V.U
Coonce
(Humphries).
Mr. Bowles presented the Film Club's
Sl,508.08
request; it was registered as a voting item. Miss
presented The Storytellers
it was
registered as a voting item. Miss
l81<~ovvs1c1 and Mr. Rubenstein vn2sentE~d
the King William's Players $685 budget
request; it was registered as a voting
item. Mr. Alexander presented a now
charter for the Political Forum; it was
registered as an emergency
and was approved.
The Political Forum's
budget
a registered
item, was
voted on. The vote was first announced
10
The
mined the vote was to approve the reThe Council revoked the obsolete
charters of The
The F-1
The Live Poets . . . v,_.1.c:cv.
i..,·,..,,.,,-,j.,.._,..<' The '-1.1.ICJ.llC'..
vancement in Science Society, and The
Old Political Forum.
dent Committee on Instruction, presented Messrs. Kersh and Soejoto as candidates for the two Sophomore positions
on the
Mr.
Miss O'Shea,
and Miss Lutz for the two
posiand Miss Bonning, Mr.
October 1, 1996
Kathleen
Steve Kagarise
Vira Feliciano
Alan Pichanick
280-9160
x288
x296
268-8792
x300
216-7116
x299
626-0736
263-0507
vvasn1ng1:on, D.C. We
for low income
families. No experience needed. Meet
in the Placement Office at 8:00 a.m. for
coffee and u."•u;;:•.1.utuco. We will return
4:00 p.m.
Baltimore. Similar to Habitat. We will
meet in the Placement Office at 8:00
a.m. and return
4:00 p.m.
Get in touch via
or campus mail to arrange a time to get
the SJC, Santa Fe Student
can be viewed in the Gadthe library, and heno~to,rt.h
at the Assistant Dean's office. We encourage you to keep up with our sister
campus through their newspaper.
"- 1 ~'" 7 ''"'
......... ""',,..,.,.
Letters of 200 words or less have a
better chance of being
than those longer. Letters will not
be edited for grammar, nmncriat1on.
or spelling, and will be printed
exactly as submitted. Please
Submit all letters on a Macintosh
or saved as RTE The Gadfly
does not
anonymous
submissions, except under special
circumstances.
IJU'L/Ho::HH..A.A
Get dirty protectthe local environment. Meet in the
Placement Office at 9:00 a.m.
This Wednesday, at 8 PM in the coffe
shop at the round table, there will be a
interest
about dynamic meditations. We will also
to
set up a workable schedule. Come to
find out more, or ask Jessica
Morgenstern (X299).
For questions or to sign up, call the
Placement Office at ext. 200 or contact
Heather Deutsch at 216-9379. We look
forward to seeing
in Baltimore. Meet in
Placement Office at 8:00 a.m., return
4:00 p.m.
Lunches will be provided on all
The
October 1, 1996
11
�distributed free
�
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
<em>The Gadfly</em>
Description
An account of the resource
Founded in 1980, <em>The </em><em>Gadfly</em> is a weekly student publication distributed to over 600 students, faculty, and staff of the Annapolis campus.<br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="The Gadfly" href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=16&sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&sort_dir=d">Items in the <em>The Gadfly</em> Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.
Contributor
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St. John's College Greenfield Library
Identifier
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thegadfly
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
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12 pages
Original Format
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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
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Coonce, Jennifer (Editor-in-Chief)
O'Shea, Deidre (Editor-in-Chief)
Title
A name given to the resource
The Gadfly, Vol XVIII Issue 4
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1996-10-01
Description
An account of the resource
Volume XVIII, Issue 4 of The Gadfly. Published October 01, 1996.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Vol. 18 #4
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
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English
Type
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text
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St. John's College owns the rights to this publication.
Format
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pdf
Gadfly
Student publication
-
https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/f460a79c1f1dd990874b7cfd163d0fed.pdf
690f59b273acbdc6795b03169ea97ae0
PDF Text
Text
�To the Editors:
In response to Mr. Alexander's concern about the literary value of recent
submissions to the Gadfly, I would like
to offer my exegesis of
verse entitled "Shriek".
The title refers to the sound of a
prudish, prissy old maid as she hysterically hikes up her skirt at the sight
of a mouse and exposes her bum in the
process. In light of the
generthe
of the verse is most remarkable for what it doesn't say,
~~·nt-•~·~,.... about buttocks or
iA--~A,AA<;o. you
version of
instead of
cat:cn:mg the conscience of a king, he
has exposed the
malice of a
few puny minds who can't seem to
their
above the
waist.
Lcmcen1mtg S. H. Kubric's smug response, how can a letter to an anonymous author constitute a personal attack? It is difficult to reconcile
offended and wounded sensibilities
and oh-so-benevolent editorial
with the
1-a .... .,..,..,.,.,,'° in
spirit it was intended and had some
fun with it. I'll leave my assessment of
Mr.
to Sir
"God be
thanked for these
offend
none but the virtuous ... "
Alexander Berkobein '99
To the College Community:
A question
a call to arms):
is the Humphreys
room still
locked?
T. Dunn
2
The
Letters Policy: Letters of 200 words or less
have a better chance ofbeing published than
those longer. Letters will not be edited for
grammar, puncuation, or spelling, and will
as submitted. The Gadfly
anonymous submissions,
except under special drcumstances.
Dear Editors:
Let me begin by making one thing
absolutely clear: the following is neither an attack aimed at Mr. Andrews
and Mr.
nor is it a criticism of
the administration. That being said, let
me address my complaint to the com.,..,,.,,,..,.,i"n as a whole.
On the afternoon of Friday, September 27 I walked onto my floor
Ht:Lm-ph:ne:s) and was shocked to see a
sign taped to the men's room door advertising a keg party. That was the only
attraction mentioned for this
Now, I am one of two people on this
hall old enough to drink. It is, and to
the best of my knowledge has been for
awhile, a freshman floor in a
freshman
Why then, would
someone
such a sign here? Perit was an honest mistake. The
...... ,".,~.._ .. that minors
show up at this
expecting beer
never may have crossed the minds of
the hosts. Perhaps it should have.
I
for this error in
uditreIJner1t. They were behaving well
within the acc:evted norms of this com~··~·•··· Here is the . .--......,.hiorn In an effort to avoid a
sphere, the
has adopted a
sort of "out of sight, out of mind" alcohol
Regardless of what the Student Handbook may say, it is understood that
in private (even in
excess, by
is acceptable. Imin this understanding, is the unde1:sta.ndmg that the College will have
......., ............ ,... to do with off-campus parties.
Minors know (I knew it when I was a
tre:shrnar1) that
can go to an off-
October 8, 1996
campus party, drink all they want, even
abuse drugs, and they are out of the
reach of the administration. Of course,
if this party is advertised on-campus,
this could present liability problems for
the school. But that is not what I am
concerned with. Rather, I am worried
that we are "breeding" alcoholics. In
my class ('96), we had an extraordinary
number of problem drinkers. This disrupted classes senior year in no small
way. Surely, we do not believe that
these people became problem drinkers
in one or two years. Some of the more
troubled students were known to have
shown alcoholic tendencies as early as
freshman year. Even this year, a number of freshman in Paca Carroll seem
to exhibit these tendencies.
It is the duty of this community to
shape the lives of its members. If I may
borrow an idea from Mr. Datchev, no
member of this community is a dinner.
We can not simply be done with it
when it turns out poorly and hope that
we do a better job next time. Therefore,
I am asking that the Gadfly devote a
section each week to a frank and open
discussion of the alcohol policy, the alcohol problems at this school and possible solutions to this ongoing unpleasantness. For the great state of Alabama,
I remain
yours,
Matt Carter
Dear Gadfly,
It has been well publicized that the
College staff is collecting recipes to include in a St. John's Cookbook. I would
like to submit such a recipe but unfortunately can recall neither the ingredients nor their preparation. Perhaps
your readers can help me. The dish is
called Atreus' Delight, also known as
Atreus' Surprise.
Thank you.
Andre Barbera
Tutor
~'"'~~··~
brothers and
'"'.._"''""-'-"'· I beseech thee to listen to my
tale of fear and woe,
it be not
for the weak
heart. All those who
faint at
first
of the word
blood" should read no further. For
.l."'"'' ........ ;;:.... ,,as I read
Phenomenolunderstood
who enter
seminar." tried to
resist
the food service
wouldn't let me go unless I had a card
with a
so I was forced
the most evil
to
11
much for my
diac arrest.
my
car-
a ct-r:::>n<TP.
reminded me much of a
campus I'd once seen,
the hu_,__,, ,_T, here wasn't as bad.
Disembodied voices cried out, "Welcome
Hell. Please
rush. You have
the time in
and there's room for everyone.
~~~...-. . .--.... from the
"'-ncur43r1no- u•cn... i<.u.•'- I had
to recount to you, u .,.__,~"".A.
must admit that the horrors were so ...
horrible
I was forced to turn a
blind eye so often I was afraid
would
name to Mr. Potato
Head.
let me tell you of the horrible
horrified me. There were
lollmn1es with .,....,,, .. v-,.,.,,.,.
conversation. Then there
sortment of
the size of which
not seen since the
dermadandruff on Dumbo's
talked inoess1mt'ly
with
as
shallow end of a kiddie HT'>rhnothe
who made you
late in the afternoon to
over their eyes.
There would have been much wailand
of the
but
think
an end to all
reserved for
LU..U""-'-•·J'.. to ex--g1rlt1ne:nds.
raised my voice to Heaven and
"Oh my
hast thou forsaken
me in this
awful
semi-
that. I mean, who
.......... ..._"', . .'"'... 'the ways of God?
sics program
very bad dream''-"·'-'""'~'
about the Treasurer's
dream there was a revelation of
you should
finish your
And I vowed that
I would
or
uc1u~:ict::>
Adams
have done
well to attend last
excellent
Prof. Peter Suber of Earlham
ap1oro,acr1ea the
ae1:mE~a some terms
his discussion. I found it to be very
and kind of Mr. Suber to real-
The
ize that many of us in our
to
the classical mathemati1-,....,.,,,.,.,.f·+ori the technical defimodern mathematical terms like sets
group of
proper subsets (a set whose
"-''U'""''-'-'"·<A'-~ 1 is less than the set of which
it is a subset), and
number of
in a set). Also of interest
was his use of the term
"
seJt-rlestmg set is one in which a 1-1
continued on page 7
October 8, 1996
3
�..
~-----------------------------------------------~~-------
•
•
Grand. So now you are a polity
Yes, you too can be one of those
smiling clzauffe11r d'affairs of our cam- driver. But, how do you get to use the
van? Hassle security? A big no.
pus. Tooling about the East Coast, polLeave messages on Valerie's answerdrivers go to opera in
machine? Nope,
again. Visit
hikes in the Shenandoah
ing projects in Baltimore, and Spring Carmita during regular working hours
Break exoduses to Santa Fe. And even and check her master schedule? Bingo!
Carmita is the keeper of the polity
sometimes
even get PAID
van master schedule. Believe it or not,
to do it.
So, how does one become one of the many dates through May 1997 are aldandies of their clubs and a favorite ready taken. So, if you want to use the
van, plan ahead.
among their friends? Easy.
Oh yes, the van is a
van, not
First, take your driver's license on a
visit to Carmita in the Assitant Dean's a personal one. It is for schoot club, or
office. She will give you a form asking group activities. If you and your
stuff: name, address, driver's friends want to plan a trip to the mall
license number and
date. or a movie - great. But if you want to
This form then gets reviewed
Abe use the van to haul furniture to your
off campus - less than
Schoener
if it is :::.n·nrr·nr.:>ri
it onto the business office.
Become a
driver: let me give
Enter Terra Barnes in the Treasurer's
you expensive tickets to take students
office. She sends any driver
tions to the College's Insurance com- to glamorous activities; help our local
community by transporting our polity
pany who researches your
record. the Insurance company dears volunteers to shelters and housing
then Bud
will probably projects; give you and your friends a
treat by driving them out to dinner and
you to be responsible for
with
folk in- a movie. There's a whole world oe,1011La
college
'-\_,•uc:-i::.c Avenue.
side.
ULJLJ.1..1.'--""
No! No! No! Must tame anger; anger poisons mind. Haiku must be written pure
pure soul-no other! Mocking another sentient
is
and no
if attention is to Self. Must follow
which is
Out of Self; the
of Haiku. This Way you must follow
not
east or west, practice everyday in minute details. You must study
To think only to assert yourself, to establish the self is only vulgar, is fallof
it is daily
The way of Haiku is the
diminishing,
humbling self.
only evil haiku
Therefore: put selfishness behind you; out of evil
result. Polish!
only one-focus
embarking on four-fold way:
1. Strive to dance with
do not miss
or over
2. Quiet words shall
therefore practice silence of soul
3. Respect your parents
exist for the
of man
4. Go beyond love and
Insolent White
Must ........... ,...-1-.. ,...,., co:nst:antlv
hard-or Masta
Boy cheeks as11nc1er,
The
4
The
October 8, 1996
October 8, 1996
5
�you
me,
the
walk over with
If you want to reserve on your
own, call 741-0125. The
luck will
be held at the
There will be
weekend
shuttles to and from Baltimoreas.nu1g;iton International
Call to reserve
There are also BWI
October 14 at
students from
to an outdoors
Concert at Anne Arundel Com.muon
Ocin the AACC
about 3 miles from campus, over the
Severn River
on Route
Govenor Ritchie
The
Let's check it out. The
is FREE: all you need
October 8, 1996
weekend in the
mountains for
The Outdoors
Club and Student Activities will
take students to a mountain retreat
October 25
the
latte:i:·noionJ. Accornodations are
rustic: unheated cabins and a bunkhouse. Food is
but everyand
a
are on their own to
or take the van
games in
front of a
fire are in a main
lodge. You must reserve ahead of
time to go.
ever wanted to learn
about Colonial
and sift
u.L.1.vu.:>::i1 250 year old
now's your chance. On ..., .......u ........
October
from 9:30 A.M. to 1:30
St.
students have been
invited to work at the London Town
in
London Town was a 17th
settlement and trade
that fell to economic decline in the
abandoned aroung the time
American Revolution. Students will be
side
side with other local volunteers and protE~ss101:i.aJ
cneo1Log1sts. You will need to
water, a
and clothes
in. London Town~-,~·~-~ ..
and all eq·uir,m1ent
Student Activities will ~-~TT··~
......... .._ ... ,,.._.,, uu.vu.1':..lL generous ""'-'-''"''-''J ...
of the Placement office and the Dean.
and have fun
'"'"''"'''"' ~ local researchers. Call me so
that I can
you a lunch.
page 3
scribe for
Union: "The SJC
fencing team is apn11 awakened. If
you would like to
us, we meet
Tuesday nights at 7PM and Saturday
mornings at 9:30 am. Corne join us and
witness archons Rob Holbrook and Joe
Richardson in action. The team's first
meet is at Hopkins, Sunday October
5th. Our competitors will be Mr. Gorey
and Pignone in sabre, Kelly
and Holbrook and Richardson in
... '"'......n
•. .._,
Okay, okay, mea culpa. Mr. Jeff
"Pappy" Travis upbraided me for not
mE~nt1m:unlg the Hustler turnaround in
toc>tb.all. They currently stand 2-2 and
are the first Hustler football team to
reckon With in Ct:>~.Tt::l1"::\ I
ris and Pratt provide
smarts and quarterbacking, Mr. Anderson is having a great season out at
and Mr.
is one of our finest
open field rurmers. These other guys
are playing well too: Mssrs. Rogers,
are
These guys
to
the spoilers in the second
half of the season.
We
completed a Sunday of the
best soccer I've seen in
some time.
In the first
of our Sabbath double.llc•:n..u:a, the Hustlers battled the Spartans to their first victory of the year. Mr.
Shaifer scored twice for the
Mr.
made a surun from deep out of his debackfield to score the winning
Mr. Weiss
a superb game.
And let's face it, the cool blonde dude
Athlete of the Week honors for
his
throw-ins that
sail in for 30
And Mr. Austin
gets a lot of credit for stepping up to
mid-field and giving the Hustlers some
structure and control. Playing some
great ball for the Spartans were Mssrs.
Hendrix and Halper. Does this guy
Halper got a cannon or what?
Speaking of cannons. In the nightcap, the Guardians battled the Druids
to a nil-nil tie. Mr. Potter amazed us
all with his repeated 50 yard goal kicks.
Mr. Jumonville, Rude Boy defensive
grinch, has dubbed the Goldman Potter Thunderfoot. The goalies played
superbly. Hats off to Mssrs. Swann and
Closs for their great play in the goal
mouth. The Guardians' Mr. Johnson
deserves
kudos for his great
hustle.
The crew team went to their first
of the season at the Baltimaore
......... ~ Club's Head of the Patapsco.
Rowing the three mile race for the
were the following oars:
Ekholm, Gibbs,
Seojoto,
Kashiwa,
Gibson, Bravo, Stevens, Fremont,
Darndinsuren, Boring, Nesse, White,
Geregely,
Vaughn, Closs, Keelin,
Nino,
.... .1.aau<o.L. t1len1allld.ez, Caton, and Treuer.
And Mr. Carter did a great job as coach
and coxswain.
Miss
gets Athlete of
the Week honors for her
mance at the regatta and for being all
over the
at the race venue with
a helping hand.
correspondence exists with at least one
of its subsets. Mr. Suber coined the term
to describe to explain a phemomena
unique to infinite sets, and which as
has no standard name.
Based on the definitions of self-nesting and proper subsets, and the assertion that we can prove that the cardiof some infinte sets are larger
than others, Mr. Suber was able to positively define infinite sets. Infinte sets
are those which display self-nesting,
while those that do not are finite sets.
In the final part of his lecture Mr. Suber
concluded "until we undertake this exercise [finding
sets], our
unaerstarn1rrtg of the infinite may indeed be only the negative of the finite."
In other words, 'Tm saying that if you
study the
of infinite sets, then
the idea will come-though not
quickly or easily."
Mr. Suber was also kind enough to
leave behind packets of material which
cover more of the mathematical nature
of the discussion, and include the
proofs and many assertions which time
prevented from being included in the
lecture. These packets are available in
the Dean's Office to any member of the
1...viwel;;~c ~-~~·~ .. ~•i-" Tr<:1ns,criots of the
lecture are also available in the bookstore.
Friday. 10/11. Long Weekend BWI Shuttle. Van leaves Chase Stone parking lot at 8am & 12pm. Call to reserve your spot,
ext. 254.
Friday. 10/11. Anne Arundel Community College's Reggae Festival. Mama
performs in the AACC Quad at 7:30pm.
Free.
Saturday. 10/12. DC Day. Van leaves Chase Stone parking lot at lOam, returning at 4prn. Call to reserve your spot, ext. 254.
Monday. 10/14. Long Weekend BWI Pickup. Van picks up students at BWI baggage claim 1 at Spm and 8pm. Call to
reserve your spot, ext. 254.
Friday, 10/25. Annapolis Tree Committee's Pot Luck Party. Dinner and a preview of a locally touring educational tree
exhibit. 5:30 P.M .. The Chesapeake Bay Foundation, 33 East Street. Call to reserve your plate, ext. 254.
Saturday. 10 /25. London Town archeological dig. 9:30 A.M. - 1:30 P.M. Call to reserve your spot, ext. 254..
Saturday. 10 /25 - SundaylO /26. Catoctin mountain retreat weekend. Co-sponsored by the Outdoors Club and Student
Activities Call to reserve your spot, ext. 254.
The
October 8, 1996
7
�St.
P.O. Box 2800
Annapolis, MD 21404
Founded in 1980, The Gadfly is a student weekly distributed free
to over 600 students, faculty, and staff of the Annapolis campus as well
as tutors emeriti, members of the Board of Visitors and Governors, and
the offices at the St. John's Santa Fe Campus. All opinions expressed
within are the sole responsibility of the author. The Gadfly reserves the
right to accept, reject, and edit all submissions in any way necessary to
publish the most professional, informative, entertaining, and thoughtprovoking newspaper which circumstances at St. John's permit.
Yearly subscriptions are available for $35.00. Tax-deductible contributions are greatly appreciated. Please make checks payable to The
Gadfly.
For
advertisement
and information, call 263-2371,
ext. 320.
Deadline: Friday at 5:30 P.M. Submissions
any Macintosh or RTF format on a 31/2"
copy. Typed submissions are no
aco~pta1ble.
Editors-in-Chief: Jennifer Coonce, Deirdre O'Shea
Layout Editor. Nelson Hernandez Jr.
Photography Editor: Mary K. Lynch
Circulation Manager: Kelly Lyons
Gadfly Online: Jesse Berney
Financial Manager: Jesse Berney
Production Staff: Bob Dickson, Misha Hall, Randolph Stark
Cover Photo: Mary K. Lynch
the St. John's College Print Shop
OU
Hiking Trip
I am trying to organize a
campuswide chess tournament which
will start in the middle of October. I
will see what I can do in the way of
and refreshments for people
member is welcome to
pa:rnc:1p<1te. Whether
good and
want to see how you
against some
of the better players at St. John's,
whether you just like
and
would be interested in
some
chess and
new people, or if
you don't know how to play or don't
play very
but would like some
The more people the better.
If needed, boards will be provided.
If you are interested in playing in the
tournament write to Steve Urich
.......... ,.., ............. campus mail call ext. 308.
.u. .._ ................. your name, an honest assessment of how good you are, and
what times are best for you to
Steve Urich
Gallery Talk
The Mitchell Art Gallery will be featuring a talk by ME Warren on
Wednesday, October 9, on St.
archival photographs.
Want to go Hiking?
There is a trip planned for Sunday,
October 13 (The Sunday of long weekend).
We will be leaving from the Chase
Stone
Lot at 9:15 and
the
to Great Falls where
there are a few trails we can hike. We
will probably get back around 5 or 6
PM, but the time is dependent upon
how long people want to hike and
when they want to go home.
If you are interested in
on the
rip write to Steve Urich or Christopher
Simpson through campus mail or call:
Steve at ext. 308
Chris at 269-5543
There are a limited number of spaces
and priority will go to those who express interest first. Lunches will be
to those who
an interest before the day of the trip .
nT".n.'l:T1ld"'l.:l•rl
280-6200
0...:..,,..,..,,...,,....,.,..,,,.,.. Center
1-800-427-6289
Flash
nes•t2ate Rd.
::>tx·eaJl<mL2 towards my door
grasp metal knob
Someone stole my towel.
573-0200
The Admiral's Court
1-800-371-6289
�
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
<em>The Gadfly</em>
Description
An account of the resource
Founded in 1980, <em>The </em><em>Gadfly</em> is a weekly student publication distributed to over 600 students, faculty, and staff of the Annapolis campus.<br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="The Gadfly" href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=16&sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&sort_dir=d">Items in the <em>The Gadfly</em> Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
St. John's College Greenfield Library
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
thegadfly
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/.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Coonce, Jennifer (Editor-in-Chief)
O'Shea, Deidre (Editor-in-Chief)
Title
A name given to the resource
The Gadfly, Vol XVIII Issue 5
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1996-10-08
Description
An account of the resource
Volume XVIII, Issue 5 of The Gadfly. Published October 08, 1996.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Vol. 18 #5
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
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�in his camIt was not the same for
...__._,L-"'-''-H•, who holds
all
rehearsed responses.
In what was a very civil debate between the two vice
so.
laration was not, of course, some proport11onate distribution of positJ.ons.
Lincoln
that our sys-
irn.voses on us. His
was
not that loose utilitarianism which does
not worry much about little injustices.
if
a greater
a fine analyti-·
.. . ,_. __......,ll""'-"" possible his firm
devotion to
He would not .•:
have found congenial the homeopathy.~'
of affirmative
by
we ad~
minister a treatment that produces the
sv1mr)to:ms of
in order
to treat the disease.
Mr.
sources say that Mr. Perot's likeness
a St.
pn~s1c:te11tli::1.l debates
because the committee that oversees
the debates ruled that the ticket had
no serious chance of
the
election.
The
excuse the
cialism.
ex.vres~;101n
11
net is
it's
that the rest of the civilized world and even our
at
scionable. One
means it's wrong.
is a writer living in Erie;.
The
2
is unconscionable."
Mr. Gore then turned to the camera
very
to the au"That means it's wrong."
None of the candidates se1no·us1.v
addressed
of the poor. Intou ted the recent passage
of a welfare reform
which revokes the New Deal federal guarantee
assistance
and their families. That the gap between rich and poor in this ,.,~ ... ~---TT
has reached Third World levels and
that
half of all urban children
for
are
survival were not mentioned.
Gore
remembered the
when the President
the
which was a '"',..., ...... ~,•.._ ... , __,_
ent move, but one that will further
harm our nation's inner cities and
poor rural areas.
Mr.
attacked the administration's liberal" Al Gore and Bill
1996
3
�cal German followers agau1st the
nflissi~ss such
West. If
does it not become the
of other
or at least other
uu,.... ,,.oe.1.o::>, to check them? If so, then
does not the
of n1stc>nica1
terns, directions and tendencies
serve an
role in fulfillthis
No matter
much one would
like to believe that he is
dent of n1~:>ronccu
was introduced to a vaof meditations. I ~~-·~··~~
them so much that I
to do them
LJHc.U.'--luV
charters
were
as
items.
The F-1 Club charter was .,.,..,,,.._,...i.... t-,,,-l
ner life or truth that is
in
is in this fashion that the
~.._, . ._. . _,_. ,_ n·roce~;s becomes a living
_.
.l..ll'C:\.JLLa ........... " .. chain of
and
words and notions are not accessible to us
in the context
of
the
a
late his ideas for some ....,.,,.,....,,..,.c,a
it to ............................
u
in a storm. Most
eye of the storm, and avoid the exures:sw1n of such extreme emotions
as anger and sadness. If we can
achieve a calm at
I ~~~"r'~
would rather have
some notion of what the storm
is. In this way, we
who and
how we are, in order to better be
able to find inner peace and contentment.
I will now
describe the
IJJ.•ai:l>•~o::> of each of the three medita-
case
we may never be able
com"understand" without the
aid of
It is my conviction that
the
of
":S 0IJnelbodv
1
The
0 "'"'.,..,,..,.,.,.,.
L••U. . . . .
in order to
a level of self-realization
tentment. The other <>in·,._,,..,,.,.,.,
the masses of
manner that rational criticism is
ineffective in their ._....,..............uu-·~-··~·
The words of a uhllos01JhE~I
1996
new.
What comes to my
when I
hear the word meditation is somelike
and
not to think. This may be effective for some
but I find
it very difficult. The meditations I
learned last summer
more
involvement from the individual.
It seems to me that anyone could
order that
of what is ra,r1n1.,,.,.,,-1
terms
the emotional ,..,...,""' ·~~ ....... ~~
There are three levels
tions of
each one hour in duThe easiest level is called
Kundalini. This is a nice
you wind down
and relax. It is
into a few
with a ~&•......
then slow
after which is time for relaxation
and
to music.
The next one is called
can
be done at any time of the
and
this one there is some concentration on
the mind wander. You focus your mind on the
eral more
el~~b1rat:orv
dance.
I am more than
to
any
meditations that you have to
and am eager to answer all
your
There will be a
........""""'' -""·'·-"'- in the gym, in the Dance
at 7:30 pm on this
November 1st.
extension is
299.
say sojme~thimg that makes sense!"-Mr. Pastille to his senior lab class
The
October
996
5
�tours ,.......,.,,.,... ....,ri
m•:i.gical lands you access via
princess who couldn't wake up till you kissed
With thousand-foot
from :u.L<·ll=::...1.·... u..1.
And Lost
Old Bilbo's
in the tower,
Merlin's
A nanny who flew with an
And
that
weekend dances ru.'1.d revels
levels
room.
is cursed.
of
that curse, has been condemned and
like the haunted tower in
any Gothic novel.
It may
1..1v"'"' ... ,u..1.c to lift the curse,
can
a
but
the
shamanistic powBilliards Club
to act as the arbiter of shamanism.
A. Schoener
Assitant Dean
Tales that were once
Were then read to
Back
late
re(1ue~sts
count.
For further assistance, contact
@
Ian
6
u.v1....1.a.1..c..
an·angrr12 a
between the
Hammond-Harwood House and
Pac a
Garden
my success, and
when you see
u.c:la.u~.
.....................:i::.. Committee
the assistance of the "-'-'.uc1::.c
off cam-
van will be
see a
l.n..-1 1 ~·· ... Rex. The cost is five
and the show will be on Satur-
996
The
October
1996
7
�distributed free
campus as well
Governors, and
expressed
reserves the
thE~ Ann;apc)HS
Business M.am1ge~r.
Production
Photos: Vira Feliciano
information, call 263-2371,
320.
�
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<em>The Gadfly</em>
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Coonce, Jennifer (Editor-in-Chief)
O'Shea, Deidre (Editor-in-Chief)
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The Gadfly, Vol XVIII Issue 7
Date
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1996-10-29
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Volume XVIII, Issue 7 of The Gadfly. Published October 29, 1996.
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Vol. 18 #7
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Annapolis, MD
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St. John's College
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�Thank you for your lecture: it was
enlightening in many ways. I would
like to continue the Q and A
I
still have some questions:
1) Now whether an intuition is false
or true, it is called an intuition because
it is characterized by a one-fell-swoop
act of gathering all the ingredients?
2) The apodictic or deductive reasoning that leads up to that moment
of insight, or even the simple gathering of data before having that insight,
does not necessitate or cause the insight
in any way, but is a necessary preparation for that sudden descending of
grace?
there is no such thing as
'critical mass' for an
3) That line of deductive realsrn:ung,
or gatrnenng of
ment, mere process, mere .......,.u._.....r.
It is incomplete-or
a
of loose ends; the moment of
mEag1u gatn.ers up all the loose ends
into a whole and does so in a timeless
manner, and thus is on1rnttem1:>o:ra1
with
to that prc)ce::;s
4) If
above is right, then insight
is superior to deductive reasoning, because it more resembles
or
'timeless <>1"'1·n111tt1·· /
The
criterion we seem to
have for
a false or true
intuition is
we have tied up
all the loose ends? And if there is more
ends, there is more than one
right?
6) When Kant says that such things
as God,
etc., are not
accessible to
was """""' h'"""'
here meant as mental processes? If so,
the possibility of knowing 'God' is not
excluded from intuition?
7) If so, is faith-which is also described as a
notation for
that experience of insight?
8) Is the Critique of Pure Reason a
work of the understanding?
9) Calling contemplative wisdom
'useless' is ironic praise?
The assertion
1
2
The
and
is a distraction from
'what really matters,' would aL11.ucu.J.v
draw an
from the mE~ta1on1v
sician-yes, these
are the matters for conn~mpl<:tm)n,
what a pHunuale it is that one cannot
co1nte~m1::>1ate if one is dead or if there
were
to feel or take action
about? But if these
are not matters for
what do
matter? (I confess I cannot tell if this is
a sophistical
or
The stakes for being
if
'what really matters' is the
our
if we
no philosophy, no ·0E~rs1Jecnve'
term people seem to
give to a
philosophical
of view-i.e. tranreason is there to continue this movement? Life remains mere movement
without
which transforms it
mt:o rne;:uung:rm <>rf'n 711111 remains a senThere were four divine madnesses
that were mentioned in the lecture:
... v ...... ..,A~, and
prc1phiecv, the
second to
third to re1ne:mt:1erimg
we thus have our three
The
now, is the name
the
'the soul be-
time is this? Is it the relation to someDoes it orient itself to time in a transcendent manner? Would tte~1a1eg~~er
say that when am
illclUite:s:s, I am n.:>~1r.r1r1
of Erotic madness also
seems to suggest that erotic love has
........................ to do with
but with
ms:igJlt n·aruscena1ent ...,, r•h "° that
ers up the flow of
If anyone would like to res1oorLd
any one of these confused babbUnsrs,
please do so, either in the
11
Yours srrtcere1y,
Rana
via campus mail.
The
November 5, 996
�all seemed to boil down to
.:>u.uv.u:: issues
the cap back on the toc)thoai;te .
F. your dishes before ~~··Li~·~
them in the machine and not.,....,.,....,...,,,.,,
drinks on the
table. Is this the stuff
which "intellectual ,...,.., ...,....,.....,,,,1n,.f-"'" is
made?
In
face
... .L......, . . . . .
maintain the Telluride House
at Cornell for students at the 11nnr;::i-rc11h1
and
freshmen who
wish to live there
to the
house as well as Cornell itself.
These are very
Ue:xar'l.dE~r. Will van
Sant and I all went up to
Ithaca to
for a
their summer seminar held
here at St.
The first
struck me was the obvious i:lllJlu.1.Cu. .1.1.
between the Telluride House and St.
hA.H7'"H"'~ was where the simiended. The most obvious differin the
a common
of this falls a very close knit commuof
can't
but have
more
to talk about
than who ate the last of the
ice cream.
the form down
but when it came to the content,
seemed to be
with almost
at
is it ..-1,..,,,,.,,.,._.,,.. ...,,.
At the heart of the matter lies a
1n..:·n.r,h•,.,.,,.1 ,,-.,,-.,,-,.hlari.-.· how is
wish to
dogn1atisnn.~ How can we
'"''"""''+-·•u,.,. statements and ascribe
any
to them?
I fail to see the
at the
end of this tunnel. I have taken
to
that no one should
be allowed
epee, Mssrs. Closs and
took second and first reAlso .n-:. ...i-,,n,..-..,.,+• ..-.~
.1..uuo.1.&.1.1.u1uA
and sotmomc~res
ronistic enthusiasm for
that looks an
I assert that is not, and that this enthusiasm is innocent of
It
comes ~ ............~.....
ter, and cannot be ascribed to the
of the
Evidence of
malaise: the blues
our entrance into the modem world. It is a
•"~- ~·~ ~ for the
of the one
and the many1 and a frustration with
monads
the time we
for the Hegelian ct1c:He<:tlc
cannot be so
dismissed. Their
main criticism of the St.
mon space, but there was neither an
inner our outer
to use it in
any communal way.
When I asked one of the residents
were ctu;a;tss1eel,
he could offer me little more than a
'""nrh•u list of hOUSE~ke~epm.g
4
The
best one?
about itself?
Telluride way
that it pays close attention to
none at all to content. Is it fair to say
that we here claim to have content, but
no real form? Most
are mute
this
If we assert that our
leatmitrn! has both the
996
to make any assertions. The audience
seemed to share my
confuamazement and sat silent when
bei;rrnmrt2: to
n.r.r-.rn.~l-lir.n of the cast.
The
open to
essence I'm
almost as confused as Peter.
disturbed
tained.
5
�DC is scheduled for Sai:urciav
November 16. The van will
and
up students at the NEW
CARROLLTON METRO STATION
philosophy:
All books are read and discussed for their
significance.
-The St. John's Story
In his article last week (The unforseen
consequences of philosophy,
Ben
nn>c;:;PJ1t-l1a1J
Rettig said, "The words of a philosopher
that are uttered to a few students in a
lecture hall or are jotted down in a study
possess the ability to destroy a civilization." He used this argument to encourage the study of history alongside the
studying we do at St John's.
In the second epilogue of War and
Peace
addresses the problem
faced by historians, stating it as, "What
force moves the nations?" The first point
he makes is that the power producing
an event must be
to its
effects. He says this in order to show
that the answer most historians give to
the question is inadequate. Most historians, in supposing that an account of
the actions of only a few men is suffi-
enough to sufficiently explain the actions
of many; men could not have decided
to start chopping other men's heads off
because someone wrote a book. To
we are offered a venue through which
better uncde:rstc:ma the purposes
of the particular agent.". This statement
is absolutely correct. However, we are
not here in order to understand why
writers wrote what they wrote. This
kind of question is an historical one, and
presupposes historical study. We are
here to talk about ideas with universal
content. Questions of an historical nature look for reasons to dismiss those
ideas as being particular to a certain
time. If we say, for example, that
Rousseau wrote the Social Contract because King So-and-So was lazy and
treated his people poorly, then we are
discussing the ideas contained
in the book. We are justifying the book's
existence with a reason that is only parrelevant. Rousseau wrote the Social Contract for an infinite number of
reasons, none of which concern us. All
we are here to learn about are the ideas
that are contained in the books. It is not
important which books contain which
ideas.
It is true that historical details can
sometimes shed light on what an author
is
to say. For
parts of
Dante are difficult to understand unless
one knows some details about the lives
tide, which is
a
would be useful to what we do. He of some of the souls he describes. But
HISTORY continued on page 8
claims that "t1:1iro1um
blame Rousseau for the French Revolution is not
it is unfair. There
is an infinitude of causes for such things,
and we
are
from an event. In addition, no matter
how many causes one discovers for an
action, one must consider the
of
those involved.
Philosophers cannot be held accountable for the historical causes of their
works. To do so would be an immediate justification for censorship. No
losopher we read ever suggests the removal of anyone's head (although one
writer does recommend the use of a
goose's neck for
for which it
was clearly never intenciedU.
to point to thousands of re'l101unons,
movements and intrigues and say, "This
was caused by this book." But it would
be an
explanation. Firstly,
the
a book does not possess
the power to cause such events; secthose
in such events often grossly misinterpret what a philosois
For
all "communist" re\rol1llti<)ru; hc:ave ha.a
Minutes of the DE~le~izalte Council
1996
(Humphries), Surer and Donahue
(Paca-Carroll), Stark and Bohannon
(Pinkney), and Coonce (Randall).
The Budo Club $146 -..or111a,cfregistered as a voting
ter amendments were arnnrc~ve1d.
Storytellers $146.60 request was not
ret)re:serate<i. but
as a discussion and
item. Mr. Mark
6
in attendance were:
President
Secretary Alexander,
Treasurer Erskine, Polity
Ueles;~ati~s ~tra,cnan. MaxStriegel, Goree, and Zebley (off·
campus), Villasenor and Marker
Lamt>bE~ll l. Surer and Donahue (PacaStar k and Bohannon
and Coonce (Randall).
The
revised $74.60 rewas discussed and approved.
evacuation and
bins underneath
our
the Assistant Dean's office will sponsor a full catharsis of the
bike racks that surround them!
biowners will have until 5 pm on
November 13
their bikes
stoira~?:e
The Placement Office announces the
Fall 1996 national editorial contest for
liberal arts students entitled "Your
..... ""'"' "".............. for submissions into the
Placement Office is November
1996.
Rud-
We invite y'ou to compose an
of 800-word maximum . ..._. . .,,,:.....,, ..
The
was aptable situation was
di~;cuLss~~a, as was the
of the
television for the Pinkney Common Room.
Cost of Education.
Visit the Placement Office for additional information and aooh.catic.ln
forms.
The
has
$2,969 ready for dispensation to all
those beautiful clubs out there. We
love you clubs! All of you are so special to us!
If you will be in
over
Break and would like to
has a few suggestions:
The
Shelter, a center to
assist homeless
is looking for
students to serve dinner from 5:30 pm
to 8:30 pm every
Meet in the
Coffee
at 3:45 pm
No-
Yours from the Minute Man,
Derek Alexander
Secretary of Polity
vember 2nd and we
walk over for
an hour orientation.
Habitat for
in DC is hava work-a-thon on
November 30th. Meet in the Placement
Office at 8:30 am. We
return
4:00 pm. Lunch nT't',U1'-lnrl
To
up or
more information
contact: Heather Deutsch at 216-9379
or call the Placement Office at ext. 200.
Heather Deutsch
over
lh,anJksjl~lVJlilg
You asked for
you
it: a van
The
stickers somewhere on their bikes
'""",...,..,,.,.,,'"'them to a
daraa brake
to use
mechanical devices to remove all abandoned
h1'"Ur'lac from the racks.
This will deand locks. Take no chances.
unreS1;istered sound bikes will be
cn£1nt1es: all mamQ'led
ones
Lab. This fate goes
double for bikes attached to miscellaneous
to the bike
racks.
are welcome.
Kevin Gardner
Pink
invites submissions of essays, poems, short
}',"'~~.., . . , . . , mathematical 1-1.t,Jv.i;::,,
from the St
Please send submissions to
Polgreen@
via .._...._ L~JU.LJ
.....
or call Extension 295. The deadline for
submissions is
31st.
Lnl'.;rvr:;Lu
November 5, 1996
7
�Editors-in-Chief: Jennifer Coonce, Deirdre O'Shea
Editor: Nelson Hernandez Jr.
.l:'h1oto1gr<tPl1tv Editor:
K.
Founded in 1980, The
distributed free
campus as well
over 600 students,
as tutors emeriti, members
Board of Visitors and Governors, and
the offices at the St. John's Santa Fe
All OPffiH)ns
within are the sole
of the author. The
prc)tei:.sicmal. informative, en1tert:autm10?:.
ne·wsoa1oer which circumstances
permit.
su1Jscriuti011s are available for $35.00. Tax-deductible conPlease make checks
to The
and information, call 263-2371,
Print
ext. 320.
page 8
fothese details should not be a
cus of our
a footnote to it.
would be inaccurate to say that historical
is useless and
it has
�
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<em>The Gadfly</em>
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8 pages
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paper
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Coonce, Jennifer (Editor-in-Chief)
O'Shea, Deidre (Editor-in-Chief)
Title
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The Gadfly, Vol XVIII Issue 8
Date
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1996-11-05
Description
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Volume XVIII, Issue 8 of The Gadfly. Published November 05, 1996.
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Vol. 18 #8
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Annapolis, MD
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St. John's College
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English
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text
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Gadfly
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c99f445c7b20ddc9c454b112a636d9be
PDF Text
Text
Pease, '98
Saturctav: October 26, Rich Bravo
and I attended a
t tournament at the Merion
·n1Jlad.elJJh1.a, about two hours
experienced
Hardison
,... ... , ... ,....,, 0
October
8:30 pm - Make
and Kit Linton
the ........... v,.,_,, ..........
them to the tournament
6:00 am- Meet Rich outside his
to wait for our ride. .hx1ch;;m~~e
6:15 am- Make small talk
6:30 am- Still
small
the
of which is
be<:oIJruntg 111crea~;ing:lV concerned with the whereabouts of
.,.....,.<........... 0
.... -1-
toxicating. Literally.
10:30
eleven . , ''°'· v .:::., .-.
the tournament- three from
three
from Penn, and us. We are divided into six teams, with
,.,. ............... ,,,.solo. Rich and I are both
with ,..,.,,......,..,.,,.,,
ex1oe1~1e11ce~d nlavPrs from UMass. Games are 45 minthe total number of wickets gone
uv.1.1c:.1.u.a..1 note- maintain assured clear distance
In Ohio that's three car
11:00am
Rich's team first.
is to
two or three
either in front or behind my
and communicate as little as
and
then crosscourt.
11:45 am- Lose to Rich's team, but am consoled
prospect of lunch.
to decide how best to
blame
turns to go ttu~ouL~
may not have heard
to their house. The
va-
8:20,
directions, none even re1no1te1v
ing,
such Plltra:ses
lights", and "down
road a stretch."
a resolution of vectors will indicate where we should go.
9:45 am - One hour and 15
turns
ME~noin '-.l..1.L,f\.1::1.. Club after r1 ..;;,,,.;,.,.,.,. .,,..,.<>•".._
what I've heard.
pm - Tournament resumes.
out of my line of
1:15 pm - Ask my
to
while I shoot.
line of
out of
1:20 pm - Ask my
to
while I think about my shot.
1:25 pm - Ask
to
while I watch the
2:00 pm-The
my
and I.
Whatever. """',.... . . . . .,.... ..,.,,....,.,.,,.
M: Should I set up or should I... Would you
and listen to me!
A: Huh?
M:
too
in
seat.
r1,.,.,.,...... ,"- it may be in-
A:
Me?
way.
�page 1
A: Unhand me, knave. Anon, anon,
S'blood!
M: You're weird.
To the coitnnl'lmllitv:
to the
We would like to
attention an incident that occurred the
before
Weekend. This has been veriMr. Schoener and two of the
Five students under the age of
four of whom had been
dethe Naval A.caaiemv
to
crew team.
a boathouse stewlet them into the boathouse.
took out a boat with
spray
on their boathouse.
it involved .............. uvuc
ment on the
We are led to believe that
is
a necessary
of
in this comIf behavior shows immatuwe are held
for it.
Last year the administration stepped
in to say that those people needed to
be held accountable. This year, the
administration is
a different
from the one we were
shown to
The student body
have confidence that disciwill be meted out on a consistent basis to those who do wrong. If
we are unable to, then we have lost a
measure of
in one of the
foundations of our comrnunlt
_,....,,~~~-ir?~ that the
atof
a need for our commuto examine the
is-
9 pm, at The
Center on Riva
Road. Call me for directions.
Remember: Puccini's "La H.onem€~"
at the
November 24
at
2:10 pm- Team
is at an
all
low.
2:30 pm - I become the first
player to be knocked off his set by
his own teammate. Two turns later
I
send him to the
wrong wicket.
3:00 pm partner and I reconcile with each other. The follow"'A•w..1."u.•l'•"' takes place.
!:!f!.!J:ll.!~:.i_b!.L!,.1!.<....~::....ld.D..L- 10 am
:.sup students at the New Carrollton Metro
M:
I'm sorry I ..........., .......'""-·'"" you
off your set.
A: And
M: What?
A: Never mind.
hr>hrl"'u starts WednesNovember 27. The . . "'........u..1..1.u.J.•,1;:,
fh1anJ<S~;iving
10 am - 4 pm. Van
returns to Chase Stone oar.Kln12:
dr~)D1Dll1LQ: off students at many sites in
Call
the
u..u..1.L.uLu.::..u
sues.
It is our belief that the
should have
Schoener aeicld.ea
lead and treat the offenses
than he would otherTheir
pe1n.aing, but will
invite discussion on how we as a
~~-m~~ ~~.i.." should view incidents
and
at the same
time that this serve as a means to reopen discussion on the resurrection
..
deserve to have a forum to
be informed of such issues when
and as adults to have a role in
the decision of our own dh;ci1Phne,
rather than
to it.
c-i-., r1° .... -1-c
1
of the administration stems from
such
not the least of
which is that we feel last
cedent was set when ten ........... "'.._",......... ,
were asked to leave the school for a
less
were seJlH:or1tam~ea,
instance
school were
The
Letters of 200 words or less
have a better chance
those
Letters will not be
1996
4:00 pm - The tournament is
over.
team finishes
with
a 2-3 record. Rich's team finishes
third
3-2 and is
medal. The St.
and uninvited
sum, it was a
for croquet.
Both Rich and I felt we
have
to-
say for
would have done very
and I may not have been stuck
with Mitch. Now for the long ride
home.
8:00 pm sign on Route 95 foretelling upcoming traffic delays, I ;:,u):;,i::;,cc.,.
Rich that he take' 695. It
25 miles out of our way. I don't
think Rich is too happy with me.
8:30 pm - Rich stops to get gas
and asks me to
it. While
paying the cashier I notice Rich
v-c..:. .......... "' out of the station. My previous
has been confirmed. At least I got his two dollars in change.
The talk is on
from 7:30-
tion
The
1996
�Founded in 1980, The
distributed free
to over 600 students,
campus as well
as tutors emeriti, members
Board of Visitors and Governors, and
the offices at the St. John's Santa Fe Campus. All opinions expressed
within are the sole
of the author. The Gadfly reserves the
to accept, reject, and edit submissions in any way necessary to
the most professional, informative, entertaining, and thoughtcircumstances at St. John's
sul:J~scr:iphons are available for $35.00. rax-de1du<iib:le conap1Jre1c1a1:ed.. Please make checks
to The
and information, call 263-2371,
ext. 320.
Shop
toes?
stories can you tell? I'm
sure there is much that lies behind that
v .... ,......... 1-'..., a half chewed
is
named Athlete of the Week. She is artz1pa 1cncK
Kunai .
..,.v._.,.....,.......... and Patrick Keelin
in foot'""+,, ....,..1~'ir And
~~·~~~the
..,.11.a
7
""'"''""""""'
soccer;
in the
in
double overtime to defeat the Spartans
3-2.
share Athlete of the Week
socialized medicine and
.. what next will
etrate our tender shores?!
Devil Nord
Most 1m;;p1rat101C1.al Oarsman:
Chris Stevens
Most In:sp:ua.tum«H Oarswoman:
Pia Thadhani
in
in our .u.u.-...v~/
tuber that you are.
GRATTIS! GRATTIS!
name does not mean free.
'ITn.••,,..cr.t.-
�
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Founded in 1980, <em>The </em><em>Gadfly</em> is a weekly student publication distributed to over 600 students, faculty, and staff of the Annapolis campus.<br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="The Gadfly" href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=16&sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&sort_dir=d">Items in the <em>The Gadfly</em> Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.
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Coonce, Jennifer (Editor-in-Chief)
O'Shea, Deidre (Editor-in-Chief)
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The Gadfly, Vol XVIII Issue 9
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1996-11-12
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Volume XVIII, Issue 9 of The Gadfly. Published November 12, 1996.
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Vol. 18 #9
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Text
-------------------------------------------~--
�seem to be in-
•1i•e 11ml~~•qj;J1~11al:
8
~
q"'
'ii
~
To the
This is
n11,nitivf' action is con-
cerned.
I trust their
ment, I would like them to see what
their actions seem like from my perI think fines are a
way
when
.
.
jl~ II~ 1111111 Ill,, mi'11 II
"~"'"
*
01f
0
"'
""J
<-'"' "'
tive action-~"'"""'
~.. -~ . . . ,. ,. . . ~.'"' ...,. lauded the initiative as a
bees are not that •BJ .........
is the first time that
in such an incident and
not a mean
an immature
..:>U..
school
~
"'"-"-'-"'-'·-"-'"' anyone out of
off committees is warranted
It would
Be11111e11l1~&18,911a;limns
" ~: "'~i_"'"B: ~: 40~-
is time to tum in
But before you
of .r'.\h:>rn,-i-1-u
are
we do not approve of their
kicked off the crew team or the
we
do have a
to make to the
ge:ntlemten themselves: If you have a
burdened
and feel you
need more
feel free to
take on a
of our fines to the
Assistant Deans. Give as much as your
conscience demands.
clear conscience can be yours
We
fines to go around and
tom down.
faced the same
last
year. Since the
situation came
to a
I'm afraid that this time
its
a
across the
on !:iatu1~datv nn.01:nnn.gs
confirm that the consideration
show each other
class isn't somein our
lives. However, I can't make these students
change. All can tell them is that the
world does not revolve around Plato
Wake
and smell
do wonders for
your
As far as the administration is con-
rallied in
an awkward time ..,..,.,,. a~roru
one, I can attest to that. Nonetheless, this
does
to any chartered
Thirlk very deeply,
""'""",rm<: that draws you
""·"J ......... you wish to grab
and
them
us do not want our universities transformed into touchy-feely, intellectual
wastelands. When social engir1eerirt2
and radical egalitarianism supplant
academic excellence and the search for
the university loses its .;,;,"'.,..,+--1-1-u
as supplier of
and becomes just another purveyor of popular culture and pop ideology.
The anointed" who fight for "fairness" and against "prejudice" are cermorally satisfied
affirmative
action based admissions
but
the students who are
a chance"
are
a ride. The students who are
selected based on their race are often
times academically
for the
/1
The true affirmative action supthe believer in non-discrimina--- ---'----·-· for
never satisfied until there
which will
stt~er,ed in resentment
more resentment. His "stacould never be erected
go·veinn1e11Lta1 edict. As the CathoDeitrich Von
Drew Keenan
Strachan
Mike McCormick
other guys who did
and this is so
is
because the purpose of a football team
is to win games;
does not
contribute to this is
Simithe purpose of a college is the
cultivation of students' minds, and if
all colleges are in
do this
with the most success,
should
the best and brightest stuand
based
nc1n-imt1ew~ctiuaJ factors are used
srutae:ms, it follows that those
dif-
action
prac1:icing ones, of
who may
devalue their degrees. And worst
the intellectual vitality of the
is
enervated when it must lower its standards in order to curtail massive fail111-·Pr,ep;a.re~d students.
very nature can
arise srnont:ani2individual's moral conof affirmative action in
the
of affir-
cwrers1t,r" and "tolerance" is
paranammt. Since, in their relativistic
the best unieyes, there is no one
""'.'"'""'""' is the one where all ideas are
on
par, and are allowed to ebb
and flow where ever the intellectual
winds might take them. Here, intellectual ability is not
as "tolerance of other ideas," and "sensitiv,, hence intellectual criteria is pracirrelevant. Diversity does not
connote people with diverse intellects,
but
of diverse races, and a colabout
is
angelic protectors of the
the anointed crusaders
racism
and discrimination. And the American
citizenry,
a need to feel
perior, have allowed these
ers to assume a moral he2:e1mc1nv
CALIFORNIA continued on page 8
/1
tures.
main 1...vJL.L<::1'~..:::
12.
McDowell to Prince
shots.
13.
is my best friend"
unless
2
The
1996
monster
should
Kevin Gardner
Pirlk
Society '"'l.~U...,
At1t1rrnat1ve action a .,...,..,.,...,,,...,, ..
for this kind of ......... u.o ... c•l·u
...
The
November 19, 1996
3
�that there was a lot
after some ball. And I would
feel so embarrassed if I ha1DDE~ned to kick the ball out of
1.1vUJ.L!l.,..I.;:>, for some reason I
as bad as kickthe ball into your own
Mr. P would say things
that seemed not much to do with soccer per se; what did he
think he was, my virtue coach? This was soccer, not reality.
I
wanted my
exercise. I would look at
"'"'~""£''"'*"'...,,.., a
amount of scJhac1e1Ur1eui::t.e,
was in those moments that he seemed
frustrated with this 'exercisge1ttir1tg in the
and I was sick of
the
wouldn't follow my
,, and there wasn't. It
exerc:isin2: unvs1lcaJ faculties
years
its dn~ss;;i.ge
I'm nowhere near ... .,,.,,....,,.,...,,.,,
course-it still rushes forward
m4::>m.enturn. so that I lose control of the
.,..,.,,...,,,"'"'"''rl war tactics sotto
voce.
make confessions on that field- because movement never lies-and I've made
under all those
suns with my eyes wide open.
.Li.l'U."-''-'-'-· if soccer was
without any clothes on, the
would look
not naked.
hurt a
lot more, and it would be rather
but that's besides the
illiterate.
didn't involve much
4
The
Mr. P calls it the Beautiful Game.
One of my sister Kunai really hit it home to me once:
that it's the
that
makes the game-not secret
between the
not boom-ball [to 'boom' a ball: to
the ball with one's foot with no
target or person in mind.
associated with impetuousness.],
About a week
must have been the 5th of November-was when we had the game in which
deSOCCER continued on page 5
The French have the worst taste in walu1:Pau,it:1,
universe. This I know is true.
of the game one side
reof the ball. It was as if some kind of
""-~-~"" . . . over everyone. Evtime and did the
way that whole time. It sure as hades
~~ 1''"'.,,"'"'~'arl me. The other side defended with such
and
continued, and the lines of passes I swear traced out a
KI•ld.1mg;-!but that's almost what felt like to be
witness to this.
this year,
It hasn't
when under a bilious sun we lost to VV<1stltmi2"tc~n College.
At one
I felt
our best
As the game
we~nttn1:ou.srh the crowd
soeci:ati::>rs and players, as
it were
for
had to go home unsatisfied. Next time we met
on their
turf and under a
sun,
we kicked them hard-and
without our best
Another not-so-beautiful
season, was at Hood
was
irritable and blase that Saturday as a result of some latenight
as I think a lot of
us were; a
of us were in Tshirts and shorts and it was the coldest game I had ever
Hood looked all swell and
in their white
unJforms; us
of course, were in mangy shades of
black-and so was their
whom I
passing to.
Our field has an untamed scruffiness about I like
but
theirs is a soft green
for Pete's sake. A full-back
decided to be my Siamese twin-I
doher
she was
it a
it
and the chill was
to
"'"'"~'""u my brain... we started
our own little conto do with soccer-a
test that
a foot there-I tried to
oossc::~ss1lon
then
the referee's whistle rung Pl<m~rerLtlV thlrou1gh
the
and
died down and started to seep
towards the middle of the field. We lost. I can't even remember what the other team's reaction was. I was still
ting over the game.
OK, so even hell-bitches
the blues.
But even after
so fierce
the other team, we
tum to our own with comradely slaps, like the
~Q1oru.cal
that we are; but what's especially precious
Kunai soccer is that you can
trick, fake,
harrass, dog,
tease, upset,
and still be on
best of terms with
and scratch and wipe and
on a stinkcoloured doth and
would really
and scream and
and roar and
give it
at you. It's the Game. The Beautiful Game.
i"1'to::i-nr-ic
That there's no
for.,,,.,..,..,,",~'~
dent in soccer; never mind
or
stress or emotional
faexpectattiC)nS by teachers or latent sexual
thousand other shocks unnatural discourse
up; there are much more oultrcur<:~ot1s
slings and arrows out
so my mother tells me. Like
it one
hands
with ~~,~··~ii~•
the way Mr. P
hangmg from around his
as he observed my sn:tgg:1s.1:1
after-class
he
"This is your kind of uu>C>tlho..
Choi. Get out there."
So there we were
in the
darkness. It wasn't even all that bad. During the advanced
stages of dusk the center of the sky had suddenly eXJ)artded,
and a
as if a choir
to sing.
the game, a bit
violence of the wind was much more
someone had
started to blast
from Mellon Hall. It was 'Ride of the
you are, you
We
even after the cows had gone home.
"It's
that we be out
here longer than
else
on the
" said Mr. P, after the
game. Yeah, Mr. P, he won't
you no soul-butter or
stick
ture of Kate Moss in a Kunai
Or make us drink that concoction that looked like
old miso soup with chilli peppers and grass J.J.u•auJ.•~
before a game.
it was yummy. After we oasse~a
we offered the rest as libation t:;,c:noern~r ottic:iated,
and offered
and
lustrations in anspread out to our positions,
to
n~TTh~.-IT, who mentions ..,..-,uH.,_,.,-,,~
UT1Mlr•?"\Clrl in fat is the next p,-,.,nlrh,,-.,
Honourable Hell-Bitch herself mentioned
at her annual Kunai
like seminar, is exercise for the
Ke1ep1ng balance between
excellence. The
of soccer might lie in what it shares
the rest of the world-that
~~--,VA•~· ... and jerking and whooshing and all that other
wJhoioD-d4?.-cloo nonsense. But this new .. ~,,../,~~ .. n~-.-..~~
hasn't done away with the first charms
them a fuller
because there's .,..,,.,,.,_,.,,,.,,....,,.
prc)tlCJlenc:v of
just some ancient Greek
stuff about
dogs playing
soccer in the afterlife-you
that
stuff.
The
November 19, 1996
5
�Next year, on .LU.'-'-"'""''...,
March
the Political Forum will attend two full oral
at the
It's time for a trip to Baltimore.
What's there to see in
you
say? What isn't there. On Saturday, November 23, you'll have a chance to go
to the famed Baltimore
the
M:::1rv1:::ir1rl Science Center, shop downtown, see folk art at the Visionary Art
Gallery, see "high" art at the Walters
Art
or ride with me to see a
exhibit at the Baltimore
Museum of Art. We'll leave the ChaseStone
at 10 am. I'll
students off at any destination that
like, or
me for the exhibit
and then lunch at Louie's(a funky,
downtown bookstore/ coffeehouse).
We'll return to campus around
Call to ask questions about Baltimore
to reserve your seat in the van.
hai11.k1;;gi·vinLg shuttles will run at
times: Tuesday, November 26-Bam, 12 noon, 4pm; WednesNovember 27-Sam.
There is one ticket left to attend
Lomi>an,y·s performance of Puccini's "La Boheme", November 24 at
It costs
The van
will leave Chase Stone
lot at
12:30P.M.
have been
about Winter
Break shuttle schedso here is a tentative one:
December 12-8 am,
12 noon, 4 pm;
December 13-8 am,
12noon.
For those of you
"'How to Get There
From Here: A Guide
to
To and
ftrln<1<vu1u::; On
Your Own" is available at "u:r1trhh,n!'!~'r1
¢
8:
coffee
6
The
November
1996
program,I\!lr. "Dale
the Supreme
has allowed us fifteen seats at each
far more
than would normally be allowed for a
liberal arts school.
It
needs to be said what an
exi:mng event this will be. Full oral
are
c01npact and
have asked for
now officially <:>-n1n1..,.,1nr'1n•cri:"I"\£>
Here is how it will work. Anyone who
me their name, either
th1:oulg:h campus
by
their name put
,.,.,..,,T.,, ..... "" twice
includes
!'!lfi=>!'lr1,vtoldme of their
name, in the same way,
ber 4, will have their name
"December 4, at the
me~etrng, I will draw
alt~~mates, and
for
Those who
should not
classes on lVHJnciay
m<)ffiLill!2:, and should commit to three
or four hours of pn~p2tra1t101:1.
I
many are excited about this.
fine
and
to receiv
many names. "Do contact me if yo
have any questions.
Derek Alexander
Arch on
basketball season
at 4:15. All women
u'"'''"''"'...,..," and enc01J.ratge:Cl
The
November
1996
7
�Founded in 1980, The Gadfly is a student weekly distributed free
to over 600 students, faculty, and staff of the Annapolis campus as well
as tutors emeriti, members of the Board of Visitors and Governors, and
the offices at the St. John's Santa Fe Campus. All opinions expressed
within are the sole responsibility of the author. The Gadfly reserves the
right to accept, reject, and edit all submissions in any way necessary to
publish the most professional, informative, entertaining, and thoughtprovoking newspaper which circumstances at St. John's permit.
Yearly subscriptions are available for $35.00. Tax-deductible contributions are greatly appreciated. Please make checks payable to The
Gadfly.
For display advertisement prices and information, call 263-2371,
ext. 320.
at 5:30 P.M. Submissions may be submitted in
3 1I2" floppy disk along with a typed
copy. Typed submissions are no longer acceptable.
Coonce
Fedotov: Deirdre O'Shea
Coonce: Nelson Hernandez Jr.
Aaron Lewis:
K.
Kristin Wn1nrl·f1n·
Printing
Print Shop
280-6200
Ridge Shopping Center
1-800-427-6289
page 3
utlnrtat:Jtve action serves to assuage the
and to satisfy the insecurity of
its supporters. Sadly, it seems that these
are quickly becoming the new motivations
and standards of statecraft. Perhaps the
pa~;sa~re of Proposition 209 by 54 percent
'-""'.LLI."-'J.JLUC:Ul" marks a turn away from
UJL~1::.1.l1., emotion-based politics.
it is a sign of repentance for the
good at the expense of being
and at the expense of
students'
-1-.'"'~'~
...... l,...
a r t . . ,-....
573-0200
The Admiral's Court
1-800-371-6289
�
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
<em>The Gadfly</em>
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An account of the resource
Founded in 1980, <em>The </em><em>Gadfly</em> is a weekly student publication distributed to over 600 students, faculty, and staff of the Annapolis campus.<br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="The Gadfly" href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=16&sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&sort_dir=d">Items in the <em>The Gadfly</em> Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.
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St. John's College Greenfield Library
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thegadfly
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8 pages
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paper
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Coonce, Jennifer (Editor-in-Chief)
O'Shea, Deidre (Editor-in-Chief)
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The Gadfly, Vol XVIII Issue 10
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1996-11-19
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Volume XVIII, Issue 10 of The Gadfly. Published November 19, 1996.
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Vol. 18 #10
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Annapolis, MD
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St. John's College
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English
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text
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pdf
Gadfly
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Text
�Dear Gadfly:
I'd like to make two points .,.'°"'"".,.. .1_
ing the raid on the Navy.
First. No, I am not one of the five
responsible for the navy break-in. You
have no idea how many
have
been asking me that despite
fact
that I am neither a crewbee nor a member of the SCI.
Second. The letter of Miss
and Miss Morgenstern is correct in its
account of the events and in asserting
that this issue should be discussed by
the
but wrong about ev-
are
but in the eyes of the law
case, the administrators of the
is
not the case.
The actions of those involved were
reviewed by the Naval Criminal Inves1-10-,,.1-.,ra Service
same
who
were in
of the LSD.,....,.,..
...,.,..,..,.,..,..,.
Mids). The NCIS chose not to press
charges.
" you might say, "the Navy
Invaders involved another school. The
actions of the Freshman last year were
self-contained." Unless one considers
running around Annapolis whilst tripping "self-contained", I think we can
call that a moot
The letter goes on to say that "This
year's incident is also striking in that
it involved
errors in judgment
on the
of
participants."
And of course, the Freshmen last
year showed better judgment in choosing to drop acid. You see, judgment is
a tricky thing. This year's offenders
probably "judged" that it would be
funny to play a joke on the Navy. Were
they wrong? Yes. For while some
found it funny
me for exc:tmJJle J
the people who had say in the matter
(the NCIS for example) did not.
writers of last week's
those
2
The
involved should be kicked off campus.
Are you
The ones who decide
are the ones responsible for judging.
Reading a bit further down, I learn
that
is a necessary part of
being in this community." I had not
known that. I attended the first meeting of the Storytellers Guild and I've
to be fined for it much less kicked
campus! Actually I see no lack of
maturity here. The people involved
have behaved responsibly. Not exactly
exe~mtnru~v, but
They performed what is most often referred to
as a "College Prank", so called because
it is
made by students at col"'-'VU.'-F~'-- students are not
well behaved.
should be held accountable
for not being well behaved."
I
should be kicked out of
school."
For
not playing nice with othto eners? Have they done
danger us? Have they hurt others (yes,
that poor trophy did come to harm, but
for the damages)? Are
,_,_,,~ ...... their weight in seminar?
not show up for a Druids
All these are reasons one should
be kicked out of
Are they
of them?
"We should revive the
Good,
much
to sue these guys
the Navy.
writers of last week's letter say
that Administration is using a different set of rules for dealing with these
ruffians than it did last year. But what
are these
guilty of? Breaking
in to the
a
statue, and underaged drinking. Trespassing on Navy ground is the Navy's
business. They have dealt with that.
Destruction of private property is an
issue, but the students have paid for
that in money and in service. Is this an
"act of
Of course it is,
but when
righteous man does
wrong, what else should he do but try
to
his wrong doing.
1996
That leaves us
drinking.
the students did commit this
crime of both school and state. Last
year, the Administration always gave
fines to underage drinkers.
Their punishment to date is pending, but will involve fines for "underage drinking".
Josh Emmons
Dear Gadfly:
This is in response to Ms.
Thadhani' s letter and other people's
impressions of our original letter.
seem to have the impression
that we are trying to rehash the LSD
incident last yea:r1 and to have further
punishment incurred upon the partidof the
Boathouse incident.
This is not our intent. We accept how
their punishment stands. We are not
loc>.1.<1rnr for them to be further punished in any respect, either by the
at large or the administration.
All of this was brought up only as
example of the
we are trying
raise.
What we are trying to work ag1nrn;t
is the apathy involved in the sta.terner1t
11
1 can 1 t make these 'H'-''""''-'·U~"" cnc:rn~;t!.
We recognize that people exist in
world who will break social
in
our community, we don't
to tolerate that to the degree that
do now. One of the main reasons
are
this up is that we can
how many opinions there are
disciplinary decisions. Some people
think these students do not belon~
here. Others think that this would b~
too dire of a consequence. Our focu&
is not to make punishments more stri
to make them more reliable, an
give us a chance to be proactive inste
of reactive. We Kn.ow that we c
change these people. However, s
dents should be allowed the oppor
nity to suggest discipline so
people will hesitate to break the soc
codes, because not breaking them
the first place is everyone's ideal '.
Beyond this ideal, which we reco
is not always possible, we feel there
we can do as a cmnrr1urnty
raise the standards of
up the idea
a
as a
way to
voice we would like to
have. We as students do not have a
voice right now, except in reacting to
the decisions of the administration. Do
we want to live this way? If we create
a voice for ourselves, we will have the
chance to be proactive instead of reactive. We do not expect everyone to
with all decisions a
Court
come to, but at least
we
not feel as separate and futile as
now.
Morgenstern
O'Malley
Dear Ms. Thadhani:
All these years I have been sufferfrom the delusion that the world
(i.e. St.
was all about Plato and
beer
Thank you for setting me
str.a1gnt. I hereby announce my withdrawal from the college.
Travis P. Dunn
for exsomeone else to
A vile
I know,
not
a random one, for I read of it toin the
Of course, a,_,...,,_.._ . .,.....
sort of conversation ensues
a
connection is made between two
halves, so to speak.
But the focus of my concern occurs
a
before this. When a
I
mean a "normal", off-line one, makes
his
he is
some sort of wrong, for one
to prepare to do what one
not to
do. But what about the one
expresses the most vehement
desire to torture someone to death?
Perhaps the question is: Is the person really thinking about
it?
That
is addressed in the Gosfor
pels: one who thinks of
exc:tmJ)le, is already somehow guilty.
someone recalls otl aer places
where this is addressed.
I am
towards the claim that
these
are just acting, for one has control over
and how one says someNow I can put the
more
Can a person sin on-line? If
so, can another
it was sin?
someone will shed some
another letter from me
Perhaps
have
it; allow me,
to mix this sour with that sweet.
How do we think of fantastic conMust one act res,pons1blV
one? You may well ask
have
mind the sort
::int'\T'l'\J'TY'lt'\ c.conversation possible in
room, where I could call
O'Connor if I liked.
But few would believe me, even online. More
would be the
case where I call
rd214. Now it
would be dear that my intent is not so
much to deceive as to distance the
~-~••& ..... ,,"" presence from anything we
call Derek Alexander.
Now, there have always been ways
be
but here is a case
11
all manner of
to death, or tor-
u.1.::;cuss1ng
tor'tu1~ed
form of conversation. Maybe someone
will even take me on an on-line tourbut I will want to know where I am
beforehand.
Derek Alexander
~
ft
llail10mmmm llillH!lle
1/23/96
Dear Mailroom Patrons:
From the first time I entered the St.
John's College Mail
and Re-
on the nether
Coffeeshop, I knew I was Somewhere
Special. Aside from the obvious benefit
lis United States Postal Staff at 6:30 in
the
I also get to use the
Metered Mail Machine, a device which
has its own
language
and thus requires the
mailroom aide to punch in numbers
like 6318, which, translated, means
The
a1~~ress1on from
su1J1ei:t of my letter.
I have ob-
served many m~~re~;sums
behavior from you mail patrons,
as some of you may not
will instruct you. In list
1.
to reach m1·oul2'h
aa11aeient boxes
one's arm way in is
for having the
hand whacked with
a J. Crew catalog.
2.
one's box
and then asking, with a tiny
of
irritation in one's
go out is poor form .... "'""·. . ·--·c.,
in the mail slot.
3. Talkingni'..-u•ni-0>t-.o
mailbox is not a
on the delicate go:ssrp-1·epe11mg
of the
and
C.0<'1 n''lf-U Or\11TOl,rYru:>C
the selfsame mailroom aides
often know more about the loosethink.
dressed to "Eva B. Dean."
5. On that special occ:as10r1-ge1:trnlg
pa1::K2tge smJ--onte should be on one's
1
"'"' "'""""".,.. one should not be
be?
to decipher the codes on the
back of the package
which is
there to make us look c.--r-,,h1'~h•·"'~.... ,;
like Coffee Beans or Crate Beta-or
sornethrrtg like that.
6. Accusing us
in a Secret Place Instead of '"'"'~""-·~
in One's Box just because one has not
mail
say, five hours is
grounds for being told to
a life"
(of course we diplomatic mail aides
would never say
rude like
that without
it in quocontinued on page 12
December
1996
3
�Lydia F. Polgreen '97
by Jesse Berney, '97
Reading Mr. Kosens' article in last week's Gadfly I was
A few words about Mr. Kosens' article:
reminded of a dreadful paradox that haunts me. I do not
The true affirmative action
the believer in non-discrimination and equal opportunity for all... The other, the believer like affirmative action. It is like abortion: no intelligent perin reverse discrimination and
outcome for
is only satis- son really thinks it is a good idea in itself, but people recogfied with the punishment of others and a forced statistical parity; nize that the question is a difficult and important one. How
of inequality in our nation? This is
he is never satisfied until there is, "redress of past wrongs," which do we solve the
a puzzling
and there is no easy answer. The conwill never nut1ui::n.
servative doctrine
This latter kind of
that Mr. Kosens esaffirmative action
pouses refuses to see
supporter is a myth.
that there is a probNo one proposed aflem here. By attackfirmative action for
ing affirmative acrevenge; such a thing
tion while offering
would be ridiculous.
nothing in its place,
Affirmative action is
this point of view efnot about redressing
fectively ignores the
wrongs of the past; it
problem.
is about rectifying
Minorities in this
problems of the
are worse
present. Nor is it
off than their Caucaabout statiscal parity.
sian counterparts.
Affirmative action
make less
exists entirely for the
money, their famibenefit of individuals,
lies are more fragwho conmented,
do not
tinue to be wronged
go to college in the
because of their memsame numbers, and .
bership in a group.
their chances for the
The only legitifuture are bleaker. Is
mate
argument
just a coincidence? Or perhaps, as some so-called sciagainst affirmative action is that discrimination no longer
exists. But there can be no doubt that it does.
that Caucasians have. I think neither
site one example, just settled a discrimination suit out of have the natural
of these statements is true. What is true is the fact of discourt. They were accused not only of looking over many
we must ask ourselves
black employees for
but also mistreatment of crimination. Once we admit this
the same employees on a
to day basis. One of the rea- how we can effect a solution.
As I said, I do not like affirmative action. But what are.
sons they decided to settle out of court was a recording of
the possible instruments of change in our society? This is
several Texaco executives using racial epithets while discussing these very issues. One may
that this is an iso- where I see the paradox: our nation is by nature conservalated case, that African-Americans
other minorities tive. Our constitution aims to protect rights, rather than efgenerally have a fair share in today's post-Civil Rights Act fect progress. It does this by pitting various forces againSt
workplace. But those who make these claims rarely have one another in order to keep either force from winning oUt
in the end. This assumes equality of forces to begin wi
to face such discrimination themselves.
Just as in athletics, where the criteria of selection to a team is But what if these forces are not in fact equal? What if a grou
simply ability and skill, the
to
should of people who were formerly slaves, people with no mone
no skills besides their labor, and no solidarity among the
be simply intelligence and Kn1:>w1ea~re.
selves as a
are unleashed upon this nation to co
a football player based upon an11Jt1i;mq
pete with those who have much more than they do? Wh,
strength and skill is im1mecllat:el11 c..v• ....."'""'
if these former slaves have to fight tooth and nail tog
the purpose of afootball team is to win
CONTRADICTION? continued on page 5, right column
4
The
December 1
1996
of toilet tissue. For it assumes-..~ ................
aims
at
that
an issue like race
we have two choices: we
either declare a moratorium on the
turn a
tmmciing i:>rn1c11p1e~s, and deal with the situand allow the crisis to
some not . . '"'"''"''-'""
students.
all students that do
do so, but this is not an issue reJlat1ng
If one does not meet the
one
leave, no matter how one got there.
Di.scrim;inator11 ml-Mv·win.h action is wrong in
l.JE~oresEno1n, our gove1rnr.ne11t
mcul<iet 2conomy cannot
of
the :l:reedi)m of the market in order
nn=•ve1nt similar crises in the future. These anti-free market
. . . ~;..,...,.,.,.,..,,_..,"' have become
and we
not seen an economic crisis like the
since
should have told them that pertime.
sorneth:ir1tg hmcian1erttall) unt€~nao1e about free
71 "
we must see
serious wrongs
we
not admit
crisis will ensue. Peirhc:ms
affirmative action because it is
than
the lot of minorities in this
For whatever reason,
it does
and we must
with it.
We can argue that affirmative action is
that it
and that it has
our schools and
wc)rk:pl1:ice~s. But there is a race
and
that is
short
Once we admit
we can kiss good-bye all of the arguin politics? I look at the passage of
ments Mr. Kosens gave in his article for
affirmative
no small measure of sadness. It seems to
action. Our constitution does not know how to deal with
of either
or selfishness. If it is the .1.u.1..1..1.Lc:J.,
in
circumstances, and so
us with
Pe:rhams we need incidents like the events at Texaco
no guidance here. So we
it
and then
·· ,;'+(~nrrin.d us of the truth about discrimination-that it is
balk at the
are we to do? I don't know.
force in America and that affirmative action
But we must do so1metn1ng,
then I can
it will pass.
If it is the
as it may
at least recognizes that fact.
The
1996
5
�• •
company
parts of the ancient drama.
In the first act, a
river and a
tree took the
of the traditional
greek chorus. These natural elements
played the
of Electra's conscience.
At one
Ms.
action .o·Ha,-,~·nr.-,!n <'A14'utn1;:,,-i
sion about her motives
for
and
frustration in
Orestes. The movement was fascinatto
and Ms.
reactions were often more expressive than
the words
recited.
With another element of Greek
the prayers to the gods in the first
act, the actors turned to the actual
Greek of Sophocles. This conveyed a
sense of ritual in the prayers, but it
"'~--..--h .. Mollin and Williamson voto
rather than Apollo.
The red, gray and gold doors of
Clytemnestra's palace provided a fine
set for the entire play. A clever use of
servants changed the
scene from a riverbank to the gates of
the Mycenaean palace while keeping
the doors a
background. The
now representing the Greek chorus, simply brushed
away the scruffy
traooinQ~s of Electra
in order to
more
regal accessories. This was done to appr1ovnatellv busy music
Michael
Goree.
1 1
/\ "''""'" ... ,.... red material
a
metal staircase to the right of the
stage, the servants readied the scene for
Clytemnestra's majestic entrance. In
fact, the red banners and even the servants' red cummerbunds and scarves
indicated the
influence of the
scarlet-dad Clytemnestra herself.
As Clytemnestra,
Nienhiser excellently portrayed an outraged wife
and domineering mother. With an accurate portrayal of a mother-daughter
fight, Ms. Nienhiser and Ms. Jakowski
showed the tension, hatred and vengeance
the household.
ELECTRA continued on page 11
never
Football. ... Aerobic
Ball: can anyone remember that great
-·~·~·~ ...-series and ~1-.~~·~;~~.~1-.•~
ttmJu~:h the ov1:;r'1'rhe'1:rn.ing
the Temple now that
season
has begun? Remember Kosens
for the sweet toss from Potter
,_~ •. . ._..... ,,,.. in pay dirt for the go ahead
4-,.,..,,,..,h.r1n ur. on the second to last
of the game to give the Guardians the
touchdown over the Spartans
in the grand finale? Don't talk to me
of
you say.
it's roundball
season.
11
someconhad a great
season. Here's our new crop of
blazer winners: Miss
and
Mssrs. Stevens,
and
Freitas. Our MVP in football was Mr.
KashLW<:l: our Runner-Up MVP was Mr.
and our Rookie of the Year was
Mr.Nino.
For the Kuvai
our Most
Valuable
was Miss Magee;
Rookie of the Year was Miss
Miss
and Miss M<JntJerg
Sportsmanship.
The women's basketball season has
gotten off to a great start. To
30%
of the female student body has come
to
ball!!! Look around your
seminar table and go figure: one in
three of the women
there is a
basketball player. In the
game of
dethe season, the Maenads
feated the Amazons, 43-39.
enthusiastic debuts for the women in
green were: Misses
Lolernru'.l, and Wilson.
for the women in blue were: Misses
uamc11n:sur·en, Sears, and Cater. Now
you knew Miss
was
was
going to be a factor in the game, and
she was, scoring 17 points. But where
in the world did Miss Finefrock come
basketball camp, or s01netlulngi
She played great dee, ran the Maenad
ort12nse, and scored 16
For her
game, Miss Finefrock is
named Athlete of the Week.
As I write this, the Druids have
defeated the Guardians to go into the
Invitational Tournament
aP-<Hrn::;t the Greenwaves. The most
valuable players in this game have
to be the Druids Mssrs. Davidoff
and Mr. Erskine on B. Mr. Erskine has
ae·ve1oped. a nice touch over the years
you ask what
is a St.
and Mr. Davidoff is
vv''"'-'-"..._.u.,,i::. the boards and
the
baseline like one of the real
Other fine efforts over the
of play have been shown
McCormick
10
tans
course), and Matt
Whistler.
Buttwoguys
statndl1rn2:. The one is Mr.
Waves a new look. He
them the season favorites to once
take the title. The other
about Nino is his samurai hair
and black
,,.....,,,,u.......... Dennis Rodman
could learn a
or
two about style from this
guy. The other outstand-
than Nino.
derstand Mr. StE~rhng
broken his wrist while
I
he won't
out too
I love to
watch the way this cat
plays.
I should say.
I love to watch both
these way cool cats
share Athlete of
the Week honors.
Don't
over the hr..hrl.-,ucl!!
~~~·n•~~,
Soccer meister Mark Johnson gets in a header
6
The
December
1996
Freshman phenom Andrei Israel·
The
December
1996
7
�1996
Moon
The Santa Fe Student Handbook
will be expanded to include a statement disapproving all forms of discrimination irrelevant to the educational purposes of the college. The
board resolved the
1993 statement in response to a rejected proposal
that would have added "sexual orientation" to the Title IX list of discriminations that the college prohibits (see
1996). Last spring, upon
Moon, Feb.
student request, the Visiting Committee of the Board of Visitors and Governors
a desire that the
underpublicized statement should appear in both the handbook and cataAfter legal consultation Santa Fe
Asst. Dean Don Cook agreed this week
to add the statement to next
handbook.
Under the revised
a
memberof thecollegecomrnunitycontesting a perceived discrimination on
the basis of sexual orientation might
use the statement as
for a lawsuit. Such a lawsuit, unlike racial or
sexual discrimination ,,,. ...'"""''"',..,
would have to prove not only that
sexual orientation discrimination occurred but that it was inappropriate to
academic aims. Santa Fe Dean James
Carey, who has no opposition to the
inclusion of the statement, says, "It's
hard to imagine discrimination on the
basis of sexual orientation being relevant to our purposes." Other forms
of discrimination omitted from Title IX
but possibly covered by the statement
include mental health, veteran status,
disabilicriminal records, and
ties.
A11mc1u~:n the statement conveys a
111ncrnocc to hear ""''°.,...."'"'+'"'rt
tions
discrimination, its vagueness
still causes some college members anxiety about the success of such contests.
According to Asst. Dean Cook and the
h n•th£>T" specific prohibitions
could be initiated
the
the faculty, and state or federal law.
Since the financial burden of lawsuits
prevents the
from
legal obligations greater than those required by federal law, it is unlikely that
the college
any additional
discrimination
in the near future.
Santa Fe Director of Admissions
Larry Clendenin will consider the
statement for the revision of the annual
college catalog which goes to press this
December. The current catalog might
discourage prospective students from
applying if they fear unlisted categories of discrimination. Several students
enrolled in the college admit that before applying they checked the catalog
for a clause about sexual orientation
discrimination and were ct1~;av1 001 rnt:ect
to find none.
According to Dean Carey the statement will not affect the official college
policy of
benefits to different-sex but not same-sex partners of
and staff. Current
accivil
and
as of yet no state recognizes gay marriage.
Several years ago, with the support
of the faculty, the Faculty Compensation Committee in Santa Fe proposed
that health benefits be awarded to
spouses outside of
contract, but
the
failed to pass the board.
I
after seminar
coffee shop
have a W~@fu ~=~
ietv
J.
'97
8
The
1996
1996
9
�6
Next
nOOI'\ __ _
Next year, you will return to a mailbox full of accumulated this and thatmaybe even a whole bundle of mail.
As if that were not
you will find the mailroom itself
ferent.
[Gentle reader, if you want to know
why the change is, read on.
only
want to know what the change is,
to the this-is-where-Derek-gets-to-thepoint asterisk. The reader may also
find a reprinted letter on mail etl<lU€~tte
in this issue.]
The Postal Service is in the middle
of something called Reclassification
(drumroll). Now this matters more to
them than it does to us. But it still
matters to us a
Because Your Mail
Matters To Us A Lot™. In
I even
got excited about it. I read manuals. I
read
I studied over the summer.
I went to see the Postmaster
yelled at me because I did Fast-Net™
wrong that
Reclassification
Matt Braithwaite would
out, is
a reco~nitJton
mailings-by which I mean J. Crew
catalogs-demand more of the Postal
Service's atten1tio1n. n.ov11acia
good ol' First Class mail. Distressing
as this may seem, it is less distressing
noticing and reacting accordingly.
They did, and they are actually much
faster.
I mean it. Seriously.
But
with the speed comes a
Kind of a timewave,
It used to be the composite mail-wave I show in figure I. Now
it is the simple
in figure II. But
then I realized that we could adjust
with it, which not only keeps me from
U:t:.Q.Ll.l~l the time-wavewhich is
but stressful as
Zuckerkandl so clearly shows-but
also gave me a mechanism for deliveryour mail faster. This resulted in
t:'r"t"r'""':.,..,... a beard.
on the first day of the
second semester, switch to a single
...,.,."',.,,....,,~~shift. Five of us will do our
stuff your boxes.
that sentence, ladies and gentlemen.)
We will go to the Post Office at the time
a conformist I am).
*Your mail will be ready to be
up once a day at one in the afternoon. You may check at other times,
but that will be a sort of blind faith in
the mail god. Unfourtunately, he
(couldn't very well be a her-that
would be a £email goddess) does not
exist.
Do not worry that what was your
morning mail will now wait until the
afternoon to be ready. Quite the opposite: in 2:er1er;al
mail
be delivered by the afternoon before. Like many true
this can be hard to understand.
postal ways are not to be judged
normal standards. All who wish
me to explain these mysteries to
should seek me out. It makes for
great story.
Formaldehyde sweat .
Blisters the skin of living
AU truth is crooked."
11
Thus spoke Hai-Kusthra
The
December
1996
with us.
Eastern ._.....~~-·~ will dominate February as we
their excellencies
the ambassadors from
Slovenia, and Bosnia-Herzegovenia on
the
and t-uro..-.hr_
fifth of the
res1oectivielv.
.1...... ...,. . . . . . . .
very much looks forward to speaking
with us on topics ranging from estabelection precedents to rlP,1Pl1"'1ning a tenacious peace in the .u::1"~.1.vJ.t.
Those who are especially interested in
meeting with an ambassador before the
forum should contact me.
In March, the return from
break will send those to whom the Supreme Court
was kind to to
hear two oral arguments. The
will
be
by preparation sessions,
... ...,,,_,~ ... uuv led by members of the Supreme Court Bar. All will be welcome
to attend these
sessions.
Late in the month, we welcome the
ambassador from Yemen.
Is,..,,..,., ..... h •. , in the Middle
Scenes such as this carried the
m1·ougn a short two hours.
to Electra.
and effective mother's favorite aa1t1e;:rt1ter, Chrysothema, but she could
dropped the
white shoes.
The action was emphasized
dal effects with the
shadow of Orestes
frozen in
was
pr1owcte~a onto the red banners, dramatically showing the action reserved
for backstage in Greek
After
the
Orestes
trium~·~nr
the tall doors in a
cloud from a smoke machine. I
this would have been more inlpn~ssive
if Orestes' costume did not
so
much like
Michael Adams
.LlV'AU.Ju.•:c:.
n
.. ,
........ ,...,,,,.,. ...
WaS I-'"'"''"'"''-'..,_,_ •._._....._
has long been a
economic innovator
boasts real sucstabilization.
cess in
IP sum, the Political Forum has
much to offer in 1997. Please do offer
any ideas and suggestions you
have.
for more information on
this schedule or any one of these
events, please do contact me, Derek
f\.1~~xc:mc1er, at x.299, or in the Mailroom.
In any case, great things are in the offdo take ad,rantage.
Al1examd,er, Archon
r\"11-Q'PP.':P-111(){1"
too enthusiastically)
the bloody ending.
rather than showurrtor<anc:e of the slttrnti.on.
ior.
Overall, the
was
n n.rr and the obvious hard
'""'
11
1
this is what the
William
are capable of, I look forward to future
perfomances.
La
Derek Aliexc;mdler
10
Next semester, the Political Forum
will
an unprecedented schedeach month will be different.
In January, Ray Sears, owner of
Pizza and Taco
will
on
the National Security Agency, with
he spent his career. The NSA,
ch<ug;ed with national information seand defense combat support, has
a storied past and a controversial
future. Organized by Aaron Parnis, the
evening promises to be exciting. Those
a special interest in the
wish to talk with Mr. Sears over dinner.
should contact the Political
Forum quickly as places at the table are
limited. The Forum
as always, will be open to all.
A. Robert Kaufman,
Also
of the Baltimore City
will
on Social
Solutions. Mr.
Kaufman remains an unusual force in
Baltimore
and continues to advocate highly unusual solutions to the drug problem.
In
the Political Forum beEm"ba~:;sv Row
uec)rgE~s
de La Tour (1593-1652), one
of the most
and original
French
his day, is featured
'-ALU.IV.Luur.u currently on view at
.
Gallery of Art in Washington. More than forty major paintLa Tour and his contemporar1nc:1u.d1n~ Caravaggio, Jacques
· oe~ua:n12:1~. Simon Vouet, Hendrick ter
on1gg;he1n., and others, have been asand private coltm~one. the United States,
.u.L<~'-''-H:I;:;. this an exhibition
-:·::"~1,.,1.to be missed. The variety of submatter, the dramatic lighting ef;ects, and the
palette em-
ployed by each of these masters are a
delight to the eye and mind.
On
December 12, they
will lead a trip to the National
of Art to see the La Tour exhibit; the
polity van will leave the
lot
at 8:30 A.M. and return to the College
2:00 P.M. Students interested in either event should sign up in person at
the Mitchell Gallery
regular
gallery hours. Please understand that
space is
if you sign up for either of these events, be sure first that
you can show up at the times scheduled.
The dormitories will dose at noon,
December 14th.
All students must leave the dorms
for Winter Break before this time.
Dorms will reopen at noon on
5th.
<i-n11<'.> ..'U
No exceptions or extensions.
The Gadfly/ December
1996
�Founded in 1980, The Gadfly is a student weekly distributed free
to over 600 s~~ents, faculty, and staff of the Annapolis campus as well
as tutors ementi, members of the Board of Visitors and Governors, and
th~ offices at the St. John's Santa Fe Campus. All opinions expressed
~1thln are the sol~ responsibility of the author. The Gadfly reserves the
nght. to accept, reiect, and edit all submissions in any way necessary to
publish the most professional, informative, entertaining, and thoughtprovoking newspaper which circumstances at St. John's permit.
Yearly subscriptions are available for $35.00. Tax-deductible contributions are greatly appreciated. Please make checks payable to The
Gadfly.
For display advertisement prices and information, call 263-2371,
ext. 320.
D~adline: Friday at 5:30 P.M. Submissions may be submitted in
any Macmtosh or RTF format on a 31/2" floppy disk along with a typed
copy. Typed submissions are no longer acceptable.
Shop
Speaks
QUIET.
The constant ticking
of the clock, the bleakness of the
Ingmar B life. Life in the north. The
nothingness of life. The Seal of Seven.
Once in a while a lonely conversation,
existentially spoken. Who is the Grattis
Girl? In our desperation we Swedes
answer. "Who is anyone?" "Who is
Anna's Passion?" "What is our Persona?" Life, like our Swedish u1.i:)nt-1-nr
is a futile
A vvandertng.
should we .,. ......,.,.TV".........
self-define?
the New
We don't
have
any Swedish Bikini Teams. Few of our
ourselves
Are we socialist or
bourgeoisie? More depression. (please
don't mention the suicides.) You can
You have FAMILY VALUES. (we
have one year paid maternity
leave.) You have Hollywood. (we only
have Svenska Filmindustri.) You have
COMMERCIALISM... on every
exit ... 2 for $2. (we have nothing but
high wages and 6 weeks off every summer.) Please don't downsize us. QUIET.
QUIET. Death is playing chess with us.
You Americans take the white ones.
Life is Strawberries gone wild. If only
it
Lasse Halstrom. Quiet.
-The Grattis Girl
continued from page 3
tation marks.)
7.
mail in with neither
postage nor any form of return address is grounds for it ending up
in the Saint
Central Mail and
Control Center's Box of Postal
Shame and Sadness; a box which
sometimes serves as home for
hardware catalogs addressed to St.
College or Current Resident,
Avenue. No refined
would want his (her?
class, indeed, First
Class, letter to be in that sort of
Third Class company.
8. Sending notes through the
mail smaller than a book mark is
poor
as the
air pressure in the mailroom will push
the note out of the intended
mail box just as the patron reaches for it. It will land on
the mailroom floor, where it will
feel lonely.
Truly, Postal Courtesy means
more than
these eight
rules. We must
resolve to,
stamped with self-esteem, metered
in pace, with our parallelism canceled, and sealed in love, live lives
of Mail Excellence. Even if we're
fem ail.
..., .... ,.... 'Li' . . .
Yours from the Mail
Derek Alexander
.i•.11.•i;.u::i• ........ ,
�
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Title
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<em>The Gadfly</em>
Description
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Founded in 1980, <em>The </em><em>Gadfly</em> is a weekly student publication distributed to over 600 students, faculty, and staff of the Annapolis campus.<br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="The Gadfly" href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=16&sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&sort_dir=d">Items in the <em>The Gadfly</em> Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.
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thegadfly
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Coonce, Jennifer (Editor-in-Chief)
O'Shea, Deidre (Editor-in-Chief)
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The Gadfly, Vol XVIII Issue 11
Date
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1996-12-10
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Volume XVIII, Issue 11 of The Gadfly. Published December 10, 1996.
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Vol. 18 #11
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Annapolis, MD
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St. John's College
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English
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text
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pdf
Gadfly
Student publication
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PDF Text
Text
��Below left: Jan Brennan , master student.
Clockwise from top: I.
Hea r no evil , s pea k
2.
Bill
no ... oo ps!
Hoffman, friendly as always. 3. Leav ing campus. 4. The Junglefrog
twins. 5. A view from
above, Carrie Killoran.
65 % of Johnnies marry Johnnies (scary but true: it could
happen to you) .
Above left: One of those much valued talks. Above right: Bird watching?
2
3
�Seniors ...................... .
Ads .................. ..... ....
4
5
�FRESHMEN
In-coming freshmen settled in slowly to St. John 's, most living on campus in
small rooms with strangers, and eating very strange-yet strangely familiarfood. The program came as a shock to many, some finding little or nothing to say
in seminar, others battling shyness or an overwhelming, never-ending, numbing
reading li st. Many developed an intense loathing for Socrates or Odysseus.
Others fit right in from the start, enjoying themselves immensely. Some spoke
of setting up underground seminars on the seminar readings which would be
open to a select, elect, carefully screened few. All this enthusiasm and elitist
daydreams soon wore off as sleep became a top primity. ·
-Michael Christian '98
C lockwise from far left: I.
Feli x explains the noble lie.
2. Evan Sk ladany & Hai
Sun noti ce something icky
on Sarah Ochs' shoe. 3.
Superstar teen hearthrob
Wiley Wiggins hangs out
with Alexandra Boozer on
the quad . 4. Got a smoke?
Above: Furies and Sirens-inwaiting Ri ght: And they wonder how people know they' re
Freshmen.
6
7
�OK Tucker, now lift the other leg.
Better than Euclid.
The quad is the after-class hangout for Amy Hu and The Unknown Freshman .
"Je suis Ia grande fro mage" says Chri s Ranck. Mary Duncan ignores hi s megalomani a.
Flocking Freshmen.
Jesse Berney proved confounded again.
8
9
�SOPHOMORES
\
I
Left: Valerie Sheck ler and Jeff Travis read the Rolling Stone interview with Eva Brann. Below: Anton Fedyashin and Zackary Smollthey're checking your bags, rea ll y.
Sophomore year is a religious experience, a dwelling somewhere between
Heaven and Hell, between a glorious lack of work and a life of mind-numbing
inanity. The Bible. Plotinus. De Anima. Emphasis on nothing but the perfect and
the ideal. This must surely tell us something about the people who are at this stage
in their lives. All is not wine and roses in this land of the magnanimous teacher.
Thought lurks terrifyingly on the horizon as we are drawn inexorable to higher
years where something will actually be required of us. Now is the time for
rejoicing and indulging in our youth. Now is the time for missing classes. Next
year will be the time to pray.
-Tony Cole '97
Above: Alexa Van Dalsem contemplates the eternal conflict between
Good and Ev il. Left: Oooh-1 think that might be Winona!
Above: I. John Michael MacDonald stares into space while Malinda Campbell studies. Top left: Noooo- I can' t learn anymore, moans Jehanne Dubrow
as Aidan Kelleher takes his own mental vacation. Top Left: Beauti ful food brings a smile to young faces.
lO
11
�Have a Little Fun
"One ought, every day at least, to hear a little song,
read a good poem, see a fine picture, and, if it were
possible, to speak a few reasonable words."
Reuben Marshall.
Lori Freeman and Camille: are they glued together?
They most certain ly do.
Mmmm, Mi cah.
Happy Happy Joy Joy!
12
I'm too sexy for my shirt.
13
�That which ki lis me not,
makes me stronger
-Nietzche
J
Welcome to the main
event, sports fans! In thi s
corner, we have Junior year,
A Leviathan packing a mean
right-hook of Calculus, a
to ugh French uppercut, and
weighing in at an awesome
ten (count-' em!) Kant Seminars. In the other corner, we
have our Jowly junior, with
only his wit, his classmates,
and two years in the ring as
his weapons. Who will win?
Well actually, there is much
more to Junior year than a
heavy workload . There 's
the challenge and excitement of radically new ideas,
the release of the weekend
Reality party, and the closer
interactions with each other
and our tutors than ever before. So yes, freshmen and
sophomores, Junior year is
going to be hard, I won't lie
to you about that. However,
it' s a challenge that, if it can
be surmou nted will provide
you with much well-de~
served satisfaction .
-Chri s Ranck
u
N
I
0
R
s
The day Nathan Jongewaard tatked to God.
Marshal Kass-A study in cool ness.
Above: Jesse Berney and his imaginary cigarettes. Left: The planetarium is the place to be for Marshall Kass, Dan Stromberg, and Gabe
Silvers. Ri ght: There 's a spot on your shirt! Chri s Anderson gets foo led again .
14
A liquid supper.
15
�When not reading a great book - or a trashy novel - or
studying Greek or math , students meet in guerrilla seminars
on biology or Jewish texts or the Koran, take canoes out on
College Creek, dress in neo-medieval garb, practice yoga,
long for love and daydream. Students and outside trespassers
crab and fish along the creek. A pickup volleyball game goes
on in gym, which long ago was a stable.
The over four-hundred-year old Liberty Tree, the last,
offers its quiet shade to students playing slow, thoughtful,
killer croquet, hyperactive squirrels, and a couple holding
hands, just as it did long ago to Washington and Lafayette.
The siren call of billiards, seminar readings, French or
poker beckon. The Mitchell Gallery and the King William
Players offer some solace, as do the waltzes and swing parties
in the Great Hall. Late at night, the sky, a jeweled blue-black
carpet hangs over the college as shivering students cluster
around a telescope, looking at far away Jupiter and Alpha
Centauri.
Maybe it is worth it all after all. Maybe not.
- Michael Christian '98
Pia Thadhani and Mary Lynch kidnap a smiling Becky Lange, for ransom.
16
17
�Its okay, tutors eat too, says Project Politae worker Marta Lee.
Emi ly Maglathlin ex pl ains math to her Project Politae student.
A lexa Van Dal sem calcul ates qui ckly to
stay one step ahead.
Girls? We ll , it ' s like th is, Gi les Anderson, says.
Project Politae
Tranqu ili zer guns fi lled with Ritalin wi ll be the nex t innovation for Project Politae tutors,
18
19
�Fred & Ginger have nothing o n Joel Ard & Laura Gi anniny. Below: Charlie Weber and Danie lle lnsetta
are so cute.
Clockwise from above: I. Ned has finally found a book he can sink hi s teeth into. 2.
A bike. 3. Max Schaeffer and Michael Behmer have a little picnic. 4. Jehanne
Dubrow and Pi a Thadhani enj oy mu sic . Who doesn' t?
Mr. Dink explains life, the uni verse, and everything.
20
21
�The Art
The Dining Hall
Gallery
THE MITCHELL GALLF V
R
Oh my God. Mealtime. Passed down fo r centuries as a cherished experience, a time
all can come together and partake of one of the greatest joys life offers. Food. Si zzling
steaks, juices dripping down chjn s as the fl avor storms into the mjdst ofour very being,
overcoming our minds and reminding us of why we were born . Cri sp, healthful salad,
a j oyous example of the bounty that nature offers us free of charge. It would be a crime
to tamper with these gifts, to toy with them in such a way that nature's attempt to
persuade us of the j oy of li ving becomes in stead a hideous reminder of our own
mortality, a scarring, terrifying torture, an ongoing series of pajnful deaths, worsened
by the horrible knowledge that soon it will come agrun , that nothing we can do wi II ever
stop it. Like an unstoppable juggernaut, a thousand pounds of sheer pain bearing down
on us, closer every second as the clock ticks round, too rapidl y approaching the hour
of our foretold doom. Marriott. We will never forget.
Alex Bow les attempts to sneak into the gallery after hours.
Top left: Juni or Jesse Berney
concentrates on using utensil s
for the first time. Top ri ght:
Michael Gaffney gives up on
Marriott and settles on j ui ce
for dinner. Bill Ersk ine hopes
forthe best and digs in. Bottom
left: Marriott - need we say
more? Bottom right: Abigail
Greig watches Danie ll e Tabe la
fo r any adverse effects before
eating.
Rapper Sarah Fremont shares her fee lings on the Rembrandt exhibit.
22
23
�Boys
" Rolling! Quiet please !"
Mc Dowell Hall emotes fo r the camera.
Above: Superstar Teen Heartthrob Wiley Wiggins enjoys a smoke.
"Thi s is my vision." (She really said that.)
Below: The boys of Boys.
The movie came, and it went. While it was here, students could be seen
stomping their feet in anger as Production Assistants held them back
from important meetings, study, or even classes. Many students were
annoyed by the movie, although some found interest in the movie's
workings, or the cast, and many waited in the wings for just one glimpse
of Winona Ryder, who was not gracious enough to appear to most.
Students' meals were disturbed, their mail was delayed, their Coffee
Shop was painted orange. Some classes were even asked to be quiet so
that the movie could shoot scenes. Overall, though, the movie people
were gracious and as polite as possible. Within days of their leaving,
things were put back to normal- except that the college made money and
the students got booths in the Coffee Shop. This was a year of fame for
the college, however small, with the movie and later, Good Morning
America's segment on the college. Many students will be paying $6.00
to see the movie when it comes out in the Spring, to see the few minutes
of Glory which St. John's College gets in the movie, Boys.
24
Techies Carl McLaughlin & Cobalt Blue- in
Flynn .
25
�DIVERSIONS
A Myriad of
(In) Activities
Left : Heidi Jacot knits before seminar. Below:
Beth Laster attempts to li ght her cigarette by
concentrating rea ll y hard . Bott om Le ft : A lex
Bow les pl ays a little tune. Bottom Ri ght : Larry
McNeely performs for the camera.
Far Right: Eli Wiggins chasi ng squirrel s? Right:
Hi , I'm Satan! Enjoy the rest of the yearbook.
Below: Of course they haven' t fini shed the reading!
26
27
�The coffee shop is the hub around which the social life of St.
John 's revolves. We rely on it for our mail , our news, our food.
We meet our tutors here in the day , and dance our blues away on
weekend nights. The coffee shop is our agora, our collective
common room.
THE
c
0
F
F
Deirdre O ' Shea isn' t sure if she should believe Matt Carter.
E
E
SHOP
Wes Donehower, John Clasby , and Malinda Campbell show
approval of our new Coffee Shop Managers: Pi zza Express.
Hayes Adams slyly sneaks hi s way in to the front of the long coffee shop line.
Left: Erin Monberg checks her yogurt for small unidenti fied objects. Above: Mark Whippl e and Jesse Be rney
engage in male bonding.
Adam Marker attempts to study while invi sible hand boy torments him .
28
29
�THE GADFLY
Producti on manager Jesse Berney demands more
bene fit s.
Layout Editor and Gadfly goddess Jennifer Coonce supports Editor Nathan Jongewaard with her psuke.
The weekly newspaper, The Gadfly, is seen scattered across the tables
Wednesdays in the Coffee Shop where students have left them after
scouring them, glancing over them, or barely noticing them at all after
removing them from mailboxes. Ju st as interesting as the paper itself is
what goes on behind the scenes in that small office in Pinkney. This year
was marked with major changes, catastrophes, and strides. Staff writers
searched diligently for good stories for each week. The light in the office
could often be seen on early into Monday morning, as the staff worked to
put the paper to bed. All nighters were pulled by the dedicated staff, often
due to severe computer problems. Despite this, the staff braved the
problems and presented to the students, as many agreed, a much improved
student weekly .
Rebekah Jongewaard works on a story outside
-a welcome change from the cramped Gadfly
office.
30
"This isn' t news, it 's crap! " screams crazy Gadfly
Ed itor Nathan Jongewaard.
Jenn ifer Coonce and Deirdre O ' Shea stare in horror
as the Gadfly computer crashes.
31
�equitor
"Mess with me
a nd yo u' ll be
s lee pin g with
the fi sh, see?"
threatens Mall
Corcoran.
Hooked on Phonics - it worked for
me!
" Hi! Do you know me?'' asks ex-Johnnie Nick
Pignone.
Steve Maggilli getting mugged by a tree.
The Johnni e laughs in the face o f danger.
(410) 263-237 1 ex t. 303.
Bad hair study group .
32
Shon Meckfessel, a man on a mi ss ion.
33
�Individual Pages
This is our first year
trying to "catalogue"
all students by picture. We wanted
something more flattering and personal
than seminar photos,
but better than high
school nightmares
we've had from looking at pages and pages
of people with umform styles. Our photographers worked
very hard, and actually hunted people
down when we
couldn't get a picture
of someone. Because
of lack of experience
with this project, this
year the project
wasn't as well organized as we would
have liked, and unfortunately,
we
missed a few students. We apologize
to them, but hope that
you will find this catalogue enjoyable and
valuable.
Thank you,
Jennifer Coonce
34
Listed from right to left, top to
bottom
Page 36
Danielle lnsetta
Nathan Sherrard
Lee Hoggard
Felix Leslie
Amy Strieby
Jodi Schneider
Stephen Urich
Richard Schmechel
Dora Jacobs
Lui s Salas
Cindy Lutz
Elizabeth Buchen
Todd Stregiel
Sarah Ludwig
Brian Pursley
Larry McNeely
Kate Glassman
Remington Korper
Heidi Grossenbacher
Jihan Shekem
Lydia Polgreen
Juliana Martonffy
Chri s Stevens
Erin Monberg
Marjorie Truman
Dav id Polgreen
Phillip Goetzinger
Page 37
Rudolfo Hernandez
Walter "Bucky" Harris
Dan Tahaney
Jeffrey Gara
Chris Simpson
David Haber
Evan Phillips
Jessica Covitz
Margaret Ross
Nadia Qurashi
Chris Gross
Svetlana Mendyuk
Jeff Travis
Daniel Wood
Valerie Garvin
Jeremy Melvin
Danielle Tabela
Erin Hearn
Leah Fisch
Michael Chri stian
William Aaron
Ruth Busko
Dawn Shuman
Lucinda Boynton
Robert Young
Alexander Shear
Timothy Pomarole
Josh Rogers
Page 38
Thomas Donehower
Jesse Berney
Gabriel Bell
Matt Corcoran
Alexander Boozer
Matthew Carter
Aline Gram
Alex Bowles
Melinda Campbell
Evan Skladany
Mary Lynch
Adrien Gehring
Carla Echevarria
Michael Behmer
Jehanne Dubrow
Lori Freeman
Jennifer Coonce
Chris Anderson
Jeanne Detch
Matthew Caswell
Bryce Ferrie
Caitlin Aptowicz
Ian Brennan
Celine Bocchi
AmyHu
Page 39
Carter Snead
Dakota Johnston
Kendall Golladay
Sharon Soper
Dana Schaffel
John Williams
Deirdre 0 ' Shea
Katharine Wil son
Dana Reynolds
Carrie Killoran
Emily Maglathlin
Charles Niblack
Chri stina Papavasiliou
Ian Kelley
Rebekah Jongewaard
Dimitry Fedotov
Kevin Gardner
Nicole Gomez
Jessica Hunter
Kit Linton
Christopher Ranck
Lydia Rolita
Damon Kovelsky
Elaine Spidle
Rana Choi
Page 40
Dara Trought
Heather Deutsch
Peter Rispin
Richard Bravo
Maia Jennifer Johnson
Max Schaeffer
James Knerr
Sarah Bridges
Gabriel Silvers
John Michels
Marshall Kass
Adam Marker
Stephen Maggitti
Beth Laster
Marianne Thompson
Joshua Murbarger
Avik Mohan
Shannon Lee
Rebecca Michael
Andrew McCarthy
Jeremiah James
Erin Martell
Carl Grunert
Joseph Manheim
Page 41
Randolph Stark
Thaddeus Verhoff
Zackary Smoll
Robin Locke
Brian T. McGuire
Aidan Kelleher
[Page 4 1 Continued]
Taylor Hudnall
Maura Tennor
Jennifer Bates
Sonia Kamal
Laura Spess
Collomia Charles
Eri n Bonning
Ryan Nelson
Nathan Jongewaard
Sal vatore Scibona
Alexander Bilik
Jen nifer Dair
Kathleen Tinning
Valerie Scheckler
Grant Edmonds
Andrew Paolone
Mark Whipple
Page 42
Becky Lange
All ison Eddy Brown
Kristin Leake
Joseph Marcucilli
Jonathan Andrews
Wesley Beato
Frey Hoffman
Coli n Fox
Daniel Speck
Dominic Crapuchettes
Mike We ldo n Goree
Pia Thadhani
Alan Pichanick
Juan Villasenor
Ian Nyberg
Vincent Dude
Dav id Braithwaite
Joshua Parish
Lura Groen
Jong Chu ng
Jonathan Eckley
Seth Milliken
Mary Duncan
Ellwood Wiggins
Anthony Co le
Page 43
Tom Kurland
Benjamin Carlson
Sarah Knutson
Michael Williams
Kirk Joseph Knight
Valentin Videnov
Sarah Ochs
James Keidel
Bird
Scott Larson
Gjergji Bojaxhi
Erin Smyth
Adam Wing
Adam Weisberg
Melissa Potter
Candace Feit
Jan Surer
Christy McElroy
Sarah Freemont
Beatrice Robbins
Michael O ' Mara
Santiago Navarro-Monzo
Geoffrey Marslett
Darden Frank Bunn
William Hoffman
Lili Zarghami
Vada Mossavat
Page 44
Chri stopher Simmons
Aaron Pease
Karra DeVellis
Whitney Peterson
Crystal Welliver
'Mike Sherwin Beck
Pamela Bergson
Lari ssa Parson
Jeremy Sager
Michael Chiantella
Whiz Ganwise Fewtrell
Marta Lee
Brigette Rojas
Anton Fedyashin
Dean Eva Brann
Kamielle Shaffer
Lynette Dowty
Lucinda Montgomery
Asta Almenas
Corey Comstock
Keith Forrest
John Michael MacDonald
Patrick Donahue
Marisa Frank
Abby Clara Murray
Hai Sun
Keith Berner
Page 45
Douglas Lynam
Daniel Lee
Alexis Martinez
Reiko Gregg
Daniel Pearlman
Kirk Plankey
Stephen Kagarise
Anne Gerr
Janice Cater
Haakon Maxwell
Johanna Baumann
Benjamin Sullivan
Clayton Gandy
Ryan Emery
Yu Hang
Jean Tully
Nadia Qurashi
Brady Parkhurst
William Sothern
Binker
Grypho Geraldine Perkins
Judith Neely
Vladimir Mashenko
Benjamin Bloom
Thomas Tandaric
Alexa Van Dal sem
Ian Robertson
Lydia Aybar
Daniel Stromberg
Ryan Madison
Renate Lunn
Nathan Greenslit
Elizabeth Davis
John Sifton
Rachel Davis
Brendan Grady
Hilary Cumberton
Jill Cantine
Lenka Rosolova
Jacqueline Camm
Joella Klinghoffer
Lea Sigrid Pitkanen
Pete Smith
Forrest Norman
Heather Miller
William Sothem
Mikie Weidman
Sara Barker
Leigh Fitzpatrick
Jing Wang
Zoe Andriola
Not Pictured:
Jeffrey Berger
Sarah Bittle
Jennifer Borell
Patricia Burk
Jefferson DuBose
Hannah Gillelan
Marybeth Guerrieri
Andrew Hill
Michael Ivins
Sonia Kang
Kelly Lyons
Amelia Marcetti
JoanneOdom
Benjamin Rickles
Susan Rzucidlo
Ariel Szabo
Timothy Winslow
Laurin Wollan
Page 46
Jeff Palmer
Chri s Jones
Heidi Jacot
Carl McLaughlin
Luke Trares
35
������Waltz Parties
Balcony fl owers Bill Erskine, Jake Kosseff and Jill Kasparek observe the party.
Josh Murbarger swings with Jac kie Camm .
Mi ssy Frank and
partner at the Latin
Dance party.
Joell a Klinghoffer and Aaron Thomas try role reversa l.
46
Sexy ladies Jenni fer Swaim and Vada Mossavat stea l the show at the
Halloween Waltz.
47
�"What are you going to do after graduation?"
At home for Christmas, in a Johnnies' dorm room,
with former fellow high school students and teachers, it
is one question which haunts every Johnnie' s life.
We read the "Great Books"; we work our way
through Euclid and Ptolemy; we discuss Hegel, Kant,
Descartes and Plato with each other on dates-when we
can think of nothing else to do or talk about; we sing and
listen to wonderful music-aside from the Beastie Boys;
we ask ourselves "Why is there-like-all this stuff in
a dead rabbit?" But what will all this lead to? What will
we do with our lives? Perhaps this anomaly, this oddity
in American higher education, is the reason so many
Johnnies marry other Johnnies or never marry. How
could we explain our "college" to an outsider such as a
parent, prospective lover or employer, besides that it is
not a seminary or a Catholic school?
No written tests besides one on algebra-which is
not part of the program-no electives, all grades carefully kept from students and parents, no majors or
minors, no more laughing, no more fun.
So we keep looking, week after week, in the
Sunday New York Times help wanted section for jobs
for young, aspiring philosopher-kings, yet we never find
them. The personal ads seem equally depressing, week
after week after week.
Students leaving Mell on, remini scent of a Boys scene we watched being film ed a
hundred times.
48
49
�Clockwise from be low: I. Senior Karl a Manzur loves that
Hegel! 2. Wise foo l Salvatore Scibona reads the latest Jackie
Coll ins. 3. Sophomore Laura Co llins reali zes she ' s done twenty
pages of the wrong reading.
Top left: If I smil e purty, will you let me our of seni or lab? Top right : See when the big one hits the little one, they go, cli ck! Above: Maya John son, Chris
and Robin Locke masquerade as Johnnies.
50
51
�Top: Mr. Sageng psyches himself up for another day of draw ing reall y whacking
huge c irc les. Bonom: Nice shoes, Mr. Druecker!
Mr. Comenetz contemplates hi s Ca lculus manual.
52
I'm on a mi ssion from God .
Mr. Kutler and Mr. Umphrey di scuss The Meaning of Life (the movie).
53
�FRESHMAN SEMINARS
FRESHMAN SEMINARS
Mr. Capozzoli and Mr. Slakey
Mr. Cosans and Mrs. Flaumenhaft
Back Row: Christopher Gross, Robert Young, Michael Chri stian, Jeremy Melvin , Mr. Cosans. Middle
Row: Margaret Ross, Scott Larson,
S he rw in Beck , R yan E me ry,
Front Row:
Beatri ce Robbins.
Mrs. Flaumenhaft, Kathleen T inning, Jean Tull y, Marisa Jo Frank ,
Emil y Maglathlin , Eli zabeth Dav is,
Carrie Killoran, Heidi Grossenbacher, Sarah Ochs. Not Pi ctured:
Joseph Marcucilli.
Back Row: Ke ll y Lyons, Benjamin
C ar lson , Mr . S lakey , We ldo n
Goree, T imothy Pomarole. Middle
Row : Willi a m So th e rn , Ke ith
Be rn er, Lea Pitk a ne n , Mr.
Capozzo li , Jeremy Sager, Larissa
Pa rso n , Vl ad imir M as he nk o,
Stephen Kagari se.
Front Row:
Jess ica Cov it z, Lil i Za rg ham i,
Leigh Fitzpatrick,JaquelineCamm ,
Dawn Shuman, Lura Groen. Not
Pictured: Lui s Salas.
Mr. Doskow and Mr. Zuckerman
Ms. Kraus and Mr. Page
Standing: Mr. Page, Joseph Kni ght,
Santi ago Navarro-M onzo, Felix
Leslie, Daniel Lee, Al an Pichanick,
Di c kso n ,
Re be ka h
Se th
Jongewaard , Alexandra Boozer,
Nathan Greenslit, Jenni fe r Dair,
Danielle Tabela, Coll omia Charles,
Ms . Kra us.
Seated : Nath a n
Sherrard, Mark Binet, Sara Barker,
Am y Strieby, Heather Deutsch.
Not Pi ctured: Nicole Standley.
Back Row: Marianne Thompson,
C hri s to ph e r Jo nes, C hri s tin a
Papavasiliou, Evan Skladany, Crystal Welli ver, Mr. Zuckerman, Nadia
Quras hi , Mr . Doskow, T o m
Kurl and, Jonathan Eckley, Asta
Almenas, Leah Fi sch. Front Row:
Jill Cantine, Frey Hoffman, Andrew Hill , C indy Lutz, Phill ip
Goetzinger. Not Pi ctured: Michael
O ' Ma ra , Andrew Pao lo ne , Ian
Robertson.
Mr. Blaustein and Mr. Comber
Mr. Datchev and Mr. Umphrey
Back Row: Mr. Umphrey, Daniel
Pearlman, Jihan Shekem, Marjorie
Truman, Patrick Donahue, Karra
DeVelli s, Thaddeus Verhoff, Mr.
Datchev. Middle Row: C layton
Gandy, Jenni fer Borell , Hai Sun,
Dana Schaffe l, Sarah Knutson.
Front Row : Kath arine Wilson,
Dora Jacobs, Gabriel Bell , Will iam Aaron. Not Pictured: Ariel
Szabo, Anuja Malhotra, Whitney
Peterson.
Back Row: Joshua Rogers, Ganwise
Fewtrell , Anne Gerr, Alexander
Shear, Dani el Tahaney, Timothy
Winslow. Middle Row: Heather
Mill e r, Lu c ind a Boy to n, Be n
Ri c kl es, So ni a Ka ng , Rodo lfo
Hernandez. Front Row: Alex is
Martinez, Mr. Combe r, Ni co le
G o mez , Pa m Be rgso n , Mr.
Bl austein , Dani el Wood. Not Pictured: Ruth Busko, Ame lia Marcelli ,
Juliana Martonffy.
55
54
�JANUARY FRESHMAN SEMINARS
SOPHOMORE SEMINARS
Mrs. Renaut and Mr. Townsend
Mrs. Maschler and Ms. Langston
B ac k Row: Mit c he l Ho ppe r ,
Shawn Steward, Clark Madden,
Joshua Burleigh, Stuart Davenport,
Josiah Rowe, Kev in Dav is. Front
Ro w : Mr s. M asc hl e r, M s .
Langston, Marie de St. Hippolyte ,
Theressa Creighton, Sarah Vinson,
Matthew John ston, Barbara Seaman. Not Pi ctured: Vira Fe liciano.
Bac k Row: Va le ntin Vide nov,
Davi d Brai thwaite, Mr. Townsend ,
Forrest Norman, William Hoffman,
Middle Row:
Dana Rey nolds.
Mrs. Renaut, Damon Kovelsky, Jan
Surer, Sarah Fre mont, Colin Fox ,
Jenni fer Coonce, Jodi Schneider,
Larry McNee ly, Sarah Bridges ,
Da ni e ll e ln se tta , Kit Lint o n.
Seated: Zackary Smoll , lan Brennan
Not Pi ctured: Lydi a Po lg ree n,
Gera ld ine Pe rki ns, J os hu a
Murbarger.
Miss Blettner and Mr. Littleton
Mrs. Kronsberg and Mr. Edisis
Back Row: Laura Spencer, Dav id
Bick, Melina Hoggard, Mary Ford,
Chri stina Gaetano, Mike Dimezza,
Eli Martin , Chri sti an Van Sant,
Benjamin Zebley.
Front Row:
Mrs. Kronsberg, Chri stopher Bush,
Sh a un e qua J o rd a n , Da rre n
Gardner. Not Pictured: Lauren
Connolly, Erin Rowe.
Back Row: Anthony Co le, Benj a min S ulli va n, Ryan Carl son,
Ma ura T e nn o r, Jo hn Mi c hae l
Mac Do na ld , Ada m We is berg.
Middle Row: Mr. Littleton, Stephen
Uri ch, Anton Fedyashin, Joseph
Manheim , Mary Lynch, Malinda
Campbe ll , Rana Choi. Seated :
Marta Lee, Bri an Pursley, Richard
S c hm ec he l, Co rey Co ms toc k,
Dav id Haber. Not Pi ctured: Becky
Lange, Rebecca Mi chae l, Kirk
Plan key.
Mr. White and Mr. Wyatt
Back Row: Aaro n Pease, Mr.
Wya tt , Lynette Dow ty , Brad y
Parkhurst, Chri stopher Simmons,
Kev in Gardner, Mr. White. Front
Row: Kate Glass man, Jong Chung,
Loraine Freeman, Shannon Lee.
Not Pi ctured: Jonathan Andrews,
Johanna Baumann , Patric ia Burk,
Amy Hu , James Keidel, Remington
Korper, Erin Monberg, Luc inda
Mo ntgo me ry , Max Sc haeffe r,
Chri stopher Sim pson, Chri stopher
Stevens.
57
56
�SOPHOMORE SEMINARS
JUNIOR SEMINARS
Mr. Smith and Mr. Salem
Mr. Higuera and Mr. Rad itsa
Standing: Mr. Salem, Li am Grady,
Randolph Stark , Juan Villasenor,
Adam Marker, Jefferson DuB ose,
Mi c h ae l C hi a nte ll a , Dav id
Pol green, Evan Phillips, Mr. Smith.
Seated: Laura Spess, Ellwood
Wi ggins, Pia Thadhani, Thomas
Tandari c, Reiko Gregg, Rachael
Davi s.
No t Pi ctured : T ay lor
Hudnall , Lydia Aybar, Benj amin
Bloom, Darden Bunn.
Back Row : Adam Wing, Mike lMe red i We idm a n , Alexander
Bowles, Mark Whipple, Alexander
Pickands, Adrien Gehring, Matthew
Carter. Front Row: Kri sti n Leake,
Hilary Cumberton, Yu Hang, Dara
Trought, Erin Hearn, Marshall Kass.
Not Pictured:Sarah Bittle, Laurin
Wollan.
Mr. Beall and Mr. Sterling
Mr. Barbera and Mr. Sachs
Back Row: Alexander Bilik, Celine
Bocchi , Edward Behmer, Mr. Sterling, Mr. Beall , Grant Edmonds,
Gjergji Boj ax hi , Vincent Dude,
Christy McElroy.
Front Row:
Luke Trares, Judith Neely,Jehanne
Dubrow, Heidi Jacot, Aline Gram,
Alexa VanDalsem, Erin Martell ,
Beth Laster, Salvatore Scibona.
Not Pi ctured: William Erskine,
Brigette Rojas, Kamielle Sha ffer,
Juli a Van Reeven.
Back Row : Geoffrey Mars leu ,
Nathan Jongewaard , Ke ith Forrest,
Carl Grunert, A vik Mohan. Middle
Row: M atth ew Caswell , Mr .
Ba rbe ra , Ma ry be th Guerrieri,
Wesley Beato, Lyd ia Rolita, Susan
Rzucidlo, Mr. Sachs. Front Row :
Gabriel Silvers, Robin Locke, Carla
Echevarria. Not Pictured: Clara
Murray, Dani el Stromberg.
Brother Robert Smith and Mr.
Stephenson
Back Row: Mr. Stephenson, Richard Bravo, Lee Hoggard, Joshua
Pari sh, Seth Milliken, De irdre
O'Shea, Ian Kelley. Midd le Row:
Mary Dun ca n, Laura Collins ,
Haako n Maxwe ll , Theresa
Andriola, Erin Ba nning, Brother
Seated: Vada
Robe rt Smith.
Mossavat, Erin Smyth, Jeffrey
Travis, Matthew Corcoran, Steve
Magg itti . Not Pictured: Walter
Ha rri s, Aidan Ke llehe r, Sarah
Ludwig.
58
Ms. Blits and Mr. Cohen
Back Row: Jeffrey Gara, Ryan
Madison, Dimitry Fedotov , Andrew McCarthy, Jonathan Spooner,
Je ffrey Pa lme r, Da ni e l Speck .
Middle Row: Svetlana Mendyuk ,
Ms. Slits, Douglas Lynam, Elaine
Spid le, Mr. Cohen , John Wi lli ams,
Peter Smith.
Front Row: Jing
Wang, Caitlin Aptowicz, Elizabeth
Bu c he n.
Not Pi c tured : Ca rl
Mc Laughlin .
59
�SEMINARS
SENIOR SEMINARS
Mr. Dink and Mr. Yee
Mr. Ma istrellis and Mr. Sageng
Back Row: Mr. Maistrellis, John
Michels , Bry ce Ferrie, Peter
Ri spin , Jeremiah James, Joella
Klinghoffer, Tom Donehower, Mr.
Sageng.
Front Row: Jeffrey
Berger , Ca nd ace Feit , Brian
McGuire, Alli so n Eddy-Brown ,
Maya Johnson, Sonia Kamal. Not
Pi ctured : James Knerr, Me li ssa
Potter, John Sifton, Carter Snead.
Back Row: Mr. Yee , Edward Freeman , Samuel Huxley, John Clasby,
Sean Stickle, Terry Moore. Midd le
Row: Zena Hitz, Michelle Sitton.
Jennifer Swaim, Shana Hack, Elizabeth Follmer, April Walters. Front
Row: Tracy Whitcomb, Anna
Henao, Kristen Byme. Not Pictured: Willi am Bo lan, Amanda
Dulin , La ura Gianniny , Jacob
Kosseff, Heather Lockhart , Micah
Ph arri s.
Mr. Sc hoe ner
Williamson
Mr. Zeiderman a nd Mrs. Seeger
Back Row: Ian Nyberg, Ch ris
Anderson , Ha nn a h Gillelan ,
Renate Lunn, Sharon Soper, Ms.
Seeger, Ryan Nelson , Christopher
Landers, Mr. Zeiderman. Front
Row: Chris Ranck , Jeanne Detch ,
Le nka Roso lova, Jani ce Cater,
Not Pi ctured:
Val erie Garvin.
Je nnife r Bates , Jesse Be rney,
Kendall Golladay , Michael Will iams.
Mr. Burke and Mr. Schul man
Back Row: Zachary Rasmuson,
Giles Anderson, C hri s top he r
Kurfess, Cra ig Sirkin, Joel Ard,
Zdravko Daskalov, Mr. Burke.
Middle Row: Mr. Schulman, Wes
Donehower, Jess ica VanDriesen,
Jessica Wen sell , Margaret Arnold,
Michae l Mangiaracina . Front
Row: Kate Feld, China Williams,
Sarah VanDeusen, Greg Hodges.
Not Pictured: Alice Brown, Justin
Maddox, Matthew Radb ill , Imam
Sawez, Matthew Tebo.
60
a nd
Mr.
Back Row: Cora John son, Brian
McG uire, Aaron Dav is , Emi ly
Murphy, Heidi Overbeek , Aaron
Thomas, Mr. Williamson. Middl e
Row: Karla Manzur, Sharon Dinitz,
Amy Thurston, Reuben Marshall ,
Nedalina Dineva, Sarah Burke, Jill
Kasparek, Victoria Printz, Kathryn
Stolzenbach.
Seated: Jonathan
Crimmins, Mr. Schoener Not Pictured: Matth ew Ba um , Chad
Cranfill , Alka Ko th ari , Daniel
Nelson.
Ms. Haigney and Mr. Kutler
Back Row: Mari ssa Mijal , Chanta l
Roubachewsky , Tucker Braddock,
Mi chael Gaffney, Charles Weber,
Rebecca Trumble, Ms. Ha igney .
Middle Row : Carrie Sager, Jo hn
Blouin , Sebastian Ga nson ,
Frederick Henderson , Jason Voigt ,
Ja ni ce
Thompson.
Gwen
Pogrowski. Seated: Adrienne St.
Onge, Sarah Schl aden, Mr. Kutler,
Juli aKell y, Rebecca Dzamov . Not
Pi ctured : Mari e Pelczynski, Erin
Toomey.
61
�\.....a.ll utUIICll 1\.II UW~ Wlldl i1 111Uil i1U IS, UUlllt: S IIU l lt!lllng .
IN THE
CLASSROOM
Lydia Rolita contemplates her reading .
"I only took the regular
course. Reeling and Writhing
of course to begin with," the
Mock Turtle replied, "and the
different branches of Arithmetic - Ambition, Distraction, Uglification, and Derision."
Three handsome men in c lass .
Jennifer Coonce often he lps students prepare for
music class in the Music Library.
It it Jesus or Gjergji?
John Wi ll iams pauses on hi s way to class.
62
63
�Studies
Hill ary Curn berton and Robin Locke
di scuss Kant.
Sharon Soper looks up from a seminar
readi ng.
Great Books, Good books, Bad books, Dirty
books, Library books, Class books, Student books,
Comic books, Favorite books, Check books, Cook
books, Holy books, Overdue books, Short books,
Backpack books, Travel books, Leisure books, Reference books, Seminar books, Big books, Small books,
One book, Two books, Red book, Blue books, Dr.
Seuss books. Book worms, Book marks, Little Black
books, Power books, Notebooks, Used books, Out of
print books, Borrowed books, Telephone books, Computer books, but no Textbooks!
·· -·· ··- -Above: Sly ian Nyberg gels the answers fro m Carter Snead. Above Ri ght:
Jennifer Dair and fri end study Greek
on the quad.
An optimi stic To pher Kurfess psyches up
solemn Sebasti an Ganson for class.
Sophomores Sarah Lud wig and Lucy Monl gomery laugh at all the work Juni ors have
to do.
M r. Sterling ....
Che ' Lyons gets organi zed .
64
65
�St. John's offers a wide variety of Intramural
Sports to it's students: everything from old favorites
Soccer, Basketball, and Football to Fencing, Crew,
and Tai Chi. Students are encouraged to take part in
the sports program even if they don't know how to
play.
Our Sports Director, Leo Pickens, does everything
he can to fairly distribute funding to students for
whatever sports they may like to do. Some students
take the sports program very seriously, and go on to
receive College Blazers and retire their jerseys. Others just find comfort in participating once in awhile. In
any case, the sports are offered as an outlet for
students, and not for severe competition with each
other or other schools.
66
67
�"Mr. Schoener, you know bikes aren' t allowed in soccer. "
It 's all in the angles.
Good ball , Bad ball .
.... ...
l".t..~\;(.\·, ~.~.--
Johnnie football - better than the NFL.
..~
Thi s section of the yearbook was brought to you by those kind folks at the Coca-Cola Company.
•\.~
'
Glory of Crew.
Run ! It' s a two-headed monster!
James Keide l ex periments with regul ar circular motion.
68
69
�Ben Bloom, ready to defend the Spartan goal.
Vince Dude forgets what team he's on.
s
0
c
c
Aaaah!
ali ve!
e
r
Everyone watches as Gjergji Bojaxhi takes
his chance.
70
Juniors Marshall Kass and Dan Stromberg: Gods of the playing field.
71
�Ri ght : Kri stin Leake hangs back in uncertai nty as
Jenni fer Swaim beats Deirdre O ' Shea to the ball.
Below: St. Mary 's student . Good j ob yearbook
staff!
Pia Thadhani happil y pl ays with her soccer ball.
KUVAI
On a desperate run from the mindless barbarity of male-dominated
sports, many women at St. John 's have found a gentler, more spiritual
way of unleashing their desire for physical exertion and an us versus
them mentality. Soccer. Long described as a gentlemen's game, here,
under the tutelage of Leo Pickens, players learn to appreciate the finer
aspects of the game. Teamwork, sportswomanship and a love for the
beauty of a perfect maneuver. To know once and for all what it is like
to be part of perfection. For this is not too high a word for this venture.
While winning is not guaranteed, every game they perform consistently
with more nobleness and magnificence than can be witnessed at any
other time on the mud-sodden St. John's playing field. One of the few
teams permitted to play other schools, they are fine ambassadors for the
ideals we all hold so dear, and never fail to create a lasting impression
wherever they go. What more can be said?Whatmorecan be expressed?
Let the pictures speak.
Above: The Kuvai Team: (left to right) Back row:
Pia Thadhani , Kate Feld , Elaine Spid le, Susan
Borden, Nadia Qurashi , Jennifer Swaim, Adrien
Gehring, Johanna Bauman, Kri stin Leake, Kate
Glassman , Gwen Pogrowsk i. Middle row: Tracy
Whitcomb, Erin Monberg, Deirdre O ' Shea, Sarah Fremont. Front row : Becky Lang, Leah Fi sch,
Eli zabeth Buchen, Malinda Campbell , Mi che lle
Sitton, Rana Choi, Allison Eddy- Brown, Dara
Trought. Far Left: Elaine Spidle makes yet another goal. Left: Malinda Campbell shows us a
new dance step.
Abe Schoener just keeps on running past the ball.
Kate Feld doesn ' t fall for the same tri ck.
72
73
�CREW
Women's crew: They do more be fore 9 a. m. than most
people do all day.
Leo' s Angels.
John Michael MacDonald prepares for a race.
Crew: The camaraderie, the achievement of goals,
Coach Leo Pi ckens' snappy dressing.
Do you think we can make Boston by sundown ?
Someone should tell them
they' re headin g for the
rocks.
74
75
�In the Dance Studio
Clockwise from Right: The Modern Dance class:
sarah Van Deusen, Sar Bridge , Becca Mi chael,
Lydia Aybar, and Laura Gianniny. Laura and Lydia
concentrate on the ir posture. Joel Ard and Laura
Gianniny teac h a new class to the Ballroom dance
class. Becca Mi chael shows the girl s a new move. Sar
Bridges warms up at the barre.
Top ri ght: Laura Gianniny expresses her j oy at spending so much time in the
dance studio. Above: Dancing queen Becca Michael shows Aidan Kelleher
a new dance move. Ri ght: Rebecca and Rebekah aerobisize in the boathouse.
76
77
�"~ebbie Summer... defines what it means to be a Febbie. This event--these two grueling months
Febbie Summer
From "Off the Beaten Track", an
article for new febbies, as printed in the
Gadfly,January 31: "Febbies, you might
say, are pulp-Johnnies. Microcosmic
versions of what Johnnies themselves
are with relation to the academic world:
freaks. Only if you believe that St.John's
is just another school, would you believe that the Febbies are just another
clique. And this freakishness and all its
attendant baggage is basically because
of the apparent anachronistic character
of their respective cultures ....
The ideal thing, of course, would be
agreeable commerce between the different cultures-no regrets, no bad aftertaste. Freaks, obvious! y, are notoriou sly
bad at this. Where there is a Iot of traffic
there is a great deal of pressure to conform and to exerci se re traint at the
expense of identity, which is not something one gives up easily. Usually the
'other' majority can be downri ght hurtful in their attitudes. But even if they do
react as if they would rather endure
di sembowelment via tire iron than be
what you are, freakishness is not a license to be coy or cocky ....
Trying to deal with these rather unsettling incidents and coming through
intact is, I think , one of the hardest thing
to do. Some of us are naturals. Some of
us will get a B. Some of us will end up
trying to stuff our past under a rug.
There' s nothing anyone else can ultimately say or do to help besides pointing out reality; for our own part, it
requires self-perception, fortitude, and
amazing grace. One hard nosed piece of
harsh reality I will say to you Febbies,
though , is that while you will make
friends with non-Febbies and maybe
even come to hang, around them more
often, keep in mind that your de-facto
allies on this campus are other Febbie .
But apparently you know thi s already.
Good luck and take care."
-Rana Choi, Febbie, '97
78
give you all a common bond stronger than mere words ... "--Alex Bilik, Febbie, '97
Stephanie Paduano isn ' t impressed with whatever Stephen Maggitti has found in hi s hambu rger.
Hanging o ut in the humidity.
Amy Robertson and Kamielle Schaffer hang o ut
inside.
I
.•.
F ;.
·i
•
The Febbies share a jovial summer evenin g at their favorite " Littl e Campu s."
•
;=
lr
II
" Hey, I' m the Febbie dad and I say spit it
o ut !" says Jeff Hermanoff.
Alli son Eddy Brown is so happy about having cooked and cleaned for the Febbies all
summer long.
Rando lph Stark fi nds a problem with hi s hamburger.
r
I
Gjergji ma kes the campu s beautiful.
11
Alright, who ' s not singi ng?
Hey, it 's Tryst! We miss you!
79
�Sarah Schladen, Juli a Kelley, and a beer.
victim Santiago Navarro Monzo.
What are they pl anning?
Gi les hopes to find an escape route before Captain Larry Adams notices.
Jan ice Thompson wonders about life after graduation.
Erin Martell , Randolph Stark, Carla Echevarria, and Sarah Ludwig hang out on the quad.
"Hullo, I am sexy Reuben man," says Senior Rueben Marshall.
Rueben," says Sophomore Bill Ersk ine.
Pl ant love brings De irdre O ' Shea and Lori Freeman together at last.
80
81
�Dialogues
Dialogue is the backbone of our education. Whether its
a casual conversation, in class, or in a serious discussion
with a tutor, students at St. John ' s spend a great deal of
their time talking . Socrates describes to us the dialectic
in the Freshman year, and we follow his lead until we
graduate and afterwards .
Far left: Fres hme n Sa ntiago
Navarro-MonzoandCindy Lutz
fin d out fro m Gabrie l Be ll that
Freshman essays are due tomorrow. Left: " No, G il es, you can' t
be a Kuvai, '' say Mi chelle Sitton
and Heather Lockhart. Below:
Luke Trares and Danie lle lnsetta
di scuss tona l centers.
Above: Mr. Kalkavage speaks to a
visiting speaker. Far right: " I' ll give
you the answers fo r I 0 bucks," says
Matt Caswe ll to Seni ors Zena Hitz and
Jon Crimmins. Ri ght : "Shoes are evil...
they ' re just ev il !" says Tom Kurland
to Lil i Zarghami .
82
83
�SENIORS
A letter from Eva Brann to Seniors, printed in the
Gadfly, February 2 1:
Dear Seni ors:
Although I am sending this notice to all of yo u, I am
not sure that it should be add ressing each of yo u.
Moreover, I am, as yo u wi ll see, of two minds about
its message-as yo u must be.
As we all know, the reward for doing well in thi s
demi-paradi se is ej ection. However, as the word
"commencement" betokens, the world is before yo u.
It is thi s matter of fac t I want to intrude on your
present absorpti ons.
I am the most ardent defender of the notion th at your
four years here were, and will be to the las t day, life
itself- not a means to an end . Fu rthermore, I be li eve
that an educati on works in strange ways: the students
who pursue it most single-heartl y for it's own sake
are the students who will best be able to put it to
practi cal use. l am, consequentl y, not the person to
preach careers to yo u.
And yet, though yo ur learning will never cease,
your fo rmal liberal educati on-meaning educati on
free fro m vocati onal intentions--will end on May 15 .
What next? The beginning of most of yo ur li fe.
If you have thought of thi s fac t and have a pretty
good idea what you will be do ing, all is well. Even if
you have the purpose ful intenti on of do ing nothing,
all is pretty we ll.
But if yo u are anxious about the future and perhaps
also somewhat paralyzed, if yo u are confused about
yo ur plans or re luctant to face the nex t step, I do want
to urge you to do something towards settling your
mind now, before the spring vacati on. The vacation
is a good time to do practi cal fo llow-up.
Here is what yo u could do;
I . You could see M s. Karen Ho lland in the Pl acement Office. As its name impli es, thi s offi ce is meant
to he lp yo u find a place in the world, with practical
advi ce on resume writing, references to informative
alumni , a library of graduate school catalogues, tips
about jobs, and helpful conversati on.
2. You could seek out a tutor yo u tru st and have a
long ta lk about yo ur future. Or yo u might have a
purposeful sess ion with yo ur intimate fri ends.
3. You can come to see me. I' m pretty good at
helping people figure out what they reall y want as
we ll as sketching out practi ca l poss ibiliti es, and 1
wo uld like to he lp yo u.
Sincere ly,
Eva T. Brann
Dean
84
85
�CLAS OF 1995
Giles Carter Anderson
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Margaret Dycus Arnold
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Joshua Bates Barnard
Matthew Adam Baum
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Am y Laura Huberm an
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Sam uel Daw son
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Max Roe O'Donnell
Suzann e Michel e Vi to
David Christian Parr
Jason James Voigt
1\1 icah Dyla n Pharris
April Ida Walters
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Jill Kathleen Kasparek
Alice Haines Brown
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Cora Elizabeth Jonnso n
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Amy Lynn Thurston
Daniel Mather Nelson
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Kelly Elizabeth Nash
Vi ctori a Richardson Printz
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Julia Johnston Kelly
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Sharon Tiona
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Sarah Eliza beth Stanley _
Todd Mi cha el
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Jo-Ann Lynn Melton
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Aaron Dan iel Lewis
Clai borne Kenneth Hutchins Smith .
Orla ndo Carter Snead
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William Pat r i ck Bolan
Craig Andrew Sirkin
Paul Dav1d St einer
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Jason Michael McCready
Dan iel Lia m
C hina C hris tin e Will iams
St eve Hwan Yook
Imam U. Sawez
Neil Mark Simon
Justin David Maddox
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John Christopher William s
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Ann Justine Laurino
Selley Leo Liu
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Chr istopher Douglas Rorrer
Christoph~r
William Brook Maughan
.,.. '"'~' ''""'' ;:zr.L ~
Sara Tal a! Gam a
John Pa ul Rees
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86
87
�Joel Bernard Ard
John Blouin
J.Alexander Mahler
and
Tucker Vincent Braddock
88
to my tuto rs and classmates for he lping me begin to educate myself.
Special thanks to Greg for be ing the greatest fri end imaginable and to my
famil y for their love and support.
89
�vko Daskalov
When Psammetichus himself had heard, he inquired
which of mankind called something "bekos."
Jon Crimmins
John Clasby
Sharon Dinitz
90
" But we must not follow those who advise us, be ing men, to
think of human things, and being mortal , of mortal things,
but must, so far as we can, make ourse lves immortal, and
strain every nerve to li ve in accordance with the best thing
in us; for e ven if it be small in bulk, much more in power
and worth surpass everything."--Ethi c 11 77b 30-35
91
�Amanda K. Dulin
92
Kate Feld
�Cora Elizabeth Johnson
Remember, the wind yo u spread your sails to when leaving
Harbor sho uld not be used o ut on high
Seas: Jet your yo ung Jove, fancy free gather strength through
Experi ence. Nourish it well, in time
It will grow steadfast. The bull yo u now fear began as
The calf yo u stroked : the tree
Beneath which you recline was once a sapling. A river' s
Small beginnings swe ll with progression, embrace
Many confluent waters.
--The Art of Love, Ovid 1.337-345
T o my parents; I thank you for all of the love, support and patience you have shown over the
last four years. T o Alice; I th ank you for having been nothing less than the best friend I could
ha ve hoped for. St. John 's salve !
94
Sarah Ruth Van Deusen
Zena Naomi Hitz
95
�Jacob A. Kosseff
Justin Maddox
96
Alka Kothari
Christopher Kurfess
97
�-
Senic Essays
1 95
The Culmination of Elizabeth ' s Educa
tion: Love and Progress in Pride am
Prejudice
Love's Utterance: Madness, Sobriety,
and Unity in Plato's Phaedrus
Mr. Joel Ard
Ms. Elizabeth Follmer
Mr. Justin Maddox
Self-examination in Heart of Darkness
Ms. Sarah Schladen
Reaso n and Re li g ion in Spinoza's
Theologico-Political Treatise
Mr. Michael Mangiaracina
Searching for the Divine in Pl ato's
Timaeus
Mr. Craig Sirkin
What Is Proof?
Ms . Michelle Sitton
The Power of the Mind: Man 's Struggle
to Ri se Above Nature in the Essays of
Montaigne
Ms. Adrienne St. Onge
Exit, Pursued by a Bear: The Storybook
WorldofShakespeare' sThe Winter Tale
Mr. Sean Stickle
In ContemptofEmpire: !socrates ' Criti cism of Foreign Policy
Ms . Kathryn Stolzenbach
The Sky Over Our Heads: Sight and
Salvation in Tolstoy ' s War and Peace
Ms. Jennifer Swaim
The Clerk, The Kni gh t, Hi s Wyf, ane
Hir Lovere: Trouthe and Gentillesse in
The Franklin 's Tale
Mr. Matthew Tebo
On the Relati onship of Man and Nature
in Baudelaire' s Les Fleurs du Mal
Mr. Aaron Thomas
Myth and Metaphor in Piato' sPhaedrus
Ms. Jan ice Thompson
Suffering and God ' s Silence: Th e Book
of l ob
Ms. Amy Thurston
Mr. Giles Anderson
The Voice of a Stentor
Courage in Command
Mr. Edward Freeman
Ms. Margaret Arnold
Pain and Paradox in the Franklin 's Tale
or Entertainment at the Clerk's Expense
Mr. Matthew Baum
Li ving as the Mortal Poet: Heidegger
and a Look to Job
Mr. Michael Gaffney
Mr. John Blouin
Where's Waldo: An Inquiry into the
Emerson ian Method of Reform Through
Self-Reliance
Mr. Sebastian Ganson
Ms. Laura Gianniny
Mr. Willi am Bolan
The Pursuit of Love and Wi sdom in
Plato's Phaedrus
Mr. Tucker Braddock
King Dav id and Hi s Heart
Ms. Shana Hack
Ms. Alice Brown
Lessons from a Failed Student Who
Loves: An Examination of Alcibiades '
Role in Plato ' s Symposium
Beneath Geometry: Euclid 's Assump
tions in Book One of hi s Elemems
How Huck Leads Us to the River: Free
dom and Slavery in Th e Adventures I!
Huckleberry Finn
Ms. Karla Manzur
Satan in Les Fleurs du Mal : "Le plus
beau des Anges"
Mr. Reuben Marshall
The Trouble with Dialectic: The Duality
of Language That Must be Overcome by
Human Understanding
n AOrm; OYMOY
Opposites and the Immortality of the
Soul in Pl ato's Phaedo
Rousseau' sEmile, and the Savage Man
A Return to Society
Mr. Jason McCready
The Hero of Conscience: The Uniqu
Creation of Milton 's Paradise Lost
Mr. Bria n McGuire
The Speech of Spiritedness
Ms . Marissa Mijal
Huckleberry Finn and the Tales He Tell s
Mr. Frank lin Moore
Kaleidoscope: Consciousness and Development in the Phenomenology of
Spirit
Wild Women Don' t Get the Blues:
Look into the Wild Side of Human Na
ture Using M edea by Euripide
Agamemnon by Aeschylus, and Th
Bacchae by Euripides
Ms. Anna Henao
Ms. Kri sten Byrne
The Powerto Become Sons of God: The
Way to God in the Gospel According to
John
Ms. Emi ly Murphy
Ms. Zena Hitz
Cosmology and Mortality inMoby Di
Mr. Daniel Nelson
Baudelaire ' s Re lics of Experience
Ms. Erin Toomey
To Being Through Logos in the Sophist
Mr. Gregory Hodges
Homer' s Picture of Balance in Achi lL
and the Shield
Ms. Heid i Overbeek
The Transformation of Justice in The
Oresteia
Ms. Rebecca Trumble
" Hush, Natasha. Pray to God. Marriages
are Made in Heaven."
Men, Mediocrity, and Mathematics
Pascal
Ms. Marie Pelczynski
Beyond the Mask: An Inquiry into the
Salvation of a Fallen Angel
Ms. Sarah VanDeusen
The Good, the Bad, and the Just: 11
Tragedy of Bill y Budd
Mr. Micah Pharris
No New Taxes : The Role of Decepti on
in Democracy
Rags to Resurrection: Death and Rebirth in Dostoevsky' s Crime and Pun ishment
Ms. Jill Kasparek
Creating the Creators: Self-determin
tion in Milton's Paradise Lost
Ms. Gwendolyn Pogrowski
The Meaning Heard in the Repeated
Word: Exemplified in Wallace Stevens'
Smig, The Idea of Order at Key West
The Fall and Redempti on of Natasha
Rostova
Mr. Jason Voigt
Ms. Julia Kelly
On the Inte llectual and Spiritual Evob
tion of Man: Hegel' s Preface and lntn
duction to Phenomenology of the Spir
Aristotle' s Metaphysics, and Dante
Divine Comedy
Axiomatic Thinking:
Exemplarism
Mr. Charles Weber
Altruism and the Dream of the Great
Man: An Essay on Tolstoy ' s War and
Peace
Ms. Jessica Wense ll
"At the Last Assizes It Shall Acquit."
Captain Vere's Dec ision in Herm an
Melville ' s " Billy Budd, Sailor"
Ms. Tracy Whitcomb
Friendship in War and Peace: A Harmony Amidst the Chaos
Ms. China Williams
The Soul Never Thinks Without An
Image: Thinking and Imaginati on in
Aristotle ' s De Anima
Exploring Philosophy, Des pair, and
Deli ght in William Fauikner' sTheSound
and the FUiy
Mr. John C lasby
The Poli tical Relation of the Laborer
Liberty of Will Within American Civ
Government As An Economic Relati
of Labor to Property: The Appropriati
of Poli tical Representati on by Capital
Ms. Jess ica Van Driesen
An Examination of the Violent Teacher
in Thucydides ' s Peloponnesian War
Mr. Frederick Henderson
Ms. Cora Johnson
Ms. Sarah Burke
Portrai t of an Estranged Epileptic
Mr. Chad Cranfill
The Calloused Soul
Mr. Jonathan Crimmins
Death and Friendship in Euripides'
Alcestis
Mr. Zdravko Daskalov
Mystery and Beyond
Mr. Aaron Davis
Materi ali sm and David Hume
Ms. Nedali na Dineva
Appeasing the Savage in Us : An Exploration of the Re lationship Between Man
and Society Based on Rousseau's Discourse on the Origin of In equality and
On the Social Contract
Tell Governor Bucki ngham to Wait, for
I want to Have a Long Talk wi th My
Friend Frederick Doug lass: Abraham
Lincoln and Frederick Douglass on Slavery and Reconstructi on
Mr. Samuel Hu xley
Ms. Sharon Dinitz
Duality and Book Ill, Chapters 4 and 5
of Aristotle' s On the Soul
Mr. Jacob Kosseff
Teaching, Learnin g, and Apori a in
Pl ato' s Meno
Ms. Alka Koth ari
Ms. Amanda Dulin
Birth and Death in Anna Karenina
Mr. Christopher Kurfess
Ms. Rebecca Dzamov
The Art of Li ving We ll
Mr. Robert Donehower
Zarathustra: Poet, Pope, Ass
Veils and Experiments in Nietzsche
The Gay Science
Drying, Living, and Wondering Why:
Look at the Human Condition in PiaU
Republic
Ms. Victoria Printz
Separation, Solitude, and Little Gold
Fish: An Examination of Biblical Allusion in Gabriel Garcia Marquez' s One
Hundred Years of Solitude
Mr. Matthew Radbill
An Open Mind is Never Wrong: Judgment and Learning in Don Quixote
Mr. Zachary Rasmuson
An Examination of Pity in Rousseau' s
Second Discourse
98
The Flight and Purchase of Thought:
Thinking by Analogy
Ms. Heather Lockhart
The Development of Pierre in War a
Peace
The Baudel arian Experience
Ms. Carrie Sager
Ms. Kate Feld
Ms. Ch antal Roubachewsky
Remembering the Aeneid
Mr. Imam Sawez
Hilb e rti a n
The Philosophy Practicum : An Exami nation of the Re lationship Between Philosophy and Stoicism
99
�~o q_viEro ~o(\("
CAV'),;an~o co.kiQ
1--tu~ rl. \a c 9a ~.
-~,(\('~ e~r\c~ro.
rr-
Dan Nelson
Marissa Mijal
Karla Manzur
" ... Be patterns, be examples in all cou ntri es, places, islands, nations
wherever you come, that your carriage and life may preach among ali
sorts of people, and to them; then you wi ll come to walk cheerfull y over
the world , answenng that of God in everyone."--George Fox 1656
Emily Axford Murphy
Jason McCready
100
101
�Remember the good
Micah Dylan Pharris
Chantal Roubachewsky
Victoria Richardson
Printz
102
103
�Tom morrow
I shall test the
humor level of thi s
gentle prim ate
Imam U. Sawez
Matthew James Tebo
SAFETY TO LOOK TO ONE' S SELFE
For my neighbor Ile not know,
Whether hi gh he builds or no:
Onely thi s Ile look upon,
Firm be my foundation .
Sound or un sound,
it be;
'Ti s the lot ordain '
He who to the grou
Has not nm""'''"
You must lose your shame.-Chaninah Maschler
Je suis venu trap tard dans un mande trap
vieux-Alfred De Musset
Yeah , I blew up tinker bell.. ..
104
105
�I do not know which to prefer,
The beaut y of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.
Erin Elizabeth
Toomey
A lmost anybody can learn to think or be lieve or
know. but n01 a si ngle human being can be taught
to be. Why'? Because whenever you think or
beli eve or you know, you are a lot o f other peopl e:
bu t the moment you are being, you' re n obod y~ but
yourselr. To be nobody-but-yourse lf- in a world
whic h is doing its best ni ght and day to make you
everybody else-means to fi ght the hardest battle
which any human being can fig hl. and never stop
fi ghting ... Docs thi s sound dis mal? II isn' t. lt"s lhe
most wonderful life on earth .--e. e. cummings
Amy Lynn
Thurston
Charles Weber
Janice Allison Thompson
Rebecca Marie
Trumble
The whole of Life consists of desiring and not accompli shing, and accomplishing what has not been desired.
--Goethe
Aaron Thomas
106
107
�Terry Moore and Rebecca Dzamov
108
109
�CONGRATULATIONS AND BEST WISHES TO THE CLASS OF 1995
William and Nancy Adl er
Vinod Malhotra, M. D.
Huldah and Wyndh am Anderso n
M rs. Audrey McGuire
Platt and Dav id Arn old
Patri cia Dow ling-Michae l
Butch and Mandy Baum
Mary Mij al
Marie and Tom Bolan
Dr. and Mrs. Don W. Pri ntz
Maril yn Rogers
Mom and Dad Brenn an
John and Gay Clasby
Dr. Robert and Deanna Sager
Hope and John Schl aden
Judy Hebard Dav is, Alan and Jodi
Mr.and Mrs. W. G. Donehower
Mrs. Marsha Sirkin
Cathey Funk
Susan and Ron St. Onge
Judy and Eddi e Freeman
Dr. Donald and Mrs. Susan ThompMichael and Caro le Huxley
son
The Too mey Famil y
James D. Kurfess
Bob and Taty Lock hart
Tom and Jen Trumble
Mr. and Mrs. Sanfo rd K. Walters
Rob, Kri stin , and Ian Lockhart
Perry and Peter Weber
David and Ethelmary Maddox
John M. Williams
�The
Palate
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Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
1995
Dublin Core
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Yearbooks
Description
An account of the resource
This collection contains yearbooks from St. John's College in Annapolis, MD. Yearbooks are sometimes referred to as the "Rat Tat", "Cicerone", or "Canvas". This collection includes all published yearbooks since 1896. Please note that yearbooks were not published every year.<br /><br />Holdings: <br />1896 v. 1<br />1898 v. 2 - 1899 v. 3<br />1901 v. 4 – 1912 v. 15<br />1914 v. 17 – 1918 v. 21<br />1920 v. 22 – 1945/1946<br />1947 – 1951/1953<br />1957<br />1982<br />1986 – 1990/1991<br />1992 – 2001/2002<br />2015/2016 – 2017/2018<br />2021/2022 - 2024/2025<br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Yearbooks" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=21">Items in the Yearbooks Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.
Coverage
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Annapolis, MD
Contributor
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St. John's College Greenfield Library
Identifier
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yearbooks
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Original Format
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paper (bound book)
Page numeration
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120 pages
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Title
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St. John's College, The Canvas 1995
Description
An account of the resource
Yearbook for the year 1995.
Creator
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Coonee, Jennifer (Editor)
Publisher
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St. John's College
Coverage
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Annapolis, MD
Date
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1995
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St. John's College owns the rights to this publication.
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text
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pdf
Language
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English
Identifier
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1995
-
https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/e3a52d4b29151522e8bb86bd443de62c.pdf
e8b22b0954034c8caa7c70c82d69230f
PDF Text
Text
SPRING 1982
:'
�CONTENTS
ENERGEIA: The activity in which anything is fully itself.
Editorial Staff:
Barbara Cooper
Matthew Davis
Christian Holland
Susan Maguire
Richard Miller
Fritz Monsma
Marion Sharp
Joe Sachs
CHRONOLOGY AND BEING FOR ACHILLES
HERACLITUS AND AJAX
ON FEEDING THE FLOCK (INCLUSIVE)
WITH A GRAIN OF WHEAT
JUNIOR/SENIOR MATH PRIZE PAPER 1979
TWO POEMS FROM LE MISANTHROPE
Abe Schoener
l
Liz Waldner
6
R.A. Schainbaum
9
translated by Janet Durholz
IO
NEWTON'S AND ADAM'S APPLE
Howard Zeiderman
12
VIEWPOINT
Patti Nogales
23
Stephanie Nelson
24
David Stephenson
29
Ruth A. Johnston
31
LIKE FLIES TO WANTON BOYS.
Another Paper about God, Man, and the Universe
SOME THOUGHTS ON "MAXWELL'S EQUATIONS"
SONNET
A CHORUS FROM THE BACCHAE
translated by Merle Sokolik
32
THE B DEDUCTION AND ITS RELATION TO FREEDOM
(Or Kant, Can Do)
Matthew Davis
34
THERE IS VERY LITTLE POETRY IN ONIONS
Dan Farrell
43
P.H. Gagnier
44
Lisa Eckstrom
45
THE WRECK OF ELPENOR
RECONCILIATION IN THE BACCHAE:
Remembering Who We A~e Who Are Not
Gods But Men
PHAINETAI MO!
translated by Terri-Ann Hahn
51
I
ON CHAPTERS 11-17 OF PART II OF DON QUIXOTE
11
Paula Rustan
52
I[
!:1
TA-POCKETA, POCKETA, POCKET~ •••
Moliere, Thurber and the Comic Idea
111
1!
Fritz Monsma
55
JI:
I!
-- --- - ~--·----- ---~- - --- -·--- i1[~
�Chronology and Being for Achilles,
Heraclitus and Ajax
Abe Schoener
Diel' s. fragment 30 of Heraclitus
names all things in their thinghood.. I f
we can read this fragment successfully, we
will understand something of the Greek
thought about things, the being of things,
and--most tempting--the being of being.
Here is the fragment:
,
I
f
t
'
Panta hen is the union of the many
and the one, but a , union--since it is
panta hen and not just to hen--which
preserves the manyness. As the tendencies
toward unity and plurality strive with one
another, the cosmos lives.
If the strife
stops, the cosmos dies, the tension is
lost. When we see kosmos as this tension
we can understand the singleness of the
two kinds of "same" we saw before. Kosmos
is thinghood insofar as each thing is
because of the strife in it; and kosmos is·
wholeness insofar as each thing strives
with every other one.
It is thus the
quality which separate things have in
common, and also the very coming together
of the separate things.
It both orders
and destroys their mutual distinction.
This conflation of contraries is not
nonsense:
it
is the most beautiful
harmony.
Now we can understand kosmos as
"cosmos. "
Once we -see kosmos as the
tension-filled order that both creates and
destroys individuals, we can see the world
(or universe) as kosmos.
Not as the
obvious example of kosmos, but as the most
difficult.
The world both demands and
rejects being called one, and does so with
more insistence than any o,ther thing, so
it takes the greatest wisdom to see it as
kosmos.
We learn that we must never
explain the Greek kosmos through our
notion of world, but can only hope to
understand the full meaning of "world"
through the challenging contradiction of
kosmos.
H
xooµov TOV aUTOV anaVTWV OUTE TL~
8Erav o~TE TL' &vep~nwv tnoLnoEv,
'
' '
' ,,
aAA '.:r aEL xaL EOTL XaL EOTaL'
riv ' '
nDp &ELsWOV, anTOµEVOV µETpa xal
&nooSEVVUµEVOV µETpa.
("Kosmos," the same for all things,
was neither made by one of the gods,
nor by one of men--but it was
always, and is, and ever will be
everli¥ing fire, constantly kindling
and qqenching itself and the measures
of the world.)
When Heraclitus says "kosmos," he
does not mean "cosmos" or any other word
which names something like our "universe."
He means the order which is ton auton
hapanton--the same for all things.
This
sameness is twofold:
it is the sameness
of all things with each other (that is,
their common thinghood); and it is the
order which brings all the different
things together (their being part of the
same whole).
If we read further in
Heraclitus, we find these two aspects of
kosmos are one and the same. They are the
harmonie
of
things
in
strife:
the
togetherness in conflict df things which
oppose and resist each other.
Kosmos is
thus the same as the tension of panta hen,
the greatest strife and thus the greatest
harmonie.
We have al ready caught some of
Heraclitus' understanding of the being of
things. Their only being is in a twofold
tension:
an inner tension
(like the
1
�I
.
!@,
.I
lyre's), and an outer tension (the tension
between world and thing, panta hen).
There is no being of a thing without the
being of the opposites striving "inside"
of it, and no being without the being of
tjle kosmos with which the thing strives
for its own individualty.
This cosmos was never created. It is
thus self-caused1 that is, its being lies
entirely within itself.
Nothing else is
responsible (aitios) for it.
What is
responsible for its being is its manner of
being--that is, as fire.
This is clear
from
what
is -contrasted
with
"not
created":
(~o ~ne made it, but it always was ... )
If
I
#
.. , ,
ou TLS ErroLnaEv, aAA
t
:l
analogy. He means the being of all things
is the being of fire.
They. are the
same--and so, all things, insofar as they
are, are fire.
Philosophy is at this
point way beyond what are called "material
causes." Heraclitus does not name pur as
material cause, but as primal cause-==that
is,
as
ousia.
If we
examined
the
Pre-Socratics carefully, we might find
that they never had "material cause." Did
Thales perform experiments to determine
whether all things were made up of water?
No--this was not the way of the Ancients.
When Thales said, "All is water," he was
the first to say that the being of all
things is one--and that that one being ·is
the cool uniformity of water. Thales was
talking ousia, not materia.
We said before that the essence of
things was change, that stasis was death.
When
Heraclitus
calls
fire
aeizoon,
doesn't that contradict our claim? Aeizoon
sounds like the unchanging eternity of the
Immortal, the life that does not change
into death. But it is not, and a clue is
DK 62 ("Mortals are immortals, immortals
are mortals: the first live the death of
the latter, and the latter die the other's
life").
F-rom it we learn that the gods
have no life, only death.
Zoe always
includes death,
so aeizoon must mean
"always dying" as well as "always living."
We have al ready seen these two opposites
together in fire: part of its life is to
burn itself out, it cannot flame except by
cons'uming
its
source.
But
every
burning-out leads to a conflagration, for
every quenching prepares new material to
be burned again. Fire's being is to live
and die at every moment, and for the
living and the dying to be one and the
same activity.
For Heraclitus, this is
the being of being:
If
riv aEL •.•
Its being is its aitios. Its being can be
"cause" because of the strange nature of
its being. The fragment says that:
"the
being · of kosmos is fi r.e." .As we read it
we expect the fragment to run:
"it was
never created, but was, is and always will
·-be." Instead it supplies a predicate to
einai, and says, "it is fire."
The
predicate is a surprise.
In Heraclitus,
we learn to take surprises seriously:
they must become part of our reading.
This surprise achieves a definite effect:
it makes us take what we were expecting to
read and what we actually read, as the
same thing._ Thus: to be is to be fire
einai is pur einai.
To understand the sense of pur einai,
we have to understand pur, fire.
It is
more than familiar to uS:-- Fire is bright
and hot.
It rages, roars, fumes, changes
color, licks, spurts, and spreads.
It
hisses, smokes, smoulders, consumes, and
inevitably burns itself out.
It changes
constantly--a strange characterization of
being.
But for Heraclitus, it is the only
one.
In the absence of change, strife,
and tension, there is no life--there is
nothing.
This nothingness is not only
death but non-being.
The raging of fire
is the opposite of that "non-being". But
when Heraclitus says that the being is
"being fire," he is not just speaking by
rrDp ElvaL· arrTOUEVOV UFTpa Ma~
&rrocr8EUVµEVOV µETpa.
When
birth
and
death
not
only
coincide but coexist eternally as the
being of being, then history and even time
itself become impossible.
The fragment
catches this in the words we misleadingly
sununed up as "einai" : en aei, kai es ti,
- ·~-.-.-..
2
---:--
-
kai estai.
"The cosmos always was anc!·is
and· will be "fire"--wa~, is and will be
all at ~·
We could read the ve.rbs
separately--not
insisting
on
their
coincidence--.but this would be ignoring
the subtle craft of Heraclitus. When he
says "was," "is," and "will be" together,
where "is always" would have done, we must
be careful not to lose his jarring message
in
the
easiest--and
less
attentive
--reading. He says: in the being of fire,
was, is and will be are all the same.
This conflation of present, past, and
future does not actually deny time, but
only a "chronological" conception of it.
When future falls into past, time cannot
be seen along a time-line.
But is this
nonsense--time not fitting on a time-line?
It is not nonsense-- in fact, it is
something we will soon learn to call
"Greek". By Aristotle's time,· chronos may
well have become chronological, but for
Homer, _and even Sophocles, time (chronos)
was no series of times, but a place. We
will see two examples of this: one in the
Iliad, one in the Ajax.
In the last book of the Iliad, the
conciliation
of
Achilles
and
Priam
culminates
in
the
giving
of
time.
Achilles and Priam meet and their tears
mix.
They find wonder1ful sympathy for
each other in this moment, and Achilles
agrees to return Hector's body to Priam.
This return seems to be Achilles' great
deed, the one that reveals a new and
beautiful Achilles to us.. We remember the
return of the body as the book's climax.
But Priam himself will correct us, as he
did Achilles.
The return will not be
fulfilled without one more gift,, one
greater even than the body of his son:
keep him in our palace and mourn
him, and bury him on the tenth day,
and the people feast by him, and on
the eleventh we would make the grave
barrow for him, and on the twelfth
day fight again, if so we must do."
Then
in
turn
swift-footed
Achilles answered him:
"Then all
this, aged Priam, shall be done as
you ask it.
I will hold off our
attack for as much time as you ask
me."
(Trans. Lattimore)
T~v o' nµEL8ET' ErrELTa yEpwv ITp~a)..IOs
-\JEoELoris •
"d. µ~v on µ' E-\JEAELS TEAEOaL Tacpov
EMTOPL OL<p,
<!ioE ME µoL rn:r;.wv' 'AXLAEU' MEXaPLOl.JEVa
-\Jdns.
7
"
I
I
JI
'.I
OLOva yap ws MaTa aOTU E~AµE-\Ja,
Tn).o-\JL o • u).n
a~EµEV E~ opEoS, µa).a ot TpwES OEOLaOLV.
E:vvnµap µ£v M' auT~v E:vl µEyapoLs
yoaoL µEv
T~ OEMcXT~ 0£ ME -\JarrrroLµEV OaLVUTO TE
).aos,
E:voEMaTn 0£ ME TvµBov E:rr' auT~
rrOL naaL µEV,
T~ ol ouwoEMaT~ rro).EµL~oµEv, E~ rrEp
&vayxn."
I
"J'.
.I
Tov 0 ' aUTE rrpoa~ELrrE rrooapMns
oCqs; 'AXLAAEVS •
II,,
f
1
,
EOTaL TOL MaL TaDTa, y~pov ITpLaµ '
I
ws I au MEAEVELS"
axnaw yap rroAEµov TOOOOV XPOVOV
Oaaov civwya.s.
11
t
I
t
(lines 659--6 70)
Before the act can become good,
Achilles must grant Priam time:
tosson
chronon hosson anogas. This--t°ime is a
space, a space opened up in the turmoil of
the war, in which the funeral can take
place. Achilles' ability to open up this~
space for Priam is the heart of his
brilliance and divinity.
Homer points
' this out:
when Achilles answers, he · is
call dies.
This is one of the few uses of
chronos in the Iliad. It is also the very
last, and because of its place in this
In answer to him again spoke Priam
the godlike: "I£ you are willing
that
we
accomplish
a
complete
funeral
for
great
Hector,
this
Achilleus, is what you could do and
give me pleasure.
For you know
surely how we are penned in our
city, and wood is far to bring in
from the hills, and the Trojans are
frightened badly. Nine days we would
3
1:
Ii
!,
�I
1
change it works, but for the changes it
undergoes.
What was not cause when it
once occurred in the past is now cause; ·
what was once an act of friendship when it
occurred
is
now
an
act
of
enmity
(ee.661-665). The past--as a series of
definite events--has undergone change in
this
moment.
It
has
thus
become
indefinite: even the past is now full of
new possibilities, just like the present
and future. That is why Ajax calls chronos
"unnumberable and great":
not because of
its infinite length, but because of its
great depth.
At every moment,
past,
present, or future, it holds open an
infinite depth oi possibilities. In time,
nothing is impossible:
1. 648, ouk est'
aelpton ouden.
But this does not mean
"given enough time, anything is possible";
it means "in any time--in any moment
--unthought-of possibilities lie waiting."
After all, when Ajax says this, it has
only been a few years since he won the
sword which changed his life, and only a
few hours since that change has become
manifest.
"In time" does not mean in the
length of time, but in the bottomless
depth of every moment.
In its every
moment,
time--the
ground
of
every
happening--offers innumerable possibili ties. This is the wisdom Ajax has learned
in his god-sent distress; this is the
wisdom he gives to us before he goes to
his death. His wisdom is not the trivial
cliche "things change drastically over the
years,"
but the
surprising
and even
crippling message: "count on the sureness
of no event; not only the future, but
present and past as well hold unbelievable
possibilities."
At this very moment in
the play (see line 647), time reveals the
invisible and hides the bright and shining:
it seems even to hold the denial of
a thing's phusis.
For the hiding of the
phanenta (647)--the by nature revealed--~s
nothing other than the denial of their
phusis as phanenta.
So time even holds
the possibility for the impossible:
the
denial of a ~hing' s eternal being, its
phusis.
If time is to exclude no possibility,
it must be bottomless at ~very instant.
great scene, this use is the "definitive''
one.
Here the depth of its meaning is
called on, and this is what it gives up in
response: chronos is the opening up of a
place in the world for things to occur in.
It is the place in which things happen--in
which happening happens. It is the ground
for being.
This· ground is a place, but not a
definite location.
A location has an
address: chronos does not give an address
to events (e.g.:
1079 A.D.), it gives
them an opening.
Consequently, chronos
has nothing to do with a time-line:
the
events in this place do not participate in
succession by virtue of the place.
This
means that the place
itself is not
ordered: it is not laid out in successive
compartments, nor is it any grid.
It is
very
different
from
Isaac
Newton's
"tempus"--the conception of time which
most colors our own.
The opposition of chronos to succession is caught vividly in a few lines from
the Ajax:
Great and unnumberable time produces
all things hidden, and hides all
things
revealed--and
there
is
nothing that can't be expected.
'
"
'
'
,
,
anew-& , o inxpo~ xavap1.,.(}1.mTo~ )(PO\JO~
~VEL. T, a6nAa xal ~Cl\JE\JTCl xpVTITETCll.."
){Q0){ EoT' aEATITO\J OU6EV •••
( AIA'[, 646-8)
Ajax himself is speaking here: it is
his last speech before he leaves his camp
to commit suicide.
In the speech he
discusses what has brought him to this
point of suicide, and what might lie
before him still. We might say that he is
concerned with his present, past, and
future.
We will see how different that
concern is for him than it can be for us.
As Ajax recalls what has brought him
to this pass, he must be naming the
passing of time in chronos. Chronos then
seems to be chronological, for it refers
to all that has passed in succession up
till now. But as we read on, we find that
the passing time is not remarkable for the
4
Because of its infinite depth, every
moment must be the same as every other. We
cannot even consider the past as "determined" because its possibility has become
actual. The Ajax teaches us that the past
changes constantly:
this is the thought
at the heart of this speech.
Time never
gives up its depth. Even when it becomes
definite (we must say the Trojan war was a
special time, for instance), the definition neve·c completely determines what goes
on in it. Thus time opened up a place for
Ajax to accept Hector's sword in friendship, though that time should have had no
place in the 'War.
Events can still happen in succession, but that succession is not in the
essence of time.
Because time is the
eternal confusion of every possibility, in
past, present, and future alike, there can
be
no
line
of
succession
in
it.
Succession is only possible when there is
definition, but not mixing and remixing.
Because time excludes succession from its
essence, it is not only makros, but
anarithmetos--for Ajax and all the Greeks.
looks like a pleonasm should thus be
scrutinized · carefully--and probably read
literally.
If we
read en aei etc.
literally, we get something much more
worthy of Heraclitus than the verbose "it
is, always has been, and always will
be ... " We get:
Its being is, always was, is, and
will be--at once.
This means that was is the same thing
for fire as is, or will be.
There is no
difference between past and present, no
possibility
for
a
time
line.
More
Heraclitean nonsense?
No--now
that
we
have
considered
chronos for Sophocles and Homer, we know
that this talk is no nonsense, it is good
Greek.
It is a
deep and difficult
understanding of being, one that sees the
being of being in chronos, but outside of
"time."
Time as time-line,
and thus
history,
excludes being because being
happens in a vast undifferentiated ar.d
bottomless chasm.
That chasm is chronos:
what we called earlier, the "ground of
being."
For a being that changes constantly, whose essence is fire, this is
the perfect ground. Since fixity is death
for being, a ground that offered only
strict and permanent determination could
only be barren. Now, the fixed events of
history belong no longer in time (chronos)
but
in
chronologies--the
study
of
non-being.
Heraclitus affirms this whole view in
the kosmos fragment.
When he gives the
being of cosmos, he does not say "It is
fire." He says:
I
'
t
t
'
'
"
•1\J Q£l., MaL EOTL KQL EOTClL n0p
'
,
ClEL~wov.
It always was, always is, and always
will be fire--at the same time.
For the
being
of
the
cosmos
past-being,
present-being, and future-being are all
conjoined.
This is hard to accept:
we
would not think that en aei kai esti kai
estai in anyway impliea- the conjuct,ion of
past, present, and future.
There are two
reasons for supposing that in Heraclitus
the expression not only implies it but
explicitly demands it.
The first reason
is usage:
estj aei would have meant the
same thing in Greek as "it is, has always
been, and always will be"--our natural
translation for en aei etc.
The six
word phrase is thus pleonastic in such an
interpretation.
The second reason comes
from Heraclitus:
he is never pleonastic,
but always sharply terse.
Anything that
5
�On Feeding the Flock (Inclusive)
With a Grain of Wheat
Liz Waldner
I
Give us this day our daily bread. Matthew 6:11
Take no thought what ye shall eat. Luke 12:22
I am the living bread which came down from heaven: the bread which I will give is
my flesh which I will give for the life of the wo~ld .. Jon~ 6:51 ·
Except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abides alone, but if it die,
it brings forth much fruit. John 12:24
Whereunto shall I liken the kingdom of heaven? It is like leaven which a woman hid
in three measures of meal until the whole was leavened. Luke 13:20
simon, do you love me? Yes, Lord. Feed my sheep. John 21:16
j
l
t
1
I
Taking the above ingredients so freely given--in good measure, packed down -- I hope
to make a little cake like Alice's (with a tag reading Eat me attached), which once
tasted will move the reader to essay a little baking of his own-in short one
suitable food for the likes of us sheep.
consider necessi ties--will be added unto
us.
Everyone knows we must eat to live,·
and probably everyone agrees with Jesus
that the life is more than food. From age
to age and from place to place, however,
people have differed in judgement of what
food and what life are.
Jesus startled
everyone with his ideas; he called himself
living bread and said that unless we eat
of him we have no life in us. He told the
multitude he'd miraculously fed the day
before
not
to
run
after
food
that
perishes, but to labor for that "which
endures unto life everlasting." He said,
"He that loves his life in this world will
lose it; he who hates his life shall keep
it unto life . eternal."
Perhaps every
nation of the world (excepting those few
so
cold
that
starches
don't
grow)
recognizes bread as food if not the . v~ry
staff of life; it seems that recognizing
the bread as such--true bread sent from
heaven, meat
(food)
indeed--is what's
problematic.
That is, I·'m guessing that
not a few of those claims made by Jesus
Everyone knows we must eat to live.
Eat often and much, and we store what we
cannot eat now to provide for tomorrow, as
did Aesop's industrious ant, as did the
rich
man
whose
ground
yielded
such
abundance that he needed larger barns to
keep
his
harvest.
We
reckon
many
provisions secure much life and so are
anxious to preserve what we have and to
acquire more.
Jesus knew that we must eat to live.
Satan used his hunger after his forty days
of fasting to tempt him to turn a stone to
bread.
Jesus answered him, "Men do not
live by bread alone, but by every word
that proceeds from the mouth of God."
Jesus said that our Father in heaven
knows, too, that we have need of food, and
taught his disciples to pray asking each
day for their daily bread. He called the
rich man's prudence folly, and asked us to
take no thought for our lives, to lay up
no treasure for ourselves here on earth,
but rather to seek the kingdom of God, to
be rich toward God;
then "all these
things"--those
which
we're
used
to
6
I
1
I
t
I
1
:1
concerning himself as living bread which
the Jews found hard to swallow--how can
this man give us his flesh to eat?--once
transformed
from
hard
grains
of
astonishment by a patient pulverizing
pondering
will
yield
a
meal
itself
suitable for the leaven of understanding:
the puzzle is not how to eat living bread,
but how to get it into our hands.
An
understanding--or chewing, if you will--of
the latter is the making of the former.
If we eat living bread, then we have
life in us, do not hunger, and do not die.
If we love our lives--fill bigger barns or
banks with 1the means to eat ordinary
bread--we die. To eat living bread is in
some way, then, to hate our lives in this
world, and hating our lives brings this
bread into our hands. How can this be?
First, living bread is bread that
nourishes us when we give it to another.
Any bread is the free gift of earth's
fertility; the single grain given into the
ground yields many. Many may eat of that
which abiding alone could not have fed
one.
In the same way living bread is a
free
gift
and
miraculously
feeds
a
multitude, but it feeds the seed, the
grain which gave itself, as well. Living
bread is made of the human sacrifice of
abiding alone, of prudently providing for
one's own well-being. Living bread, which
is true bread sent to us by our Father to
nourish the life of the world, life
everlasting, is ours for the asking; it
cannot be bought, nor earned, but is
simply to be sought after.
Jesus, God's
word made flesh, sent into the world
offering that flesh as bread for us to
live by as he lives by God, sai~ that
eating him we would live in him and he in
us. To eat living bread is to accept life
given as a gift as food, blood spilled as
drink, to take into oneself for one's own
fulfillment the fruit of some other's
sacrifice of his potential fulness of
being, a fruit which can bring forth
abundantly after its kind, and live our
abundance to another that he, too, might
eat
living
bread:
living
bread
is
undoubtedly leavened.
The giving and receiving of living
bread and the working of leaven in a
bushel of meal are like one another in
that they both depend on reciprocity. The
power to raise, to make bi·g, to feed many,
is made manifest by the lifeless meal.
The few grains of yeast hidden work all
through the meal imparting its ability
until the whole is leavened.
But left
alone the yeast will starve and die; the
meal bereft of nutrients fed by the yeast
will collapse, less than before.
The
least
become
most,
the
most
become
least--unless the greatest ever give to
the least.
A pinch of leavened dough
leavens another bushel, and lives in it.
As told in the parable of the pounds, the
living bread we're given is not to keep,
but to invest, to multiply, to make
great--and that's done by giving it away.
Even Moses' manna spoiled when anxiously
stored.
Our being given this powerful
bread depends on our asking for it, and
our asking for it on our giving it freely;
our having it, and therefore our eating
it, on giving it, too. Or no?
Let's
think
ourselves
grains
of
wheat.
If we choose to love our Father,
to love one another even as Jesus loved
us, in whatever way or to whatever degree
we can by laying down our lives for
another, then we make of ourselves meal
for leavening, nourishment for the life of
the world.
Until we do, we are ordinary
bread, scarcely able (if at all, really)
to feed ourselves. We hunger.
Sooner or
later something in us akin to the appetite
for ordinary bread sniffs out the bread of
life--perhaps in a loaf given us by
another's unrecognized sacrifice--and asks
to be fed.
Earthly parents don't give
their hungry children stones when they cry
for bread, said Jesus; how much more will
your Father in heaven give to you the Holy
Spirit. I wonder if this is not the power
to leaven, to make the single grain
abundantly fruitful, to nourish those who
give
of
their
substance
unto
life
everlasting, to feed unfailingly one's
hunger forever.
It seems to me that
having been hungry for living bread is
enough; our asking is our eating.
In us
its leaven working already prepares us as
7
�food. Recognizing it as food indeed moves
us to feed others.
The woman whom much
has forgiven loved much. I think it's not
far fetched to supply:
the woman whose
great hunger has fed, fed much.
In this sense then, we never have in
our hands this living bread except)to give
it.
We are, grains, and giving ourselves.
we are broken into meal: the Spirit in us
makes us great to be food for many.
Having living bread living in us, we
hunger to be hungry, to give more of
ourselves that · we might be altogether
leavened: that we might see, all of us,
the kingdom of God. -When we pray as Jesus
taught we ask for the coming of that
kingdom, for the doing of God's will on
earth,
for
our bread,
and
for
the
forgiveness
of
trespasses,
ours
and
others'. That the leavening of the Spirit
which reveals God's very mind to us had to
be brought into the world, given as gift
nurtured in Jesus' death and resurrection
is made plain in the reciprocity expressed
here, the participation in which sets free
our yearning for the coming of God's
kingdom, for the doing of his work on
earth, for living with forgiveness toward
others. Love begets love when recognized;
recognizing God's great love given withou.t
regard to our worthiness, 'we are moved· .to
dismiss the hurt, the lessening suffered.·
at the hands of others, doing the bidding
of 'the Spirit within us, which forgiving
enables us to know living bread as the
true bread, and those who trespass against
us as so hungry that they know not what
they do.
The good shepherd lays down his life
for the sheep, that they might eat; his
Father loves him: he is well fed.
Junior/Senior Math Prize Paper 1979
.f
RA. Schainbaum
I
r
j
'
1
f
j
J
j
J
I
This problem has to do with taking
a door around a corner in a hallway. If
a corridor w wide has in it an ideal
door, a rigid line of length L, how
narrow can X, the corridor at a right
angle to w, be if it is still wide
•enough to let in L?
towards the lower side of W decreases
'
or
its
horizontal
distance
from
c
increases.
(2)
Let f(0)=y (see figure) be the
function that gives the least ¥.. for any
angular position of L.
The greatest
f (9)
obtained
in
bringing L
from
corridor W into corridor X is also the
least posSib'l'e'X for the 91.veD w andI::9
For i f !_ were atallSmaller, -0could
only increase to goo if L were- not a
rigidly straight line.
But L is a
rigidly straight line, and L can-only be
brought
into
corridor
x- under the
condition that 9 be allowed to vary from
80 (the initial position of 9) to goo.
Clearly, the greatest y_ obtained from
f (9) is also the least maximum for any
possible displacement function of e.
(3)
Let g(z)=y (see figure) be the
function in which y_ depends on the
distance z from corner C along L to the
lower side of corridor-W.
As
- the -before '
the least ! was equal to
greatest
f (9) over the range from 90 to goo
so
-.~--~'
it also equals the greatest g (z) over
the range from W to L.
Sin~it is
geometrically apparent
that
g (z)
is
continuous
between
W and
.!!'
that
g(W)=g(L)=O, and that-g(z) is greater
than ~· between ! and · .!!; so g (z •) is
greater than all g(z), if~ is the only
z for which g' (z)=O.
i
(1)
For any given angular position of
the
line L,
its
(L's)
displacement
•(measured from corner .!!' perpendicular
to the corridor length) y towards the
opposite side of corridor- X is always
least when its displacement (measured
from corner L, perpendicular to the
corridor length) towards the lower side
of corridor W is greatest (i.e., it
equals !) , and the horizontal distance
of.!! from corner Eis least (i.e., c is
employed as a fulcrum) .
For whatever·
the angular position of .!!' y_ must
increase
as
either L's
displacement
1.
*
*
*
By similar triangles:
I
y
=
g(z)
=
L-z
z
Ii
'I
I,
111
II
8
9
__J '____
111
11
I;
1
I
lit
�l
Lw2-z3
z2(z2-w2)i,
.
(2/3)
(1/3)
Therefore, g(w
L
) ~ g(z)
for all z such that w ~ z ~ L.
2.
g' (z)
3.
Setting g' (z) = O, then:
5.
z'=w(2/3)L(l/3),
which value of z is uniquely
obtained.
4.
l
.J
Substituting w( 2/ 3 )L(l/ 3 ) for Zin
1, then:
y
(2/3)
'
i
j'
I
= L (2/3)-w(2/3).
'
Thus, the least x=w(( L >213 -1> 312
But since L > w, then:
w3 < w2 L < L3
w < z' < L.
Hope, 'tis true, doth comfort us
And soothes awhile our pain;
But, Phyllis, if naught follows hope,
It comforts us in vain.
Kindness ever didst thou show,
But less shouldst thou have shown,
And not so far have spent yourself
To grant me hope alone.
If my zeal is forced to burn
Eternally 'til you relent,
Then to a cruel death I shall turn,
Which all your cares cannot prevent,
For, lovely Phyllis, hope is my
death,
When for hope alone I draw my breath.
i
w
Q.E.I
ALCESTE.
Si le roi m'avait donn~
Paris, sa grand' ville,
Et qu'il me fall~t quitter
L'amour de ma mie,
Je dirais au roi Henri:
Reprenez votre Paris,
,,
J'aime mieux ma mie, au gue,
J'aime mieux ma mie.
(1. 393-400)
Two Poems from Le Misanthrope
translated by Janet Durholz
ORONTE.
L'espoir, il est vrai, nous soulage
Et nous berce un temps notre ennui,
Mais, Philis, le triste avantage,
Lorsque rien ne marche apres lui!
Vous e~tes de la complaisance;
Mais vous en deviez moins avoir
I
Et ne vous pas mettre en depense
Pour ne me donner que l'espoir.
S'il faut qu'une attente ~ternelle
'
'1
Pousse a bout l'ardeur de mon ze e
Le tr~pas sera mon recours.
Vos soins ne m'en peuvent distraire;
Belle Philis, en d~sespere
...
.
Alers, qu'on espere touJours.
(1. 315-318; 321-324; 327-332)
10
If the King should give me
All Paris for my own,
To leave my darling true love,
And sit upon his throne,
I would say to Henry:
"Take your Paris back;
The throne is nothing to me,
sir,
If my own true love I lc,ack!"
!
I
__J l______
11
�Newton's and Adam's Apple
Howard Zeiderman
matical--scientif ic aspects are a work of
consununate genius - a model for us all
since then; the theological allusions are
a source of constant embarassment which we
charitably overlook.
What I propose in
the following pages is an exercise .in
imagination.
I
propose to
read the
Principia as if it were written by one man:
and not two.
To do so involves investigating a possible Newtonian response to
-Leibniz; the world is not a -clock but
rather a calendar. If the style sometimes
appears an argument instead of an intellectual fantasy, it is only to facilitate
the exposition, much as Descartes did in
Le Monde.
The following is therefore
merely a story, a springtime diversion.
Had Newton wished to justify the ways
of God to man, or at least to Leibniz, he
could
have
answered
that
they
had
radically different conceptions of God
and, therefore, of his relation to the
visible material world.
Newton's reply
could have been that for God the visible
world was a sign to man.
The spiralling
apart
of
the
planets
revealed
the
eventuality of the Last Judgement. Man's
past and future was in a sense writt~n in
the
stars.
Unfortunately,
as
George
Herbert lamented, God's writing could be
read only if man knew how to spell.
Newton could have charged Leibni·z of
having attempted to read God's purposes in
the
number-names
of
the
Ars
Combinatorialis.
Newton's cryptography,
however, was different;
he deciphered
God's words in straight lines and curves.
The Principia, not logic or arithmetic, is
the proper orthographical guide.
A decade before Newton composed the
Principia, Milton published Paradise Lost.
Mil ton's justification of . God's ways to
In a
letter to Clarke,
Liebniz
criticizes both Newton and Newton's God.
The criticism is simple but pointed. This
so-called 'God' acted as a poor watchmaker
might because the watch he created--the
world--must
be
continually
rewound~
Leibniz's attack stems from the two focal
points of the Principia: the revelation of
the inverse square law animating the
visible world of planets, tides, and
stones; and the fact that there are more
than two bodies (masses) in the world. In
a world where the force law is the inverse
square, two isolated bodies would continue
in
a
particular
orbit
forever,
a
self-identity through time attractive to
Leibnitz.
Introduce
a
third
body,
however, and this harmony changes. Th~ee
bodies moving under the aegis of the
inverse square, each to each, results in a
change in the apparent total force law.
The effects shift toward these which would
be caused by an inverse cube law.
The
bodies
spiral
out
from
one
another
endlessly; the world, as Yeats remarked in
the "Second Coming," is such that the
center cannot hold.
Competent readers of Newton would
generally dismiss Liebniz's conunent as
somewhat
irrelevant.
Newton
was
a
scientist. As such, he should be attacked
only on scientific grounds.
Whether he
believed in God was a personal matter.
These
considerations,
though . perhaps
tokenly present in the scholia of the
Principia, are not present in the propositions themselves.
Newton, in other
words, is not dissimilar to many modern
scientists.
Because he is split between
two
conflicting
inclinations,
proper
reading of the work occurs only by
respect:~iBJ such a division. The mathe-
man takes the form of an epic which is the
culmination of all other epics. The three
short chapters in Genesis chronicling
man's creation and fall are expanded into
twelve
books
depicting
the
fall
of
Lucifer, and through his intercession, the
fall of Eve and Adam, as well as the
promise of their redemption.
I hope in
this short piece to show that Newton's
Principia is involved in a similar task.
This means that the visible world, which
is depicted and made possible in Prop. 66
as the three body problem, if read through
Newton's orthography, is the detailed and
constant
reminder of man's fall and
possible redemption.
In the 18th century, the Bishop
·Berkeley suggested that Newton's Principia
was a Bible for materialists and atheists.
What my suggestion means is that in
composition the Principia was intended as
an amplification of the good Bishop's
Bible. It was the long awaited reading of
God's purposes in his fallen creation. To
see
this
does
not mean
finding
an
occasional image of some crucial Biblical
or theological moment in a scholium.
Instead it involves recognizing that the
details of the Propositions and their
interconnections
display
the
accepted
truths of the Christian religion.
our
task is to read through the propositions
so that we can recognize why the inverse
square law is the visible account of the
Creation, Fall, and Last Judgement.
II
In this exercise we, therefore, will
attempt a non-mathematical reading of a
seemingly mathematical work.
~uch
an
attempt
is
obviously precarious.
It
requires
the
translation
of
axioms,
propositions
and
force
laws
into
theological
terms
which
are
now antithetical to them. Without an explicit
license from Newton,
this effort can
appear quite gratuitous.
And no such
license has been issued, i.e. published.
The bulk of Newton's work consists of
unpublished
theological
manuscripts,
conunentaries
on
Revelations,
and the
prophets.
Perhaps in a document held in
13
12
-!_ _ _ _ _ __
_
some Borgesian library we could find the
warrant for this endeavor.
However, we
might not. If we combed such remnants and
found nothing. it would then be necessary
to explain why Newton never supplied a
"key" to his work, why it was written only
for those with eyes to see.
In the
General
Scholium
Newton
does
indeed
connect the visible world, God's works,
with his own account in the Principia.
However, this may imply no more than that
the system, as a whole,
reveals some
aspect of God's purpose.
It certainly
need not lead us to expect a connection
between the details of propositions -and
the details of the Creation and the Fall.
We know that Newton believed he lived
in the "end of the times", that the day·of
judgment would come when the dispersed
Jews accepted the Gospel, and that he
himself was born on Christmas day. Though
Newton did not accept Christ as "of the
substance of God," we cannot, therefore,
infer that Newton believed himself to be
the last Christ, who was writing a Bible
acceptable to the Jews. We only know that
such a belief would not have been impious.
We know that Newton held that the number
of the Antichrist was 666 and.we can open
the Principia to find the full detail of
the three-body problem in Prop 66. These
numbers, however, cannot be connected even
though as I will suggest, the relation
between Satan and falling,spiraling orbits
involves the relation of the inverseJcube
to the inverse square.
We have often
heard the story of Newton under the tree
hit on the head by the falling apple. If
what I propose is a proper reading of the
Principia, that story is obviously 'true'
and, in addition, significant.
However,
its truth places before us as a question
'the nature of a fact'. In short, this is
what I offer:
If I believed what Newton
believed
and
if
I
had written
the
Principia, this would have been how I
composed it.
Whether Newton did is a
different matter and may be unknowable.
However we must then go on to ask
ourselves whether such
'knowledge'
is
important and therefore we reapproach from
another direction the question of the
�-
l
1
The
two
beings
·have,
however,
no
reciprocal connection.
In other words,
the third law is not present. We are in a
realm, whatever it is, which is prior to
the third law.
Many suggesti.ons and
images have been given for this model of
analysis. However, if one asks oneself in
the context we are articulating what is a
massless center of force which acts but is
not acted upon by what orbits it, the
obvious
answer
is
that
the
center
represents God; the mass then depicts a
created being. God acts but is not acted
upon and the result is the literal drawing
of the immemorial metaphor of created
things orbiting around the Creator. What
Newton's mathematics is enabling man to do
is to find the literal sense of Christian
'metaphors'.
The
first
two propositions
hold
irrespective of the
nature of God's
action, of the force law with which he
acts.
In the first two propositions,
there is neither geography nor history,
differences of place nor differences of
time.
The two parts of God's sensorium,
-absolute space and absolute time, are made
visible in the description of equal spaces
in equal times.
Beginning with Proposition 3, we receive the method of reading
the world in more detail up to the
culmination in Proposition 6. Proposition
3 allows one to recognize that there is a
center of force, to recognize that there
is a God, even if now an additional force
comes into play.
Prop. 4 allows one to
calculate the force law connecting one
with that center. Prop. 5 enables one to
find the location of the center from the
mass's orbit.
Prop. 6 enables a specific
force calculation. There is a surprising
repetitiveness
to
these
propositions.
Three and four together are enough to
calculate the force if one is on a circle
and if one can recognize one's velocity
and distance at a moment, any , moment,
since every moment is the same.
In other words, in accordance with
our suggestion, one can use three and four
if one knows oneself and one's distance
from the center.
Propositions 3 and 4
characterize
a
possibility
of
the
nature ot a fact.
In this issue I treat
section 2, which ends in the creation of
Adam, Prop X. Section 3, the creation of
Eve and the Fall must remain something for
the future.
Before we treat the creation and the
Fall, a few preliminaries must be set out.
Newton, in his Preface,
reverses the
relation we have come to expect between
geometry and mechanics.
Surprisingly, in
Newton, mechanics is prior:
rational
mechanics, the mechanics of the Perfect
Artisan, draws the lines which geometry
treats.
The
Newtonian
laws
and
propositions connecting equal times and
areas (prop. 1,2, and 3) draw these lines
and make them into figures. They are true
of ali .. 'possible' worlds irrespective of
the
force
law,
to
use
Leibniz's
terminology.
The first_ law draws the
straight line, the second makes the curve
possible.
The third law, action and
reaction, inscribes in all conceivable
worlds, those under various force laws,
the possibility of writing equations.
To
begin· our fantasy now involves finding
theological equivalents.
The three laws
will then permit the visible world to
serve as
continual
reminders of our
invisible life. The first law allows one
to keep to the straight and narrow. Every
Newtonian object has both a mass and a
velocity.
The mass represents what one
is, the velocity represents what one does.
How one received one's velocity is an open
question which relates to one's past. The
first law is the representation of the
self-sameness of the being.
The second
permits the possibility of deviation, rise
and fall, it is to have a will of one's
own. The third law permits punishment or
redemption as it is the inscription both
of 'an eye for an eye' and 'do unto
others'.
In propositions 1 and 2, we meet the
first
crucial
aspect
of
Newton's
exposition. We consider a center of force
which has no mass and a mass in orbit
which cannot effect the center.
In other
words, Law 1 rules the mass, which is
altered in direction by the presence of
Law 2 operating from a center of force.
14
pre-lapsarian
world,
where
reason,
knowledge of what one is, and piety,
recognition of one's distance from God,
are sufficient to keep one in orbit.
Proposition 5 and 6 are quite different.
The characteristics of the moment are not
quite sufficient. The actual orbit, which
need not be a circle, is necessary.
History must, in a fallen world, replace
self-knowledge.
We will leave open for'
now the relation between history and
self-knowledge in Newton.
History, the
orbit,
replaces
self-knowledge.
The
question which is crucial is, what it is
in a fallen world that replaces piety and
which in conjun.ction with history brings
one
to
wl;l.ere
one
should
be.
The
traditional answer is faith.
I will show
that Prop. 6 of Section II corresponds in
the Principia to Christian faith.
These remarks fill out in somewhat
greater detail the stage setting for all
'possible' worlds and how to reach a
pre-fallen
and
fallen
world.
The
particular· force
laws
which
may be
involved in our world first emerge in
prop. 4 in a preliminary way. Four forie
15ws ~e mentioned there.
They are R ,
and the actual one we see in the
R , R
planets and falling stones, R- 2 , and which
in their fall are the story of the Fall.
~at '1Je wi_l} show is that the force laws
R , R , R
tell a story through their
interrelationships which necessitates and
is rendered visible in the appearances of
masses acting and reacting according to
the inverse square law.
The first force law mentioned is most
unusual.
It is one in which the 1 force
increases as the distance, F a R . The
further away one is from the center of
force, the greater the force exerted. It
is as if the light from a source became
more intense the further one was from it.
In a mechanical explanation we would
expect the force to diminish in some form
as one moved away from its source.
This
force, however, increases. There is such
a force in our world, Hooke's Law, but
that deals with a spring, which · is not
this sort of case. The force that we are
considering
involves
creation out of
nothing.
We will take this force to
represent the force with which God acts on
the creited world.
In our account of the
fall, R corresponds to God, who must an~
can know how far each being is from him.
However, any force which is direct as the
distance could capture this sense of
creation out of nothing.
So we a_._re faced
with the q~estion 3 why God is R
rather
than, say R or R .
We will so?f return
. to thi5 _is_sue after we consider R .
"1.
R is a force a little less than R ,
God, and though equally unmechanical is
nonetheless quite rational.
It is a
uniform force.
One which is self-same in
a crucial respect.
In ·this case, force
does not depend on the distance but only
on what is acted upon.
The same mass is
acted upon by the same force at any
distance.
Space is irrelevant, all that
is crucial is what a thing is, i.e. 1 its
mass, it's essence..: 1 In the_fase of R as
in the case of R
and R
distance is
relevant and has the consequence that the
effect is either more or less than the
apparent cause.
In this case, the effect
is entirely equal to the cause.
Such a
force responds to the what but not the
where.
If we ask ,what entity has the
traits which characterize this force, the
answer is clear.
It is Reason and from
Milton we can glean what Reason is; it is
the first created beings ,0 the Angels. We
will
therefore
take
R
to
represent
Reason.
The question of the .. relation
1
between R and R is now the question of
the relations between God and Reason. i.e.
the first Fall, a situation described by
Newton in Props. 7,8, and 9.
The second
creation, the creation of Adam, occurs in
Prop. 10 which is the last proposition of
Section 2.
It is now time to return to thl
question of associating God with the R
force law since any law Rn where n > O can
represent creation out of nothing.
The
first point is that if God's relation to
his angels is ordered so that if God is Rn
n-1
the angels are R
, then if n > 1, the
angels could also create out of nothing.
The other point deals with the relation of
his creatures to Him.
God's creatures
15
�1
need to be able to recognize their
difference from Him, i.e . . we must be
finite.
What we see and think must only
be ultimately what He thinks, but yet it
must ultimately be that.
If th~ world
were operating according to an R force
law there, would be no difference between
the non-ultimate and the ultimate, no
difference between what appears and what
is.
The
.visible
world
would
be
mathematics. .
If
the
wo3ld
operated
according to the law F a R , the actual
orbits could not be reduced to circles of
curvature. The world would be completely
imcomp~ehensible.
One world would be
purely intelligible, the other would be
opaqu2 and miraculous. We therefore take
the R. to r3present God's intellect and we
associate R with .God's grace.
The third force law presented in
prop. 4 is the 'inverse as the distance'
law, R-l
It is a mirror image of the
first law ai:id rather than increasing as
the distance, it decreases.
This is the
most mechanically explicable of the three
forces we have .considered, since one
expects that the further away from the
source of force, the. less force will be
exerted. It is a force law which requires
neither knowing how far nor to whom the
force is directed prior to its action.
What we have here is the representation of
the force law between men, each man acting
in
the
literal
image 1 of
God,
Hfs
reciprocal.
As God is R , ma~ is 2 l/R 1 .
In terans of our discussion of R , R , R ,
and R as God's grace, ~<rd' s intellect,
God's power .and Reason, R
becomes man's
Will.
In the fourth proposition what we
have are three thinkable force laws and a
fourth which, Newton points out, is our
visible force law:
the inverse square.
Since this concerns what is visible, it
s~2ms feasible to extend the list and add
R
as the mathematical correlate of
perception.
This then would give us the
conclusion that man's perception is the
image of God's intellect and would supply
an internal justification of reading . the
visible world as the story of God's
intellect. -- There is one -more force law
for which one must give account: the
inverse cube.
Since it is the factor
which causes the dissolution of the world,
we
might,
for
the
moment,
let
it
correspond to the inverse of grace i.e.
· despair.
'(,Ur ques1:_\on is how the three laws
R1 , R , and R
bring into being through
the fall, the visible world which displays
the story of that fall in its force law,
visibility,
and
interconnections.
In
other words, the visible world of the
inverse square is the appearance to us of
the creation of the world, its fall, and
its eventual redemption, a moment which we
are told in Revelations will be signaled
by the dissolution of the heavens. Newton
wrote
a
commentary
on
the
book
of
Revelations. Our claim is that the force
laws Rn do not concern 'possible' worlds,
one of which i~ 'actual'. Rather the laws
from -R 3 to Rfit together to tell the
story of our world, visible and invisible.
III
The Fall of Lucifer occurs in Prop.
7. There we are shown a body orbiting in
a circle around a center of force which,
in corollary 1, is on the circumference of
that circle.
The figure of the orbit is
two circles with a common tangent point
occupied by the center of force.
p
This is the orbit which Lucifer and the
Angels described prior to the Fall. It is
an orbit whose center is neither within
the orbit nor outside it.
It stands as
the mathematical diagram of the theological fact that God is in Heaven with his
angels. He both is and is not with them;
there is distance and yet no distance, as
there would be were he inside or outside
that orbit.
He is precisely at the
tangent point of all such double circular
orbits.
This allows for the possibility
that the Angels can be different--ordered
hierarchically--and yet none be farther
from God than any other. . Since these
orbits are circles, each point is similar
to every other and the difference between,
the orbit and a point on the orbit is'
·imperceptible.
The Newtonian account of
Heaven is
therefore, viewed in the
plane, the following figure.
One might reflect on the oddity that each
body generating its own orbit would fall
into such a peculiar configuration. Such
reflection would not account for the
presence and the action of that force at
the tangent point.
However, it would
indicate that the reasoning we described
as
Satan's
is
false.
Reason
would
recognize itself limited. Satan does not
look to the others and falls.
The force law which proposition 6
would give us -Sor this orbit is the
inverse fifth, R . Since we are flaiming
that God acts according to .R ,
this
appears a discrepancy.
But it is not.
Prop. 7 asks the general questi.on of the
force law connecting a body in a circular
orbit with a
center of
force.
It
considers an equation for any point in the
circle and in the first corollary draws
the specific vers!gn for the center on the
circumference, R •
It does not here
present the question of the specific value
of Rn where the force is at the center of
the circle, i.e. when there is a definite
and constant distance between the body and
the center, which was not the case in the.
creation of the Angels.
Newton at this
point does not feel such a need.
Had he
felt that ·need, the general 1 equation of
prop. 7 for that case gives R •
Satan's rebellion of prop. 7 erects
an immeasurable distance between himself
and 'his creator.
The center of force,
God, is pushed out of Satan's world,
placed
infinitely
far
away.
This
infinitely distant center of force is
treated in the next proposition which
articulates the Fall.
In the following discussion I assume
that
Proposition
six which
I
claim
represents
faith
is
unavailable
to
Lucifer. From the perspective of prop. 4
and not prop. 6, which is needed to
calculate the force law, there is no
center. We can now present what would be
Lucifer's i.e. Reason's--response to such
situation.
From prop. 2, he, on the
orbit, can discern that there is no center
either inside or outside. It is from the
point of tangency that equal areas are
described in equal times.
But can that
point be the center of force?
Any
attractive force, so Reason reasons, tends
to become infinite the closer one gets.
If the center were on the orbit itself,
then when the body reached that point the
force would be infinite and the orbit
would not continue.
Since there clearly
is an orbit, such a center of force.cannot
be there.
The orbit, Reason concludes,
must therefore be self-generated.
Through Prop. 6, we see ~his analysis
is wrong and that the orbit continues.
What prop. 6 permits which this reasoning
does not, is the conclusion that an
infinite force results in a finite effect
i.e. the mystery of creation.
What we
have here is the mathematical equivalent
of Milton's Lucifer in Bk. I who claims
his own self-generation.
Without proposition 6, the only way
to discern a center of force on the orbit
would be to consider the other orbits.
a
A?
Proposition 8 shows an orbit with the
center of force infinitely far and the
body on a circle. This orbit is unstable.
Once the point is reached where the
17
�..,
tangent to the orbit is on a line parallel
to the force lines, the body begins to
move in a straight line at continually
increasing acceleration.
It moves along
the tangent.
This is the fall itself. ·
The force law operating here is the
unverse cube which for the first time
makes its appearance. The inverse cube is
what was mention~d before as involved in
the dissolution of the world.
The situation of this proposition is
that when Lucifer reaches the tangent
poi~t
of the previous proposition--the
place where God was--he begins to move in
a straight line continually accelerating
according to the inverse cube.
The body of Prop. 8 approaching the
tangent point of the double circles is
acted upon by the infinitely distant force
according to the inverse cube of line AB,
or A' B' , a ·line dropped from the position
of the body ordinatewise to the diameter
TW.
When the body reaches the point T,
the lines A'B' have vanished and are
replaced by the increasing lengths along
the tangent TP.The body is therefore act3d
upon by a force which is inversely as TP .
This is the distance between Satan and God
as.He was in Prop.7.
II
~
limits. He, therefore, must reason, since
acceleration is detectable, that ~e exerts
force on himself. As such he is not only
self-generated
but
self-generating.
Without Prop. 6, however, he can not argue
to the inverse cube. He must continue. to
believe that he acts on himsetf according
to what he is, i.e. the R
law. The
movement of Satan in the fall is along a
line of tangency to his original orbit. In
discussing Newton's first law, we pointed
out that motion along a straight line was
the equivalent to what one has become. It
is
uniform
velocity
and
constant
direction. What we see in Satan's case is
constant direction, away from the tangent.
point where God was, but also continually
increasing velocity.
It is the fusion of
Law 1 and 2 .a:nd is .. the eq_uivalent to th~~
sin of Satan--pride.
Pride we are told,
leads
to
despair
and
in
the
next
proposition we find just that. Because of
Satan's fall a new line has been generated
in the world. The previous figure was:
A' A
The new line is the tangent line to the
point of tangency between the double
circles.
It runs at right angles to the
line of the centers of the double circles.
Satan could recognize this, his own
fall
from T,
if proposition 6 were
available to him, but ~e are assuming, for
now without explanation, that is is not.
We can say that because it represents
faith, it is not available to him but is
available to us readers.
The crux of
proposition 6 is to relate the finite and
the infinite through the nascent ratios
and calculate a force law in regard to a
specific center.
Having fallen from the
orbit,
Lucifer
no
longer
has
the
possibility of viewing the other angelic
configurations and reasoning to reason's
Satan's fall draws the figure of the
cross, a figure his fall made necessary.
Had Satan any movement except along
the line away from God, he would describe
circles around the original point in his
fall. At the infinite distance, he would
describe an infinite circle.
However,
since he has no such movement, he does
18
-·-------------------
not.
He remains fixed in the infinite
point, infinitely far from God.
What we see in prop. 9 is the center
of force by which Satan was accelerated in
prop. 8, the inverse cube, now acting at a
finite distance.
proposition.
In prop. 7, God was considered with
the angels in a place which was no place,
i.e, the tangent point between all their
orbi:ting double circles.
God in prop. 7
was with these created beings in heaven.
In prop. 10, we find the .second creation,
the creation of man in God's image. It is
in respect to man and the second creation,
to beings at a finite distance from him,
that God acts directly
as the distance
and that is the force.law displayed at the
end of section two.
God' s relation is
such that he is no longer in the same
place as his creature. _ He is initially at
the center of a ellipse/circle where manor Adam is on the orbit. The force law is
direct as the distance.
In the previous
creation, prop.
7, we were faced by
circles. The variety of the general force
law in question there, the inverse fifth,
left no room for any degree of variation.
One either remained on the double circle
or one fell. In the second creation, that
changes.
By God's having moved his
creature to a finite distance, there comes
into being a certain latitude.
Adam can
move in a circle or an ellipse and still
remain in orbit around God in the center.
The difference between the circle and the
ellipse depends on the relation between
the distance from the center and the
body's tangential velocity.
The ~atitude
mentioned· means that if where one is and
what one is are not in harmony, one still
need not fall. One can desire, fall back,
and still remain in orbit.
Newton does not end Section 2 with
Proposition 10, but with a Scholium. The
Scholium acts as a transition to the next
Section which begins with the creation of
Eve.
In this scholium, the ellipse of
Prop. X first becomes a parabola and then
a hyperbola.
For the parabola to arise
out of the ellipse requires that the
center of force be moved infinitely far
away. The parabola is an ellipse which is
missing one point. It is a representation
of a being's desire, a being which views
himself as essentially incomplete.
The
force law which causes this figure is what
we observe in the fall of apples at the
The result is a peculiar image of a force'
law '1e previously considered for God--i.e.
F R .
That law was not the law of the
world because it described pure grace.
The inverse cube is its opposite. Acting
on finitely placed bodies, it causes them
to begin a spir~l which, regardless of
their original velocity, eventually brings
them to the center of force, Satan, if
there is any motion at all in that
direction.
It is the distorted image of
grace~
it is despair.
However, we have
just seen that Satan is infinitely far
from any body whose distance from God is
finite. He, therefore, can have no effect
from his location at the very base of the
tan~ent
line.
However,
if
we
ask
ourselves what that base is, we see it is
the. foot of the cross which came into
being in the transition from prop. 7 to
prop. 8.
It is only if mediated by God's
grace that Satan can ·act and God is grace
is alone what
is
sufficient.
Satan
imagines lJimsel!f to act according to what
he was, R • However, he actually attempts
t~ 3 act, unknown to himself, accot;ding to
R • His imagined actia_p is made possible
through God's grace, R •
The result of
the magnification of the inverse cube by·
the direct cube is RO, which because it ·
acts without reference to distance can aqt
even at an infinite distance.
In other
words, we have Newton's initial rendering
of the claim that God's grace brings good
out
of
evil,
which
would
be . the
justification of God's ways to man.
We
are now ready for the second creation, and
Newton presents us with that in the next·
19
�,
surface of the earth.
As Newton says,
"This is Galileo's theorem". The ellipse,
which is caused by a force acting directly
as the distance, has been transformed into
a parabola acted -upon a force infinitely
distant.
As he stated, "the force will
become constant."
However, we have just
seen what this force might be. Satan is a
force infinitely remote from Adam which
opera es just as this force should, i.e.
F a R •
If one now re-introduces God at
the center of the ~ld ellipse acting
according to the R
force law,
the
parabola becomes a hyperbola where we have
a centrifugal instead of a centripetal
force. We have here the representation of
Adam's flight from God in the desire for
something else which would complete him.
Adam is requesting a mate.
The end of
Newton's section 2 corresponds to the end
of the second chapter of Genesis.
Throughout this discussion, we have
not considered the sixth Proposition.
Satan, we claimed, traversed the 7th, 8th,
and 9th propositions because Prop. 6 was
unavailable to him.
He had to rely on
unaided reason whereas we could calculate
the precise force laws.
Previously we
said that that proposition corresponded to
faith and we must now consider that claim.
Proposition 6 enables us
to mediate
between the appearances and the force law
which governs them.
It is in other words
what makes the Principia possible.
Had
Satan
possessed
it,
he
would
have
recognized he was not self-generated.
Prop. 6 deals with nascent ratios in
Newton's Latin; in Greek that would be
with the logos of Genesis--the word which
was "In the beginning." It enables us to
view an orbit,
an historical
fallen
appearance, and discern the reality behind
the product of lines in the figure is
equal to the law of force.
In its
non-ultimate form, the figure is this:
&
0
s
and the force is inverse as the product.
SP2
QT;;z
QR
In its ultimate form, the figure
changes somewhat. As Newton says in Cor.
1 of prop. 6: "the centripetal force will
be inversely as the solid
SP;;z . QT;;z
QR
if the solid be taken of that magnitude
which it ultimately acquires when points P
and Q coincide." The figure indicated is
the one in which "QR_ is equal to the
versed sign of double of the arc QP whose
middle is P." The figure with the double
arc 9p is:
it.
In order to apply proposition 6, one
must reduce the finite orbit at a point to
a circle of curvature.
A circle of
curvature is a circle which has the same
curvature at that_ point as the apparent
orbit.
The circle of curvature is a
reduction of the orbit at a point to the
pre-fallen world of prop.4. Once this is
done a figure is drawn in the circle and
It is the cross on which Christ was
crucified which mediates
between our
fa],len
world
of
the
inverse
square
spiralling to the Last Judgement -and our
pre-fallen state. It is therefore b_ecause
proposition 6 for Newton is the Christ
that that proposition is unavailable to
Satan. -
20
directed to the center of force are
parallel.
Obviously
someone
convinced
that
Newton's
Principia
is
a
work
of
mathematical physics would insist that
these are not real issues. He would admit
the same contingency in this work that he
would anticipate in the world which that
work describes.
It is not clear whether
this dispute can be resolved at this
level. It would require investigating the
genesis of the concept 'descriptive'.
Scholium
Virtues and vices of this
reading
A brief statement of the virtues and vices
of this attempt may be helpful.
The
principal advantage of the approach is
that it insists that every part in the
composition be respected and questioned
about its role.
Mathematically Prop. 8
and 9 appear to be unnecessary where they
are. A corollary of prop. 7 is used later
in section 3, but prop. 8 and 9 a re not.
I do not know if they are used anywhere
else.
Are they?
The situation is even
worse in section 3.
The scholium which
ends that section first appears in Prop.
7, Cor. III.
It is used in the 'same
otherwise' proofs of Propositions 11 and
12.
However, for no reason at all, it
suddenly reappears a fourth time after
Prop. 17 to complete the section. One must
ask oneself why, and no mathematical
response is to the point at that stage.
This approach also allows one to
begin to reconsider the relation between
the
proofs
proper
and
the
versions
entitled 'the same otherwise'. These are
generally viewed mere~y
as
alternate
proofs.
The
two
in
section
three,
however, prop. 11 and prop. 12, share a
similar strategy.
They both derive the
force law th rough Prop. X of Section 2.
The
proofs
proper do not use
that
proposition but argue directly from Prop.
6. The different versions appear to bring
up a distinction between an apparent force
law and
an
actual
one.
The
' same
otherwise' proofs in Section 2 occur after
Prop. 7, 9, and 10. They all emplpy Cor.
3 of prop. 6 instead of Cor. 1 _which is
used for the proposition. Cor. 1 of Prop.
6 uses the cross; Cor. 3 does not, but
rather
a
line
perpendicular
to
the
tangent. One wonders what to make of this
difference.
In section 3, Prop. 13 does
not have a I same otherwise I .
In section
2, Prop. 8 lacks one.
Here too one
wonders why.
This is particularly the
case since Prop. 13 is the parabola,_ a
figure whose diameters are all parallel
and prop. 8 is a circle where all_ lines
The vices of such an effort are
legion and obvious to anyone.
To stop
ourselves from speaking of force laws as
holding of possible worlds, a Leibnizian
characterization, I made an effort to show
the Newtonian force laws in a different
light.
This
required
presenting
an
account of R3 and R2 as God's Grace and
God's
Intellect.
I
doubt
that
the
suggestions presented are sufficient to
convince anyone. An argument is necessary
which would involve a treatment of Lemma
I I of Section I and the Scholium which
follows it. Such an effort is beyond the
scope of the sketch which is being
presented. This brings up another issue.
In such an attempt, a premature guess
which is incorrect appears much worse than
it really is.
It takes on this aspect
because everything is, at best, merely
implicit.
One,
therefore,
fears that
anything is possible.
I did not use the
now infamous SPQRT which in a giddy mood I
once imagined represented the assertion of
the Roman rather than the Greek cross in
the sixth Proposition.
I have no idea
whether the shape of the true cross really
concerned Newton or whether he had a sense
of humor. It is tempting to_ connect Prop.
6 both with Prop. 66 and with the number
of the Antichrist, 666.
However to show
that 6, as the first perfect number, was
associated with Christ and to apply it to
this" ·text
would
appear,
right
now,
indulgent, and make the entire effort
su~pect.
The whole procedure, therefore,
hin'ges on the exercise of restraint and
that itself is a problem.
The most one
can hope for at this stage is to have made
21
�the claim that the Principia is a work of
mathematical physics ambiguous.
To do
more would require displaying that our
notion of mathematical physics has its
true origin, not in the Principia, but in
Kant's Critique, and is hardly possible in
a last sentence.
a function of the mass of the affected
body and since there are an indefinite
number of these, any force emanating from
a center must be infinite. This, however,
is a different problem from the one being
addressed though it may indicate that for
Newton the action of God is necessary in
any situation where force is present. God
would be necessary because no mechanical
explanation could account for an infinite
force originating from a mass.
1
In this discussion of the force laws I
am not considering the effect of mass but
only of distance.
Because any force,
direct or inverse as the distance, is also
Viewpoint
Patti Nogales
We have not left it
as we found it
but it seems to me that way;
though twelve yea,rs of living
have softened
the harsh lines
the naked floor throws back
coldly
an echo
of my despair.
I would like to say "fare thee well"
to my room
but I look to find
four unresponsive walls,
an only1- once - before - seen floor,
a silent door.
Where is my room?
Did it leave with the desk
hauled out the door,
or with my reading chair, my pictures
or the bookshelves
eased
into the back of an old green truck?
At what moment, with the loss of which part
did the whole disappear
in the bustle of the last days?
It is lost
like a sigh of warmth
in a cold winter,
In a sigh
it was born and died my sigh~
So when we
softly
close the door.
for the last time
and look back,
we will see,
not as we found it,
a strangely familiar house
at the top of a hill.
July, 1978.
22
23
�Ah! cruel, tu m'a trop entendue.
Je t'en ai dit assez pour te tirer
d' erreur.
· H~ bien ! connais done Ph~dre et
toute sa fureur. (671-673)
Like Flies to Wanton Boys
another paper about God, man, and the universe
Stephanie Nelson
Oh that is cruel, you understand too much.
My words already leave no room for doubt.
Well then, know Ph~dre, know all her fury's forcer love, but loving still, my eyes refuse
Myself all sanction and all innocence.
You think this madness that controls my mind
Is born of weakness. The poison is not mine.
A plaything for the Gods, your proud contempt
Is nothing to my loathing for myself. ·
The Gods can speak for me - these Gods who lit
The fire in me which has consumed my house.
Cruel Gods, who pride themselves in such a feat To have seduced a helpless woman's heart.
Think back, you know that fleeing from you then
Was not enough - I drove you from my sight.
I strove to be inhuman in your eyes,
And to resist my love I sought your hate.
What have I gained from all my useless care?
You hate me more, I love you none the less.
Your misery at last just lent new grace
And fed the fire I fed with my own tears.
All this in just a glance your eyes could see,
If they could bring themselves to look on me.
(671-692)
In a play full of people attempting
to justify their actions, to themselves
and each other, Ph~dre stands alone· in
accepting her crime for what it is.
Certainly it is the question of her
innocence,
and
not
of
Th~s~e's
in
condemning Hippolyte, of Hippolyte's in
fleeing or loving Aricie, or of Oenone' s
in attempting to save Ph~dre, which is the
focus of the play.
Any guilt of their's
is overwhelmed by the horror of Ph~dre' s
love
for
Hippolyte.
But
the
sheer
immensity of Ph~dre' s shame should have
led her, had she been anyone else, to
excuse herself and lay the blame for her
actions on the gods (these gods do not
deserve capitalization).
This, exactly,
she will not do. Phedre sees the gods for
what they are (or at least for what Racine
sees them as being).
They have, without
reason, placed her in a position where her
only choices are to act, and act culpably,
or to die. She acts, and blames herself,
not the gods, for her action.
If at any
point
Phedre
might
be
said
to
be
justifying herself it is in the speech
which I have translated.
I will try to
show that is is not absolution that Ph~dre
is seeking.
24
..
J'aime. Ne pense pas qu'au moment
que je t'aime,
Innocente ~ mes yeux, je m'approuve
moi-~me,
Ni que du fol amour qui trouble ma
raison
Ma lache complaisance ait nourri le
poison.
Objet infortun~ des vengeances
Phedre begins looking at Hippolyte
and calling him "cruel."
Until this
speech Phedre has used the word "cruel"
only in reference to the gods. After this
she will use it to describe both the gods
and Hippolyte, but no one else.
In the
course of her speech Ph~dre speaks to
Hippolyte, to the gods, and then again to
Hippolyte.
She addresses each in turn as
"cruel."
She
accuses
them
not
of
malevolence, but of· indifference.
The
horror of the god's behavior towards
Phedre is not that they bear her some sort
of grudge, but that she is too insignificant for them to bother. Their persecution of her is entirely disinterested.
They are not concerned with either Ph~dre
or her sufferings. The gods do not judge
men any more than men 'judge' flies in
killing them.
As
Theramene says to
Hippolyte "Le ciel de nos raisons ne sait
point s'inforrner." (1.115)
The gods are
'not even able to listen.
To Ph~dre
Hippolyte is a god; he is both as noble "Tel qu' on d~peint nos Dieux, ou tel que
je vous voi." (1.640) - and as unfeeling.
Phedre knows that Hippolyte could not
have failed to understand her declaration
of love.
He too readily claims he has.
Whether Hippolyte cannot, or will not,
hear Phedre, she sees that his only desire
is to remain ignorant of her suffering:
" ... Par combien de detou rs/L' insensible a
longtemps ~lud~ mes di scours!" , (1. 743)
It is clear to her that Hippolyte does not
care any more about her reasons than the
heavens do. But Hippolyte is a man, not a
god.
Phedre
demands
from
him
the
recognition due a human being, who does
have reasons, and has the ability to judge
and be judged.
This recognition is what
the gods have refused her.
Ph~dre tries
to force Hippolyte to understand her, and
her love, not in order to escape judgement
but
to
claim
it
as
her
right.
Indifference is the cruelest blow of all.
c~lestes,
Je m'abhorre encor plus que tu ne me
d'testes. (673-678)
Ph~dre's confession of her crime
requires only one syllable.
Her need to
make Hippolyte understand has overcome any
desire
in
her
to
win
him
through
passionate declarations of love.
She
challenges
Hippolyte
by
not
excusing
herself.
She claims that it is possible
for a man to act, and at the same moment
to understand that his action is wrong.
Hippolyte's understanding of guilt cannot
admit this.
He has referred to Th~s~e' s
seductions as "erreurs"
(1.23) and to
Thesee's actions as "failings." ["faillir"
(l.100)]
Guilt, for Hippolyte is th.e
denial, or, as he is partial to his
father, the falling short of moral laws.
Th~s~e' s
crimes,
and trespass ·in
general, are the result of a deficiency, a
deficiency which can be made up, for
example, by killing enough monsters.
A
man such as Thes~e, in Hippolyte' s eyes,
could never condemn himself as guilty
while deceiving his lovers; he can deceive
them only because he has deceived himself
too well to understand his guilt.
The
inconstancy of Th~s~e' s
vows
can be
'fixed' by Ph~dre because his inconstancy
is not a force to be tamed, :but an error
to be corrected.
Uncorrected, a man who
can deny one limit, finally can deny all.
Hippolyte tells Th~s~e, "Quiconque a pu
franchir les bornes l~gitimes/Peut violer
enfin
les
droits
les
plus
sacres"
(1.1094) .
What Hippolyte says is quite true,
but
not
always
for
the
reason
he
understands.
When Phedre abandons her
reason to Oenone she does it because "De
.
I
l 'austere pudeur les bornes sont passees"
25
�(1. 766) • It is not because she has been
able to convince herself that her acts are
not crimes, that she has passed into
greater crimes.
She is so aware of her
guilt that she is unable to act unless she
abandons her judgement completely.
This
she cannot do.
She can only tell Onenone
"Je t' avouerai de tout; j e n' esp'ere qu' en
toi." (1. 811)
Ph~dre' s crimes finally do
not result from her blinding judgement,
but from her need to abandon it.
Hippolyte
defends · himself
before
Thesee by reminding him of what Hippolyte
believes is the cause of his innocence,
his " ... haine des forfai ts qu 'on ose
m'imputer" (1.1108). As long as he hates
this crime he cannot commit it. His hate
however is no stronger than Phedre's.
This is the Hippolyte Phedre speaks to
when she says "Je m'abhorre encor plus que
tune me d~testes." Ph~dre abhors herself
because she understands, despises, and yet
has
committed
her
crime.
Hippolyte
detests her because he believes
she
recognizes
no
limits.
His
immediate
reaction to Phedre' s declaration of love
is to demand " ... oubliez-vous/Que Th6see
est mon pere, et qu' il est votre ~poux?"
(1. 663)
Hippolyte cannot understand the
horror or tragedy of Ph~dre' s
crime
because he does not understand that it is
not always men's judgement that motivates
their actions.
Les Dieux m'en sent temoins, ces
Dieux qui dans mon flanc
Ont allume le feu fatal ~ tout mon
sang;
Ces Dieux qui se sent fait une
gloire cruelle
De seduire le coeur d'une faible
mortelle. (679-682)
If ·it is not Ph~dre's compliance
["complaisance"] which has made her act
against her reason, what has?
What but
\.
the gods? Phedre calls on the gods as her
witnesses. But what kind of witnesses are
they, who have caused the misery of the
woman they are called upon to defend? The
supposed greatness of the gods, the gods
Hippolyte believes in, and to whom Ph~dre
for a moment has tried to appeal, stands
in terrible contrast to their real nature.
Their "gloire cruelle" Ph~dre sees, is no
greater
than
the
pointless
torments
children impose on one another.
Ph~dre's
contempt for herself is for her weakness;
she despises the gods because they are
petty.
When Ph~dre speaks of the gods she
accuses not only Venus, but all the
uncaring and uncontrolable forces which
act on men. What does it matter to Ph~dre
if the gods have lit the same fire in her
that they lit in her mother and sister, or
if it was her inheritence to fall in lqve?
She cannot control it; she in no way
deserved it.
Nature or fate is no less
"cruel" than the gods, although we are
less inclined to accuse them of cruelty.
Phedre cannot condemn the gods any more
than we can condemn our genes.
They act
on us, they are all powerful!, and since
they are simply not of the world of right
and wrong, they cannot be accused of being
unfair.
Men, however, understand what it is
to
'deserve'
and
somehow
that
understanding is the best part of men.
Pascal
wrote,
"Mais
quand
l 'uni vers
l'~craserait l'homme serait encore plus
noble que ce qui le tue, puisqu' il sai t
qu' il muert •.. " (Pensee 200)
Perhaps we
could add - because he knows whether he
deserves to die.
The gods, like the
(empoisonn~) air Ph~dre is forced to
breathes,are beyond her control and her
condemnation.
She
can
nonetheless
recognize that she is in some way superior
to them.
It is Phedre who understands
only too well.
She despises herself
because she acts against her judgement.
She despises the gods because they have no
judgement.
Toi-~me en ton esprit rapelle le
I
passe.
C'est peu de t'avoir fui, cruel, je
t'ai chasse.
J'ai voulu te parattre odieuse,
inhumaine;
Pour mieux te resister, j'ai
recherch~ ta haine. (683-686)
26
''
'
Perhaps the saddest words in Phedre's
speech are "qu' au moment que je t' aime."
"Je t'aime" is not past, it is now, at the
very moment in which Phedre talks to
Hippolyte.
Phedre can despise the gods
for their cruelty; despite herself she
cannot despise Hippolyte. ...
There is no one
else in the play whom Phedre feels she
must make understand and judge her. It is
,,
enough that Thesee or Oenone know her
crime; only to Hippolyte does she plead
"connais done Ph~dre."
But Ph~dre is a
play not only about passion and judgement,
it is also about the inevitable solitude
in which they occur.
Perhaps if Oenone
had understood why Phedre had to die, if
Hippolyte had heard Phedre' s cry to be
judged, if Th~s6e had not had " ... de son
[Hippolyte's] coeur si peu de connaissance," ( 1. 1429) Hippolyte would not have
died.
Men are isolated because there is no
one to witness the truth of what they say.
Men cannot testify
for themselves
"Toujours les sc~lerats ont recours au
parjure." (1.1134)
Hippolyte learns the
result of trusting in the concern of the
gods - " [Les Dieux] ont trop d' in&r~t ~
me justifier" (1.1352) becomes "Le ciel
m'arrache
une
innoc~nte
vie."
(1.1561).
And finally men have so little
knowledge of each other that they are
unable to know, let alone speak, the truth
for other men. Phedre calls herself, the
gods, and Hippolyte to witness. All fail.
She learns what Hippolyte does not when,
in defending himself to Th~s6e, he finds
that " ... la terre, le ciel, que toute la
nature ... "
(1.1133)
are not enough to
testify
for
him.
Perhaps
~lying
he
realizes that this is because "la terre,
le ciel,
et toute la nature,"
like
Hippolyte, do not want to listen. Phedre
again calls Hippolyte "cruel" but the
irony of even trying to call to witness is
so bitter that she cannot help but
recognize it.
The proofs which would serve to
convince an objective judge are precisely
the acts that make it impossible for
Hippolyte to be objective.
"Mes inutiles
...
soins" are perhaps not only Phedre' s
attempts,
now
long
ago,
to
resist
Hippolyte, but the attempt she has just
made to make him understand her. In a sea
of past actions "tu me haissais;" and "je
t'aimais" alone are in the present. Now,
at this moment, you hate me more, not
despite, but because of my attempts to
make you understand. There are no judges
for
Phedre
except
herself.
Forcing
Hippolyte to see the truth can only make
it more impossible for him to judge. The
gods have given Ph~dre, as they do Th's'e,
exactly what she wanted.
Ph~dre' s plea
for understanding only makes her,
in
Hippolyte' s eyes, more "odieuse;" and
"inhumaine."
..
Tes malheurs te pr~taient encor de
nouveux charmes.
J'ai langui, j'ai s~ch~, dans les
feux, dans les larmes.
Il suffit de tes yeux pour t'en
persuader,
Si tes yeux un moment pouvaient me
regarder. (689-691)
But "je ne t'aimais pas mains". Even
while Phedre realizes that Hippolyte hates
her, she loves him.
Phedre knows that
Hippolyte is.unable to understand her. If
kn6wledge
governed men's
actions
her
speech would end with "tu me haissais
plus." But all of Ph~dre's understanding
cannot
stifle
her
longing
to
have
Hippolyte recogni~e her.
That longing
will not allow Phedre to abandon a hope
that she knows
it is impossible to
satisfy.
All she has left to abandon is
her reason. Hippolyte will never look at
Phedre.
Phedre knows this and still
cannot stop herself from begging him to
see her, just as she can condemn her love
for him but cannot stop herself from
loving. Her speech is a microcosm of her
love.
Once she has' given her hope
substance by speaking of it, her judgement
can no longer overwhelm the force of a
De quoi m'ont profit~ mes inutiles
soins?
Tu me haissais plus, je ne t'aimais
pas mains. (687-688)
27
�f
-,
passion she has done her best to kill.
Overall, once Ph~dre has allowed herself
to hope that she could love Hippolyte, and
in this speech, once she has hoped that he
might understand her, she cannot prevent
her hope from working out its own fatal
conclusion.
Nor can she prevent herself
from condemning the actions she performs
motivated by this hope.
\
Phedre' s speech from this point on
will build until, horribly, it combines
her understanding of her guilt and her
need for Hippolyte's recognition.
The
only resolution to her fatal passion is
that it be Hippolyte who, in judging her,
punishes her guilt.
Only then can her
judgement and her passion be reconciled.
The fatality of her love is that it is
both deadly and seeking death. Hippolyte
alone can end the war within Ph~dre.
But Hippolyte cannot.
He is too
young and too naive.
He is horrified by
Ph~dre's confession, and naturally so.
Because he is a man, and a particular man,
he cannot do what Phedre is asking of him.·
Men
are
not
capable
of
forgetting
themselves in order to understand another.
Ph~dre is asking Hippolyte to be what
Th~s6e, the gods, and finally Hippolyte
cannot be - both noble and understanding.
Perhaps it would be sufficient if just one
man could be both.
Hippolyte cannot.
Only Ph~dre can understand both herself
and her passion, but alone the only
resolution she can reach is the one that
will lead to Hippolyte's death.
Some Thoughts on "Maxwell's Equations"
'"
David Stephenson
We
usually
meet
with
Maxwell's
equations in something like the following
form if we meet with them at all:
curl E
=-
div D
p
db
dt
curl H
div B
=
L
-+
it will give rise to another field in
directions perpendicular to but curving
a round it:
hence the use of the word
"curl" in the first two equations.
The elegance and power of these
equations is manifest.
They display an
even greater symmetry in space free of
charge and current, so that L and p a re
zero, and without material bodies so that
B = H and D = E.
Such a concise and
pregnant expression of natural law can.
only be admired. But these equations were
not written by Maxwell.
He did list some dozen equations in
quaternion form at the conclusion of a
chapter entitled "General Equations· of the
Electrodynamic Field" in his Treatise.
Among them are some more or less equivalent to the four posterity attributes to
Maxwell. But they are quite different in
form.
How then did our four usurp their
paternity?
Who did write them? and why
did Maxwell lack his successor's economical or aesthetic predilections?
Though
not
afflicted
with
the
Pythagorean tesseraphilia nor a confessed
admirer of Aristotle's cardinal virtues or
elements, Maxwell did apparently succumb
to the charm. of the number four in another
short treatise: "Note on the Electromagnetic Theory of Light," in which he
derived
a
plane
electromagnetic wave
equation, which we may write:
dD
dt
0
These are the field. equations out of
which immediately springs the assurance
that electromagnetic waves can exist and
travel in space.
For with E and D
signifying electric inten5;1ity and flux,
respectively, H and B magnetic force and
flux, and p and L electric charge and
current densities, the first two equations
imply a reciprocal stimulation of magnetic
and electric fields that will spread
outwards once provoked, like the waves in
a pond.
The third and fourth equations,
on the other hand, cover the quiescent
case,
locating
the
source
of
an
electrostatic field in electric charge but
denying any local source to magnetism.
The terms curl and divergence were
invented by Maxwell (although he preferred
the term "convergence" for the latter, the
negative of the divergence).
~n
his
"Mathematical Classification of ,Physical
Properties" in the The Scientific papers
of James Clerk Maxwell, he shows himself
to be particularly concerned that these
new names express something of their
mathematical meaning to the imagination.
Thus in selecting "curl," he says, "I have
sought for a word which shall neither,
like Rotation, Whirl, or Twirl, connote
motion,
nor,
like Twist,
indicate a
helical or screw structure which is not of
the nature of a vector at all."
If a
field pointing in one direction is altered
28
from four "theorems" or "principles". Two
of
these
"theorems"
resemble · verbal
paraphrases of the first two of our
· equations; this is as close as Maxwell
·comes to our quartet.
The demonstration
29
�----------
is simple and lucid; yet Maxwell seems to
have preferred the richer, if more prolix,
exposition in the Treatise.
One
of
the
reasons
why
Maxwell
included more equations than absolutely
necessary in his Treatise may have been
simply his desire to be explicit.
The
economy
of
mathematical
notation
in
general depends on its tacit reliance on
our understanding of the meaning of its
symbols.
Part of that meaning may derive
from implicit relationships among them, so
that each symbol can conceal a whole train
of equations. The brevity of our original
set of equations proves to be somewhat
illusory.
Only someone already initiated
into the mysteries of electromagnetism
knows, for example, that B and H are
proportional to one another.
Maxwell,
however, writes out the simple equation B
= µH for all to see.
For similar reasons
Ohm's Law joins the parade. But Maxwell's
pedagogical frankness is not the only
reason for the multitude and appearance of
his equations.
They do differ in form as
well as number from ours.
Consider the
fourth of the equations given above:
extended plot.
So the symbol A must be
connected with the symbol E in yet another
equation.
The connection between E and B
provided
by
this
new
vector
then
eliminates
the
need
for
our curl
E
equation.
Maxwell is very interested in
what this new A symbol might represent. A
rather extended analogy with mechanical
phenomena leads him to the conclusion that
it should be called the "electrokinetic"
or "electromagnetic momentum," and that
its time derivative equals the electromotive
force
that
produces
electric
currents· in circuits that are in motion
relative
to
the
magnetic
field.
In
earlier papers he had associated it with
Faraday's "electrotonic state":
a state
of tension assumed to account for the
peculiar
action
of
electromagnetic
induction.
It
thus
contributed
to
Maxwell's understanding of one of the most
puzzling phenomena of electricity and
magnetism.
Anyone nurtured in Newton's school
would
have
trouble
explaining
the
direction of the action of electromagnetic
induction.
For centripetal forces alone
can never account for the fact that when a
wire crosses a magnetic field a current
springs up in a direction perpendicular to
that field, and none whatsoever in the
field's direction.
Without, as far as I
know, confessing this outright, Maxwell
implies that the magnetic flux B expresses
a rotational property of some kind, and
the "momentum" associated with A may be a
kind
of
angular
momentum
in
space.
Rotation does, after all, seem to be
characteristic of magnetism;
even light
can be twisted by it.
In the place of symmetry we now have
a kind of ladder from vector to vector,
beginning with current and rising to the
electromagnetic momentum A:
div B = 0
This
can
easily
be
translated
into
everyday language: magnets have no true
poles, no distinct centers or localized
sources of magnetism.
Maxwell presents
this idea in a totally different way.
It
is a well known mathematical property of
the divergence and curl that div curl A =
o always for any vector A; that therefore
if the divergence of one vector is always
zero, the vector could equal the curl of
another vector.
Therefore Maxwell states
our fourth equation in what amounts to the
following form:
curl A = B
This is the first of the electromagnetic
equations presented in the Treatise. Wit~
it Maxwell introduces one more vectorial
quantity A into the company of forces and
fluxes with which alone we have so far had
to deal.
A new character requires a more
curl 1 B = curl H
µ
curl A
30
I.,
+
dD
dt
~.·'
electromagnetic vibration.
It was left
for Einstein to "murder" that one--or did
he?
Thus
began
the
distillation
of
Maxwell's
electromagnetic
equations,
refined
ultimately
into
the
present
concise, balanced, elegant quartet. These
four say what.it is necessary to say, and
no more than is necessary.
Perhaps,
therefore it is only nostalgia that longs
for the richer and more fanciful panoply
of Maxwell.
However, there is an ironic
footnote to this history;
the vector A
turns out to be significant in two very
modern sciences: quantum mechanics and
relativity (cf. Feynman's Lectures, vol.
II, ch.
15 & 25).
In some respect
therefore Maxwell turns out to have been
an unconscious prophet.
· Now it must be admitted that A
(sometimes called the ·"vector potential"
of the current 1., to name the relationship
implied by the above equations) is a
rather mysterious quantity because it is
not
measurable
directly,
and
can be
eliminated by suitable combination of
these
equations.
Maxwell's
disciple,
oliver Heaviside, with little hesitation
confessed that he "murdered" this function
along with the electric potential function
v, ( E = - 'VV), "with a great gain in
definiteness and conciseness."
Thus may
an Englishman teach a Scotsman ruthless
mathematical parsimony.
And Heaviside
does come up with a symmetrical set very
much -like our own.
Nevertheless the
destruction
of
this
mystery did not
eliminate
another
one:
the
"ether"
itself,
the
matPrial
substratum
of
Sonnet
Ruth A. Johnston
Seen moment by each moment am I known,
Yet unknown in a moment's blinking eye
Unruled by time the hidden changes lie,
And eyes must fail to see how I have grown.
My eyes indeed grow weak, with nothing gained
From oft-repeated tries, oft-failed, to see
The outline of what someday will be me;
From challenging their limit, over-strained.
Viewers stroll by, their careless gaze upon
The nascent painting's rough and mottled face.
The canvas prays the work may go apace;
The painter smiles and strokes his colors on.
Judge lightly, then, as knowing half the tale;
The end cannot be seen beyond the veil.
B
31
�translated by Merle Sokolik
Shall I, by Bacchus overcome, yet once
again into those night-long rings
of dance set my white foot while thrusting up
my neck unto the heavens, like a fawn
that revels in the green delights
the meadow holds for her when she
has fled from fearful hunt, from under watch,
above the well-strung nets, and yet
the huntsman hastens on his dogs? She leaps
across the river-bordered plain
in whirls of strain and haste, delighting in
the spac~s empty of all men
and in the leaves of the shade-giving wood.
~p'
tv naVVUXLOLS xopoCs
,
I
I
~now
ROTE AEUMOV
n16' a~a~aMXEUOUaa 1 6~~av
ELS aL~Epa 6pOOEpov PLRTOUO '
ws vESpos XAEopaLs EµnaLso~oa AELµaxos n6ovaCs,
nvLx' a'v cpoSEp&v cpUYQ
~npav £~w cpuAaxas
,
,
' '
' -"
EURAEMTWV UnEp apxuwv,
~wl1oowv cl xuvay£TaS .
ouvTELv~ opaµnµa xuvwv·
µox~oLs T. WM~6poµOLS T. a£AAaLs ~p~OMEL nE6Cov
napanoTaµLOV, n6oµ£va
SpOTWV €pnµLaLs OMLapoMoµOLO T, EpvEoLv oAas.
t
'
-
'
,
What is shrewdness?
What is a finer god-paid gift
among the mortals, than above
the heads of foes the hand should lift
its greater strength? The fine finds love-forever.
Though it is slowly brought on, power of
the gods should still be trusted. For
it straightens out those men with maddended views
that honor ignorance and do
not magnify the works of gods. But they
with intricate.cover disguise
the too long march of time and hunt down the
profane. So never do we need
to know and care for what is stronger than
that held as custom. The expense
is yet so slight to hold that this has force:
whatever is divine, the thing
held long in time as custom and the thing
always come forth in nature.
TL Tb oocp6v;
TC Tb x&AALOV
nap& ~Ewv ytpas £v SpoTots
Tf Xdp' Un~p MOplJq>Ci.S
TTuY. ~X~P~V MpE~OOW MaT~XELV;
~ TL MaAdv cp~AOV ~EL.
How-fortunate the one who from out of
the sea has fled the tempest, should
he reach the harbor. Fortunate the one
who finds himself above such strains.
The one goes past the other, prosperous
and able, in another way.
Yet many are the hopes for many men.
Some hopes attain prosperity
for men while others go away. The· one
whose life is fortunate for all
his days, I call him blessed.
d6aLµwv µtv o's EM ~aAcfocras
EcpUyE XECµa, ALµEva 6' EXLXEV'
EUOaLµwv 6. o's {lnEp~E µox.Swv .
£y£vE.&'· ETEpa 6' ETEpos ETEpov
oAS~ xal 6uvaµEL napnA~Ev.
µUpLaL 6' ETL µVpLOLS
E~o~v EAnL6ES aC µ~v
0
TEAE~TWOLV
(862-911)
opµaTaL µOALS, aAA' oµws
nLOTOV ( TL) Tb ~ELOV
o~£vos· anEU~UVEL 6~ SpoTWV
TOIJ S T' ayvwµooUVaV TL ]JWVTO.!; xat µ~ Tb. ~ELOV au~ov
TaS abv µa~voµ~vq 60~~·
MpU~TEUOUOL 6~ noLMCAWS
6apbv xpovou n66a xat
~npwoLv Tbv ~oEnTov. ou
y&p MpEL006V ROTE TWV VOµWV
yLyvwoxELV XPh xat µEAETcrv.
xou~a y~p 6an&va voµLsELV Lox1!,v Too' ExELv,
v
,,
'
,
0 TL ROT ' apa TO 6aLUOVLOV,
TO T EV XPOV~ µaxp~ voµLµov
aEL cp'1JEL TE nE•nUKOS,
32
n
I
•
I
EV
OAS~
SpoToCs, aC 6' &n£Sncrav·
TO ct MaT' ~µap OTW SLOTOS
EU6aLµwv, µaxapLsw.
TL Tb oocpov;
TL Tb x&AALO\)
nap& ~Ewv y£pas €v SpoTots
ff xEtp' &nlp xopucpas
TWV EX~pfuv xpELoow xaTtXELV;
"
1
,
'
,
0 TL MaAOV cpLAO\) aEL.
I
n
What is shrewdness?
What is a finer god-paid gift
among the mortals, than above
the heads of foes the hand should lift
its greater strength? The fine finds love-forever.
A Chorus from the Bacchae
I
33
�The B Deduction and Its Relation to Freedom
I.
(Or: Kant, Can Do}
The question one should always ask
oneself when approaching the B Deduction
is "Why is a deduction necessary?"
To
answer this question, we must recall
quickly the Transcendental Aesthetic and
the opening of the Transcendental Logic.
In the Aesthetic Kant proves that
time and space are not, as we had always
assumed, things outside of us, but rather
that they are the pure forms of our
sensible intuition.
In other words, they
are internal, something with which we
condition our experience.
We receive a
sensation from something outside of us
(the "thing in itself") and our intuition,
made up of the so-called "receiving rooms"
of space and time, orders that sensation
spatio-temporally.
This does not mean
that these pure forms of intuition do
anything.
They are merely receptive, and·
do not make images.
As Kant points out,
that which they receive could be nothing
more than a mass of dots which is then
ordered spatio-temporally.
But in order
to think, we need of some kind of object
to think about; we cannot think about a
mass of dots, a metaphor for what Kant
calls· usually a manifold.
This problem
leads
us
to
the
opening
of
the
Transcendental Logic.
·If I am to judge any object in my
experience, if I am to say anything about
that· object, I must have a concept of that
object. For example, if I say "That book
is large," I show that I have a concept of
some object before me ("book"), to which I
am attaching the concept "large." Or, put
in another way, I have seen many books and
have formed the concept "book" under which
a particular book falls, and I have seen
books
(or
perhaps
just
things)
of
different
sizes
and among them this
particular book seems "large." Therefore,
I have brought together two concepts, book
and large, and have made a judgement about
some particular incident in my experience.
As Kant says:
Matthew Davis
I know thee not, old man: fall to thy prayers;
How ill white hairs become a fool and a jester!
I have long dream'd of such a kind of man,
So surfeit swell'd, so old, and so profane;
But, being awak'd, I do despise my dream.
Make less thy body hence, and more thy grace;
Leave gormandizing; know the grave doth gape
For thee trice wider than for other men.
Reply not to me with a fool-worn jest:
Presume not that I am the thing that was;
For God doth know, so shall the world preceive,
That I have turn'd away my former self;
So will I those that kept me company.
-King (Prince) Hal to Falstaff in
Shakespeare's Henry IV, Part.!.!_
I have therefore found it necessary to
deny knowledge, in order to make room for faith.
-Immanuel Kant, Preface to the
Second Edition of The Critique of
Pure Reason
Transcendental Logic, the Transcendental
Dialectic.
In
the
Dialectic
Kant
addresses the principal problems which
have plagued the philosophy he so radically alters in The Critique, and primary
among these problems is whether freedom
exists or not.
I do not think I am
overstepping any sensible bounds if I say
Kant wrote much, if not all, of The
Critique to solve this problem.
Therefore, I should say:
in this paper I
intend to give a brief account of Kant's B
Deduction with a forward glance at the
Dialectic's primary problem,
th'at
of
freedom.
In this paper I intend to give a
brief
account
of
Immanuel
Kant's
B
Deduction.
This
deduction
is
the
cornerstone of the first half of the
Critique
of
Pu re
Reason,
or,
more
specifically, of the section entitled the
Transcendental
Analytic,
the
first
division
of
a
larger
section,
the
Transcendental Logic.. Kant explains his
philosophy
of
"limitation"
in
the
Analytic; this is, simply stated, what we
can and cannot know.
The B Deduction
makes this explanation possible.
But,
caught up in this difficult section, we
often forget the other division of the
34
35
In every
judgement there
is
a
concept which holds of many representations, and among them of a
given representation that is immediately related to an object. (p.105)
It is plain that these judgments are not
in the things outside of me but that they
are in me. In order that I may judge the
objects outside me, I must use my concepts
of those objects.
But it is important
also that I have objects to judge.
More
will be said about this in a moment.
We can abstract all empirical content
from the judgment "the book is large" so
as to discover whether th~re are any a
priori, non-empirical types of judgment
which underlie this judgment. The· statement, therefore, is about a particular
(book) and is affirmative; it is making an
assertion about the book.
What is the
particular (book)?
In this case it is
something (large).
But an affirmative
statement about a particular cannot be
derived from experience, since we have
abstracted from all experience to better
see the nature of a judgment. Therefore,
there. must be certain ~ priori concepts
("functions of judgment") which I bring to
experience so I can make judgments about
it.
Kant states at the outset of "The
Clue to All Pure Concepts of the Understanding," section two:
If we abstract from all content
judgment, and consider only the
form of the understanding, we
that the function of thought
judgment can be brought under
of a
mere
find
in a
four
heads, each of which contain three
moments. (p. 106).
This list Kant calls the
"Table of
Judgments. "
But we have assumed up to
this point that there are objects about
which we can make judgments.
For a
judgment to have validity, there must be
objects to judge. Where did these objects
come
from?
Certainly
not
from
the
· intuition, since it is merely a receptive
faculty, doing nothing more than spatio
�-temporally ordering sensation(s) which
come into it. It is clear that there must
be a "putting together" (synthesis) of the
manifold of the pure intuitions, and that
this synthesis must take place in some way
that my judgments might be valid, so that
my experienc~ might make sense.
The
synthesis, Kant tells us, will have to
take place according to a set of concepts,
which he calls the "Table of Categories:"
1
The same function which gives unity
to the various representations in ~
judgment also gives unity to the
mere synthesis of various representations in an intuition; and this
unity, in its most general expression, ~e entitle the pure concept of
the understanding.
The same understanding, through the same operations by which in concepts, by means
of analytical unity, it produced the
logical form of a judgement, also
introduces a transcendental content
into its representations, by means
of the
synthetic unity of the
manifold in intuition in general.
(pp.112-113)
This table of categories, analogous to the
table of judgments, we bring with us to
experience.
But
how?
We
have
two
faculties,
intuition and understanding
(the home of concepts),
one utterly
passive and the other active, one a mass
of spatio-temporally ordered dots waiting
to be put together and the other a set of
concepts which can only begin activity
when they have something to think (act)
upon,
i.e.
an object.
They must be
brought together so that thinking is
possible. Hence the need for a deduction.
II.
The B Deduction is in two parts. The
first part deals with the synthesis of the
manifold 1
given in ~·priori intuiti.on . in
general ,
and thus for any thinking
being; the second part deals specifically
with those thinking beings who have a
priori sensible forms of intuition called
space and time, us.
We will begin with
the first part.
In the setting out of the need for a
deduction it was clear that a way must be
found for the understanding to unify the
manifold of intuition.
This synthesis of
the manifold of intuition in general, what
Kant calls the "combination," cannot arise
fro~
any combination itself, for that
would be contradictory.
Something must
have been put that combination together,
and from the very concept "combination" we
a re aware of some unity acting upon some
manifold, so we must search for that
higher unity.
Kant says at the outset of section
16:
It must be possible for the 'I
think' to ~ccompany all my representations; for otherwise something
would be represented in me which
could not be thought at all, and
that is equivalent to saying that
the
representation
would
be
imp~ssible, or at least nothing to
me.
This is plain. If I am to become aware of
the "world" around me I must be able to
think about it. The higher unity we are
seeking must therefore be that which
generates the 'I think,' that which allows
me to combine the manifold in general.
Were I not able to do this I would have no
coherent thought; some things would be
"nothing to me."
Kant calls this unity
"The Original Synthetic Unity of Apper- _
ception," or "Pure Apperception."
He
calls also the generating of the 'I think'
an act of spontaneity, and therefore an
a~t o~ the ':1nde4standing, for the intuition is passive.
But pure apperception is also "the
transecendental unity of self-consciousness."
Kant calls it this for two
reasons. First, it is necessary that I.be
coherent enough to attach the 'I think' to
all representations, and I would not be
able to do so if I did not have one
self-consciousness; some representations
would just go flying by my many diverse
selves.
Second, it is a fundamental
principle in Kant that I synthesize before
I analyze.
For example, if I say the
colors of a bowl are red? green and blue,
then I must have al ready synthesized the
representations of those colors with the
bowl (a "given" manifold) in one consciousness.
Any analytic act presupposes
a synthesis, and that synthesis presupposes the unity of self-consciousness, the
combining of the manifold of representations in general.
Pure apperception,
therefore, underlies all thought; it makes
all connected thought possible.
This is
why Kant calls it "the highest principle
in the whole sphere of human knowledge"
(p. 154).
But how does this pure apperception make us capable of knowledge?
In section 17, Kant says this:
object (determinate space, or in this
case, line) , or object in general.
As
Kant
says:
"The
synthetic
unity
of
consciousness is, therefore, an objective
condition of all knowledge" (p. 156). But
how is this determinate object related
back
to
the
synthetic
unity
of
apperception?
The perplexing problem at the outset
of this essay was that we had a table of
judgments but no objects to judge.
Now,
because of the synthetic unity of apperception, I am able through judgment to say
something about a
manifold of given
representations, representations which by
judgment are united into an object.
The
synthetic unity of apperception guarantees
that my judgment will have objective
validity (i.e. be about an object), for it
guarantees the continuity of my self-consciousness, it guarantees my ability to
draw a line.
Therefore, a judgment (a
statement that something 'is') can unite a
manifold of representations, be they a
manifold in general or in particular, and
that judgment brings judged manifold of
representations into self-consciousness to
join other judged representations.
For
this reason Kant calls judgment "the
manner in which given modes of knowledge
are brought to the objective unity of
apperception"
(p.159).
But
there
is
something more here.
We know that we only have twelve ways
we can judge, the table of judgments.
Therefore the given manifold which is
judged must be constituted in such a way
that
it
can
be
judged.
Judgments,
therefore, can only be made of intuitions
(or intuition in general) that have been
determined according to something which
will allow of judgment.
These determinations are necessarily the categories.
Since I have only twelve ways by which I
can judge, it is necessary that the given
manifold (or one intuition) be constructed
by the pure apperception so that I can
judge and think. And I can only judge and
think via the categories. This, then, is
why Kant went to so much trogble to
introduce the table of categories.
This is the conclusion of the first
"Knowledge
consists
in
the
determinate
relation
of
given
representations to an object; and an
object -is that in the concept of
which the manifold of a
given
representation is united."
This means simply that knowledge consists
in the determination of an object, an
object being merely a gathering together
of representations.
But we said above
that . all syntheses of representations
required the unity of self-consciousness,
and therefore it is, as Kant says, "a
condition under which every intuition must
stand in order to become an object for me"
(p. 156). This will become clearer if we
look at his example.
If I draw a line in space, in, order
to keep drawing it (as a line) I must be
conscious of the complete action and each
step involved in it.
If I did not have
the transcendental unity of self-consciousness, I would not be able to bring
the line, or any object, synthetically
fnto being, for I would forget the first
moment of the action even before I arrived
at the second moment.
The transcendental
unity of self-consciousness, therefore,
guarantees the continuity of my· synthetic
thought, my ability to first know an
37
�In other words, that synthesis deals with
intuition in general, with space and time
al ready combined as wholes; it does not
deal with the separate manifolds of space
and time but only with them after they
have become unified. So, something is
needed to synthesize the manifolds of
space and time in the sensibility itself.
This activity Kant calls the figurative
synthesis.
The imagination, which is a part of
the understanding, carries out the figurative synthesis.
Kant calls the imagination "the faculty of representing in an
intuition an object that is not itself
present." This means that the imagina'tion
acts spontaneously to determine intuition
and make it an object, so to speak; to
unite the manifolds of space and time into
one general intuition, making them palatable
for
consciousness.
Since
this
spontaneity is given through the understanding (the source of activity), it is
necessary that the respective manifolds be
combined in accordance with the synthetic
unity of apperception. The spontaneity of
the synthetic unity of apperception is
therefore the same spontaneity which sets
imagination to work on the intuitions.
This, then, is an application of the
categories
to
objects
in
sensible
intuition, and the categories are thus
given objective reality, becoming more
than just mere "forms of thought."
They
are, for us, real.
We have, however, known since the
start of the essay that the understanding
cannot combine the manifold of intuition,
that a concept (having no object) cannot
reach down into the forms of intuition and
combine them. How does the imagination do
i t7 A footnote to the deduction (B 160,
a)
is particularly helpful here.
In the
footnote Kant tells us that he was lying
in the Aesthetic. There he made little of
the distinction between form of intuition
and formal intuition so he could talk of
geometry and such matters. Here, however,
the distinction in important.
Form of
intuition means the uncombined manifold of
representations
which
comes
into
my
"receiving rooms" of space and time.
half of the deduct~on. And although it is
by no means obvious, it is a refutation of
Hume, who said that our representations
were connected merely through habit. But
to even have that connection I must be
self-conscious. And thus Kant has established that our manifold of representations can be connected through judgment in
objects; objects which, due to the synthetic unity of apperception, I can judge
fearing no chidings of "subjectivity." As
Kant remarks at the end of section 19:
Thus to say 'the body is heavy' is
not merely to state that the two
representations have always been
conjoined in my perception, however
often
that
perception
has
been
repeated; what we are asserting is
that they are
combined in the
object, no matter what the state of
the subject may be (p.159).
This leads6 us to the second half of the
deduction.
Why is the
second half of the
deduction necessary?
For Kant, thinking
and knowing are two completely separate
things.
Knowledge
as
such
is
only
possible for us human beings if an object
is given in our sensible intuition. It is
all right if we think a concept that has
no
object in intuition; we can think
anything we
like.
But knowledge
is
something else again.
Since it is clear
from the first half of the deduction that
we are the authors of our experience, it
is impossible that we should know anything
beyond that experience, that we should
know, for example, a "thing in itself,"
something unconditioned by space or time.
Therefore, objects for knowledge must be
given to us in our pure forms of sensible
·intuition, and the second half of the
deduction will concern itself with how
this comes about.
In section 23, Kant speaks of a
thinking
being
who
has
a
sensible
intuition other than ours (not spatiotemporal).
He introduces this being to
show that the synthesis performed by the
pure apperception is purely intellectual.
38
Formal intuition means the unity of these
representations, a unity given by the
unity
which
figurative
synthesis,
a
according to the footnote "precedes any
concept." But how?
Space and time as forms of intuition
a re homogeneous.
Since all their parts
are similar, no concept is needed to give
them shape (a shape to space?). They only
need a synthesis, a uniting, and this is
the synthesis performed by the imagination, prior to any concepts.
Therefore
the formal intuition is the groundwork for
determinate intuitions (intuitions through
concepts) within it, such as, to use
Kant's example, the setting of three lines
at right angles to one another from the
same point to represent space. The formal
intuition must underlie even our own
representation of it through concepts.
The activity of the imagination,
spurred by the pure apperception, is thus
the basis of ou~ connected experience.
Since the imagination is the faculty of
representing any object (but in greatest
generality space)
that is not itself
present, and since it determines time
(inner sense), its continued synthesis of
time being the very act through which we
are aware of time itself, it shou1d be
evident that the imagination can go on
indefinitely producing "pictures" for me
to think about. But I do not necessarily
have to think about them. It is true that
the imagination works in accordance with
the synthetic unity of apperception, but
it is certainly not true that I have to
attach the 'I think' to every object in my
experience. The action of the understanding
on
the
sensibility
through
the
imagination
allows
for
my
eventual
empirical consciousness.
I will say more
on this subject in the discussion of the
synthesis of apprehension. But this does
not mean that I must attach the 'I think'
to
every
object
in
that
empirical
consciousness, only to those which I
choose.
This, then, is the full meaning
of
"capable"
in
the
first
analytic
statement of the deduction. The reason I
do not have to say 'I think' about every
object in the room around me is because
the imagination synthesizes without a
concept, but I am capable of thinking an
object through a concept if I please.
This is, I think, the fundamental distinc, tion
between
the
"putting
together"
(without conceptg;)
and the "grasping"
(with concepts),
the two phrases Kant
uses
in
his
general
definition
of
synthesis.
From all this it should be clear that
we can only have knowledge of appearances.
We have no contact with what gives us our
original sensation, the "thing in itself."
To become aware we must think, and the B
Deduction shows us that thinking is an
enormous process.
At the center of the
process, of course, is the task of constituting our own objects
(which are
nothing but appearances, per se), and this
action, enabling our thinking, shuts us
off from whatever the world might be "in
itself." Although thinking in this sense
seems somewhat bleak, it is precisely
because we have appearances that experience is cogent.
They will also be the
basis of Kant's later discussion of the
possibility of freedom.
I will address
this subject in the third section of this
paper. Now, however, we must look at the
final step in the B Deduction.
The
final
step
Kant
calls
the
"synthesis of apprehension."
This synthesis brings us empirical consciousness,
i.e. perception. It is the final stage of
consciousness made possible by the transcendental unity of self-consciousness,
pure apperception.
For this synthesis to
come about it is necessary that space and
time be united by the imagination.
I can
only perceive in space and time, and
therefore space and time must be united
through the figurative synthesis so that I
may become conscious of them as a united
manifold, or formal intuition.
In order
for this to take place, though, the
imagination must be aroused by the original synthetic unity of apperception.
This
original synthesis, though, unites intuition in general according to the categories. Therefore, all our experience will
conform to the categories, and therefore
the categories have been united with
39
I'
�More
specifically,
from
the
B
Deduction we know that all experience is
subject to categories and is in time. To
posit freedom, the ability to initiate a
chain of events in this experience, is to
posit something that is not subject either
to the categories or to time; it is to
posit a series of events with an antecedent cause not in experience.
The B
Deduction, however, shows us that we can
never know if this freedom exists, that we
can only know the appearances that we have
constitu~ed.
Why should we posit freedom
at all?
Every event presupposes a
sufficient cause ~ priori, but if we do
not posit this sufficient cause (freedom)
somewhere in the chain of events, there
are only relative causes; in other words,
each cause presupposes another cause for
it which exists al ready.
The assumption
of mere relative cause, of course, is the
same thing as saying that every cause
"just is," and has always existed, that
there is no completeness to any series.
To take the other side of the
argument is to admit that all causes "just
are," and that we are fooling ourselves
when we say that freedom must necessarily
be.
This assumption is merely an attempt
to get some rest.
We cannot go beyond
experience and know anything, so we simply
must be satisfied in saying that the
change in the status of substance has
always been.
To posit freedom means to
destroy cause and effect as the absolute
law of nature, and so the other categories.
As the B Deduction tells us, this
would throw coherent experience right out
the window.
But if we say that there is
no freedom, then we must accept that there
is no sufficient cause for any event.
This denies our first principle.
So we
are right back where we started.
There is, however, a solution to this
antinomy, and the essence of that solution
is in the B Deduction.
For a moment,
therefo~e, we will retrace our steps.
Kant tells us in the B Deduction that
although the synthetic unity of apperception, or transcendental I, is at work in
us, how it works i!:; unknown to us.
How
can we know?
We have knowledge only of
intuition and our experience made possible.
To use Kant's example, if I have an
empirical intuition of a house of which I
become conscious, then it is a perception.
At the basis of this empirical intuition
must be the necessary unity, i.e. formal
intuition of space and time.
The house
must be in space and time for me to
perceive it. But space and time have been
united through the figurative synthesis,
providing the space and time for the
house.
But the spontaneity of the imagination igniting the figurative synthesis
is the same spontaneity of the pure
apperception, which unites intuition in
general according to the categories, and
therefore my experience will conform to
the categories.
It is important to note
here that I have thought the concept
'house' so that the freedom of the imagination to unite space and time into a
formal intuition without a concept is
pr.eserved. This is the connection that we
sought at the outset of this paper, and
the outcome of Kant's B Deduction.
Kant concludes the B Deduction with a
discussion of nature.
It is evident that
we are the authors of nature, that it will
conform to our categories, such as cause
and effect. How, then,. is freedom possible, if all experience must conform to
certain laws, such as cause and effect?
Freedom cannot be freedom if it is in
conformity with laws.
The third pa rt of
this paper will attempt to answer that
question.
III.
What is freedom?
I t is .the ability
to start a series of events, the ability
to be the first cause in that series. But
the
B Deduction
tells
us
that
the
categories condition our experience, and
one of . those categori~s is cause and
effect.
Every event without exception
will have an antecedent cause. If this is
true, freedom is ruled out, for there can
be no end to the series, no first cause.
This
the
the
problem of
the
third
antinomy.
40
experience, of things which are objects in
our intuition.
We have, therefore, only
knowledge of our empirical self, the self
that i"be see in mirrors, the phenomenal
self.
Nevertheless, we are undoubtedly
aware of the transcendental I and our
intelligible selves: we are, for example,
the only animals aware of our inevitable
physical end, tbe only animal who constructs
philosophical
systems.
This
awareness is a direct product of the
transcendental I, that "thing in itself"
which fosters our self-consciousness.
It
is, therefore, because of the transcendental I that I have awareness of both a
noumenal self as well as a phenomenal
self.
And it is through this noumenal
self that my faculty called reason is able
to conceive o~ 1
what Kant calls "transcendental ideas."
·
Briefly, "transcendental ideas" are
those things which we use to assert the
completeness of a series, to say "all."
From.what has been said it is evident that
this completeness cannot be given in
experience; for example, there is no sum
total of causes and effects there. But it
is our own faculty of reason, based on the
transcendental self, which strives to
limit the series, even this limit must
necessarily
be
unconditioned.
These
transcendental
ideas,
of
course,
are
necessary to me as an active being; were I
not able to say "all" at times my activity
in daily life would be almost none at all.
It is only because I am able to posit
these ideas, based on the existence of my
noumenal self and reason, that I am able
to act.
One of these ideas is freedom.
For without the assumption of freedom, I
could never assert myself as the cause d:
any series of events, nor could I take
responsibility for my acts.
Necessarily
freedom
must
be
what
Kant
calls
a
"regulative"
principle
rather
than a
"constitutive" principle.
The idea of
freedom cannot contribute in any way to my
knowledge, as do "constitutive" principles, it can only serve as a guide for my
existence as an active being, it can only
be "regulative."
So it must be with all
the transcendental ideas.
How does Kant make the coexistence of
the transcendental idea of freedom and
law-governed experience possible? He has,
in a sens~, already done it once.
In the B Deduction, the unconditioned
transcendental I spontaneously acts upon
intuition
in general
to produce
the
effects that we know as experience, to
create the appearances.
Kant likewise
calls freedom "the power of beginning a
state spontaneously." It is the activity
of something unconditioned which produces·
effects in what we know as experience.
But the B Deduction shows, as has been
said
before,
that
objects
in
our
experience are appearances.
They are not
· "things in themselves."
This is Kant's
solution to the antinomy.
If the objects of experience were
"things in themselves," then we would be
left with the insoluble antinomy.
Since
the "things in themselves" would still be
subject to cause and effect, freedom would
not be possible. But since our experience
is merely appearance, we can posit the
unconditional without contradiction.
And
we can likewise posit our noumenal side as
freely acting with effects only to be
known in the appearances.
We are, after
all, the first cause of those appearances.
It is necessary to point out that
Kant has allowed only for the possibility
of freedom.
It may be, and we will never
know one way or the other, that freedom
does not exist. Kant is careful to remark
that we can always reduce every action
that seems free to a (certainly endless)
series of efficient causes.
But for our
practical life the "regulative" principle
of
freedom
is
indispensable.
It
is
freedom, our connection with the unconditioned in ourselves, which allows for
our appreciation .of beauty
as well.
Freedom, in the end, allows for our
totality as men.
The long argument of the B Deduction
makes freedom possible. On the one hand,
Kant has radically changed philosophy; its
new limitations are clear. He has indeed
ordered it to "leave gormandizing."
But
on the other hand he has preserved its
importance to our practical life as well.
41
�see, still catches our eye.
This, I
believe, justifies the enormous labor of
the B Deduction.
He has also saved just a little of its
mystery: the things most important to us,
among them freedom, remain ideas. ·And
their peauty, though perhaps harder to
There is Very Little Poetry in Onions
Dan Farrell
Footnotes
1.
2.
3 .-
4.
'i
i!
'!
,,
:1
I'
5.
6.
I take this to mean "overall"
manifold, rather than particular
manifolds of space and time or
judgements of particular groups of
representations.
A cheap word in Kant meaning just
about anything. I suppose a general
definition to be "things (in a weak
sense) gathered together by any kind
of synthesis."
This is an analytic statement saying
"I must be able say 'I think' about
what I think."
Special emphasis should be placed on
the pure apperception "generating"
the 'I think.' It does not do the
attaching.
All of section 20, read carefully, is
helpful here.
Thus the power of a simple analytic
statement (footnote 3) is revealed.
7.
8.
9.
10.
11.
Page 170, Kemp Smith.
Page 111, Kemp Smith.
There are probably many answers to
this question. The answer- that
follows is the least satisfying.
In Kant, "phenomenal" means things as
appearance, "noumenal" things in the
realm of the unconditioned.
I have glossed over an important
distinction here. Objects in
experience when given as a whole can
be said to be reducible "ad
infinitum." If we are just given a
member in an infinite series;
however, and seek in that series more
members, then ltle must at some point
posit an unconditioned end to that
series.
My thanks to Mr. Carey, Mr. Kutler and Mr.
Lenkowski.
42
I have always looked at a poem in a
way that will help me learn what it means.
The poet is trying to say something and
the task of the reader is to reconstruct
the message.
There is a phrase that
teachers introduce early in high school:
"levels of meaning".
I don't know if we
are to think of layers of the onion: of
meaning (each layer or 'level' of the
onion is a whole and it can be eaten
separately) or what.
Please allow me to
pursue this idea excessively.
There is a great danger in looking
too closely at a poem's meaning. The poet
gives -us a garden filled with wonderful
fruits and vegetables, flowers and bees,
mud and bugs, and onions. Now I can go to
this garden and eat all the onions I like
and digest every layer of the tiniest
scallion, but I'll end up with bad.breath
and a very unsatisfied hunger.
I'll
probably step on a few bugs and get
annoyed about the mud oozing between my
toes on my way to the onions (which are in
the center of the garden, of course; think
of where the tree of knowledge of good and
evil was).
But not even mud between the
toes is enough to sidetrack me:
I have
onions to eat.
What is most remarkable
about my careful method of eating o,nions
is that it takes a long time to realize
that almost any layer of any onion tastes
the same as any other.
The cause of my
slow wit in this matter is the· absolute
certainty I have that the onions are the
center of the garden, and if I understand
the onions I understand the garden. There
is no reason for me to think this, but I
still go on eating onions and if they all
taste the same I only assume that my sense
of taste is too weak to discern their
differences.
Happily, by some miracle (magic?), I
now realize my folly arid am willing to
change my attitude toward poetry.
It is
more rewarding to experience poetry as it
is,
instead
of
reducing
it
to
one
manageable aspect.
There is an impulse
toward knowledge that led me to the onions
in the first place.
The basis of that
impulse was the desire to become a better
person.
Perhaps it is best if we forget
Aristotle's "All men naturally desire to
know," and replace it with "All men
naturally desire to improve themselves."
This may not be true, but at least it will
help me experience poetry.
Now I'm ready to discuss poetry as
something that is magical.
Shakespeare, Sonnet #64
When I have seen by Times' fell hand defaced
The rich proud cost of outworn buried age;
When sometime lofty towers I see down-rased,
And brass eternal slave to mortal rage;
When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
And the firm soil win of the wat'ry main,
Increasing store with loss and loss with store;
When I have seen such interchange of state,
Or state itself confounded to decay;
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate,
That Time will come and take my love away.
This thought is as a death, which cannot choose
But weep to have that which it fears to lose.
I -don't know much about what this
means.
This, of course, is good because
I'm trying to get away from that sort of
thinking.
The most obvious and most
interesting thing about this poem is that
it is very difficult to read.
Phrases
like "Time's fell hand,"
"Rich proud
43
�gaining advantage on the kingdom of the
shore. Once the word 'shore' is mentioned
my attention shifts to it and I see an
ocean clawing toward the shore.
I don't
know what this image is supposed to mean,
but when I read it I'm at the shore where
the poet wants me to be.
It seems that magic in poetry exists
because the poet does not strive to tell
us anything.
He hopes he can show us
something.
He doesn't want. to tell us
that time is relentless; he shows it both
in the rhythm and in the images he causes
us to make.
At the beginning of this
essay I wrote how thinking about meanings
hinders
the
experiencing
of
poe·try.
Meaning is too concerned with words in
themselves to be of any use in poetry.
Poetry is not concerned with the words at
all! What a poet wants to do most of all
is to resurrect a "Gosh, look at that!"
attitude.
He does this by pointing,
suggesting, but not by spelling out. When
it succeeds (and if it is real poetry it
will) it has performed its magic.
cost," and many others are obstructions to
the flow of the poetry. This is probably
due to the lack of short vowels and the
abundance of double . consonants in these
phrases. They are made of words that take
much time to pronounce. These phrases may
seem to prevent any sense of music from
becoming apparent, but this is only true
if the music of a poem is something to be
found solely in sing-song nursery rhymes.
Instead of a flowing rhythm this poem has
a relentless rhythm, slow but invincible.
The images in this poem are not only
mentioned, but shown.
Images are closely
connected to meaning, but there is an
important enough difference between them
so that I don't feel guilty talking about
them.
There are enough examples of
unimaginative writings that have plenty of
meaninq within them.
These writings do
not offer ·a.n -invitation to the reader to
experience~· within the
imagination, the
truth of what is being said. In this poem
we are given a hungry ocean. We are not
told, "the ocean yearns for
"
This is unimportant. The hungry ocean is
The Wreck of Elpenor
P.H. Gagnier
This land was framed without mountains or hills,
But wide, bare, came broken open to the slow sky,
And rolls in moist, humous rows like sea swells
Stilled under wind and sliding clouds, to lie
At length along this road ditch. Sweet with water
And swishing reeds, it breathes its lucent green
On the first steaming mud.
Puddles scatter
The sun among exhumed stones newly clean,
Strewn in cryptic disarray. And here, stretched
out on this pregnant bank, threading the stares
Of crows, redolent unspooling, unstitched,
Grey, I strew a perplexity of prayers.
Thus defective I await my return,
While all around the drinking earth breathes, "Churn."
44
Reconciliation in The Bacchae:
Remembering What We Are
Who Are Not Gods But Men
Lisa Eckstrom
of
Dionysus,
gentleness
and
horror
intermingled, and we have seen the limits
by
which
we
differentiate
the
two
disappear.
Opposites by which we define
certain t~rnis become ambiguous.
Thus
Identity (a thing is x and is not y),
Sexuality
(it
is
male
or
female),
Mortality (there is life and there is
death) ,
and
perhaps
of
greatest
consequence, Power (there is strength and
there is helplessness) have become te.rms
whose definitions are uncertain.
For death the gods exact, curbing by
that bit the mouths of men.
They
humble
us
with
death
that
we
remember what we a re who a re not
gods but men. We run to death.
As a prelude to the messenger's tale
of the death of Pentheus, the chorus sings
lines
about
mortality.
Apprehension
builds as we start to see the divine sever
itself
from the mortal.
Perhaps we
realize that we too are earth-born, and
that we are not gods, but men. We shudder
when we hear the chorus sing: "O Justice,
destroy the evil earth-born· sprawn of
Echion ! " because we remember that we are
earth-born as well and share his curse.
We marvel that the chorus has forgotten
that they are earth-born; they sing as if
they are not mortal, even while reminding
us of death. To run to death as votaries
of the god is still to disregard it, and
thereby to disregard the ultimate limit of
mortal beings. When the chorus no longer
identifies itself as human with human
limits, our sympathy is drawn to those who
have human limits:
Pentheus, Agave, and
Cadmus.
Whether one wants to label this
quality in the chorus as insanity, or
religious mysticism, one must agree, that
they see themselves outside many of the
limits by which we define human life:
death,
relationships with other human
beings, and a certain revulsion toward
murder.
We, the audience, begin to feel
our association with the earth-born, with
those who are human still. We grieve.
As the play has progressed, a fusion
of opposites has taken place, and we as
audience have experienced this fluidity in
which one thing is simultaneously its
opposite.
We have seen in the character
'1
:11.
·'
1
' i1
This uncertainty climaxes in the
death scene.
The audience can no longer
define a character's identity as "he is x
and is not y." We see the identities of
Pentheus and Dionysus fuse to the. extent
that there is only one on the stage, who
is neither Pentheus nor Dionysus, but some
amalgamation of the two.
The Bacchants
see a 1 ion a top the tree , whom we, the
audience,
know to be Pentheus.
The
stranger
has
disappeared.
What
has
happened?
The chorus has identified a
lion as one of the manifestations of
Dionysus; thus the Bacchants see a form of
Dionysus atop the tree.
If the god
Dionysus is in any way atop the tree, he
is residing in the earth-born frame of
Pentheus. The messenger speaks:
I
,,
1
:I'
i1!
l
I
.11
11!1
1
·'
Ii
1
11:
,,I' I'
And the tree rose towering to
heaven with my master huddling at
the
top ... when
the
Stranger
vanished, there came a great· voice
out of heaven---Dionysus it must
have been--Both the voice of Dionysus, and Pentheus,
are in the aether. Perhaps it is Pentheus
who calls to the women to destroy him.
45
!
I
I ,
�11r
i:
,,,
I
They do not recognize the voice as
Dionysus'
initially, and they do not
recognize the being atop the tree as
Pentheus. What they see and hear _is the
confusing tormented fusion of the two.
Pentheus has not been seized by the god
suddenly, but instead, the two have been
woven progressively tighter until there
seems to be only one in the eyes of the
Bacchants, and to some degree (in that we
see only one being on the stage) in the
eyes of the audience as ~ell.
This weaving of mind upon mind, limb
upon limb, is analogous to wrestling.
In
wrestling,
two separate entities come
together into some sort of unity.
As
limbs and bodies intertwine it is often
difficult to see the two entities apart
from one another.
Perhaps they never
become one, but in the confusion of their
contortions, the vision of the on-lookers
and perhaps of the participants themselves
is often unable to distinguish which arm
or which leg belongs to which wrestler.
It is in line 400 that Pentheus first
accuses the Stranger of wrestling well
with words.
Pentheus then grapples with
the
bull,
and
then
he
hears
the
messenger's
words
describing
the
activities on Cithaeron.
There is a
progression through which he is both
active and passive, wrestler and listener;
but for Pentheus, listening itself is a
form of wrestling:
the Stranger wrestles
with words.
As
knowledge
increases,
Pentheus must deal with it---the knowledge
is inescapable in its elusiveness.
Yet,
must he wrestle with it? Why could he not
listen to the messenger's speech as a mere
observer, not a wrestler?
Why does he
view his conversation with the Stranger as
a wrestling match? If he wrestles because
he wishes to be in control---is to
observe, not to be in control? Or is to
observe always to wrestle, to somehow come
to grips with one's vision?
~entheus proclaims:
"it is hopeless
to wrestle with this man.
Nothing on
earth will make him hold his tongue."
With each question and reply in the
conversation
between
Pentheus
and
Dionysus, the two have become increasingly
like wrestlers intertwined.
As Pentheus
discovers more about the Dionysiac rites
on the mountain from the messenger and
from
the
Stranger,
he
becomes
more
entangled. We are not sure if he wrestles
with an outside force, or with a dread
fascination emanating from himself.
P~:
D.:
P.:
D.:
Tell me the benefits that those
who know your mysteries enjoy·,
I am forbidden to say but they
are worth knowing.
Your answers are designed to
make me curious.
No: our mysteries abhor an
unbelieving man.
If Pentheus
is the unbelieving man,
perhaps he wrestles with the believing man
within himself.
But what is this dread
fascination,
from
where
does
this
believing man come?
Perhaps he is that
part of the soul which whispers to us the
unintelligible
rhymes
of
the
eternal
world.
Pentheus proclaims that it is
hopeless because the two are intertwined
in such a way that they can never be
separated without violence and damage:
and yet, with all their writhings and
positionings, the two can never become one
in such a way that they can rest at peace
and
not
be
two
separate
entities
struggling against one another.
There seems to be a peace, transient
though it be, in the dressing scene.
Pentheus
and
Dionysus
begin
to
be
indistinguishable from one another; they
form a knot which is drawn ever tighter.
The distinction between he-who-leads and
he-who-is-led is lost in the confusion.
Pentheus is being prepared as a
victim for sacrifice, as he is to replace
the customary bull (Dionysus).
In being
prepared, he is made to look as Dionysus
looks. He puts on the long flowing robe,
the fawn skin of a Bacchant, and a wig of
long flowing curls (significantly after he
has cut the curls off of the Stranger). He
dances and holds a thyrsus.
This change
in Pentheus is brought about when he
succumbs to the "fascination" which finds
that to watch something bitter is sweet.
46
If opposites can be said to be one in
the world around us, they can only be said
.to be so in their eternal context:
only
divine beings can sustain opposites in
unison. When two opposites fuse within an
earth-born being (which may happen when we
are full of d~vine frenzy, what many might
call madness )
the
earth-born
cannot
sustain them as an immortal can.
In the
confusion he is necessarily ripped apart.
Man's earth-born-ness acts as a curse: it
drags
him down
to
earth where
the
opposites must separate.
Earlier
in
the
play,
when
the
stranger was trapped by Pentheus, he was
replaced with an animal that was one of
the manifestations
of Dionysus.
Now
Pentheus is trapped,
and he too is
replaced with an animal, but only while
atop the tree, only while off the earth,
and significantly, only in the Bacchants'
eyes.
The audience's vision separates
from that of the Bacchants at this point.
Atop the tree, this strange combination of
Dionysus and Pentheus exists.
Once the
tree is cut out from under him, he touches
the earth again and is separated from the
divine. He makes the proclamation:
I am
Pentheus!
He is again identified as
earth-born:
he is mortal and he is
destroyed. Thus, if motion up to the top
of the tree (and motion up the mountain)
seemingly brings the individual up to what
is divine, it concurrently thrusts one
back upon the earth. Movement which would
assimilate one to divinity can only result
in crashing against the ~arth.
(814)
As he has conversed with Dionysus,
and listened to the messenger, he has
begun· to wrestle and merge.
To see the
bitter as not only bitter, but sweet as
well, is to see opposites merge.
When
Pentheus says that it is bitter to see the
Bacchants, but pursues it because what is
bitter is also sweet, can he ,be far from
seeking to understand the god Dionysus,
who is most gentle and most horrible?
Pentheus' fascination pulls him further
and further. Not only is he willing to go
secretly as an observer, but he is willing
to go openly as a participant.
In his
willingness to be a participant, he is not
only willing to see the bitter· as sweet,
but
somehow
to
be
one
with
these
opposites, to be as a Bacchant, that is to
be gentle and horrible.
The unbidden offer to go openly marks
a
change
in
the
conversation.
The
conversation is not such that Pentheus is
asking the questions and Dionysus is
making ·vague
replies as before,
but
instead,
Dionysus
is
leading
the
conversation and Pentheus is making vague
replies.
They have switched roles, or
perhaps are at that intersection where the
two roles meet as one.
When
Dionysus
clothes
Pentheus,
Pentheus begins to lose his masculinity.
His identity is so ambiguous that his
sexuality no longer plays a part in the
definition of who he is. As the beardless
young man puts on the dress of a woman,
and a wig of curls, he is both male and
female (as Dionysus is); he has become
opposites instead of viewing them.
It is
an incredible thing to see that perhaps
male and female are the same; it is more
incredible to. become both.
Going to the
death
scene,
it
is
imperative
that
Pentheus have fused these two opposites
within himself,
for if he is to be
sacrificed as an immortal he must partake
of the eternal world in which opposites
are one. As earth-born, he must .be either
male or female: he cannot be both. Only
to the degree that he is freed from his
limits as a mortal can he assimilate
opposites.
'I
' i
I
,, '
In the play,
only Dionysus can
sustain the opposites of life and death,
which make up the ultimate limits of
earth-born life.
In being sacrificed and
eaten, the god lives.
To be earth-born
means that when one is sacrificed, one
dies.
Pentheus
though
earth-born
is
viewed
as
if he were
the
immortal
Dionysus---ready to be hunted down and
destroyed that Dio~ysus may live.
But
Pentheus is not immortal; he shares the
curse 'of the audience: if he is destroyed,
he does not live.
Life and death may be
two entwined parts of one whole, but that
47
".
�"whole" is not a possibility for the
earth-born.
Though we may view it, and
begin to realize that life and death are
one . in
the
eternal
world,
we
are
constantly dragged down to earth.
Our
curse as earth-born is to exist and act in
a world in which what is destroyed, dies.
However, the divine world intersects with
ours. It is this fusion that is precisely
confusion.
If we are to understand what
occurs around us, we must have some vision
of this whole, as well as the opposites
which compose it.
If there were no
"whole,'' if there were only opposites, we
could make choices that Euripides seems to
say we a re unable to make.
If power and
helplessness were only opposite, choosing
to be powerful would not also involve
choosing to make oneself vulnerable to
one's
enemies.
The
divine
world
intersects with ours, making the earth
sometimes act as if it were the realm of
immortals, as well as mortals.
If the
"whole" did not make any difference,
choosing to live would not mean willingly
risking death; there could be no power in
deciding to be solely powerless.
'Agave prefers . leading the hunt to
weaving on her loom because she perceives
herself as powerful in the leading of the
hunt.
She is powerful:
she and her
followers fell a tree with their bare
hands, they kill a lion.
Yet her power
stems from her submission to the will of
Dionysus.
Her will does not enter into
decisions concerning her own actions. As
Agave is powerful, she is helpless.
We,
the audience see the fearless hunt-leader
Agave having no control over her own
actions:
we see her kill her son.
Dionysus seems so attractive to women
because he heightens their passivity until
it becomes a power of frightening force:
He lifts them out of helplessness by
making them adore it.
The women are disturbingly passive in
their hesuchia.
They have abandoned any
desire to control their own actions.
Yet
this lack of self-direction yields lack of
worry about self. It frees one from human
fears and restraints; it grants one a
peculiar freedom. This freedom is similar
to the freedom of the insane, a freedom
that one receives when one stops being a
person. It is almost immortal. Power and
powerlessness are interwoven in the women
who are themselves weavers. By giving up
any illusion of human power, they gain a
divine strength, which in the end renders
them powerless and pathetic.
Power
presides
in
Pentheus
and
Dionysus.
-The power of Pentheus
is
earth-born (he is a king); the power of
Dionysus is divine (he is an immortal,
free from human constraint.)
Yet, there
is an aspect of Dionysus which seems the
epitome of powerlessness: ·what sort of
power is there in a god who allows himself
to
not
only
be
priest
{power)
but
sacrifice (powerlessness) as well?
Is
there a correspondin~ sacrificial aspect
to monarchy as well?
In assuming power
over people, one may become subject to
them.
When Pentheus and Dionysus meet, each
tries to assume power;
they meet as
distinctive
representatives
of
the
earth-born and the divine.
Initially,
when Pentheus has Dionysus imprisoned,
The fusion of power and passivity is
especially striking in the women, the
thiasos. As women, before the arrival of
Dionysus, they were helpless.
At their
looms, they had little say in how their
lives were played out. Yet, upon gaining
power in the contact of the thiasos, they
become mighty warriors, who rip apart wild
beasts with their delicate hands, who loot
a city, and rout an army of men.
Yet,
their power emanates from total passivity:
they obey the St ranger as unquestioning
slaves.
They no longer inject their
wishes as human beings into their actions.
They have no nous. The category of right
actions, unless one is entirely submissive
to a voice or god one designates as right
action,
involves
use
of
nous.
The
Bacchants abandon their nous and their
will.
They do nothing to preserve their
individual lives: their unarmed attack on
an army of men who are equipped with
swords and shields shows a bravery that is
a disdain of death.
Pentheus assumes the role of the ·priest
and Dionysus assumes the role of victim:
Pentheus has Dionysus bound and modifies
Dionysus' appearance by clipping his curls
to make him acceptable. He not only views
the Stranger as sacrifice, but would
sacrifice the women's blood as well.
As
Pentheus speaks, the replies of Dionysus
are unclear:
it is the priest's words
that matter, not those of the victim. The
stranger then escapes; it is no longer
certain who is in the position of power
and who is not. A sacrifice is no longer
a sacrifice if it eludes the grasp of the
priest: It has become free.
When Pentheus wrestles with the bull,
he no longer has control over what is
Dionysus---he instead becomes entangled,
becomes one with the immortal beast.
In
the scene that follows, we see Dionysus
and Pentheus share the two principal roles
which in the "whole" a re one: Priest and
Sacrifice. Pentheus becomes the Sacrifice
(Dionysus) which is to be sacrificed by
the Priest (Dionysus). In both
Pentheus
and Dionysus, priest and sacrifice are
one:
as Dionysus prepares Pentheus for
sacrifice by dressing him as a votary of
the god, we see Sacrifice and Priest merge
into a horrible vision in which that which
destroys is the same as what is destroyed.
have beheld opposites that are the same.
We have been lifted higher and higher away
from earth in order that we might have
vision. We have entered the aether realm
of myth.
Yet, we are earth-born, our place is
not above the earth, but on it.
Before
Pentheus cries "I am Pe~theus" we have
begun our descent.
As our vision begins
to separate from the Bacchants we hear the
words with which this paper began:
They humble us with death that we
remember what we are who are not gods
but men.
We remember what we are, as Pentheus does.
Before he was told that he did not know
who he was or what he did: now with much
grief, he knows: he is mortal.
Hesuchia
ends and the knife of the sacrificial rite
runs deep for both Pentheus and ourselves.
We feel pain and it is bitter.
We know
our curse as ge-gones.
If there is some
sweetness in our grief it is riot because
misery and joy are the same, but instead
there is some joy in being able to grieve
deeply.
Our grief offers a path of
reconciliation with ourselves as ephemeral
earth-born beings:
there can be no true
grief
if
the
cause
of
grief
is
simultaneously a cause of joy. There is a
dignity in our grief which is peculiar to
those who cannot live as if opposites were
one, and yet a re required to· do so.
We
remember what we are who are not gods but
men; we are humbled but not humiliated,
for we have our grief, a gentle luxury.
Keats' famous lines come to mind:
If Euripides intends for the audience
to view opposites as one, why do the
opposites sever from each other at the
climactic scene?
Why is our vision as
audience
different
from that of the
Bacchants? They see Pentheus as a lion:
we know that they are mistaken. Why do we
hear Pentheus cry out that he is Pentheus
when he touches the earth if the Bacchants
do not?
As audience we have participated in
this sacrifice to Dionysus as a thiasos.
We receive our directions from the priests
on the stage. To watch is holy sport. We
have become passive listeners:
if our
listening has brought forth a dance it is
a dance of the emotions, being called
forth by the wondrous actions on the
stage. Ours has been a hesuchia in which
to watch something bitter is sweet.
We
11'1
1'1
lll'i
II:
"I
My spirit is too weak; mortality
Weighs heavily on me like unwilling
sleep,
And each imagined pinnacle and steep
Of godlike hardship tells me I must
die
Like a sick eagle looking at the
sky.
Yet 'tis a gently luxury to weep.
I I
I
48
49
!
II
�Phainetai moi
Notes
translated.by Terri-Ann Hahn
1 Is the poet such a believing man? Do we
wrestle with his words and with his myths?
It seems that he must wrestle with those
very myths which seem to emanate from
himself?
conception of the Artist and his Work?
What is Euripides' motive in choosing the
strange myth of Dionysus?
Why not write
about
Zeus
or
Athena?
Why
present
Dionysus in all his savagery? Why is the
theatre the realm of Dionysus? How does
the poet participate in it? As maker/god?
as audience/man?
2 How is the divine madness of the poet
different from that of a Bacchant? Does
the vision of the poet offer a kind of
freedom similar to the Bacchant?
Does
that freedom reside in the poet or in us,
the receivers of his vision? What is this
freedom and how does it come about?
If myths are some faint image of the
"primordial consciousness of man" what can
it mean for a poet to use them as the
basis of his work?
In myth, he records
this consciousness.
But he often alters
it, or selects some elements and discards
others.
What can this be construed as?
What effect does it have on his own soul
to examine what must be construed as
something like "primordial consciousness"?
Why does Virgil write that Daedalus though
he keeps trying cannot record the image of
his own son?
Why must Daedalus keep
trying?
What does ~is son represent?
What is Virgil telling us about his own
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3
from The Golden Bough, p. 392
"The
legends
of
the
deaths . of
Pentheus and Lycurguas, two kings who are
said to have been torn to pieces, the one
by Bacchanals, the other by horses, for
their opposition to the rites of Dionysus,
may as I have already suggested, be
distorted reminiscences of a custom of
sacrificing divine kings in the character
of Dionysus and of dispersing fragments of
their bodies over the fields for the
purpose
of
fertilizing
them.
It
is
probably no mere coincidence that Dionysus
is said to have been torn in pieces at
Thebes, the very place where according to
legend, the same fate befell king Pentheus
at the hands of the frenzied votaries of
the vine-god."
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by Sappho
He must be divine, sitting there opposite
you, your face turned toward his face, as he listens,
to your speech, sounding so sweet, so near, and to
your lovely laughter.
These are the very things which have excited
the heart in my breast to passion. For when I
take even the briefest glance, this voice of mine
yields nothing further,
my tongue has broken down. With only a look
delicate fire burns, running 'round beneath my
flesh, so that my eyes no longer see, my ears
resound with noises.
Yea, sweat pours down over me and a trembling
catches me all over (greener than grass am
I!) so that I appear little short of death,
Agallis-my joy!
But, all this must be borne, since I sit alone.
50
51
�On Chapters 11-17 of Part II of Don Quixote
Paula Rustan
'
I
This time even Sancho -- Sancho who
dared to endure the fulling-mills; who
inspired by Don Quixote's cry that as a
Knight he is equal to a hundred, attacked
the
Yanguesans;
Sancho
who
charged
furiously at Cardenio the mad man in order
to defend his master from harm -- this
time, the most loyal squire in all the
world, flees, leaving Don Quixote to face
his most perilous adventure, alone.
It is so much easier to understand
why the gentleman in green and the carter
were forced to run; after all they did not
and could not be expected to believe in
Don Quixote as Sancho did -- Sancho, who
not even twenty-four hours before had
declared to the Squire of the Wood that he
loved his master "as dearly as his own
heartstrings"
(as dearly as yourself,
Sancho) and for thi's reason alone could
not think to leave him.
It is true that
Sancho cried like a baby as he rode away,
believing that this time his Knight would
surely perish, but just the same, as his
Master prepared to fight lions, Sancho
urged his Dapple on -- faster and faster.
From the moment Don Quixote sees the
cart coming down the road, he begins to
prepare himself for an adventure.
The
gentleman in green tries to calm Don
Quixote down by telling him it is only
just a cart, and judging from the little
flags which decorate it, this particular
cart must be carrying the property of the
King.
Don Quixote in turn patiently
explains that he knows by experience that
he has "enemies visible and invisible" and
he goes on to say, "I do not know when or
where, nor at what time or in what shape
they will attack me."
Although we may
(along with the
gentleman in green)
see Don Quixote
recklessly challenging a couple of indifferent lions, we know that he himself
believes that he is about to challenge_ the
power· of those relentless enchanters, who
not only have just deprived Don Quixote of
the full glory which was due him in ·his
victory over the Knight of the Mirrors;
but also, and far worse, have deprived him
forever or so it seems from looking upon
Dulcinea. Thus, it seems to us natural at
this point in the history that Don Quixote
is at last driven to prove to these
enchanters, whoever they may be, that his
spirit has not been broken by their
ceaseless and cruel tricks.
Don Quixote
is powerless to lift the spell of the
enchantment from Dulcinea; he is helpless
to turn Sanson Carrasco back into the
Knight of th~ Mirrors; but he can and does
challenge the lions (who are sent by the
same enchanters) in defiance and to show
that his "courage" and his "resolution"
still prevail. At least, this is what we
first assume especially in light of these
cemarKs which Don Quixote makes to Sancho
upun the completion of the adventure:
What do you think of that, Sancho?
Do any enchantments prevail against
true valour?
The enchanters may
indeed be able to rob me of good
fortune;
but
of
resolution
and
courage, that is impossible!
But isn't there much more at stake
here than just a battle between Don
Quixote and his enemy, enchantment? This
is unquestionably the most dangerous of
all his adventures and it is the first and
only adventure since the fulling-mills
wherein Don Quixote recognizes that he may
be utterly destroyed in the attempt.
"If
I die he re ... " he says to SancHo, "You
will repair to Dulcinea -- I say no more."
52
always longed to become and might have
become if only circumstance had been
kinder to him.
They are both 50 years
old, both natives of La Mancha, and they
both love hunting. They ride their horses
dressed up in their respective finery -the crucial difference between them being
that Don Quixote rides as a knight errant
and Don Diego de Miranda has never allowed
a book of chivalry to so much as "cross
the threshold of his door."
As Don Quixote faces this gentleman
in green, he is forced_to face up to what
he himself is and what he is not.
He
realizes that life for Don Quixote will
never be, cannot be what it is for the
gentleman in green.
Don Quixote de la
Mancha, Knight Errant, will never be
content with "quiet pointers and good
ferrets."
The gentleman in green tries to
persuade Don Quixote to leave the lions
be, reasoning that the lions mean him no
harm.
Don Quixote answers him in this
way:
"leave every man to do his duty.
This is mine, and I know whether they are
coming against me or not, these noble
lions."
And, clearly, for Don Quixote the
lions do come against him.
He must
challenge them, because he must prove to
himself and to the world that he is not
afraid to die
to die as a Knight
Errant, that is.
Don Quixote, up until
this moment, has held on to the hope that
his madness would some day lead him into
the arms of Dulcinea where his life would
truly begin.
But, he is changed
largely as a result of his meeting with
the man he might have been, the gentleman
in green. No longer will Don Quixote gaze
sadly at corpses, thinking that death.will
soon come to him and that it will be
infinitely more tragic because he has
never really lived. To fight lions is to
proclaim to all that Don Quixote de la
Mancha is living life, is fulfilled, not
in the same way as Don Diego de Ia
Miranda, but finally as a knight errant.
Don Quixote has undergone a vital
transformation. We have lost forever "The
Knight of the Sad Countenance" and we have
The adventure is perhaps most remarkable because Don Quixote is transformed by
it and he knows it.
He " has been so
altered that he declares for himself a new
ame a ·more fitting name -- not because
n
I
'
h
it is a gesture appropriate to a knig t
errant in general, but because he is in
some way renewed.
"The Knight of the
Lions" ·is not the knight we saw so long
ago by torchlight gazing sorrowfully upon
a corpse -- a figure so striking then that
Sancho was moved to call him "The Knight
of the Sad Countenance." This old title,
according to Don Quixote, "shall hence-·
forward be so transformed, altered, varied
and changed, " and so it seems shall the
Knight himself.
Three other adventures occur in these
chapters: the encounter with the Wagon of
Death; the battle between Don Quixote and
the Knight of the Mirrors; and, lastly,
the meeting with the gentleman in green,
whom Don Quixote calls "The Knight of the
Green coat." Each one of these encounters
helps lead Don Quixote to the Adventure of
the Lions.
I'll try to say in what way,
starting with the last, first:
we are told that the gentleman in
green is a "sensible gentleman of La
Mancha," that he is fifty years old, that
he is wealthy, and that he enjoys hunting
and fishing.
We also hear that he is
fortunate enough to have reached the age
of fifty and still be surrounded by his
wife, children and devoted friends.
He
gives liberally to the poor and is
apparently devoted to his religion.
In
short, he gives such an account of himself
and of his many virtues, that Sancho jumps
down from Dapple and kneels at ,this
gentleman's feet, convinced that he must
truly be a Saint.
In the first moments of their meeting, Don Quixote stares at the gentleman
in green and the gentleman in green stares
at Don Quixote.
The gentleman is amazed
at the appearance of _the knight and
concludes several times that he must be
mad. Don Quixote, after gazing upon this
stranger and after listening to his story,
recognizes that the gentleman in green
epitomizes the man whom Don Quixote has
.53
!11'
!!
�I
,j
,i
gained "The Knight of the Lions." I hope
that we will attempt to understand better
why this has happened to our Knight and
what it means.
It is my belief that the Enchantment
of Dulcinea, the encounter with the Wagon
of Death, and the Adventure of The Knight
of the Mirrors all have something to do
with this change in Don Quixote, for each
of these adventures compels Don Quixote to
turn his sight inward.
For example, after their encounter
with the Wagon of Death, Don Quixote
informs Sancho how he thinks actors and
authors benefit mankind.
He maintains
that they are at best mirrors which
reflect back to us our actions, our
thoughts, ourselves
"Indeed" says Don
Quixote "there is no comparison which
presents to us more truly what we are and
what we ought to be than plays and
players."
It is shortly after this, indeed, it
is in the very next adventure that Don
Quixote and Sancho encounter two actors,
namely,
Sanson Carrasco
and
Sancho's
neighbor, Tome Cecial -- two players cast
in
the
roles,
respectively,
of
a
forlorn-in-love knight errant and his
squire.
Sancho and Don Quixote , as they
gaze upon and converse with the The Knight
of the Mirrors and his squire, get a good
look at themselves and perhaps it is for
the first time.
Don Quixote not only finds himself in
battle with a faceless knight who refuses
to reveal himself; but, worse yet, the
tunic of this faceless knight is covered
with a thousand tiny mirrors. It must be
supposed and imagined that as Don Quixote
gazes upon his adversary, he sees his own
image reflected back to him a thousand
times or more.
This paper began by accusing poor
Sancho of unfaithfulness. But what of us,
the faithful readers of this history?
Would we remain beside Don Quixote as the
cage door is opened? If Sancho could not,
Sancho who in a sense personifies all the
tenderness and faith which grows in us as
we read and reread the adventures of this
knight, then we, lesser friends than he to
Don Quixote, certainly we could not.
We
say we believe (some of us do at least!)
just as Sancho professes to believe -- but
would our faith stand up to lions?
I
doubt it.
Don Quixote cries out to the
carter who is desperate to get his mules
away before the lions are released, "Oh
man of little faith."
I am afraid that
Don Quixote would be forced to say . the
same to us. But, in turn, I would like to
ask him, what must we have faith in so
that we too may fight lions?
54
Ta-pocketa, Pocketa, Pocketa ...
Moliere, Thurber and the Comic Idea
Fritz Monsma ·
love is not really compatible with a
message. I see that in Tartuffe there are
characters on all sides of the villain,
that they have all relationships to him.
None of them can stand against his
villainy. What message can there be here,
unless it is that chaos rules? I feel the
play mock me when I scrutinize it and try
to find its answer to the problems it puts
forth.
George Meredith wrote "An Essay on
Comedy", and in it put forward Moli~re as
the finest comic poet.
His theory was
that comedy is a kind of medicine for
society, a psychiatrist's couch on which
an entire culture can lie at once.
His
essay is not correct, but .it is a good
first step to understanding Moli~re.
I
want to borrow his idea, distend it a bit,
and give my account.
" .•. To
hell
with
the
handkerchief,"
said Walter Mi tty
scornfully.
He took one last drag
on his cigarette and snapped it
away.
Then
with
that
faint,
fleeting smile playing about his
lips, he faced the firing squad;
erect and motionless, proud and
disdainful,
Wa~ ter
Mi tty
the
undefeated, inscrutable to the last.
James Thurber, "The Secret Life
of Walter Mitty"
Moli~re's comedies are enigmas to me.
They are well turned and temperate. Their
strongest effect is perhaps to make me
wish for more urbanity.
I have seen a
hundred plays and movies which made me
· laugh more than Tartuffe did.
But I do
not want to say that Moli~re's plays were
no~ written for comedy.
They are not a
belly-laugh, but rather a slow grin.
I
can not say either that they have a great
dramatic power.
Yet at their best they
are engaging theater. Set against funnier
and more gripping plays these works fail.
But on their own terms they succeed.
I should ask whether these plays have
a meaning.
I will tell you that I cannot
find one. They seem, first, to be timely
plays.
They were written for Louis'
court, and I have a sense that pa rt of
them stayed there.
Perhaps these courtly
plays do not speak to humanity. Tartuffe
does not question whether . the life of
Tartuffe is a fine or base one.
This
problem should interest us, but this play
is
rather
a
warning
against
false
Christians.
That warning is not so
pertinent
now as
it has been.
My
intuition, secondly, tells me that Moliere
has a comic poet's love for chaos. Such a
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There is a flatness to the characters
in Tartuffe and The Misanthrope.
They
are, in particular, given to speaking in
universals. Dorine says,
"They whose own conduct is most
ridiculous are always the first to
slander others."
A real human being, with ordinary feelings
of ambiguity, might say the same thing,
but not with so many superlatives.
The
people in Moliere' s plays make a strange,
positive race. Sweeping statements are in
their mouths constantly, like an accent.
This brings them down a bit in our eyes.
They are less than we are, not having
thought so carefully about things as to
have our reservations. It pushes them up,
too, this confidence, but as plastic
figures.
Having abstracted the.l,.r speech
from the ordinary human mix-up,
the
speakers become
abstracted
too.
The
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universals iIJ their talk begin to make
them suggest opinions dressed in costume'
and strutting across stage.
At times they are like animated
placards with the titles of the plays
written on them: the miser, the impostor,
the misanthrope. We are not very often in
the dark about the kind of person we are
seeing on stage, what sort of title to
give him or, usually, what is wrong with
him. We t·cust our assessment, and Moliere
never betrays that trust.
We are not
forced to fill in the man behind the mask.
The interaction· of these characters
is balanced and inconclusive. They circle
.one another like porcelain ballerinas on
. top of a music box. It has been said that
if the curtain were to rise again after
the fifth act of The Misanthrope, the play
could quite naturally continue for five
more,
and
end
in
the
same
place.
Philinte' s last line, ·and the play' s last
is;
"Come madam, let us leave nothing
untried to deter him from the
design on which his heart is set."
He was making the same attempt when he
spoke his first line.
Alceste has fumed
through five acts, and his one action is
that he has broken with Celimene. He may
stay away from her, al though he has not
been constant in his resolve.
If he does
stay away, I suspect he will find another
to replace her. He will not go off to the
wilderness.
As ce"lim~ne points out, he
always wants to be contrary, to stand out
and above by moral wrath. He will stay to
argue with Philinte about leaving.
Philinte and Alceste bracket the
central issue of the play.
They are the
two extremes of stoicism in the face of
hypocrisy and vice.
The Misanthrope and
Tartuffe are full of this pattern. Elmire
is an upper class woman.
She is sane and
resourceful concerning Tartuffe, but she
brings herself down with blackmail, and
she is, in the end, ineffectual.
Dorine
is a servant. She too is resourceful, and
deceit and conniving seem to sit easily
with her.
But het: low estate keeps her
out of the family.
She, of all the
characters except Tartuffe, is most like a
56
r.-
mover, and yet she can not draw the
respect among the members of Organ's
household that she needs to bring about
the coup.
She alone is detached enough,
during the darkest hour near the end of
act five, to be sardonic.
Her sarcasm is
a sign which shows us that, even if she
had been successful, she would not have
made a
satisfying end to the play.
Moli~re's bourgeois audience ought to have
seen that such people could not be counted
on to solve their problems.
Damis is a
righteous, guileless youngster.
Organ is
an old man, once sensible, and with an old
man's
honest
concern
with
religion.
Tartuffe plays these two against each
other skillfully.
Middle-aged Cl~ante is
a mean between them, self-possesed and
sane.
He has no actions, only staid
words.
These
characters
change
only
superficially in their play.
They are
unable
to
resolve
the
problems
in
themselves or between themselves.
In The
Misanthrope the actors turn around on
another in circles that are always the
same size.
In Tartuffe the circles get
smaller as Tartuffe leads the players down
into the gutter.
Having said this much about Moliere's
style and the for:m of his plays, let me
give a short summary of George Meredith's
"An Essay on Comedy".
Much of the essay
is about particular societies and their
comedians. A culture must have two things
to support true comedy.
First, it must
have a regard for common sense,
and
second, a . near equality between its men
and women. Such a society will foster the
comic, and he will repay them by giving
them more of the heal th of common sense,
and by pushing further the equality of
their sexes. When the comic has these two
things, the more sophistication among his
people, the better.
It
is this that
provides fodder for his wit.
The folly
that comes with high culture is his meat.
His
spirit
loves
to
expose
all
presumption:
aged
coquettes,
poor
relations full on the dignity of a noble
name.
He is not simply interested in
jokes.
He must avoid the bacchanal of
hearty laughter as much as the stern face
a moment that oqr airs can survive in the
face of the harsh world, and, turninq
about,
shows us the reality of this
harshness.
In its lowest form, comedy is cute;
it is tiny puppies with huge eyes.
It· is
an oxymoron where we simply posit that the
lesser is the stronger. The cute thing is
something that does i:iot threaten us, to
which we attribute a certain superiority,
that is, a superiority to what does
threaten us. Norman Rockwell once painted
a pinafored black schoolchild, off to her
first day of unsegregated kindergarten,
surrounded by a
guard of the state
militia.
Our hearts are drawn to the
little girl; we see goodness of heart
juxtaposed to strength of arms. We cling
to goodness of heart; the world would be
easier on us (so we imagine, since we all
feel
some
confidence
in our heart's
feelings) if this were truly the stronger.
This is a simple positing of what is
contrary to fact, a static act of will.
Hence what is cute does not cause the.
mental flipflop which would make us laugh.
True comedy gives us a reason to
embrace the small.
Whatever the housing
it comes in, comic wit always contains a
seed of grace or cleverness that truly
touches our soul. We laugh happily at the
cleverness
of
a
man
outwitting
his
bullies. We laugh sadly at a man when his
quirks, full of familiarity, stand up
while
surrounded
by
the
grand,
the
powerful, and the sensible.
Chaplin's
film Modern Times has many examples.
Chaplin is harried by the assembly line he
works on; he must turn bolts before they
go past him on the belt.
We laugh for
cleverness when he, being chased around
the line by a hulking co-worker, angry at
some
misdemeanor
that
Chaplin
has
committed, points to an unturned bolt on
the conveyor, so that the man must scurry
back
to
twist
it before
it passes
altogether. Chaplin has beaten the man on
his own ground, and turned the man's
machine against him. For a moment we see
justice.
In the next moment though,
things
have
turned,
and
Chapl.in
is
chastised for his running amok.
We laugh
of puritanism.
He wants to deflate
pomposity, and through his characters to
puncture his audience. But he never wants
to take his victims down below common,
dignified humanity.
It is. not poverty
that is ridiculous, but poverty trying to
be what it is not.
It is satire that
makes its targets contemptible, and this
office will be left to the satirist. The
comic is more like a man who opens his
oven door too soon on a ·scuffle, only to
discover later the nobility of soggy eggs.
If true comedy can find its deeper mark,
it will purge our lunacy and bolster in us
a hearty, fraternal love for our fellow.
·
I do not think that this explication
of comedy is right.
But the idea that
comedy is medicinal may help us understand
. Moli~re. .
.
Comedy has never had much respect for
common sense.
Meredith cites Don QUixote
as an example of the comic. I, too, agree
that it is a fine instance.
Meredith's
formula would say that we laugh at Don
QUixote because of his idiocy, but we
respect his humanity.
I do not want to
discuss the novel here, but I would say
that we delight in his aspirations rather
than his vulgarity, and have scorn for the
Duke and the Duchess for their cruel,
wrongheaded
love
of
common
sense.
Meredith has comedy take down its victim
and
then
embrace
him
in. his
naked
embarrassment, like a man who laughs a
ruddy, joshing laugh with his son because,
even though the son is ridiculous, the
man's love for him does not diminish.
Meredith asks a
lot from the comic
audience.
I think we revel in folly, and
take delight in the proper sort of lunatic
because we wish his idiocy would triumph
in life.
There is a theory that says that
humor comes from the shock to the mind
when it is presented with what seems like
a weighty idea, but which we almost
immediately see is an empty.notion. This
explanation, which is as true as any I
have heard, tells us why comedy is so
closely
connected to joking.
Comedy
fosters the airs we put on, and our
self-indulgences.
It lets us believe for
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(heartily) when his employer brings in his
feeding machine (designed to eliminate the
inefficient lunch break) .
The mac.hine
pours soup down Chaplin's front, feeds him
bolts, spins an ear of corn in his mouth
at tremendous speed, and, after each of
these, wipes his mouth rather bluntly with
a sponge. Chaplin's face lets us see for
a moment that familiar inefficiency is
better than efficiency.
We might hope
that there would be such strong evidence
whenever the productive spirit tries to
rub out one of our homey pleasures.
We
laugh again, mournfully, when we see
Chaplin in the bathroom at the plant,
sneaking a cigarette, and next we see a
huge video screen, lighting up with the
face of ~is employer, which orders hiif!
back. to work..
Such a plea!?ure, obviously
enjoyed, would have been
triumph for us
if it had been allowed. Finally, we laugh
when, running out of the plant away from
his angry superiors, he stops at the
time-clock to punch out, and, running back
in having found the police outside, he
stops to punch in.
He maintains his
flustered
life even while he is so
painfully
under
the
thumb
of
his
methodical employers. In each case we see
for a moment an o·cder that we think is
superior
in
action,
and,
almost
immediately, the power of what makes that
order no more than a wish.
Meredith mentions exposing ancient
coquettes as stuff for comedy. But we all
would like to see age defied, and an
innocent love of frippery last.
This
desire, followed soon by the truth, makes
better comedy than the truth alone.
In
the movie version of Gone With the Wind
the dashing Rhett Butler hears a noise
when Mamie, his old, overweight black maid
walks by.
"Mamie", he says, "what's that
rustling sound?" Mamie lifts up her black
cotton skirts to show that she is wearing
what was a present from him; a red taffeta
petticoat.
We can not supress a smile.
We do not laugh at this woman's folly. We
laugh at her wonderful impudence in the
face of fat and old age.
James Thurber is perhaps the great
master of this, the funniest of the forms
of -comedy.
There
is a
story about
himself, breaking his glasses and not
going to get them fixed for three days
because he .is so pleased to be able to see
hazy and strange objects while walking
down ordinary streets. There are several
stories about words that get twisted in
the mouths of foreigners or colored maids.
Thurber is usually sad at the end of the.
story, to have found out that what sounded
weird and macabre
is
actually quite
mundane, and sadder still if the wayward
tongue has gone and can not slip again.
Above all there is The Secret Life of
Walter Mitty.
I can find no simpler
example of what I mean by comedy. Mitty's
valor in the face of all reality is truly
touc;;hing,
and his wild thoughts
and
attention to the least detail of the ·
cliche's of heroism are endlessly funny.
There is a third, more sophisticated
kind of comedy, and this is where Moliere
lives. The mental turn-about is made with
bulkier things than it was in the last
form, and the transition can not be made
so deftly. The essential discrepancy here
is between our life inside the theater and
our life outside it. Outside the theater
we have a somber piety towards religion.
Inside we see how religious men can betray
us. Outside the theater we sometimes feel
a righteous spleen at hypocrisy.
Inside,
we see spleen with its pants down, we see
how self-serving it can be. This form of
comedy does not aim at truth: the poet is
not a muckraker.
It wants to shake our
sensibilities, to see if it can knock off
the crust of respectability that grows
over the merely old, or the mask of
misanthropy or humble piety that
is
sometimes worn over vanity or greed.
When this sort of comedy is impish,
it is like the following scene from the
Marx Brothers' movie, A Night at the
Opera:
Harpo, the mute, honking brother,
is approached by a bum, who asks for help
tow a rd a cup of coffee.
Ha rpo reaches
down into his clown pants and pulls out a
steaming cup of coffee and a saucer, and,
handing it to the bum, walks away.
I
think that this is comic not because Har~o
has a full cup in his pants pocket
a
58
·typewriter was delivered to her by mistake
(sample dialogue;
"Oh no George,
my
virginity is a priceless thing to me.")
The
family
manufactures
candy
and
fireworks, and prints up leaf lets which,
by happenstance, are filled mostly with
quotations from Trotsky (God is the state.
The state is God.) Of course, much of the
play's humor comes from a juxtaposition of
the two families. At times the philosophy
of the play seems to be the title's; that
you
can't
take
it
with
you.
But
characters in the comedy say things like;
"Five years ago I just wanted to have fun.
I used to think that was enough, but now I
just don't know". The work never decided
the question. What it does do is present·
the audience with the possibility of
living to h~ve_fun.
(Trouble is taken to
show that it would be poss lb le for this
family to live outside of the theater.)
The absurdity of this play comes from its
showing the achievers on the bottom,
stripped
of
the
respectability
that
America had given them.
The sting of it
comes from the possible superiority, and
even stranger the possible existence, of
this situation.
Tartuffe is similar.
Its ending,
where the king takes the role of God, must
be taken as ironic.
The play's true
ending is that Orgon is sent to prison and
his family to the gutter.
Moli~re shows
us a man who uses piety to disinherit an
upperclass family.
It shows us how piety
can be everything that its reputation is
not. It is true, or at least very likely,
that Tartuffe shows us not what Moli~re
thought was possible, but what he thought
was a common occurance.
Tartuffe is a
black comedy, and its wit suffers for
this.
The Misanthrope is a working model of
court society.
The characters may seem
hollow, and a few struts may show, but it
helps
us understand ho~ this
rather
spurious confederacy works.
Hypocricy is
essential to Alceste.
It is what he
craves most, and he is willing to squander
a duke's ransom losing a lawsuit so that
he can rail_ ag.ainst it.
He admits to
(although this is perhaps what makes us
laugh).
Everybody
knows that that bum
doesn't want coffee.
He knows, though,
that if he asks us to help him to a pint
of Thunderbird, he won't get his dime. We
understand him, and he us.
But we will
nonetheless play the game. The comedy in
this
scene
bullies
a
thoughtless
convention.
Meredith mentions many times that the
equality of women is important to the
comic spirit, but he never says why. The
reason is, I think, that women desenfe
equality in many ways, but do not get it
because
of
the
empty
traditions
of
society.
This is perhaps why Moliere
makes the most sensible characters of both
Tartuffe and The Misanthrope female. This
idea does· not seem comic today.
This is
because women have
all but achieved
lequality. Meredith did not see that it is
essential_ that women be nearly but not
quite equal, so that comedy could be made
out of the discrepancy between good sense
and habit.
Twenty years ago a successful comedy
might have been made merely by having
black actors play white roles, and white
black.
The laughs might have come from
the seeming absurdity of the situation,
but the sting would have come from its
plausibility.
Now that the lie that
blacks are an inferior race has been
exposed this comedy would have no punch.
Nor would it have had an effect when
blacks were fully slaves.
Only if the
question of black equality were loose and
stirring up trouble in society could the
idea be the basis for a comedy.
George Kaufman and Moss Hart's comedy
You Can't Take It With You is about the
engagement bf the son of the president of
a respectable New York City business to a
secretary at that firm.
The young women
is the sanest member of a somewhat lunatic
family.
The patriarch of the family
spends most of his time playing darts and
going to university commencements.
The
mother has, at the start of the play, been
writing her own plays for eight years,
since it has been that long since a
59
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Orgon that he has no gre.at taie.nt for
poetry.
Yet he can not bear tci .be
anything less than absolute judge of
anything, and when he is absolute judge,
he condemns.
Orgon' s sonnet is not so
very bad, nor Alceste's rustic ditty very
good. But, having been asked his opinion,
he can not restrain himself.
Philante says he expects no good
qualities from men.
If this were true he
could have no friends, or perhaps no more
among men than among wolves.
But he is
peculiarly affected by his contrapositive,
Alceste. He is bent on disuading him from
his retreat into the desert. He would not
feel this compulsion unless he thought
Alceste a man of worth. He is attached to
Alceste's forthrightness.
This virtue
engages him; it is a standard py which he
hopes he can square himself and
(or
perhaps, even in his own mind, in spite
of) his leaky views.
These two friends need one another
reciprocally
and
serve
one
another
admirably.
Celim~ne
is
a
delight
to
the
audience.
Her gossip scene with the two
marquis is perhaps the high point of the
play.
Comedy was made to endorse such
frippery. The audience can indulge itself
there. . It is no wonder that Celim~ne is
the hub of the circle ·of the people of
this play, that she p.ot only pulls in
Alceste, but most of the other men and
their hangers-on.
She
is what high
society offers; beauty, spritly talk and
clever slander.
She indulges herself
knowing that she, too, is a target for
gossip; her libel comes from a true
sportsman's spirit.
We bear ludicrous
society for her refinements.
The Misanthrope is a white comedy.
It
showed
Louis's
court
how
shaky
compliment and insult are as pillars of
society.
It took their code of conduct
and broadcast that it was farcical.· The
joke is that the loudest opponent of
hypocrisy lives a life of utter falsehood.
And Celimene, the great magnet of the
court, does her entertaining mostly by
putting others down. By this account, one
could almost think that Louis's court
could throw away its pompous idea that an
insult is a grave thing.
I should think
that a member of high society would come
away from the theater, having seen The
Misanthrope, ready for a little airy and
innocent gossip.
He would, however, have
to fear a law suit. Like the bum and his
cup of coffee, society will never say what
it really wants, nor tell the truth about
what hold~ it together.
The sad ending to the play has to do
with Celimene. She deserves something for
being the spectacle that draws the crowd.
What she deserves is what she has at the
opening of the play; a troop of adoring
men. The men who want to live the life of
the court ought to be willing to share the
main attraction. But no man in this play
is willing to have a part of Celimene' s
,affections.
They stay only as long as
t.hey have some. hope of getting them all.
In the end, they all try to damn her to a
solitary life.
At any party, the band
gets to drink free.
They are, after all,
providing the entertainment.
The same
principle should hold for Celim~ne.
60
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�A Note on the Cover
In "Kepler and the Mode of ·vision," in theJuly, 1980, issue of The St. John's
Review, Curtis Wilson wrote:
Melancholy
is
pictured
in
curer's famous engraving of 1513 or
1514, the Melencolia .!· Here we see
a
winged,
presumably
celestial
being, staring fixedly, evidently in
despair.
The scene is lit with an
eerie light from the moon, a comet,
and a lunar rainbow.
Strewn about
in bewildering disorder are the
tools of geometrical and architectural
construction.
She,
the
celestial being, is afflicted, we
surmise, with a sense of spiritual
confinement,
of
insurmountable
barriers
separating her
from a
higher realm of thought.
Durer's
conception
of
that
highest
realm
is
presented
in
another engraving which he made at
the same time as the Melencolia, and
distributed with it as its appropriate counterpart:
St. Jerome in his
Cell.
Here
Jerome,
comfortably
::
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~---------·-~-~-
--. -- -
·- -
seated in his warm, sunlit cell,
which he shares with his contented
animals, is absorbed in his theological work.
Even the skull looks
friendly.
Jerome's
incorporation
into the strictly mathematical projection of our perspectival system,
though it reveals his contentment,
in no way reveals the secret of it,
which may remain for some of us
inaccessible •••
For all we know, the perspecti vi ty revealed by the fact that we
opine, and that opinion is not
knowledge,
may
be
the
correct
perspective.
In
any
case,
our
perspectival viewing reveals a world
into which we, along with others,
are launched as essentially equal
citizens.
We
recognize
others,
equally with ourselves, as potential
measures of the truth.
The claims
of others call us out of our
particularity into discourse, into
the search for Right Opinion. This
is a category unknown to skeptics, a
human category revealing both our
poverty and our power.
�i I
St. John's College
Annapolis, "'.\1ary1and 21404
~
!
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I
Pnnted at· the St. John·a College Print Shop in Annapolu
�
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<em>Energeia</em>
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<em>Energeia</em> is a non-profit, student magazine, which is published once a year and distributed among students, faculty, alumni, and staff of St. John's College, Annapolis. Staff welcome submissions from all members of the community -- essays, poems, stories, original math proofs, lab projects, drawings, and the like.
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Cooper, Barbara
Davis, Matthew
Holland, Christian
Maguire, Susan
Miller, Richard
Monsma, Fritz
Sharp, Marion
Sachs, Joe, 1946-
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Energeia, Spring 1982
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1982
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Energeia Spring 1982
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Annapolis, MD
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English
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text
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pdf
Energeia
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SPRING 1987
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THE GREENFIELD LIBRARY
THE GREENFIELD LIBRARY
Annapolis, Mar yland 21401
Annapolis, Maryland 21401
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�ENERGEIA: The activity in which anything is fully itself.
"APPLE COMPOSITION"
COVER-COLOR SLIDE
by Jennifer A. Lapham
Watercolor
Photographed by Greg Ferguson
Printed by the
St. John's College Press
St. John's College
Annapolis, Maryland
11 ... voG tvtpytm
~roil . .. (Aristotle's
Metaphysics, 1072b)
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Energeia is a non-profit, student magazine which is published three times a year and
distributed among the students, faculty, alumni and staff of St. John's College, Annapolis.
The Energeia staff welcomes submissions from all members of the community-essays,
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�Philosophical Striving
Derek O'Brien
I
CONTENTS
PHILOSOPHICAL STRIVING
Derek O'Brien
1
PHOTOGRAPHS
Greg Ferguson
12
THE ROLE OF PROPOSITION
1.11 IN APOLLONIUS' ON CONIC SECTIONS
Brian Sullivan
14
LOVE
Mary
17
WENG AT WORK: #3
Leslie Sheppard
18
PHEDRE'S SELF DISCOVERY
Andrew Sloniewsky
19
SONNET #9: A CONVERSATION WITH
MOTHER, AND AN UNTITLED POEM
Dahra Latham
22
THE GAME OF CHESS IN
NATHAN THE WISE
Mark Ressler
24
APRIL RESIDUE
David Walter
26
NEWTON, AND AN UNTITLED DRAWING
John Bertram
27
PRIZE WINNING SENIOR ESSAY (1986)
A VISION OF THE HAGIA SOPHIA
Clayton DeKorne
29
I would rather no one put this essay down thinking it not addressed to himself,
or herself, but to "philosophers." What I will attempt to show here is that philosophy, in its true sense is the natural state of the human being; even more, the turning away from philosophy is actually an escape man makes from his very existence.
But I first must point out that what I consider to be the genuine philosophic
state is not the same as is commonly believed. Indeed, I find the common notion of
philosophy carries with it a tragic misconception as to the very direction it should
take. Yet this misconception is nothing shameful. It inevitably arises in our outset and only "works its way out" through continued philosophical activity. To show
this we will have to follow out this activity from its very beginning to the pdint
where the true nature of philosophy arises, by itself, into our view.
Thus I begin not from this or that "philosophical viewpoint," but with the way
in which I find philosophy begins within myself -- that is, with the desire to know.
By this I mean nothing vague, but an actual feeling I experience, one which simply
comes over me. It is such a feeling which causes me to ask questions like "Why am I
here?" or "What should I do with my life?" Further, it pushes me to look for answers
to these questions. Thus, it is a feeling which "bothers" me and which drives me
toward activity.
But the philosophic desire to know is not t o know relatively in this or that
way, but in a universal way--that I have a sense that such a point of view actually
exists. Thus, inherent in the philosophical desire to know, in philosophy itself, is
the idea of its object: truth.
From this we consider philosophy simply as the striving for truth, and insofar
as one does this he or she is a philosopher.
But how is this striving to take place? How is this goal to be accomplished, a
goa l which I seem to know of , so far, only by my desire for it? From the outset I
face the question, "What is truth, and what is my relation to it?"
The only thing I can do in this posit ion is move blindly.
I can only guess
"take a stab" at what truth is. We .see this happen historically in the birth of sep~
arate "philosophies." Each one makes its own guess at the universal with the general
statement "Everything is
"; e.g., "Everything is matter," or "Everything is
motion."
Were such first attempts seen for their limitations to explain all things, then
philosophic striving might find a direction through them toward the universal. But
the more common tendency is to cling to these guesses as if they were the truth. In
doing so, one must force everything into his system, and what does not fit, that is,
what one finds to contradict his opinions, must be disregarded as being "unphilosophic."
To explain this tendency of "clinging" we must first distinguish between the
desire to know on the one hand and the desire to have knowledge on the other. By the
first is meant the spontaneous feeling I have which drives me, in a way blindly,
1
�toward knowledge.
It is this feeling which produces philosophical striving.
The
second desire, though it sounds ~lmost identical, is completely different, perhaps
ev~n opposite to the first.
It is not a desire which simply comes over me but one
which grows out of self-reflection. I wish to see myself as having knowledge, or as
~eing knowledgeable, i:ot to be "lacking" in knowledge.
This _
desire does not produce
in me a. spirit of striving. Instead, it wants this striving to be done with. It is
the desire for a state of rest.
This kind of self-judging holds within it an unwarranted shame of, and contempt
for, not-knowing. From a quasi-perfectionistic viewpoint I "look down" upon the lack
of knowledge as ugly. And perhaps, in the sense that this lacking is simply hard to
look at, there is some validity to this view.
But, as we shall soon see, it is just this not-knowing which must be outrightly
acknowledged and faced in a uncompromising way, if philosophical striving is to continue its course.
But what I have ref erred to here as the "tendency to cling" deserves much more
elucidation. Indeed, the harm which this "tendency" causes to philosophy at every
level cannot be understated.
The negative reflection I take upon my state of
not-knowing (a state in which I clearly must begin), the desire to see myself as ·a
"knowledgeable person," the impatience this produces in me toward achieving my goal,
and the attempt to comfort this impatience by resting upon a pseudo-truth, all of
this is not merely a wrong turn I make in philosophical striving, but an active and
force~ul
turn directly against it.
These tendencies are not unphilosophical·
striving, but an active and forceful turn directly against it. These tendencies are
not unphilosophic, but anti-philosophic. What we have discovered here is the supreme
enemy of philosophy, an enemy hidden within philosophy itself. It constantly frus trates genuine striving for knowledge. Here it cuts off this striving by stating
"Those questions are 'unphilosophic. '" There it blocks the striving by stating "you
~re not philosophizing in the 'right way.'"
It does this to keep up a fantasy that
it has already somehow accomplished the philosophic task; that it has already found
the truth.
This hypocrisy, when seen from the point of view of common sense, often results
in a complete abandonment of philosophy. The desire to know comes to be seen as a
"silly dream," and the task of striving for truth as a waste of time. Philosophy
becomes something done in "Ivory towers," completely separated from the "real world."
But, insofar as those who take this view find the desire to know within themselves,
this becomes a contempt for their very own thinking.
These problems and their cause are not unique to philosophy, but are found
rooted in the nature of striving itself. All striving is accompanied by a fear of
failure, a fear which fights directly against it. With any task I set myself on, I
take the risk that I might fail in its accomplishment. My striving might result in
nothing. If my striving is to be wholehearted, this possibility must be faced.
My desire to know does not bring with it the guarantee that I will be able to
achieve knowledge, or that this knowledge even exists. Further it is becoming more
and more clear that a wholehearted striving for · truth would constitute an immense
struggle; perhaps the greatest one an individual can undertake. As great as this
struggle turns out to be, just as great is the risk that the effort will have been
spent in vain.
Failure is a painful possibility which striving must come up against.
Thus
philosophical desire inevitably leads to what we may call philosophical despair.
There are three ways with which I can deal with this despair.
The first is to pretend as if I have already achieved my goal, or, what is essentially the same, pretend as if it is certain that I will achieve it.
This is
done, in a way already shown, by clinging to a pseudo-truth, or to a pseudo- guarantee
that I will reach the truth. This is the way of Naive Philosophy.
2
,,,,
The second is to simply tell myself that the goal is an impossible one to reach.
I do this by clinging to the idea that truth does not exist, or at least if it does
that it is entirely separate from and beyond me. This is the way of Skepticism.
'
Both of these ways cope with philosophical striving, and the pain inherent in
it, by killing it, or more precisely, beating it down, since the desire to know does
no: cease. "comi~g upon" me •. In the first case I do this by turning my back upon anything which might contradict my precious pseudo-truth.
In the second I must
continuously repeat to myself "it is hopeless." Both are means of escaping the
possibility of failure, the first by telling myself "I can't fail," the second by not
even attempting · to succeed.
The final way I have to deal with Philosophical Despair is simply to face it.
This is to face my present state of not knowing and the possibility that, in spite of
whatever striving, I will always remain in this state.
Let me point out that when I use the word 'despair' I am not being metaphorical
at all. This is very important. It is living pain we face here; indeed, it is intense suffering. If we are not simply to make an "empty gesture," thereby sneaking
our way back into Philosophical Naivete, we must make this clear to ourselves.
It would be wrong to put down the tendency to cling as being simply a "bad habit." There are strong reasons why we cling to certain beliefs, "philosophies," systems, ideas, etc., and these reasons must be looked at. This clinging not only provides me with the false notion that I have attained the truth, but also with the notion that I have found a place for myself within this truth; that is, it provides me
with a sense of meaningfulness.
Thus, in facing Philosophic Despair, in facing my not-knowing, this meaningfulness, along with everything else, is thrown into question . I will not be able to
avoid asking myself: "Does my life, my entire existence, have any meaning?" And to
ask this honestly is to face the possible answer: "No, my existence is utterly meaningless." What could be more difficult than this?
This is a good place to make clear a subtle yet very important distinction
between the way of Philosophic Despair and Skepticism. Both entail a giving up of
the pseudo-truth, and pseudo-meaningfulness, to which I cling, and in this sense
Skepticism may be seen as a step toward Philosophic Despair. But Skepticism stops
short and clings to the "giving up." It is only through Philosophical Despair that I
go on to actually ask this question about my meaning or meaninglessness, and to
search out the answer.
Both Philosophical Naivete and Skepticism avoid this
extremely difficult task: the first by ignoring the question, the second by ignoring
the answer.
It is clear that the sense of meaningfulness which my clinging gives me is somet hing very comfo r table. It provides for me both a sense of place and a sense of di rection. If I give up this clinging, I come to experience an agonizing sense of being totally lost. I become engulfed in the question, "Who am I?" or more precisely,
"What am I?" With this question comes an almost irresistible urge to grab for an
answer, any answer at all, anything to give me a sense of belonging, anything to escape this painful suspension in not-knowing.
If I resist this temptation, if I do not turn back here, if I willfully plunge
deeper into despair, I find myself utterly alone. More than this, having given up
all of my pseudo-guarantees about the way things are, the future takes on for me the
character of the completely unexpected.
I can have no sense of what will happen
next, of where I will "end up." I feel entirely dirfctionless. It seems as if I am
dropping into a black abyss of "What am I to think?"
There is a break in my argument which cannot be avoided here.
3
What I will at-
�,
tempt to show in the second half of this essay is what I believe we discover through
philosophical despair.
In doing so, I will primarily use the ideas put for th by
Edmund Husserl, because it seems to me that his is the same "attitude" or "path" we
will come upon. The sense I do not wish to give is that we now get "the answer,"
that this is what our despair has guaranteed for us. This, of course, completely
destroys the nature and value of the despair itself, since despair must be the giving
up of all guarantees.
Our "discoveries," insofar as we anticipate them, are not
really discoveries at all.
A criticism might be made that I am, in what follows, resting upon Husserl, that
is, clinging to "Husserl's Philosophy." This deserves serious attention. Thoughts
which are the product of the most genuine striving for truth can, and very often do ,
"flip flop" on us and become objects to which we cling. The fact is, insofar .a s we
cannot face Philosophical Despair , this clinging will be something we simply cannot
help doing.
On the other hand, insofar as we have faced this despair we do not have to worr y
that the thoughts which are presented to us will manipulate our beliefs. It is the
desperate need for ~ truth which is manipulated in this way, and it is just this nee~
which Philosophical Despair painfully gives up. All of this will be mad,e clearer as
we go on.
II
Once I have felt this despair, or once I have gone through this despair, or
better, once this despair has run fully through me, I awaken to find, for the first
time, that this terrifying abyss, which I have kept myself from falling into by
clinging to anything I could, is an illusion. I do not fall into black nothingness.
My consciousness does not die.
Instead, things come to me . I "see this piece of paper," I "feel this chair," I
"hear this noise." These things cannot be part of any "system of the way things
are," not even part of the "scientific obj ec ti ve world," because all such "sys t ems"
and "worlds" I have given up . They are simply things I find pr esent t o me . Indeed ,
when I "look up" I find presented to me an entire field of sense, an i n finite field
filled with things .
More than this, this field of sense is not new to me . All of it is presented
with a sense of familiarity. This "Here and Now" is no t given to me blankly . Along
with it I f i nd an inf i nite field of memories which relate my present state to an entire past. I can recall other "places I have be en", "people I know", "things I have
done", etc. And, on the other side, I am given a sense that all of these things present to me will not simply disappear ; that is , they will continue on into a fu t ure .
Indeed, what is present to me is an entire world in which I live, th e Life- Wo r ld
as Husserl calls it. It is the world "in which I live and br eathe" , "in which I deal
with other people", "in which I find likes and dislikes" , "in which I cope" , "in
which I catch myself daydreaming", "in whi ch I brush my teeth ", etc .
It is so
present to me that I don't even have to think about it , so pr e s ent t hat i t has always
been there for me . As Husse r l states :
Is not the life wo r ld as s uch what we know be st, wha t
is always taken for granted in all human life , always familiar to
us in it typology through expe r ienc e ? (The Crisis, p . 123)
To push the point: the Life-World is not present to me as entirely new.
4
What is
new, what is now radically different, is my relation to it, for now it is simply present to me. I am no longer compelled to say what this Life-World before me "actually
means." I do not have to define it as "an objective world of things in themselves,"
or "a world of matter," or even as "a world of pure illusion." I make no claims at
all as to its existence. It is simply "there" for me, "there" as phenomenon.
I find myself in a state of "non- position taking" toward my experience
Husserl's Epoche. I have stepped out of the "current of ever new experiences, judgments, evaluations, decisions" which are always "directed toward objects in the surrounding world." I have become a "disinterested observer" or the Life-World.
I am
no longer "naively absorbed" in it. This does not mean that I no longer experience
the world. It means that this experiencing self has now come under my view.
This is not a "view", an "interpretation" bestowed upon the
world. Every view about ... every opinion about 'the' world, has
its ground in the pregiven world. It is from this very ground
that I have freed myself through the epoch; I stand above the
world, which has now become for me, in quite a peculiar sense, a
phenomenon. (The Crisis p. 152)
But this "peculiar sense" must be elucidated, for, from a naive point of view,
this state of the epoche can be severely misunderstood. Natural misconceptions arise
in the face of this separation between myself and the Life-World. I am struck with
the fearful notion that I am now to become cold, distant, and impersonal to this
world. But, insofar as one really does attain this state, this rejection is not necessary at all; in fact, in the end, the exact opposite turns out to be the case.
If we reflect back we find it was actually in my previous state of clinging that
I was rejecting the world. The beliefs about this world to which we cling determine
everything we see; that is, if we are going to be able to keep these beliefs as the
"truth" we will have to close our eyes to any experience which might contradict them.
In this way I really imprison myself within an ordered structure through which all of
my experience must fit. In the act of clinging I place blinders upon myself. I must
actively ignore at least part of the Life-World.
But it is just this clinging which I give up when I enter the epoche; or,more
precisely, i t is only by giving up this clinging that I can even arrive at this
state. I am not here rejecting the Life-World but fully accepting it for the first
time. I remove the blinders which have been hiding this world from me, and hiding me
from it. This there is no longer anything to restrict me in my experience. I let
the Life-World come to me as it will.
And much more c ome s t o me than s imply perc eptions .
I also d i scover dreams,
wishes, fantasies, emotions, etc., in their own modes of presentation. Thus I find
in my experience "this pain", "this attraction", "this pleasure in the company of a
friend" . Further, even thoughts and judgments can~ to me. But they are now present only as relative and subjective since I no longer cling to them as the truth.
We can now explain the initial misconceptions and fears concerning the epoche.
The misunderstanding rested on a naive sense that this is a state into which I force
myself, an attitude I try to attain so that I may see things in the "right way."
But, clearly, this forcing would destroy the epoch itself, since it would then become
simply another ground to which I cling. This state is not one in which I see things
in this or that way, but one in which I simply find myself "seeing"
that is,
experiencing.
But we have yet to make clear what an extraordinary position this is in which
one finds himself. He sees now, for the first time, what awesome control his pseudo - truths have had over him. In his stubborn clinging, he had actually been placing
a philosophical authority over himself; an authority which checked and directed his
5
�every thought. When one no longer depends upon it to cling to, this authority simply
disappears. He no longer has .!£ think in this or that way. In fact, he no longer
has to think at all. He has reached a state of philosophical autonomy.
But along with this new found freedom of thought comes a responsibility in
thought. He realizes he can no longer rest upon "knowledge" which is given to him.
Any knowledge he is to claim he will have to have discovered for himself. Thus his
attention turns from supporting 2beliefs to seeing what is really there before him,
what he really knows: phenomena.
With this now uninhibited attitude we can begin paying attention to the world
present to me.
Let us, then, patiently observe this field of sense I find myself within. Among
this multitude of things, one, say "this chair", "catches my eye" and my attention
turns towards it.
Already we may notice that "this chair" is present to me as a thing, even if it
is in the most general way. It is something which I am conscious of.
But "this chair" is not present to me simply as I perceive i t in the strictest
sense -- that is, as only blank data given to me. Though my experience is always in
the present, the living now, I am somehow aware of more. First of all, "this chair"
which is present to me now is present as the same thing which was present to me in a
now just past. Further, if I "move my head," I find my perceptions change, but I do
not thus perceive different things. They are still present as perceptions of "this
chair."
But say I "close my eyes." Now "this chair" is no longer present to me. Yet
~ti~l in s~me sense I retain it as "that which was just now present but now no longer
is.
And if I reopen my eyes, what I find present is not a new "this chair" but "the
same thing which had been present to me before." Or even suppose that when I "reopen
by eyes" I do not find it to . be present again. Still it remains for me "that which
was 'there' but not no longer is 'there; '" that is, I am aware of it as the thing
which has "disappeared."
I find this to be the same with anything I "turn toward . " Throughout the ever
changing flow of my consciousness, the thing upon which my attention has focused remains for me this one thing.
I find that whatever I experience is present to me as what Husserl calls an
intentional object: "A unity which 'appears' continually in the change of the modes
of its giveness."
(p. 80). This I simply did not notice before I had reached my
state of the epoche, since then I was so concerned over what the thing was that I
could not observe how it was a thing for me at all.
As we shall discover more and more, this intentionality, this fact of experience , is the key to explaining what was before simply unexplainable. We find that
all of experience has what we may call, after Husserl, a Horizonal Structure. I experience nothing as being completely contained within what is strictly present to me.
I always have with it an awareness of there "being more," a "beyond" which is not
present. With everything actually given, horizons are awakened; thus, if I see the
front of a motionless thing-like object, I am conscious, within the horizon, of the
back of the object, which I do not see. (Experience and Judgment, p. 82)
It is only because of this that my interest toward an object can grow, for if it
were given to me "completely" and "all at once" then what would there be for me to
"look for?" Now I can turn toward the object with a sense of discovery, making it my
"theme."
In this firm orientation on the object, in the continuity of
the experience of the object, there is an intention which goes
beyond the given and tends toward a progressive plus ultra. It
is not only a progressive have-consciousness-of but a striving
toward a new consciousness in the form of an interest i~ the en-
6
~
richment of the 'self' of the object which is forthcoming eo ipso
with the prolongation of the apprehension. Thus the tendency of
the turning-toward continues as a tendency toward complete fulfillment.
(Experience and Judgment, p. 82)
With this sense of "striving" toward an object" we clarify the nature of striving itself. All striving is toward something to be attained and thus beyond what I
"have;" that is, what is present to me. Thus, for there to be striving there must be
intentionality.
Given this sense, I strive toward my original object.
I "walk around to the
other side" of it, so that this now becomes present to me. I "touch" it. I "look
underneath" it. In doing so, more of the object becomes present to me than when I
first tur ned toward it. I am "fulfilling intentionalities." Thus my initial hori zons are expanded out to ever new horizons. But, even though the horizons are new,
even though the object is continually changing for me, they still remain the horizons
of this object; that is, this one thing remains as that which is changing.
But so far we have only focused upon what I find "in" the object present to me,
its "internal horizons." But I discover beyond the fact that it is always present to
me as itself, that it is never present to me !?.z_ itself. If I now "look away" from my
first object, though retaining it intentionally, to what is "next . to" it, I am given
its relation to something else. "This chair" is smaller than "this table." Thus I
am pointed toward the relational determinations of the object
its "external
horizons."
As we have already noticed in passing, the things which are present to me I find
not only in relation to my field of sense but also in relation to what I take as an
entire life. Nothing is ever present as entirely new to me.
The object is present from the very first with a character
of familiarity; it is already apprehended as an object of a type
more or less vaguely determined and already, in some way, known.
(Experience and Judgment p. 113)
With this relation of type or likeness we begin to see that I do not have only
particular objects present to me. We discover a new realm of experience. A realm of
unity which we will find to be separate· from that of particulars, but also, in a remarkable way, tied to it.
This new realm can be shown in our use of words. Suppose that within my field
of sense I turn toward an object A and, "pointing it out," name it as "this book."
La t e r , ano t he r objec t , in its internal dete r mina t ions, to t he fi r s t , which I have
"retained in grasp," and discover object A to be like object B. I thus name this
second object "that book."
-But from here I may place objects A and B in the background and take up as my
theme the likeness itself which has "arisen out of" the unity of my experience of the
particulars. Thus I no longer refer to "this or that book," but to the "concept of
book," or "book in general."
When I use the work "book" in this new way I am no longer "pointing to" an
object present to me, or even to a plurality of objects which I have grouped
together. What I mean by the word; that is, what I intend by it, is that which all
of the particular objects have in common -- that which unifies them. And this refers
not simply to the particular objects I have found in my experience, but any possible
particular I could have an experience of, any one of an infinitude of
particularizations I can imagine.
We should make it clear that in my use of words here I am not, as might be suspected, "doing something to" my experience. I d0 not "make up" the concept. It is
7
�,,
simply a unity between objects I have discovered within my experience, indeed it is
this unity which explains why I use the same word in the first place. From this
point of view, concepts are no longer mysterious things which simply "pop into my
head." They are instead things present to me, as perceived objects are, but in a
different manner. Concepts are unities I experience.
Let us elucidate this new manner of presentation.
First we find that "this concept" is present to me as an intentional object.
What are strictly given to me here are particulars, but, though they are separate
from each other, they are each present as a particular of this unity.
Thus concepts have a horizonal structure. What is intended by the concept is an
infinitude of various particulars falling under this unity. But, obviously, I do not
have this infinitude present for me. Therefore, I am not given the concept "completely" and "all at once , " but am aware of a "beyond;" indeed , an "infini t e beyond . "
This is an awareness of all of the possible particulars which I do not "see."
As soon as an open horizon of like objects is present to
consciousness as a horizon of presumptively to consciousness as a
horizon of presumptively actual and real possible objects, and as
soon as it becomes intuitive as an open infinity, it gives itself
as an infinitude of particularizations of the SAME universal.
(Experience and Judgment p. 328)
Thus I may direct myself toward the concept with the sense of discovery. From
having first turned toward the concept in "uttering" it, since using the same word
toward separate objects "pointed to" their unity, I now "strive toward a new consciousness" of it, "as a tendency toward complete fulfillment."
But clearly I don't strive toward the concept in the same way as I do toward an
object of perception. I can't "walk around to its other side," or "touch it." Instead, I approach it in thought. This takes place as I "try to say" what the concept
" is. " In doing this I "run through" or "go over" variations wit hin t he concept to
discover, in my single line of thought, what remains constant. This is a paying attention to the unity of the particulars.
The essence proves to be that without which an object of a
particular kind cannot be thought, i.e., without which the object
cannot be intuitively imagined as such . (p. 341)
In this way, by "exercising the concept" or "playing with the idea," I become
more f amiliar with it. M
etaphor i cally speaki ng, I am " seeing its different sides, "
and thus it becomes more "sensible" to me.
But since the concept intends an infinitude of possible variations, my "making
sense" of it must be an infinite process. There are, as it were, an infinite number
of "sides" to "see." Here we find the unique nature of my relation to the universal.
Toward it my striving is never completely satisfied. My goal, as such, is never
quite attained. I never come to possess the truth.
Instead, what my striving does give me is an ever growing universal sense. A
sense which tends toward its complete fulfillment, i.e. truth, as an "infinite ideal
goal." If I am to continue my philosophic striving I must content myself with this,
and the "all or nothing" attitude upon which Naivete and Skepticism are based must be.
given up.
·
But more must be said about this universal sense and the way in which it grows.
So far it might seem as if it is strictly through thinking that this growth takes
place, that in striving toward truth I now cut myself off from the Life-World and
find myself in a "pure" realm of thought. This is simply not the case.
In fact,
8
this separation is really naivete slipping back upon us.
To show this we must turn back to the fact that it is from the unity of my experience of the Life-World that concepts arise for me in the first place. But does
this mean I should then turn all of my attention here to "find" the universal? No,
for we find, on the other hand, that this Life- World is familiar to me only by virtue
of the fact that it conforms to concepts I have.
What we discover here is a peculiar relationship between the realm of thought
and the Life- World (Which we may also ref er to as the realm of action since it is in
this way that I fully immerse myself in the particularity of this world . ) . The universal is not to be "found" in either . Instead it grows out from a motion between
the two; a "shift of attention" between unity and particularit y.
If I attend only to unity and turn my back upon particulars, my concepts sit
stagnant. They are unities, but empty ones. My universal sense always remains in a
state of naive simplicity.
If, on the other hand, I attend only to particulars and turn my back upon uni t y ,
then, in simply ignoring the fact that it is present to me , the concept sits "untouched . " I might experience a great deal, but I experience it all as disunified and
senseless . My universal sense remains always in a state of skeptical chaos.
Thus it is only through experience of both unity and particularity that my uni versal sense can grow. This growth takes place through a continuous flux back and
forth between the realm of thought and the realm of action. In this flux, my concepts are constantly being expanded from their previously naive states by the admission of ever new variations, and, on the other hand, the particulars I make preserit
to myself become ever more familiar to me under "richer" concepts .
But all of this should be made clearer. Let us take, for example, then, the
concept of friendship.
I might spend enormous thought over this concept, contemplating the nature of
the "perfect friend." Yet, if I remain strictly in the realm of thought, if I neve r
actively engage in a friendship with all of its complex moments, the variations which
fall und er t he concept , which give the concept its infinite determination , never be I am
come present to me. I do find a unity, but its true nature remains hidden.
left, pe rhaps, with the naive notion that friendship is "always being nice to some one . "
On the other hand , I might eagerly seek out companionship with others, and in
doing so come upon genuine moments of friendship. But, if I remain strictly within
the realm of action, if I never think about what I mean when I call someone my
"friend , " then the moments are left scattered and senseless. My "friendship" is ac cidental. I am a "friend of whim," a "friend" when it suits me. But how is such an
indi f ferent relationship really friendship?
It is possib l e, though, for me to both engage in a friendship and think about
it. When I do this, I find my friendship takes on qualities I hadn't expected, such
as perhaps keeping my friend fro~ being too dependent upon me. This leads me to
question what friendship really is. As this sense increases, I am able to recognize
more and more the limits of my friendship; moments, say, when I subtly manipulate my
friend for my own gain.
This pushes me to correct such habits.
Thus, both in
thought and in action, I come closer and closer to true friendship. The concept becomes more and more "alive." My sense of what it really means for me to concern myself with the existence of another person grows.
Let us retrace our steps .
Philosophy b egins in the r e alm of thought and at first believes , naively, tha t
it should r emain there . This is due to the misconception that its task is to possess
9
�,,,,
the truth in right concepts or correct thoughts. This task is eventually proved impossible by experience, and philosophical despair is encountered. If philosophy in
its true sense is to continue, this despair must be faced . When this is done philos ophy is raised to a new level, one of autonomy and wholehearted striving. Freed of
his need to cling, one sees himself as he is in the Life- World, the world of common
sense which naive philosophy originally turned its back upon. But he discovers that
his experience takes place both within a realm of action and a realm of thought. The
philosophic . task is no longer to possess the universal but, in a continuous flux between these two realms, to grow toward the universal; this is the never completed
growth of universal sense.
From the point of view of the epoche, I do not see myself as frozen within a
world, but as an active part of the world.
I find in thi. world not simply pers
ceptions given to me, but also my relations with others , my emotions , my effects upon
the world. Do these things not deserve my attention? Should they not also be sub ject to my thought? Should I spend no effort to try to make sense of them?
What we have uncovered here is the misleading character of the question "Is the
human being primarily an active being or a thinking being?" The fact is he is both !
Action and thinking are interwoven throughout human life . Action gives him experience which can become the "material" for thought; and thought, in turn, gives him a
greater sense for what actions he should take. In this interaction his concepts come
ever closer to the particulars wh~ch fall under them. His universal sense grows . We
can see now that the unnecessary choice he makes between these two realms of existence is really a choice between two means he may use to escape this struggle. In
taking refuge in one or the other he can avoid facing his imperfection, his limitations, his not-knowing.
But sadly, in taking such refuge, he never becomes aware of what tremendous sacrifice he makes. In clinging to one realm and turning his back on the other, he cuts
himself off from his own existence. He performs an act of pure self-sacrifice.
It is only by giving up the need he feels to be grounded here or there that man
is able to accept his being in its entirety. This sheds light on all of the parallels we drew between the practical and the philosophical spheres. The moral epoche
and the philosophic epoche are one and the same state.
It is a state of
"free-floating" attention between the two realms of his existence.
But this freedom does not, as we constantly fear, lead to his becoming totally
lost. All of his thoughts do not fall apart into nonsense. All of his actions do
not become amoral. It is the opposite reaction which actually happens . Because his
two realms of experience are no longer split, he can no longer comfortably think one
thing and do another. Thus, not a single thought is taken any longer to be "just a
t hough t, " no r a single action taken to be "j ust something I happen to do . " Nor , for
that matter, is a non-action taken as "just something I happen to not do," since
non-action is now also recognized as a choice. Thus philosophy, the state of the
epoche, is a state of responsibility.
In being able to attend to both realms of his existence, man becomes painfully
aware of their distance from each other. This produces in him a spirit of striving
to bridge this distance by giving up misconceptions on the one side, and redirecting
actions on the other.
In this way he grows toward a unity of thought with the
Life-World: a perfect unity of self .
But, since this distance is infinite, this growth never reaches complete fulfillment . Again and again, from the point of view of the epoche , man will encounter
his hypocrisy. His only choice is either to give up his growth or to face a constant
state of striving.
This is not "metaphysical gibberish . " It is simple common sense. One night in
a poolhall, two players at the next table caught my attention. The younger was los ing every game, and obviously becoming frustrated. As his frustration grew, his game
10
became worse and worse . Finally he missed a shot one could hardly help making. "God
damn!" he said , dropping his stick . He looked up to the older player and asked ,
"What's wrong with me?"
To this, his opponent offered him no flattery that he was sure to get better,
nor told him to give up . Instead he said matter-of-factly, "All you can do is keep
on trying."
Endnotes
1
We may draw a number of parallels here to my practical sphere of existence.
Here I desire and strive toward the Perfect Will, but the fear of failing in this
leads me to moral despair. I can deal with this despair by 1) clinging to a pseudo- morality made up of rules which I simply assume are right (moral naivete), 2) giving up entirely on trying to direct my actions toward a right (moral skepticism), or
3) facing the despair.
In following the final path, I become lost, only here the
abyss I face is one of "What am I to do?."
2
The moral parallels continue:
Here , following despair, I find an infinite field of possible actions before me,
but I have stepped out of the current of inclinations and obligations. I find myself
in a state of moral epoche . I free myself from a moral authority which I had placed
over myself, and, no longer having to do this or that, I reach a state of autonomy of
will.
But with freedom of action comes responsibility in action. No longer resting
upon others' ideas of right and wrong, I can no longer blame anyone or anything for
my actions. Everything I do is now based on my own choice.
All .quotations in this paper are taken from Edmund Husserl, Experience
and Judgment, trans . James S. Churchill and Karl Ameriks, Northwestern
University Press; and Edmund Husserl, The Crisis of European Sciences
and Transcendental Phenomenology, trans . David Carr, Northwestern University Press.
11
�12
13
�The Role of Proposition 1.11 in
Apollonius' On Conic Sections
2.
sq. LK:sq. L'K'::ML,LN: M'L', L'N' (Eucl. I.7)
3. But LN=L'N' (since ACuFG and LNttZN, by Eucl. I.34)
4. with LN as common height, sq. LK:sq. L'K': : ML:M'L' (Eucl
Brian Sullivan
VI.l)
•
5. But ML:M'L'::FL:F'L' (Eucl. VI.4)
6.
sq. LK:sq . L'K'::FL:F'L'
In examining the structure of a work which intends to persuade us through a
series of logical propositions, we must take great care in determining the true
dependence of proofs upon one another .
The use of the enunciation of an ear lie r
proposition in a later one may be misleading in this respect : It may occur that a
logically prior fact may follow what is, in the order of proofs, its posterior. By
"prior" I mean 1. closer to first principles in following from them more directly
(following with the necessary introduction of the fewest intervening new facts) aQd
2. more essential to the study, in being that upon which all later facts proven
depend completely for their demonstration. Propositions Eleven, Twelve, and Thirteen
of Book I of Apollonius' Conic Sections may be considered misleading in terms of
their priority within the structure of the book . Apollonius presents these three as
the
definitive
propositions
for
the
parabola,
hyperbola, and
ellipse:
he
distinguishes the sections by their relationship to the axial triangle perpendicular
to their plane and then demonstrates what might be considered the most essential
property of each section itself (that is, without reference to the cone) -- the
relationship of any ordinate to its abscissa.
From these three propositions
Apollonius derives all later facts about the conic sections, and thus it would seem
that by our second criterion for a logically prior fact, they are the most essential
property of the conic sections.
But if these we re the essential p r opositions fo r discover ing t he p r ope rt ies of
the conics, it should be impossible to discover a more basic property than theirs or
to discover any properties of the conics without passing through their steps or using
their enunciations.
And yet this is possible with all three propositions:
Propositions I.20 and I.21 concerning the ratios or ordinates to one another may be
proven entirely independently of I.11 - 1.13, though Apollonius derives them from these
three .
And with I . 20 and I. 21 proven it is then possible to prove all of the
properties of the conics that depended formerly upon propositions eleven through
thirteen for their demonstration.
And yet these propositions for I. 20 and I. 21
i n d ependent of I . 11-1 . 13 are much shorter and simp l er than what Apollonius gives as
their antecedents.
This paper will focus on the par abola in investigating the
interdependence of these propositions in their bearing on the structure of Book I of
the Conics.
Proposition I.20, which demonstrates that the squares on the ordinates of the
parabola are to one another in the ratio of their respective abscissas, may be proven
without reference to the parabola's "definitive" proof (I. 11) in this way: (Figure 1)
Let there be supposed a cone with vertex A and with base BC cut by an axial triangle
ABC .
Let this cone be cut by a plane such that its intersection with the cone's
base, line EGD, is perpendicular to the base of the axial triangle, BC, and such that
the sections's diameter, FG, is parallel to one side of the axial triangle, AC. Let
two random points K and K' be taken on the section and let the straight lines LK and
L'K' be dropped from these points parallel to ED.
Let MLN and M'L'N' be drawn
through the sides of the axial triangle both parallel to BC . Then -
E
Since the ordinates for this proof were taken randomly, it is evident that any two
such will b~ar in square a ratio ~o one another as their abscissas. A similar proof
may be carried out for I.21 proving for the case of the ellipse and the hyperbola
that the ordinates are to one another as the rectangles formed from the lines cut off
by them from the ends of the transverse diameter. But once I.20 has been proven, it
may be used to replace proposition I.11 in all propositions concerning the properties
of the parabola that call for it.
(The propositions from I. 52 do not essentially
concern themselves with the properties of the parabola.)
For instance Proposition
I.26, proving the existence of a family of monosecants parallel to the diameter of
any parabola, may be proved using I.20 rather than I.11. The proof shows (figure 2)
that given a line EFL drawn parallel to the diameter BGAC one can necessarily find
some ordinate CH greater than an ordinate wise line (EG) drawn from the parallel to
the diameter, for if EG is shorter than the parallel must intersect CH below H and
thus also must intersect the section. Apollonius proves that CH is greater than EG
by making the rectangle of the parameter AD and line AC equal to the square on EG; so
if an ordinate CH is drawn from point C to the section, its square will be equal to
the rectangle DA, AC and thus greater than the square on EG.
Apollonius r e lies on
Proposition I. 11 for the determination both of a particular paraola and of its
parameter.
(One cannot say "Let there be .. . " something without having discovered
that "something" from first principles. One cannot say "let there be parameter AG"
without knowing how to determine the parameter of some particular parabola.)
The
same proposition is crucial in showing that the rectangle on the parameter and
abscissa is equal to the square on the ordinate.
But our proof using I.20
demonstrates that it is not necessary to find the parameter of a particular par abola
(albeit, a parabola randomly chosen) in order to prove the property of I.26:
L
6
1.
2.
3.
4.
Let there be drawn straight line XY dropped
ordinate wise from a random point Y on the
section.
Let GE:AC(YX:XA
then GE:AC(CH:AC since YX:XA::CH:CA by I.20
therefore GE(CH and line EF must meet the
section.
1. sq. LK=ML, LN; sq . L'K' =M'L', L'N' (for reasons given in I . 11)
14
15
�Two other proofs prior to I.52 rely on I.11 in an identical manner (namely, I.27 and
I.32) and may also use I.20 to be proven. Thus all of the properties of the parabola
may be demonstrated without any reliance whatsoever on the "definitive" proposition
for the parabola, since all of the propositions showing the properties of the
parabola (with the exception, of course, of I.11 itself) may rely on I.20, which has
been proven entirely independently.
Even the property of I.11, that is, the equality of the square on an ordinate to
the rectangle of the parameter and the abcissa, may be proven in a general way from
I. 20.
If the abscissas are to one another as the squares on their respective
ordinates, then one may take anv common hei~ht H. and say that the squares on the
ordinates are to one another as the rectangles formed of their respective abscissas
and side H (by Euclid VI.l). Alternating this, it becomes evident that all ordinates
must bear the same ratio to the rectangle formed by
H and t heir resp ective
abscissas. But H may have any length, and thus this ratio may be set at equality by
merely adjusting H so that some rectangle formed by H and their respective abscissas.
But H may have any length, and thus this ratio may be set at equality by merely
adjusting H so that some rectangle formed by it and an abscissa will equal the square
on the abscissa's ordinate. Thus it is evident that any parabola must have such a
line H with the properties that are associated with the parameter.
This is a
"general" proof for the parameter in that it states that all parabolas have such a
line H, rather than that parabola A (being from a specific cone and having a
determinable relationship with its axial triangle) must have parameter H.
I.11
expresses this property in the latter way. The "general" case is clearly deductible
from the specific:
If any parabola is of axial triangle A and distance from its
vertex to the cone's vertex B it must have parameter C bearing a fixed relationship
to the parabola itself. It clearly follows that for any parabola such a line bearing
that same fixed relationship must exist.
It is for this reason that Apollonius'
proof for I.20 is not convertible; it is impossible to deduce the specific
relationship (which Apollonius uses in the proposition) from a general relationship.
The reason that I. 20 may be used to determine all properties of the parabola
with the exception of I. 11 is that evidently, all of these properties are of the
general category: none specifies a property of a specific parabola, but rather of the
parabola as a species~ It is evident then that I.20 may be considered the logically
prior fact of all those concerning properties of the parabola as a species. But at
the same time one cannot consider I. 20 to be the most essential property of the
parabola absolutely, for while I.20 need not follow from I.11 it is impossible that
I.11 should follow from I.20. From I.11 all other properties of Book one may follow,
though they do not depend absolutely upon it, while this cannot be said of I.20.
16
Love
Mary
How curious that one brief flash of light
From one eye to another can create
A flame that no mere tinder could ignite
A fire that won't in rain or cold abate.
A wondrous thing, that accidental touch
Of hand to hand could strike a spark so strong
A passion that, opposed by ne'er so much,
Continues, as true hearts to each belong.
Unusual, that one abrupt embrace
Though clumsy, should initiate such bliss
That two quite separate beings face to face
Should find themselves united in a kiss.
It seems that love is wayward, not unkind.
And chance, for him that waits, a lover finds.
17
�Phedre's Self Discovery
Andrew Sloniewsky
The shadow of death hangs over both the first and last appearances of the queen
in Racine's Phedre. Tormented and driven in the first scene, Ph'edre claims that she
is trying to kill herself through exhaustion.
The slowness of her method, however,
and the fact that her decision can be easily reversed both point to a certain lack of
resolve. In fact, Ph'edre is postponing her death because she does not know what she
really wants nor, b( extension, who she really is. By the last scene, however, this
has changed, and Phedre exhibits a true unity of soul.
Standing within the steady
light of self - knowledge, Phedre is able to face with calmness and dignity the
darkness of her approaching death.
In spite of her motion toward enlightenment, at least two qualities of Ph"edre's
personality remain constant throughout the play.
The first of these is the importance to her of her family relations. At various times in the play, Ph~dre mentions
her grandfather, father, mother, sister and sons.
A second enduring aspect of
Ph'edre' s character is the highly poetic nature of her mind.
Hippolyte in his
chariot, herself in the labyrinth, and the final vision of Hades, are some of the
fruits of this strong imagination.
Although both of these characteristics are important parts of Ph~dre's personality, they are not the ones which strike the audience most immediately in her first
scene. Rather, it is Ph~dre's psychological torment and confusion of soul which are
most striking . Within her first ten lines, Ph~dre, exasperated by the painful knots
in her hair, demands to know who has tied them. Oenone's response to her, that she
herself ordered it done, symbolically points to Ph'edre 's confusion about what she
wants . This confusion is based on three competing ideas of the good which are only
fully unfolded later in the play, but which are nonetheless latently present in Act
I, scene iii.
Ph'edre' s deep and abiding desire to be morally pure is the first of these
competing claims.
This desire makes her hate her love for Hippolyte, regardless of
the fact that her passion .has not become public.
It is Ph~dre' s need to be pure
which moves her to say to Oenone, "Gr~ces au ciel, mes mains ne sont point
criminelles./Plut aux Dieux que mon coeur fut innocent comme elles!" (I,iii,221,222).
Similarly, she later tells Hippolyte, "Je m'abhorre encor plus que tu ne me
detestes." (II, iv, 6 78).
This st Fong need to be virtuous is what gives Ph'edre her
nobility and moral stature.
Despite the sincerity of this wish to be moral, the effective power of this sentiment is not very great.
When she first felt love for Hippolyte, Ph~dre's
imagination and concern for family led her to think of her mother and sister. With
them as examples, she immediately assumed that it was a great god, Venus, who had
planted this love inside her. Having fallen into fatalism from the very moment she
saw Hippolyte, by the time of the pl~y, Ph\dre has abandoned any real hope of banishing this love from her heart. The queen reveals her belief in her powerlessness many
times, such as when she tells Oenone that, with respect to her mind, "Je l'ai perdu:
les Dieux m'en ont ravi l'usage," (I,iii,181) , or when she tells Hippolyte that she
is an "Object infortune des vengeances celestes," (II,iv,677) .
In her first scene, Phedre's desire to be virtuous is closely related to another
18
19
�desire, and the two are only fully separated later in the play. This second impulse
.
.
·
is Ph' d re ' s d esire a 1ways t o appear virtuous . " La rogeur me couvre le visage : / Je te
e
laisse trop voir mes honteuse douleurs," (I ,i ii,182 ,183), she cries t o Oenone, after
nearly letting slip her secret. The need to be respectable is tied to Ph'edre's concern for her family in at least two ways. First, respectability fears shame as a
punishment, and the power of shame comes from a fear of being separated from a gr oup,
of being made to stand alone.
In Ph~dre 's case, this would mean exclusion from a
group which is very important to her, her family. Secondly, if Phedre were to reveal
her crime, she would cause her children to suffer the fate of being despised as offspring of a near-criminal.
Together, the desire for respectability and for true virtuousness are fighting a
third motive of Phedre's actions, namely her love for Hippolyte. This love is centered ar ound the young man's virtue, the fact that he is "fidele •.• fier , et meme un
peu far ouche," (II, v ,638 ) . Perhaps Phedre is particularly attracted to this aspect
of Hippolyte because she thinks herself married to a "Volage adorateur de mille
objet s divers," (II,v,636 ) . It would be deeply ironic if this love of virtue were to
inspire such vice. At any rate, this love for Hippolyte is fairly well controlled in
Act I, scene iii by Phe dre's other two motives, though it can still burst out through
the imagination, as it does in the vision of Hippolyte in his chariot, or as it does
later, in the labyrinth image.
All three of these c ompeting forces are exerting their influence on Phedre in
her first scene, and bo th of the moral desires are pushing her to suicide. The need
for true moral purity is speaking when Ph'edre says, "J 'en ai trap prolong{ la
coupable duree." ( I,iii,217). Only a few lines later, it is fear of shame which
speaks: "Je meurs, pour ne point faire un aveu si funeste." (I,iii,226) . In spit e
of these impulses, Ph'edre chooses to die slowly, not having within her the kind of
resolve which would persuade her to plunge a dagger into her heart. Why is Ph'edre
waiting?
It is death's horrible irrevocability t hat stops her. One would choose dea th
only if one knew both what one must necessarily have, and the world ' s necessary inability to supply it . The irrevocability of death must be mirrored in the irrevocability of one's despair. The mere desire for Hippolyte, regardless of the fact
that Ph'edre consciously thinks it evil and unattainable, lessens the force of the
queen's first two motives. Because they do not represent all that Phedre desires,
her will becomes divided and she is unable to decide to die. She cannot kill herself
for moral reasons because she is not totally sure she wishes to be moral.
Furthermore, because Phedre's love for Hippolyte has never been acted upon, and therefore has not left any unchangeable marks on the world, Ph'edre believes within her
heart, despite her fatalism, that she might be able to overcome her lust or at least
to keep it hidden forever. At the present she cannot kill herself out of guilt because she is not sure that the future will not wipe the guilt away.
In only one scene other than the last does Ph~d re come close to killing herself.
In Act II, scene v, having abased herself before Hippolyte, the queen begs him to
kill her.
It is not shame alone which motivates her to do this, however, but a
strange mixture of shame and love.
Phedre wants Hippolyte to exhibit that virtue
which she so dearly loves, in an act which she describes in nearly sexual terms.
This union of sexual passion and the need to be respectable is not stable and does
not last long, f or Oenone is quickly able to bring Phedre back to her senses. The
nurse's action is so far from being against Phedre's will that The'ram~ne is not sure
whether the retreating Phedre is being dragged away or is actually running away
(II,vi,714).
It is only as the play progresses to its final scene that the number of Ph'edre's
desires diminishes, not by a melting together, but rather by a process of selection.
In Act IV, scen e iv, Phedre becomes furiously j ealous when she hears from Theseus
20
,
that Aricie is loved by Hippolyte. Nearly mad, she is looking forward to having
Theseus punish the princess when she realizes the magnitude of the evil which has
grown within her hear t :
Chaque mot sur men front fait dresser mes cheveux./ Mes crimes
desormais ont comble la mesure./ Je respire a la fois l'inceste
et 1' imposture. I Mes homicides mains, promptes a me venger, I
Dans le sang innocent brOlent de se plonger.
(IV , vi,
1268-1272)
Ph'edre is horrified at her wish to kill Aricie, a wish more terrible than desiring to
sleep with her stepson. Although she does not reflect on it in this scene, Ph~dre
already has spilt innocent blood by this time. Because jealousy maddened her, she
did not tell Theseus those things which would have caused him to revoke his prayer to
Neptune and saved Hippolyte's life. It seems fair to guess that, because Phedre never again expresses desire for Hippolyte nor any jealousy toward Aricie, it is guilt
and her desire to be morally pure which preoccuppy the queen's mind after this scene
and push away all thought of passion. In the middle of her crisis, one of the other
two conflicting motives, her love for Hippolyte is simply forgotten .
Phedre's strong feelings of guilt at this point in the play are also a sign that
it would be difficult for her need for respectability to overcome her need to be vi~
tuous. Because of Oenone's lie to Theseus, these two motives had broken apart from
their original unity. After Hippolyte's death, Phedre could simply live an honorable
life, unscathed by the events of the play, as long as she does not allow her guilt to
bother her too much.
Ph'edre' s horror at her guilt in Act IV, scene vi sets the
stage, however, for Panope's description of the queen's final struggle between honor
and truth, in Act V, scene v. Ph'edre is said to be wearing a "mortel desespoir"
(1463), and alr eady, "La paleur de la mort est ... sur son teint." (1464). Her children, who as members of her family symbolically represent the claims of honor, and
who would be harmed by her dishonor, are alternately embraced by and then, in
self-hatred, pushed away by the tearful queen . This awful description of the queen's
inner conflict means that Phedre only truly discovers what she wants and who she is
when she is offstage, in the time between her last two scenes.
In her final appearance , Phedre shows that she has chosen truth over honor and
death over life . She makes her confession in the most painful manner possible, by
delivering it to the entire court. Ph'edre can kill herself now because her situation
is radically different from what it was in Act I, scene iii. Now her guilt is tied
to an objective fact, the murder of Hippolyte, which cannot simply fade away. Furthermore, in some way the queen must have realized that he r love of t he truth is a
more important part of her than the need to be respectable. Unlike Euripides' pagan
queen, who kills herself from shame, Racine's Ph'edre acts like a Christian and
chooses to obey the claims of the individual conscience over the claims of familial
duty.
Perhaps it is her guilt which, paradoxically, allows her love of virtue
finally to emer ge. Because her new condition as murderess is different from that of
her mother or sister, she can now think of herself, not as just another slave of
Venus, but as a guilty, yet free and undetermi ned individual. In any case, she is
able to overcome her family-based shame at the end of the play because she has
outgrown her familial self-image and the fatalism which accompanies it.
Thus,
through tragic events which have scoured away her inessential desires, Ph'edre has
come to know who she really is and that being truly moral is important to her.
21
�Sonnet #9: A Conversation
With Mother
Dahra Latham
I watch as if from far away
The thunderous progress of your face
Within a little minute's space
From emptiness to screaming rage .
I shall not argue with you now- Why should I , when your ears a re shut?
No thought I muster can rebut
The blue vein beating on your brow .
The logic of your glazing eye
Logic dethrones, and passion sets
Above that power, that leaps from earth
To chart the dances of the sky
Upset the silent sky wi th jets
And teach your human soul its worth .
22
untitled
Dahra Latham
Driving fast
I stopped to gather roses while I could
They we r e not rosebuds and were not pristine
But full in bloom and somewhat touched by time
And somewhat chewed by not invisible worms
Though night was near and storm howled close at hand.
Their petals were the final sha de of r ose
From which all roses spring
The thorns were such as only roses wild
And gentle children know the way to forge.
I wove my hands among them, wove small wounds
Across my hands and up my unwhite arms
Bleeding to feed the roses:
I distrubed
A drugged and drunken bee from lovers' slumber
And off he whirred into the thunderous light.
'How better, little brother,
Your honey than my mind to keep fo r fall
The sweetness of such lovely days as these,
Bitter with passage . '
23
�,.
The Game of Chess 1n
Nathan the Wise
Mark Ressler
The game of chess is employed cunningly in the play Nathan the Wise, both in its
character structure and as a metaphor for certain concepts tha-;-t he play presents.
Chess is a game of conflict and may even be conceived as representing a war between
two nations in systems, a situation much like the conflict between the Christians and
Moslems in the play.
Moreover, the conflict in chess is a direct conflict,
permitting no cooperation, for the game is won, not by an individual struggle to
achieve a position despite the opponent, but by a paralyzation of the opponent, by a
real conquest. This aspect of the game is curious in the light of the question of
religious toleration in the play; as with chess, the religious question seems to
allow no cooperation between opposing ideologies.
The Sultan in addressing his
strange question to Nathan says, "Of these three religions only one can be the true
one," [III 5, 42] and he believes that the three religions are distinct and separate
in all aspects [III 7, 72]. After Nathan makes clear to Saladin the kinship between
the religions and brings the Sultan to his concept of an overriding humanity, the
image of the chess game is no longer used: Lessing has exchanged the game of chess
for charades, in which all the players cooperate to solve the puzzle.
Beyond a general meaning of the chess image in the play, Lessing uses the image
in the specific area of characterization: all the pieces used in chess are represented in the play, not in number, but certainly in type. The king is the central piece
for the game of chess; if he falls, the other pieces have no life. While holding so
much power, the king may only move one space at a time and therefore cannot have a
very active influence on the struggle. Saladin is a central figure for the characters in the play, just as the king is in chess. He spared the Templar' s life, and
thus the Templar was able to have Rachel, without whom Nathan said he would have no
need of houses. Nathan himself acknowledges Saladin's effect on his life through the
Templar. Certainly Sittah as well as the Patriarch and Brother Bonafides would not
be in this play were it not for the Sultan. For these reasons, Saladin is the king
in the play in rank and function.
Sittah, as opposed to Saladin, has a more active influence upon the action in
the play, for she develops the plot to trap Nathan, she takes the initiative to support the Sultan's household and hide the fact from Saladin, and she brings Rachel to
the palace. The queen in chess is the most powerful active piece, with no limit on
its advancement or direction.
In developing the characters of Saladin and Sittah,
Lessing certainly seems to use the king and queen in chess as models, making Sittah
more aggressive than Saladin, contrary to expectations. It is curious that in his
game with Sittah, the Sultan wishes his queen to be taken. He says, "I never was too
lucky with that piece." [II 1,33]. Perhaps this comment relates to Saladin's plan
to marry King Richard to Sittah.
The Patriarch clearly fulfills the role of the bishop in chess, moving
diagonally across the squares of the board in his underhanded manner.
Brother
Bonafides, however, may either be a bishop or a pawn. As a bishop he and the Patriarch would never meet upon the same space, for one of the bishops in chess moves
solely on black spaces and the other moves on white. The analogy would thus carry
through since the Patriarch's concept of a churchman's circle of affairs differs from
24
Brother Bona£ ides' idea of his Christianity. However, Brother Bonaf ides does not
move as diagonally as the Patriarch does; in this respect he could easily be a pawn,
a humble man moving one space at a time, moving diagonally only to capture another
piece at the Patriarch's bidding, but otherwise moving straight toward the other side
of the board.
The knight moves most uniquely of all the pieces, as does the Templar, the
knight in Nathan the Wise. The knight takes two spaces in one direction then one
space either to the right or the left of that direction, forming an L. The Templar
as a character moves in a similar manner , moving ahead then to one side quickly, as
when he rescued Rachel from the fire or when he visits the Patriarch about Nathan
raising Rachel a Jew. The knight, unlike other pieces in chess, may actually leap
over a barrier of pieces so that his path need not be clear for him to make his move,
forming an image like the Templar leaping through the flames and over the barriers of
his religion.
The rook is symbolized on the chessboard as a stronghold, a storehouse. Surely
Nathan could be characterized in this same manner, not only in terms of his wealth,
but also in terms of the the understanding he possesses. The rook moves in a rectangular fashion, either horizontally or vertically on the board, and is therefore a
valuable piece for support in both defense and offense. Nathan seems to demonstrate
the same rectangularity and strength in his character.
A pawn has a few interesting properties, despite its seemingly low value in the
game of chess. Though it moves just one space at a time and is powerless if an ob stacle is placed directly in front of it, i f its path is clear and it manages to
reach the other end of the board, it becomes any of the major pieces except the king
as it chooses. Al Hafi exemplifies these properties more than any other character in
the play; Saladin clears the path for him, and he reaches the other end of the board
to become a rook, the Sultan's treasurer. However, he still retains his pawness, for
he r e aches the end of the board a second time, becoming a man by travelling to the
Ganges. When Al Hafi departs, Nathan claims, "I think, when all is said, the genuine
beggar is the genuine king." [II 9, 89]. This statement agrees with the idea of the
pawn's potentiality for change.
It is the pawn's hope of change that lends it
nobility, which hope may be the reason Al Rafi loved to play chess.
While chess seems woven into the characterization, it also appears prominently
in the first scene of Act II when Saladin and Sittah are engaged in a game of chess .
The occasion of the game has its effects upon the plot, and Lessing uses the game to
form an image of the effect of the game. In describing the game to Nathan, Al Hafi
says, "His king could be protected with a pawn upon her check .... For this the rook
had an open file, and she was done for." The king is Saladin, the pawn Al Rafi, the
r ook Nathan , and Sittah is the opponent . In terms of the plot , this situation could
be described in two ways. If Al Rafi had continued to keep Saladin protected from
the knowledge of his dwindling finances, then Nathan would have remained free of
obligation. On the other hand, if Saladin had listened to Al Rafi, who knew the game
was not lost, Sittah might not have won, and the events following would not have occurred. This game, though, leads to the Sultan's conversation with Nathan, and it is
through Nathan that chess loses its importance in the play. Nathan's ideas about
humanity seem to break down the black-arid-white idea of religions symbolized by the
two- colored pieces in chess, and through Nathan's investigations into the Templar's
lineage, king, queen, knight and pawn cease to be seen in those classifications and
come to be seen as family and friends. Thus, Lessing's most effective use of the
chess image might be its removal, creating a contrast between the harsh world of
chess and the ostensibly sensitive sphere of human relationships.
25
�April Residue
David Walter
In the crowed station sudden doors shut-The train makes its dizzy way downward;
In the tunnels, there is nothing but dim earthlight
And breathless winding motion downward.
No end to the plunge--the eyes journey inward-No end to this stiff isolation, sterile passage,
From the manlit clangor shut and shuttled forth
And hurled into the earth's barren womb-And should I shave tonight, put on my best,
Go out and drink in a darklit room;
Until I return inside my own dark walls
And strip my clothes, eager to pass the night.
"NEWTON," John Bertram
26
27
�A Vision of the Hagia Sophia
Clayton DeKorne
There is a Great Church; it is a building though and not a code by which to
live. It stands in the city of Byzantium, modern day Istanbul, as a monument to many
ages. Today it is a museum, and it is revered only as a work of art and no longer as
a temple. Prior to this, it served as a mosque throughout the tumultuous history of
the Turkish nation since the day in 1453 when the Sultan Mohammed II entered the
capital city of the Eastern Roman Empire. In the last two centuries of this unstable
Empire, it served the Roman Catholic Order. And before, for nearly seven centurie~,
this church had been the center for religious activity in the thriving Byzantine
Empire.
Construction of the Great Church began in 532.
After less than five years
building, i t was consecrated as the church of Holy Wisdom - Hagia Sophia - by the
Emperor Justinian I.
It was designed
by Anthemius of Tralles and Isodorus of
Miletus, two scholars of the arts and sciences whose genius is explored, in this
essay, at least in part, by examining their great work of art.
Their genius has produced not only a great monument to Justinian, to the Empire,
and to Christianity, but has created a beautiful work worthy of the contemplation of
many people from different religious and cultural backgrounds. Certainly the exceptional engineering feat required to erect a structure of such enormous size as the
Hagia Sophia has attracted the serious attention of many admirers.
Even the lavish
decorations gained so great a reputation that the Abbot Suger wished to fill St .
1
Denis with ornaments of comparable worth.
Yet the richness of the decorations is
perhaps the least significant feature of the artists' designs.
W2en the church was first completed, it was virtually free of iconic representations.
Only some patterns, mostly floral motifs, were painted within the cathedral.
Otherwise, it was like a blank slate to be filled with the exquisite icons and
mosaics that began to appear throughout its interior in the course of the following
nine centuries .
But the valid use of iconic representation was a subject of grave
dispute among the early Christian Fathers. Indeed, the decisions of the Iconoclasts
made i n t he e ight h and ninth centuries contributed to the eventual separation of the
Eastern Orthodox from the Roman Catholic Orders.
Throughout this period, however,
the form of the Hagia Sophia remained resplendent.
Its form - a central dome ,surmounting a rectilinear base - is a paradigm for
almost all Byzantine churches built after 550, even those built during the
Iconoclasm. Some compelling examples of this are the chapels of the Goreme Valley in
Cappadocia.
Here iconoclast mon~s seeking to preserve their faith in austerity,
carved dwellings with solid rock.
The scale of the chapels is small in contrast to
the Hagia Sophia, but the interior is patterned after the Great Church:
a hollowed
out hemisphere over a square nave is separated from low galleries on either side by
rows of arched columns.
Here the monks sought their spirituality in a severe and
isolated environment .
They rejected iconic art forms and yet preserved the form of
architecture most suited to their contemplative pursuits.
Similarly, the Moslem faith forbids the representation of religious figures, but
the Moslems adopted the form of the Hagia Sophia as a place of worship.
When the
Moslems overtook Byzantium, they whitewashed over the gleaming mosaics and thereby
UNTITLED, John Bertram
28
29
�transformed the Hagia Sophia into a mosque. And so, too, the greatest mosques of
their faith built after 1500 are patterned after the Great Church.* These examples
seem to indicate that, regardless of particular preferences, the form of the Great
Church speaks to all.
In the church, space and light are so abundant that these elements seem to stand
apart from the structure itself and take on a being of their own. The ordered combination of space and light is considered here as the form of the church. Space and
light are as much the medium of architecture as are stone, timbers, and metals.
The form itself seems to have been intentionally crafted and also found to have
a profound effect upon those entering the church. Hence, in examining the church,
two points of view are essential: the first is the impression that the form has upon
the observer or participant in the work; the other is the artists' intention in the
design of their work. Only the unity of these two views of the church can provide, I
think, a true account of such a great work as the Hagia Sophia.
To gain an impression of the Hagia Sophia, I have relied on drawings and
descriptions written by those who have spent a great deal of their time studying the
church.
Among these, the account written by the Roman historian, Procopius of
Ceasara, is of special interest.
Procopius' account is contemporary with the
completion of the cathedral.
It provides a thoughtful description of the author's
firsthand impressions. Procopius writes as much of the effect the church has upon
himself as he does of the church itself.
In addition, I have consulted the geometrical works of the Hagia Sophia's principal designer, Anthemius of Tralles, and, in general, I have tried to gain an understanding of the theoretical aspect of his mechanical science.
Finally, I present some conclusions that I see as demonstrating the unity of
both the observer's impression and the artists' intention.
i.
A View of the Work
The Hagia Sophia rises solemnly from the midst of the confusion of a bustling city .
Its many half domes climb from a squabble of outlying buildings and partitions. This
multiplicity of curvilinear roofs leads to the massive shapes of two piers that outline a single square surmounted by a single, central dome. From the exterior, the
combination of the circle and square is a prominent motif.
This can be seen
distinctly from a distance. The four high corner spires were built by the Moslems,
and one wonders if they expressly did so to accentuate the square plan. In doing so,
they seem to have adjusted for the numerous low lying buildings which have appeared
as the city grew and obscured the rectangular base of the original structure. If the
intention cannot be proven, the effect can certainly be verified. At the center of
this huge cube formed by the spires, the greater part of a large sphere, the dome, is
seen. It seems to pour forth its cascade of circular roofs that are supported by the
cornered sections of the walls.
Procopius seems to confirm the impression of a square plan.
Both its breadth and its length have been so carefully proportioned that it may not improperly be said to be exceedingly long
4
and at the same time unusually broad.
This formulation indicates that the plan is perceived as a square of equally huge
*
The Selimiye (built 1567-74 in Edirne, the original capital of the Turkish
Empire) and the Mosque of Ahmed (built 1609-16 in Istanbul) are two examples that
exactly reproduce the form of the Hagia Sophia, even in size.
30
31
�,,.
breadth and length.
It is not worded, however, to account for an abstract shape.
One's impressions of great magnitudes are not capable of precise measurement.
However, as Procopius seems to imply, a sense of proportion is possible.
But
Procopius was also aware of the reality that exists behind the impression of this
aspect. Therefore, both the rule which defines the proportion as well as the sense
of proportion one acquires need to be explored.
The church is not laid out on a perfect square.
The foundation is slightly
longer along the east-west axis than it is along the north-south axis. It has been
suggested that the Great Church is built upon the foundations of another church, also
called the Hag~ Sophia, which burned down shortly before the construction of the
present church.
In order to make use of what had already been laid, the designers
of the new church may have found it necessary to conform to the previous plan.
This claim 1b8s been disputed, however, in view of the outstanding importance of the
new church.
But there is a functional advantage in preserving, if not the
foundation, at least the style of the older church.
The original Hagia Sophia · (as most of the earliest Christian churches) is
reported to have been built in the style of the Roman Basilica, which is rectilinear
in plan and divided lengthwise into three sections. The outer aisles are separated
from the central nave by rows of columns that serve to support the high central roof.
Often parallel to these aisles are second floor galleries which open onto · the nave.
But the ceiling of the nave is much higher than even these galleries.
The functional character of this building is superb, accomodating a great number
of people while leaving a central aisle open for processionals. Moreover, it allows
for a directed ~~ze toward the end of the church where the service is conducted.
000
OD
Cross-Section (east-west axis)
The present Hagia Sophia has all these features and is undisputably a basilica
in character. These features of . the cathedral's design, including the rectilinear
base, are, I think, entirely functional in the sense just defined: to allow the most
number of people to participate in the service. But this does not begin to explain
the illusory effect of a square plan nor the other senses of proportion that might
serve another function that is more aesthetic than utilitarian.
Overall, Procopius describes the building as "a spectacle of marvellous beauty." 7
His sense for this beauty is bound to a recognition of the proportion of its parts
and the play of light within it.
Plan of the Hagia Sophia
32
It exults in an indescribable beauty. For it proudly reveals its
mass and the harmony of its proportions, having neither excess
nor deficiency~ .• and it abounds exceeding intunlight and in the
reflection of the sun's rays from the marble.
33
�,.
To see this beauty, however, one must go within.
The entrances used by the congregation, whether Christian or Moslem, lie along
the west side of the cathedral. On the face of the exterior porch (or narthex) is a
series of five doors, three in the center and one at either end.
Two pairs of
windows are placed in between the central three doors and the outer-most two.
The
center-most doorway has always been called the· Beautiful Gate. As one passes over
the threshold here, he leaves the city behind and, as it will be shown, he seems to
enter into another world.
Within the outer narthex there is a series of five more doors, equally spaced,
leading into another narthex. This inner space is both twice as wide and twice as
high as the outer narthex. It has been suggested that this increase ~n space prepares the way for the "more powerful spatial effect within the nave."
This claim
can be easily justified. The mass of the exterior announces the vast interior. One
can imagine the awe with which one approaches each doorway in anticipation of the
great space that must lie within. Hence, the expansion of space and perhaps even the
1: 2 ratio of the two spaces is noticeable.
The doubling of a magnitude is more
easily comprehended than any other multiplication. In the eventual analysis of the
church, this sense of space
a hap tic sense of an ordered, dimensional, but
ostensibly empty space - is explored in detail.
There are three sets of three doorways leading into the main body of the church.
Those on either end of the porch lead into the aisles on the north and south sides of
the nave. The center doorway, in line with the Beautiful Gate, is called the Imperial Doorway in honor of the emperors (from Justinian on) who entered here. This gate
is twice as broad and higher by a third than the doorways flanking it.
The view through the Imperial Doorway into the central nave is the most important perspective in the church.
From this entrance the full scale of the dome's
height an be seen, as well as the full length of the nave. Through the vast expanse,
one's gaze is directed to the inside ofo"the face of the church (which would be the
part which faces the rising sun ... )."
Here the semi-cylindrical apse rises from
the place of the altar to meet the half dome. The apse is the most light-filled
space in the church; its windows are the only windows opening directly onto the lower
region of the nave, and they seem both larger and more closely packed than the
windows above them in the half dome. Thus, even from ·across the enormous space,
one's attention is drawn to this area.
From the Imperial Doorway the first impression of the interior forms is made.
Procopius' description of "the face of the church" emphasizes the order and arrangement of shapes. He begins by describing the apse and the regions closest to it:
A structure of masonry is built up from the ground, not made in a
straight line, but gradually curving inward on its flanks and
receding at the middle, so that it forms the shape of a
half-circle, which those who are skilled in such matters call a
half-cylinder; and so i t rises precipitously to a height. The
upper part of this structure ends in the fourth part of a sphere,
and above it another crescent-shaped structure rises fitted on
the adjoining parts of the building, marvellous in its grace, but
by reason of the seeming insecurity of its composition altogether
terrifying. For it seems to float in the air on no firm basis,
but to be poised aloft to the peril of those inside it. Yet actually it is braced with exceptional firmness and security. On
either side of this are columns arranged on the pavement; these
likewise do not stand in a straight line, but they retreat inward
in the pattern of the semi-circle as if they were yielding to one
34
35
�another in a c~~ral dance, and above them hangs a structure of
crescent shape.
' '1
This arrangement of geometrical shapes seems to mirror the order and arrangement of
the Imperial Door. The niches on either side of the apse are, in plan, found to be
identical to the apse. But turned in along the line of a semi-circle , they are perceived to be much narrower than the apse which is looked at straight on. The niches
seem to be nearly half the width of the apse and follow, it would seem, the pat t ern
of the three central doorways. Moreover, the height of the half domes, which rise
above these niches and embrace them all, is greater by a th i rd. Hence, this too is
in the same ratio (2:3) as the height of the two smaller doorways is to the Imperial
Door.
While the ratio of the doors is measured in the flat plane of the wall, the
measure of the semi-cylindrical shapes is expanded to three dimensions. From ac r oss
the expanse of distance, the shapes are seen in a visual plane. Therefore, they are
not judged in their actual form, but seem at fi r st to be outlined on a
two-dimensional plane. At the great distance from which the forms are viewed , the
outlines are not clearly defined. This plane of vision is pierced by windows or by
passageways between the columns. One's vision is carried t hr ough the outlines . Ye t
there is no outside view to be seen, for the windows are at such a height that they
frame only the sky. However , a sense of depth is added to the impression .
This depth carries one's vision through the outline which wavers in the immense
atmosphere of the church. Hence, one's sense of space moves the figu r es ou t wards
into three dimensions.
This volume is distinct from the similar impression first
seen in the doorways and then mirrored in the next visual plane .
The forms are judged by Procopius to "retreat ... as if yielding to one another as
in a choral dance . "
In claiming that the farms actually are moved by one's
perceptions, Procopius' language is taken more literally than perhaps. Procopius
intended. I exaggerate the literalness of it, however, to accentuate the possibility
of sensing a shimmer ing , balanced movement of form . The imp r ession of t his mov ement
or "dance" is created by the distance from which it is viewed and by an awareness of
the actual three-dimensional volume of the forms outlined by a certain perspective .
The depth and movement of space are enhanced by the exceptional light that
enters the church. Ptocopius writes that the interior
abounds exceedingly in sunlight and in reflection of the sun's
rays from the marble. Indeed one might say that its interior is
not illuminated from without by the sun, but that the radiance
comes into ~1ing within it , such an abundance of ligh t enters
this shrine.
The sense that the light "comes into being" inside the church is probably due to the
clear definition of the shafts of light that come streaming through the great expanse
of space. These beams accentuate the sense of depth in the space within the church.
As the light travels, it diffuses slowly into the interior.
The shafts,
however, reach the walls and floor in distinct outline and produce patterns of light
that mirror the windows from which they came. And the reflections themselves create
a r adiance of thei r own t hat itself illuminates the space around them.
The windows are nol simply openings in the shell of the building. "Channels for
3
the admission of light"
have been built into the structure. By means of these it
seems that the intensity of light has been intentionally gathered, and that the
direction of the light has been purposefully ordered.
One can imagine, then, that the regular movement of light throughout the day and
year provides another movement in addition to the shimmering radiance that charges
36
37
�the air with light 1 ~f its own. The church is aligned along an axis about 33 degrees
south of due east .
On the morning of the winter solstice, the rising sun shines
directly thr ough the apse windows and sets in the evening beyond the Beautiful Gate.
The circular domes with their channeled windows at different levels must seem to
chart the paths of the sun, not just on the day of the winter solstice, but
throughout the year. The strongest beams within the church mark where the sun is
outside and can be distinguished from all the others . As the visible beams change
direction and sweep through the interior of the church, they change the quality of
light in the depths they illuminate . The forms themselves would then seem to move,
as they change, from light to shadow. In effect, the light moves the forms that seem
to "dance" with one another.
On either side of the central nave are the aisles and galleries. In comparison
to the height of the dome, the vaulted ceilings of the aisles are low. They are the
same height as the inner narthex. This height is marked along the perimeter of the
nave by an elaborate bronze railing. The height of the gallery ceilings is marked by
a similar railing at a height again a third higher than the aisles. Between the nave
and the aisles and galleries are rows of columns centered in the face of the north
and south walls. The aisles do not seem separated from the nave by these columns
and, Procopius sayf1 the spaces seen from the nave "actually make the effect of the
width much wider."
This extension adds to the impression of a square marked out on
the floor. In addition, the symmetry of the aisles is aligned along the axis of symmetry of the half domes. This forms an equal armed cross with one axis below and the
other axis seen most prominently higher up.
Of the symmetry of the aisles, Procopius writes
One of (the) colonnaded stoas has been assigned to men
worshippers, while the other is reserved for women engaged in the
same exercise. But they have nothing to distinguish them , nor do
they differ from one another in any way , but their equtsity
s e rves to beautify t he church , the i r similarity t o ador n it .
Procopius suggests here that the symmetry of t he church in some way reflects a
symmetry among the congregation in the activity of praye r. It s e ems possible that
the symmetry of the church might have contributed to inducing the effect of equality
among the people , at least while they were in the church , since it is unlikely that
this equality actually existed as a general rule in Byzantine society . This effect
would increase the other- worldly aura the church has by making otherwise habitual
distinctions unimportant and thereby heightening the distinctions that one does find,
namely t ho se among t h e fo r ms of the building.
The rows of columns pierce the walls between the large interior piers and mark
out the corners of a square on the floor of the nave. The open area int erlaced by
arched columns outlines a square on the north and south walls. These define a cube
that is associated with a semicircle on either side of the nave, suggesting a hemisphere. Above the squares on the north and south walls is a semi- circle of windows
formed within the great arches that support the dome. The motif of the circle and
square is outlined here in its most sensible form; it is outlined in space and light.
Through the circle only light passes.
Through the space between the arches pass
humans and also a murky, diffused light from the aisles and galle r ies.
This
correlation exists throughout the church: all the windows have curved lintels, while
all the doors have straight lintels.
The circle and square motif is also found throughout the whole expanse of the
interior space. The radius of the circle of windows is equal to half the side of the
square of arches; the circle can be perfectly inscribed within the square. Its center, however, is displaced upwards. Similarly, the square drawn from the inside of
38
39
�the interior piers and equal to the width of the nave is found to perfectly circumscribe the circle outlined by the uppermost arch, as well as the present dome. The
upper side of this square (or cube) over-scores the windows along the diameter of the
first circle. Hence, the center of its circle is also displaced upwards, leading
towards the dome. In addition, the side of this square is equal to the diagonal of
the first square. It is therefore twice as great as the original square of arches.
The circle inscribed within the greatest square (that which indicates the dome) can
exactly circumscribe the square of arches.
"1
The piers that mark the corners of the central cube support the four great
arches: two above the semi-circle of windows and two outlining the ends of the half
domes. These arches rise to meet the lower rim of the dome at four points. Between
these points and along the four quarters of the dome, and in the spaces between the
adjacent halves of the great arches are four pendentive domes. This ingenious co11struction of four spherical triangles evenly distributes the forces of the huge shell
of the dome onto the arches and, hence, onto the four inner piers.
Because the dome is not supported directly beneath the rim, but off to the
sides, Procopius remarks:
It seems not to rest upon solid masonry ••• All the details, fitted
together with incredible skill in midair and floating off from
each other and resting only on the parts next to l~em, produce a
single and most extraordinary harmony in the work.
The illusory effect of the dome "floating" is no doubt accentuated by the light
entering the forty windows spaced equidistantly along the circumference of the dome.
This corona of windows seems to detach the dome from the rest of the structure.
18
Procopius writes that through these windows "the light of day first smiles."
The inside of the dome was once covered over entirely with gold.
This highly
reflective surface, it can be imagined, enhanced t~9 effect of this "first" light and
radiated it down from a "height to match the sky."
The dome of the Hagia Sophia has attracted a lot of attention, and it has almost
universally been compared to the heavens. Procopius says "the spherical dome which
makes the structure except~5nally beautiful" seems to be "suspended as if from a
golden chain from heaven."
The analogy is made stronger by the poet, Paul of
Silentiary, in his work describing the Great Church.
There, overhead, in the shadowy air,
Arches the rounded helm of the heavenly ~ouse,
2
Like unto the burnished roof of heaven.
40
41
�While the dome is compared to the heavens, its lower arches are likened to the
upper regions of the earth, according to Procopius.
One might suppose that they were sheer mountain peaks.
22
And also the lower regions of the church have been compared to the earth. Throughout
the first two levels, the walls have been faced with highly polished slabs of marble,
cut along the stone's natural grain and arranged in patterns. The marble is of many
different colors and varieties. Similarly, the columns are made of various kinds of
marble, and their capitals have been intricately carved in an acanthus leaf pattern.
On this stonework Procopius writes:
One imagines that he had come upon a meadow with its flowers in
full bloom.
For he would surely marvel at the purple of some,
the green tint of others and at those which the crimson glows and
those which Natuzj' like some painter, varies with the most contrasting colors.
And again Paul of Silentarius echoes this theme in his poem.
He describes each
"tablet" of marble by where it 2'4mes from: Cocytus, Phrygia , Locania, Libya, and as
far away as the "Celtic crags."
Paul writes as if gathered within the church were
a world composed of many regions; every land is represented by a different tablet of
marble.
He continues, after his description of each kind of marble,
But before the sheen of mosaic appeared
The hand of the mason set into the wall the pieces of marble.
He designed on the tablets
Horns filled to the brim with the sumptuous tokens of autumn:
All kinds of foliage, baskets, and - perched on the ends of
branches Quiet birds. At the border, in beautifully plaited designs
Vines creep circling around, their golden tendrils
Weaving a graceful measure among the twined and inter- twined
branches,
Then swaying gently forward so that the encircling marble
May shadow - but only a little - the mesh of woven tendrils
Over the lofty columns, too, swelling out
Below a rim of stone, grow masses of bright acanthus - which
creeps across the damp earth - swelling in and out .
All gold and light are the wandering, sharp- pointed leaves,
And the marble surfaces are bordered with purple buds.
Every 25one catches the light with a loveliness that touches the
heart.
Procopius admires the hand of Nature as an active artist in the church.
Paul of
Silentarius, on the other hand, stresses the work of a human artist, a tradesman
distinct from the mosaic worker, as the agent at work to ensoul the church.
Underneath the bite of the mason's chisel, the stone comes alive. Moreover, this
life is presented in its autumn colors. The insipient death of these hues contrasts
with the fecundity that yields so great a harvest.
From these analogies made of the heavens and the earth united in a "harmony",
one can imagine an ideal world conceived in the church. The church, as a whole,
seems to be a living cosmos.
The realization of "harmony" in this ideal world does not, however, come
42
43
�,.
unequivocably: though the half dome and its "adjoining parts", the niches and the
apse, seem to fit together in a way "marvellous in its grace" and even as a "dance",
Procopius also notes how it seems
by reason of its seeming insecurity of its composition, altogether terrifying. For it seems to float in the air on no ~~rm
basis but to be poised aloft to the peril of those inside it.
The "seeming" here is "terrifying", and this effect is pervasive as one moves through
the church. The dome that seems to float off its parts is "suspended" 180 feet in
the air (nearly eighteen stories) and is 107 feet in diameter. The arches and the
half domes of the same diameter climb to nearly 120 feet.
The apse "rises
precipitously" to a height of over 90 feet. The aisles are almost 40 feet high, and
the galleries about 25 feet. Within these dimensions, a person is diminished to almost insignificant size.
The recognition of these dimensions, not in numbers, but in relation to a human
being, makes plausible the language that describes the forms as "mountain peaks" that
"rise to the height of the sky," in short, as parts of a whole world.
Because one is so diminished, the awe, even wonder, which one must experience
when entering the church is understandable.
It is understood not as a simple
enthusiasm but, on the contrary, as the fear and appreciation of something both
"terrifying" and "marvellous in its grace." The entirety of one's sensual experience
awakens both a terror and a sense of order. Hence, the beauty one sees is found to
be both terrible and harmonious. One "sees" this beauty in himself as clearly as he
sees it around him.
It is conceivable, then, that one enters into an inner cosmos when he enters the
church. He comes to a world of a rational and emotional realm of his being, united
by the sensation of the forms around him. These realms comprise a state of mind.
The term "world" is used to denote the completeness of one's experience - a state of
wonder - that one finds in himself when his whole being is engaged. In this way , the
church is said to signify a living cosmos with respect to the one who is inside it,
as well as with respect to the external forms of the domes and walls.
But the complete sense of awe has not been sufficiently explored . The rational
realm, so-called, has only been described as a "sense of order . " This is still
impressionistic, though it may be powerful. Hence, the term "cosmos" may not yet be
a convincing, or even a true, appellation for the complete engagement of one's .being.
It is fitting to describe the complete impression one has - a conflicting impression
that is nonetheless united.
The sense for order, as it has been described so far, is an awareness of the
rational order involved in the fitting together of the parts of the church. The
apparent order arises from that which lends "grace" to the fitting together of the
parts: the proportions, the symmetry, the repetition of like forms (especially the
circle and the square), the similar arrangements of windows and arches, the continuous procession of lights throughout the day and the year, and even the fine
craftsmanship that has rendered the stone smooth and full of images of "a graceful
measure."
The ratios of 1:2 and 2:3 have been described as visually recognizable patterns
that are recurrent both in the structure and in the forms.
This r epetition of
divided magnitudes is visible to everyone - not just to a few who are initiated into
the secrets of geometry. Even if these ratios do not give rise to an idea of number,
they do give rise to a notion of order.
. The notion of order, as it has been described, is not necessarily a rational
concept, though it does point to a rational principle. This principle is to be explored in greater detail. In doing so, the artists' intention must be considered.
44
By exploring the rational principle at work in the cathedral, the rational state of
mind it gives rise to in the observer may be better understood.
ii.
A Mechanical View of the Work
Anthemius of Tralles and Isodorus of Miletus were the two principal designers of
the Hagia Sophia. They are both known to have been geometers. A few fragments of
Anthemius' geometry survive, and from these one proposition will be considered in
detail as a possible part of his world underlying the design of the church. Isodor~'
is regarded as the author of the so- called Fifteenth Book of Euclid's Elements.
This treatise gave the rules for the measurement of dihedral angles, and one can
imagine the usefulness of this theory in the construction of walls .
Isodorus is also said to be the teacher of his nephew , Isodorus the Younger, who
reco2~tructed the dome of the Hagia Sophia after it collapsed in an earthquake in
558.
Isodorus the Younger redesigned the dome at this time to make it higher, and
thus a greater section of a sphere than it had previously been . In this shape the
dome is much more stable; it stands today, despite numerous other earthquakes. This
larger dome enhances the overall harmony seen within the church; hence, Isodorus the
Younger must also be considered as a designer of the form of the church.
All of the designers were a part of a mechanical tradition that was especially
active in the Byzantine Empire. This was, perhaps, the most active science of the
time. Justinian, in his peculiar devotion to Christianity, closed the "pagan" academies of philosophy in Athens.
Nonetheless, a philosophic stance may have been
assumed by the mechanics.
The mechanical science developed by the Byzantines conceived a unique unity
between the real and the ideal.
For instance, the mechanical propositions to be
treated in detail here are found to depend on an understanding of space in which concrete elements and abstract notions are combined.
This space is considered to be
distinct from the space of pure thought and the physical space outside the mind. The
mechanical method that has conceived of this space has provided a means by which both
mathematical and technological developments have advanced.
It is likely, therefore, that a certain philosophical disposition both underlies
and is promoted by the mechanical tradition.* Anthemius and his fellow designers of
the Hagia Sophia have also displayed a distinctive aesthetic sensitivity and a clear
understanding of structural theory. The combination of a theoretical and practical
knowledge, as it is presented in their work, is found to establish the ground for
contemplation by the way in which it prepares the mind.
To demonstrate this mechanical method, two propositions will be examined: the
first , by Ant hemi us , is part of his treatise on "burning mirrors." The manner i n
which he sets out this problem - to construct a door or window through which the
sun's rays are to enter - is pertinent to the construction of his church.
It
provides an account of the relationship between a structure and the path of light.
The second proposition, by Archimedes, concerns the determination of the centers of
gravity of objects. The conclusions drawn by this proposition will be shown to have
an important bearing on the design of the Hagia Sophia.
The enunciation of Anthemius' proposition reads as follows:
*
It is curious to note that Proclus may have been the teacher of both Anthemius
and the elder Isodorus.
(Swift, Hagia Sophia, p. 31, attributes this to Andreossey,
Constantinople et le Bosphore, II, 115.) Proclus is known for both his mathematical
commentary (i.e. of Book I of Euclid's Elements) and his commentary of numerous
dialogues of Plato.
45
�,.
It is required to cause a ray of sun t2 f all in a given position,
9
without moving, at any hour or season.
To accomplish the task he has set for himself, Anthemius first identifies the point A
as the "given position to be constantly illuminated". He then identifies the point B
to represent the position of the window through which a ray of light will enter. B
is in a line through A that is both a meridian and parallel to the horizon. That is,
the line AB lies in a line directed north-south and level with the surface of the
earth.
0
G
Anthemius then determines the different positions of the rays of the sun with
respect to the north-south line which enter the window at B at all times of the year.
He considers that on the day of the equinox, the sun, traveling along the ecliptic,
crosses the equator, which is perpendicular to the meridians of the earth.
Therefore, at sunrise and sunset, an equinoctial ray will fall perpendicular to the
line AB. Throughout the rest of the year, the point on the horizon at which the sun
rises and sets is inclined to either side of the perpendicular . As the days increase
in length during the year, the sun rises at a point on the horizon further north and
reaches a maximum displacement from the perpendicular on the morning of the summer
solstice.
Similarly, as the days decrease in length, the sun rises at a point
further south and reaches a maximum from the perpendicular in thi s direction on the
morning of the winter solstice .
s
Anthemius identifies BG, "normal to AB 1130 , as an equinoctial ray, BD as a ray of
the summer solstice, and BE as a ray of the winter solstice .
The angle formed
between the winter ray and the summer ray is the greatest angle possible between the
winter and summer lights. That is, the angle on the horizon between the points at
sunrise or sunset for the winter and summer solstices is greater t han the angle
formed between the tropic points at the zenith (or between any similar points) of the
sun's paths across the sky. Anthemius can therefore account for the entire range of
possible positions of the rays of light which will fall through the window at B in a
year. He then procedes to construct a plane mirror for each of these rays of light
so that a ray entering the window will be reflected to the position A.
He selects a point Z along one ray, the winter ray BE, at s~'e distance from B
"according to the size of the reflector we desire to construct . "
The distance BZ
is the distance the ray , once it has entered the window at B, will shine before i t i s
reflected towards A. The position of the reflector to be constructed is also de termined by the position of the ray ZA which will be reflected from it. Given the
position of the ray entering the window and the position of the ray to be reflected,
the reflector is inclined at an angle so that the angle of incidence equals the angle
of reflection.* Since EZ represents the position of the ray entering the window, an~
ZA represents the position of the ray being reflected, Anthemius bisects the angle
EZA formed between these rays so that the angle EZH = the angle HZA. And, since by
vertical angles the angle EZH = the angle 0ZB, the ray BZ will strike the reflector
at an angle SZB and be reflected at an equal angle, HZA. Therefore, a reflector
lying along the line He will cause a winter ray to illuminate the position A.
Anthemius goes on to determine the necessary positions for the reflectors which
will cause a ray of the sun to illuminate A on the equinox and on the summer
solstice. By positioning each reflector in the manner just described, so that the
angle of incidence for a ray entering the window equals the angle of reflection, he
describes a rectilinear shape, OMH9. The length of the sides OM, MH, H9 are de termined by bisecting the angles formed between each position for a ray of the sun.
For example, the position of H is determined along the bisector BH, the bisector be tween the ray of the winter solstice and the equinoctial ray, at the point of intersection with ZH. And the position occupied by ZH , the bisector of angle EZA, is de termined by the selection of Z "according to the size of the reflector we desire to
construct."
Similarly, M is determined along the bisector BM between the equinoctial ray and
the ray of the winter solstice, at the point of intersection with LM, the bisector of
GLA . Howeve r, the position of LM, being extended to meet H, is dependent upon the
position of Z as well.
The rectil i near s ha pe so described wit h t he sides OM , MH, and H9 wi ll ref l ect
the t hree rays indicated here to A. In order to reflect every ray within the range
which these three rays represent, a "continuous mirror" is required to be made along
OMH9, · comprised of an indefinite number of mirrors positioned in the manner that has
been d;~onstrated .
Anthemius alludes to the "repeated bisection of the said
angles"
(the angles formed between successive rays of the sun) which implies a sort
of "method of exhaustion" to describe a rectilinear shape of an indefinite number of
sides. But he gives a more p;ractical way to accomplish this task and thereby "to
avoid the Tffort of continuous division tn constructing and putting together plane
3
mirrors."
* In a treatise entitled On the Hypotheses in Optics, Damianus claims Heron of
Alexandria, a mechanician, is reported to have demonstrated this property of light
rays .
It is probable that Anthemius, following upon a mechanical tradition, was
aware of this or a similar wo r k . (c . f . Thomas, Greek Mathematics, II, p. 497)
46
47
�,.
He first shows that the distance of the ray entering the window added to the
distance of the reflected ray remains the same at every position indicated.
The
combined distance of the ray of incidence and the ray of reflection is therefore constant at any point along the reflective surface to be constructed. To describe the
shape of this surface he concludes, "then we stretch a string surrounding the points
A, B tightly around the first point from which the rays are to be reflected, the line
will be drawn which is part of the so3~alled ellipse, with respect to which the
surface of the mirror must be situated."
~nthemius is reported to be the first to
describe this method of drawing an ellipse. 3
Anthemius demonstrates in this work certain theoretical properties of the ellipse. He shows that the ratio between the lines from each focus to a point on the
surface of an ellipse remains constant. This result is identical with proposition 48
in Book III of Apollonius' Conics . In addition, as Huxley notes, Anthemius demonstrates his knowledge as a property of the ellipse that Apollonius did not show:
The two "parts" of knowledge are distinct in the mechanical mind, and yet what is
achieved by means of this mechanical science is a deliberate unity of the two
"parts".
For instance, in Anthemius' work, underlying the mathematical points, the foci,
are tangible objects - a position to be illuminated and a window through which light
enters. The lines joining these foci to the surfaces of the ellipse are rays of
light, and the surface itself is an indefinite series of plane mirrors. These points
and lines are not just abstract entities; they have a concrete basis in a physical
world and are associated with a particular action. And yet this physical basis does
not seem to be the end or cause for which this mathematics is set out. No r does it
seem that the geometry has been applied merely to solve a problem. Rather,it seems
that Anthemius unveils an underlying geometrical (and abstract) scheme of things.
Rays of light falling t o the earth have a geometrical orientation with respect to a
certain place and have certain properties of reflection that can be described by geometry. It might be said that Anthemius sees a world composed of distinct "parts"
that have a certain correspondence between them. His mechanical method is meant to
reveal this correspondence.
The science of geometry is an attempt to find a rational account of an object's
"being" in space.
This acc ount is not only the identification of the regular or
geometric shape of an object, or even just the identification of a principle of
action, such as the optical property Anthemius describes. The geometry precedes from
a deductive account of that object as a rational, knowable thing.
The account
Anthemius gives of the continuity of an elliptical curve demonstrates this unveiling
of the rational essence of an object. The object he describes has a regular geometric form. Yet, it is not only an object of thought; this form also serves to describe the necessary shape for a mirror that will always reflect incoming light rays
to a given place. The regularity of the curvilinear object is only recognizable as
an infinite series of straight lines. Even as an object of thought, the curvilinear
form is unintelligible without a geometrical analysis of its parts.
By this,
Anthemius has a complete knowledge of the object as a shape in thought and in phys ical reality.
The correspondence between thought and reality here rests on a correspondence
between the imaginable space of geometry and the sensible space of external objects.
In Anthemius' work, however, it is not easy to separate these realms, though they are
recognizably different parts of his knowledge. Yet it does not seem necessary to
distinguish one space from the other absolutely.
To do so would be to undo
Anthemius' work. Anthemius achieves a unity of the space imagined in the mind and
the space of an external world filled with rays of light. There is no analogy of one
found in the other. There is, however, a relation between the two that is itself the
space he conceives.
Anthemius participates equally in the space of geometrical
objects and the space of physical objects. Ideally, there is no distinction for him
in his creation of a new mechanical space.
Anthemius' proof demonstrates only one aspect of a possible complete correspondence between a theoretical and a physical world. His proof is an assessment of the
relationship between a structural form and its effect on the path of light. In the
complete correspondence, such as might be expected to establish this ideal in the
Hagia Sophia, the measurement of weight, the measurement of area, and especially the
measurement of volume would have to be accounted for in some similar way.
Most of the remaining fragments of Anthemius' work concern the construction of
various mirrors, such as the work just described. But one example demonstrates his
interest in the centers of gravity of similar cones and cylinders. This work has
been compared with Euclid XII-15 and is considered to be both "schoolmasterly" and
even of a "repetitive and didatctic manner of exposition contrasting 3't}th the precise
language of Archimedes and other Hellenistic writers of mechanics . "
Yet the idea
alone of centers of gravity is worth considering in respect to establishing a com~
plete correspondence between the theoretical and sensuous worlds.
To examine first the mathematical treatment of this subject, it is best to
examine Archimedes' method of abstracting from objects that have weight to identify
the center of gravity at a mathematical point. However, I am directed to Archimedes'
work not only on the basis of his authority and the apparent precision of his
exposition. It is likely that Anthemius was particularly interested in the works of
40
Archimedes,
and the "method of exhaustion" that Anthemius alludes to in his
proposition is probably adapted directly from Archimedes. In addition, Isodorus the
48
49
that the straight line which joins the focus to the point of
intersection of two tangents bisects the angle between the
straight lines jo~ng the same focus to the two points of contact respectively.
That is, the lines on which the plane mirrors are situated in Anthemius' description
can be said to lie along the tangents to the curve. And the incoming rays of light
which Anthemius defines are found t o correspond to "the straight lines joining the
same focus to the points of contact."
What is especially interesting in Anthemius' work, however, is the method he employs in his demonstration. This method is best described as a mechanical method.
Mechanical has a remarkable sense for the Byzantines which is very different
fro~ the connotation it often carries when signifying a merely practical, and even
rudimentary, approach to problem solving. The Byzantine mechanics carried forward
the whole of Hellenistic science into their era and were a very knowledgable class of
scholars.
It has even been suggested that the mechanics we57 the province of the
elite scholars of this time, ranked even above the "geometers"
Their rank is worth noting here not to show their superiority over others, but
to illustrate a certain probable level of thoughtfulness among them which, I think,
is important in understanding the Byzantine ideal. And this ideal is very different
from the modern ideal.
The mechanical method embraces both a theoretical and a practical knowledge; it
combines theory and technique into one enterprise .
One mechanic, Pappus of
Alexandria (ca . 320) , describes this more explicitly:
mechanics can be
theoretical part
and physics, the
try and painting
divided into a theoretical and manual part; the
is composed of geometry, arithmetic, astronomy
manual of work in metals, architecture, carg§nand anything involving skill with the hands.
�Elder is said to have revised the editions of Eutocius' comment~~ies to Archimedes'
On the Sphere and Cylinder and On the Measurement of the Circle.
Therefore, it is
probable that Archimedes' method underlies the design for the Hagia Sophia. It certainly is the foundat i on of the Byzantine mechanical method.
The concept of a center of gravity is fundamental to mechanical thought. The
center of gravity is a mathematical point identified within a geographical figure or
within a system of equilibrium between more than one figure. Yet while the center of
gravity is an abstract point, it is not disassociated from the weight of physical
matter. The center of gravity is a mechanical property which admits both the mathematical and the physical.
In his treatise On the Equilibrium of Planes, Archk~edes postulates the rules
for the behavior of weights suspended on a bar balance.
For instance, he states
that equal weights balance at equal distances on the bar (Postulate 1) . The balance
of this system is an "equilibrium" of weights with r espec t t o the dis tanc e s a t whi ch
they are suspended from a center . "Equilibrium" is then generally defined as the
balance of weights at "certain distances" from some point (Postulate 2 . ) This point
is the center of gravity of the system.
The center of gravity may be a point on a line which divides the line into separate magnitudes of length. Or it may be a point within a figure which divides it
into separate magnitudes of area radiating from this point . That is, the figure is
conceived of as an integration of lines passing through this point, and each of these
lines is divisible into separate magnitudes. Yet in the strict mechanical t reat ment ,
these magnitudes of length and area of pure geometrical forms represent magnitudes of
weight as well. Archimedes' mechanical treatment conceives of a magnitude having
both a mathematical and a physical element.
Archimedes' understanding of the correspondence between a length or area and a
magnitude of weight is useful not only to the measure of the equivalent weights, but
to the measure of equivalent areas and volumes as well. In his treatise entitled The
Method, Archimedes explains the use of this "peculiar method, by which it will be
possible ••• to investigate some of the problems in mathematics by means of
mechanics. 1143 The mathematical pr oblems treated here are the quadrature and cubature
of curvilinear figures.
Archimedes' "method" can be generally characterized in the following way: he
first either inscribes or circumscribes some figure, usually rectilinear, by another
figure that is usually curvilinear. He then establishes a ratio between the parts of
a line or section common to both figures that is divided by a t least one boundary of
the inscribed figure . Then he sets up, as a bar balance , the extension of a diameter
or an axis passing through the two figures on one end of the balance arm. And on the
other end, he places a figure equal to the magnitude of the line cut off from the
c ommon line by the inscribed fi gure. At some distance f r om t he f ulcr um de t ermi ned by
the ratio of the separate parts of the common line, the portion cut off by the
inscribed figure will balance the whole given line contained by the circumscribed
figure .
Archimedes then imagines that the two figures are each composed of an indefinite
number of lines similar to the common line that has been identified. The ratio of
this common line, as it is divided, is therefore representative of the ratio of one
figure to another. That is, a system comprised of the sum of all the lines common to
both figures, the whole of these lines being representative of the circumscrib ing
figure, will balance, at a known distance from the fulcrum, a sum of all the lines
composing the inscribed figure. Therefore, within this system the curvilinear figure
can be found equal to the rectilinear figure at a determinable distance from the ful crum. And one can expect that in general it is true that areas composed of lines, or
even that volumes composed of areas rotated around an axis, might be determined to be
proportional to one another in the same ratio as the distances at which they balance.
50
Two important,. conditions characterize this method:
the first is the way in
which figures are balanced in a system about a center of gravity at a distance de termined by the rat i o of a line common to both figures. The second is the manner in
which figures ar e considered as a sum of an indefinite series of lines , similar to
the common line.
To demons.t r a t e the "method" more clearly, I will paraphrase and explain in
detail Proposition 6 of The Method.
In addition to showing the use of this
mechanical method in the measurement of weights and volumes, the c?nclusi~ns
presented in the proposition lead to an interesting anal~sis of th~ Hagia Sophia.
Several points are compelling about this proposition.
First' Archimed~s presents
here a mechanical treatment of hemispheres which are found to be contained by the
domes and half domes of the church. Also, this treatment concerns the center~ of
three - dimensional figures .
Similar centers of gravity are found to b~ sensi~ly
indicated in the Great Church. And finally, the peculiar use of the imaginati~n
Archimedes depends on in the course of this demonstration may be helpful in
conceptualizing the intended design of a work of architecture composed of space and
This imagination conceives o'f a system of equilibrium between volumes
1 . ht
c~!po~ed of an abstract, mechanical space that.seems to ~e endowed with properties of
weight and yet is free of the solidity of physical materials.
The enunciation to Proposition 6 states:
The center of gravity of any hemisphere (is on the straight line
which) is its axis, and divides the said straight line in such a
way that the portion of it adjacent to the surface of the hem!4
sphere has to the remaining portion the ratio which 5 has to 3 .
To find the tenter of gravity of the hemisphere ,
Archimedes begins by cutting a sphere through its center so
that the plane of the great circle, ADCB, is found. Then he
constructs the perpendicular diameters AC and BD.
In the
sphere, another plane is identified which contains the great
circle with the diameter BD that is perpendicular to the
plane of ADCB.
On the plane of ADCB, he constructs the chords AB and
AD. Using these chords as generators fixed at the vertex A,
he describes a cone within the hemisphere BAD. The base of
this cone is the great circle with t he diameter BD
perpendicular to ADCB.
Next, the diameter AC of the c irc l e ADCB is extended t o
H so that the extension HA is equal to the diameter AC. The
whole line HC is the bar of a balance, and its midpoint, A,
is the fulcrum point .
On the plane ADCB, Archimedes draws any line, OP, pare
allel to the diameter BD.
OP is contained by the semicircle BAD , but it is cut by the sides AB and AD at Q and R. The line, OP'. is
therefore common to t he cir cums cr ibing figure, the semi- cir cle BAD, and the inscri~ed
figure, the triangle ABD .
One expects that a proportionate magnitude at H will
balance the remaini ng magnitudes on OP.
The necessary proportion is, however,
d r ·i ed as a function of an a r ea and not of just a one- dimensional magnitude.
e vA circle with diame ter OP is found parallel to the circle with diameter _BD and
perpendicular to the axis AG . The plane of this circle is common to the hemisphere
BAD and to the cone ABD . The r efore , within the plane OP , parallel to the plane BD,
there are concentric circles about the center E. One, with diameter OP, describes a
"
51
�,,,.
The triangle ABD is a representative section of the cone, and it is an isoceles
triangle whose base is equal to twice its height.
Therefore, the perpendicular
bisectors of its sides bisect the angles AGB and AGD. These bisectors are drawn as
GX and GY. So, the four triangles within the great triangle ABD are all equal to one
another. The triangle AXG and AYG, together where they are, form the square AXGY.
The center of gravity of this square is at the midpoint of its diagonals, at the
point p (I, 10 Equilibrium of Planes).
The centers of gravity of the triangle GXB lie on the lines which bisect the
angle GXB and the angle GYD, respectively (I, 13 Equilibrium of Planes). And these
centers of gravity act upon BD as the bar of a balance at K and L, the midpoints of
BG and GD. Therefore, the equal triangles, GXB and GYD, balance each other where
they are about the midpoint of KL at the point G.
Yet another system can be imagined that balances the square at one end and the
two triangles at the other end. For, since AXGY is equal to the two triangles, these
figures will balance each other at equal distances from the midpoint of GS. This
point, V, equal to ~ AG, is the center of gravity of the entire system, the triangle
ABD. And when the triangle is rotated about the axis AG, to describe the cone ABD,
by symmetry the center of gravity must remain at the same point.
Once the center of gravity of the cone is determined, the portion of the cone,
M, that balances the cone alone, can be determined. That is, since AV=3/4 AG, then
HA:3 / 4 AG just as the cone:M. And since AG=l / 2AC, and 3/ 4(!) =3 / 8, then 3/ 4 AG = 3/8
AC. Hence, M=3 / 8 of the cone and N=S / 8 of the cone.
It remains to find the ratio of the hemisphere to the cone. This ratio is cited
by Heath as given earlier in the treatise in Proposition 2. The same result can,
however, be understood by using a slightly different application of the system that
is used in Proposition 6.
Because the angle AOC is right, AO:AE::AC:AO. Th~s,
2
compounded with AC:AO, gives the ~opoztion ~:AE::AC :AO.
And, as shown above, becam~e AO =9E z+ QE and because
AC=BD,
therefore AC:AE::AC:
(OE +QE ).
Consequently,
AC :AE:: the circle with diameter = 2BD: the circle OP plus
the circle QR. And also, in the manner described above, the
H
cylinder with a radius BD, with its base centered along BD,
will balance a figure equal to both the hemisphere and the
cone with its center of gravity placed at H.
The center of gravity of this cylinder will then be at
the midpoint of the axis AG (I, 10 Equilibrium of Planes).
If it is imagined that this center of gravity is moved to G,
A
at twice its distance from A, then half of the cylinder will
balance the cone and the hemisphere at H. A new cylinder,
equal to ! of the other cylinder, would equal 1/ 3 of the
cone ABD (Euclid XII, 10). So, the portion of the figure at
H equal to the cone will balance 1/3 of the cylinder with
D
its center of gravity at G. And the hemisphere will balance
2 / 3 of the cone.
Therefore, the hemisphere is equal to
twice the cone.
In the original system of Proposition 6, if the
hemisphere is twice as great as the cone, and if N, the
portion of the figure at H that balances only the
hemisphere, is equal to 5 / 8 of the cone, then 2: 5 / 8
::HA:AW, where Wis the center of gravity of the hemisphere
at some point along AG. And since HA=2AG, therefore AW =
5 / 8AG and WG = 3/ 8 AG.
Thus, the center of gravity of the hemisphere is determined to be at a point
that divides the radius AG in the ratio 5:3.
The details of this proposition provide a thorough demonstration of the use of
Archimedes' "peculiar method" to measure volumes and areas relative to one another in
a system of equilibrium. This method relies on a theoretical concept of the center
of gravity that has direct relevance to the material world.
By means of this
concept, he builds a system of equilibrium in thought with which to "weigh"
ge ometrical forms.
Not only can the center of gravity of an incommensurable
52
53
latitude of the hemisphere, and another, with diameter QR, cuts the cone. Hence, to
describe the magnitudes to be balanced at H, the distances on the bar balance from A
must be related to the circles OP and QR.
If, in the semi-circle ABC, the chords AO and OC are joined, the angle AOC is
right (Euclid III, 31). So, AC2A0:2AO:AE. This proportion, compounded with AO:AE,
gives the p2opo2tio2" AC :AE: :AO :AE • And, because the triangle AOE is a right
triangle, AO =OE +AE (Euclid I, 47). Further, since the tria~le f:GB, an ~soceles
triangle, is similar to the triangle AEQ, AE=QE. ~herzfore~ (OE +AE ) and QE can be
substituted into the proportion so that AC:AE::(OE +AE ):QE •
OE and QE are radii of the circles with diameters OP and QR, respectively. And,
since circles are to one another as the squares of their radii, the circle OP plus
the circle QR are to the circle QR as HA:AE.
By establishing this proportion, the first condition of the method has been set
out. That is, the ratio of a line contained by a circumscribing figure and an inscribed figure has been found equal to a ratio of distances from a fulcrum point on a
bar balance. It can be concluded at this point that the plane circle with diameter
QR, with its center at H, will balance about A the two circles with diameters OP and
QR, with their centers at E.
The remainder of Archimedes' original proof is lost, but Heath, in his translation of The Method, supplies a conclusion that I think is faithful to the style
Archimedes employs throughout his treatise.
Heath begins by fulfilling the second-most important conclusion of the "method".
That is, the hemisphere is conceived of as the sum of an indefinite series of plane
circles .ffrallel to OP. Heath refers to these planes as "indefinitely thin plane
laminae" , which speaks well to the manner in which they might be imagined to fill
the volume of the hemisphere. Similarly, the cone within the hemisphere is conceived
of as the sum of an indefinite series of plane circles similar to the circle QR. The
relation of each plane to the distances on the bar then apply to the entire volume.
"Hence", Heath concludes, "the hemisphere BAD and the cone ABD, in the places
whe~g they are, balance about A (a figure) equal to ABD with its center of gravity at
H."
The figure equal to the cone ABD is then divided into two portions. Since both
portions together balance the hemisphere and the cone together, one portion of the
figure, M, is responsible for balancing only the cone. The other portion of the
figure, N, is responsible for balancing the hemisphere alone.
Heath places the center of gravity of the cone, at a point V on the axis AG so
that AG=4GV. His reason for doing this is not immediately clear. A short analysis
of the cone ABD, however, will reveal the sense of this statement.
A
. ----- ,,""
,
,,
,,
c
�iii.
curvilinear form be established in this way, but its relative volume can also be
determined.*
In the course of defining this system -- the hemisphere and the cone "in the
places where they are" -- are found to be in the same place. That is, they are both
centered on the great circle of the sphere with diameter BD. The cone and the hemisphere must be imagined to have properties of weight so that they balance in the system.
But at the same time, they must be imagined to have no substantial volume, so
t .hat they occupy the same place.
It can be said that the concept of weight is
abstracted from material substance and given as a property of pure geometric figures.
These figures are, then, forms composed of an inner concept of space. However, there
is no free commerce between the concrete and abstract aspects of these forms; as
they are, these forms cannot be applied to a purely physical or a purely theoretical
world.
As they are, these forms are conceived in a mechanical space or, rather,
composed of a mechanical substance that exists between physical and theoretical
worlds.
Archimedes cle-fms that his method gives a "sort of indication that the · conclus~on~s a~e) true."
In ~he Method ~ e calls a proposition a4E "investigation", and he
distinguishes between this and an 1 actual demonstration".
For every conclusion
reached in The Method, Archimedes does offer an "actual demonstration", though most
of these are found in his other treatises.
For example, the conclusion to
Proposition 6 is demonstrated in proposition 38 of On the Sphere and the Cylinder.
In the "actual demonstrations", Archimedes often makes use of a system of equilibrium. But the primary difference between these and his "investigations" seems to
lie in the manner in which the figures are conceived of as a sum of an indefinite
series of magnitudes.
Instead of simply imagining this to be so, he offers a more
rigorous deduction of each series.
In the demonstrations, he formally leads to the
possibility of the "nth", or infinitesimal, magnitude in each series.
This method
won Archimedes fame as a precursor to the modern calculus.
But, just as the conclusions to the propositions in The Method can be made
"apodeictic" in some sense (though not without a great deal of effort) and,
therefore, purely mathematical, one can imagine that the conclusions might be
demonstrated in a purely physical way.
Such a demonstration would reveal to the
senses the truth of a mechanical principle. This sensuous kind of demonstration, it
is . claimed here, was achieved by the designers of the Hagia Sophia.
But while this
demonstration may be found to lead to a mathematical conclusion, it is more probable
that the intended conclusion has a more universal aspect.
*
Using the value TI to calculate the volumes of the cone and the cylinder, the
relative volumes of the hemispheres and the cone, at the distances given, can be
2
verified. With a radius = 8, the volume of the cone
1T r h = 536 .165
and the volume of the hemisphere
M = 3 cone
8
201.062 and N
=
= ~nr 3 =
3
5 cone
8
=
3
1072.287
335.103
And since N balances the volume of the hemsiphere at H, the volume of N at the
distance HA = the volume of the hemisphere at the distance AW.
That is, N(16) =
5361.648 and Vh(5) = 5361.434.
54
A Final View of the Work
The designers of the Hagia Sophia worked to create a harmony. The harmony they
sought is a unity of opposing forms of the circle and the square.
The curvilinear
forms are not set equal to the rectilinear forms in the church; they retain distinct
identities in volume and in shape. But these forms are united in a balanced system.
Cross-Section (north-south axis)
If the interior volumes of the church are viewed as a system in equilibrium, the
forms are entertained in the mind as they appear. No symbolic meaning needs to be
imposed to conceive of a notion of harmony. One sees a balanced system of cubes and
hemispheres.
The upper region of the church contains the curvilinear forms of the half domes
and the dome.
In section, these are seen as three hemispheres.
Their centers of
gravity, marked by A, B, and C, represent three forms of equal size and therefore of
equal "weight". Therefore, as a system, these hemispheres balance at the center of
gravity of the triangle ABC, which is . he point D.
t
The triangle formed between the centers of gravity of the equal hemispheres is
in equilibrium with the cube described in the lower regions of the church. This cube
is defined by the square marked out on the floor of the church by the four piers that
support the dome and by the height from which the great arches begin to rise to meet
the dome. This cube is approximately ! greater than the volume of the half domes.*
*
radius of the domes = 53 feet.
width of the nave = 107 feet.
volume of the hemispheres = 3.
3
2
4 n r
3
3
volume of the cube = w = 12,25043
ratio of Vh : Ve is approximately 3:4.
55
935419.5 cubic feet
�The arm of the balance can be imagined from the center of gravity of the cube (at the
level marking the division between the aisles and the galleries) to the center of
gravity of the system of the hemispheres. The center of gravity of the entire system
would be * of the distance from the center of gravity of the cube.
All the centers of ·gravity defined here lie in empty space, but they are visibly
indicated by the structure. That is, the center of gravity of the interior cube is
at the level at which the railing marking the division between the aisles and
galleries runs along the entire perimeter of the nave. The center of gravity of the
entire system lies within the space defined by the lower and upper limits of the
galleries. Though a precise point is not identifiable, it is nonetheless sensible as
a region of balance clearly defined by the limits of the upper and lower regions of
space. The center of gravity of the hemisphere within the dome is indicated by the
height of the corona of windows and of the hemispheres partially contained by the
half domes at the level at which the quarter spheres of the apse and niches intersect
the half domes . This level is also indicated along the north and south walls by the
height of the lowest row of windows beneath the great arches. The center of gravity
of the system of hemispheres is indicated by the window at the summit of the
half- circle of windows on the north and south walls, and by the windows piercing the
surface of the half domes to the east and west.
If, as these indications seem to suggest, the interior volume of the church is
recognized as a system in· equilibrium, the forms may seem to be composed of a space
that is directly related to the forms of thought. In thought, the forms of a system
of equilibrium are conceived in a mechanical space that lies between the purely
theoretical and purely technical realms of the mechanic's world.
This mechanical
space has even been considered as a substance of which these forms are composed in
thought. Hence, the actual space and light that compose the forms of the church are
similar to the space of mechanical thought. Considered in this way, the forms of the
church, as they are sensuously represented, are doorways into a realm of pure
thought.
As the mechanical concepts of the center of gravity have both a theoretical and
a physical representation, the centers of gravity of the church have both a
structural and an aesthetic significance .
Structurally, the level of the center of gravity of the hemispherical shells is
important.
In the shell of the hemisphere there are both horizontal and vertical
forces acting to move domes of such incredible weight. If these hemispheres were to
move as a whole, they would move from their centers of gravity. The vertical forces
of the three domes are transferred to the great arches and onto the four piers inside
the church . The horizontal forces are , for the most part , transferred to the half
domes and then to the arches of the niches. The horizontal forces on the strictly
vertical north and south walls, however, are concentrated at a level near the center
of gravity of the interior hemispheres. The center of gravity of the exterior shell
of the domes is slightly higher than the interior volume.
To support the forces concentrated at this higher level, arches have been built
to span the diagonal from the four exterior piers to meet the faces of the north and
south walls at this level.
(See points r. ands. indicted on the cross-section of
the east-west axis, above.)
Also, the dome has been reinf creed by a series of
exterior buttresses that reach to the l evel of its center of gravity. This has been
done both to allow the shell to be pierced by the corona of windows (though the
arches of these windows also support a great deal of this weight) and to support the
dome at the level where the horizontal forces are the greatest. This level is also
slightly higher than the level of the center of gravity of the interior volume . (See
the points m. and n. indicted on the cross -s ection of the north-south axis, above.)
The aesthetic sense one is to gain from the forms depends only on the interior
56
57
�~
volumes and not upon the exterior shell. Since the centers of gravity of the interior forms are indicated inside the church independently from the structural centers of
gravity, it is likely that the designers intended to accentuate the effect of space
and light.
Inside, the centers of gravity are marked by that which is the complete antithesis of weight. That is, on the north and south walls and within the dome, the center
of gravity of each hemisphere and of the system of hemispheres is marked by a region
of light. In the half dome in the east, this level is marked by the opening of space
into the quarter sphere of the apse.
The effect, therefore, is a one of pure
weightlessness, since the level where the most weight would be expected is
transformed into light or into a greater volume.
The recognition of the center of gravity prepares the mind for holding the notion of a harmony between opposing ideas, though one may not b e conscious of the
center of gravity explicitly.
Procopius' impression that the half domes "seem
somehow to float in the air" while also imposing a "peril" might be explained by the
seeming dissolution of . the dome's center of gravity.
Similarly, this explains why
the great dome is said to be ''fitted together with incredible skill in midair and
(is) floating off from (the parts that support it)" while i t also "produces a single
and most extraordinary harmony in the work." The singleness of this harmony is most
intelligible as the center of gravity of the system from which, quite literally, one
might imagine it being "suspended from heaven." This "single and most extraordinary
harmony" is a characteristic of the whole volume of space within the church and its
special coincidence with light.
When one is aware of the "single" harmony, he is
participating in the whole expanse of form contained within those walls. As soon as
one enters the church, it seizes all of one's senses and leads his mind to wonder.
From the Imperial Doorway, in looking up to the center of gravity of the system
of domes, one sees beyond it through the windows at the base of the dome.
(See line
of vision xy indicated on the cross-section of the north-south axis, above.)
As one
moves into the center of the church, he comes under the full influence of the form of
the dome.
In the center, he can no longer see beyond the center of gravity to the
corona of windows. These windows now surround one in a full circle above one's head .
The windows in these, lying at the
To either side he is aware of the half domes.
level of the center of gravity, are now central to his vision of harmony.
Here he
can also see through the windows at the same level on the north and south faces .
The angle at which these windows can be seen from the center of the church is
about 41 degrees from the floor . This is also the latitude of the church, and so it
marks the height of the pole star and the zenith of the sun on the days of the
equinoxes. One sees through these windows the highest point in the sky to the north,
and, on the equinoxes, the brightest light to the east.
These details c ould no t be
coincidental in a church designed by Anthemius. They serve, I think, to demonstrate
the special significance of these windows.
Beyond the visual indications, it may be that one is also engaged by a haptic
sense of this single point of balance in space.
In the center of the church, one
must be aware of the space of the dome even if he is facing towards the apse or the
doorway and not looking straight up. He is aware of the balance of the forms as a
whole:
the symmetry of the brightly lit half domes and the full dome balanced above
one's head, as well as the symmetry of the shadowy aisles, both below the domes and
extending in opposite directions in the form of a great three-dimensional cross. All
of one's senses, perhaps, combine to produce this awareness.
He remembers having
just seen each of the forms individually a moment before.
He is full of wonder at
their presence for the terror is still quick in his blood.
He sees the forms
peripherally, perhaps, and the shafts of light from their windows cut across his
field of vision.
Maybe even the echoes of footsteps resound to heighten his
awareness of a great space. Full of this sense of space, one's awareness expands to
58
meet the very shape of the forms balanced around him.
In meeting this space of the hemispheres, one meets paradoxes.
The space is
clear and empty, but i t is filled with shimmering light and shadows; its quiet forms
are filled with an impending terror; its scale diminishes one's being and y~t arches
protectively over one's head.
One is carried upwards by his vision to "weigh" the
forms, and, at the single points of balance, all sense of weight disappears.
One's
senses engage the mind to resolve the paradoxes of this world he is in.
The church by itself presents to a person just the barest form of thought that
emerges from the feelings characterized here by awe and terror together:
in a word,
wonder. This particular state of mind has been characterized as follows:
Whoever wonders no longer regards the whole of the external world
as something which he has become clear about ••• Wonder only occurs when man, torn free from the most immediate first connection
with nature and his own singularitl( now seeks and sees in things
9
a universal and permanent element.
One gives up not only his wordly concerns when he crosses the threshold of the
Beautiful Gate, but is compelled to give up even the simplest determinations of
things.
That is, one is not certain of the sense of weight of the domes, of his
safety, or even of his individual worth. Most importantly, he is uncertain of the
space in which he stands.
.
.
The space inside the church is not the natural space of the physical world.
It
appears as the mechanical form of space that is present to the awareness as a s~ace
between a world of objects and a world of pure thought.
The space presented is a
space of its own kind; it embraces neither one world nor the other, but provides a
space through which to enter both.
The word mechanical has an unfortunate connotation of a strictly technological
quality .
But there is no clockwork essence here.
The mechanical science of
Byzantine conception stands between the technique and handiwork of a constructed
thing - a building, a balance, or a work of art - and its abstract design - the f~nal
outcome of the thing which exists in thought prior to its creation. The mechanical
space in which the work is conceived even stan~s betwe~n the ~ct~al, ~oncrete
existence of a thing and the abstract, ideal certainty of it .
It is in this space
that the forms of the church were conceived, and it is in this space that they seem
to exist now, fashioned there by the mechanic's art from space and light.
One need not be a mechanician to recognize the forms as they are.
The forms
shimmerin g in light and shadow are, in their sensuous presentation, dual- natured.
In
. themselves they c ontain perplexities that concern their composition .
By these, one
is driven to a resolution in thought. In merely walking through the church's realms,
one is disposed to a solemnity, a quiet reflection, and serious worship of the
wholeness of things beyond even the · perplexities he sees.
So agreeably do these
forms mirro r the perplexities of the human soul, one cannot help but slip beyond ..
I do not attempt t o name the specific representation of the ideal one must find.
Procopius concluded
wheneve5 anyone enters this church to pray, ..• his mind is lifted
0
to God.
Yet the Sultan worshipped Allah here. And perhaps one may even be moved to embrace
Beauty itself within the walls of Hagia Sophia.
51
Many spectres of harmony have "paced the pillared cloisters of the mind"
, and
each has had its name. But the names of something absolute merely distract one from
the knowledge he seeks of it.
Only when actively engaged with the specific forms
59
�,,,
that are presented, whether to the imagination or to the senses, can one be aware of
the possibility of such an absolute. To speak of such a harmony, one must speak of
an idea that is connected to all human existence and to one's entire being if it is
to be vital to human knowledge.
The names,
removed from their specific
representation, may or may not retain their validity, instill a wonder, or lead one
to a genuine vision of "a universal, implicit and permanent element." But in the
Great Church, where one is awakened to a presence not itself absolute, but whole, it
is certain a beginning is to be made.
References
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.
11.
12.
13.
14.
15.
16.
17.
18.
19.
20.
21.
22.
23.
24.
25.
26.
27.
Abbot Suger, The Abbey Church of St. Denis and Its Art Trearures, ed. and trans.
Edwin Panofsky (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1976.) p. 65.
Cyril Mango, "The Mosaics of Hagia Sophia" in Hagia Sophia by Heinz Kanler,
trans. Ellyn Childs (New York: Frederick A. Praeger, 1967.) p. 47.
Richard Krutheimer, Early Christian and Byzantine Architecture, (Baltimore:
Pelican Books, 1965.) p. 247.
Procopius, VII, Buildings, trans. H.B. Dewing, The Loeb Classical Library
(Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1940.)
Kahler, op. cit. p. 19-20.
Emerson Howland Swift, Hagia Sophia (New York: Columbia University Press,
1940.) p. 18.
Procopius, op. cit. p~ 13.
Ibid. p. 17.
Swift, op. cit. p. 38.
Procopius, op. cit. p. 17.
Ibid.
Ibid.
Ibid. p. 21.
Swift, op. cit. p. 18-19. cites Antoniadi, Hagia Sophia, I,73 on the alignment
of the main axis of the church.
He also gives the orientation of the
sunrise on Christmas Day at 31°41' to the . south of east.
It is unclear
whether on the the morning of the winter solstice the sun rises farther
south but it is likely. In any case, it is clear that the windows of the
apse are sufficiently wide to collect the rays of the sun at a variation of
more than 1°41'.
Procopius, op. cit. p. 25.
Ibid.
Ibid. p. 21.
Ibid.
Ibid. p. 13.
Ibid. p. 20.
Cited by Kahler, op. cit. p. 11.
Procopius, op . cit . p . 19 .
Ibid. p. 27.
Cited by Kahler, op. cit. p. 45.
Ibid.
Procopius, op. cit. p. 17.
T.L. Heath, A History of Greek Mathematics, vol. I (Oxford: Clarendon Press,
1965.) p. 421.
60
28.
29.
30.
31.
32.
33.
34.
35.
36.
37.
38.
39.
40.
41.
42.
43.
44.
45.
46.
47.
48.
49.
SO.
51.
Kahler, op. cit. p. 15.
G.L. Huxley, Anthemius of Tralles, A Study in Later Greek Geometry (Cambridge:
The Eaton Press, 1959) p. 6.
Ibid.
Ibid. p. 7.
Ibid. p. 8.
Ibid.
Ibid.
Ibid. p. 9.
Ibid. p. 10.
G. Downey, Byzantine Architects, Their Training and Methods, p. 111.
Ibid. p. 107. (c.f. Thomas, Greek Mathematics, The Loeb Classical Library
(Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1956: p. 615.)
Huxley, op. cit. p. 25.
Heath, op. cit., vol. II, p. 518.
Ibid. p. 540.
T.L. Heath, ed. and trans., The Works of Archimedes, (New York: Dover
Publications Inc., reissue of Heath Ed., 1897.)
Ibid. Archimedes, The Method (Supplement to Heath Ed.) p. 13.
Ibid. p. 27.
Ibid. p. 11.
Ibid. p. 29.
Ibid. p. 17.
Ibid. p. 13.
G.W.F. Hegel, Aethetics, vol. I, trans. T.M. Knox (Oxford: Clarendon Press,
1974) p. 315.
Procopius, op. cit. p. 27.
George Santayana.
Special thanks to Frederick A. Praeger Publishers, New York; Gehr. Mann Verlag GmbH,
Berlin; and Mr. Raoul Laev, photographer; for their permission to publish, along with
this essay, reproductions from the book Hagia Sophia by Heinz Kaehler.
61
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Energeia, Winter 1987
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1987
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Energeia Spring [Winter] 1987
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Cooper, Laurie (co-editor)
Macfarland, Joseph C.
Energeia
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SPRING 1987
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�ENERGEIA: The activity in which anything is fully itself.
Cover:
ARES: "The Tremble and Scream
of a Body's Undertow"
by Lance Connin
Pastel on Watercolor Paper
Photographed by Greg Ferguson
il ... vou c:vtpyc:ta ~roil ... (Aristotle's Metaphysics, 1072b)
Staff:
Printed by the
St. John's College Press
St. John's College
Annapolis, Maryland
Talke Breuer
Carloss Chamberlain
Meetra Doorandish
Barbara Gesiakowski
Jana Giles
Chris Howell
Steve Jackson
Rena Kuntavanish
Sarah Waters
Co-Editors:
Laurie Cooper
Joseph Macfarland
Faculty Advisor:
Jonathan Tuck
Energeia is a non-profit, student magazine which is published three times a year and
distributed among the students, faculty, alumni and staff of St. John's College, Annapolis
and Santa Fe. The Fall issue contains a sampling of the student work from the previous school year which the prize committees of both campuses have selected for public
recognition. For the Winter and Spring issues, the Energeia staff welcomes submissions
from all members of the community-essays, poems, stories, original math proofs, lab
projects, drawings, and the like.
Note: A brief description of the author accompanies all work not by current St. John's
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�CONTENTS
A CRITICISM OF SOCRATES'
THEORY OF KNOWLEDGE
Fritz Hinrichs
1
SENTO-GOSHO GARDENS
Jennifer A. Lapham
4
PRIZE WINNING PO EM (1986) .
THESEUS' PASSAGE
Claudia Probst
5
THE BOUNDARY OF THE METHOD
Sally Fine
7
ON WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS' POEM
"HE THINKS OF HIS PAST GREATNESS
WHEN A PART OF THE CONSTELLATIONS
OF HEAVEN"
Anne Leonard
9
A PARTIAL DEFENSE OF VICONIAN
ETYMOLOGY AND TOUR GUIDE TO
SOUTHERN MARYLAND
Christopher Bailey
13
DISTANCE #2
Stacy Grimes
17
THE NEST
Patricia Dawson
18
CHICAGO LABYRINTH
Ellen Schwindt
19
SENIOR ESSAY (1986) HONORABLE MENTION
ORIGINS OF COHESIVE THOUGHT
Lawrence Seidl
20
FOR LI CH'ING CHAO
Judy Kistler
35
SURF AND MISFORTUNE
A STUDY OF OEDIPEAN TRAGEDY
Jeff Kojac
36
A TRANSLATION OF JEAN DE LA FONTAINE'S
"THE CAT, THE WEASEL, AND THE
LITTLE RABBIT"
James O'Gara
38
STREETLIGHT
Walter Plourde
42
AN APPRECIATION OF APOLLONIUS 1.34
Henry Higuera
45
�A Criticism of Socrates' Theory of Knowledge
Fritz Hinrichs
In the Meno, Socrates is faced with the problem of how we can go about searching for
virtue when we do not know what it is. He has to explain how we can search for some thing and know when we have found it when we do not know what to expect . It is similar to the problem we would have if someone said, "Go find my dog," and then refused
to give any description of the dog. To solve this problem, Socrates refers to the
belief expounded by the poets that our souls never die and have lived through many
lives .
This being the case, they can recall the truths they have gained in past
lives . Our learning, therefore, is nothing but the spontaneous recovery of knowledge
that was previously known.
To try to substantiate this idea, Socrates asks Meno to bring to him a slave boy
without any previous geometric knowledge. He then proceeds to ask this slave boy
questions about geometric figures that he draws in the sand . Gradually he leads the
boy to an understanding of a particular train of 8eometric reasoning. First Socrates
shows the boy why his initial idea about the geometric figure is wrong, and then he
asks the boy questions until he comes to the correct understanding of the figure.
Because he never tells the boy anything, but only asks him questions, Socrates claims
that the boy has recalled the knowledge of the figure from his own mind.
Now, if all our learning were recollection, then one would expect that our
learning would resemble the way we recollect things that we have learned in this
lif e. This is one point where I find fault in Socrates' theory, fo r the process that
Socrates uses to teach his student does not at all appear to be the same process one
experiences when recalling other facts one knows one has forgotten. It can be seen
that the boy never really recalls anything from his own memory; he only approves of
the ideas Socra t es presents to him .
If he truly were recalling the ideas from
memory, Soc rates would only have to give him lit t le hints, and the boy's memory would
do the rest, just as our memory does when we recall things that have become dim in
our minds . Instead , we see Socrates lead t he boy through almost every step of the
geometric argument, and the boy obediently following behind. This can be well seen
in the second part of the discussion in which Socrates corrects the boy's
misconception that one can double t he area of a square by doubling the length of the
sides . Socrates erases his old square and starts with a new one to show the boy that
the base of a square twice the . area of the square he dre·w would be the square's
diameter . He shows this by constructing three other new squares around the one he
had drawn and dividing each along its diameter to construct a new square that is made
up of the diameters from each one. Because there were four squares, the new square
is twice the original (four halves make two). This whole construction is made by
Socrates with the boy contributing nothing to the argument beyond his consent . When
Socrates finishes constructing the figure, he asks the boy some questions that
require more of a reply than "yes" or "no."
SOCRATES: Here are four squares.
inner half of each of them?
BOY: Yes.
1
Has not each line cut off the
�SOCRATES:
And how many such halves are there in the figure?
[The figure made by the diameters of the squares.]
BOY: Four.
SOCRATES: And how many in this one?
[The original square.]
BOY: Two.
SOCRATES: And what is the relation of four to two?
BOY: Double.
SOCRATES:
How big is the figure then?
[The one cut off by the
diameters.]
BOY: Eight feet.
SOCRATES: On what base?
BOY: This one. [The diameter of the original square.] (85a-85b)
In this quotation, Socrates asks the boy six questions.
In the first, the boy
consents that a diameter cuts a square in half.
In the second and third, he counts
how many triangles are in particular squares. His response to the fourth and fifth
shows his knowledge of ratios, and that to the sixth his knowledge of what a base is.
I hope this quotation adequately shows that the reasoning the boy goes through does
not originate from himself, but is the product of Socrates.
What occurs in this
dialogue is certainly a far cry from the boy's needing a little prodding to remember
those things that are obscured by the forgetfulness of his mind.
In 84d, Socrates
infers that his method is closer to the interrogating for opinion than to instruction
or explanation, but in fact the opposite seems to be the case.
However, part of what Socrates says is correct. He repeatedly tells Meno that
the boy's opinions are the boy's own; this is reasonable in the sense that Socrates
never forces the boy to believe in anything.
But the opinions are not the boy's in
the sense that he made them up or had previously consciously held them.
It is reasonable to say that the boy agrees with what Socrates is saying, but not that he
already knows what Socrates is saying; if this latter were the case, Socrates would
not need to be continually telling the boy how to deal with the problem of the
square.
Also, if we are to say that the boy understands something because he recalls it,
how would we account for the mistakes he makes? For example, the boy proclaims that
if the side of the square is doubled, the area will double. How could the boy come
up with this idea i f he recalled it?
This is what he recalled, so how can it be
wrong if recollection is what determines truth? Socrates would probably answer this
accusation by saying that the boy recalled incorrectly or that he did not recall at
all. I think a hint to what his response would be can be found in line 82e. I will
present two translations that from my inquiry seem to represent the two ways that
this passage is typically translated:
"Now watch how he recollects- things in order--the proper way to recollect." (W.K.C. Guthrie) and, "Watch him now recollecting
things in order, as one must recollect." (G.M.A. Grube). The actual Greek is "GE1'
1
11
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(82 e ) ; t h e pivota 1 wor d
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au-rov m.>aµ 1µvncrKoµsvov scps~ns, ws as 1 avaµ 1µvficrKso8a 1
is OEl . If Socrates admits there is a proper or correct way of recollecting, he is
implying there is an incorrect way of recollecting.
Now, if we call some
recollection proper and some improper, then there must be something by which we are
evaluating it by; there must be something higher.
To make a judgment would be
meaningless if there were no criterion.
This is why I think Socrates is not using
recollection as his ultimate source of truth, but is using something else, most
probably reason, as his final criterion.
The word
os1 can be translated as proper
or necessary (the two translations give examples of each).
If it is translated
"proper", then my idea is supported, but translating it "necessary" does not really
escape the problem either. Why should something be necessary? Is it not because we
have an end in mind by which we are evaluating the process?
I think Socrates has
shown that he is not really relying on what he calls recollection, but is actually
using reason to get the results that he wants.
There is another problem in Socrates' theory that needs to be addressed: when
Socrates states that we learn by recollection, he is not really solving the problem
of how learning came about in the first place.
He may say that we learn now by
recalling what we learned in the past, but that does not tell us how we learned in
the past.
The only thing that his theory does is to push the problem back into the
past where it might not occur to us to think about it. This way of dealing with the
problem would be like trying to answer the problem of the origin of life by saying
that it had been placed on the earth by outer space life-forms.
This method is
evasive but not substantive. However, since Socrates seems to do so well using myths,
I suspect he could have easily answered this objection by stating that when man first
came into being he was endowed with perfect knowledge and has since lost it.
Socrates is able to convince Meno of his theory because it does make a comparison that is superficially correct--when we remember something and when we see something is true, we tend to experience the same feeling of insight or perception. We
experience the same sense of "Aha" when we remember and when we gain understanding,
so it is tempting to see them as coming from the same source.
But to equate them
does not really answer the problem of where learning came from to begin with; moreover, when more closely examined, remembering and understanding have some distinct
differences that rule out their being one.
on
2
3
�Theseus' Passage
Claudia Probst
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Theseus, kneeling by the slain monster
picked up the trail of a golden thread
and followed it, wearily,
through the dim eternal twilight of the labyrinth.
He wound it over and between his knuckles,
the sweat of his palm matting the thread,
darkening the filament of his direction
and enclosing the heat of his hand.
He recalled his fingers entwined in his mount's mane,
after grasping suddenly for lost balance
when shame had made him sway in the saddle,
on the day he saw his father
surrender the city's youths to the Minotaur.
Later his hands had traced the curving wooden ribs
of the prison ship's hull during the voyage to Crete,
and mesmerized his seasick companions
with endless soothing caress.
So long did his hands travel circularly on their backs,
waiting for gasping nausea to subside,
that in darkness he could name each
by resting his hands lightly on their sides,
touching for the duration of a breath.
He felt the thread's tension, more than guide
it impelled him, tugging at his memory
-sunlight and sweet airTheseus longed to follow his eyes
frontwards as Man,
to probe then where a man may.
He remembered in those passages
the dark servant halls of his home,
nights in his early youth
when, trembling, he had eased blindly down stone steps
fingertips brushing moss along rough walls
groping his way to she his destination.
Images of her bare limbs' movement, first stolen
through a crack in the wall of the servant bath
had rooted in his mind.
And when he first clasped her to his breast,
5
�his pulse had quickened, hammering in his ears
until her image, blooming, had threatened
to burst from his head
shattering the night with strong
remembrance of sun on olive skin
and the play of her muscles underneath,
as she lifted an earthen water jar.
Then it was no longer the still air of the labyrinth
and memory that enveloped him
wind-driven dew struck his forehead and
he emerged again into the living worldTo find Ariadne, her hair unbound falling
"'loosely golden in the blessed dawn .
The Boundary of the Method
Sally Fine
In Book VI of th~ Republic, Plato discusses the geometer's use of the figures
and the three forms of angles as hypotheses and asserts that the geometer uses these
hypotheses as the basis of his argument. That is to say, the geometer takes certain
properties as common notions and from those common notions stem the images in
geometry . In addition to this assertion, Plato continues by asking if geometers use:
visible forms ... and make their arguments about them [visible
forms], not thinking about them, but about those others that they
are like? They make the arguments for the sake of the square
itself and the diagonal itself, not for the sake of the diagonal
that they draw, and likewise with the rest. These things themselves that they mold and draw, of which there are shadows and
images in water, they now use as images, seeking to see those
things themselves, that one can see in no other way than with
thought. (510e)
Plato's account of the geometer seems an appropriate description of Euclidean geometry, but hardly applicable to the realm of geometry which Lobachevski provides.
In Euclidean geometry we are provided with images that we consider to be intuitive . The pictures that accompany the propositions fit the image of the figure we
have in our minds. The pictures fit so well that one might wonder if Euclid might be
'spoon feeding' us by appealing to our intuition of how space should be defined and
described.
It is easy to lose track at times that what we actually see before us
when we work through a Euclidean proposition is not square or triangle, but the image
of square or triangle. It is important, however, to remind ourselves of what Plato
suggests, that as long as geometry depends on hypothesis, it can never really grasp
square or triangle. I interpret this to mean that, unless we can move beyond hypothesis, we can never grasp the eidos of square or triangle, but must content ourselves
with their images .
In the imaginary geometry that Lobachevski gives an account of, the images
provided certainly do not 'spoon feed' our intuition.
Few things are more counter-intuitive than parallel lines that converge or a quadrilateral with three right
angles and the fourth angle acute. The images that accompany Lobachevski's theorems
seem almost incommensurate with the language of his geometry. It is very difficult
to convince oneself , after years of being led to believe that parallel lines never
meet and remain equidistant from one another, that the two lines depicted as converging can really be called parallel. Although we see the images before us on paper
that illustrate converging parallels, in our minds we still imagine parallel lines
that do not meet and do indeed remain equidistant. In Lobachevski we have a discrepancy, between the image on paper and the image in our minds, that we did not have in
Euclidean geometry. How does one look at the images provided with the same language
used in a completely different way and make sense of it?
The first reaction, and certainly a legitimate one, is that the system that
Lobachevski introduces is counter-intuitive. Well, yes, it does seem awkward to be
6
7
�given a quadrilateral with three right angles and then to be asked to prove the
fourth angle acute.
This does not come easy because in all of our previous experience, a principal property of the quadrilateral was that the angle sum was consistent. However, now that we are in the world of imaginary geometry, we no longer have
that proportionality, and that is disconcerting.
At this point I don't know whether it is right to question Lobachevski's idea of
geometry or to question our own. Euclid gave us a beautiful system of geometry, but
he never claimed it to be more than a system. He offered us images, and we took to
them eagerly, again, forgetting that he offered us image, not eidos. Plato reminds
us that the geometer can only offer us image in his discussion of the geometer's use
of hypotheses. I don't think that Plato is judging whether the geometer is justified
in using hypotheses, but rather he is pointing out the problem that all geometers
face in being limited by the common notions.
The boundary lies in being human, a
limit that we cannot surpass.
Euclid and Lobachevski, if nothing else, at least
share this boundary.
I think that the geometers themselves are much more willing to
acknowledge this boundary than the students of their geometries.
Why are we so
unwilling to accept Lobachevski?
First let us examine what it would involve to accept Lobachevski's system. The
obvious thing that comes to mind is the denial of the necessity of the fifth
postulate.
Once one denies the need for the fifth postulate, one must acknowledge
that Lobachevski's geometry is certainly as feasible as Euclidean geometry.
Of course, this is much easier said than done.
How can we possibly acknowledge
a geometry other than Euclid's when we quite obviously live in a Euclidean world?
Everything that surrounds us is Euclidean.
Is it because we are surrounded by
Euclidean images that we come to expect Euclidean images in our geometry as well?
After all, what is our real problem with Lobachevski?
His images are consistent
within his system, so we can't find fault there. His theorems follow in logical progression and still we balk.
Consistency and logic aside, his system still goes
against our expectations. We have been habituated to Euclidean geometry, and that is
what we expect.
Although I readily accept the argument that Lobachevski is counter-intuitive, I
am still puzzled by this intuition that we cling to so desperately.
Do we really
have the criteria to determine our world as Euclidean? I hesitate to make this claim
when I consider, once again, Plato's discussion of hypotheses.
It seems impossible
to deny that there are certain things which are inexplicable and those things we call
common notions. I want to call them self-evident, but after studying Lobachevski and
re-reading Book VI of the Republic, I wonder if we only intuit them to be selfevident.
This question is seemingly rhetorical, considering that we are bound by
. image. If we could actually get to eidos, then we would truly grasp geometry.
Apparently, the methodology in the activity of geometry is our problem.
Plato
seems to make an argument for the method of dialectic. In dialectic we begin with an
hypothesis and match it with an antithesis. The struggle between the two eventually
produce some sort of conclusion or falling out of a bigger idea. No matter what the
outcome, one is able to get beyond the hypothesis.
Some progress is made. With the
geometry, however, we are bound by the hypothesis.
No antithesis is presented in
opposition to the common notions. We can build and build our system, but the hypotheses that Plato mentions time and time again remain. Using the methodology of geo-metry as we do, we can never approach eidos which is free of hypotheses.
On William Butler Yeats' Poem "He Thinks of His Past
Greatness When a Part of the Constellations of Heaven
Anne Leonard
I have drunk ale from the Country of the Young
And wept because I know all things now :
I have been a hazel-tree, and they hung
The Pilot Star and the Crooked Plough
Among my leaves in times out of mind:
I became a rush that horses tread:
I became . a man, a hater of the wind,
Knowing one, out of all things, alone, that his head
May not lie on the breast nor his lips on the hair
Of the woman that he loves, until he dies.
0 beast of the wilderness, bird of the air,
Must I endure your amorous cries?
William Butler Yeat's poem "He thinks of his Past Greatness when a Part of the
Constellations of Heaven" is a poem which is hard to understand on the intellectual
level but which strikes deeply into the human heart.
What stands out in the poem
more than anything else upon a first reading is the tone, and the meaning itself is
dependent upon the tone.
The poem is sad.
It is not raging, burning, passionate grief, but more gentle,
implacable sorrow--embers of grief which will never go but will remain, ceaseless and
unchanging. The very first hint of sadness occurs in the title; someone who has become a constellation, who has become part of heaven, is thinking not of present glory
but of past greatness.
The feeling is then brought out more in individual lines of
the poem.
In the second line, the second word is "weep." This, a tangible and open expression of sorrow, is coupled with "because I know all things now" and as such furthers the sadness.
It is a human desire, wish, aim, to know, and this knowledge
makes the line sad in two senses:
first, things that are learned can be sorrowful
and second, in the deeper way the fulfillment of a dream can be sad, even painful.
Sadness occurs too in the fact that knowing all things, the speaker is no longer human; he is something different. With knowledge, humanity is lost, and that is reason
for grief.
In this line, there is regret, regret for having "drunk ale from the
Country of the Young" and thus learned all things, leaving no mysteries or secrets,
and regret for the actual things learned.
The relationship between knowledge and sorrow is expressed in another manner in
the seventh through tenth lines:
I became a man, a hater of the wind,
Knowing one, out of all things, alone,
that his head
May not lie on the breast nor his lips
on the hair
Of the woman that he loves, until he dies.
8
9
�Here the knowledge is of only one thing, yet that thing--loneliness--is so great, so
powerful, that it brings sadness.
The sadness is felt not only by the speaker, is
not only empathetic grief for the poet, but is a reawakening of individual, human
sorrow; everyone has known loneliness and estrangement.
Indeed, the word that those
four lines focus on is "alone."
It is difficult to tell from the grammar of the
eighth line whether "alone" modifies "one" or "man," but this difficulty is exactly
the purpose of the vague syntactical structure:
"alone" applies to both.
The one
thing a man knows is that he is alone. WP.ether a man or not a man, knowledge brings
grief.
The last two lines, "O beast of the wilderness, bird cf the air, must I endure
Being a
your amorous cries?" are an expression of the sorrow, a plea for surcease.
man, he is denied the love and the companionship that the beasts have, and this
brings grief and pain , pain that others have what he does not . The cry is not one of
Even taken by themjealousy or anger, but of helplessness and deep loneliness.
selves, the lines are sad, and as the last two lines of a sad poem, they round out
the grief and the sorrow.
Sadness is not the only emotion expressed in the poem, however . Another is one
of captivity, of helplessness.
This is evident not only in the language but in the
structure of the poem; it has a fairly rigid ABABCDCDEFEF rhyme scheme, the only appropriate rhyme being between "mind" in the fifth line and "wind" in the seventh .
Although the rhyme scheme is no t the most dominant expression of captivi t y , it serves
to lock in the feelings and reinforce the captivity present in the imagery .
The very first image of captivity occurs in the first line, "I have drunk ale
from the Country of the Young . " Ale from the Country of the Young is ale which controls and changes a person, and although the drinking itself may have been
volitional, the effects of the drink are beyond the power of the drinker .
It is a
subtle image, one which does not present itself at first for what i t is , but which
sets the captive tone for the rest of the poem.
The very next two images presented, the hazel-tree and the rush, are images of
captivity or helplessness.
In the lines
I have been a hazel-tree, and they hung
The Pilot Star and Crooked Plough
Among my leaves in time out of mind
the haze-tree is not acting but being acted upon . Long ago the tree stood, and the
stars were hung by some unknown "they" amidst its boughs; it did not hang the ' stars
itself, or even choose which one were hung.
It stood and was used .
Likewise the
ru sh is helpless; "horses tread" it . A ho rse is an image of freed om , of wild grace ,
and the rush is that which is repressed, pushed down by the free. Like the t r ee, the
rush is a passive, emotionless thing of nature which is only acted upon.
And then there is the man, "a hater of the wind . " This hatred is a rejection of
and resentment of freedom.
Wind is wild, powerful, reckless, goes where it wills
when it wills. Wind can destroy, wreak havoc, ruin.
It is uncontrolled.
One who
hates the wind hates that total, raw power and does not know the exhilarating joy
present in a wind dashing wildly through the trees.
Unrestrained and unrestricted,
the wind is a symbol of all that is free and of all that that freedom means. Hating
what is free, the man is not free.
The final image of captivity is expressed, like the sorrow, in the plea of the
last two lines.
The beast and the bird are like the horse and the wind; they are
free, unfettered.
It is to the "beast of the wilderness." the animal that lives
wild, subject to no rule but its own, and to the bird of the air," that animal which
lives among the wind, that the plea is addressed; these things which can love are
free, and which are free, can love. Nor is the object of the plea the only way that
10
captivity is expressed; the word "endure" is one which applies to a prisoner.
One
who is free would not have to endure the amorous cries; one who is free could leave,
or could vanquish the cries.
But that the cries are endured is an indication that
they cannot be escaped.
Sadness and captivity are the dominant emotions, the first impressions which
leap from the words into the heart.
These are what the spirit understands.
But
there are things underlying these emotions, reasons for them, and they are buried
deeper in the poem.
Even understanding the tone, the poem itself is still an unresolved puzzle.
There are two questions which seem to contain the core of the matter. The first
involves the "Past Greatness" anrl the second the separation of the man from the woman
he loves until after death. There is sadness involved in both questions, and a sense
of being trapped.
" Past Greatness" seems to refer to being a hazel-tree, a rush, and a man. These
are all things which have been, which the speaker became, which are no longer, and
for which there is some grief . None of them seems particularly great, yet there is
reason for sorrow;
they have one thing which a constellation does not.
They have
life.
A hazel-tree and a rush have sprung from the earth, have been nurtured by the
sun and the water and the soil, have grown and changed and developed and will continue to do so. Attached, they belong to the world and to each other and to all living
things. They may be helpless, they may be controlled, but they belong, and this in
its own way is far greater than being a constellation, fixed, immutable and completely unconnected. Better to have the stars amongst one's leaves than to be a star; for
a star is not alive.
In a way, the constellation is even more a captive than the
rush and the tree, and this too is reason for sorrow.
And why a man? What greatness is there in being a man, in hating the wind, in
knowing one terrible thing?
There seems to be no inherent greatness but inherent
grief in this.
Yet, there is something in the man which is as great as or greater
than the hazel-tree and the rush.
Perhaps it is as with the rush and the hazel-tree. Living, no matter how terribly, is greater than being a constellation. However, it seems that there must be
something deeper than that. A man is not so connected to the earth and to the world
as a plant or even a wild animal is. In addition to living, a man thinks and knows.
Feeling sorrow, feeling captivity, are things which a man can do and a rush cannot.
It is these, the feeling and thinking as well as the living and connecting, which
make a man great.
It is a sad, painful, captive existence, but it is an existence
which is unique and wonderful.
That seems to give some answer, inadequate though it may be, to the first question, the question of "Past Greatness." The second question, the question of love,
still remains. Why cannot a man be with the woman he loves until he dies? The most
simplistic, obvious answer--the woman he loves is already dead--just does not seem to
do.
The loneliness is part of it. The loneliness is two-fold in nature; first, the
man is lonely because he cannot be with the woman he loves, but second, he cannot be
with the woman because he is by nature alone. Only in death can the solitude of self
be broken.
This part of human nature, this loneliness, exists in several different
ways.
The human race itself is separate from other animals and from nature by means of
language and rational thought and technology. Other animals have societies, forms of
communication and of tools, but none so sophisticated, and no other animal can change
the face of the earth in the way a human being can. This separates the human animal
from the earth and from the other animals; to be human is to be separate.
Further, every individual is alone. The soul of each person is unique. At the
11
�very center of the self is something which only one's own soul, and sometimes not
ev en that, can understand. There is separation from other people and even from oneself. No thing, not even love, can cause the centers of two individ~al souls to ~oin
c ide, and in s ome deep, almost terrifying way, every human soul is always solitary
and l one l y. This seems to be the loneliness Yeats is expressing.
.
To say that a man cannot be physically close to the woman he loves is, on the
literal leve l , r i diculous . Bu t it is metaphorically quite true; the laying of the
head on the br east or t he lips on the hair are metaphors for human companionship, for
unity, for mind t o heart and speech to thought. Only after death, when humanity is
exchange d f or s ometh ing e l se, can such companionship be. The knowledge the man has
is the knowl edge of his own loneliness ; he is captured by his very nature.
What, then, is the meaning of the poem? It certainly cannot be captured in one
single sentence or phrase . The essence of it is both sorrow for loneliness , and lack
of free dom , but a l s o the greatness of life itself . The poem has to do with the
struggle to find one's place in the world , and with the pain that knowledge brings,
wh ether it be knowled ge only of one's nature or of all things. More than anything
else, it shows the paradox of humanity: how hard but how essential it is to be human, how painful and how great , how separate and how connected. And this seems to be
why the tone, expressed through images, is und erstood before the reasons underlying
the tone. The poem is the speech of one human to another, the expression of common
feelings. And so, like the human soul , the poem is a paradox; by its expression of
human l oneline s s, it t ouches human connectedness. Thus there is greatness to think
of wh en a Part of the Constellations of Heaven.
A Partial Defense of Viconian Etymology and
Tour Guide to Southern Maryland
Christopher Bailey
Preface
By the terms ordinary etymology, scientific etymology, etc., I mean the use of
scientific rules of word-mutation and language comparison to trace the development of
wo r ds. Or at least I mean something like that. Any other words I use ought to be
comprehensible from the context in which I use them; it's very likely that there ar e
some which aren't, but I can't think of everything.
The fundamental argument of this pape r is that ordinary etymology is not ade quate for the complete understanding of a word's history, and of its effect on the
people who speak the language of which it is part; and that therefore Vico's attention to superficial similarities in words should not be lightly dismissed.
This
brief prefatory statement may be used as a map and compass to guide the reader out of
the dar k and trackless digressions which lie in his way , and which might otherwise
persuade him that the author of this essay has never quite decided what he's talking
about .
"Port Tobacco," says the Maryland Writers' Project guide to Maryland, "was the
most important of the many Maryland ports on the Potomac ruined by the silting up of
the creek at its landing. Made the seat of Charles County in 1658, it continued to
be the center of the county government until La Plata developed around the new railroad down the peninsula. The Indians also considered it a desirable village site, as
Captain John Smith's map shows; and by 16Rl it had enough settlers to be the scene of
the uprising of Kendall's followers . "
The name "Port Tobacco" is not a terribly unlikely one for a colonial Maryland
port town, since tobacco was probably Maryland's most important export. But Captain
Smith's map shows an Indian village on the same site before any English settlers had
planted themselves there . One might have expected the Indian name of the town to
survive, as the names of other Indian towns did in Maryland, and as the name of the
river on which Port Tobacco was built-- the Potomac -- survived.
I n fact the Indian name did survive. For these were the Potopago tribe. Their
name was attached to their town, and when the English began to settle there, it was
rapidly corrupted into its present form . It was quite natural for it to be so corr upted . The wonder would be, if anyone who was not making a special effort to speak
distinctly should mention a tobacco port called Potopago, that any ordinary listener
should not understand him to have called it Port Tobacco.
Now, if one wanted to t r ace the etymology of the name Port Tobacco, one might go
about it in the normal way . One might first look up port, and find that the Rev. Dr.
Skeat tr aces i t back to the Latin portus , closely allied to porta, from conj e ctur al
root par, to pass through, and thus eventually related to English fare.
Then one
could' do the same for tobacco (where one would have less luck, since, the word being
derived from a West Indian language, its ultimate roots are inaccessible to the Rev .
Skeat). One could do all that, and one would be no closer to the truth than when one
started. Obviously, without the critical knowledge that the place was originally a
Potopago Indian town, any derivation of its name will be at best only partly correct:
12
13
�And then, not much later (869) : "Tradition says that Homer was blind and that from
his blindness he took his name , which in the Ionic dialect means blind . "
If Vico is, as he seems to be, offering each of these as the derivation of
Homer ' s name, t hen he ha s certainl y contradicted himsel f . The most f undamenta l laws
of logic would seem to insist that only one of the t wo could be t r ue.
Possibly Vico, composing these paragraphs at different times, didn't notice the
cont radiction : perhaps one derivation seemed right to him the first time, and then
later the other. But he did let both stand in the third edition .
There are infinitely many other possible explanations of Vice's mo t ive in giving
these two different derivations, but, skipping entirely the question of Vice's real
motive, I shall try to invent a plausible defense for him .
,
If Vico acutally has discovered the true Homer in the Greek people themselves ,
then there must be some reason why the name Homer was associated with the Iliad and
Odyssey , and not the name Orpheus or Dobzhans~In fact , we must look for~ason
why any name at all was given for the author of these poems , when their real author
was a whole nation.
/
Perhaps Homer became a so r t of poetic universal for epic poe t, as Hercules for
strength or Achilles for swiftness, because there was once a rhapsode named Homer who
was extraordinarily good at rhapsodizing . Thus, in the same way that stor ies-a~ su-
perhuman strength might come to be associated with the name Hercules, eventually giving us a Hercules who travelled to all places at all times and did just about everything; so epic poe t ry of great quality might become associa t ed wi t h the name Homer.
But even if this we re the true explanation, it might not quite explain why the
name of Homer and not that of some equally proficient rhapsode became the poetic universal . In the case of He rcules, the name itself had significance . Perhaps it was
thus in the case of Home r .
Let us suppose that there are two rhapsodes in ancient Gre e ce, both equally
admired; one of them is named Homer , the other Dobzhansky . Now, to the Greek ear,
Dobzhansky might not suggest much . But Homer--Homer is a name fraught with associations . An Ionian would immediately hear the word as blind, and immediately would
remember the rhapsodes he had known who were , if we can believe Vico (who takes his
evidence from Homer), conrrnonly blind. The name would seem as appropriate as some I
have noticed in businesses in Inverness, Florida, where on the same street one can
find Grumbling Motors, Crook Real Estate, and Hood Bail Bonds . Those names don't
slip out of memory easily . I can't remember the name of any other bail bondsman ,
though I have doubtless seen many who displayed prominent advertising signs; but the
name of Hood Bail Bonds is ineradicably stamped in my memory.
Similarly, one who happened to be thinking of the strung- together aspect of the
rhapsodes' tales might be led to hear, though perhaps not altogether consciously ,
hom' eirein when the name Homer was spoken . If an English speaker heard of a poet
name Stringtale, he might hav e the same reaction. Just so the name Shakespeare often
suggests to us, without our being aware of it , a vigorous, thunderous, rugged sort of
drama that a name like Jonson doesn't suggest . (In fact some of his contemporaries
made the most of Shakespeare's name, believing that entirely too much spear- shaking
went on in his plays) . In the same way, some theorists have suggested, any person's
name carries with it a package of vague associations which partly determine the way
we react to the person who carries the name . I have heard of some studies which
seemed to indicate that school teachers had pr edetermined conceptions of their student s acco r d i ng t o the students' names . And I remember how I was often shocked in
elementary school when I learned a teacher's first name .
(She didn't seem like a
Mavis to me, I might explain . )
Now , or dinar ily these associations of names with character types migh t be specific to me only, depending , perhaps , on events in my individual experience .
(I
might , for example , have known a Mavis in early childhood.) But there might be certain cases in which the name was likely to produce a similar group of associations in
all the members of a certain culture--as Mr. Hood, Mr. Grumbling, and Ms. Crook can
probably attest . This might especially he the case when the name resembled some common word or set of words .
Contrast the effect of the name Homer with t he effect of Dobzhansky , and i t
seems obvious why Homer would become the poetic universal and Dobzhansky would be
forgotten . Homer simply suggests poet, and suggests it in more than one way .
Thus Vico' s two "derivations" of the name Homer both would add to our understanding of how that name came to be associated with the author of t he world's greatest epics . As derivations in the strictest sense, they might not be historically
correct, but they might help explain why the name was applied as it was in the same
way that a knowledge of the meanings of port and tobacco helped explain the name Port
Tobacco, t hough his t ory may t ell us that t he name is actual l y a corr up t ion
---of
Potopago. And for that reason that one "derivation" need not exclude the other . For
both may have operated on the common sense of the Greek people in driving them to
select Homer as the name of their national poet.
What is true for names we might suspect of being t rue for any word. For we find
we have more to explain, even in ordinary wor ds , than simply how a basic root was
changed into its modern form . Knowing the etymology of the word lift or the parts
14
15
for it would be misleading to give a derivation based on the meanings of the words in
the name without noting that those words only came to be assigned to that place
through corruption of its Indian name.
On the other hand, it would be equally misleading to say that the name is a simple corruption of the name Potopago without taking into account the meanings of the
words port and tobacco. For the town was a port where tobacco was shipped, and that
is why the corruption arose in the first place. It would be just as useless to study
the etymological history of the name !'_~!~p_ago as i t was to study the histories of
port and tobacco. What is most necessary is an understanding of the conditions which
led to the choice of the name Port Tobacco for that particular place.
In his New Science, Giambattista Vico often uses the etymology of a word as part
of his argument. He doesn't seem to have much of a method for his derivations: the
one facto r c ommon t o mo st of them is incorrectness . If Vico wants to say that a certain word actually developed in history in a certain way, he ought to have some sci entific methods for determining that development . Otherwise he should keep his mouth
shut.
At least, that would be my attitude as a twentieth- century admirer of the
accomplishments of scientific etymology .
But Vico may not have seen etymology quite the way I do. He certainly was not
aware of the scientific methods which came into use after he was dead. But he may
not have had in mind the same purpose I have when I search for the one true historical root of a word .
Anyone who pays attention to the etymologies in the New Science is bound to no tice that, within a few pages, Vico gives two entirely different derivations for
Homer's name. First he says (852),
By the etymology of their name from the two words which compose
it, rhapsodes we.re stitchers together of songs , and these songs
they must certainly have collected from none other than their own
peoples .
Similarly [the common noun] homeros is said to have
come f r om homou, "togethe r ," and eir e in, "to link," thus signifying a guarantor, as being one who binds creditor and debtor to gether. This derivation is as far - fetched and forced [when applied to a guarantor] as it is natural and proper when applied to
our Homer ci.s a tier or putter together of fables.
1
�from which elevator was coined will not explain to us why the first is used in one
part of the English- speaking world and the second in another .
The same goes fo r
lorry and truck . or solici t o r and lawye r; and, taking a broader look way and chemin,
since French and English are supposed to be derived from the same ultimate source .
Why does one society choose one root to build its ways on and anothe r choose another?
I have often heard it asked why the same word should have different meanings , but it
seems to me just as interesting to ask, Why does the same meaning have different
words?
Ordinary scientific etymology is of no use in answering this question.
A new
etymological science would be needed to supplement the old.
Perhaps no science at
all could be adequate: perhaps thjs is a field for wild speculation . . I don't ordinarily like wild speculation as a method for finding answers to important questions,
bu t i t i s a t l east mor e u s e f u l he r e t h an t h e o r dinar y etymolo gy .
The r ules of vowel- shifting and consonant mutation and such are simply not applicable to this ques tion:
one might ·as well try to answer it by referring to a yardstick or Ptolemy's
Table of Chords. The laws of etymology have been spectacularly successful in showing
the historical mutations of words; now what we need is a sort of transcendental
etymology to fill out the picture.
We already practice this transcendental etymology, although we really have no
method for it.
If we ask why the word ~ as a synonym for ~ has almost disap peared from our spoken language, no rules of word- mutation will give us an answer .
Rut we probably can answer the question for ourselves by pointing out that the word
has come into use as a synonym for homosexual, and that in our society homosexuality
is an embarrassing subject . We used no scientific procedures to dete r mine that answer: it simply seems obvious to us from what we know of American society .
Vice's method of etymology seems to us today to be crude and sloppy . And it is .
For I believe Vico usually wants to tell us the way a word historically developed ,
and modern scholars could off er very convincing proofs of the wrongheadedness of most
of his derivations . But perhaps in back of Vice's mind there was an unformed idea or
assumption that the true histo r ical development of a wo r d was not its only important
story--and perhaps not its most important for his purposes.
The similarity of one
word to another to which it bears no historical relation might in fact have a great
effect on the use of both words, and might not otherwise be associated.
Modern
etymology might tend to persuade us to ignore such similarities as mere coincidences,
but they ought not to be so easily tossed aside.
I regret that I am completely unable to provide a scientific method for dealing with such similarities when they are
noticed; but we should not close our eyes to extra-etymological considerations when
non-etymological relations suggest themselves. And therefore we should not pass over
Vic o' s "der ivations" as if the y were mere emb arrassments . M
any of them may be totally worthless, but in some of them may lurk a social truth inaccessible to scientific
Distance #2
Stacy Grimes
,,
0 wet day
blanket-of-deep - forest - green day
steam, my body is spice tea, I curl
I am the Sun the Center, heat I am
pulling o tugging o Venus I want
smashed into betwixt me to be me
but all and every ring around
me rosy. Stasis, stance
in this and in all wet days I am
the Sun
o shining Sun.
etymology; and if he uncovered even one such truthrthen Vico's wild speculations were
not entirely in vain .
16
17
�Chicago Labyrinth
Ellen Schwindt
feet thud on wettish
concrete slabs of buildings
building song no
rhythm is forced by metronome
of traffic light the loop
rumbles softly a lofty
thought sways in
blue chiffon dances
a spectral jazz sandal
softens upon the area above
my head my
foot sweeps into someone else's
space no one screams for
air accepts suffocation with
welcome coffee yes please lines
becomes a sweeping ellipse of
warmth dark purple apathy to
fluorescence Emily creeps
around the fringes repeating the bit
about frogs unintelligably through
saxophone slur of
brown corner booths
tea and roses drifting darkness
is becoming sweeping
around mouths
open in effort to breath
thick air eyes
swell to almost
open ended corridors
of sea fog fading black
19
�Origins of Cohesive Thought
Lawrence Seidl
INTRODUCTION
Philosophy is an analytic endeavor.
It takes things apart and looks at them,
and in a way this artificial mental reading irrevocably changes the things it looks
at.
One never loses the insights that are gained through philosophical analysis.
Even if one chooses to give up philosophy, the pursuit of its questions leaves an
indelible impression--i ts effect, as belonging to one's experience, is present in
every subsequent endeavor.
Perhaps the only real philosophical synthesis available
to humanity is the acceptance of the ever more potently described limits of thought
that thought itself struggles with. The acceptance might lead one to leave the study
of philosophy and to incorporate it simply and completely, living the question rather
than asking it.
But here the challenge is in the asking.
The question that brought me to this
paper was:
What is in the "space" between the steps in a logical sequence?
The
question forces me immediately to look a.t the language that such a series could be
described in. Say, for example, that I examine a series of statements and judge that
they follow logically, one after another. It is the logical rigor of the series that
I am concerned with testing, and not the content of each statement, which, as language, depends on the rules of linguistic construction . How am I testing the logical
rigor of the sequence, what do I mean by logical? This is a basic question, asked in
simple language.
"What I mean by logic" is an expression for one thing. It is the
thing to which we refer when we use the word logic. We think of it usually as a criterion by which we judge . thought as ''making sense'i.
Kant says, the science of the
rules of understanding in general, that is, logic."
Any series of statements seems susceptible to being made more logically coherent
and rigorous, by filling in the "spaces" between with other statements, making a new
series which more thoroughly explicates the necessity of the steps. The aim of this
would be to understand better.
This filling in can go on until it becom~s ridiculous--the understanding that resulted from the initial series becomes confused and
the process begins describing itself. Language, when its logic comes into question,
begins justifying itself, turning inward, and describing its own limits.
Logic is
not language--it is independent of its description. We can make a progression more
logical with language, but we are limited by the dependen~that language has on logic. At a certain point, we will use up the empirical content; no more actual detail
will be available.
The logic of the progression will remain unexplica ted, and we
will be left only with an unsupportable affirmation of the necessity of logically
stepwise movement.
For Kant, considering a series of statements as f o llowing logically is an example of the subsumption of the concepts contained in the statements by pure, a priori
concepts of the understanding , that is, categories.
His assertion is that this
subsumption is necessary if there is to be any thought at all. In order to substantiate this assertion by showing it is logically correct, and thereby proving it is
true, it would seem that he must explicate the necessity of the categories for thinking. Now the idea that thinking must be proved categorical is itself a categorical
20
thought.
"The co~plet~ness and. art.iculation of this system [of pure understanding]
can at the stme time yield a criterion of the correctness and genuineness of all its
components-."
On the face of it, categorical necessity wouldn't seem sufficient to
prove that thought is categorical, just as language, a logical construct, doesn't
ultimately serve to explicate logic. Logic and categorical necessity themselves require to be made necessary by something more coherent and more necessary from which
they can derive their power.
'
The search for this ground can take place only on the edge of meaningful language.
The language of the search ts admittedly insufficient for the task of
explaining its quarry, and at some crucial moments must rely on its ability to point,
to imply the ultimate coherence and necessity that must validate thought. Kant's own
language suffers these weaknesses, and yet it resounds with the power of its rational
intent.
The completeness and coheTence of the system speak for the power, while at
certain points the rules of language represent an obstruction to Kant ' s clarity o f
intention.
The ultimately coherent source of logical necessity is the synthetic unity of
apperception.
In trying to make this unity an "object" of my thought, I must, it
seems, deny the use of those elements of thought which depend on it for the necessity
of their existence. This puts me very near the "I", in the immediate logical vicinity of the noumenal center of my being.
It makes me feel alone.
In what follows, I
have presumed to begin with unity, itself the seemingly logical beginning of thought.
I have attempted to explore Kant's treatment of this function of unity, and to give a
sense of where we are in relation to the "I" we cannot know.
I. A.
Preliminary and purposely naive examination of the relation between unity
and thought.
Reason is the unified faculty which binds our mental activity into what we call
thought.
Its singularity reflects the unity of the thinking subject in which it is
housed.
Reason views the subject's body of knowledge as one comprehensive thing, a
manifold of systems of understanding, each of which contains subordinate systems of
concepts.
Since systems and the concepts are themselves considered as whole things,
this suggests that the manifold into which reason unifies them need not be considered
as a whole at every moment in our thought. We are not thinking all our knowledge at
all times. Our body of knowledge, and the subordinate wholes within it, are all susceptible to analysis. Indeed, the large encompassing order that reason prescribes is
its fullest end, and we rarely have any sight of its oneness.
This is because our
understanding does not always succeed in its effort to secure fully unified concepts.
We possess concepts which seem incomplete.
They contain strongly associated impressions but their boundaries are not clear, and they are thus not fully unified.
These concepts present problems to reason's goal of unity.
Since reason is a faculty acting on already unified wholes, a question presents
itself. What is the relation between the unity of the concepts considered as parts,
and the unity of the system of reason? Do the unities we see in each share a common
source? Thinking of reason as subsuming the understanding, fully contained and extended within itself, we may also consider both faculties as concentric around a central unity, from which the unity of each is derived.
Since concepts are ultimately
formed from the chaotically independent world of pre-appearance, and therefore rely
on a unification of these jumblings for their wholeness, they require that the unifying source be active continually during this nearly constant process. Making concepl
tual ones out of the chaotic many, and then organizing the ones into a rational manifold we identify as ours, seems to be the general character of thought.
I
Reason thinks ideas, which incorporate intuitions and concepts. Reason is thus
a higher faculty than sensible intuition or understanding.
But it is -e
ssential tb
I
21
�see the dependence of reason on these subordinate faculties. It does not depend on
them for its existence, but it needs the concepts they produce to carry out its function, so as to be useful to the subject.
Intuition and understanding, considered
with regard to this use, are in reason, and their functions are part of reason's own
usefulness. All three faculties rely on unity.
Pure reason is in fact occupied with nothing but itself. It can
have no other vocation. For what is given to it does not consist
in objects that have to be brought to the unity of the empirical
concepts, but in those modes of knowledge supplied by the understanding that require to be brought to the unity of the concept
of reason--that is, to unity of connection according to a principle. The unity does not serve objectively as a principle that
extends the application of reason to objects, but subjectively as
a maxim that extends its application to all possible empirical
3
knowledge of objects.
This subjective maxim of systematic unity is an idea that belongs to the thinking subject.
It is an idea that can apply only to knowledge. Without a unifying
faculty of understanding, we would never coalesce the manifold of the sensible impressions that constitute Kant's "beginning" of all knowledge. The thinking subject
first intuits, then thinks concepts through understanding, and then orders his
thought through the unifying function of reason. We must look to the subject for the
unity upon which the elements of this process depend.
This assertion presupposes an important question: how does the unity, which I
assert to be central to the nature and activity of thought, relate to my concept of
unity? This echoes Kant's criterion for determining a given concept to be synthetic.
"The question is not what we ought to join in t,fought to a given concept, but what we
actually think in it, even if only obscurely."
If what we actually think in a concept is a manifold, and can thus be separated or analyzed, the "what we think" has a
two-sided existence. On the one hand it is many, on the other it is one. As a concept, it is synthetic if we are aware that the two sides are required to be put to gether . The many impressions have somehow been previously conjoined into a manifold .
If I ask myself what I actually think in my concept of unity, that is, what kind of
synthesis resulted in my concept, I become confused. The question loses meaning because I fail to find a coherent concept of unity in my thought. Examples of unity
pour forth, empirical and partitive. I am unable to gather them. Soon I see myself
thinking, over against the lot of united things thought. This serves to point out ~
oneness in a comparative way. My failure to find unity as a concept, does not prevent me from thinking of myself as one, more truly one than any other example I have.
Is my own unity also my concept of unity?
To answer this question, I must analyze my thought without the benefit of Kant's
system. I can't think about my thought through his system without first determining
my own relation to it. According to Kant, I can have no empirical experience of unity. I can have experience only of concepts arising from sensibility, which are possible in part because of the category of unity. The category is at work each time I
am conscious of a given representation.
But what do I think about unity, what notion do I hav e of it that allows me to
hope to apply Kant's ideas in my thought? It is appropriate here to be somewhat naive, and briefly to follow my sense of being pushed back from the empirical experience . of the cohesive aggregations we loosely term "unities", to the reasons why we do
so.
In the second paragraph of the Introduction to the Critique of Pure Reason, Kant
distinguishesr: empirical knowledge from "what our own faculty of knowledge supplies
22
·~
from itself ."5 His cautions against the error of deducing necessity from examples ot
experience are frequent and numerous. This suggests that Kant wants to remind not
only the reader, but himself as well, that care must be taken to limit consideration
of the role of necessity to the realm of pure thought. As creatures in the world, we
don't often need to question the truth of appearances. We treat objects as things
entirely knowable in themselves, even as we contemplate the inherent error of so doing. If we look at the process of our giving up on the hope that experience can illuminate the character of unity, perhaps we can reveal something about the way we
come to see unity as crucial to thought in general.
· Strictly speaking, we don't see unity in experience, but rather unification, or
the results of processes of unification. In the first case we see the actual "bringing together" of diverse empirical elements into a "whole". In the second case we
see the "whole", and its composition is apparent to us by analysis. In the world of
objects treated as things knowable in themselves, unification is the process whereby
individuals are grouped. This results either in an aggregation in which the individuals are judg.ed as sharing an identical quality, or in a system where the individuals are seen as complementary elements of a unique singularity. The description
of the simple aggregation can serve as a general description of any of its members.
Similarly, the end toward which the system-group is aimed is greater than any of the
diverse purposes of the complementary parts. In both instances, the parts are more
effectively comprehended. Our thinking, which was scattered because it had to address many thing, gains cohesion and power by our gathering them into encompassing
wholes.
Next we may notice in gathering individuals into unified groups we do not negate
their individuality. The unified groups strive to imitate the cohesion of the individuals they contain, which are always simpler than the groups.
This pushes our
thought into the regressive exploration of increasingly simpler wholes. Our empirical examples fail to show us unity, because the successively simpler wholes contain
parts that can in turn be analyzed. We are forced to explore unity in thought.
A purposely naive retracing of the path that we take in moving from the awareness of empirical unification and the power it seeks to secure, back into the necessary principle of unity in thought, mirrors what must have been the philosophical
preparation for the writing of tht Critique. "There can be no doubt that all our
knowledge begins with experience."
This first sentence of the introduction to the
Critique reveals Kant's awareness that he must subsume empiricism in stepping away
from it. There can be no doubt that man's first knowledge comes from an unexamined
process of acquisition. Kant knew that he normally treated objects the way we all
do.
His initial examination of experiential knowledge must have involved basic
questions, and threatened ( at least initially) his confidence in the "reality" of the
world. Ultimately his philosophy does not ask us to change our physical relation to
objects; but it does demand that we recognize "reality" as a subjective idea. The
empiricists were confident that their observations were undeniably objectively real,
and that unerring logic following from these observations taken as principles could
not fail to be correct. Kant ushered in transcendental philosophy by simply asking
how they observed, how they thought, and from that, how observation and thinking are
possible.
I. B.
Discussion of the presuppositions behind considering experience to be the
beginning of knowledge.
The assertion that all our knowledge begins with experience only seems possible
after an extended analysis of the faculty of understanding. It presumes a specific
definition of knowledge as relying on concepts, which are themselves defined as the
reproducible representations of manifolds in intuition. The statement also therefore
23
�presumes that the understanding is the faculty which makes concepts.
The beginning
described above is a temporal one, where perhaps the connotation of origin is missed.
It cannot be otherwise, since time is the form of all intuition, the root of knowledge~ but the awareness of this temporal beginning presupposes analysis of understanding. It is the first sentence of the Critique. It has been placed there for a
specific reason. We must transcend this temporal beginning, and examine the analysis
from which it results.
Consideration of the presuppositions involved in Kant's assertion that experience must be the temporal beginning of knowledge, helps to reveal the logical
convolution of the Critique's explication.
Logical analysis reveals sensible intuition as the temporal beginning of possible knowledge. For this reason, the Critique
begins its explication with an analysis of sensible intuition.
Logic reveals intuition as the source of knowledge.
Logic is a faculty which lends necessity to the
movement of thought.
Thus intuition is revealed as the necessary beginning of the
process of acquiring knowledge. We may acquire knowledge that begins with intuition,
without explicating this process to ourselves. Logic then simply works in us unanalyzed. We treat our intuitions as given and from them determine what logically follows.
But when we wish to explicate the workings of the process, this is, to say
what in us receives impressions, and what we do with them, etc., we are faced with
the problem of explicating necessity.
In effect, logic is then led to explicate itself, its function of lending necessity. A further complication is the fact that the
language of the explication depends on logic for its capacity to ''make sense''.
The
logically derivative, complex rules of syntax must constitute the form of an
explication of the most basic beginning of logic. What approach can we make to the
explication of logic? The Critique is Kant's offering to us in our predicament, the
result of his sharing our dilemma.
It can only have followed in the wake of the incisive questions which carry it along.
Our initial attempt to judge his rigor, his
logic, his depth, consists of trying it on. That is, we try to think as he does. As
a result of this effort we come to a point where we rely heavily on the prefacing
remark , "Kant would say . • • " , in answering philosophical questions put to us. We give
Kant permission to answer for us. The temptation and indeed (if we want to know his
thought) necessity of this "trying on" is analogous to the aforementioned unanalysed
acquisition of knowledge.
We read Kant and accept him, working to give the system
its full due. We do not isolate clearly and methodically the concepts that we understand arising from the book, but we do generate them, as unquestioningly as we avoid
cars in the street.
As we grow comfortable with the Critique, we disentangle ourselves, achieve some distance, and try to figure out what we think about it.
·
·
•t
We apply his method to his own system, once we can b egin t o " p 1 ace " 1 , o r
glimpse its collective rational unity. The above description of our familiarization
process , could perhaps be generalized into a description of familiarization in general.
But the fundamental character of Kant's subject matter puts limits on the process of looking within his system. We want to go beyond an unquestioning acceptance,
to a full explication of the necessity, carried to its original source.
This
"source" may well be seen as the true beginning" of knowledge.
As it is the source
of logical necessity, it is also a limit to the logical process of validating philo sophical systems.
II. A.
Dependence of e ach stag e of the analysi s of und e rstanding on the u nity it
reveals as its highest principle.
This paper began by discussing reason as the unifier of
and of possible knowledge.
We think of the expression "what
only one thing, albeit comprehensive.
Kant terms this aspect
unity", and he relates it directly to the unifying capacity of
24
our body of knowledge
we know" as intending
of reason "systematic
the faculty of under-
standing.
Just as the understanding unifies the manifold in the object by
means of concepts~ so reason unifies the manifold of concepts by
means of ideas, positing a certain collective unity as the goal
of the activities of the understandi~, which otherwise are concerned solely with distributed unity.'
.,
This collective unity is the totality of possible knowledge, and it apparently re flects the unity of the understanding which facilitates the generation of concepts .
The Critique of Pure Reason is. distinguished from the system of pure retson since it
does not claim to offer the "exhaustive application of such an organon."
Rather, it
seeks to delimit completely the principles of a priori synthesis.
Two results of a
priori synthesis are possible: the form of possible manifold in intuition, or a body
of ·a priori knowledge based on pure concepts of the understanding. The first synthe sis is temporally prior in relating to acutal experience, but depends on the logical ly prior possibility of the second synthesis.
Pure concepts of understanding must
relate a priori to objects, but their exisfcrnce, Kant says, already presupposes the
combination attributable to a higher unity.
[Combination] .•• is an affair of the understanding alone, which
itself is nothing but the faculty of combining a priori and of
bringing the manifold of given representations under the [systematic] unity of apperception.
The principle of apperceptioIJ.. is
1
the highest principle in the whole sphere of human knowledge.
This lofty evaluation of the synthetic unity of apperception may seem surprising, since we associate it with concepts of understanding rather than with the
disjunctively considered, "higher" sphere of pure reason .
It is often difficult to
retain the awareness of reason as the legislator of thought . This is because we are
normally put upon by need and see legislative function only when we reflect op the
2
"how" of thinking.
Reason itself supplies the principles of understanding,
of
which the highest is t he unity of apperception.
This high principle of knowledg e
alone can reflect the systematic unity of pure reason, whose ideal end is the totality of all possible knowledge . But this is a statement of its stature and is not illuminating as to the nature of the principle .
Our initial , more naive conception of the shared unity at the center of thought
was based on the dependence of reason on understanding and intuition.
We imagined
t he subordinate faculties as contained within the faculty of r eason .
In makin g such
a formulation, we abstracted from the movement in the process of acquiring knowledge
to a fixity of the interrelation of the elements of our mental activity.
I suggest
that Kant's description of the .;3.cquisition of knowledge arose from an analytic and
methodical questioning of empiricism, which centered around a complaint that it
lacked explicit logical necessity and didn't address the condition of its thought.
The original synthetic unity of apperception is the ultimate yield of Kant, s
rational analysis of the possibility of understanding. When we have it revealed, we
have attained the abstract fixity in which all the fundamental elements of rational
thinking are displayed before us . Their necessary order can only now be ascertained
as truly necessary, since only by seeing its root in the principle of unity is cat egorical necessity even deemed possible. Once we have attained this high principle
that lends necessity to the generation of concepts, we can look back at the process
of its revealing , that is , the sections of the Critique prior to the Transcendental
Deduction. We then see the dependence of each stage on the principle itself.
In the
first stage, the Transcendental Aesthetic, Kant is primarily concerned with estab-
25
�lishing space and time as the sole formal conditions of sensible intuition.
"It
is ... indubitably cerf~in that space and time ... are merely subjective conditions of
all our intuitions."
Kant's analysis of the faculty of receptivity thr ough which
objects are given to us is the epitome of plausibility. He offers a complete argument for its acceptance, since our alternative of ascribing objective validity to
space and time would be a relinquish::Lng of our ability to say "indubitably certain",
that is, to prove the necessity in the relation of space and time to our intuition.
But the completeness of the argument is not assured until we have gone further. This
"indubitable certainty" is not explicitly possible until the ground of the necessity
is revealed as the unity of apperception . "Time and space are therefore two sourcI~
of knowledge, from which bodies of a priori synthetic knowledge can be derived."
Such bodies of a priori synthetic knowledge necessarily contain concepts derived from
sources in intuition, and so establish these sources as indubitably certain and subjective. To question their necessity is equivalent to denying synthetic unity, and
questions Kant's formulation of concept making.
In the short introduction to the Transcendental Lo~, the understanding is designated as "spontaneity in the production of concepts,"
which it makes in conjunction with the other fundamental source of knowledge in the mind, the sensible intuition. Here, the two-fold role of logic that we have already described is made explicit.
First, it must give necessity to the process of acquiring a priori knowledge; and second, it must reveal the source of this, its own necessity. This is the
role of transcendental logic, which is distinguished from general logic in that it
treats only of the a priori use of understanding.
Empirical objects, even should they never vary in our experience, cannot be
shown to exist necessarily. Their consistence in experience refers us to the subjective necessity that underlies the possibly of their being judged as unvarying . General logic, which supplies the rules under which these objects must be brought in the
understanding, can therefore only treat of the form of thought, irrespective of its
sensible content. But since a priori synthetic knowledge is available to us,
a distinction might likewise be drawn between pure and empirical
thought of objects. In that case we should have a logic in which
we do not abstract from the entire content of knowledge.
This
other logic, which should contain solely the rules of the pure
thought of an object, would exclude only those modes of knowledge
which have empirical content. It would also treat of the origin
of the modes in which we know objecr~' in so far as that origin
cannot be attributed to the objects. ·
The origin of the modes of human knowledge is attributed to the thinking subject. Is
this saying that knowledge derives from the knower? If appearances provide only the
substance of knowledge, and in no way contribute to the actual modes of knowing, this
would suggest that in the thinking subject alone are we to find the functional origin, or true beginning of thought.
II. B.
Transcendental Analysis
purest concept.
of understanding reveals
synthetic unity as
the
The Transcendental Logic is divided into two sections, one of which, the
Transcendental Dialectic, Kant claims to be "no more than a critical tre17ment of the
pure understanding for the guarding of it against sophistical illusion.''
The first
part, the Transcendental Analytic, is the more substantial, recognizably logical section. The initial book contains first, the exposition of the table of categories, or
26
pure concepts of understanding; and then the Transcendental Deduction, where the unif~ing function of the categories is made explicitly possible and necessary.
The
first book of the Transcendental Analytic contains what seems to be the essence of
the Critique of Pure Reason . The analytic is an attempt to understand understanding
Here is found the full force of the word "transcendental".
Here is also felt th~
extreme limitation of words and language.
If we think of the term "transcendental"
as indicating movement out of a given mode into the understanding of its possibility,
then what do we intend by the application of this "movement beyond" to the under standing itself?
The determination of the system of concepts of pure understanding is an analysis
which Kant does not describe. The system seems to yield itself to him effortlessly,
through the act of his looking at understanding with only the aid of his concept of
purity, which prevents his looking, as it were, from admitting any empirical blemish .
What is Kant analyzing? We might offer some of his own words--he' s analyzing the
faculty which generates concepts a priori--but are these words satisfying to the purity of what they intend? Kant's own description is equally troubling.
By analytic concepts, I do not understand their analysis, or the
procedure usual in philosophical investigations, that of dissect ing the content of such concepts as may present themselves, and
so of rendering them more distinct; but the hitherto rarely at tempted dissection of the. faculty of undP-rstanding, itself, by
looking for them in the understanding alone, f~ their birthplace,
and by analyzing the pure use of the faculty .
The analysis is explic itly a mere "looking" and yet it serves to "dissect" the under standing. What is intended by the two metaphors? "Looking" is that evaluation of
the thinking self, in which we determine what concepts are available . They need to
.
.
.
.
b e " soug ht II , t o f in d " p 1 ace ,, -- I can ' t seem to avoi d spatial analogies or of fer a description of what is intended by this process of "searching out'' the contents of a
thinking faculty . It is a mental "searching" t o which we have such a simple relation
that our need to employ analogical descriptions of it cannot tarnish the clarity of
o u r th oug ht .
"D. sec t. " is even more comp 1 ex as it presupposes the more specific
.
·
is
ing
condition of the prior cohesion of the elements of understanding.
It is the dissection of a faculty we must already "have" in its entirety.
Th~s ~alls up t~9 distinction initiated in the Introduction between analytic and
synthetic Judgments.
There Kant claims that the effect of this distinction on philosophy has not been keenly felt before his own treatment of it. This is an important indication of the role that his analysis of thought occupies in his own mind .
Analytic judgments, he says, can be thought of as explicative; while synthetic
judgments should be termed ampliative. These words point to a question which becomes
vital when thinking of the unity of apperception, namely, is one of the two kinds of
judgments more necessary?
The possibility of an analytic judgment depends on the
existence of a concept that is unified, or has already been synthesized. All analysis then, is grounded by a priori synthesis. And while the determination of a concept as synthetic depends on the capacity to analyze it, it might be imagined that
synthetic concepts could exist alone without any analysis possible. They would simply foster other synthetic concepts in one direction, that of a progressively more
encompassing and complex concept. All learning would then be the building of a super-concept that contained all of an individual's knowledge.
Analytic judgments,
adding nothing to concepts, do not sit in the position of grounding synthetic ones.
Thus the entire Transcendental Analytic presupposes a synthesized subject matter already existent. Since the actual steps in Kant's "analyzing the pure use of the faculty" of understanding, are not described, we are forced to trust that a synthesized
27
�ill
understanding that must be presupposed is known to us so simply and fundamentally
that it is indescribable and susceptible of an equally indescribable analysis.
Upon presenting his table of categories, Kant says,
This then is the list of all original pure concepts of synthesis
that the understanding contains within itself a priori ..• by them
alone can it understand anything in 2Be manifold of intuition,
that is, think an object of intuition.
The table is the result of the undescribed analysis. The next statement is an assertion of their fundamentality to thought.
At this stage of the argument, Kant
relies on the rigor of his preparation to make up for the "space" in between the categories and their function . The above statement is an encapsulation of the move from
the analytic determination of what the categories are, to the analytic deduction of
their indispensability, in which he set out to prove their uniqueness and exhaustiveness.
"Concepts of synthesis" are principles of . the combination of the manifold in
intuition. The possibility of combination is rooted in the original synthetic unity
of apperception.
In the same way that we presume as necessary a pure synthesized
understanding whose analysis reveals the categories, so the syn the tic unity is described by Kant as an analytic proposition. We must be able to deduce a priori the
form in which an object may be represented to us. Only by this will we be able to
extend ne,cessity to the object, as known. Deduction is a logical process, and it is
analytic. It has the character we looked at earlier, of "pushing" us back to necessary conditions. Since, in this case, all its movement is born of a priori necessity, Kant terms it a transcendental deduction.
The necessity that this deduction
pushes us back to is so pure as to validate the categories themselves.
It is the
source of their power to give cohesion to the chaos of pre-appearance.
It is the
purity in pure thought.
The word "necessity" seems insufficient to its actual intended function.
impossible bind? We feel the push of analysis, but we can't offer an illumination of
the nature of the synthetic unity that is presupposed. We can only deduce that it
must exist, and this deduction is the result of an analysis that began by looking at
sensible intuition. I suggest that this whole preliminary analysis stands in need of
the ultimate unity that it reveals as the limit and source of its own power. Here we
feel both the push of analysis and the ultimate synthetic coherence of unity
co- existing and giving rise to thought itself.
In support of his attributing an analytic nature to the principle of synthetic
unity, Kant makes the following statement:
I am conscious of the self as identical in respect of the manifold of representations that are given to me in an intuition,
because I call them one and all my repr1~entation, and so apprehend them as constituting one intuition.
It seems that the unity is an analytic proposition because it serves only to
explicate the thinking subject, not to join anything to the concept that we have of
it . Looking at the language of the argument, I question whether there is any "rooul."
for analysis in the simple realm where the unity exists; or whether anything is mo r1
e
analytically appropriate than that my representations must be called mine. By analy\
sis, I identify my capacity to say "I think" as signaling a unity in my represent~r
tions which must be the result or prior synthesis. Explication is often essential to
understanding.
Analysis, in the empirical world, would seem capable of providing
more information to the mind than synthesis.
Here, however, isn't analysis in an
The analysis of any concept will result in a sequence of analytic judgments in which
"I" am the judge, and I identify the elements of the judgment (subject and predicate)
as ~ representations. In order that this be possible, we must conceive of the necessity that a synthesized , potentially divisible concept already be available, aris ing from the original unity. The formation of the above sentence is revealing. I am
something because I do something.
"I" both is and does, and its doing is a proof of
its being. Upon whar-does this proof rely if we accept that we can have no knowledge
of the "I" as it is in itself, but only as it appears?
The synthetic unity of apperception is not the "I". We want to attribute it to
the "I" as a way to get "nearer" to what the "I" in itself may be. In the unity, we
see a coexistence of analysis and synthesis nearing the absolute cohesion we suspect
must exist in the "I" that is capable of sensing, understanding, and reasoning. We
have said that analytic thinking is pushy in general. It seems that a concept isn't
fully known, isn't knowledge per se, unless it is fully analyzed . So the understand ing pushes for completeness in concepts.
Similarly Pure Reason is a kind of
transcendentally analytic, or potentially analytic faculty, that applies itself once
a body of potentially related complete concepts are known. What is reason's analysis
pushing toward? A complete system is what Kant suggests is reason's focus. What do
we mean by a complete system? His assertions about the responsibility of philosophy
and the exhaustiveness of the categories, all suggest that he intends to fully delimit the parameters of possible truth.
He wants to be infallible, so that all
questions of the form of thought, that is, the a priori condition of the mind, may be
answered. The only proof Kant will accept of the connection between an object and
its synthesized representation in the understanding, is one that establishes an a
priori readiness to know the representation as an object. These words--know, representation, and object--have the very narrowly defined meanings offered by Kant in
order to limit confusion. He rejects an empirical proof of the connection between
object and representation (i .e. that the object makes the representation possible),
because it cannot be shown to rest on a stronger condition than the commonality of
experience. The object itself is out of range of possible knowledge.
It is truly
independent of our thought.
Commonality of experience could only yield what Kant
considers a de facto deduction of the form of its representation in thought.
This brings us back to transcendental deduction, and its relation to the
noumenal synthetic unity whose activity brings the categories into existenc~
4 Deduction is a logical process and cannot contain the unconditioned in any way.
But
this is the deduction without which no other deduction is possible.
It is at the
beginning, and logic cannot simply start itself up like a motor. If we wish to make
it logical , it seems we must find a way to condition the original unity.
We are
28
29
III. A. The thinking subject considered as object leads to our inability to reject
individuality.
The application of the analytic/synthetic distinction discussed in section four
of the Introduction to the consideration of the synthetic unity of apperception,
serves to exhibit the depth of my conceptual dilemma with unity. Kant identifies the
principle ~f the unity of apperception as "an identical, and therefore analytic prop 2 He explains,
osition."
For it says no more than that all ~ representations in any given
intuition must be subject to the condition under which alone I
can ascribe them to the identical self as synthetically combi~2d
in one apperception through the general expression, "I think". ·
�i
pushed and reason won't yield, even here where its own effectiveness finds its root,
its limit.
Kant certainly does not proclaim the unity of apperception to be unconditioned,
nor does he claim to condition it so as to preserve the strict logic of the deduction. Indeed, as logically necessary, unity must he conditioned. His description
of its necessity only succeeds insofar as his language succeeds. And while his language and logic are impeccable in regard to establishing the "I" (or at least the
synthetic unity attributable to it) as a kind of ground for thought, he makes statements which out of context sound like tautologies.
"For the manifold representations, which are given in an intuition, would not be f?e and all ~ representation,
if they did not all belong to one self-consciousness."
Perhaps it is reason's unceasing drive toward comprehension that "conditions"
the unity of apperception.
For there is an idea of "complete systematic unity belonging to reason. Kant assigns three ideal object~ to this idea, the first of which
is the "I" considered as "thinking nature or soul." 7 Since we are beyond "I think",
where the thinking self is an object, we are also outside of understanding.
Pure
reason is looking at an object that it gives for itself.
Instead, then, of the empirical concept (of that which the soul
actually is), which cannot carry us far, reason takes the concept
of the empirical unity of all thought; and by thinking this unity
as unconditioned and original, it forms from it a concept of reason ... The idea of a simple self subsisting intelligence .• It is
endeavoring to represent all determinations as existing in a single subject, all powers, so far as possible, as derived from a
single fundamental power, all change as belonging to the state of
one and the same permanent being, and all appear~§ces in space as
completely different from the action of thought.
If we consider this in conjunction with our understanding that tq~ synthetic unity of
apperception constitutes the objective validity of the object,~
and so determines
itself as utterly subjective, we see here, at the root of the thinking process, something like an inability to reject our own individuality.
When I say, "my mind makes me •.. ", I mean that l feel a necessity in my thought
that "pushes" for completeness. I believe this is what Kant describes as the effect
of the transcendental ideas on my understanding. I wish to order my knowledge and to
have concepts in their fullness of meaning. Reason is always seeking to complete the
system of knowledge that is born in the understanding, thereby giving concepts place
and "extension". Transcendental ideas are not bound the way concepts are to objects,
as they have no object in concrete.
By identifying "I think" as a kind of ultimate object, we have introduced a
ranking of a priori concepts--a transcendental hierarchy of importance that reflects
the truth of the concepts contained in it.
"I think", as we know, accompanies all
representations.
We may therefore consider our knowledge of any concept to be expressible in a judgment. This can be seen most clearly in the common response to the
question, · "what do you think?"
We say, "what I think is ••• ", in which objective
truth, that is, subordinate judgments concerning objects, is united in the predicate
of a self - directed judgment of myself as thinking. This is only redundant, since all
representations are susceptible of such a construction, but it is also a very common
use of language.
This suggests something we have already alluded to--the "ultra a
priori" nature of original unity.
One might think that the universal applicability
of "I think" would eliminate it as an effective linguistic tool. But we seem to need
to say it, to reaffirm a connection between the object we make of our self, the activity of thought, and the empirical object of the cosmos.
30
III.
B.
Thought directed toward the self is recognized as conditioning being.
All our concepts must come in a categorical form.
Kant says,
The table of categories, as
contains all the elementary concepts of the understanding in
their completeness, nay, even the form of a system of them in
human understanding, and accordingly indicates all the momenta of
a projected spec~~ative science, and even their order, as I have
elsewhere shown.
Any concept may be placed in a category which subsumes it a priori, and we can see a
necessary relation between empirical concepts only because of the necessity of the
relation of the categories that subsume them.
The necessity of the categories is
not, however, the so"rce of necessity itself.
The deduction of their necessity is
different from the necessity that "I think" accompany all representations which, as
we said, involves our inability to reject the individuality of our thought, or to
separate our being from the condition of this activity of thought. Our consciousness
of this inability is what leads us to deduce the original unity of apperception as
underlying the analytic unity of all consciousness of objects. The logical necessity
of the existence of this unity is categorical, implying a tautological circularity--that the categories could somehow provide proof of their own necessity. Logical
necessity is the result of our holding up individuality of thought as undeniable, our
challenging ourselves to "get behind" it in thought, and our inevitable failure to do
so. Can we ever get behind logical necessity?
This is to ask whether we can get behind original unity.
Perhaps we cannot do
so directly, as we have shown that the language we would use relies on the principle
of unity in a truly transcendental way.
Its reliance prevents us from actually
explicating the truth of the original unity's being,
or the truth of its
transcendental necessity. What can we do with language that might cast light on this
hidden place in us?
--I have spoken of the "I think" as an ultimate object.
I have intended by this
to show that the reliance of human thought on "object" limits and bounds our language
and conditions the true independence of the unity which constitutes individuality
itself. Thus far I have not dealt with the fact that my ultimate object "I think" is
also a verbal construction.
Because it is language, our expression is analyzable
into the linguistic elements it contains.
But the truth of the object is that, in
the "thinking being" we intend, the so-called activity of the being is not deemed
analytically separable from the being itself. That is, the thinking seems to "constitute " the being, or is unified to it so closely that language is unable to describe
the joining.
Still, language calls this "I think", which, as containing elements,
suggests that, though the unity of the thinking being may not be described, it is not
the ultimate source of unity. Considering the predication of being in the "I am", we
find it illusory and self-indicting in its self-consciousness.
The predication does
not trace back to an inner sensible intuition.
Does it make sense to just say "I"
and look?
My status as a thinker is changed by questions concerning the "I".
As the
ground of thought, it seems no conclusions may be reached about it analytically.
There can be no concept of it. Alone in its presence, I am thinking, but my thinking
is a mere looking, the simplest mental affirmation that I am real, and I am thinking.
Kant justifies the principle upon which his Transcendental Deduction, and I claim his
entire philosophy, is based, by presenting us with a challenge.
It is a challenge he
must have presented to himself as an "I".
The challenge is simply to reject the
31
�consciousness of the absolutely unified self, to say that it is not one , or that we
are unsure where we acquire whatever internal cohesion our thought has.
If being is
separated from thinking, perhaps we are introducing a demonstration of the independence each has from the other.
In any case, the justification for the principle
which lends necessity to all thought, both a priori and empirical, is not strictly a
logical appeal.
We cannot ultimately reject our own individuality .
Kant tells us
what must fall out from this, if we accept it as true, but we cannot offer logical
proof.
May the justification ultimately be our own feeling of oneness, and might
this not still be a rational justification? The analytic nature of the principle of
original unity has come into question.
What we know of the original unity is not "what it is", but only that it is necessary for us as sayers of the expression "I think".
This is because we must
understand by thinking, because there is no understanding available to us intuitively.
Intuitional understanding may be possible, but Kant says that we can ' t imagine
what it would be like.
The "I" that thinks is phenomenal, and its concept may be
traced empirically to inner sense, the representation of myself as I appear to myself, i.e. as thinking. Of the two verbal expressions in which we place the "I", the
expression of being, I am, offers no synthesizable manifold. The active expression,
I do (in this case I think) implies an obj e.ct of the action, something done or
thought.
The object cannot come from anywhere else than a given united manifold of
intuition, whose unity is derived from the unity of apperception.
I may attach "I
think" to any of my representations.
Thus each of them presumes a self directed
judgment of myself as thinking, and not merely thinking, but thinking something.
This would seem to indicate that I cannot be aware of the unity of apperception
except as necessary to my perception of a unified object. The unity's effect is extended from the origin to the potential object in the joining of the elements in a
judgment. Through the judgment (a relation itself), the being of the subject, conditioned by the predicate, ts seen in relation to or is "brought to", the original unity.
The simple relation of the judgment, when seen as a uniting of its disparate
elements, can receive this unifying force only from its original source. If I am not
specifically conscious of my judging, I am nonetheless conscious of "what I think".
When I unite disjointed representations into an objective concept, I do not make
the object into a part of ~ unity.
My extending of unity is not something I may
choose or not choose to do.
It makes my thought, and thereby all consciousness of
myself, possible.
I force the manifold into a state that reflects my unity of
thought; I make it a whole by relating it to my unity.
In the third class of categories, those dealing with relation, such a whole corresponds to community.
The
logical function associated with community is the disjunctive judgment.
We may say "I think", or we may off er a conditioned verb of being, "I am a
thinking thing". If we say only "I am", we are still conscious of our saying, and so
of our thinking. We cannot think of our being without thereby conditioning it. Our
thought recognizes the condition it sets on our being.
It recognizes its own function as the impediment to itself--it seems ultimately to preclude examination of itself.
Even stranger, thought isn't stopped in its tracks by this realization, it
retains all its normal power intact. It still is able to prove propositions and provide the full framework for human truth.
It can categorize itself, but not know itself. The origin of all its limited ability, is its ultimate inability.
I say this because of unity.
Oneness and wholeness are words that I associate
with empirical observations , for they are primarily attributable to things.
I associate unity, on the other hand, with origin, and I consider these to have
specifically transcendental implications. The synthetic unity of apperception is the
yield of a self-directed analysis. It is attributable to the I. Somehow, looking.at
its place , and its surmised function, puts me near the unspeakable truth of my exis tence. The power that binds analysis with synthesis into coexistence within the uni ty of apperception roust be even greater in the unkno-wn self. Because the challenge
of rejecting this origin stands ( that is, because we do not know what it would mean
if it didn't stand), we are sure of the unity of the self, despite its being unknown .
The self is the groun<l we stand on when we look at object, whether empirical or
a priori.
What can ground us if we wish to look at the self, to extend out the
sphere of knowledge to meet it? What if man were. able t~ cultivate an. abilit~ to
feel the unity of empirical wholes as simple, despite possible complex division into
parts? Maybe if we listened more closely to ourselves, we would realize the depth of
our own unity.
Each time we possess or claim, or otherwise subj ectify ourselves,
maybe we "touch base" with the center of our minds. We do this to a degree in certain recognitions and responses of a less philosophic character, more instinctively.
For example, need is an awareness of necessity in the self, and so the need, as mine,
has a self-focusing quality.
The self-awareness that results from this kind of necessity is one in which the self is alone with its need.
Such a need can beco~e so
acute that it drives everything out of the mind except self- awareness.
In considering unity as the fundamental center of thought we put ourselves in a similar position
of being alone. It is from this cohesive center that we open out to the world.
We must observe that in all disjunctive judgments the sphere
(That is, the multiplicity which is contained in any one judgment) is represented as a whole divided into parts (the subordinate concepts), and that since no one of them can be contained
under any other, and so as determining each other, not in one
direction only, as in a series, but reciprocally, as in an aggregate - if one member of t~I division is posited, all the rest are
excluded, and conversely.
Concepts are coordinated with one another, and thereby unified into a judgment. The
concept of this coordinate relation is the most illuminating description I can find
of the actual process of extending unity and making "wholes" in thought.
It seems
like transcendental organization. The coordination is most like the activity of unity.
The categorical necessity of the coordination reflects the pure internal
cohesion that must constitute the truth of unity.
32
33
�For Li Ch'ing Chao
FOOTNOTES
Judy Kistler
All notes refer to the following:
Kant, Critique of Pure Reason. St. Martin's Press, New York 1929.
Trans. Norman Kemp Smith.
93
102
552
54
42
41
533
58
58
152
154
58
86
80
92
95
101
103
Section IV, Intro.
113-4
155
157
155
501
153
556
557
557
156
Last night the upper heavens
were the color of eggplant,
but the last breath of the sun
shone golden through the trees.
I often watch in silence,
then turn aside to read the Chinese poets.
Unlike them, I have no phoenix hair ornaments
t o crush in my uneasi.ness over
your absence.
Unable to decide, we dance about each other;
repelled and attracted,
magnets unsure of our polarities,
moths flirting with the flame.
114
117
Judy Kistler
graduated from Santa Fe in 1977 and teaches math and Chinese at the
Forman School in Litchfield, Connecticut.
34
35
�Surf and Misfortune A Study of Oedipean Tragedy
Jeff Kojac
In the final choral ode of Sophocles 1 Oedipus Tyrannos, the tragedy and the
moral of the play are portrayed in the words, s\s toov
KAdowva OElvns mJµ¢opas
sAnA08sv (He was taken into the great fearful surf of misfortune) . l
The
c onc l u sion to t h e play begins with a parall e l to Oedipus ' opening speech. The chorus
addresses those who live in Thebes and reminds the heare r that Thebes i.s a city
cursed with bloodshed since it was founded .
It describes Oedipus as a masterful
riddle solver envied by all . Yet this Oedipus, the cho r us sings , was swallowed by
the sea of misfortune and found that no mortal could be counted happy until dead , fo r
the future can hold great misery no matter what may be the blessings of t he pr esent .
Such a closing statement to the play leaves the reade r with a mo ra l ve r y close
to that Solon shar es with Croesus-- that the rich and powerful king i s by no means the
happiest , fo r his downfall can ccrne b e fo r e his de at h .
Th e ke y t o this mo ra l in
Oedipus Tyrannos is the fearful surf of misfortune actually swallowing Oed i pus ; this
is the tragedy of the play .
The nature of the swallowing is Oedipus' inability to
perceive himself due to his fear and anger .
Oedipus clearly is in the sea of
ouµ¢opas
right from his birth , long before
he drowns himself . He flees from Corinth in fear, kills Lauis' par t y in ange r , and
b r ings about his own downfall in the dialogue of t he play .
Re becomes angr y a t
Teiresias and forces the seer to speak words which only make Oedipus mo r e ang ry and
b r ing him into conflict with Creon . Oedipus' anger agains t Creon draws Jocasta int o
the play, and thr ough her Oedipus ' guilt is exposed . When the messenger fr om Corinth
presents the news that Polybus is dead, Oedipus openly expresses his fea r of t he bed
of his mother in Corinth.
This fear dissolves whe n the messenge r ex plains that
Me rope was only his step- mother .
This in turn brings a h e rdsman to th e palace .
Oed i pus again becomes ang r y , and i t is because of this ange r that he f inds t h e tr uth
and realizes the oracle has been proved true .
His r age t akes him t o Jocas t a ' s
chambe r s and, finding he r dead, he vents h is wrath on hims el f:
h e blind s his own
eyes and thus completes his descent into the waves of misfo r tune .
Oedipus sinks in misfortune's waves thr ough his t h r ashing abou t i n ange r and
fear.
Bo t h o f t h es e emo tion s b lind h im fr om true se l f-kn owledge and make it all the
more painful when the truth is finally impress e d upon h i s e yes .
The dr owning in
misfortune is an understanding of the self . Oedipus lear ns o f his tr u e s el f , jus t a s
Cr oesus even t ually sees his fragility and mo rt alit y whe n h e is abo ut t o b e bu r ned at
the stake by Cyrus . Oedipus does not only lea r n of his tr u e se lf in t he sen s e of his
heritage and the consequences of his actions . He catch e s sight of h i mself a s a man
who is proven able to err and suffer r egar dle ss of p re viou s rank , ble ssings , o r
abilities .
Yet Oedipus i s not happy in his newl y gain e d s e lf-knowl e dge, and t o use his own
phrase (line 1444), he is "&vcSp6s ke>.. lO-U " - - a man of mise r y .
The ho rr or of his
wretchedness is not purely a product of the discove r y of h i s inc e s t and pat r icide ,
for as Jocasta hints at , unknowing inc e st do e sn't necessarily d e se r ve such horror
(line 982), and Oedipus' father surely attempted to kill him t wi ce--Oedipus' killing
was self - preservation.
The unde r lying r eason fo r Oedipus 1 wre t chedness mus t lie
elsewhere.
36
Oedipus ' tragedy comes about through his fear and anger, and it is these two
facets of his character that blind him.
Oedipus cannot see because he is too
frightened to see. He does not believe in himself as an individual, for clearly he
is affected by the words and actions of others to such an extent that he loses
himself in rage. Such rage expresses his inability to accept his own self; his anger
comes as a reaction to those that challenge his authority in any way.
This anger
shows that he does not feel himself truly to be the great man that he is considered,
for if he were the 'great man' he could not successfully be threatened.
Thus
Oedipus' insecurity is his blindness.
The word translated as misfortune is cruu~opas , but this word can be rendered
as luck, either good or bad, and as a chance event. This explains why ouµ¢opas
is
described as the surf; the waves can be positive, negative, and neutral in their
apathetic treatment of a surfer.
The waves do not set out to drown the surfer or
provide him with a good ride or bore him with small breakers; rather the waves are a
natural function of the planet without any intentions or cause to them (other than
a merely efficient cause).
The surf of
cruµ¢opas
is pictured as great and fearful because it is man who
is responsible for the outcome of the waves; his actions decide whether the luck is
good or bad.
Oedipus is taken into the horrible world of chance:
this is a totally
different understanding of the play from the usual speculation that Oedipus is fated
and trapped into his tragedy. But it is a solid interpretation: he can react in any
way he chooses to the oracle, his father, the plague, Teiresias, Jocasta, the
messenger, and the herdsman. And he does so in a consistent manner: with anger and
fear.
Swept into the world of chance, Oedipus acts in a destructive and insecure
fashion.
He thrashes around in the surf of ouu¢opas with his actions because his
self-perception produces the consequences of the great fearful surf.
The play' s
tragedy therefore lies in Oedipus 1 being given the chance to make his own consequences.
The reason why such 'chance' is tragic is that his true self is relied
upon. It is his true self that fails him; it resp onds with decisions that topple him
from his throne.
Oedipus' horror comes fr om perceiving that his true self is prone
to the same mistakes and follies as that of any other man.
Sophocles' lesson in Oedipus Tyrannos is not simply for haughty kings trapped in
fate.
Sophocles writes in such a way that his play is applicable for all men who can
strive to see themselves truly and avoid both arrogance and self-deprecation.
Through a portrait of Oedipus' being taken into the great fearful surf of misfortune,
Sophocles gives the reader an exhortation to stay away from the extremes of conceit
and self-hatred and instead to seek after a balance simi l ar to Aristotle's 'mean' in
The Ethics and Plato's 'sophro syne' in Cha rmides.
1
o e d i p us Tyr a nno s line 1527, my transla t ion .
37
�I ':~
I
I
A Translation of Jean De La Fontaine's
"The Cat, the Weasel, and the Little Rabbit"
James O' Gara
LE CHAT, LA BELETTE ET LE PETI T LAPI N
A rabbit ' s pala tia l home fe l l, one f ine morning,
As spoils to Dame Belette , who, without war ning,
Seize'd on it ; her cunning wit was weaselly-The maste r was absent , the thing was done easily .
She brought and installed her hearth- gods one day
While he had gone to Aur or a , his homag e t o pay
Amid the thyme and the r ose .
Having grazed , trotteCT , made his rounds ,
Johnny Rabbit re t ur ned to his abode , unde r gr ound .
The intrude r weasel pr essed to the window her snou t.
"O hospitable gods! What ha t h caus'd such a r ou t ?"
Cried t he animal evicted f r om his ancest r al hous e.
"O Madame Belette ,
Kindly dislodge , else further me upset!
Pr ovoke me not the local rats t o r ous e !"
"But , " said the lady of the pointed nose,
"To the first occupant needs must go the land .
Me t hinks t hi s subje ct unwo rthy of t h rea t 'ning po s e-This lowly pit where I have crawled . And , I demand ,
Were this a kingdom
Pr ay tell, what law were i t t o cede
Eternal right , " asked she , "unending deed
To John , son or nephew of Peter or William ,
Rather than to Paul- -or better still , t o me ?"
John the rabbit invoked custom and ancient code .
"It is these laws that have granted me the run
Of this my hutch, and that have, from father down to son,
From Peter, thence to Simon, then to me, John , fai r ly won .
This 'squatter's right,' 'tis mos t unjust and incommode . "
"Ah well, sir , let us no more sco r n and scold
But take our case," said she, "to Haughty- snou t. "
'Twas a cat who lived as a devout hermi t,
Pr acticed in all the arts of the hypocrite ,
A saintly sort, deck'd out , all big and fat ,
Pois'd referee , dispenser of much tit - fo r- tat .
Johnny Rabbit agrees the cat should ju9ge the case ,
38
Du palais d'un jeune Lapin
Dame Belette, un be au matin ,
/
S'empara : c'est une rusee.
Le Maitre 6tant absent, ce lui fut chose ais~e.
Elle porta chez lui ses pe'nates, un j our
Qu'il ltait all/ faire~ l'Aur ore sa cour
/
Parmi le thym et la r osee.
Apr~s qu'il eut brout{, trotte', fait tous ses tours,
.
.
/.
Janot Lapin retourne aux souterrains seJours.
La Belette avait mis le nez~ l a fen~tre. A
11
0 Dieux hospitaliers! que vois-je ici paraitre?
Dit l'animal chass{ du paternel logis.
Hol~! Madame la Beletee,
/
Que l'on deloge sans trompette,
Ou je vais avertir taus les Rats du pays."
La <la~ au nez pointu r~pondit que la terre
Etait au premier occupant.
"c'ttait un beau sujet de guerre
Qu'un l ogis O\i lui-~me il n'entrait qu'en rampant.
Et quand ce serait un r oyaume,
Je voudrais bien savoir, dit-elle, quelle l oi
En a pour toujours fait l'octroi
A Jean, fils ou neveu de Pierre ou de Guillaume,
Plut~t qu'~ Paul, plut~t qu•}i. moi!"
Jean Lapin alltgua la coutume et l'usage:
"Ce sont, dit-il, leurs lois qui m'ont de ce logis
~
.
.
'
Ren d u maitre et seigneur, et qui, d e pere en f i·1 s,
L'ont de Pierre 'a Simon, puis a moi, Jean, transmis.
Le premier occupant, est-ce une loi plus sage?
-Or bien, sans crier davantage,
Rapportons-nous, dit-elle, 'a Raminagrobis."
C '~tait un Chat, vivant comme un dlvot ermite,
Un Chat faisant la chattemi te,
U saint homme de Chat, b i en f ourre", gros et gras,
n
Arb itre expert sur t ous le s cas.
Jean LaP.in pour juge l ' agr/e.
39
�See the pair of them arrayed in face
Of fur-lined majesty, stuffed with pomp, but claws as mace.
Scratch-paw bids them come: "Advance a pace,
For I am deaf, infirmity of age the cause."
The two approach, gullible both, right to the traitor's jaws.
As soon as he has seen the plaintiffs near,
Scratch-paw, the good Judas, of canting mind,
Engulfs them both in a flurry of claws; and a wave of fear
Reconciling the plaintiffs, devours the pair combined.
Les voila taus deux arrives
.
/
Devant sa maJeste/ f ourree.
Grippeminaud leur dit: "Mes enfants, approchez,
Approchez, je suis sourd, les ans en sont la cause."
L'un et l'autre approcha, ne craignant nulle chose.
Aussit~t qu'~ port{e, il vit les contestants,
Grippenminaud, le bon ap"ci'tre,
Jetant des deux c~tls la griffe en m~me temps,
Mit les plaideurs d'accord en croquant l'un et l'autre.
All of which quite resembles the squabbling things
Which petty lords argue forth before their kings.
Ceci ressemble fort aux d~bats qu'ont parfois
Les petits souverains se rapportant aux rois.
40
41
�Streetlight
Walter Plourde
The streetlamp shines outside the window. The light falls on me all the time
when the room is dark, even though a Japanese blind is rolled down, obscuring the
light. The glow from the street falls across my knees pulled up tight to my chest;
it spreads across her sleeping face, across the cluttered floor, only to be lost in
the corners of the room not ten feet from where I sit.
I don't know how we survived, she and I, three months in this tiny room. For
three months this has been almost my entire world, our self-contained cave, and I'm
not sure what spring bubbled up to keep us alive, feed us. Love, I tell myself. I
told her the same thing a couple of days ago. I was sitting as I am now, my knees
pulled up, arms wrapping my shins, hard wall cramping my back. She was sitting right
next to me--the wall never seemed to hurt her back. She turned her head to look at
me, her right eyebrow arched high above her pale, blue eye. A scolding glare twisted
otherwise smooth features.
She covered my face with her hand and slammed my head
against the wall.
"You sap," she said.
She laughed. I laughed, and I chuckle softly now as soft images of love float
around my head. Sweet-lipped cherubim dance in dew-kissed grass, and curly-haired
cupids gently pierce swooning lovers. But I don't see our love; it's more like a
hulking lunk, too dumb to die.
The blind rustles against the window. A draft lifts the blind and lets it drop
against the window. The air is chilled around me. Cold air enters the room. Warm
air leaves, and I am drawn with it. I am drawn to my other room, really my room,
because I pay the rent there. And I draw myself out to repeat a stroll taken on a
harsh winter morning months ago.
An early morning, and I left behind my cold, spare room with its drafty windows.
Better to walk the streets in the cold than let the cold creep upon me through the
windows. My feet made the only sound on the sidewalk, empty except for a light dusting of snow. The grey, still clouds pulled the world in upon itself, a place for
solitude that day. And then her figure from around the corner. She pulled her grey
cloak around herself and swooshed by me. She spun me on my heel.
"Hey, honey," I said, "What's your hurry?"
Empty, vapid speech tossed out on the wind, swirling down the street. I recognized her from a time before. She turned. Her cloak fell open.
"Oh, hi," she said.
Better for her if she had passed on by, never noticed me; better still if I had
stayed in my room and let my teeth chatter together.
It's too late. A cold blast from the window brings me back, but it's too late.
I am being pulled apart, my pieces spread through everything in this room. I pull
back the blind. The direct light hurts my eyes. It feels real, but even the light
is taking its piece of me. I let the shade fall back in place, and I look out across
myself into the dark room.
A goat hair rug covers the floor to the door. The rug is soft and littered with
debris. Clothes, books, and papers are scattered in no particular order. Every day
1
42
she says that it's a mess or it's a pig sty. Every day she cleans it, but every
night it's messy again.
"It messes itself," I tell her.
She shakes her head sadly and squeezes my cheeks together with her fingers:
"No," she says, "You're a slob."
The stereo ~plifier is still on; I reach across her and turn it off. The lamp
for the whole room is on the amp.
It's a small lamp with a white shade always
covered with unused bandanas. Every time I want to read I beg her to remove them.
"I can see fine," she says.
"But I'm going blind," I tell her, "Now, what could be causing that?"
She chuckles: "Probably the same thing that makes your palm rough."
I can just make out the books in the far corner near the door. They're not on
shelves, not really in any order, but piled haphazardly two feet high. Somewhere.in
the pile is the book we fight about. She explains in detail her thesis of ironic,
yet sexist symbolism. In the telling she loses her breath, and at the end she pants
and stares triumphantly at me.
"That's nuts," I tell her.
"Chauvinist pig," she says.
"Jesus Christ," I say. I slouch down and wait for the attack.
"Pig," she says.
She need say no more. I waver, and her eyes give the fatal blow; her glare is
like a death crazed army crashing itself against my feeble defenses, until I finally
yield to the sweetest defeat, self-righteous guilt.
"Don't try to be nice to me now, you pig," she says.
I chuckle to myself in the dark; she stirs in her sleep. Again, I pull back the
blind from the window. I am drawn to the lamp on the corner like a moth, but I am
the only moth here.
The others have yet to be born.
The snow is still on the
ground--dirty, spring snow with months of traffic grime coming to the surface. But
the streetlight makes the snow look clean, fresh, alive as if it had fallen this
night. The light, reflecting off the snow, is like Aegean-blue water. I sit back
and let the blind fall shut. I have to squint to see very far into the room--it is
growing wider than the Aegean, and a salty spray is filling my eyes.
Everything now, all my pieces fly back at me. Everything that is me cuts into
me, scratches me, scrapes me, pain upon pain, until my senses die; no hearin~, no
sight, no smell nor taste, no touch, but I can feel.
I can feel that warm figure
sleeping next to me.
I can feel each breath, each memory, each hurt.
I can even
feel her dreams, both happy and sad. I can feel her dreams becoming mine; they are
my dreams. Most of all I can feel beauty--outside and inside, so much deep inside
her that there's no more room, and it flows out, covering me, raining down on everything. This is hell, I tell myself: eternal damnation is a slow walk through this
tiny room.
A hand softly touches my arm; she's not sleeping either.
"Go to sleep," she says. Her voice is far away, but clear, and it brings me
back.
"Yes," I say, "That's a good idea."
I lie down. My senses return. I can smell her warmth. I can touch her hand.
I can see her profile in the dim light .
"I l ove you," I say.
"Yes," she says ev en further away, but warm and alive.
I go t o sleep. She is all ar ound me.
Wh en the alarm rings, it is t oo early, and I am t oo tired. I get up anyway. I
have t o go t o work. The house this little r oom is in is quiet. No one else fs up,
43
�and that pleases me.
I don't want embarrassed shame this morning, no knowing
glances . As I'm putting on my clothes, she stirs. She, too, must get up early this
morning. She watches me, her eyes half shut, but we don't speak.
My clothes cover me, but I feel as if they are covering nothing, as if they
move, but I'm not in them.
I'm not there; the only thing left is one last memory
dropping slowly like a forgotten, slimy tear staining a dead cheek.
"I'm going away," she had said, "We can't be together any more . "
"Yes, I know. You're right," I had said.
I am ready to go. I must leave; I must stay. The distinction is lost on me. I
lean down and kiss her. Her arms circle my neck too lovingly and too long. Her face
is wet, or maybe it's mine. I walk to the door.
"Don't forget to take care of my stuff," she says.
"I won't," I say, "Have fun."
"I'll try."
My throat hurts, and my eyes burn, as a I close the door .
I walk out --it is a
bleak spring day. The sun cowers somewhere behind a cloud.
When I burst into the room later that day, I pray for the impossible.
I pray
that all is as it was:
nothing's changed.
I pray she's sitting down, watching tv.
I pray she's smiling, waiting for me to get home.
She gives me a kiss, and we are
happy. I pray many foolish things.
The boxes are piled up near the window.
The stereo and posters are in boxes.
The blind is off the window.
The records, books, everything is in brown cardboard
boxes. The room suddenly smells stale and musty, as if nothing had ever lived there.
She is gone, but I am here . I try to let numbness, emptiness, take over. This
is practical, I tell myself, as I carry the first box down to my car. And for every
box, I tell myself, I will send them away tomorrow. Yes, that is the practical thing
to do. Every box I want to be just as it is:
If light, full of nothing, if heavy,
full of a lot of nothing.
I want, but I can't have.
One box I want to throw through the window, another
to set down, open, and gently replace the contents where they were.
I want everything to be as it was, or I want it never to have been. I want, but I can't have.
I come to the last box. As I pick it up, I see that something is written on it.
Something is written in bold letters with magic marker. Lt says:
I LOVE YOU.
I put the box down.
I must laugh, though I'd rather not.
I would rather scream,
cry. Even better weep, weep blood, but I can't have that either.
I lift the box again. It is the heaviest box of them all; I laugh. I laugh out
loud. Even the distinction between my emotions is lost.
"Damn her," I say. I take a step: "Damn her."
And each step, damn her.
It is my antiphon, every step, damn her. My strophe
and antistrophe:
Damn her, damn her.
The door closes behind me, damn her.
Damn
her, the box is in the car, damn her.
But there, on the back seat of my car, is a simple message: I love you. An old
saying pops into my head: If it'd been a snake, it would've bit you. What a song I
sing to myself: Damn her, a snake bit you, I love you, damn her, yeah, yeah, yeah.
I slam the door, walk around the car, and get in behind the wheel.
I lean forward and look up at the streetlamp. It is humming with energy, pulsating with life.
Its light is strong and clear.
That light is the only thing keeping me and everything from flying apart and into space. The light hurts my eyes.
It is cold and I
shiver. I drive away.
I can't see the streetlight anymore. I imagine that someone, somewhere, is paid
to turn the streetlights off in the morning, but I hope he forgets this one.
I hope
it stays on a long time.
THE END
44
An Appreciation of Apollonius I.34
Henry Higuera
As upperclassmen will remember, in Book I of his Conics Apollonius demonstrates
that there is a surprising and pleasing relationship between the "harmonic mean" and
the tangent to an ellipse, hyperbola, or circle:
B
E
A
D
B
Specifically, in I 34 he proves that if AB is the transverse, CD is an ordinate, and
E is located so that AB is a harmonic mean between BD and BE , then EC is tangent to
the section. One of my very fav o rite memories from sophomore math is the morent when
I was up at the board blithering some nonsense about I 34 and two students managed
to explain to me the significance of the harmonic mean.
On the other hand, some of my other most vivid memories from sophomore math are
of
whole
classes
spent
slogging
through
that
monstrous
proof,
with
its
un-reconstructable construction, its two doublefold footnotes from Eutocius (I always
called him "Atrocious" to myself), and Lord knows what else.
Remember? The proof
has always bothered me, especially in comparison to the beauty of the fact it establishes, and I've spent some time trying to understand why Apollonius did it the way
he did.
My efforts have paid off to some degree, for I now feel I appreciate the
situation which Apollonius faced and the accompJ,.ishment which his particular proof
represents.
This article is an attempt to spread that sense of appreciation and is
dedicated to anyone who will ever go to the board to do I 34.
I.
First, it seems certain that this proposition struck Apollonius and his
original readers differently than it does us, because they m.ust already have known
that I 34 was true of circles. Euclid never proves it; but it follows so easily from
his method of drawing a tangent from a point outside a circle (III 17) that it must
have been common knowledge.
Here is Euclid's method (the actual proof is omitted):
From a given point to draw a straight line touching a given circle.
45
I
I
I
�Let A be the given point, and BCD the given circle;
thus it is required to draw from the point A a straight line
touching the circle BCD .
For let the centre E of the circle be taken;
let AE be joined, and with centre E and distance EA let the
circle AFG be described;
from D let DF be drawn at right angles to EA,
and let EF, AB be joined;
I say that AB has been drawn from the point A touching the circle BCD.
A
II. On to the proof itself. If you look at it (it's on pp. 641-3) you'll remember that it's really in two parts . First comes the terrible part, which is based
entirely on Euclid, not on earlier propositions in Apollonius. Then, just after the
line
rect.BD,DA: rect.BG,GA ) sq.DE: sq.GE
Here is the easy proof which demonstrates that I 34 holds for circles: Let
there be a circle ACB with center H and diameter AB, CD perpendicular (i.e.,
ordinatewise) to AB, E on AB produced so that
BD:DA : : BE:EA
(i.e., so that AB is a harmonic mean between BD and BE), and EC joined.
EC is tangent to the circle ACB.
For, draw concentric circle EF.
At A erect a perpendicular to AB meeting
circle EF at G. Join RC and HG (i.e.,
do not assume that C is on HG: this
has~ be proved).
Now clearly,
BE=AF,
while BD:DA
so
BD:DA
But
BD:CD
and
AF:GA
so
BD:CD
..
..
..
..
E
[given]
AF:EA
[Euc.
CD:DA
GA:EA,
D
A
G
B
using only Euclid Bk . II and clever manipulations of ratios.
(I have not succeeded
in doing this, although I have proven it without any constructions by using
maxima/minima calculus techniques) . Furthermore, this property is not limited to
lines; for example, a version of it holds for Euclidean numbers.
If this property had already been proven in some treatise on the harmonic mean,
the figures to I 34 should have looked like this:
f
[Euc. VI 8, Por.]
7, 11]
H
A GAF is similar to
B
B
AF:GA, being subduplicates of the same
and L DBC= L AFG;
so
(p. 643 1. 5)
he brings in a property of conic sections for the first time (I 21), and the proof is
f]nished in four more lines.
The fact that I 21 gets brought in so late may have alerted you to the important
fact that r.BD,DA:r.BG,GA ) sq.DE:sq.GE is a property of the harmonic mean E.z itself;
it holds true entirely independently of conic sections.
In fact, one could pre sumably prove it without constructing any extra line.s at all,
E
[Euc. VI 8, Por.]
v
And the right angles GAF and CDB are of course equal
so
I say that
[ C. N. 3]
BE:EA;
for the moment their unique characteristics and considering them merely as a "special
case" of a conic section .
r~tio
[Euc. VI 22, note].
[Euc. Post. 4]
A CDB
[Euc. VI 6]
and the whole proof could have taken five lines:
L DHC= L AHG as well, being their doubles.
[Euc. III 20]
Therefore C is on GH and the construction satisfies Euclid III 17.
tangent to circle ACB.
Q.E.D.
Therefore EC is
and
but
so
and
For, r.BD,DA:r.BG,GA::sq.CD:sq.GH
sq.DE:sq.EG::sq.CD:sq.FG;
r.BD,DA:r.BG,GA > sq.DE:sq.EG,
sq . CD:sq . HG ) sq.CD:sq . FG
HG ( FG
Q.E.D.
[I 21]
[Euc. VI 4, 22]
[Treatise on Harmonic Mean LXVII 873]
[Euc. V 10]
In other words, I 34 was not originally the proclamation of a startling new fact
about circles. On the contrary, it belongs to that interesting series of proposit~ons which shows that some well-known properties possessed by ci3cles considered as
circles also belongs to them considered purely as conic sections.
This proposition
contributes to one of the most important subplots of the Conics : that suggestion
that we can deepen our understanding of the complex simplicity of circles by ignoring
Furthermore, this would have helped to highlight what the horrible clutter of
Apollonius' proof tends to conceal--namely, that the connection between the harmonic
mean and the property proven in I 34 is quite remarkably direct and intimate.
46
47
�I
III.
Now, the enunciation of the property would have to go something like this:
PROP. LXVII 873: If there be four unequal lines, of which the second is a harmonic mean between the first and the third and the fourth is another, random
line, then the rectangle contained by the first and the difference between the
first and the second has a greater ratio to the rectangle contained by the
fourth and the difference between the fourth and the second than the ratio which
the square on the difference between the first and the third has to the square
on the difference between the fourth and the third.
This is an enunciation only Apollonius
cases:
could
love.
Furthermore,
there are
four
At A draw a line AX, at any angle, of any length. Bisect it at N. Connect BX and
DN, and produce as necessary until they meet at C. From C draw a line parallel to AN
until it meets AB at E.
I say that ED:DA::BE:EA. (Easy, huh? Here's the proof.)
Then
so
but
and
so
For, from B draw a line parallel to
AN = NX,
BK:AN: :BK:NX;
(Euc.
BE:AE::BC:CX::BK:NX
(Euc.
BD:DA: :BK:AN,
(Euc.
BD:DA: :BE:EA
(Euc.
AN until it meets DN produced at K.
V 7)
VI 4)
VI 4)
V 11)
Q.E.D.
Case 1
• •
D G
Case 2
B
Case 3
X
E
Case 4
'n b, A.
E:
~
On top of that, as far as I know, this fact has no application to anything in the
total universe except to I 34.
So, perhaps it is not surprising that nobody ever
bothered to prove it.
On the other hand, if one already knows that I 34 is true of circles and one
bears in mind Euc. VI 4, 22, and 8, Por., it becomes extremely obvious that this
proposition is true at least in Cases 1 and 2:
'"'
B
E
"Behold!
Rect. BD,DA: rect.BG,GA ) sq.DE: sq.GE!"
Notice that this by itself is already enough to prove that I 34 is true for ellipses.
Maybe this is what gave Apollonius the hint for how to attack the general problem.
Look familiar? These are the first five steps of Apollonius' proof to I 34 run
exactly backwards; the constructions look exactly the same (except of course for the
angles) as the correspondingly-lettered constructions in Apollonius' figures.
No
wonder he was able to figure out that AN equalled NX!
I'm less impressed by that
than I used to be.
On the other hand, the proof now looks impressive in an entirely new way. To a
reader familiar with this construction, the first part of the proof emerges as an
extremely clever and resourceful use of a familiar old device, instead of appearing
mind-bogglingly oracular and weird, as it does to us.
Also note that in his reverse version (i.e., to prove that AN=NX) Apollonius
didn't have to use the particular lengths and angles he did. Any AX bisected at N
would have served to prove LXVII 873. By making C in our Figure 5 be the point of
tangency in his proof , all he did , basically, was save himself an extra point and a
couple of extra lines on his figures (because that way CD is set up an ordinate and
CE turns out to be the tangent). The proof would have been just as valid if he'd set
up perpendiculars at A, B, and E, with C up somewhere in mid-air, and not brought up
the ordinate and tangent until he needed them in the last five lines of the proof:
K
M
IV. But Apollonius obviously wanted to prove LXVII 873 without assuming that I
34 holds true for circles--otherwise the proposition couldn't take its place in the
series we mentioned. In figuring out how to do this, he seems to have been helped by
another private joke between him and his readers which we hoi polloi tend to miss 21
centuries later. I would bet anything short of money that the following was a commonly-known method of constructing a "third harmonic proportional":
Given AB, BD; it is required to place E so that BD:DA :: BE:EA.
c
Beautiful.
E
48
A
This is a figure not even Apollonius could love.
To my mind, aft er all this muddling and fiddling with I 34, the great difficulty
and most admirable achievement of Apollonius' way of proving it is that, using this
commonly- known construction, he found a method of proof so powerful that he could
show that all four cases of LXVII 873 were true with the same steps. It looks like
he really wanted to be able, in I 34, to proceed just as he did in, say, I 21: he
really wanted to show that Cases 1 and 2 of LXVII 873 (which only apply to the
ellipse and circle) and cases 3 and 4 (which only apply to the hyperbola) have the
49
I
�same kind of inner kinship which the circle, ellipse and hyperbola have among
themselves. That he managed to do this is a mark of the sure instinct, subtlety, and
ambition of his great genius.
NOTES
1Andy Freda and Jeremy Lauer (Class of 1986).
2Things are made worse, too, by the fact that Eutocius' N. 2 is very clumsy and
roundabout.. If you study it you can write a proof of your own that's three lines
shorter.
3other propositions in the series: I 21 (compare Euc. VI 8, Por. and remember that
the upright always equals the transverse in a circle, a fact which actually follows
from Apoll. I 5); I 32 (compare Euc. III 16); I 47 (compare Euc. III 3); II 6 (compare the other half of Euc. III 3), and II 26 (compare Euc. III 4). It's worth wondering why Apollonius doesn't mention circles in I 15 and I 30. He's clearly drawing
some kind of line here (no pun intended).
50
[,
�Non-Prof it Org.
BULK RATE
U.S. POSTAGE
PAID
St. John's College
Annapolis, Maryland 21404
PERMIT No. 120
,ANNAPOLIS, MD.
�
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Text
WINTER, 1988
c
z
c
Q
~
oi
...
"'
::c
Ill
Ill
u
z
c
~
z
u
~
,,.:
Ill:
Ill
Ci
z
iii
z
c
~
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u
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...
�ENERGEIA: The activity in which anything is fully itself.
t1 ...
Cover:
Acrylic on Paper
by Jana Giles
Printed by the
St. John's College Press
St. John's College
Annapolis, Maryland
vou &vtpy&ta ~coti ... (Aristotle's Metaphysics, 1072b)
Staff:
Rachel Boyce
Carloss Chamberlain
Jana Giles
Erika Hoffman
Daniel Hoh
Michael McShane
Derick Miller
Ange Mlinko
Kenneth Paradis
Dwayne Rogers
Co-Editors:
Laurie Cooper
Rhonda Datcher
Faculty Advisor:
Henry Higuera
With special thanks to:
Tina Davidson
Ray Gifford
George Turner
Ty Yancey
Energeia is a non-profit, student magazine which is published three times a year and
distributed among the students, faculty, alumni and staff of St. John's College, Annapolis
and Santa Fe. The Energeia staff welcomes submissions from all members of the
community--essays, poems, stories, original math proofs, lab projects, drawings, and the
like .
• • ,,...,
/J....,-'7
�CONTENTS
PHOTOGRAPH
Greg Ferguson
4
LOIRE-ET-CHER, 1986
Dahra Latham
5
THE THEME OF THE FUGUE
INC MINOR
Rachel Boyce
6
THE PROPHET
Ange Mlinko
8
DRAWING
Marcus Eubanks
9
THE WELL OF LIGHT
Claudia Probst
10
ANALYSIS FOR THE DETERMINATION OF
A PARAMETER FOR THE PARABOLA
Mark Ressler
13
Jana Giles
16
17
18
GREEK MYTHS OF RESPONSIBILITY
AND OTHER OBSTACLES TO PITY
Donna Strow
19
AUTUMN DAY SALON
E =MC
Scott Vineberg
24
25
PHOTOGRAPH
Greg Ferguson
26
SEEING WITH BOTH EYES OPEN
Graham Redgrave
27
VARIANT SONNET: AMAZON MOURNING
Dahra Latham
33
UNTITLED POEM
Sahana Dharmapuri
34
THE RETURN OF OEDIPUS REX:
THE METAPHYSICS OF INCEST
Michael McShane
35
PHOTOGRAPH
Greg Ferguson
39
A MODERN INVESTIGATION OF
THE ECCENTRIC HYPOTHESIS
Tim McNicholl
40
AN ADAPTION, 1987
Carolyn Barndt
44
THE BOW OF HERACLES
John Pronko
45
THREE LOY AL HAIK US
Jana Giles
47
THE LEARNED PRINCESS
Erika Wilson
48
PHOTOGRAPH
Greg Ferguson
52
I.
II.
III.
KE I PO
THE FOX
T.J.
�Loire-et-Cher, 1986
Dahra Latham ('90)
I begin poetry
in true face
coming home,
seal away weed-green contact lenses
scrub away molten golden color
that the world imposes
rise through fathoms of falsehood revealing
pearl-pale and storm-eyed body
stepped out of Renaissance portrait
shining like dolphin through ocean
through ragged breaker of hair
washed sudden} y
from red to brown.
I take up the pen.
And all the hard-birthed beauties I have ever read
fall about me an irrelevant rain.
5
4
�throws off expectations and requires that the more
instinctive interval be passed. The second playing
of the theme, in G minor, which begins " 7 /\. 4 6
1 1
instead of l 7 f 5 6, solves the problem of reaching
down to 4 by introducing 4 earlier in the theme.
This change takes away part of the theme's beauty
and is not at all preferable.
I\
I\
After the third repetition of 1 7 1, the center
is not reached again. The 4 5 6 movement is heading
in the direction of the original 1 but cannot pass
the peculiar f?t interval to reach it. The 6 5 4
movement is heading towards tan octave below the
original but stops at 3, E flat. Only the very last
repetition of the theme allows the octave-lower 1
to be sounded in the chord:
The Thetne of the Fugue in C Minor
Rachel Boyce ('90)
When I hum the theme of Fugue II from
Book 1 of J.S.Bach's Well-Tempered Clavier, I
invariably end up off key unless I am co~cent.rat
ing. This may not seem particularly .puzzling smce
many people have difficulty repeatmg even ~hort,
simple tunes accurately. It does bother me. First, I
picked up the theme almost ~nadverte~tl.y. It
remained in my mind after the piece was f ~nished
without any distinct effort on my part to fmd and
distinguish it. Second, I have now listened ca ref ull Y
to the Fugue ar least a dozen times, and the
tendency to slip off key remains.
.
..
I decided to investigate my mab1hty t.o
casually hum the catchy and elusive theme of th~s
fugue. Since five of the eight times the th~m~ is
heard, it begins on a C, it is written here begmnmg
on C:
though. The other problematic note, the seventeenth, is only a half step from the sixteenth, and
there was no difficulty with any of the half steps
between C and B natural.
The theme isnot merely a series of intervals,
and its dynamic qualities must be conside.red.
Perhaps the location of the major sixth and mmor
second within the melody produces the dif~iculty.
The key signature might suggest E flat maJOr, but
the B natural, producing a half. step. b.etween B
natural and C,indicates that the piece 1s m .the key
of C minor, the relative minor of E flat maJor._The
center, t, is then C. The theme can now be written
as:
7 5 6 7 2 5 "1 7 2 4 5 6 5 4 3.
1 1
1 1
The final E natural of the
fugue is heard previously
and more distinctly when the
melody of the corresponding
prelude ends on the same E
natural. That last E natural,
supported by the two C's in
the bass clef, is pre para ti on
for the following fugue. It is
a 1i ttle unsettling to realize
that the very comfortable sound at the conclusion
of the prelude involves a melody ending on E
natural in a piece with the key signature of E flat
major or C minor.
When a second inspection of the theme is
done, it does not seem so positively C minor.
Although it contains the minor half step between
~'nowhere is there the distinctively minor 23 half
step. The B natural creates a ~ half step like that
in the major scale, and the final E natural makes
the previously minor whole step between 4 and 3
into a major half step. The theme verges on the key
of C major.
The theme may not be completely in the key
of C minor, but neither is it completely in C major.
The fourth time the theme is heard, it is played in
E flat major with no accidentals, and any mystery
or sweetness held by the original theme is lost. What
is technically lost by playing the theme in a purely
major key is the 56 half step.Similarly, the second
I\
/'\
playing of the theme which begins with I 7 I 4 6
sounds less beautiful because it removes a
half
step. The theme's interest depends on the haunting
56 half step. The only flat in the fugue that has a
consistently significant role and is not ever made
natural is A flat, the note which produces that half
step.
The theme of Fugue II is between C minor
and C major. Though the key signature points to C
minor as the primary key, the theme lacks the
half step. Though both prelude and fugue are
resolved with a C major triad, the theme cannot be
played in a major key without ruining it. This
56
23
"'
1
1.2..3 4S
The first problematic note is the fifteenth, the first
F played. The interval between the fourtee~th. and
fifteenth notes is a major sixth, a more ?1ff1cult
interval to duplicate than the other large i~tervals
present: the perfect fourth between the thud and
fourth notes and the perfect fifth between t~e
ninth and tenth notes. There is no rea~on that ~his
interval could not be memorized with practice,
6
There are three groups of f 7 f. The first
swoop down from that grouping is a perfect fourth
from 1 to 5 and the second a perfect fifth from 2
down to 5. The third plunge is, like the second one,
from 2, but this time it reaches past the comfo~table
5 down to 4. Combined with the fact that 4 is the
only note lower than 5 so far, the si~ilarity. of
starting points and difference of endmg pomts
In this last twist of the prelude's melody,
written in the key in which we expect to hear the
fugue, a C is played seven separate times and is held
in the bass clef throughout. The next most frequent
note is G, played four times. These two notes
combine with the final E natural to form the C
major triad. Both the C minor and the G minor
heard in the fugue are explored in the prelude,
evidenced by the many B natural and F sharp
accidentals, .but the prelude concludes with the
sound of C major.
minor /major ambiguity causes my difficulty with
casually humming the theme. I cannot lean into a
fully minor or major key, so when I do not have the
support of strong, easily sung intervals, I falter.
Bach has not created an u'n easy sound with this
ambuity, nor a problem to be resolved. The theme
of Fugue II is compelling and delicately balanced,
worth the concentration it takes to hum it properly.
7
�The Prophet
·,,.
Ange Mlinko ('91)
'/
,,
You want too much. To want
Anything in this world is an arabesque
Inverted desire to die; run instead
While the wind fills your cup
After mice visions scurrying
Beneath trees across a litter
Of skyfall; look up to shadows
Brooding yellow in the veins
Of every leaf. In the east
A purple hand unshirts the sky;
Left in the west is a blot of blood
Where the sun was shot.
If the walls had ears, you'd tell the walls.
You have letters to send but no sticks
And stones to break words with.
Outside you sift the ground but wind,
Wind like eternal October makes brick
Patterns glide at your feet. A day is dying
In this mass movement; on the skyline
Collapsed in theatrics a dark soul
On the playing field, fast scream like a crow
And no one to hear it; the ears of the earth
Are filled with wind and river.
This the town your walls reflect, where
Double doors exclaim men in credit shirts
Who pause at the top of steps, become one
White column on the portico of eternity
And descend to the street. They read
The Post and walk away the news rewritten
On their hands, and two blocks down
Two black-skinned boys face the wind
All forecasts and headlines,
. -\
\
/
......
;
Unearthing little liquor bottles from
Underneath the statehouse shrubs.
At night, cars jump like knives
To a red light. Long-fingered men
Hide their eyes when sirens sear by.
f '\
I
"·..,
.
\,
/
i
( )
./
You are the confessor of all you see-You cannot dispose of your pu r i ty.
Raking through leaves for fragments of sky
To lift to your walls and nail there;
Raking through words to sound out
These secrets that trace with detached caress
A lock in your head. And voice is no key.
You cannot dispose of this purity.
Scream then, back at the wind's scream
With all insensate joy; you were chosen
Out from under leaves to under sky-The world is burning in the glacial
Radiance of your sun:
It is a hard light to ask forgiveness from.
The cup you hold is teeming,
Receiving and receiving. You want
Nothing but to hear the truth
With the truth you see as the day
Dies in pieces around you, asking who
Unleashes the siren of the sun
Upon all deadly mornings, and who
Gives it pause at the portals of all ears?
9
8
�The Well of Light
Claudia Probst ('88)
Ryan held the zoom lens and wiped it
gingerly with a piece of lens tissue before sending
a blast of pressurized air across its surface. Having
cleaned the last one of his six lenses, he replaced
it in the box leather camera bag, zipped it closed
around the top, and sat back resigned. This waiting
was unbearable, when he knew that the picture of
a lifetime might occur without him, that a perfect
avalanche might go unframed and unrecorded. He
wanted to jump up from the molded plastic orange
seat in which he'd spent the better part of two
hours, he wanted to grab the ticketing agent by her
insolent kelly-green necktie and shake her until her
heavily made-up eyes showed anything but indifference. Easy now, he cautioned himself; stay in
control. He folded his powerful hands with their
square-cut nails and sat up straighter. There was
nothing he could do: if the mechanics were working
on the plane, the mechanics were working on the
plane. Slowly, he sent his eyes sidelong to the
woman in the seat next to his. Her blonde hair was
cut in layers and teased out in last year's style, so
that he could see almost nothing of her profile.
What did he have to lose?
"Are you on your way to visit Salt Lake City
too?" he asked, smiling his most winning smile and
leaning back. She turned sharply enough for him to
guess that her surprise was feigned, that she had
only been resting her eyes on the open book in her
lap, while her senses were all attuned to him, the
stranger in the next seat. She twisted her florid face
IO
in an answering smile.
"Well, not exactly to visit there. I grew up
there, but left it for what I thought would be a more
glamorous life ... "
"Wait, let me guess. You were raised as a
Mormon, and now you're returning to make peace
with the church of your childhood."
She gaped at Ryan as though he were a
prophet.
"How did you know that?" she squealed.
"Oh, I've spent a little time there and I
found the church of the Latter-Day Saints very
compelling myself." The lies were coming easier
now.
The seats in the gate area were arranged
back to back in rows of five, and two seats down,
with his back to Ryan, Zach Himmelstein sat with
his head in his hands, trying very hard to cast
himself and his sister Rosa back to a time where the
light of memory shone, steady and bright, like the
sun of their youth on their family's Rhineland
farm. He could call nothing up, though, and instead
thought only of the wrenching sadness he'd felt two
years ago when Rosa had told him her decision to
move west.
"Trust me Zachariah, the doctor says it
would be better for my lungs, and Salt Lake City
is very clean-- not like here" she'd said, gesturing
with distaste at the grimy vista outside their
Brooklyn apartment. He'd gazed down, not trusting
himself to meet her eyes, and unable to speak. What
was that piece of paper he pretended to be so taken
with at that moment? Oh yes, he'd studied the
doctor's scrawl on a piece of paper that showed a
stylized mortar and pestle in one corner, healing
symbols. The writing had reminded him somehow
of how he'd teased Rosa, when they were children,
and a favorite trick of dipping the tips of her
pencils into hot wax just before they left for school.
He now recalled his confusion, too, when she'd
paused to let the words sink in, how he'd looked up
with an apology that died on his lips for all the
childhood pranks he'd played, if only she'd stay.
Those weren't the right words, though, and it
seemed to him that she'd packed and made arrangements and left before he'd had a fair chance to find
the right ones.
Yet now, dear Rosa, he thought bitterly, I'm
going to bury you in that place of raw mountains
and ski resorts and Mormon temples. He shook his
head sharply to break that chain of thought, which
would doubtless lead him to mull over how senseless her accident had been. It would never have
happened, if she had still been living in a community that saw that the sidewalk was cleared and
salted before the elderly residents wished to go out.
If she'd been living with him in the neighborhood
where she belonged.
His mind, having reached this familiar dead
end, began to drift and take in the voices coming
from a few seats down and behind his back.
Annoyed at the chatter, he stirred himself and rose,
looking around for a destination. Across the waiting area there was a coffee and newspaper vending
stand. The woman behind it was leaning on the
counter, flirting in low, rich Jamaican tones with
a security guard. He was struck suddenly by a
feeling of kinship with her; neither one of us wants
to be here, he thought. Zachariah made his way to
the stand in his stiff walk, left leg dragging
slightly. When he reached it he took off his fedora,
without irony, to address the lady.
"I would like a cup of coffee, please" he
asked in his precise English, struggling as always
to suppress his Yiddish accent.
She gazed at him indolently for a moment,
shrugged, and raised herself from leaning on her
folded arms to pour the coffee into a styrofoam
cup. The blue-uniformed guard followed her
movements with narrowed eyes.
"That be all?" she asked Zach, putting the
cup down in front of him.
"Yes, thank you." He pushed two quarters
toward her with an almost imperceptible bow and
picked up the cup.
"Sugar and cream are over there," she
added.
"Thank you but I have my own sweetener,
some saccharin tablets. They help keep me fit, you
know, and ready ... " He trailed off. Ready for what?
Had he been there to clear Rosa's sidewalk of ice?
The woman shrugged again, turned her
attention back to her friend. Zach flushed, and
hastily picking up a napkin and a small container
of cream, he retreated to his seat. Was that the guard
laughing? It didn't matter; a young man like that
wouldn't understand .. After taking his seat he·
pulled himself up very straight and tall, and
reached purposefully into his breast pocket. He felt
his accustomed satisfaction at the power of these
little white tablets, which allowed him to indulge
his sweet tooth while staying trim. Rosa always
said, it was pride, just pride that made him try to
hide his age. She would laugh and sprinkle spoonfuls of sugar over her grapefru!t in the mornings.
As he balanced his cup on the armrest, he
could again hear his neighbors' con versa ti on.
"Tell me about the book you're reading."
Ryan commanded.
"You haven't heard of this book?" The
woman asked incredulously. She paused, considered the apparently daunting task. "It's called The
Well of Light, and it's written by John P. Smothers,
who left our church fifteen years ago and became
the owner of a very successful cruise ship line. He
describes how unhappy he was, entertaining rich
clients and travelling constantly aboard his ships.
He says he fell deeper and deeper into despair,
drinking all the time and seeing no way out. But
then God" - she paused for effect - "God went to
work in his life, buoying him up from the depths
of his despair, and making him care again. Care
about his family and himself, too. That's what that
title's about, you see. It was as though he'd fallen
down a well of indifference, but then God put a
light at the bottom, a light he didn't expect."
"Uh-huh. Is this the book that made you
think of returning to the church?" Ryan asked,
uninterested in her specific answer, but fascinated
that she could speak so feelingly about Smothers'
well-calculated effort to make a buck. He marvelled inwardly at how people fool themselves.
Zach held his metal box of saccharin tablets
between his thumb and forefinger. He slid the lid
back and was suddenly overwhelmed by the
11
�memory of a scene captured in a snapshot he hadn't
seen in decades. It was of Rosa at a family picnic,
squinting merrily up in the black and white photo,
her wavy dark hair escaping her hair pins as ever.
Her grubby hands held a tinderbox that was a relic
even then. Zachariah sat, stunned at the memory of
that day more than sixty years ago when grandfather Josef had made a demonstration of the
tinderbox's use. How had he done it? Fingers
twitching, Zach recalled his clumsy attempts to
strike a spark. Hold the flint and steel firmly when
you strike, Grandfather had said. Make the sparks
dance, he'd said, and Zach had looked up, startled
once again by the humor buried just under the
somber surface of that beloved face. You had to pay
close attention to the tiny flame. Grandfather had
showered sparks over dry moss and cupped gnarled
hands around it to shield it from the wind.
The muffled sound of the saccharin tablets
falling to the carpet brought him out of his reverie,
but he snatched his drooping hand back too late to
retain any of them in the metal box. He bent down
on the floor to gather them. His urgency was
enough to distract Ryan from the hopeful blonde,
who by now was holding up both ends of the
conversation admirably. She barely noticed his
attention was straying, as she continued to talk
animatedly of her native city.
"In the spring and summer they open the
gates and let the mountain run-off flood the streets,
and afterwards everything is so clean and new, not
a bit of litter or dirt left ..."
Ryan's gaze was now fixed on the figure of
an old man on his knees carefully picking up some
spilled pills. As he straightened a bit to reach under
the chair and find by touch any that his eyes might
have missed, Ryan noticed that tears were working
their way down the old man's deeply lined face.
"Pathetic," Ryan muttered to himself, and
turning away, saw with relief that the ticketing
agent was about to announce that the plane was
ready for boarding.
Analysis for the Determination of
a Paratneter for the Parabola
by Mark Ressler '89
The method of analysis requires the assumption of what is to be proven, so that the truth of the
proposition is borne out by the consistency of the
consequences of that assumption. A proposition is
solved by analysis when an accepted truth forms a
necessary consequence of the initial assumption.
The proof is established by reversing the sequence
of consequences so that the argument begins with
the established truth and ends with the statement
of what is to be proven. Thus, if I want to establish
that virtue is desirable, I would first assume virtue
to be desirable. I would then examine the consequences of that assumption, with the hope of
fin ding some universally accepted truth as one of
the consequences--for instance, the existence of
God. Then, if my reasoning is not faulty1, I can
reverse my steps and argue that since God exists
and since what follows from that would be true,
virtue, therefore, is desirable.
Consider Appolonius and the parabola: Appolonius can establish a simple geometr ic def inition of the parabola by claiming that if the
intersection of a cutting plane and the plane that
contains the axis of the cone is parallel to the
intersection of the plane that contains the axis and
the cone itself, then the intersection of the cutting
plane and the cone is a para bola. However, this
definition says nothing about the shape of the
parabola; it may happen that the shape of a
parabola is essentially no different than the shape
of a hyperbola. A definition which encompasses
this consideration might be more useful than a
simple geometric definition like the one above.
The establishment of a diameter and ordinates
provides the means for an examination of the shape
of the parabola, for as the parabola extends out
away from the vertex, both the ordinates and the
abscissa increase. If there is a direct relationship
between the abscissa and the ordinates, that relationship would almost define the shape of the
parabola.
The abscissa may be to the ordinate or the
ordinate to the abscissa in three ways: (I) as a given
line to a given line, (2) as the abscissa is to a given
line, or (3) as the ordinate is to a gi ve lin e. I
proceed now
to examine each of the cases using the method of
analysis.
In his notes on Euclid's Elements, Heath makes the following note concerning faulty reasoning in
analysis:
"Now Aristotle had already made it clear that false hypotheses might lead to a conclusion which is true. There is therefore a possibility of error
unless a certain precaution is taken. While for example, B may be a necessary consequence of.A, it may happen thatA is not a necessary consequence
of B. Thus in order that the reverse ingerence from the truth of K that A is logically true may be logically justified, it is necessary that each step in
the chain of inferences should be unconditionally convertible."
Euclid, The Thirteen Books of the Elements, 2nd ed .. , trans. Thomas Heath (New York, Dover Publications,
1956), p. 141.
12
13
�(I) If the abscissa is to the ordinate as a given
line X is to a given line Y, then:
A
FIG. 1
DE: FE:: X
:Y
and
DH: HJ:: X:
Y.
Therefore,
DE: FE:: DH
: HJ.
Then D, J,
and F will be
in a straight
line,
and triangle
DHJ and triangle DEF
will be similar triangles.
[fig. 2]
Therefore, the abscissa cannot be to the ordinate
as a line is to a line.
(2a) If the abscissa is to the ordinate as the
abscissa is to a given line X, then:
D
FIG. 2
DE: FE::
DE:X
and FE= X.
But FE will
vary while X
is given, so
the abscissa
cannot be to
the ordinate
as the abscissa is to a
given line.
(2b) If the abscissa is to the ordinate as a
given line X is to the abscissa, then:
DE : FE :: X : DE
and DE 2 = FE, constant.
DH : HJ :: X : DH
and DH 2 = HJ, constant
and, therefore, DE 2 : DH 2 :: FE,X :: HJ,X
and DE 2 : DH 2 :: FE : HJ.
But DE 2 : DH 2 :: BE 2 : KH 2,
therefore, BE 2 : KH 2 :: FE : HJ.
14
Compounding both sides with the ratio KH : BE,
KH,BE2 : BE,KH 2 :: FE,KH_: HJ,BE.
Removing the common term BE,HK from the
left side,
BE : KH :: FE,KH : HJ ,BE.
Since, EC = HL,
BE,EC : KH,HL :: FE,KH : HJ, BE.
But BE,EC = EF2, and KH,KL = HJ 2,
therefore, EF2 : HJ2 :: FE,KH : HJ ,BE.
Alternately, EF2: FE,KH :: HJ 2 : HJ,BE
therefore, EF : KH :: HJ : BE.
and alternately, EF : HJ :: KH : BE.
But KH : BE :: DH : DE
so EF: HJ:: DH: DE.
Then D, J, and F will be in a straight line, and
triangle DHJ and triangle DEF will be similar
triangles [fig. 2]. Therefore, the abscissa cannot
be to the ordinate as a given line is to the
abscissa, for the statements:
HJ2 = KH,HL (FE2 = BE,EC)
DH2 = HJ,X (DE2 = FE,X)
and DH : DE :: HK : BE
are incompatible.
(3a) If the abscissa is to the ordinate as a
given line is to the ordinate, then:
DE : FE :: X : FE
and DE= X.
But DE will vary while X is given, so the abscissa cannot be to the ordinate as a given line
is to the ordinate.
(3b) But if the abscissa is to the ordinate as
the ordinate is to a given line X, then:
DE : FE :: FE : X
FE 2 = DE,X
and DH : JH :: JH : X.
JH2 = DH,X.
Therefore, FE2 : JH2 :: DE,X : DH,X
OR FE2 : JH2 :: DE : DH.
But FE2 = BE,EC and JH 2 = KH,HL
so BE,EC: KH,HL :: DE: DH.
But EC= HL
so BE : KH :: DE : DH, since KH is parallel to
BE.
segments of the diameter of the circle BFCG, in
which EC is fixed in size for the parabola in the
cone, whether it appears as DM or HL since DE is
parallel to AC and KL is parallel to BC.
Now since this relationship has been proven
to be possible, the relationship itself may be
used as a starting point for the determination of
the given line. I then assume that X is already
given for a given parabola, so that I may deduce
a relationship between X and some known line:
DE : FE :: FE : X
so FE2 = DE,X.
But FE2 = BE,EC
so BE,EC = DE,X
and BE : DE :: X : EC.
But BE : DE :: BC : AC
so BC : AC :: X : EC.
Compounding both sides with the ratio EC : AD,
BC : AC comp. EC : AD = X,EC : AD,EC.
But EC = DM and DM :AD :: BC : AB
so BC2 : AC,AB :: X,EC : AD,EC
and inversely, AB,AC: BC 2 :: AD: X.
And AB, AC, BC, and AD are all known lines;
therefore, X can be found in accordance with
this last ratio.
If a line, then, is constructed such that as
the line between the vertex of the section and
the vertex of the cone is to the constructed line,
so is the rectanglee contained by the sides of the
axial triangle to the square on the base of the
axial triangle, then the abscissa will ha vee to
the ordinate the same ratio that the ordinate has
to the constructed line. The square on the
ordinate will be equal to the rectangle of the
abscissa and the created line.
Proposition 11, Book I, demonstrates these
properties.
Therefore, a relationship between the abscissa and
the ordinate is possible, and it will be as the
ordinate is to some given line. The relationship is
similar to the relationship of the ordinate to the
15
�I
KEIRO
II
The Fox
(KEIPO)
Jana Giles ('88)
Jana Giles ('88)
I would eat the flesh from your bones,
such is my love for you,
were it not against the law.
It is just as well, thoughyour rotting flesh beneath
that still mask would poison me,
your stinking, stagnant blood would
mix with mineone
unnamed, untouchable, unknowable
in this grief and sacred passion.
In your acidulous smile
I saw the wisdom and assurance
of cloudless days and changeful moons,
bitter
Satisfactions's
cold enterprise
indulged by a dei f ic ac cept an ce.
The wind wails, waxing fierce;
my cold heart grows old .
1985
16
Sparkle, twinkle, said the fox
his black tongue tripped him up
his red tail white-streaked tripped him up
my car struck him and he burst
like a swollen sausage
his mouth foaming and spilling
blood and sequins
and rhinestone jewels.
Children squat in the blood
their greedy, unsubtle fingers
undulating like sea anemones
stirred by a watery wind
search and grab
smeared stones
in a noisy herd.
Soon the birds of prey
shall overcome him, naked
as iron-grey clouds
engulf the setting sun.
1985
17
�Greek Myths of Responsibility
and Other 0 bstacles to Pity
III
LL
Donna Strow ('90)
Jana Giles ('88)
these words are simple
but I have nothing else to off er
somehow the tide
will pull me along
reluctant and ignorant and young
I only wish that when I sank
beneath the muttering
murky moonlit waters
the fishes did not have your face
1985
"I would not wish either [to do or to suffer
wrong]" says Socrates in Plato's Gorgias (Woodhead
469 c), "but if I had either to do or to suffer wrong,
I would choose rather to suffer than to do it." He
describes the wrongdoer as miserable and says that
he is to be pitied (Woodhead 469 a). Is pity
appropriate to the wrongdoer? Is it relevant to ask
whether he deserves pity? Socrates h olds that
wrongdoing is worse than being wronged (Lamb
473 a). Is it appropriate to pity the wrongdoer who
has come to suffer and to regret more than we pity
the wronged? That would certainly come as a shock
to those who delight in saying, "He (the wrongdoer)
got his (just dessert)!" or "(If) you make your bed,
you lie in it," denying pity to the wrongdoer
because they feel somehow that he does not deserve
it. In any event, that is the question under investigation. Plato (Gorgias, Phaedo, Republic) and Aristotle (Nicomachean Ethics) will help.
Before embarking on this quest, however, it
would be good to state just what is meant by "pity."
Socrates' word, € >.. € K.oµa i, is very close to our own.
In this essay I will recognize two kinds of pity, one
meaning a sorrowing over another's misfortune,
the other meaning a seeking to end another's
distress.
because he is wretched), and that he would pref er
to be wronged rather than to do wrong, implying
that the wrongd oer is more to be pitied than the
wronged. Unfortunately, his argument is insubstantial; he simply gets Polus to admit that to do
wrong is more shameful and evil than to suffer
wrong. Then he asks, "And would you choose the
more evil and shameful in preference to the less?"
(Woodhead 475 d), to which the latter replies
negatively.
Would I reply as Pol us does? Yes, I think so,
but perhaps this is only because I have been taught
to adopt this virtuous attitude. Yet if a wrongdoer
were to suffer, either from guilt or from some other
consequence of his misdeed, I do believe that his
suffering would be the worse because he has
himself to blame.
Some would say that it is this very notion of
"blame" that cancels the wrongdoer's claim to our
sympathy. I think that before we subscribe to this
notion we should at least determine whether the
blame and the pity would both bear the same
address if we were to pity the wrongdoer. Does the
same man do wrong and then regret it? Is the part
of the man that does the wrong the same part that
does the suffering?
Again, Socrates maintains that to do wrong
"is the greatest of evils" (Woodhead 496 a, b), that
the wrongdoer is to be pitied (most probably
in my mind I have given you
a fixed place
that you cannot alter
from your distance
According to Cebes Plato's Phaedo, the body
is "continually changing and disintegrating all
through life, the soul [replacing] what is worn
19
18
�away" (Tredennick 87 d, e) Now, if we can assume
that decisions about how to act are made by a
nervous system, which is physical, this readily
verifiable observation means that the man who
pays for his crime is not quite the man (as he has
not quite the faculties of the man) who committed
it. In this case, then, we must not blame but rather
pity the man who now suffers as a result of the
misdeed of his former self.
At this point in the dialogue, however,
Cebes believes in an entity called the soul which is
non-physical and rules the body. Does Cebes then
believe that a man (or the soul of a man) is the same
throughout life? That would be absurd, for Socrates' willingness to die, which is manifested
throughout the dialogue, is founded on his belief
that philosophy is carried on in the soul, a belief
which all present seem to accept (64 e, 65 a). If a
soul can learn, a soul can change. I remain
convinced that a man is in fact a different man
every instant of his life. How, then, can we blame
someone for his past actions, especially one who
clearly regrets them?
Yet even if the nature of man were such that
he remained the same, stagnant throughout life, I
would still not be convinced that the faculty that
committed the crime is the same faculty that
suffers because of it. Both Plato and Aristotle
divide the soul into three faculties. Socrates give a
good argument to support this assertion in The
Republic (Jowett 436):
But the question is not quite so easy when we proceed to ask
whether these principles are three or one· whether 1 that is to say
w~ learn :Vith one pa~t ofour nature, are ;ngrywith another, and
with a third part desire the satisfaction of our natural appetites;
orwhe ther the whole soul comes into play in each sort of actionto determine that is the difficulty .... The same thing clearly
cannot actor be acted upon in the same part or in relation to the
same thing at the same time, in contrary ways; and therefore
whenever this contradiction occurs in things apparently the
same, we know that they are really not the same, but different.
To Aristotle, the soul appears to have three parts
also, but these are different from Socrates' three
parts. Rather, it appears to him that the soul
contains a rational principle and irrational, the
rational being divided into the calculative or
deliberating, part and the scientific part, whi~h is
concerned with the truth of unchangeable facts.
Given Socrates' argument, it is easy to see
that whatever governs the emotions, be it soul or
mind of any kind, it must be composed of more than
one part, as evidenced by the fact that we some-
times experience mixed emotions. We often even act
despite misgivings.
It seems most likely to me that the part of
the soul or mind that suffers is other than the part
that prompts us to do wrong. Let me test this idea
using Socrates' argument: Are the parts of the mind
capable of remorse and the origin of misdeeds
respectively affected differently by the same thing
at the same time? Yes, insofar as one can regret an
action while at the same time perform it. To me this
is tantamount to doing something reluctantly.
Therefore, it seems that one part misbehaves and
another must pay!
The objection can be raised, however, that
perhaps there is no one part of the soul capable of
remorse or misbehavior, that many parts may each
be capable of each. In that case it would not matter
that one can perform an act reluctantly . It would
not prove anything, for it would still be possible f.or
the misbehaving element in a certain circumstance
to be the very same part that regrets the act later.
If this objection is to be sustained, it would seem
to me in that case that the one faculty involved had
completely changed its nature, as it changed with
regard to the same action. I would not, then, blame
the new, improved entity for the malefaction of the
old. I am willing to assume, however, that one
faculty is uniquely capable of remorse, another of
action.
If, then, the wrongdoer and the one who
regrets are two different entities, is it not appropriate at least to pity the latter, both in the sense
of commiserating and of seeking to end its pain?
But suppose I am wrong and we must regard the
same man and the same faculty that did the bad
deed as the one that suffers. Many hold notions of
justice and r esponsibility that demand this. Let us
first examine justice, which some say points to the
conclusion that blame somehow renders pity inappropriate, and then concentrate on the difference
between th e wro n gdoer an d th e wro n ged , which we
will call responsibility.
Why do some of us feel it inconsistent to pity
the one who is to blame for a misdeed? Can we not
blame and pity (in both senses) the same man?
Aristotle seems to take it for granted that we cannot
(Rackham III. v. 15, 16). Yet, we are all sinners. We
all make mistakes. What does the fact that a certain
wrongdoer's sin is responsible for his misery have
to do with our sorrow over his misery and our
willingness to help him to overcome it? Some will
answer that the said misery is the fulfillment of
justice, and so we should not be willing to help the
wrongdoer to escape it. Some will even go so far as
to say that we should not even feel sorry fo r
someone who suffers according to what they
believe to be justice. Socrates and Aristotle present
us with many kinds of justice in light of which to
examine the above concerns.
In the Nicomachean Ethics (Rackham, V. iv.
3) we are introduced to co r rective justice. Corrective justice restores equality between the wrongdoer and his victim by taking from the culprit and
redressing, that is, giving to the victim. This serves
two purposes. Obviously, it helps the victim,
restoring the equality between the wrongdoer and
the victim which was lost when the wrong was done.
Also, it serves to deter potential malefactors from
doing (and actual ones from repeating) crimes.
Aristotle says, "la wgivers ...puni sh ... those who do
evil... in order to ... repress [it]" (Rackham, III. v. 7).
Now, pity of either kind fo r the wrongdoer
certainly does no t prevent us from r ed r essing t he
wrong for the victim's sake. Does sympathy inter fere with deterrence? I think not. I am sure that
many people who have had to mete out justice of
this kind have pitied the cr iminals. But what of the
kind of pity that seeks relief from the suffering?
Recall that the wrongdoer in my i nitial question
regrets his action. If this is so, what need have we
to dete r him fu r ther? It seems t hat corrective
justice is of no use whe re this wrongdoer is
concerned, and certainly should not prevent us
from pitying him.
The Ethics also raises the issue of r etribution. Since either form of pi ty would soften the
blow of retributive justice, perhaps neither is
appropriate to the wrongdoer if this should prove
to be a valid concept of justice. Fortunately,
Aristotle does not succeed in proving this. The best
he can do is to say, " The very existence of the state
depends on proportionate reciprocity; for men
demand that they shall be able to requite evil with
evil -- if they cannot, they feel they are in the
position of slaves" (Rackham, V. v. 6). In other
words, man's villainous instinct for revenge is at
the root of this so-called justice!
The Gorgias, too, contains some possible
re ferences to retaliation as justice. Says Socrates,
And so again ... supposing it is our duty to injure somebody,
whether an enemy or anyone else ... we must make every exertion
to trial, or if he does, we must contrive that our enemy shall
escape and not be punished.
(Lamb, 480 e, 481 a)
Socrates, who believes punishment to be good for
the malefactor, casually assumes that a man can be
bound by duty to injure someone. What else could
that be but retaliation?
Henry Higuera entertained the idea that the
latter part of the Gorgias (523) consists of an
attempt on Socrates' part to pay Callicles back for
his insulting manners. Callicles has been sarcastic
and rude (Lamb 495 d). He calls Socrates "paragon
of wisdom." He says also, "You could not speak, I
suppose, if there were not somebody to answer you"
(Lamb 519 d), and eventually he does stop answering. As Mr. Higuera says, "Tempers [are] high." So
why does Socrates start preaching fire and brimstone? It could be that he honors retaliation as a
form of justice. Aristotle tries, but in my opinion
fails. It will take more than popular demand to
convince me that two "wrongs" make a "right." If
re taliation is not justice, then the notion thereof
should not prevent us from pitying our repentant
wrongdoer in any way.
The Gorgias also presents Socrates' view of
justice as medicinal punishment. "Paying the
penalty is a relief from the greatest evil, wickedness" (Lamb 478 d) If this is justice (and indeed it
seems to work in child-rearing), we should not seek
to ameliorate the wrongdoer's suffering until he
evinces his betterment by regretting his evil act,
but our repentant wrongdoer is still an appropriate
target for both kinds of pity. It seems that no real
justice of any kind presented in the Ethics or the
Gorgias renders pity for the repentant wrongdoer
inappropriate!
There are, however, those who insist on the
existence of some a priori, cosmic justice involving
something like retribution. It may be useful to ask
exactly how much suffe r ing and of what kind the
wrongdoer must endure as punishment for the
satisfaction of this elusive cosmic justice.
First let us look at natural consequences.
Sometimes a crime will bring these with it. Sometimes, too, the righting of a wrong causes a
wrongdoer pain, as in the case of a liar who is made
to tell the shameful truth. The pain here is merely
a by-product of the aspect of corrective justice that
seeks to redress a wrong for the sake of the victim
-- not justice itself -- or is it? Does this cosmic
retributive justice demand that the wrongdoer
of act and word to prevent him from being punished or coming
20
21
�suffer any and all such incidental (not related to
the magnitude of the iniquity) consequences?
Common sense says that this is ridiculous.
Indeed, Socr ates unwittingly poses a
broader problem when he suggests that punishment
(natural or otherwise) be tailored to fit the crime
(Woodhead 480 c,d). Who is to say how much
punishment is enough? If the aim of justice is
medicinal, the wrongdoer himself is the one to
answer. The same goes in the case of justice based
on deterrence. If justice means paying back the
victim for his loss then the victim should answer.
Such it is in the case of constructive forms of
justice that the question of how much punishment
is enough can be answered. However, if justice is
cosmic, who is to answer? The cosmos herself? Does
she really have a reputation for being fair and just?
It is clear how ridiculous that is.
Be that as it may, there are those who insist
that blame, or responsibility, renders pity inappropriate to wrongdoers. Yet these same tenacious
souls will pity the man who is abused by circumstances (or by a wrongdoer). The best I can do for
these is to point out how much alike are those who
suffer because of their own misdeeds and those
who suffer otherwise, and how shallow and illusory is their concept of responsibility.
Aristotelian responsibility is based on the
volunta r iness of action, such that a man is responsible for an act that is wrong if he has committed
it voluntarily. Again, Aristotle believes that pity
cannot go hand in hand with blame. He says, "It is
only voluntary actions fo r whiCh praise and blame
are given; those that are involuntary are condoned,
and sometimes even pitied" (Rackham III. i. 1). I
think that this attitude results partly from his
restricted use of the word "blame," which he seems
to t a ke to mean, "that by virtue of which one is
responsible (in the Aristotelian sense)."
Aristotle says that voluntary acts are those
in which
the origin of the movement of the parts of the body instrumental
to the act lies in the agent; and when the origin of an action is
in oneself it is in one's own power to do it or not.
(Rackham, III. i. 6)
And again:
'None would be vile, and none would not be blest,' seems to be
half false. If it is manifest that a man is the author of his own
actions, and if we are unable to trace our conduct back to any
22
other origins than those within ourselves, then actions ... are
voluntary
(Rackham, III. v. 4-6).
If one were hypnotized into committing a
base act, I do not think that the act would qualify
as voluntary, although we, in so far as we did not
know of the hypnotist, would not be able to trace
the agent's conduct back to any other origins than
those within himself. Therefore I am inclined to
believe that Aristotle meant to identify voluntary
actions as those which a being equipped with
perfect knowledge could not trace back to any
origins save the wrongdoer himself.
To Aristotle, this would pose no threat to his
concept of responsibility, since he imputes spontaneity to our actions (that is, those actions not
classified as "involuntary," a concept discussed
below); however, the notion of spontaneous action
by animals of any kind flies in the face of modern
psychology. In a world that is always asking
"Why?", searching for causes and patterns and the
order of nature which we intuit to be a reality,
there is no room for the idea of spontaneity. The
truth, I believe, is that our destinies were set before
the earth cooled, since nothing transpires without
cause and nothing is caused to happen which does
not happen, so that strung about the latticework of
time and space is an immutable web of cause and
effect, the vision of which Aristotle was denied.
Thus any actions, theoretically ,should be able to
be traced back to origins other than those within
the agent.
Spontaneity is, as I said before, a chaotic
beast which we intuit to be nonexistent. Yet even
chaos has intelligent suppo r te rs who point out that
the universe may have had a beginning, and, if it
did, this beginning would have been spontaneous.
Therefore, they claim, spontaneity may be a
monster on the loose in our very universe .
I n light of the fa ct th at spo ntaneity may be
a reality and that human acts may, to spite
psychology cruelly, be spontaneous, let us reexamine the notion that, "where we are f ree to act
we are also free to ref rain from acting." (Rackham
III. v. 2) It seems to me that, while this is in one sense
true (in that the action to a large degree depends
on the agent), it is possible that the agent may be
of suc h a character that he can only choose to act
wrongly.
If the character of the agent helps to
determine his behavior, and the agent is not
responsible for his character, it appears to follow
that the agent is not responsible for his behavior,
in the Aristotelian sense.
Is the agent responsible for his character?
Aristotle says that he is, since it is our practices that
determine our character (Rackham III. iv. 15, 16).
And yet, it is our character that determines our
practices! It is obvious that, at some point in the
past, the agent's character was not his responsibil ity and, therefore, neither are all ensuing actions
and modifications of that character.
Have I done away with responsibility? Not
really. My attack is limited to Aristotelian respon sibility which, some claim, renders the wrongdoer
undeserving of pity. I have left ample room for the
more pragmatic responsibility that we use in
everyday life in conjunction with corrective justice.
According to Aristotle, "actions are in voluntary when done (a) under compulsion or (b)
through ignorance" (Rackham III. i. 2, 3); ignorance
of this kind is ignorance concerning (I) the person
affected, (2) the instrument employed, or (3) the
result of the action. But Socrates says that all seek
the good and act in such a way as they believe will
bring it about (Lamb 468 c - 469). In light of this,
which seems to me true, are not all wrongdoers
shown to act in ignorance of the results of their
actions, believing them to be good whereas in
reality they are not?
Aristotle addresses this notion that the
wrongdoer's "aim at his end [which he mistakenly
sees as good] is not of his own choosing" (Rackham
III. v. 17) by arguing that it destroys the idea of
responsibility for good behavior as well as for bad
(Rackham III. v. 18, 19). I find the argument
insubstantial and Aristotelian responsibility (for
both good and bad actions) fictitious.
Finally, neither the repentant wrongdoer
not the wronged person chooses evil, since "no
object of choice belongs to the past" (Ostwald,
l l 39b7).
It seems that the re pen tan t wrongdoer and
the wronged are very much alike, neither of them
being responsible for their suffering in the Aristotelian sense, and neither choosing evil. Again, the
malefactor is not the same entity as the repentant,
nor does justice prescribe that we deny pity of any
kind to the wrongdoer. It is clear, then, that the man
who is "to blame" for his own suffering and the
man who is abused by circumstances and thus
suffers are equally to be pitied, both in the sense
of commiserating and of seeking to end the
sufferer's pain.
Bibliography
Aristotle: Nichomachean Ethics, Translated by Martin Ostwald, The Bobbs-Merrill Company, Inc., 1962; and
Nichomachean Ethics, Trans. by H. Rackham, M.A. William Heinemann, Ltd., 1926.
Higuera, Henry: Tutor and Advisor
Plato: Gorgias, Trans. by W.D. Woodhead, Phaedo,_Trans. by Hugh Tredennick, from Collected Dialogues of
Plato, Princeton University Press, 1961; and The Republic, Trans. by B. Jowett, Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.
23
�Aututnn Day Salon
E = MC
Scott Vineber g ('88)
Scott Vineberg ('88)
Combing the follicles of grass,
Cleaning-up their natty harvest confetti;
Leaves, trees' dandruff.
I confess to Boreas
My dislike of the season:
Petty gossip.
But the wind, darling,
Is not
a good listener.
I tease the scalp
Of old Miss Nature,
Menopausal Spinster Earth,
Greying and balding.
A last clip.
The old bat is just about ready to be embalmed.
She's never satisfied with her color:
"No," she says, "the tint isn't quite right.
I think I want it white for down south this year."
I don't think that would be a very good idea,
bitch.
Well,
Then she beckoned to her bully brother Boreas,
And he blew the clipping and cleaning
Back onto her head.
She stormed out.
No tip again this yea r.
But it was worth it, dear,
It was worth it.
A gentle, explosive equation.
Tight Energy is Mass.
Loose mass is energy.
The equality flows so easily
From dynamic burst power to thick ule.
Fire frozen.
Stone burning.
It works so carefully in the world,
Cradling us from inside ourselves
And all around us.
Papoose wrap Nature
Rocks us with minute bursts inside
Pinches us with soft solidity.
'
We are the naked flame rock babies of the universe.
So soft.
Gravity is God's kind hand holding me.
I feel how we are so cautiously tucked
In the dark ch aotic sky;
I feel the rigid relenting bed
On which I am laid,
And I know I am loved.
25
24
�Seeing with Both Eyes Open
Graham Redgrave ('90)
Both Claudius Ptolemaeus and Nicolaus
Copernicus had only their eyes with which to
observe the whirling lights in the sky. In addition,
each had over a thousand years of pre-Common Era
astronomical data at his disposal. Yet Copernicus
built an astronomy which is mathematically superi or to Ptolemy's and which has since been shown
to be closer to the actual form of the universe.
Alth ough some discussion of what makes an astronomy superior is appropriate, this paper will be
concerned with the progression of the philosophies
of the two astronomers and the links, if any,
between each's philosophy and astronomy. Was
there, for example, a progression of thought which
may have given Copernicus the freed om to see the
heavens in a different light than that in which
Ptolemy had seen them? A context, in this case
astronomical, must be provided in which to judge
the philosophies of these two thinkers, for otherwise one would be unable to grasp any possible
relevance of the philosophy of the astronome r to
his astronomy. Again, in order to make the progression of thought, both astronomical and philosophical, as clear as possible, we will begin with Ptolemy
and proceed chronologically to Copernicus.
Upon contemplating the Preface to
Ptolemy's Almagest, it becomes clear that Ptolemy's
conception of astronomy is thoroughly Aristotelian: Aristotle's name appears before the name of
any religious entity. Consequently, Ptolemy finds
that astronomy is a species of mathematics which,
in the realm of theoretical enquiry, surpasses in
accessibility both the physical and the the ological;
for not only is mathematics the only discipline
which "would give its practitioners certain and
trustw orthy knowledge ... f rom indisputable
procedures"(Pt.,pp.5-6), but also astronomy is "that
special mathematical theory [which] would most
readily prepare the way to the theological" and
make "its followers lovers of that divine
beauty"(Pt.,p.6). Irrespective of the virtue in studying astronomy, the fact is that Ptolemy considers
astronomy to be kind of mathematics, and therefore subject to the principles of such a discipline,
beyond any principles particular to astronomy.
With this delineation in mind, let us examine
several of Ptolemy's expositions to evaluate their
mathematical and / or astronomical excellence.
Before we sift through some of his specific ideas,
let us first examine his conceptions.
Ptolemy, in laudable Aristotelian manner,
starts "from the things which are more knowable
and obvious to us and [proceeds] towards those
which are clearer and more knowable by
na ture"(Phys., l 84a 16-1 7), ie., he observes the
appearances of heavenly motion, both firsthand
and from his charts, and proceeds to find the order
in their movements. In accordance with his method,
Ptolemy first asserts that the movement of the
heavens is spherical (Pt.,1.3). What Ptolemy actually
proves is that the heavens appear to move around
27
26
�the earth with spherical motion. Now without a
powerful telescope to observe parallax, there is no
way to prove which is moving, the heavens or the
earth, but Ptolemy says not a word about any other
possibility. Ptolemy's proof for the spherical nature of the earth (Pt.,1.4) is reasonable, as is his
assertion in Chapter Six that the earth has the ratio
of a point to the heavens. But in Chapter Five we
encounter another difficulty. The fixed stars are so
far away, as he himself says(Pt.,I.6), that there is
justification for calling them fixed and saying that
we appear to be in the middle of them; but the
variable appearances of the sun and the wandering
stars, i.e., the planets, seem to suggest that, even if
the relationships between the earth and these stars
are regular, the earth is not necessarily the center
of that regularity. Furthermore, Chapter Six reinforces the contrast between the planets and the sun
on one hand, and the planets and the fixed stars on
the other (something prevents Ptolemy form postulating that the whole geocentric system might be as
a point to the heavens--but what is that hindrance
and where else in the Almagest does it manifest
itself?). I do realize that hindsight affords a better
vista of the problems in a given situation, but at the
same time, Ptolemy was not proving what he
claimed. As a result of finding the earth at the
center of the of the center of the celestial sphere,
he reasonably assigns no movement to the
earth(Pt.,1.7), which is perfectly in accordance with
Aristotle's ideas regarding the relative weight of
the earth and the innate tendencies of the simple
bodies. Thus far, though his premises are clouded
enough to make his proofs almost reasonable
assertions, Ptolemy's arguments are self-consistent
and logically sound.
After he deals with the earth's relationship
with the sun and moon, Ptolemy orders the planets
and the sun with respect to their closeness to the
earth (Pt.,IX. l ), a process which seems substantially
less sound than his proofs so far. Indeed, Ptolemy
gives no reason for his order except concurrence
with all the other top mathematicians of his day.
The order is, of course, not without value; the
appearances of the planets have begun to be
explained. Mercury and Venus, the two planets
placed below the sun, are tied to it in that they move
with the same speed as the mean sun and, as a result,
can never be more than certain elongations (longi tudinal distances) from the sun. This restriction on
their movements accounts perfectly for their heliacal anomaly, the first of two anomalies of the
28
planets. Ptolemy's method appears valid: he isolates
one appearance of the planet at a time, explicates
it, and, if further explication are needed, he takes
each in turn and gradually compounds the appearances (anomalies) together.
Ptolemy puts both Venus and Mercury on
epicycles of specific sizes which move on eccentric
deferents at specific rates, in order that the planets
appear to retrograde (they appear to stop, move
backward, stop again, and then continue forward)
at the appropriate time and that their elongations
vary correctly (their zodiacal anomaly). He constructs similar hypotheses for the outer planets, at
which point strange things begin to happen. To
understand the problems which now emerge, let us
review the appearances of an outer planet.
First, outer planets can be at any elongation
from the sun, and retrogradation may happen
anywhere in the zodiac, as long as the planet artd
the sun are in opposition (i.e., they are 180 degrees
from one another). The fact that retrogradation
occurs only at opposition ties the planet to the sun
in much the same way that the inner planets have
limited elongations. The outer planets' zodiacal
anomaly arises from the fact that the severity of
retrogradati on is contingent upon what part of the
zodiac the planet is in when retrogradation takes
place. Finally, a coincidence arises which haunts
the Ptolemaic universe. For each of the three outer
planets (Saturn, Jupiter, and Mars), "the sum of the
cycles of longitude [the movement of the epicycle
on the deferent] and the cycles of anomaly [the
movement of the planet on the epicycle] always
equals the number of solar years in which these
cycles take place"(S=L+A)(p.24M). The resultin g
table looks like this:
Saturn
Jupiter
Mars
Solar Years
59+
7179+
Cycles of L
2+
6-
42+
the amount by which the d'e f erent's center is
displaced from the earth. But in proving that
whenever the planet is in opposition it is at its true
perigee, he assumes the existence of the equant.
What is the equant?
When Ptolemy calculates the eccentricity of
the inner planets, the data he has gives him an
amount of arc which corresponds to twice the
amount of eccentricity he had previously calculated. Ptolemy is forced to posit the equant, the
center of regular angular motion for the planet, at
a point equidistant from the center of the eccentric
deferent as the earth. The equanfs existence is
problematic at best, since the planet whose regular
motion the equant is describing is not on a circle
about the equant. The planet, then, relative to the
circle it is moving on, is moving with irregular
motion! After assuming the equant's existence for
the outer planets, Ptolemy makes accurate predictions concerning those planets; but how valid is the
equant, an assumed equant at that, even if the
predictions made with it are accurate?
In summarizing Ptolemy's astronomy, I will
say that the nobility of his philosophy far outshines
the applications of his mathematics to such a
philosophy. His clear, Aristotelian thoughts soon
become tangled in an ill-supported muddle, at the
heart of which lie three problems. The first is the
fact that under the Ptolemaic system, according to
the appearances, an outer planet must be at perigee
when it is in opposition to the sun. Placing an outer
planet on an epicycle, however, does not necessitate
this phenomenon, as is shown below (Cp., p.525):
Cycles of A
57
65
37
.
. I
-- -
conJ nct10n apogee
This coincidence gives rise to the discovery of
another, namely that retrogradation occurs only at
perigee.
Ptolemy's constructions to make the epicycles fit the appearances of the outer planets are
fairly complex and hard to capture visually. More
imporantly, they are more difficult for him to do
simply because the outer planets have unlimited
elongations. Ptolemy must determine the correlation between the planet's perigee and its being in
L
Sun
/
'
opposition/perigee
L
-
-
'\
b
.........
"
\
\
Earth
There is nothing in Ptolemy's mathematics that
necessitates that Mars be in opposition at perigee;
for it is clear that Mars could be anywhere on the
epicycle. It is the appearances that dictate the
necessity of having perigee at opposition, but
Ptolemy does not construct a system in which this
must happen. The second problem is that no
explanation can be made for why the number of
solar years equals the sum of the planet's cycles of
longitude and anomaly. For Ptolemy this is a
coincidence which, when explicated according to
the appearances, produces the configuration of
perigee at opposition, another coincidence! These
two configurations would seem to make a strong
argument for heliocentricity, simply because it is
clear that the orbits of all the planets have far more
to do with the sun than they have to do with the
earth. The last problem, that of the equant, is more
subtle, more elusive. It seems clear that if one
wishes to maintain the purity, both from a philosophical and a mathematical viewpoint, of the
orbits of the planets, one must use only perfect
circles in the explication of phenomena. For
without such purity of form, not only is the
mathematics far more complicated, but also the
philosophy (at least the Ptolemaic/ Aristotelian
philosophy) becomes besmirched with something
less than divine. Perhaps some discussion of the
philosophical principles guiding Ptolemy's thought
is here appropriate.
In Book Thirteen, Chapter Two, Ptolemy
states:
But it is proper to try and fit as far as possible the simpler
hypothesis to the movements in the heavens; and if this does
not succeed, then any hypotheses possible. Once all the appear
ances are saved by the consequences of the hypotheses, why
should it seem strange that such complications can come
about in the movements of heavenly things?
(Pt., p.429)
The first clause harmonizes with Ptolemy's determined reliance on the most simple and perfect
mathematical figure, the circle. Simplicity is desirable beca.u se the simple is pure and therefore
divine. And in the heavens, as Aristotle (De Cael~,
i,2; Metaphys., xii,8) and Ptolemy (Pt., p.429) say,
the simple bodies (stars, planets, etc.) are di vine. It
does seem strange, however, that Ptolemy should
think that we, as definitely non-divine creatures,
should have such direct access to understanding
this divine simplicity. For Aristotle says, at least of
scientific enquiry, "the natural way [of discovering first principles] is to start from the things
which are more knowable and obvious to us and
proceed towards those which are clearer and more
knowable by na ture"(Phys., l 84a 16-17). Indeed, it
seems inconsistent to build a system with the simple
elements, viz~, circles, for simplicity's sake, only to
29
�condone the use of those simple uni ts in the
building of an edifice of such complexity that
simplicity is nowhere to be found in the end
product. Saying that the edifice is simple because
it is composed of simple elements becomes a bad
joke. It is not clear, in all fairness to Ptolemy,
whether he is attributing the complications found
in the explications of the movements of the planets
to the planets themselves, or to man's inadequate
astronomy. I cannot help but feel, though, that here
Ptolemy is trying to apologize for or rationalize the
equant, a step which I may feel necessary but which
he may not.
Later in the chapter, Ptolemy says that we
should "judge [the heavenly occurrences'] simplicity from the unchangeableness of the natures in the
heavens and their movement"(p. 429). I find a more
subtle revelation of doctrine in this passage, which
again is Aristotelian. Man's most exalted faculty,
that of reason, is for Aristotle the driving force of
the cosmos (Metaphys ., xii,8-9). Aristotle and Ptolemy both posit the unchanging nature of the
heavens in order, it seems, to have the universe
reflect the supremacy of reason, viz .., in the divine
motion of the stars, which, when deified, has
recognizable power in the heavens and endows men
with the privilege of being able to gaze upon it in
its manifestations. This belief in Reason makes
Man in a very real sense the measure of all things,
at ieast insofar as inquiry is concerned. A man,
even recognizing the power of Reason, would still
be confined in an inquiry not only by the limitations of his own intellect, but also by the particula r
beliefs as to what Reasonable things are. He would
only discover as much about the manifestatiosn of
Reason (in this case, the heavenly bodies) as his
belief in the particular capabilities of Reason (e.g.,
the setting of the stars in motion) would allow him.
His belief would hinder his intellectual pursui t
wherever a particular concept (e.g., the planets
moving in quasi-circles) seemed un-Reasonable. It
seems, then, that Ptolemy was hampered by his
philosophy. But surely no man's mind is free to
wander about the cosmos unfettered, without any
form to shape and direct it? If a man must
necessarily have some form of mind, what will be
that form, that predisposition, which will work
best to enable that man to see truth? And this paper
is concernd with astronomical truth; therefore, if
one were able to find a verifiably superio r astron ··
omy, one might be able t o compare the philosophy
or predisposition of the astronomer in question
30
with that of Ptolemy. But what will be the
requirements, at least mathematical if not empirical, by which to judge a work superior?
Ptolemy's system is dubious in those places,
as has been said, where he cannot produce a
mathematical construction that necessarily provides the appearances. If an astronomer could
structure his universe to allow for the one correct
set of appearances, would not his universe be
mathematically superior and probably closer to the
truth?
Copernicus, of course, is the magician of necessity who solves at least two of the three
problems of Ptolemy's system. To reiterate, those
problems are: 1) that the outer planets are only at
perigee at opposition and vice versa, 2) that there
is 'no explanation for the coincidence S=L+A, a
coincidence which, in Ptolemy's universe, is intimately linked with the first problem, and 3) that
the equant comes dangerously near, in the eyes of
some, to astronomical heresy. Problem three is still
a problem after Copernicus finishes with it, but in
a different respect than it is with Ptolemy. In order
to understand how Copernicus solves these problems, we shall summarize the Copernican exposition of the uni verse.
To begin with, most of the Ptolemaic ratios
dealing with the earth's relationship to the hea venly bodies are kept, for a very good reason . The
calculations deriving these ratios are based on
fairly accurate observations. The calculations now
merely ref er to different relationships; for example, the size of Mars's epicycle now becomes the
earth's orbit, while the size of the deferent refers
to the size of Mars's orbit. The sun is at the center
of the universe, and the planets, proceeding out ward, are ordered thus: Mercury, Venus, Earth,
Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn. All the planets are
moving in the same direction around centers
located very close to the sun, while the earth has
three movements which p r eserve the appearance of
the zodiac and the daily rotation of the celest ia l
sphere.
But now to address those three problems-first that of the oppositions and perigees of the
outer planets. All we need do is diagram the
situation according to Copernicus's system (Cp.,
p.525):
It is clear that Mars (or any out er planet) can ony
be at opposition at perigee.
The second problem is solved when L is
understood to be the speed of the slower planet and
A the difference in speeds between the two planets
(i.e., the number of times the faster overtakes the
slowe r ). Now the planets are ordered from observati on by their angular speeds from the slowest to the
fastest, outermost orbit to innermost. Thus, when
Saturn has completed two orbits (L), the earth, the
faster of the two planets, will have overtaken
Saturn fifty-seven times (A) and will have taken
fifty-nine years to do so (S). It is also evident that
whenever a planet overtakes or is overtaken by the
earth, a retrogradation will occur. Whereas Ptolemy
had to calculate the rates for each planet and its
epicycle and engingeer retrogradations, so to speak,
Copernicus shows that with their observed rates of
revolution around the sun, each planet must retrograde where and when it does.
Copernicus's solution t o the problem of the
equant is the most astounding of the three solutions. For Ptolemy, the necessity for the equant
arose when he had to compound the heliacal
anomaly with the zodiacal. In addressing the same
problem, Copernicus, rather than resorting to the
equant, changes the shape of the planet's orbit to
a quasi -circle, a curve "diff erring imperceptibly"
from a circle. Here Copernicus makes a radi cal leap
away from Ptolemy. Where Ptolemy understood
there to be a necessity for perfect circles in
affirmation of the divine simplicity of the heavens, Copernicus sees the necessity for a very
different kind of simplicity, namely that there be
no loopings or spirals in a planet's movement
(which Ptolemy and Brahe posit, respectively). This
simplicity requires a denial of the fundamental
divinity of the heavens--or does it? Copernicus's
opening remarks are more fervent that Ptolemy's,
full of praise for the virtue of astronomy and the
"godlike" motions of the heavens. Copernicus is
anything but an atheistic mechanist out to rend all
the spirit from his art.
Copernicus has shown himself to be master
astronomer over Ptolemy, but what of his philosophy? At the end of Book One, Chapter Nine, in
Revolutions of the Heavenly Spheres, Copernicus
says, "And the ratio of order. .. teaches us [the
astronomical] truth, if only--as they say--we would
look at the thing with both eyes." It is doubtful that
Copernicus thinks that Ptolemy made his observations with one eye, one physical eye, shut. This
being the case, Copernicus might well be making a
statement about the mind of the astronomer, a mind
not fully utilizing its ability to apprehend truth.
But what would the hindrance to that mind be?
Earlier in this discussion, Ptolemy was seen to be
restricting himself by deifying reason. Copernicus
appears to be claiming that his mind is unrestricted
in comparison to Ptolemy's, but to investigate the
meaning and validity of Copernicus' assertion, we
must look at the commentary on Copernicus in
Johannes Kepler's Epitome of Copernican
Astronomy,JV.
In the remarks To the Reader (Kp., p.848),
Kepler indirectly quotes Christ in Matthew 24:35:
"Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words
will not pass away." Kepler, in proclaiming his
Christianity, is making a distinction about the term
"heavens," which he goes on to explicate: "But his
Most Supreme Highness will not pick a fight
concerning the heavens; for he knows that the
philosophers speak of the visible heavens; and
Christ of the invisible heavens." It seems, then, that
Christian dogma dictates that the universe, while
"stamped with the adornment of harmonic
proportions"(Kp., p.850), is as ephemeral as the
ground upon which we stand. Christians are free to
think not only of the earth as being related to the
stars in a fundamental way, but also of the stars as
not eternally moving in their perfect circles. As far
as Christians are to be concerned, Aristotle's
arguments resulting in the divinity of the (visible)
heavens must be false, because he fixes the bounda ries of the divine at the limits of human knowing
rather than beyond human knowing, as a Christian
would. For Aristotle, the most divine geometrical
figure is the perfect circle; consequently he posits
that the stars, perceivably the most div .~nc bodies,
31
�move in perfoct circles. With Kepler's linking of
Christian dogma to astronomy, however, astronomers are freed to violate certain Aristotelian precepts, simply because that which is Reasonable is
no longer divine, merely reasonable. And although
Man is made in God's image and, as a result, has
some faculty for reason, Man is just that, an image;
for him to decipher the unimaginably complex
movements of the spheres, he will have to look to
God for assistance. Given that Copernicus is a
Christian (as is evidenced by his "Preface and
Dedication to Pope Paul III"), how does he view the
universe?
Kepler, in quoting "Copernican Philosophy," uses Copernicus's understanding of astronomy to symbolize the Holy Trinity. The sun is a
symbol for the Father, the planetary region a
symbol for the Holy Ghost, and the sphere off ixed
stars a symbol for Jes us Christ, the Son. Kepler is
careful not to say, however, that these regions are
the Trinity; he says merely that the tripartite
nature of the universe serves as a vehicle for
contemplating the Trinity.
Now it is possible to see some correlation
between the philosophical and the astronomical.
Copernicus's assertion that truth can be seen if we
open both eyes may be not merely an injunction to
see that system which will necessitate the appearances; it may be instead an exhortation to the
Christian faith, the faith which allows Copernicus
to see man not as the focal point of the universe,
but rather as an integral part of God's world.
Having examined both Ptolemaic and
Copernican astronomies in comparison with their
respective philosophies, we have established some
sort of correlation between astronomy and philosophy. Ptolemy, in a very Aristotelian manner,
conceives of a geocentric universe, a universe
whose first principle is Reason. Copernicus, whose
universe necessitates the heavenly appearances
rather than merely provides for them, is a Christian, and as a result is slightly less hindered that
Ptolemy in his thinking about the heavens. We have
established a correlation between astronomy and
philosophy; but is there a causal relationship
between the two? We have seen that ast r onomy is
a species of mathematical inquiry, relating to the
ordered movements of the heavens, but "philosophy," insofar as it has been used in this paper (and
in the term "Copernican Philosophy"), might better
be termed "the result of reflection upon one's
belief." Ptolemy probably believed in the supremacy of Reason, if we take his Aristotelianism to its
logical end, while Copernicus was a Christian. If
this "belief" is the farm of mind as was discussed
earlier, then it is fundamental in a person and in
some way must have given Copernicus the ability
to see things differently that Ptolemy. Again if, as
Kepler says, "it should not be surprising to anyone
that eyesight should learn from r eason,"(Kp.,
p.854) surely it should not be surprising to anyone
that reason learn from belief?
Variant Sonnet:
·Atnazon Mourning
Dahra Latham ('90)
The river sleeps beneath the sun;
Her warm, fecund meanders run
Through fen and forest drowsily
To the cold wakefulness of sea.
To rub her eyes and shake her hair,
Thinking of sunstruck jungles where
She slipped to sleep, having forgot
What strange change this night's rest has wrought.
So the pard-huntress surely rose
At Tibur, surely shook her hair
Half of her mind still in repose
Forgetting what had brought her there.
And raised her head, in sunstruck Syria crowned
To see the first strange frost on Roman ground.
N.B.: All quotations from Ptolemy, Copernicus, or
Ke ple r were taken fr om Gre at Books of the Weste rn
World, no. 16, "Ptolemy, Copernicus, Kepler,"
R.M.Hutchins, ed. All quotations from Aristotle
were taken from The Basic Works of Aristotle, R.
McKeon, ed. In addition, any quotation followed
by "M" is taken from the Sophomore "Ptolemy,
Copernicus" Manual.
32
33
�Untitled
Sahana Dharmapuri ('91)
When her eyes are violets,
he is a universe of dandelions to her,
and
she folds easily into his gentleness.
He smells her breasts like plums
and rests quietly at her stomach, listening to the chatter
of her flesh.
He hides but does not hide here.
He only hopes to touch her once again;
"to fall into the sublime" he says.
The conversation of their bodies is
insanity, violence, delicate trembling.
When they wish on distant nebulas and dying stars,
midnight is a mistress to these sorrows.
34
The Return of Oedipus Rex ·
The Metaphysics of Incest
Michael McShane ('88)
Writing of Sophocles' Oedipus Rex, Freud
asks why it, more than other "tragedies of fatedness," has enjoyed such continued prominence.
What is it about Oedipus Rex that has allowed it
to hold such powerful sway over minds and
imaginations for so many centuries? Freud's
answer to the question is well known: Sophocles'
tragedy exerts power over us because we all (men
presumably) are Oedipal; we all literally but
unconsciously desire to kill our fathers and sleep
with our mothers. Freud argues that the play
touches an unconscious sexual nerve in its audiences and readers; they participate in Oedipus'
drama without realizing it. Freud concludes that
Oedipus Rex maintains its hold on audiences
because Oedipus' sexual complexes and catharses
are secretly shared by viewers.
I think Freud's question is good but his
answer somewhat limited. I am not convinced that
everyone shares an unconscious literal desire to
kill "his" father and marry "his" mother. Yet it
does seem true that Oedipus Rex touches some
universal desire, which perhaps Oedipus' murder
and incest symbolize. This paper will argue that
Oedipus is motivated primarily by a universally
shared metaphysical desire. This desire is erotic,
certainly, but not merely sexual. To show this the
paper will first discuss some Aristotelian meta physics and then--for the sake of contrast--an
Homeric corned y before turning to a discussion of
the Oedipal tragedy itself.
In Greek as well as in much post-Greek
thought the form of the circle has held great
significance. In the Physics, for example, Aristotle
describes the motions of the heavenly bodies as
being circular. The planets are divine because they
eternally follow circular paths. The major characteristic of the circle, Aristotle argues, is that its end
is also its beginning/end. Thus, unlike an object
following a rectilinear path, the planet never
experiences anything new. To a greater extent than
any other movable, the planet's circularity allows it
to transcend change and time. For Aristotle, then,
the planets are divine; their circular orbits indicate
a high degree of self-enclosed, self-sufficient, persistent identity. Following their circular itineraries,
the planets recuperate themselves at every moment,
suffering minimal intrusion of anything foreign or
external to them. Nearly unconditioned, they return
to themselves, eternally.
The one thing that does condition the planets, Aristotle argues, is the most divine being in the
cosmos, the unmoved mover. The prime mover
solicits the circular motions of the planets, which
are moved by an erotic desire for its perfection. The
prime mover also displays a kind of circular quality.
It is pure activity: thinking thinking. The prime
mover thinks only its own thoughts. It always and
immediately returns to itself. The prime mover can
be imagined as an extremely tight circle of selfconsciousness.
35
�Even more than the planets, the divine
prime mover transcends time. As pure activity, it
has present in it no potentiality whatsoever. As
such, the prime mover cannot change or move,
given that Aristotle's definition of motion is "the
actuality of potentiality qua potentiality." Aristotle describes time as the "measure of motion."
Thus, the potentiality-less prime mover cannot
move and consequently is outside of time.
Thinking only its own self, the prime mover
can be represented as even more self-subsistent and
self-enclosed than the planets, which are moved by
it. Closed off, the prime mover's world is populated
only by itself.Unaffected by anything external to
the circle of its own intellectual activity, the prime
mover is radically unconditioned and free.
From the above I hope it can be seen that in
Aristotle's thought the form of the circle is the
form of the divine, the eternal, the self-identical,
self-enclosed and self-sufficient. From this
thought I will try to show that there is a kind of
"circle logic" at work in Greek literature as well as
philosophy. Two examples of literary circle logic
will be adduced. One is comedic--i.e., has a happy
ending--and the other tragic: the tales of Odysseus
and Oedipus.
Odysseus' travels represent a great circle,
starting from Ithaca, turning through the events of
the Iliad, re-turning through the events of the
Odyssey and ending with a triumphal return to his
original starting point, Ithaca. Odysseus' r eturning
to Ithaca represents the closing of his circle, where
end meets beginning. There he recuperates his own
origin: he makes peace with his father. There
Odysseus kills off the external suitors, restoring
the integrity of his family circle. He regains his
ever-faithful wife Penelope, his troubled son, his
kingship, his place. The return of Odysseus indi cates the recuperation of his very identity, which
h a d been a t sta ke th roughout his a r cing journeys.
As with the planets, the meshing of the
Ithacan scene at the beginning of Odysseus' travels
with the scene there at the end in di ca tes a kind of
transcendence of time. The great circular reasoner,
Hegel, remarks that true forgiveness means negating history; unweaving, Penelope forgives and
trusts Odysseus, thus negating the troublesome
period between his departure and return, a period
when he was out doing godknowswhat with
godknowswhom godknowswhere. Another example
of temporal transcendence concerns the suitors.
They die off relatively expediently. More than
36
that, however, by means of Athena's action, Ithaca
somehow eludes the horrible regression of revenge
seen in another return story, The Oresteia. As Helen
drugged Menelaos into forgetting his past, so
Athena somehow induces the families of the slain
suitors to forget that Odysseus has wiped out their
men. Only by this collective forgetting of the past
can Odysseus ever hope to govern in Ithaca. The
comedic nature of the Odyssey depends upon
Odysseus' ability to transcend time and history.
Thus we see two examples of how the triumphal
return of Odysseus somehow involves a denial,
forgetting, negation or transcendence of the time
between. Turned full circle, Odysseus can live at
peace with his wife, family, city and self as if he
had never left town. Having fully returned to his
origin, Odysseus has re-captured his identity, place
and independence, in conformity with the circle
logic of the circular path he followed. The fin al
comedic nature of the Odyssey is guaranteed by its
circular form: the end meshes successfully with the
beginning.
If, as I have suggested, the circular form
guarantees perfection and absolute self-suff iciency in Greek philosophy and comic epics, it also
presides over the tragedy of Oedipus Rex. An
examination of that play will reveal a sense . in
which the divine cir cle becomes a vicious circle for
human beings.
There are many aspects of circularity and
broken ci rcularity in Oedipus Rex. I won' t go into
all of them here, but the most obvious aspect of
circularity in the play is Oedipus' geographical
itinerary. Like Odysseus, Oedipus' wanderings
form a great circle. He departs originally from
Thebes and turns through Cithaera and Corinth,
from there re-turning home to Thebes via the illfated crossroads and the interview with the sphinx.
Although this itinerary seems to conform to the
circular path taken by Odysseus, there obviously
remains a tragic difference. For Oedipus, homecoming, although first apparently excessively
successful, becomes increasingly and ultimately
horrifying.
An important difference between Oedipus'
and Odysseus' circular paths concerns the tightness
of their circles. Whereas Odysseus returns to his
wife after killing her suitors, Oedipus returns to his
own mother after killing his father. In terms of
circle logic, what does it mean to marry mother
after killing father? Why do men commonly dream
of this kind of return, as Jocasta suggests?
To marry one's own mother indicates the
most immediate, most intimate form of circular
return, where the circle closes back on itself
extremely tightly. Oedipus has literally returned to
his own place of origin, his mother's body. Conceiving children with her, it is as if he is conceiving
himself. He can, in effect, be his own parent and
child simultaneously. Returning so closely to his
own origin, Oedipus expresses a desire to undo
what has been done, to negate his past and start
again, to re-create himself by himself. In this way
we see in Oedipus' story, as in Odysseus', the Aristotelian premiss of time-transcendence as described by circle logic.
The desire to marry one's own mother, it
seems to me, comes out of an Aristotelian desire for
self-sufficiency. As described above, self-sufficiency means minimal dependence upon anything
exterior to the circle of one's own present identity.
Such a desire for self-sufficiency accounts for
Oedipus'(perhaps unconscious) desire to be selfbegotten, self-raised. It implies a dread of otherness, newness or foreigness. Having children by
his own mother indicates Oedipus' desire
to
populate the world with himself. He desires to be
like the unmoved mover, inhabiting a cosmos in
which only he is present.
Before Oedipus' self-sufficient dread of
anything alien all otherness or negativity must be
annihilated. Hence essential to Oedipus' return to
his maternal origin is the killing of his own father.
If self-sufficiency means being conditioned only
by oneself then paternity, as a pregi ven and
prohibiting condition, must be eliminated. To use
the Aristotelian language, killing the father is for
the sake of marrying the mother, which is for the
sake of circular self-sufficiency. Thus we can see
that Oedipus symbolically achieves the closest
possible meshing of beginning and end as prescribed by the logic of circularity.
Why is it then that Odysseus' circle is
comically charmed while Oedipus' becomes vicious, tragic? This question might seem foolish;
after all , one could reason, Oedipus committed
incest, which is a horrible crime against nature,
hence it is no wonder that he ended tragically in
Oedipus Rex. Yet, such reasoning misses the point.
Odysseus certainly committed a few crimes in his
career. We must ask why incest is regarded as a
uniquely horrible crime. This question becomes
more compelling in light of the doctrine of circle
logic set out before. Circle logic, as presented in my
interpretation of Aristotle, seems to imply that the
tighter the circle followed the more divine the
follower. For this reason planets, although divine,
are less di vine than the prime mover. As set out
above, the planets do move, require externality, are
conditioned, do desire some more original other. On
the other hand, the tight inner circle of the prime
mover implies its wholly original, independent and
divine nature.
If circle logic be taken as a standard, it
would seem that Oedipus should fare better than
his counterpart in circularity, Odysseus. For schematically, Odysseus' life (up to the end of the
Odyssey) should look something like this:
A
birth, origin
From this diagram we can see that Odysseus doesn't
fully return to his origin. There is a rectilinear
portion of his lif e(line AB), for which he must be
less divine, according to Aristotelian circle logic.
On the other hand, Oedipus' life drawing
(up to the end of Rex) looks like this:
birth, marriage, child begetting
Cithaera
Sphinx
crossroads
Here we can see that if circle logic is valid, Oedipus
should end up more divine, more outside of time,
more self-sufficient than Odysseus, for he more
closely approaches his own origin. If this is true we
reach the paradoxical conclusion that circle logic
seems to sanction, even demand, incest; for incest
37
�represents the closing of the circle.
Given, then, that Oedipus' life most closely
approximates the divine pattern of the self-enclosed divine circle, we are compelled to ask our
question again: "Why is it then that Odysseus' circle
is comically charmed while Oedipus' is tragically
vicious?" Why is it that Odysseus is able to
transcend time while Oedipus remains haunted and
destroyed by his own past? Why is it that Odysseus
and those around him can forgive and forget, while
Oedipus is doomed to remembrance and condemnation? Why is it that Odysseus is able to re-establish
his own self-sufficient identity, his place and his
kingship while Oedipus is left dependent, dethroned and exiled? Circle logic would seem to
indicate that Oedipus should have been the most
divinely content, self-satisfied and self-sufficient
man ever. He obviously is not that at the end of the
play.
That contradiction, I think, lies at the heart
of the tragedy of Oedipus Rex as human tragedy.
It suggests the true meaning of Oedipus' much
bruited "tragic flaw." It was not for something
idiosyncratic, like his impatience or wrathfulness,
that Oedipus had to suffer. It was because he made
a bid for something all human beings intrinsically
desire: he aspired to be divine, completely circularly self-sufficient. Like Aristotle's planets,
Oedipus erotically desired to completely overcome
all alien being, transcend time and his own history,
to endlessly renew himself in a closed world
populated only by himself. In short, Oedipus
desired divinity, self-sufficiency and immortality.
I think the message of Oedipus Rex is that
such a radical transcendence of the human is
impossible and dangerous, contrary to what Aristotle claims in the Ethics. Oedipus discovered that
human beings must content themselves with human
things. This means, in effect, that human beings
cannot ever be sufficient unto themselves; Sophocles has Oedipus learn that there is no escape
from otherness, newness, time and external conditions. To try to evade mortality, Oedipus finds, is
to commit horrible crimes. He cannot close the
circle of his history without annihilating his own
father, killing off thereby, a part of himself. ·
I think the real power of Oedipus Rex lies
in its depiction of the human soul. Part of being
human is dreaming of immortality and self-sufficiency. As the Odyssey perhaps suggests, human
nature holds out a vague promise of divine transcendence. Yet, full divinity can never be fully
obtained, at least according to Oedipus Rex. Oedipus sensed the divine in him, sensed it perhaps as
intellect or good fortune (his "mother"), and
erotically pursued this divinity, although perhaps
unconsciously. Oedipus' pursuit of his divine self
took place in a dream-like state of amnesia. When
Oedipus a woke the circle was broken; he had blood
on his hands. The tragedy of Oedipus Rex is a
tragedy of the impossibility of radical human
transcendence.
38
39
�Thus, by substituting (5) and (2). into (6), we arrive
at,
(sin 2Lz)(3600)(Ui) 2 + [(cosL 2)(60)(U 1)-M(BC)] 2 =
M 2(DB)
Therefore,
(sin2Lz) (3600) (U 1)2+ (cos2Lz) (3600) (U 1) 2 - 120
(U i) (cosLz) * M(BC) + M2(BC) = M2(DB)
A Modern Investigation of
the Eccentric Hypothesis
Therefore,
(3600) (U 1) 2 [sin 2L 2+cos 2LiJ (120) (U 1) (cosL 2 *
M(BC) + M 2(BC) = M 2(DB)
by Tim McNicholl '90
Therefore,
(3600) (U 1)
=M2(DB)
-
The circle in the above diagram is the
eccentric with center C. Point Bis the position of
the Earth, and D is a given position of the planet.
Thus Li is the angle of apparent movement and L 2
is the angle of regular movement. The planet moves
counterclockwise from point A, the perigee. The
drawing is an inversion of the more commonly used
diagram in Book III, Chapter Two, of the Almagest.
However, this will not affect the results obtained.
In the following equations, M(a) denotes the
measure of line a.
1. Given the Angle of Regular Motion, to find the Angle
of Apparent Motion.
A
M(DC)=60*U i
(sinL 2)*60*U i=M(DE)
( cosLz)*60*U i=M(EC)
Therefore,
Li= Sin- 1 { (SinLz) (60) /
+[ 3600 - 120 (n) ( CosL 2) + n 2] 1h}
(15)
(8)
Q.E.F.
Thus,
Substituting (8) into (7),
2. Given the Angle of Apparent Motion, to find the
Angle of Regular Motion.
(3600)(U 1)-( l 20)(n)(U 1)2( cosLz)+(n)2(U 1)2
=M2(DB)
Consider the following equations again,
Let U i equal the unit that measures DC sixty times.
Therefore,
(U i) 2 [3600 - (120) (n) (cosL 2) + n2] = M2(DB)
Therefore,
+U i[3600 - (120) (n) (cosL 2) + n]11 M(DB)
2=
(9)
M(EC)=(CosLi)(Uz)+n(U i)
M(DE)=(SinLi)*U2
M(DC)=60*U 1
M(DE)=(SinLz)(60)(U 1)
By this unit,
Let U 2=the unit that measure DB one time.
From the drawing it follows that,
(1)
(2)
(3)
M(EB)=M(EC)-M(BC)
(4)
M2(EC)+ M2(D E )=M2(DC)
(10)
(11)
+Ui[3600 - (120) (n) (cosLz) + n 2]112= U 2
(12)
Equating (12) and (2),
Substituting (3) into (4), we obtain,
M(EB)=( cosL 2)( 60 )(U i)-M(BC)
By this unit,
M(DB)=l *U 2
M(DE)=(sinLl )*U 2
Equating (10) and (9),
Now then,
(13)
(5)
At the same time,
Substituting (11) into (13),
(6)
40
(14)
(7)
(120) (U 1) 2 (cosLz) * M(BC) + M2(BC)
M(BC)=n*U i
Therefore,
SinL 1=(SinLz)*60/ +[3600 - 120 (n) (CosL 2) + n2]1/z
This function does not work, however,
when 90 > L < 360. For, within these values, CosL 2
is negative, slightly disturbing the value of the
denominator of the right side of (15). This is
mended by changing the - sign in the radical to a
+ operand which is - when O~L~90.
Accordingly,
Li=
Sin-i{ (SinL 2) (60) + [ 3600 + (120) (n) (CosL 2) +
(16)
n2] 1/2}
Let n= the number of times U i measures BC.
With the publication of De Revolutionibus
Orbium Coelestium in 1543, the heliocentric Hrevolu tion" was heralded along with the decline of the
geocentric theory of Ptolemy. The many advances
made afterwards in mathematics were used to
refine and confirm the heliocentric system while
the obsolete system of Ptolemy was given little of
their attention.
The purpose of this paper is to investigate
the eccentric hypothesis of Ptolemy using the
mathematics of the heliocentric era. Its goals are
to derive formulas that yield the angle of apparent
or regular motion when given the other angle, and
to verify that mean passage occurs at apparent
quadrature.
Therefore,
(SinLi) ( + [3600 - 120 (n) (CosLz) + n2 ]112)
=(SinLz) * 60
(1)
(2)
(3)
(4)
(5)
Substituting (1), (2), and (3) into (5) ,
[ (CosL 1) (U 2) + (n) (U 1)]2 + (Sin 2L 1) (U z) 2
=3600 (U 1) 2
Therefore,
(Cos 2L 1) (Ut) 2 +2 [(CosL 1) (U z) (n) (U 1) ] + (n) 2
(U 1) 2 + (Sin L 1) (U z)2 = 3600(U 1)2
Therefore,
(Uz) 2 + 2 [(CosL 1)(n) (U 2)(U 1)] + (U 1)2[N 2 - 3600]
=0
(SinL 1) (U 1) + [3600 - 120 (n) (CosLz) + n2] 1f2
=(SinLz) (60) (U1)
41
�d/dL = (n2cos 2Li - n2+ 3600) 1/~ .5[d ( n2cos2Li /2
n 2 + 3600) I dLi] * [l / (n2cos2L 1 - n2+ 3600) 1
We now have an equation in the form ax 2+bx+c=0
where,
L 2=t*m
L 2/m=t
x=Uz
a=l
b=2(CosLi)(U i)(n)
c=(U i) 2[n-3600]
Therefore, dL 1/d[L 2/t] or m*dL 1/dL 2 is sought.
=.5 [d/ dL 1 n 2cos2Lil * [l /(n 2cos2L 1-n2+3600) 1/ 2
In addition to the basic rules of diff erentiation, the fallowing axioms have been used:
Using the quadratic formula to solve for U 2, we
obtain,
And so, at apparent quadrature, the apparent and regular velocities are equal, no matter
what the distance between the centers is.
=n 2 * dcosL 1/dL 1 * cosL 1 * 1/( ... ) 1/ 2
=n 2(-sinL 1)(cosL 1)/(n 2cos 2L 1-n2+3600) 1/ 2
dL 2/dt = dt*m/dt = m*dt/dt = m
(6)
Q.E.D.
1
dsinx/dx= 1/(l-x2) h
dsinx/ dx= cosx
dcosx/dx= -sinx
Inserting (5) and (6) into (4),
(n)2 (U i)2 cos2Li- 4
Consider equation (8) from section two. Diff erentiating both sides with respect to L 1,
d/dLi(-1/60 (sinLi) (cosL 1) (n) .±._ 1/60[ n2cos2L 1n 2 + 3600] 1/z
=1/60{-n (cos 2L 1 - sin 2L 1) .±_ [-n 2 (sinL 1) (cosL 1) /
n 2 cos 2L 1 - n 2+ 3600) 1lz)
(7)
Therefore,
U 2=-2(CosLi)(U iHn)±_2(U 1)[(n) 2(Cos 2Li)n2+3600]11y2
dL 2/dL 1= d/dL 1 sin-1 [-1 /60 (sinL 1)(CosLi)(n).±_l /
60(n2Cos2L 1-n2+3600) 1I]
(1)
Substituting (7) into (3),
Now then,
d/dL 1 sin-i (1/60 (sinL 1)(cosLi) (n) +
1/60 [n2 cos 2Li - n2 +3600] 1/z
dsin-i (1/60 (sinL 1) (cosL 1) (n) .:t. 1/60 [n 2 cos 2L 1n2 + 3600] 1fz/ d (-1 /60 (sinL 1) (cosL 1) (n) .±._
1/60 [n 2 cos 2L 1- n2 + 3600] 1/z
=1/60 {-n (cos 2L 1 - sin 2L 1) + [-n 2 (sinL 1) (cosLi) I
(n 2 cos 2L 1 - n 2 + 3600) 1/U / {l-[-l/60(sinLi)
(cosL 1) (n) .±_l /60[n 2 cos2Li -n2+ 3600] 1lz) 1/2
@
=l I (1 - { 1/60 (sinLi) (cosLi) (n) ±_1/60
[n2cos2L 1 - n2+ 3600] 1h) 2) 1
/z
And so, substituting (8) into (1) and inverting the
result,
Uz=
-2 (Cos Li) (U i) (n) .:t.
(Ui) 2 [ n 2 - 3600 ] } 1h/ 2
{4
Therefore,
U 2=-(CosLi)(U 1)(n).±_U i[(n)2(Cos2Li)-n2+3600]1fz
(6)
Equating ( 4) with (2) and inserting equation (6),
SinLi { -cosLi (U i) (n) ±_ (U i) [ n 2 cos 2Li n 2 + 3600 ] 112) = SinL 2( 60) (U 1)
-(SinL 1) (CosLi) (U 1) (n) .±._ (SinLi) (U 1)
[ (n)2(Cos2Li) - n2+ 3600] 1l~(SinLz)(60)(Ui)
- (SinL 1) (CosLi) (n) .:t. (SinLi) [ n 2 (Cos 2Li) n2+3600] 1f2/ 60 = SinL 2
(7)
Sin-1 {-(SinL 1) (CosLi) (n) + (SinLi)
[ n2 (Cos 2Li) - n 2 + 3600] lfi; 60 } =L 2
(8)
(2)
Multiplying both sides of (2) by
d/dLi(-1 /60(sinL 1)(cosL 1)... ),d /dL 1sin-1( ... )
=d /dL 1 ( 1/60 (sinL 1 ) (cosL 1 ) (n) .±._ 1/
60 [n 2 cos2L 1 - n2+ 3600] 1'2/
{1- [-1 /60 (sinL 1) (cosL 1) (n) .±._ 1/60 [n2cos2L 1 n 2 + 3600 ] 1/} 112
(3)
Where the variable operand is + when
O~L 2~.180 and - when 180>L<360.
Now, solving for the numerator of the right side of
Q.E.F.
d/ dL 1(- 1/60(si nLi)( cosL 1) ... )
=l/60[d/fLi~inL 1 )(cosL 1 ) (n)
d/dLi (n cos Li... ) 112]
3. To Verify that Mean Passage Occurs at Apparent
Quadrature.
It is first required to find the apparent
velocity when the planet appears to have moved 90
from apogee or perigee.
In the language of
differentials: what is dLi/dt when L 1=90?
Since L 2 is the angle of regular motion, and
thus is directly proportional to time,
(3),
dL 1/dL 2
=[-1/60 (sinL 1) (cosL 1) (n) + 1/60
[n 2 cos 2L 1 n2+ 3600]1/}i/2
- / 1/60{-n (cos2Lr
sin 2L 1 ) + [-n2 (sinLi) (cos2L 1) /(n2 cos2L 1n2 + 3600) 1/ 2}
(9)
Now, let L 1=90,
dLi/dL 2= {l -L±_l /60(-n 2+36000) 1l} 1lz/ l/60[+n]
= {1-[ 1/3600*(3600-n 2]} 1/z / n/60
.:t.
={1 -[l-n 2/3600]} 1/z / n/60
(4)
The first derivative in the right side of (4)
can be resolved as follows:
d/dL 1 - (sinL 1) (cosL 1) (n) = -n [sinL 1 .
dcosL 1/dL 1+cosL 1dsinLi/dLi]= -n [cos 2Li-sin 2L 1 ]
(5)
Resolving the second derivative in (4),
= n/60 I n/60
=1
Now, in the first part of this section, it was
determined that the apparent velocity at a point
was equal to m * dL 1/dL 2. Thus, at apparent
quadrature the perceived velocity ism. Since L 2=t
* m, for any value of Li,
43
42
�An Adaptation, 1987
The Bow- of Heracles
John Pronko ('90)
Carolyn Barndt ('90)
This is no garden.
Don't think I mistook this for the banks of Euphrates:
You are not the only man on the face of th e ea r th
Although you might as well be
--even as we have both tasted t he f ru i t
of that tree
whose branches are many bu t finite -I see whe r e we are. Cut off from the past
Sa nctuar y, th e blind green re li ef -I found you culti vat ing your thi stles and th orns
cursing th e ea rt h fo r n ot yie ld ing up more.
--You know tha t story; this is not the begi nn in g.
Not being the fi rst
I can't take the blame for
The pain in your r ibcage and countless transgressions:
I' m not the agent of you r fall from grace, I
Resist being pushed through the stencils of h isto ry.
Far f r om paradise
Why try to forget what might have been easy
But may not be impossible?
--although we need othe r skins , hi des
fo r protectio n
although we have skins at all
--with th e fruit i n us rooted,
to speak our own blame:
To stand before each other, n aked
and not be ashamed.
Sophocles's employment of the deus ex machina as agent of resolution in Philoctetes is disturbing. There is a sense that Heracles' appearance
completely undermines the events of the play.
Philoctetes is understandably unwilling to serve
the Atridae and Odysseus. He has for nine years
fought his own miserable war on Lemnos and
survived. Glory is no longer of interest to him, nor
does he care to take steps to avenge himself.
Philoctetes wants to go home. Neoptolemus can at
least grant him that. He ultimately agrees to do so.
One might consider this the human resolution of
the play. This is blatantly inadequate, but it seems
at least consistent with the rest of the play. Heracles
appears and in one line Philoctetes, the play's
paradigm of constancy, yields. Yes, Philoctetes will
go to Troy. This is difficult to accept unless there
is some way to understand the appearance of
Heracles as necessary.
In addition to the three main characters in
the play there is a fourth, the bow of Heracles. It
is the bond between Heracles and Philoct'etes.
Perhaps this bow is the key to understanding this
enigma tic conclusion.
Heracles says to Philoctetes that after Troy
is taken: "From the spoils of the campaign you must
dedi cate some, on my py re, in memory of my bow"
( 1.1431 ). T.B.L. Webster chooses to translate the
words, roewe €µwe ,as, "what my bow has
achieved." It seems strange that a man should be
asked to pay homage to a weapon. Heracles does not
ask that homage be paid to himself or for that
matter to Zeus.
Odysseus' plan is to disarm Philoctetes.
Without the bow Philoctetes is not to be feared, but
while it is in his possession, it sends arrows that
none may avoid, that carry death (1.105). Early in
the play it is unclear whether Philoctetes is needed
or not. For awhile it seems that the only matter is
to get the bow, and Philoctetes is someone standing
in the way.
When Neoptolemus first speaks to the chorus he hints that the destinies of the bow and
Philoctetes are inseparable. Neoptolemus also presents a connection between the bow and Philoctetes'
suffering:
As for his present loneliness and suffering, this, too, no doubt
is part of the God's plan that he may not bend against Troy the
divine invincible bow until the time shall be fulfilled, at which it
is decreed, that Troy, as they say, shall fall to that bow.
(1.194)
The fact that Troy shall fall to the bow is echoed
much later when Heracles declares that Ilium must
twice fall to his bow ( 1.1439).
As the play continues it becomes plain that
Philoctetes and the bow are inextricably linked. In
the mind of Philoctetes it is obvious that he
identifies himself with the bow. When he introduces himself to Neoptolemus he is the master of
Heracles' arms ( 1.260). This is before he is Phi-
45
44
�loctetes the son of Poias.
It is worth noting that Philoctetes was not
bitten by the viper until he posessed the bow, which
links with Neoptolemus' understanding of the
reason for his suffering. The suffering which is
synonymous with the name Philoctetes is caused by
the bow. This is echoed by Philoctetes' stern
suggestion to Neoptolemus that he should bow in
prayer to the Gods' envy that the bow may not be
to him a sorrow as it was to himself and its former
master ( l. 776). This connection between the
weapon and Philoctetes' plight is further reinforced by the parallel Heracles draws between his
own sufferings and those of Philoctetes: "All this
suffering must be your suffering too, the winning
of a life to an end in glory, out of this suffering"
(1.1422). The divine bow will conquer Troy. Philoctetes suffers because it is his lot to bear the bow
and share the glory it will win.
The bow is a holy object. When Neoptolemus
first beholds it he asks if he might see it closer,
touch and adore it like a god ( 1.656). It has passed
from the hand of a dying Heracles to the living
Philoctetes. There is something immortal about it.
It has a destiny of its own that has outlived the
original owner. Mythologically the bow is believed
to have been a gift from Apollo.(l) Heracles concludes his speech with the words, Holiness does not
die with men that die Whether they live or die it
cannot perish" ( 1.1444). Is the bow in some way a
symbol of such holiness?
Philoctetes is the rightful bearer of Heracles' weapon. He received it as a gift when he
agreed to light the dying hero's pyre. Philoctetes
himself states that it is as a result of friendly help
that he fi rst won it (1.670). In a strange way the will
of Heracles was transmitted to Philoctetes when he
conceded to execute the man's last wish. Philoctetes
is in a way bound to Heracles' will. The gift of the
bow mi gh t be. un derstood to re present that bo nd.
Until the appointed time arrived when
Philoctetes no longer had to suffer because of the
bow, it nonetheless was what kept him alive. The
bow was what he used to shoot the birds that filled
his belly (1.286). Without the bow Philoctetes would
have died. Lemnos was the place where the bow and
the man who was to use it had to be kept until a
predetermined number of years had elapsed. The
asocial properties of Philoctetes' disease may have
been to further assure that neither bearer nor bow
appear before the appointed hour.
The bow belongs to Philoctetes, and since i t
was acquired through an act of good will, Odysseus'
46
deception cannot successfully work against it. It is
interesting to note that Neoptolemus does not falter
in his deceit until he acquires the bow. Ultimately
he realizes that it must remain with Philoctetes.
The two cannot be separated.
Any bow may be understood as a symbol of
will. When a bow is aimed, before the shaft is
released the archer has willed it to strike its target.
This bizarre weapon that Philoctetes possesses
never misses its mark. Unlike a man's will this bow
never fails. Its will is greater than any man's.
Philoctetes may believe that it was his own inner
strength that allowed him to survive those nine
horrendous years, but without the bow he would
have perished. He may feel that he is the bow's
master, but in the end he is its servant and through
it a servant of the gods. He who is conquerable must
serve the inconquerable.
Heracles must appea r at the end of the play
because his is the one voice Philoctetes must listen
to. The bow is Philoctetes' provider and master. He
will only understand that from the mouth of the
person to whom he first subjugated his will, as a
result of which he subsequently received the bow.
This bow is an executive instrument of the gods,
and the man Philoctetes has been chosen to launch
its avenging shaft against Troy. The divine destiny
of the bow and its se r vant is to kill Paris who is the
cause of all this evil and take Troy (1.1426).
Philoctetes may want to go home, but he cannot
disobey. He h as success fu lly asserted h is will
against men, but he cannot against gods. Divine
destiny supercedes the aspirations of any man.
The employ me nt of th e deus ex machina
seemed to deny the h u man r esolution of this play.
In fact this was no resolu tion a t all because it failed
to consult wha t migh t be · considered the most
important cha r acte r, the bow. Philoctetes was blind
if he actually belie ved that Heracles' bow was
destined me r el y to shoot bi rds and then retire on
a dusty shelf i n Oeta. No one other than Heracles
could open his exhausted eyes. Just as no man
determines when and why he suffers, so also, no
man determines when and why he tastes triumph.
All men bow before the ins truments of the gods.
Three Loyal Haikus
Jana Giles ('88)
In twilight often
finding the geometry
of your sonorous
world; and from your strong
eye I am given a gaze
so finite, silent:
this I know to be
the moment of convergence
the second splintered
from infinity.
1986
All line mentions and quotations are from
David Grene's translation except: ( 1) Larousse, World
Mvthologv. p. 141, edited by Pierre Grima!.
47
�11 1
THE LEARNED PRINCESS
Erika Wilson ('88)
Once upon a time, in a kingdom not so
terribly far away, a moderately fair princess was
sighing over the lack of a certain something.
"Oh," sighed she, "I wish I knew what it all
meant." And with a trembling lip and a troubled
brow, she returned to the books that lay scattered
in a intellectual confusion about her royal chamber. For you see, our princess was a scholar. And
though this may seem to be a rather odd occupation
for a fairy-tale princess (for indeed she was), it had
all come about in a most natural manner.
Some years ago, no matter how long, the
King had found himself with that rare st of royal
commodities: Time on his hands. And so, as it was
a most delicious spring day, he decided to take his
delightful young daughter for a walk about the
castle grounds. At first she ran about in all
directions, squealing and chasing butterflies as her
father strolled in a stately manner, watching her
antics with gentle amusement. Inevitably, she grew
tired, so she and her father lay themselves down on
a cool green hillside to watch the cloud races in the
sky. But now that her body was tired, it seemed that
the little princess's mind was free to work without
distraction.
"Daddy," she piped, "what makes the sky
blue?"
"Huh?" he grunted, for the warm sunshine
had just about put him to sleep. "Sky? Blue? ... uh,
48
Atmosphere ... urm ... Refraction ... ahem,ah ... humph."
He paused to pull his eyebrows together, hoping
that such a maneuver would aid his memory, but
his daughter was too busy to notice, for she had
rolled over and had another object in view.
"Why is the grass green, Daddy?"
"Chlorophyll." He answered triumphantly
after a brief pause. "Ah, Photosynthesis ... ahem,
ah ... humph." And he was stuck again. Unmindful
of the black thunder cloud gathering on his brow,
the little princess turned her wide blue eyes on him
and asked sweetly;
"Papa, what is the nature of _
Man?"
His mouth shut with an audible snap, his eyebrows
shot up and he answered her in the only way a truly
wise king could. "I think I smell chocolate chips.
Let's go see if Mama's making cookies."
And that was the end of that.
But later that night, as he and his queen
were getting ready for bed, he mentioned their
daughter's precocious curiosity, and the question
she had put to him that day.
"The nature of Man." He chuckled. "Who
would have thought?" And he laughed and ·h ook
his head, willing to leave it at that. But the Queen
nodded quietly and looked thoughtful, for she had
a great deal of that even more rare of royal
commodities: Good common sense. And she knew
that a mind such as her daughter had shown would
be a terrible thing to waste. So as her husband
snored, she lay long awake, planning and making
notes on the big legal pad she always kept on the
bedside table.
The next day, she took her daughter bY. the
hand and led her into a part of the castle that the
little princess had never seen before. They walked
down a long cold passageway, thick with dust and
cobwebs. Something small and black skittered
around a corner and the princess shivered, but ·s aid
nothing. They came to an abrupt halt before a huge
wooden door with great knobby bars of black metal
criss-crossing it in a most uninviting manner. With
a loud rattle that startled the Ii ttle princess, her
mother pulled a ring of keys out of her pocket and
choosing the largest and ugliest one of all, she
inserted it into the nasty old padlock tha.t guarded
the door. Using both hands, she managed to turn the
key around and the unhappy lock snapped .o pen
with a mangled sort of sound. The Queen put her
shoulder to the door and as it creaked unheathily
open, our princess squeezed her eyes shut, knowing
that whatever lay begin such a grim facade· must
be horrible. Her mother pulled her gently forward
and said softly:
"Come on dear, it's all right. You can open
your eyes now." Unwilling, but trust~ng ·; trre- mater
nal instinct to keep her from harm, sh'e opened her
eyes and gasped at what met her bewilqered gaze.
Books! Wall to wall, floor to ceiling; door to
door, the entire room was filled with books.
"Oh mother!" the princess exclaimed as her
glowing eyes caressed the room's occupants with
barely restrained eagerness. "Wherever shall I
begin?"
"Right here," her mother said, and laid
three books down on a nearby desk. Her daughter
walked over and ran a puzzled finger across the
names stamped on the covers.
"Yewklid?" she asked. "Didn't he do math
or something?"
"That's right," her mother replied. "He will
show you how to think."
"Oh," said her daughter, and nodded
vaguely. "And this one, Play-doh?"
"He will show you how not to think," said
her mother, and smiled at some little inward
amusement.
"Uh huh," said the daughter, unconvinced.
"And the last, Airsdoddle?
"Oh yes," said the Queen. "He will show you
what you should think and not think about." The
princess frowned, and a slight line appeared
between her delicate ~yebrows. She wasn't q"4-ite
sure what her mother was talking about, out then
she felt the srucwth leather beneath her hand~ and
smiled a radiant ~mile . .
"N~ matter," she thought, "I'll soon understand everything." ·' '
··
Some weeks later, the line between her
delicate brows had become deeper and the residents
gf the castle thought it had become a permanent
' feature upon the' little p'rincess's face.
"I don't like it," the King told his Queen one
d~y. "She spends all her time locked up with t-h ose
d us..ty old tome. It's not healthy, I tell you." Quietly
the Queen agreed, and soon the peasants that lived
about the castle became used to the sight of the
11t'tle 'princess with he·r skirts tucked up about her
knees·, dangling her bare feet in a creek while
reading a book and munching on an apple. Appealiilg to her daughter's now-found love of logic
puzzles, the Queen also began sending her on
strange .little errands.
.
.
·"Go find me something no orie..has ever seen
be"ror~,:' she would ask one day. The littl~ princess
.w ould smile, then frown, then walk out to saddle
·heT ·fa:vorite little ·horse. Most-of Hre ·da-y.-_wou-1-d be
·sp~rit riding aimlessly . about, trying to see . a
solution to the problem. Sometime before dinner,
the princess would return, dirty and disheveled to
place the acorn in her mother's hand.
"Open it," she would say and skip
away to wash up and find out whether or not Meno
discovered what virtue was.
Much time passed smoothly in this fashion
and the princess's stack of completed books became_ ·!
taller and taller. But the line between her brows
grew still deeper and she began to look at all the
books lining the walls of the library with something
akin to dismay.
"Oh mother," she exclaimed finally, "'I feel
myself to be floundering amidst all .this knowledge." Her mother raised an eyebrow at this rather
ornate language but the distressed princess. never
even noticed. "I have no anchor about which to
build a secure fortress of understanding." The
Queen glanced at the book her daughter clasped. It
was Sophocles and her mother smiled.
"Choose one thing, child," the Queen an swered. "One topic, one subject that you have seen
addressed and wish to truly unders.tand. Then come
to me and we shall set up a course of study so that
you might come to know this one. thing. For in
·coming to know this one thing, you will pass
0
49
�I
through a great many others and once you truly
grasp this thing, all else will be made manifest
through it." She patted her daughter's cheek. "Now
go out and saddle you pony. I'll expect your answer
at dinner."
And so later, as she was carving the roast
swan at the dinner table, the Queen looked expectantly at her daughter's glowing face.
"Well?" she asked.
"Oh mother," burst out the princes, "I want
to understand what Love is." The Queen's face
remained impassive, but her eyes twinkled.
"Why daughter," she said evenly, "that is a
fine thing to study. Most great authors have spent
at least some time addressing the subject of Love."
"Most of them?" the little princess inquired
uncertainly. "How many does that mean?" Her
little daughter looked so crestfallen that the Queen
could not restrain the little laugh that escaped her.
"Oh daughter, don't despair. You have
chosen ·a very difficult thing indeed, and the road
to true understanding is never an easy one." She
looked kindly into her daughter's worried face.
"But the rewards will be greater than you can
imagine, and I will help you all I can." She placed
a tender slice of swan on the princess's plate. "We
will begin after dinner."
And so it began. The princess studied Plato,
Virgil, Ovid and Bacon. She read with wide eyes the
Song of Solomon and wept and laughed in quick
succession as Shakespeare acted out for her the
comedies and tragedies of life. The poets were
many and varied and she delved deeply into Donne,
Byron, Valery, Browning, Coleridge and Gibran.
And though she learned much of Love in all its
manifestations, she could not say that she was
growing towards an understanding of it. Much of
the time she felt that she was actually doing the
reverse.
And so it was that we found her at the
opening of our story: troubled and in doubt. She
was just about to pick up the Maxims of La
Rochefoucauld when there was knock at her door.
With something that just might have been relief,
she moved away from La Rochefoucauld to open
the door. It was her mother.
"Hello dear," she said as she moved easily
into the room, ''I'm sorry to disturb you, but we
have a visitor." The calm grace of her mother sent
a cool wash over troubled spirit and the little
princess smiled cheerfully.
"Is it someone I know, mother?" she asked.
"Oh yes," her mother replied with a smile.
"It's your cousin Rolf. He's on vacation from the
University and wants to spend some time with us
before going back to finish his education." The
llttle princess was delighted, for she hadn't seen
Rolf for several years. He and his parents had often
come to visit, and though he was some years older
than she, he had treated her kindly and together
they had many pleasant adventures. But he had
been sent off to school and had become too busy and
intelligent to visit with an old playmate. Until now.
"Oh mother," she exclaimed, "Rolf! How is
he? Did he learn lots at the University? Has he
changed a great deal?" Her mother laughed.
"We will all be having tea together on the
porch in about an hour. He's in his ro om right now
resting after his journey, so why don't you get
ready and come to find out for yourself?" The
Queen left to prepare the tea and there was a look
of amused anticipation lurking in her eyes.
The princess was setting a plate of cookies
on the table when Rolf stepped out onto the porch.
Both of the young people stared at the other in
startled recognition, for though it had only been a
few years since they had last seen one another,
those had been very crucial years. Rolf had
changed from a scrawny, self -consci ous teen-ager
into a sturdy young man of admirable presence and
bearing, while the princess, thanks to he r mother's
subtle guidance, had grown from a reedy little
scarecrow into a graceful young woman of considerable intelligence. And yet, some things remain
constant. The princess still had a light spray of
freckles across her nose and Rolf still had the habit,
whenever he was unsure of himself, of pulling on
the thick lock of hair that was forever tumbling in
his eyes. When she saw him doing this, the princess
laughed and he smiled as he walked over to give her
a cousinly kiss on the cheek. When the Queen
arrived with the teapot, she found them already
deep in an animated discussion about Rolf's education. They were delighted to find that they had
read and enjoyed a great many of the same books.
The Queen sat silently and smiled as she watched
the tea in their cups grow cold, untouched and
forgotten in the rapid flood of conversation between the two young scholars.
The princess told Rolf of her studies, and he
agreed to help her with her search for understanding. From then on they spent nearly all their time
together. He would read to her, or she to him as they
sat over the remnants of a picnic lunch in a golden
meadow. They would discuss salient points while
trotting through the woods on horseback, ceasing
only to race across the open spaces where the loser
would come galloping up, laughing breathlessly
and say: "but if we want to look at the love between
a parent and child, what about Cordelia's speech in
act one? ... " And in the evenings, sitting silently by
the glowing fire, they would each underline relevant passages and hand them to the other, who
would read it and nod gravely before returning to
his own study.
The Queen watched all this without comment, but nodded to herself as she observed the
peculiar expression that came over Rolf's face
whenever he looked at the princess and thought
that he himself was unobserved. The princess was
quite blind to such things, for she was totally
absorbed in her studies. Learning on her own had
been rewarding and satisfying, but studying with
another, especially one as perceptive and sympathetic as Rolf, was a joy such as the princess had
never before experienced. She was deliriously
happy and was quite satisfied with things as they
were. Not so Rolf.
Finally it was nearly time for Rolf to return
to school and he and the princess were up in her
room getting in one last study before Rolf had to
start preparing for his journey. He was standing
stiffly at the window with his back towards the
princess who was reading to him:
'"It is the joy of the good, the wonder of the
wise, the amazement of the gods; desired by
those who have no part in him, and precious
to those who have the better part in him."'
But Rolf, what does Plato mean when he
says ... Rolf! What are you doing?" For just as she
looked up from the text, Rolf had turned around,
snapped the book shu t and with one swift motion,
flung it out the window. She stood up to protest, but
just then Rolf turned to her and the look in his eyes
stopped the words in her throat. Gently, but firmly,
he grasped her hands and placed them together,
palms upwards, like the leaves of an open book.
"Here," he said,"here is one book you
haven't read." And he traced his finger lightly
across her palms as if he were outlining a passage.
"Can you tell me what it says?" She opened her
mouth, but shook her head mutely.
"Then here," and he pressed one of her
hands to his chest. She could feel his heart beating
strongly and rapidly. Then he pressed her other
hand to his cheek. It was warm and flushed with
feeling. "Here is a book open only at your touch,
only for your eyes," His voice lowered to a
whisper,"Can you say the same to me?" and he
released her. For a moment she clasped her hands
together between the two of them and stared with
wonder into his eyes. Then slowly, like a flower
unfolding to the first touch of the sun, her arms
opened to him and she began to understand just a
little of what she had been studying so diligently
for so long and she laughed a light, sweet, and
joyful la ugh.
Below, the King and the Queen were walking together in the royal rose garden, enjoying one
of the last days of warmth, when a waterfall of
books suddenly fell with great splashing into the
moat, narrowly missing a pair of black swans
swimming serenely by. The Queen was startled only
for a moment and then she squeezed her husband's
arm and laughed softly. For she had known all
along that knowledge gleaned form books could
carry one only so far, and that true understanding
came from within.
I guess this is the end of my story, though
the princess continued to learn a great many
important things. And like her mother before her,
she managed to impart much of it to her children
in such gentle and unobtrusive ways, that they
didn't realize it themselves until many years had
passed and they were well along in their own
journeys towards understanding. But I can hardly
be expected to trace the stories of all those many
Ii ves. That, gen tie readers, I leave to you.
51
50
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U. S. POSTAGE
St. John's College
Annapolis, Maryland 21404
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Datcher, Rhonda (Co-Editor)
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Energeia Winter 1988
Student publication
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https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/7df35c7ec2e3de6f39901fea1ac2724d.pdf
3296f22b600aad80e603074a933bd214
PDF Text
Text
FALL, 1986
�ENERGEIA: The activity in which anything is fully itself.
it ...
vou svepysta ~wit
... (Aristotle's Metaphysics, 1072b)
COVER:
Evole
by Patricia Dawson
Linoleum Block
Staff:
Talke Breuer
Carlos Chamberlin
Axel Christensen
Patricia Dawson
Meetra Doorandish
Barbara Gesiakowski
Stacy Grimes
Steve Jackson
Rena Kuntavanish
Sarah Waters
Co-Editors:
Laurie Cooper
Joe Macfarland
Faculty Advisor:
Jonathon Tuck
Energeia is a non-profit, student magazine which is published three times a year and
distributed among the students, faculty, alumni and staff of St. John's College, Annapolis and Sante Fe. The Energeia staff welcomes submissions from all members of
the community-essays, poems, stories, original math proofs, lab projects, drawings,
and the like.
Note: A brief description of the author accompanies all work not by current St. John's
students. Please include some such statement along with your submission. Thank you.
�Corrigenda for The Jacobson Cut by Henry Higuera (Spring 1986)
I.
Subs tan ti ve.
1. p. 29 1. 8 from bottom: reads
"EN:OW .. NO:OT";
ti EN: ow
: : NT : OT II
should read
•
2.
p. 30 1. 10: reads "l.GEG=LFED";
should read
"LGED=LFEG".
3.
p. 31 11. 12-13: reads "EHG NHM";
should read
"l.EHG(L.NHM".
4.
p. 31 1. 14:
should read
reads "LEHN<LENH"
"LEH~<L.ENH"
5.
6.
II.
Note 5 1. 1: reads "sq.A: sq. B A:C"
should read
"sq.A: sq. B)A:C"
Note 5 1. 3: reads "A:B and A:C"
"A:B and B:C"
should r~ad
Minor
1.
Angle signs missing at p. 29 11. 15, 16, 19, Note 2 11. 2,3,
N.
3 1. 2, N. 4 11. 2, 3.
2.
Triangle sign missing at N. 4 1. 4.
3.
p. 31 1. 7 from bottom: reads . " ... sq. EH rect .)GE, HN ... "
should read " ... sq. EH)rect. GE,HN ... "
�CONTENTS
"THE PLAY' S THE THING ... " (Hamlet II. ii)
VISION AND ACTION IN KING LEAR
Celeste DiNucci
ANNUAL FRESHMAN ESSAY (ANNAPOLIS)
THE ETHICAL VALUE OF JUSTICE IN PLATO'S
REPUBLIC
Christopher Storr
6
ASK NEWTON
Jana Giles
21
ANNUAL SOPHOMORE ESSAY (ANNAPOLIS)
"MAN IS DIRECTED TO GOD AS AN END
WHICH SURPASSES THE GRASP OF REASON"
Dan Touey
23
LIMELIGHT: THE STORY OF A BALLERINA
AND A CLOWN
-CHAPLIN
Carlos Chamberlin
32
ANNUAL SENIOR ESSAY - HONORABLE
MENTION (ANNAPOLIS)
RIPENESS IS ALL
Renee Bergland
34
TO MOLLY IN AUGUST 1986
David Walter
54
ANNUAL SOPHOMORE ESSAY - HONORABLE
MENTION (ANNAPOLIS)
AN EXAMINATION OF ARISTOTELIAN
AWARENESS
Fawn Trigg
55
THE STEEDS OF HIPPOLYTOS
Andrew Grablewski
62
ON READING W.H. AUDEN'S AFTER READING
A CHILD'S GUIDE TO MODERN PHYSICS. TOO
LATE FOR HIM TO ANSWER
James Beall
69
CYCAD IA
James Beall
70
1
�"The Play' s the Thing ... " (Hamlet II.ii)
Vision and Action in King Lear
Celeste DiNucci
Being a perfonner--I do not make the claim with any grave intent, neither am I
interested in appending that I am either bad or good, it is simply what I do-- the
reading of plays has always been for me a slightly different endeavor than the
reading of other forms of literature. Henceforth, I cannot help but approach a play
as something meant to be seen and heard, but what I am faced with is the written
word.
It looks pretty much the same as most other pieces of literature.
For the
most part, it even reads the same: the character designations are not to be heard in
our heads any less than an identifying proper noun in direct discourse, and it would
be difficult to claim that we envision a stage direction any more vividly than a
descriptive passage in prose . But somewhere in this ~anuscript I know that I want to
find the element that makes it necessary that a play be a play.
Something in this
work must make it appropriate only as a piece of performance art.
But a play does exist on paper, and, as can be said of literature in general, a
careful reading of a play usually serves to reinforce and clarify our first
impression, that is, the sense that we, as an audience, get from a performance.
Indeed, we would expect no less from those whose business it is to produce the
perfonnance : impromptu perfonnances are fine, but we expect that there is something
to be found within a careful reading of a play that should be known by a director or
an actor . But is the job of the performer simply to derive this kind of sense from
the paper and display it to the audience, to "give voice" to the poetry of a play?
Does the theater merely make "spectacle" out of "literature"?
This question recurred to me most pointedly in coming to know Shakespeare's King
Lear. My first reading of the play was a slow, careful study . Any impulse to flip
back, to reread, to note and trace themes backwards and forwards was given free rein.
The upshot was that I was simply baffled. It wasn't that there was a lack of themes
put forth and developed:
quite the contrary, the abundance of themes in the play
seemed frighteningly inexhaustible as the variety and number of volumes published on
Lear strikingly testify. The same thing is as true of the characters as of the plot :
many interpretations are available, and all seem plausible and justifiable in terms
of the text; but no single one offers itself as most satisfying, and consequently
none is quite satisfactory .
In short, it seemed that in this play could be found
everything, but what I, as a reader, was left with was nothing.
Take, for example, the character of Cordelia .
How was I to read her words in
the first scene? Her fi rst speech, "Wha_ shall Cordelia speak? Love, and be silent"
t
could not exactly be taken as a simple statement of intention, as she neither remains
silent, nor when she speaks does she verbally spout gushing love.
I did not know
whether to cheer Cordelia--af ter all, I think that the reader is put off by Lear's
contest just as Cordelia must be--or to be horrified at the coldness of her words,
which in themselves could be interpreted as running the gamut from meekness to
cruelty. What's more, the subsequent scenes did not afford any greater clue .
That
Cordelia really loves Lear becomes clear, but whether this first scene is motivated
by petulance or by a clear vision that simply seeks to set her beloved father
straight seemed to be an arbitrary choice . Her protest of "No cause, no cause" in
IV .vii could be an expression o f guilt at her own willfulness or the gentle comfort
1
�I think this is true , but its importance lies in understanding what exactly the
nat u r e o f t h i s unint e lligibility is . The humani t y o f t he c h a r a c ters i s a t t his poi nt
not in question : their motives may be hidden , but we do not find them unbelievable .
We still want the play, through a filling out and clar i fy ing of Lea r 's char acter , to
show us what makes this bizarre contest and all of Lear's subsequent actions
necessary as a consequence of what he is .
Instead, we are discomfited to find that the play is full of futility, not
lessons learned; full of deepening ambi guities, rather than movement toward a clarity
of the position each character holds in the play , in their world, and in relation to
one another . By III . ii , Lear doesn't know whether this storm be his ally, nature's
right destruction of "ingrateful Man", or his enemy, the "servile ministers" of "two
per nicious daughters" , and neither do we know on whose side nature lies, and who it
is who acts unnaturally.
Our attempt to judge Goneril and Regan begins to seem as
futile as Lear's trial of them in III. vi, since we do not know Lear any better than
he himself does (I.iv,
1.227) .
This play is moving away from resolution, and we
begin to have an uncomfortable feeling that if we are to get the sort of answers we
were looking for, either we are in for a very long evening or else nothing short of a
deus ex machina will do.
But there are no gods here.
Shakespeare has left us with only human beings .
Still we do have them:
as the play becomes less clear through its words, it becomes
more accessible and more believable. We are not baffled by King Lear because the
characters become wooden and lifeless; on the contrary, their actions are as extr eme
as the extremity of their circumstances calls for . Neither does this extremism seem
unbelievable :
there is no lack of dramatic exigency . What baffles us is that the
play doesn't make sense at the same time that it acquires its most convincing
reality . And so we are left denying and accepting in the same moment :
it is as we
see the wholeness of these characters that we are able to deny their words .
It is here that we are forced to begin surrendering the comforting belief that
what we are witnessing is merely spoken poetry.
No amount of careful reading can
give us an indication of why we are affected in this way . It is as we have witnessed
the play unfolding in time that we admit to its believability, and as we search the
text for e x tended metaphor and juxtaposition .
And so, we are faced with the
question : if it is not the poetic or thematic integrity of this play that makes it
believable, what is it?
What became apparent to me is that Shakespeare has somehow managed to put his
command of poetry into the service o f the immediacy peculiar to a play .
In othe r
words , here the content and f orm do not simply reflect one another, as in the common
device of wor ds doing what they say found often in poetry .
More than this, in
putting this poetry into the mouths of human characters -- in making these wor ds t h e
unpr emeditated speech, not of me re allegories or symbols, but of characters we
recognize as be ing human a n d whole --we see and e xpe r ience these words as whole or
active t ruths.
Content and form are no longer distinguishable as they once were :
the words become an act , and t he question of their truth or falsity becomes that of
t he clear e xp r ession o f charac t e r. These people , ind eed , mean what they say .
This i s what makes the reading of mo s t plays sensible; this is how a performance
can convey the sense t hat we find in the reading of the play .
But what makes King
Le ar stand out as a play i s that he r e, instead of a complicity of poetry and
character, we have a dic h o tomy.
Shakespeare has invested Lear's character with n o
lack o f huma nity, but ne i the r ha s he abandoned his powe r ful treatment of what makes
Lear' s characte r with no lack of humanity , but neither has he abandoned his powerful
u s e o f wo r ds !
It is th i s that allows for the successful treatment of what makes
Lear' s unint el ligibility nonetheless believable : his madness .
It is the character
t h at remains intact, not the speech; and as Lear's character is revealed in all of
his madness and humanity, his words , by their very nature , can only run on and in
among themselves .
The poetry has created the character, and yet the very stuff of
which the cha racter is made , the poetr y , is belied b y the believability it has
invested in the characte r. In IV . vi, we are finally able to hear Lear's words, not
as offensively nonsensical , but rather as a pitiful expression of his madness, as
much as the flowers with which he has bedecked himself . It is only when Lear's words
reach the point of utter intelligibility that his character has attained all of the
contours of deepest humanity .
Still, I was not quite satisfied with this understanding of how King Lear
somehow failed a s a piece of literatur e and succeeded as a play . It seemed that what
2
3
of a teacher who realizes she has proferred a lesson her pupil is not ready for. She
was only one of the many characters whose words could be interpreted in any numbe r of
ways, and the text seemed no help in directing my choice .
Still, even in the midst of all this aimlessness, my abiding faith in
Shakespeare was not betrayed. That is, I had a sense that King Lear did not fail as
a play. Through closer scrutiny, I did not see these characters become contrivances,
but rather I became mystified by them just as I become mystified through the closer
knowledge of someone I haq previously formed an opinion about .
As Kenneth Muir
states, in the introduction to the Arden edi tion of the play, concerning the
characters seemingly inexplicable actions:
Indeed, a certain mystery in the characters prevents them from
becoming mechanical, just as in real life we can classify our
acquaintances, not our friends.
The play had not yielded up its
secrets under close examination, and yet I believed in its
believability.
This was a start.
What had become apparent was that reading the play as
literature was, in the end, fruitless.
Somehow, the sense of believability that I
gained from the play did not seem to lie here on the page -- that is , the endeavor to
find a sense of the play in this way began to appear to me as wallowing in the
beauty, elegance, and mystery of the words .
I began to realize that, in order to
gain an understanding of what made King Lear viable, a different approach was
required: to suspend my reading of the play as poetry, and instead to engage in the
reading of it as a tacit performance .
It is, after all, in performance that a play
becomes a play, and therefore only there that a real evaluation of its effectiveness
could begin .
And so the question became :
what could the distinction between poetry and
performance possibly mean?
What are the limitations of the written word in
preserving a play? The actions, the development of the plot, and even the rhythm of
the speech are all preserved here on the page, in the poetry .
But, though a
performance obviously cannot be viewed as entirely distinct from what is written on
the paper, the object became to understand how the play became di f ferent when it
utilized that element peculiar to the literary form of "play" :
immediacy .
This
element had to be explored, not by reading carefully, but by "watching" .
And so the stage is set, the houselights go down, the actors enter, and the play
commences . What do we, as an audience, see and hear? Professor Allardyce Nicoll, in
his Studies in Shakespeare (1927), states:
Shakespeare has left us with something which simply cannot be
tolerated on the stage, for to find an e xplanation of Lear's
decision and demeanor in this first scene , we need to know the
subsequent developments of the plot :
by themselves they are
simply unintelligible .
..
�ensured the success of the play was that the audience was not at leisure to judge
Lear's acts in the way that a reader is:
to see them as selfish, or foolish; to
weigh the senselessness and the necessity; even to admire Lear's actions, or to seek
to learn from them as though he were a tragic hero. Somehow, the need for that sort
of decision became irrelevant.
Something was accomplished in this conversion of
words to acts that was not merely simple believability.
The question of what makes seeing these words as acts important began to reveal
itself not in the examination of the meaning they acquire but rather in what this
sort of seeing makes possible . Words as meaning can elicit criticism or agreement,
appreciation or denial. It is only when the words become an act that they can elicit
a response outside of this reasonable judgement. Words as acts can elicit act. What
literature demands of us is comprehension; a play, on the other hand , can only
require apprehension. Seeing a play requires , not that all of our critical faculties
be on the alert, but rather that our vision be clear so that our action (or perhaps
more appropriately our reaction) can be clear and true . Literature, if it seeks to
accomplish something outside of reasonable judgement, can only do this through
undermining · that judgement; if it wants to be incisive in this way, it can only
succeed through being subversive. But since it is vision and action that belong to a
play, what is subversive when it is read as literature becomes the thing that creates
its success as a play: trust .
I am wary of being too explicit about the term "trust" f or the simple re ason
that I would like to retain all of the allusions and all of the depth associated with
it in everyday speech . What I would like to emphasize by using it, however, is the
idea that understanding can be brought about necessarily even when language is not
the medium used to elicit this understanding .
When words as acts do not coincide
with other acts
other words, or perhaps gestures, or even simple character
attributes, such as gender or age (Lear's babbling like a child, for instance) - we
can have the sense that the character is being false or ironic, or that the character
is simply not able to say what he needs to say . And when what needs to be conveyed
is something which by its nature cannot be said, this un - saying need not destroy the
character speaking:
the act of un-saying can elicit the act of understanding in the
spectator through the immediacy of the theater.
In King Lear, Shakespeare has
utilized the immediacy inherent in a play, and the trust it creates, to successfully
treat of that most impossible of themes, madness, without making it either humorous
or impossible to watch.
In a strange way then King Lear becomes a play about trust, not as a theme, but
as an act. When our trust is claimed, all questions of judging Lear's character have
been left behind. The play has shown us about trust through act and in doing so has
shown us something about trust that no piece of literature could accomplish.
Trust
has not been presented to us; instead, we have engaged in it . Through the use of its
own temporali ty, the play has stripped us of the premeditation that could only
destroy trust and has instead given us trust as act reflecting act .
We have
surrendered reason, and it is only this that has enabled us to reflect act with act
and so create the trust that the play is about.
What belongs to a play that does not belong to a book is that which is created
only through vision and action: trust . This trust becomes all but invisible when it
reinforces comprehension.
But when a playwright treats of other themes--themes
outside of comprehension, such as madness, or perhaps love -- this trust becomes
necessary and whole unto itself . That King Lear is a play that is successful in its
treatment of madness is what makes it impossible to read! That Lear is impossible to
read is what brings to light this special claim of the form of "play" .
After all of this discovery, then, I returned to my original question, but in a
new way. No longer was I concerned with how exactly a play differed from other forms
of literature.
The question now became how the play might be seen as a form of
literature at al 1.
Literature, through beauty and reason, or perhaps through the
denial of these, may hold a very special place in relation to the reader and may
create a clarity within us. Theater, through vision and action, may enable us to be
fully where we are, at least for the duration of the performance. To be fully where
we are can only be learned in practice though ; and if the theater can , even for a
moment, leave us bereft of the need to deny what we know or construct what we do not,
then that experience can change our lives. Literature may be able to show us what we
are, but perhaps the beauty of the theater is to show us that not knowing what we are
is no excuse for not being what we are.
4
5
�The Ethical Value of Justice in Plato's Republic
Christopher Sturr
1
In the beginning of Book II of Plato's Republic , Glaucon uses strong words in
reference to Socrates' dialogue with Thrasymachus which took place in Book I.
Glaucon says ,
"Socrates, do you want to seem to have persuaded us, or truly to
have persuaded us, that it is in every way better to be just than
unjust?"
"I would choose to persuade you truly, I said, if it were up
to me."
"Well, then," he said, "you're not doing what you want ." (357ab)
After some questioning of Socrates by Glaucon, Socrates continues
"I, for my part, suppose," I said, "that it [justice]
belongs to the finest kind [of goods] , which the man who is going
to be blessed should like both for itself and for what comes out
of it . "
"Well, that's not the opinion of the many , " he said , "rather
it [justice] seems to belong to the form of drudgery , which
should be practiced for the sake of wages and the reputation that
comes from opinion; but all by itself it should be fled from as
something hard . "
"I know this is the popular opinion, " I said, "and a while
ago justice, taken as being such , was blamed by Th r asymachus
while injustice was praised .
But I , as it seems , am a poor
learner . "
"Come now," he said, "hear me too , and see if you still have
the same opinion.
For it looks to me as though Thrasymachus,
like a snake , has been charmed more quickly than he should have
been; yet to my way of thinking, there was still no p r oof about
either. For I desire to hear what each is and what power it has
all alone by itself when it is in the soul -- dismissing its
wages and its consequences . " (358ab)
Glaucon complains that since the popular conception is that justice is bad and dis advantageous on its own, he constantly hears a r guments against justice, whereas "the
argument on behalf of justice -- I've yet to hear from anyone as I want it." (358d) .
He goes on to restore Thrasymachus' argument , speaking " in vehement praise of the
unjus~ life" (358d), in order to induce Socrates to refute his arguments, and to show
that Justice is good and injustice is bad .
It is disturbing to hear justice blamed and injustice praised by Glaucon and
Thrasymachus, yet their arguments seem difficult to refute .
On the one hand, they
are constantly heard, as Glaucon points out . What is more, they appeal to impulses
that everyone has, and perhaps cannot completely get away _rom . On the other hand,
f
the arguments go against many forces that form the basis of our actions:
parental,
religious, and legal authority, senses of responsibility or obligation for things
beyond ourselves, the 'Golden Rule', and so on. In a discussion in which what is at
stake is a way of life, as Socrates points out (344e) , such conf L.ct of ideas in
one's mind is indeed disconcerting.
I, like Glaucon, want to hear an adequate argument for justice and against injustice.
I want to understand exactly what the position Thrasymachus takes entails
and how one could go about refuting it. I propose to examine Socrates' dialogue with
Thrasymachus in order to understand the nature of the dilemma, and analyze the dialogue and its arguments to see how one might refute Thrasymachus.
The dialogue between Socrates and Thrasymachus can be divided into three stages
which correspond roughly to three assertions about justice advanced by Thrasymachus
and Socrates' apparent refutations of these assertions.
In the first stage
Thrasymachus defines justice as the advantage of the stronger; in the second he says
that justice is someone else's advantage, whereas injustice is one's own advantage;
in the third he asserts that the unjust life is superior to the just life.
I will
briefly outline the dialogue and then treat the arguments from each side separately.
Polemarchus defines justice as "helping friends and injuring enemies." (332b).
Thrasymachus is dissatisfied with Socrates' apparent refutation of this definition.
He advances his own definition of justice:
"the advantage of the stronger." (338c).
Socrates uses three lines of argument against this first definition. · First, he
claims not to know what Thrasymachus means by "the stronger", asking whether he means
those who are physically stronger, such as wrestlers. Thrasymachus clarifies himself
by saying that by the "stronger" he means the ruling group.
His reasoning:
ruling
groups everywhere set down laws which are advantageous for them, and say that the
laws are just for the people who are ruled; therefore, what is just is advantageous
for the ruling group.
Next, Socrates points out an apparent contradiction in the definition . Implicit
in Thrasymachus' reasoning is that it is just for subjects to obey the laws of the
rulers.
It is also just for them to do what is advantageous for the rulers.
Yet
Thrasymachus agrees that rulers are capable of erring, i.e. of making laws that are
disadvantageous for them.
So it appears that it may be just for subjects to do what
is disadvantageous for the rulers -- whence the contradiction. Thrasymachus escapes
the contradiction by asserting that rulers, insofar as they are rulers, do not err,
in fact.
In his third criticism of Thrasymachus' first definition, Socrates says that the
ruler insofar as he is a ruler (using Thrasymachus' expression) does not consider his
own advantage .
His evidence is that the arts seek the advantage not of themselves,
but of that of which they are arts . So just as a doctor considers not his own advantage but the advantage of the sick, the ruler, insofar as he is a ruler, considers
not his own advantage, but that of those he rules .
Thrasymachus responds to · this reasoning by offering his second definition of
justice . To counter Socrates' assertion, he cites the example of the shepherd.
The
shepherd, in caring for the sheep, looks not to the good of the sheep, but to his own
good, and to the good of his maste r. The ruler is the same way, and rather than look
to the advantage of the subjects, he should look to his own, and 'fleece' them . From
this analogy, Thrasymachus also gets the idea that justice , which characterizes
Socrates' docto r, is someone else's advantage, whereas injustice, which characterizes
Thrasymachus' shepherd, is one's own advantage .
People who are incompletely unjust,
such as petty criminals, are blamed, whereas those who are completely unjust are
praised from all sides . Therefore, he concludes, injustice is "mightier, freer, and
more masterful" than justice (344c) .
In response to these assertions, Socrates draws a distinction between the normal
arts and what he calls the "wage-earner's art" . Cr aftsmen who earn wages do not earn
6
7
�them as a benefit of their particular art, but as a benefit of the wage earner's art .
If a craftsman works for nothing, he does not get the benefit of the wage-earner's
art, but some benefit, the benefit peculiar to the art of which he is a craftsman, is
produced.
In this way, Socrates reasserts his belief that the ruler, insofar as he
is a ruler, considers the advantage of the ruled, not his own.
Talk of wages leads to the third part of the dialogue, which deals with the rel ative · merits of justice and injustice.
Thrasymachus has asserted that the life of
the unjust is superior to that of the just. Socrates and Glaucon are not persuaded .
They decide to engage with Thrasymachus to discover whether what he say is so . They
first discuss the relationship of justice with virtue and wisdom . After being ques tioned, Thrasymachus asserts that injustice is in the camp of virtue and wisdom,
whereas justice is in the camp of vice and ignorance. As the dialogue evolves, it is
deduced that in general the good and wise man tries to get the better only of those
unlike him, whereas the bad and ignorant man tries to get the better of those both
like and unlike him.
Socrates points out ·that the just man tries to get the better
only of the unjust, whereas the unjust man tries to get the better of everyone. From
this it is concluded that the just man is good and wise, while the unjust man is bad
and ignorant.
Next, Socrates, Glaucon, and Thrasymachus discuss whether injustice might still
be mightier than justice .
Socrates makes several points :
first, for one city to
become stronger than another, it needs justice, since justice is wisdom . Second, the
members of any group with a common enterprise must act justly toward one another to
be successful, since injustice implants hatred and leads to faction.
Third , just as
injustice makes any group an enemy both to anyone around it and to itself, injustice
makes a man not only unable to act, but also an enemy to others and to himself .
Lastly, whereas the just man is a friend of the gods, who are just, the unjust man is
the enemy of the gods .
Finally, they discuss the life of the unjust man, and whether it might be happier than the life of the just man . Socrates points out that the work of the soul cannot be accomplished if the virtue of the soul is not present .
Since justice is the
virtue of the soul, and injustice is the vice, the just man lives well , and therefore
happily , whereas the unjust man lives poorly , and therefore wretchedly.
They conclude that justice has been shown to be more profitable than injustice.
Socrates, like Glaucon in Book II, expresses his dissatisfaction with the dialogue with Thrasymachus :
in Hades if he has been unjust .
So he defines justice as "speaking the truth and
giving back what one takes." (33ld) .
Polemarchus refines his father's definition by citing the poet Simonides, who
said that it is just to give what is owed to everyone.
Polemarchus interprets this
as meaning that it is just to help one's friends and harm one's enemies (332b) .
Polemarchus later talks of justice as being useful in contracts and partnerships
(333a). Later in the Republic, Socrates addresses the question of in what situations
actions might be considered just or unjust : "--either concerning the acquisition of
money, o r the care of the body , or something political, or concerning private contracts" (443e) .
It seems that justice is spoken o f as concerning honesty and good
faith in agreements, and respect of others ' property.
In any case, the examples of
situations in which questions of justice arise almost always have something to do
with relations in a community .
It makes sense that questions of justice should come up in the discussion of a
pol~tical community .
Aristotle has this to say about justice in the Nicomachean Ethics
Ta
Ta
The noble
Ka.A.a
and the just
a1Karn
),
what are studied by p olitical science, have so much disagreement
and variation as to seem to be by custom ( V01J£tl
) , and not by
nature ( ¢G0El ) • (I , iii, 2-3)
This is our dissatisfaction as well.
A closer examination of the arguments in the
dialogue may give us clues about the nature of the dilemma at hand.
Even though justice remains undefined, we can understand from Book I what kind
of thing is called justice, and what the attitudes toward it are. When Socrates asks
Cephalus what the greatest benefit is from possessing great wealth, he says it is
"not having to cheat or lie to any man against one's will" and being able to make
sacrifices to the gods and repay one's depts (331b).
This is how the discussion of
justice is introduced. At Cephalus' age, he is afraid of the evil that may await him
Such disagreement comes up in Book I of the Republic:
Thrasymachus and Glaucon are
suggesting, as Aristotle says, that justice is not by nature, but only by convention.
The first book of the Republic seems at first to be concerned not with politics,
but with ethics:
the members of the dialogue are trying to decide o~the best way of
life . But it seems significant that Aristotle's Ethics and Politics are so closely
related to it.
In the beginnings of each, Aristotle says that every human activity
aims at some good.
In the Politics, he adds that every group and therefore every
city is instituted in order to attain some good .
Aristotle also says in the Ethics
that the aim of the study of politics is the highest good, o r happiness (I, iv, 1).
The connection between ethical and political considerations is even closer in the
Republic.
The best way of life, which is sought in the first book of the Republic,
is the one which obtains happiness.
This clearly explains the coincident political
nature of the Republic .
The question at hand is, what role does a political good,
justice have in the ethical consideration of obtaining this best way of life?
Cephalus and Polemarchus profess to agree with Socrates that justice is necessary f or the good life. This fact may account for their differences o f opinion with
Socrates about how justice should be defined .
For although they differ greatly with
Socrates about how one ought to act towards other people, they want to say that how
they think people should act is the just way to act.
For example, Polemarchus believes that one often needs to injure people, specifically one's enemies.
Since he
wants to say that one also needs to act justly, he must work his belief that one
should injure othe rs into his definition of justice.
This is where he comes into
conflict with Socrates, and this illustrates how Socrates comes into conflict with
political life as it operates in Athens.
Thra symachus does not believe that justice is needed for happiness; in fact, he
thinks that it hinders the pursuit of the good life.
Ironically , this belief would
make Thrasymachus less reluctant to agree on a definition of justice with Socrates in
terms of a code of behavior towards other people:
Thrasymachus w0uld not consider
that code of behavior a good guide for how one ought to behave.
So Polemarchus
winces at excluding the injury of othe rs from a definition of justice because that
would make his 'perfect man' -- the one who acts as Polemarchus thinks one should act
-- unjust; Thrasymachus doesn't mind saying it is unjust to injure others because he
8
9
"Before finding out what we are considering at first -- what the
just is -- I let go of that and pursued the consideration of
whether it is vice and lack of learning, o r wisdom and virtue.
And later, when in its turn an argument that injustice is more
profitable than justice fell my way, I could not restrain myself
from leaving the other and going after this one, so that now as a
result of the discussion I know nothing.
So long as I do not
know what the just is, I shall hardly know whether it is a virtue
or not, and whether the one who has it is unhappy or happy." (354c)
�doesn't mind being called unjust.
The positions of the interlocutors are analogous to those in the Gorgias . 4
Socrates speaks in that dialogue with Gorgias, Polus, and Callicles successively,
about, among other things, justice .
Polus accuses Gorgias, and later Callicles accuses Polu~ and Gorgi~s, .of being shamed by Socrates, and of not saying what they
really believe about Justice . Callicles claims that by following their instinct for
most o~ the argum~nt, a~d then be~ng shamed by Socrates and popular opinion to say
something they don t believe, Gorgias and Polus were forced to contradict themselves
(Gorgias, 482de).
In a similar way, Thrasymachus could claim, Cephalus was made afraid by thoughts
~f H~des,. and Polemarchus was shamed by popular views about justice into saying that
Justice is good.
But the rest of their views contradict this .
Callicles and
Thrasymachus, on the other hand choose to be unintimidated by commonly held beliefs,
rather than conclude that their original premises were wrong.
Ironically, even though Callicles and Thrasymachus are more difficult to refute
(if indeed they are ever refuted), their kind of interlocution is better, from a
philosophic standpoint .
If one thinks that their views are wrong, one is tempted to
think that it is correct that they should be silenced by shame.
But the philosophical pro~ess of dialectic, which seeks truth, requires that no premises, such as popular beliefs, be accepted on faith in such a way that they silence what could be investigated for truth or falsehood. So it is easier to determine that truth or falsehood of beliefs which, when presented, are unaffected by what others think, and
therefore are not inconsistent with themselves. Callicles and Thrasymachus strive to
put forward views of this kind.
When Socrates , praising Callicles for not being
ashamed and for speaking freely, tells him "not to slacken at all, so that it will
really become clear how we should live" (Gorgias, 487ab, 492d, 494cd) , and when he
urges Thrasymachus to stick to what he has said (Republic, 345b) and praises him for
"speaki~g the truth as it seems to you"
(348e - 349a), he is not sarcastic or mocking,
as at first seems, but sincere .
But Thrasymachus is equally justified in the restrictions he makes on Socrates.
Thrasymachus requires that Socrates not define justice as "the needful, or the helpful , or the profitable, or the gainful , or the advantageous" (336d) . Socrates claims
tha~ this restriction is unreasonable, and that Thrasymachus is forbidding him from
saying what Thrasymachus knows Socrates thinks the definition of justice is . Actually, Thrasymachus is forbidding Socrates from expressing his p r econceived judgement
about justice instead of defining it. The task should be, Thrasymachus seems to say,
to define justice "clearly and precisely" (336d), and then to decide whether it is
advantageous or good . This is exactly the point, quoted earlier, that Socrates makes
at the end of Book I.
Thrasymachus has his own ideas about justice which might be clearer if he would
~ot assume, _ as Socrates does, that justice is advantageous.
He tries to express his
ideas through his definitions of justice .
Thrasymachus' words seem incoherent and
contradictory at times. However, a sympathetic treatment of them which tries to un derstand "truth as he sees it" can reveal a coherent and plausible alternative to
Socrates' assumption .
The sense in which Thrasymachus refers to 'justice' in his definitions is unclear. When he defines justice as the "advantage of the stronger", Socrates rightly
responds, "First I must learn what you mean, ... for, as it is, I don't yet understand·
338c) .
Does Thrasymachus refer to what justice is, or how it is referred
to, or how it should be described? Cleitophon and Polemarchus are equally confused
about his meaning (340bc).
Thrasymachus' explanation seems to say that justice is created by whatever laws
those in power ('the stronger') put down for their own advantage. He seems to think
this is appropriate .
Yet in his second definition of justice, that it is someone
else's advantage, he regards it as something to be avoided . Both definitions seem to
express his point of view, but the second violates Thrasymachus' own restrictions on
how justice can be defined.
Glaucon's speech in Book II is just the kind of sympathetic treatment I referred
to, and he cleans up some of the difficulties with Thrasymachus' definitions .
Glaucon sets out his first task:
"I' 11 tell what kind of thing they say justice is
and where it comes from" (358c).
According to Glaucon, the greatest good is doing
injustice .
Justice was established by the weak, who could not carry out injustice .
Justice, then, is by convention ( v0µ~ ) alone .
It is a compact of people, agree ing not to commit injustice to one another. The strongest men, who are able to commit injustice, would be mad to set down a compact agreeing to be just, because it
clearly would not be to their advantage.
Another problem understanding Thrasymachus' argument comes from his idea of a
'ruler', which is clearly different from Socrates'. Socrates speaks of the ruler as
the person who has the job of ruling. He clearly thinks of ruling as an art .
This
is why he can compare the ruler's activities, which Thrasymachus says must work to
his own advantage, to the practice of an art.
If Thrasymachus thinks of a ruler not
as an artisan, but as the person in a position of power, it is hardly fair to apply
standards which apply to artisans to the ruler Thrasymachus speaks of, unless
Socrates can show that this is not the nature of rulers. As it is, Socrates' definition of a ruler seems to be inherently linked with his ideas about justice , and both
would be proved together.
Just as a doctor is a p r actitioner of the art of caring
for the bodies of others, the ruler is the practitioner of the art of caring for the
souls of others .
He is therefore a dispenser of justice, and does not consider his
own advantage.
Socrates chooses to view artisans as rulers of the objects of their arts .
He
also introduces the innovation of the wage-earner's art to explain what benefit
artisans get from the practice of their art.
If rulers are not as he assumes they
are, but do consider their own advantage as Thrasymachus claims, then we get a more
telling picture of Socrates' view of the arts. This view would explain, as Socrates'
does not, why conflicts often arise between the motives of the wage-earner's art and
the art which benefits others.
No one hears 'we do it all for you' without some
amount of skepticisns.
In the Sophist , the Eleatic Stranger divides arts into two classes:
the productive arts and the acquisitive arts (Sophist, 219ab) .
In the Republic, Socrates
mentions as examples only productive arts, except the wage -earner's art.
Unlike
Socrates' examples of art, the acquisitive arts are not creative or servicing, but
are coercive.
Socrates' view of the arts excludes consideration of these coercive
arts.
For example, it is hard to imagine that the hunter, the p r actitione r of an
acquisitive art according to the Stranger, is a) the ruler of those he hunts, and b)
one who looks to the benefit of those he hunts.
This is the substance of
Thrasymachus' shepherd example~ and clearly Thrasymachus' art of ruling must lie
among the acquisitive arts.
The innovation of the wage- earner's art is meant to show how just actions can
coincide with personal benefit : if the artisan is just and looks to others' advantage, he himself is also benefitted by the wage-earner's art; if he is unjust, he is
not benefitted by the wage-earner's art. Thrasymachus would say that this benefit is
by convention, and his 'stronger man' is meant to illustrate the possibility that a
man could be separate from the material consequences of his justice or injustice.
Thrasymachus proposes that for this man, there is no advantage to justice and no disadvantage to injustice, after the conventional advantages and disadvantages have been
taken away.
Th~ material consequences of justice are what Thrasymachus and Glaucon
want to call convention:
laws and common views that label justice
'honorable'.
So
by pointing out that the 'stronger man might err', Socrates unwittingly avoids the
10
11
11
(
�view he should, and eventually does, defend:
that justice is natural (
¢UCTEl ) ,
and is naturally good.
It seems to me a wrong way to argue against injustice to say
that no one could ever execute it efficiently, because this still admits that if it
could be done, it would be profitable.
Glaucon' s Gyges ' ring story · gives a better illustration of this principle .
Glaucon wants to know if justice is, as Socrates believes, a good in and of itself,
not just for what it can get someone:
"For I desire to hear what each [justice and
injustice] is and what power it has all alone by itself when it is in the soul -dismissing its wages and its consequences." (358b) . The man wearing Gyges' ring of fers this opportunity .
He "escapes the notice of all gods and humans", as Socrates
later says (427d) , and so he does not have to worry about the material consequences
of justice or injustice. Glaucon speculates that any man wearing the ring (presuming
he would do exactly what is to his best advantage) would not bother with justice at
all.
Thrasymachus asserts not only that injustice is more advantageous than justice,
but also that it is virtuous and wise.
The difference between profit or advantage
and what is fair or good, which Socrates emphasizes (348e), is unclear. He may want
to point out the distinction which is made between what seems to be advantageous o r
what is considered to be advantageous, and what is actually advantageous.
In any
case, Socrates makes his final challenges to Thrasymachus in response to these assertions.
Socrates first gives an argument to show that justice is virtue and wisdom,
drawn from a comparison between artisans and just and unjust men.
He seems to assume, again, that artisans are unconcerned with justice and injustice, and that justice accompanies all forms of knowledge or expertise, by nature. In this, he presupposes that justice a) is associated with knowledge (what he is trying to show at the
moment) and b) is natural (which is his fundamental point) .
So, these presuppositions beg the question in more ways than one.
The definition of justice still in question , that justice is someone else's advantage while injustice is one's own advantage, implies what Thrasymachus asserts
about the goodness of justice .
This definition clearly sets out the more specific
question:
Is others' advantage necessarily my own? When Socrates talks about people's actions in a group, he addresses this more specific question most directly.
Socrates first tries to show that justice is necessary for a city to act (justly
or unjustly).
This is because his first argument supposedly shows that justice is
wisdom, and so since wisdom is clearly needed for the city to act, so is justice.
Thrasymachus says he doesn't doubt that first argument, the one that equates justice
with wisdom and virtue .
Socrates doesn't seem to, either .
If he did think that he
had adequately proven that justice is wisdom and virtue, then he wouldn't feel compelled to go on, as he does, and give arguments for why justice is mighty, and why
the just man is happy. When Socrates gives the example of the group of people with a
common goal, he is making two important assertions.
First, he is asserting that the
completely unjust group would be unsuccessful.
If the group is completely unjust,
besides having an unjust common purpose, its members would be unjust to one another.
So the group would be unable to accomplish anything.
Socrates' second, implied assertion is that justice is necessary for external
order. Complete injustice in a group, we have said, includes injustice of each mem ber in the group towards every other .
Order within the group is necessary for the
group to accomplish anything, as Socrates first asserts.
If we consider the group,
then, injustice in any member of the group disrupts the internal order of the group
by creating faction and hatred.
If we consider one member of the group, his unjust
actions disrupt the order outside of him, his external order. This point is evident
from what has been understood from the beginning about how justice is spoken of: If
justice concerns partnerships or agreements, or respecting others , then injustice in
a person's actions ·clearly disrupts the order outside that person.
We also accept
this when we consider the fundamental questio~ of whether justice, a political good,
is also an ethical good.
F r om these assertions about what injustice accomplishes in groups, Socrates
makes some conclusions about what it must accomplish in individuals
"And when it is in one man, I suppose it will do the
same thing which it naturally accomplishes.
First, it will make him unable to act, because he is
at faction and not of one mind with himself and,
second, an enemy both to himself and to just men,
won't it?"(352a)
Just as complete injustice in the group disturbs external as well as internal order ,
so it does in the individual.
Thrasymachus does not discern some errors in Socrates' reasoning; or, at least,
he does not bother to challenge Socrates at this point in the dialogue .
Socrates
does not address whether a group could accomplish an unjust act while its members are
just towards one another.
This seems perfectly plausible, and a limitation of this
sort would make Thrasymachus' view less ridiculous.
Thrasymachus could argue that
perhaps justice is a (slightly) limited good. Occasionally, the unjust person has to
act justly towards others to accomplish his eventual advantage .
This seems reasonable is we consider how Thrasymachus' view was compared to Polemarchus' earlier.
Whereas Polemarchus believed in helping friends and hurting enemies, Thrasymachus saw
no reason to help even friends.
But if we consider the logical qualification now
that Thrasymachus would in fact help others if it were to his ultimate advantage, the
positions of the two do not seem so far apart .
Thrasymachus and Polemarchus would
probably have defined their 'friends' similarly.
This also agrees with the earlier
point that Polemarchus' and Thrasymachus' views of justice are not so far apart, but
seem to be, since Polemarchus allows himself to be shamed by popular belief.
Does the small addition of acting expediently in this way really detract from
Thrasymachus' doctrine of selfishness in the way that Socrates implies it does? Actually, it seems to make it even more dangerous.
Should it be called 'justice' when
the unjust person, a member of an unjust group, acts justly toward others in the
group in order that they might carry out the ultimately unjust acts?
Just as
Aristotle says that acting virtuously is virtue only if it is for the right reasons ,
acting justly should be called 'justice' only if it is for the right reasons.
It
seems, then, that there should be a distinction between enforced or expedient 'justice' and willful, enjoyable enactment of justice. And if Socrates wants to assert
that justice is good, then he shouldn't admit that this former kind of justice is for
the right reasons.
So if this kind of action is not just, then.the person who acts that way
the
person who, like the members of the unjust group, acts justly toward others for his
own benefit -- may still be Thrasymachus' completely unjust man.
In fact, he seems
to be the completely unjust man of whom Glaucon spoke (36lab) . He is even more formidable than the man who seems unjust, since he gives the appearance of being just
and friendly toward others .
Furthermore, Soc r ates very easily assumes that the individual and the group can
be compared.
He makes such comparisons throughout the Republic, as is seen when he
compares the 'states' of the man's soul to various kinds of states.
The facility
with which Plato compares man and state may have something to do with his idea of the
coincidence of the studies of ethics and politics. Here, Socrates shows that justice
within the group is internal order and that it is needed to accomplish anything. he
also shows that justice in the individual, as a member of ~ group, is necessary for
13
12
�his external order in the group, whether the group be a gang of thieves or society as
a whole.
He presumes that justice in the individual means internal order . By talking in this way about justice, he presupposes what he wants to prove, again -- that
being just is advantageous, or virtuous; that it promotes the health of the soul.
Socrates needs to show that what he calls justice in the soul is the same as the justice which rules a person's actions toward others.
We have said that Socrates failed to recognize, or at least failed to mention ,
the possibility of a group with unjust goals, but internal order ~
We have observed
that the 'justice' accounting for the order in the group which we have said is expedient may not deserve to be called justice at all .
If the comparison can be made,
the co rres~a~ ding individual would be one who is just to others, yet has an 'unjust'
(if we use Socrates' term for 'unordered') soul. This is exactly the kind of person
Thrasymachus suggests can exist.
Socrates has not answered Thrasymachus' challenge, but he has silenced him. At
first we thought Thrasymachus, like Callicles, spoke freely, and was not ashamed of
popular belief.
But we see that at 350d, when Socrates claims to have shown
Thrasymachus'
just
man
to
be
"unlearned
and
bad",
Thrasymachus
blushes.
Thrasymachus, like Gorgias and Polus, is a rhetor, and ultimately concerned with appearing wise and good.
The possibility that what Socrates implies may be true, and
that Socrates understands this disconcerts him. Thrasymachus, too, as Glaucon says,
"like a snake, has been charmed more quickly than he should have been ." (358b).
Glaucon and Adeimantus take up_ the argument which Thrasymachus seems to have
abandoned. The response which arises out of their challenge, when, in the beginning
of Book II, they restore Thrasymachus' argument better than he probably could have,
takes the form of the "city in speech".
It takes its general idea from this last
comparison of justice in the group and in the individual.
The idea of studying a city to understand the nature of justice in the individual appears at 368e:
"So then, perhaps there would be more justice in the bigger and
it would be easier to observe closely .
If you want, first we'll
investigate what justice is like in the cities .
Then we'll also
go on to consider it in individuals, considering the likeness of
the bigger in the idea of the littler?"
After the city has been formed, Socrates calls upon the others to complete the search
for justice and injustice and their natures :
"In the next place , get y ourself an adequate light somewhere; and
look yourself -- and call in your brother and Polemarchus and the
others -- whether we can somehow see where the justice might be
and where the injustice, in what they dif fer from one another,
and which the man who's going to be happy must possess, whether
it escapes the notice of all gods and humans or not." (427d)
This is asserted again at 435a:
"Then ", I said, " is that which one calls the same, whether
it's bigger or smaller, unlike or like in that respect in which
it's called the same?"
"Like," he said .
"Then the just man will not be any different from the just
city with respect to the form itself of justice, but will be like
it."
"Yes", he said, "he will be like it."
The city is supposed to be bigger than the man, but the same in form.
So after the
city has been formed, wherever justice is found in it, justice in the man might be
found in the same place.
What is more, justice may be of the same nature and may
produce the same effects in the man as in the city.
When Glaucon and Adeimantus begin the scrutiny of the city they have produced,
they assume that if it has been correctly founded by them, then it must be perfectly
good.
Therefore, they conclude, it must be "wise, courageous, and just" (427e) .
Again, it is easy to understand the 'goodness' of wisdom and courage for a city, i.e.
how they are beneficial to it in every way, but it is questionable whether justice is
necessarily good. Their conclusion, then, seems unfair.
When they later equate injustice with "extreme evil - doing" (434a), they may be
justified, however .
They reason that an extreme evil - doing, something which would
cause great harm to the city, would be for the members of one class to try to get
into another class.
Injustice is extreme evil-doing in the sense that it disturbs
the internal order of the city, -;-s Socrates has affirmed.
Therefore, they conclude,
this must be injustice.
Its opposite, minding one's own business , must be justice .
This makes sense with our original understanding of what was being called 'justice'.
They are cautious about the switch from consideration of the city to consideration of the man, and address it after they have defined justice in the city.
(434d) :
"If there are still any doubts in our soul," I said, "we
could reassure ourselves completely by testing our justice in the
light of the vulgar standards."
"Which ones?"
"For example, if, concerning this city and the man who by
nature and training is like it, we were required to come to an
agreement about whether, upon accepting a deposit of gold or silver, such a man would seem to be the one to filch it -- do you
suppose anyone would suppose that he would be the man to do it
and not rather those who are not such as he is?"
"No one would," he said.
"And as for temple robberies, thefts, and betrayals, either
of comrades in private or cities in public, wouldn't this man be
beyond them?"
"Yes , he would be beyond them."
"And, further, he would in no way whatsoever be faithless in
oaths o r other agreements."
"Of course not . '.
'
Glaucon wants to believe that justice is good. He knows that the man he and the others have created is good, for he is their own . They simply presume that the man with
the o rdered soul the parts of which act justly toward one another is just towards
others as well.
They go on to give other examples of injustice that their perfect
man surely wou ldn ' t commit.
Two points about this section: first, Socrates carefully qualifies his statements to cover all forms of injustice, in the appropriately limited sense that it
must be understood in orde r for the Thrasymachan argument to make sense.
He says
that clearly this man won't do these injustices either to "comrades in private or
cities in public". As we have said, Thrasymachus might well modify his ideas to allow justice to comrades in private. Socrates himself pointed out that in order for a
So
g r oup to carry out even an unjust act, the members must be just to one another.
14
15
�all would agree that one should be just to one's comrades in private .
Socrates now
asserts as well that this man would also necessarily be just to cities in public .
This is much closer to the realm in question, the realm of the ruler.
Thrasymachus
believes that certain men, those who are able, should rule and benefit as much as
they can from it.
Second, Socrates sets the stage rheto rically for Glaucon and the · listeners to
react in the way he wants them to.
The "vulgar standards" (442e) are dgscribed by
the word cpopT l dis , used of arguments to call them "vulgar" or "low".
Socrates
seems to imply rhetorically that the consideration of whether the internally ordered
person might not also be externally just is hardly worth their time.
They again reverse the association between acting justly and having a
well - orde red soul at 444d, when they presume that the man who acts justly will also
naturally have an ordered soul:
"Then, in its turn," I said, "isn't to produce justice [by
acting justly] to establish the parts of the soul in a relation
of mastering, and being mastered by, one another that is
according to nature, while to produce injustice is to establish a
relation of ruling, and being ruled by, one another that is
contrary to nature?"
"Entirely so," he said.
The comparison between health of the body and health of the soul is complete: acting
justly produces justice , and if justice is the health of the soul, then acting justly
naturally produces a relation of ruling in the parts of the soul which is healthy
according to nature .
They agree at 443b that their dream "has reached perfect fulfillment", and at
443c Socrates says,
"And in truth justice was, as it seems, something of this
sort; however, not with respect to a man's minding his external
business, but with respect to what is within, with respect to
what truly concerns him and his own. He doesn't let each part in
him mind other people's business o r the three class es in the soul
meddle with each other, but really sets his own house in good
order and rules himself."
We have seen that Socrates' words may not have adequately resolved the dilemma of
whether what he says here is so.
If we ask, however, what Plato's position is with regard to the ethica l value of
justice, the answer is much less clear .
First of all , the Republic is fuil of con t radicto r y ideas of justice -- Plato is clearly aware of t he difficulty of the dilemma at hand.
For example, even though, as I have pointed out, Socrates does not dis cuss the possibility of an unjust group whose members are just towards one another,
the republic Joe? have created is exactly this kind of group . The city has gone from
being a "city of utmost necessity" (369d) to being one of luxury, or as Socrates puts
it , from being healthy to being feverish ( 3 7 2e ) . To support these luxuries, the city
would need an army of guardians to take lands away from neighbors since the land
which would have formerly sustained the city would no longer be adequate .
Clear ly,
taking what belongs to others is not minding one's own business .
It is unclear,
then, whether this city is, as Socrates says at 427e, "wise, moderate, and just", as
well as good.
The guardians themselves present another difficulty.
Far from being like the
perfect man modeled after the city, the guardians are closer to Polemarchus' ideal
16
. man :
they must be "gentle to their own and cruel [ xaA.sno65 ] to their enemies"
(3 75c). This claim comes from the same Socrates who tells Polemarchus at 338d, "Nor
is injuring, in fact, the work of good, but of its opposite."
Similarly, descriptions of Thrasymachus indicate Plato's acknowledgement of the
existence of people who can get things done through the unjust use of force .
At
336b, for example, just after the mention of "men who have a high opinion of what
they can do", Thrasymachus is compared to a wild beast as he flings himself into the
discussion .
Other such passages occur at 340d, 343a, and 344d.
Thrasymachus is
eventually subdued, in a way , but Callicles in the Gorgias off ers an even better ex ample .
Not only does he hold his own in arguing against justice, but he may well be
the best candidate for one who could carry out injustice completely.
There seems to
be a link between the ability to carry out injustice and the shamelessness in argument which Callicles shows, and the others lack in varying degrees . This link may be
conscience.
Plato, despite Socrates' rhetoric about justice, does not deny in his
characterizations the possibility of people lacking conscience to certain degrees.
To point out contradiction, however, is not to say that Plato does not have anything coherent to say about justice. Plato acknowledges the difficulty of the dilemma .
He also presents evidence and ideas which can help the reader get closer to
truth.
The common views of political good -- justice -- and individual or ethical good
-- happiness -- are such that they necessarily oppose one another . As Glaucon points
out, justice is seen as something necessary for the . function of the state but undesirable in itself for the individual.
Happiness and internal order, o r the 'good
life', are thought to come chiefly with material things, pleasure, and power or honor, as Plato shows through the characters in his dialogues.
As Callicles points out
(Gorgias, 491e) a man who is enslaved at all by justice or temperance for example
cannot be happy .
If justice is defined as not trying to get the better of others
materially but rather honoring agreements, and yet material betterment of the individual is necessary for happiness, then justice of necessity gets in the way of happiness.
By revising the conceptions of the goals of a human being, the goals of a state,
and the relati onship between human being and state, Plato resolves the tension be tween justice and happiness. As Aristotle does in his political treatise, Plato as serts the goal of the state to be the happiness· of its citizens.
This is the substance of the argument that the ruler thinks not of his own benefit, but of the benefit of those he rules. This claim establishes a first like between ethics and politics. They both aim at the same thing. If humans are political by nature, they naturally need the companionship of other humans and organized association with them to
attain happiness.
Plato's view of human goals completes the connection between ethics and politics.
If human goals are concerned not with external goods, but with internal perfection, then justice no longer interferes with the pursuit of those goals.
Take
again the e xample of Socrates' suggestion near the end of Book IV
"And in truth justice was, as it seems, something of this
sort; however, not with respect to a man's minding his external
business, but with respect to what is within, with respect to
what truly concerns him and his own . He doesn't let each part in
him mind other people's business or the three classes in the soul
meddle with each other, but really sets his own house in good
order and rules himself; he arranges himself, becomes his own
f r iend, and harmonizes the three parts, exactly like the three
notes in a harmonic scale, lowest, highest and middle.
And if
there are some othe r parts in between, he binds them together and
17
�becomes entirely one from many, moderate and harmonized.
Then
and only then, he acts, if he does act in some way -- either con cerning the acquisition of many, or the care of the body , or
something political, or concerning private contracts.
In all
these actions he believes and names a just and fine action one
that preserves and helps to produce this condition, and wisdom
the knowledge that supervises ·this action, while he believes and
names an unjust action one that undoes this condition, and lack
of learning, in its turn, the opinion that supervises ~his
action." (443c)
If "what truly concerns him and his own" is what is within a human being , then jus tice no longer interferes with happiness .
Aristotle accordingly draws the distinction between good and bad kinds of selfishness . "Self- love" is a term of reproach for people
when they assign to themselves the larger share of money , honors,
or bodily pleasures; since these are the things which most men
desire and set their hearts on as being the greates goods and
which accordingly they complete with each other to obtain . (Nie .
Eth, IX, viii, 4).
Such competition necessitates injustice . The person who zealously competes to obtain
the 'noble'
TO KaA.6\J
) , that is , who seeks to perfect his soul, is still
self-loving, but in a good way .
Aristotle says (IX , viii, 6) , "he therefore who
loves and indulges the dominant part of himself [Plato 's calculating part of the
soul] is a lover of self in the fullest degree ."
This person, moreover, does not
need to interfere with others for his perfection .
With such an unde rstanding of how happiness is obtained , the connection between
politics and ethics can be completed .
Not only is it not particularly advantageous
to be unjust, as it was when happiness was thought to b e achieved through external
goods, but it is particularly advantageous to be just .
That the good of the individual as a member of society is equivalent to political good is a necessary consequence of man being a political animal. However, with this new conception of happi ness, Plato can assert also that the good of the individual as a human being is
equivalent to political good . Justice, as Socrates says, is something internal . So
political good, justice , is equated with ethical good , virtue , just as the concerns
of politics and ethics were acknowledge to be the same .
The problem remains of how these revisions should be viewed . At first it seemed
as if the ethical value of justice could go either way . Justice could be thought of
as good o r bad practice, with certain logical consequences following each choice .
Glaucon and Thrasymachus presented a plausible alte r native to Socrates' assumption
that justice is good . We have demonstrated that Socrates' answer to this alternative
does not have the force of a deductive proof , and that this and may contradictions in
the text continue to point out the difficulty of the delimma . Finally , it seems that
notwithstanding his acknowledgement of the difficulty of the dilemma , Plato does give
a coherent answer to t he dilemma.
To ask how Plato's revisions should b e viewed is
to ask what Plato's intent is in the answer these revisions form .
The very least that Plato 's answer to the dilemma affords is an equally plausi ble alternative to Glaucon's picture and Thrasymachus ' view of the character of jus tice . But the insufficiency of this kind of answer induces us to search further . We
have said that some, Glaucon and Adeimantus included, desire to hear justice praised
and injustice blamed . Motives may be noble by Plato's standar ds and may come from,
for example, a person who has been taught to seek perfection of his s oul and needs
18
some reassurance.
They may be ignoble and may come from, for example, someone who
wants a reason to be just, but would otherwise be inclined to Glaucon's belief that
justice is simply a convention and should be avoided. Plato and Aristotle exaggerate
the importance of the state, and so have to extol justice, without which the state
cannot function, even more forcefully.
The idea of justice in the Republic which
Socrates presents is a logical and convincing account, elegant in its conception . It
therefore provides a comfortable way to believe justice to be advantageous, for those
who want to believe this.
The myth at the end of the Gorgias fulfills a similar function.
In a question
of great importance and difficulty, where obvious proof is lacking, people naturally
seek answers which rely on faith. Callicles alone, we remember, has been unconvinced
by Socrates' assertions about justice and the just way of life .
Socrates then de scribes Hades and judgement of souls after death.
In Hades, souls are stripped o f
the body . When he who judges souls views a soul stripped of its body, he can detect
in it how just or unjust the person has been over the course of his life.
Acts of
injustice appear in the souls as scars or contortions. Souls which are found to have
committed "ultimate injustices" (Gorgias, 525c) are incurable and must suffer vengeance in Hades for all times. Socrates addresses Callicles after offering this myth :
"Now perhaps you think these things I've said are a tale,
like an old wife's, and you despise them.
And certainly it
wouldn't be at all surprising to despise them, if we should
search and somehow manage to find something better and truer.
But, as it is, you see that the three of you who are wisest among
the Greeks now, you and Polus and Gorgias -- you three can't man age to show that we should live any other life than this, which
is shown to be profitable for there too . No; among so many arguments, when the others are being refuted, only this argument is
stable -- that we must avoid doing injustice more than suffering
it, and above all a man must practice not seeming good, but being
good, in private and public life; if someone becomes evil in some
way, he is to be punished, and this is the second good after being just -- to become just and pay justice in being punished." (527ab)
The myth first of all confirms the fears of those who, like Cephalus, need a reason
to be just, such as fear of Hades . But it also gives an account of damage which oc curs to the soul through injustice. That justice is the health of the soul is thereby made more believable .
Plato knows that justice is necessary for political society, and therefore some "stable" argument for justice is needed, even if it requires
faith.
In the same way, the Republic argument will fulfill this function by satisfying a need for some believable . account.
This is not to say that the philosophical value of the Republic is in any way
diminished by this function.
The thoughtful reader who seeks a kind of cognition
higher than faith, that is, knowledge, about the ethical value of justice, is
challenged.
The form of the dialogue rhetorically and dramatically presents the
re ader with different and conflicting ideas about justice, and evidence about the
nature of justice.
These ideas and evidence are the substance of the insight Plato
has to offer on the ethical value of justice, and it is through them that the careful
reader can come closer to knowledge of the truth.
19
�1
2
3
4
5
6
The Republic of Plato, trans .
Allan Bloom, New York:
Aristotle's Nichomachean Ethics, trans.
H. Rackham.
Aristotle's Politics, trans. H. Rackham.
Basic Books, 1968.
Jana Giles
(Loeb)
Plato's Gorgias, trans.
Terence Irwin, New York:
Plato's Sophist, trans.
Harold North Fowler.
Greek- English Lexicon of Liddell and Scott .
(Loeb)
ask Newton
Oxford, 1979.
(Loeb)
Curtains walk
out from the windowa fan calling
wind's steady sound
outside sky's hazy
stuffily sultry
humid day
my eyes pain in the glare
somewher e a poet breeds
word and soul f renzied, watching
hairs glitter gold on his dark arm
rubble rattles angrily at me
as I kick it
down the slope from its ancient broken home;
roofless ghosts roam
sometime it will stop, and forgive me .
ask Newton : his head was dark though the
prism cast long colored lights,
bar red and striped
grate - like .
my ceiling is fish - scaled arcs
s tolen f r om a goggle - eyed
blue - brained damsel of the sea :
she invited me to go dancing.
Shall I scream and beat the eggs?
(my blender keeps the tune)
tonight, darling,
/
/
we are having souffle, pit~, rose, Perrier and the Frobishers
white lace, green money
the dog peed on the rug again honey
don't touch me I might scream
my bites are mean
you'll get gangrene
20
21
�I tittered as I walked
Ha!
the poet's editor smiled
we walked arm in arm
'til the poppies and Noah's 40 days
drowned me
victim of an impossible
jealous aching unending dream
children weeping in the dust;
a swollen moon lumbered red-faced
across the horizon,
raging nightmared sleep:
in the hot tropical night
anacondas wrap their cool supple waists
around Yeats' steaming neck;
he peeled pears beneath the moonlit mosquito net.
Tell Dostoyev?ky the calico man is corning .
22
''Man is Directed to God as an End Which
Surpasses the Grasp of Reason''
Dan Touey
.
'
The first question of Thomas Aquinas's Summa Theologica asks whether any discipline other than the philosophic ones, whose rule and domain is reason, is required
by human beings. As the beginning of an inquiry it has special importance, and not
in the sense that it deals with matters that must be taken care of before other, more
vital questions can be answered.
In the question and in the way Thomas chooses to
answer it is implied the difficulty that may have induced him to undertake his work
in the first place and that will determine the manner and content of most of the vital parts of it:
the opposition of faith and reason.
The positions of the Ob jections are these, that man should not seek things outside the domain of reason,
since it is the only domain in which he can have any real certainty; and that the
philosophical disciplines deal with everything that is, even God, so that any other
discipline would be superfluous.
Thomas answers by saying that "man is directed to
God as to an end that surpasses the grasp of his reason." This first interchange is
the true beginning of Aquinas' s work, and in it are implied the conflicts and
questions with which it will be Thornas's onerous duty to deal.
Thomas will not attempt to deal with faith fundamentally until the end of his
work, and hence it may be wrong to juxtapose faith and reason explicitly in this incipient question.
But when he does attempt some kind of definition of faith he says
that it is an assent of the intellect to the divine truth at the command of the will,
which has been endowed with grace, that is, moved by God.
The intellect then, and
how this term is actually employed in this context is not altogether clear, must in a
sense be overcome for faith to occur.
Here Thomas is saying that there are some
things necessary for man to believe that the intellect, in itself, will not consent
to; and that there is no such thing as an argument, or demonstration, that can lead
one to believe the things that must be arrived at through faith.
Reason does not require, like faith, that man overcome himself to accept what is
true. With reason, we can say that things are apparent, that they simply are, and,
to a certain extent, are undeniable.
Oneof the reasons for this surety is that we
can posit in man a certain faculty, reason, to which there are certain corresponding
objects, or principles, that are immediately clear and true, or can be shown to be so
by investigation.
Therefore I can say that things that are equal to the same are
equal to one another, and su6h a statement will be accepted by another because it
appeals, in some way, to reason. The truth of this may be a question, but at least
we can formulate such a faculty and its objects, and they or something like them seem
consistent with the common nature of man.
But I cannot posit such a faculty of
faith; there is nothing in the intellect o r the consciousness of man that I can say
the objects of faith correspond to. There is nothing in the nature of man that can
move him to the kind of belief that is of faith; he must be moved by the intervention
of God.
And so in the Summa, though faith and reason are both ways of knowing what
exists, of gaining knowledge, it is only with reason that we have a clear idea of how
the process occurs.
At least afterwards we can trace a construction of reason that
seems to fit with our nature. This we cannot do with faith.
So what is it that leads man, to whom reason is in a sense natural and easy, to
faith, in which he must overcome what is natural to him essentially, the rational
23
�intellect, and what he cannot arrive at himself but must posit an outside influence,
the grace of God, to receive? Why faith? Why isn't the argument of Objections one
and two, Article one, Question one, of the Summa enough for Thomas?
It seems that
the first Objection is right in saying that ~houldn't go beyond the scope of his
rea~o~ ~fter all;. and Objection two is correct in saying that Theology should only be
a division of philosophy, as far as God can be treated in terms of reason . The most
important point of Thomas's reply is that man is directed to God as his final end
and that God is something that surpasses his reason .
If the existence of God can b~
arrived at through reason, and some things can even be predicated of Him beyond the
fact of His existence, as Thomas believes, then why can't man arrive at his end
through hiE natural, communicable faculty and experience of reason? Why does Thomas
assume from the beginning that God is beyond this faculty, which is the assumption
upon which his reply to the first Objections, and hence his whole wor k, stands o r
falls? Why isn't reason, in the context of the knowable, enough when the object of
knowledge is God?
I think that the answer to why this is so, or why it is so to a thinker like
Thomas, can be answered by beginning with reason, and examining just what it is we
can say with reason concerning the idea of God .
This might, but not necessarily ,
lead us to the idea of faith, or some clue as to the need for the idea of faith. We
hope to see what it is about reason that would leave open the room for the idea of
faith. But it will not be the complete story; man's ways of understanding God in the
context of reason are only one part of that understanding; eventually we will have to
look at other aspects of the story . At times the things that follow about faith will
merge with other considerations that make us think about faith, but at some point it
seems that we must give up our grounding in reason as our reference entirely, and
look at faith from a different point of view.
Since reason is the ground upon which we choose to begin our attempt to understand faith, it is necessary to ask what can be said about God through our reason .
The philosophic inquiry that treats of God, Aristotle's division of philosophy called
theology, has its limitations set out by Thomas in Question twelve, Article twelve of
the First Part. According to Thomas, God can be known by reason only in so far as he
follows from some perception rooted in the senses .
This is necessarily so because
all thought has its beginning in sense- perception, and abstract thought is the deri vation of universals out of the always individual sense- perception and sense- object .
So our rational understanding of God has its beginning in the sensory world. And our
understanding of God in the rational sense will always be in the form of a cause .
In the second article of Question two, Thomas says that there are two sorts of
demonstration, the first in which we reason from a known cause to the effects of that
cause, the second in which we reason from effects back to their proper cause. On t he
surface, the two methods seem merely conversions of one another, to be different di rections of inquiry into the same process of cause and effect. They both seem to be
ways of . proceeding from the known to the unknown and of making what was not evident
evident.
But it soon becomes clear that they are not different directions of the
same process, nor do they achieve the same things . in their ends.
When we know a
cause or principle, something that is apparent to us and the truth of which can be
agreed upon, then if we do accept it to be true, certain things follow from it.
In
fact, it is only then that we can call anything a caus e ; unt il we f ind that it di rectly leadsto or is in a certain sense responsible for certain conclusions. Then it
is only an evident truth .
In this sort of demonstration, both cause and effect are
evident, known, and the work of the mind is not creative but receptive. The mind, in
a sense, has only to follow what reason presents to it .
In the case of reasoning
from effects to cause, however, such an uncomplicated process does not appear.
In reasoning from effect to cause, the process is only simple if the cause is
already a thing known, although not known as cause .
The establishment of the cause
24
•
I
and effect relationsh~p using effect as
the
starting point cannot be an
epistemological method in the same way as when cause, or principle, is the beginning .
In the latter case we know both cause and effect because we know cause but when we
know only effect, we can only infer the need for cause and make a hypothesis for the
nature of the cause form what we know of the effect, but not know the cause .
In some
sense, as Thomas says, the conclusion is implicit in, or a part of , the p r inciple .
Because of that we can say that we know the conclusion because of our knowledge of
the principle . But can it be said that the principle is implicit in the conclusion
in the same way, or even at all? Thomas was fully aware, as evidenced in his own
criticism of the method in Article twelve of Question twelve, that reasoning from
effect to an unknown cause had its limitations . He said that in treating of God from
the evidence of His effects , he could only establish the existence of God and what
necessarily belonged to Hirn as a cause . That is, he knew that in this way he could
never know God as a thing in itself . This is the most important criticism of the
method, but our own may add a further insight. For it seems that not even the establishment of a cause that establishes existence, at least in the way that Thomas would
like it, is possible . An examination of the method as it is actually employed might
make the criticism more clear, and fortunately we have such an example in Thomas's
own use of the method in Question two, Article three, where he uses it to demonstrate
the existence of God .
In all of his five ways of demonstrating the existence of God, Thomas's method
is that suggested in Question twelve, Article twelve, of using knowledge gained from
observation of the physical world and reasoning to a principle that accounts for the
cause of these observations.
He begins by asserting something about the world that
he feels to be generally accepted as true, and from this he reasons to a point where
the e x istence of God is a logical necessity according to the principles that were
deemed evident to begin with. Of course, any reading of the five ways will show that
thei~ smooth an~ simple argument does not rely wholly on the demands of pure reason,
and is not a s simple as it reads . An examination of the first "more manifest way,"
the proof using motion, will probably be enough to get an idea of how Thomas goes
about his effect- to- cause- proofs .
At the r isk of oversimplifying Thomas' s argument, we will paraph r ase it here .
He starts by asserting first that there is motion in the world, and second that nothing is in motion unless caused to be so by another thing in motion.
All things in
motion must have had a prior potentiality towards that motion.
Since potenti~lity
cannot actualize itself but must be made so by a thing already in actuality, then
each motion can be said to have an immediate antecedent cause of motion .
But the
p rocess of motion causing motion could be traced back infinitely without finding a
motion that began setting all things in motion in the first place , so there will be
no motion. Therefore it is necessary that there be some thing that moved itself. By
common consent, only God coul~ move in such a fashion. Therefore He exists.
The question that we need to ask is whether Thornas's conclusion of cause follows
from the knowledge that he originally gained from his observations of the world . We
must ask whether his construction of cause and effect is one that is determined by
the argument, or one that is presupposed by it, and is the assumption that actually
gave the argument its form.
Thomas states his principles that motion e x ists and all motions are depe ndent on
prior motions.
Then he states the consequences of that assumption:
by following
back the process of motion always being the cause of motion, we will regress
infinitely without ever finding a first motion that caused all posterior motions to
be .
,His principles lead him to a difficulty, a problem, what Aristotle called
(anop1a ) , a place where the passage seems to be blocked . What Thomas does to gain a
passage, though, does not follow from his principles; what he does is determine that
something must exist that does not conform to the rule that he has assumed as
25
�principle, a thing that moves without being moved. He must step out of the bounds of
his argument to solve his di ff icul ty and reverse the direction of his reasoning.
When he finds a difficulty, an impossibility that follows from his principles, he
looks for what must be necessary for those principles still to be true . In some ways
Thomas's conclusion seems right; in fact it is probably the only way in which he can
pass through his place of no passage, by assuming a first principle of motion that
does not obey the laws of motion.
But this answer is not arrived at through pure
reason, or at least it is not the only conclusion we could have reached at such a
point.
Perhaps, though, it will be the only satisfying conclusion.
For we could also
conclude that the principles we started with are either wrong or incorrectly or in comp~etely stated.
In fact, in areas such as mathematics that is the way we would
go; if an assumption leads to an impossibility, then we cannot accept it as true . In
the case of knowledge gained from observation of the everyday world, though , to be
forced to regard it as invalid is much more serious; we would have to re - evaluate all
such knowledge, reassess the way in which we see the world.
We also have another
option, which is to still accept our principles, but also accept their problematic
conclusions without positing another principle that clears them up .
Then we must
~&nit that we live in an irrational world, one without a beginning, or that we live
in a world our rationality cannot comprehend .
Al though both of the other options
lead to conclusions which are less simple and more disconcerting than the one that
Thomas chooses, they seem more likely to be the ones that reason, on its own, would
be forced to choose. What is it that makes Thomas choose his way?
The answer might be found at the point where Thomas reverses his reasoning,
where he first inserts God into the argument.
His unmoved mover does and does not
follow from the argument .
It does not follow from what the accepted principles of
the argument afford.
But it does follow, or at least it is reasonable, if the idea
of. such a being has already been conceived of, not in the guise of cause, but as a
being whose role as cause is not the parameter of the conception of it .
So fo r
Thomas, the implicit assumption in his argument that is prior to all other assumed
principles is the idea and possibility of God.
Otherwise he is left only with his
own contradictions.
There is some small indication that he was aware of this.
His
ultimate conclusion in the demonstration being, "th.:j_s everyone understands to be
God," instead of the preceding, "Therefore it is necessary to arrive at a first mov er, moved by no other," is not as unfounded as it first appears if we concede that a
kind of belief in God is what gives the argument form in the first place .
But of
course, we must also sacrifice our hope in establishing God's existence purely from
evident knowledge . It s eems that Thomas , in h is arg ument fro m effect to cause, must
make a leap out of the line of his reasoning to determine cause.
The two criticisms of reasoning about God, Thomas's and the one tentatively set
forth here, seem to indicate a severe poverty as to what reason can say about God .
Thomas says that our knowledge will be limited to the existence of God and only what
necessarily belongs to Him as cause .
The other criticism would say that not even
this much can be gathered, that the argument that finds God's existence needs to know
God beforehand to conclude that He exists as cause .
So even the footing on which
natural reason deals with God seems questionable. In this way we begin to answer for
ourselves the question of why Thomas cannot regard theology as a division of philosophy.
It seems that we are now in a better position to understand what Thomas means
when he says that "man is directed towards God as to an end that surpasses the grasp
of his reason." At least the last part of the statement, that reason cannot treat of
God, seems more explicable to us . Why God is said to be the end of man, and how "beyond reason" man is to attain that end, is not clear .
As far as attaining to the
knowledge of God, the very methods that reason was forced to use seemed to obstruct
26
'
l
it from reaching that end. Reason attempted to inquire into God as to a cause from
an effect, but it seems that a principle cannot be known from reasoning back from
effects .
Even if we grant that something like God's existence can be established ,
the conception of His existence would necessarily be determined by our knowledge of
effects. But in attaining to the knowledge of a thing, we wish to see it in itself,
and not only in relation to other things.
But if all our knowledge is rooted in
sense- perception, as Thomas says, then we could never know God in such a way .
One example of how Thomas seems to answer this can be found in Article four of
Question twelve, when he says, "For knowledge takes place according as the t hing
known is in the knower. But a thing known is in the knower according to the mode of
the knower . Hence the knowledge of every knower is according to the mode of its own
nature.
If therefore, the mode of being of a given thing exceeds the mode of the
knower, it must result that the knowledge of that thing is above the nature of the
knower." By stating the impossibility in a different way, Thomas allows himself to
go on.
Reason cannot treat of God not because God fails reason, but because reason
fails God . The inquiry into God takes a different direction . Reason no longer tries
to define God or argue about God in such a way that God becomes reasonable, but reason itself must change so that God can become known as a thing in itself, so that the
"mode of the knower" is in accord with the "mode of being" of the thing to be known .
Thomas is taking a step out of reason, and looking at its boundaries, when he posits
the possibility of anything the being of which exceeds the mode of knowing of the
reasoning intellect . He can only do this, it seems, if he has in mind the idea of a
boundless God , which of course he does .
It is clear that for reason to know God, for it to reach what is beyond its
grasp, it must be altered . One option at this point is again to conclude that man
cannot know God, since to do so he would have to change the mode of his reason, to
change his nature . But Thomas argues out of this position by emphasizing the part of
the statement we quoted from him earlier that says God is man's end.
In the first
a r ticle of Question twelve, Thomas responds to the objection that the created intellect cannot see the essence of God by arguing that man's blessedness consists of the
operation of the intellect in seeing his end or source, God. For the mind to be unable to see God would mean that all man's activity is in vain, because that activity
is always a striving towards God. Hence it must be possible for man to actually know
God, to see His essence .
So Thomas will use his position outside of reason that he
has arrived at to say that man can know God not through reason grasping God but by
God taking in hand the reasoning intellect . The concept of knowledge, where the mind
receives into itself only such things that by their nature are fitted to reason , will
b e a bandoned ; and the mind instead will be fitted to receive what it knows . This is
the essential altering of perspective that Thomas effects to be able to deal with how
God can actually be known as a thing in itself .
One of the reasons that the whole of Question twelve is so interesting is that
it attempts to describe an epistemology that is beyond reason .
How far Thomas can
succeed in removing his description of seeing the essence of God f r om the terms and
analogies app r opriated by reason is anothe r question . But what he does describe is
something un i que, ne i the r r eason nor faith , yet simi lar to both .
His seeing of the
divine essence is like demonstrable science in that the r e occurs an intellectual vi sion o f apparent truth ; and also like faith , in t hat the e xper ienc e i s one th a t surpasses reason and is a matter of grace, indemonstrable and incommunicable .
And in
his construction of the experience of seeing God , Thomas will also curiously echo one
of the most puzzling ideas of Aristotle .
Thomas attempts i n the fourth article of the Question to arrange the experience
of seeing God ' s essence into a construction that includes the other kinds of knowl edge that the intellect is capable of. All natural knowledge begins , again, in the
sense - perception of the individual sense - object , and this Thomas calls the soul's
27
�l
"act of a corporeal organ ." But the soul also has intellect, and the intellect has
the power to analyze the object of the senses into matter and form.
By isolating
form, the intellect obtains an abstraction that is common and universal, which is not
confined to any individual perception, but relies on the individual object of sense
for its being.
According to Thomas, this is the extent of natural knowledge.
But
just as the intellect can transcend the initial sense-perception, so can the intel lect "by grace be raised up to know separate subsisting substance and separate
subsisting being." That is, by God acting somehow on the intellect, it can have a
knowledge that no longer has its source in sense - perception, but is able to know be ing that is in no way attached to individual being, that is, the being common to all
beings, God. But how does this higher state of knowing compare with the intellect's
natural capacity to know universal truths?
Thomas characterizes this state as a heightening of the intellect, a broadening
of its powers of seeing by the influx of divine illumination.
This illumination
could be seen simply as a quantitative increase of illumination, since as Thomas
says, "Hence also the intellectual power of the creature is called an intelligible
light, as it were, derived from the first light, whether this be understood of the
natural power, or some superadded perfection of grace and glory . " The act of the
intellect in its natural capacity is a participation in the "first light'' of God, and
the seeing of God's essence is made possible by a "superadded perfection" .
It seems
that we can understand the basis of this experience by comparing it with natural reason as a perfection of the intellect's natural capacity to see universal truth.
The
seeing will be analogous to the intellect's comprehension of indemonstrable first
principles, which appeal immediately to the intellect as true, such as the principles
of logic and science. It is just that it will be able now to see more than it could
before .
This is one way to interpret Thomas' s statement in Article five that the
blessed who see God are made "deiform", that they are able to see, in some way, what
God sees.
What is infinitely knowable in itself will now become comprehensible to
the intellect that has been raised to meet it, because the influx of divine illumination has given it a wider perspective.
There are some complications, however, that do not allow us to accept this
interpretation.
The intellect will never know the essence of God as it knows the
principles of demonstrable science . Thomas says that a created intellect could never
"comprehend" the essence of God or know it to the fullest e x tent to which it is capable of being known. Since the intellect is made able to see the essence of God by an
influx of divine light, but the essence of God is infinite, it follows that, since
the intellect cannot receive an infinite amount of illumination, God 's essence can
never be known as far as it is capable of being known .
But this is the extent to
which we say we know the principles of reason, and what we mean by "contemplation".
How could a "seeing" occur of an object of thought that is infinite and unbounded?
Following the analogy with reason, since the seeing of such an object would always be
incomplete, it would have the character of opinion .
But if this act is said to be
the final end of man, does it seem right that it should have the certainty of opinion? What would be the convincing aspect of seeing God if the object of the seeing
were ultimately unclear?
There are several places in Question twelve where the analogy with natural reason seems to break down, especially as regards the object of thought, and a new
interpretation of "deiform" seems to be needed . Does being "like God" mean that the
intellect is broadened so that any object becomes intelligible as a result? In Article four Thomas says, "a created intellect cannot see tue essence of God unless God
by His grace unites _Himself to the created intellect, as an object made intelligible
to it." Yet at other times it does not seem that God becomes an "object" of the intellect in any intelligible way .
In Article five we read, "But when any created in-
tellect sees the essence of God, the essence of God itself becomes the intelligible
form of the intellect."
Here he does not say that the essence of God becomes the
object, but the form, the shape, of the intellect. It is not clear whethe r Thomas is
contradicting himself o r not.
But the experience of seeing God seems now more complicated than a broadening of perspective fo r the intellect. God attaches himself to
the intellect so that He may become the thinking of the intellect .
But if thinking
must be the thinking of something, and if God is the form of thinking o r the shape of
the intellect, and also in some way the object of that thinking, then such an act
does not seem to be thinking, or an act of the intellect in its accepted sense at
all.
The process that is described by Thomas of seeing God cannot but remind one of
the act described by Ar istotle of his own God, the prime mover, in the Metaphys ics.
Aristotle describes the prime mover's act as one of thinking,von01S', where the obj ect
of this v6ncr u· , TO vonToV, is the mover itself.
But since the move r is nothing
else but its act , its thinking is of thinking, and the act is the same as the object
of the act.
This seems to be similar to what the intellect's act would be if God
attached Himself to it as both form and object . The act of the intellect would then
be inseparable from the essence of God , and the intellect would not see the essence
of God, but in a sense participate in the being of the essence of God .
It is not for
su r e if this is what Thomas really means, but at least it extends some hope about
reas on being able to attain to God , if not by its natural powers, then in some other
conceivable way.
Yet what a fleeting appearance . Article eleven comes as a surprise ~n reading
Question twelve, and is a puzzle which makes the whole of the question even more of a
puzzle .
The Article asks "Whether anyone in this life can see the essence of God , "
and the answer that Thomas gives is "It is not possible, " he concludes, " that the
so·u1 in this mortal life should be raised up to the highest of intelligible objects,
that is, to the di vine essence . "
What then is the significance of the whole
question? What is Thomas getting at in describing a process that he does not think
is possible? It seems that the question of the first article, whether it was possi ble for man to see the essence of God, had to be answered affirmatively, for reasons
having to do with God being man's end. Yet the description of what the experience is
turns out to be, possibly, of what it would be like were it possible .
It is not
clear why Thomas chose to affirm and deny what appears to be the same thing . But the
hope that man could somehow reach God through some alteration of the intellect, seems
now to be qua shed , as was the hope that man could really know God through his natural
reason. Any way to God via the intellect, whether natural or graced, seems blocked .
Or at least Thomas pulls back the lure of seeing God wit~a rationa l bas is at the last
moment for unclear rea sons . But with that retraction, with his blocking of the path,
the opportunity for a new focus reveals itself.
We have gone, perhaps, as far as we can go, perhaps farther , with reason and
with intellect in relation to God .
It seems that our new focus would have to be
non- rational and non-intellectual if we hope to go on with our inquiry about God .
And now that we have exhausted, in a sense, our ground of reason, it seems that we
could have a better perspective on faith.
But how is the transition to be made, and how can we truly leave our g r ound in
r eason? What do we hope to achieve by examining faith, and where has the examination
of r eason's efforts to re ach God taken us? For one thing, the examination has taken
us to the point whe re faith seems to be necessary for the inquiry to go on , for the
inquiry that can be t raced in Thomas . But whether choosing to look at the idea of
faith at this point will rea lly enable us to go on with the inquiry or not is uncertain . Because a non -rational ideal like faith is not hindered by the rules of rea son, is it too much of a temptation not to use this idea to solve our own difficulties?
28
29
�we would like faith to help us with two things in Thomas' s statement that "man
is directed to God as to an end that surpasses the grasp of his reason."
An ex amination of reasoning about God has shown to an extent why such an end is beyond
reason.
Ideally, we would like to learn from the idea of faith why God is said to be
man's end in the first place, and how he is to achieve that end if not through reason.
To some extent we have answered the question, "Why faith?", by seeing reason's
inability to deal with God. Any construction where the mind actually pe:r:cei.ved God
proved to be untenable.
The knowledge of the being of God c~uld not be fit int~ a~y
epistomological mold.
But faith does not entail any perception, and although it is
spoken of as a way of knowing, that knowledge is.very.diffe:ent fro~ any that c?mes
from reason. we cannot make an analogy about seeing with faith.
While the convincing aspect of reas on's knowledge is that something is revealed, f~i t.h' s "knowledge"
is a belief in something that remains hidden.
To make the transition, faith must
have an analogously convincing element to it.
Faith cannot merely follow as an answer after reason has failed to treat of God, or at least run into seemingly irrevocable difficulties. How faith can actually come about must be explored.
·
For Thomas, faith is something necessary for salvation, for man to attain his
end
Because reason fails to bring man into contact with God, o r because there are
som~ things necessary to believe about God that reason could neve~ come to, it . is
necessary that he believe what his intellect itself does not recognize .
In Question
four, Article three of the "Secunda Secundae", Thomas says that faith does reside in
the intellect since faith determines one to something that is true. But what determines the int~llect to recognize truth has nothing to do with the intellect itself;
the intellect is not convinced by the object of faith, which it is blind to, but by
the will . In Thomas's construction, this will, which overcomes the intellect to de termine it to truth, is a necessary element.
But where does this will to believe
originate?
Thomas's answer, in Question six, Article one of the same part, says that the
determination of the will comes from God .
Faith, which is an act of the will that
· t
"Faith," he
overcomes the intellect, cannot come about through an in·erna 1 process.
says, "as regards the assent which is the chief act of faith, is from Go~ moving m~n
inwardly by grace." Faith, which seems to be Thomas's choice of how man is to attain
God, cannot be effected by man and must be made possible by God .
Man's end, then,
can only be reached by it becoming his means as well. What leads Thomas to conc~ude
this? In the same article he says, "for since by assenting to what belongs to faith,
man is raised above his nature, this must needs come to him from some supernatural
principle moving him inwardly ; and this is God . " What "raises man above his natur~"
is the overcoming of the intellect. Thomas cannot allow that man should overcome his
intellect by himself, for the intellect is what man most essentially is ~nd th~ highest part of him.
For man to overcome his own intellect would be something akin to a
rejection of himself.
Thomas's great reverence for ~he. int~llect would not l~t any
other part of man determine truth for it. The only vindication for the overcoming of
the intellect could come from God.
So it is something that happens to man rather
than something he does.
But must this be so?
Must we conclude like Thomas that
there is nothing in man that could determine him to faith?
In the same passage quoted from above, Thomas presents his own v~rsion of the
view of the Pelagians on faith, who said that man himself chooses to believe, t~ have
faith.
It seems that this view, where the will be believe that convinces the intellect comes from man himself, is more along the lines of what we are looking for·
Thomas's answer that faith comes through grace does not seem to be the answer when we
are looking for why the idea of faith came about in the first place.
But it remains
to be seen how man could choose to believe, how belief could come about from another
part of man if not from the intellect .
30
Thomas gives us an idea of how a will to believe could originate in his treatment of grace. Divinely revealed knowledge is not the only thing that God must impart to man because man cannot reach it himself; God must also intercede in a moral
way for man to reach his end. In Question 109 of the first part of the second part,
Thomas argues that grace is necessary for man to reach God in his actions.
In Article eight he says that it is impossible for man to avoid sin without the help of God.
The fundamental cause o f this is that man, since the banishment from the garden, is
composed of two natures, a "higher" and "lower" nature.
His higher nature can more
or less avoid the sin it is prone to, the graver mortal sin, because of the control
of the reason.
But man's lower nature what Thomas called his "corrupted nature",
cannot be satisfactorily controlled in its penchant for venial sin .
Reason can indeed suppress any desire, but not every one, since reason's control over the desires
is not absolute .
Hence, for man to overcome his lower nature and avoid sin, it is
necessary that God endow him with the ability beyond his present nature to master
this part of him.
Thomas's image of man fundamentally divided in his nature gives us a much more
vivid example of a need for God than anything we explored in relation to man's intel lect.
In that part of our discussion, it seemed we were forced to fit God into the
structure of the intellect, and He did not seem ever to fit.
It was not clear whether the intellect ever really required a being like God.
But in the area of ethics
and morals, a need seems to clearly arise . If Thomas's assessment of man's nature is
correct, it would point to a deep disparity between man's knowledge of moral principle, his ethical beliefs, and what he is actually able to effect in his own actions.
If this disparity is really a part of man's nature, a fundamental flaw within himself
that he can never hope to repair, then a will to believe in a being that could heal
him could conceivably arise.
It is perhaps in this situation that the determination
to faith could arise internally, and man could choose to believe.
It seems clearer, perhaps, why Thomas says that God is man's end.
If God is a
necessary element in man reaching the end in regards to his own nature, in the mas tery of reason over the sensual appetites, it seems more explicable to say that God
is man's end . As to how he is to attain that end, it seems that we are now justified
in saying he does so through faith.
The abandoning of the intellects sovereign capacity to identify truth, and its determination to something that is not apparent to
it, that is, faith, could come about by man's realization of his own incapacity to
heal the rifts within his own nature, and his need for a being endowed with power and
mercy to make him whole. The convincing element of this experience, what could pos sibly overcome the intellect, depends on the deepness with which this need to be
healed is felt.
If the need is felt deeply enough, the choices for man seem to be
either a belief in a healing God and hope, or resignation to the inalterable disparity of his nature and despair.
It is hoped that a plausible explanation of the need and inspiration of faith
has been presented; how faith seems possible following reason's inquiry into God; and
how faith, belief without proof, could conceivably originate in man himself .
(For
this writer, this inquiry was necessary to come to some sort of understanding of
Thomas' s ideas. )
31
�Limelight: the Story of a Ballerina and a Clown
- Chaplin
Carlos Chamberlin
Camera 3, eager, operational, and passionate, swept down from above gently,
emancipating the audience into applause .
It came to rest six feet away from him, he
who was standing, acknowledging his audience . The hands clapped till the aisles ran
red with blood, ha, ha, so it seemed to him . The hands were pummeling themselves for
him, for the show, this show of shows, his, conceived in the mind of some visionary
at programming, who once read Boethius . Lightning blazed, and the guy said : "It'll
be a game type show, there' 11 be this wheel, see, a wheel of fo r tune, and maybe
there' 11 be good luck, and maybe bad, and lots of questions and lots of answers . "
And then the prophet shut up for a while, and then he asked for some coffee , and then
he said, "We' 11 call it The Consolation of Philosophy . " Eve r yone thought t his was
great. Really great .
And so did he. Really great .
she said she came f r om Montana, and the r e was no r eason t o believe her . She was
made up well enough to provide color to a nation of black and whites , a nd to him
there was irridescent beauty, and an aur a of pasteuri zation .
He r father , she said,
was a rancher, (ah) a dairy farmer (Ah!)
Once again there was applause , as the
audience was assured of the contestant's humanity and Americannes s.
She was a
dance r , I could dance all day , coul dn't you? Pleasantly , he yes s ed, not at all tired
of the babbling of the contestant's river of life, as it flowed through the studio,
out the delta of television , and into a million homes .
She took his mind away , and
the weird contestants began to clamor subtly f or a ttention .
The violini st with his
psychological approach to botany, and of course , the marine sergeant , who loved all
kinds of soups .
This show was the futu r e , and the future was wi dely r egar ded as a
strange and happy place .
Fortune was lucky that night. She won . No sur prise t h ere . And so did Max ine,
which was the name of the dancing challenger . They went out to a restaurant , late a t
night, after even the satellites had all gone away , and talked like this :
"You're very intelligent . "
"Thank you ... uh."
"Do you watch the show often?"
"Every night . Every night that it's on . "
"So do I . Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha" .
So the inevitable happened, and this alignment of values pushed them ever so gently
in the direction of that abstract king, Love, who gave them their money's worth.
And then there was another night, another Consolation of Philosophy, and Maxine
answered the questions that were put to h er c o rre ctly, winn ing a g a i n, and s pent the
evening ensconced in the arms of the grace of television , whose name was Ray, whose
fans were the well - informed, the well - entertained, the majority . And on this second
night of passion/love, they were found at a newspaper, reading aloud to each other,
transcending the sexual act with taste and intellect .
"Would you look at this guy , twelve murders and so he says he wanted some
peace and quiet . "
"I wonder why he did it, he lived in a suburb . "
32
"That's quiet . "
"Not quiet enough . "
"it seems like ... "
"what?"
" . .. all true stories are desperate . "
"uh-huh."
Ray couldn't sleep at all. He took some sleeping pills and an amphetamine, and
drove to the T. V. station.
It was really dark .
He walked to the room where they
kept the questions, and searched for the ones for that night's Consolation of
Philosophy . Then, he went to the room where they kept all the answers . The door wa s
locked .
He sat down.
He lacked keys.
So he took the door off of its hinges, and
swept into the room looking for the respective answers . He was eager, and he f ound
and copied them .
Then he fell upon a great solution .
He rested the door against the wall and
made a sign . WET PAINT . He disappeared into the night .
Dawn hit as his car drove him to the hotel where Maxine was staying .
"Good
Morning" . He smiled .
He handed ove r his presents, and kissed her .
"For me?" she
asked . "Yes , " he said, "they're the answers to tonight's show . " They spoke briefly
on impor tant questions of mo r ality .
Finally Maxine accepted, not because she was
essentially ev i l , but because t hey we r e r unning out of time .
"Ray," said Mike, who ran the station, "somebody broke into the room with all
the answe r s . "
" So change the lock , " said Ray helpfully .
"I think we' 11 have to
change the answe r s," said Mike , r unn i ng the station .
All a r ound t he wo r ld (that is, the U. S . ) people prepared for the Consolation of
Philosophy by eating a warm home-cooked meal and i gnoring thei r wives and husbands
and children . Ray and Max ine ate nervously , stagnant chicke n salad and french fries .
"Whatever happens, Maxine, I'll always love you . "
"Me , too . "
"Wh atever happens, don ' t do anything desperate . "
"O . K ••
II
Ray would alwa y s love Max ine, unaware that such a statement was like saying that you
would always have lunch wi th the loved one :
a nice though t but practical as a
toothache. Ray f elt t he cameras go on somewhe r e . He stood up, and held out his arm ;
A gallant and his int ended quit the diner and Ray and Maxine followed .
Regular watche r s of the Consolation of Philosophy watched as the pretty girl
f r om Montana was defeated by a magenta femme fatale, who, lacking beauty , had read
books . They then watched Ray , who stepped close r to the camera until his face filled
the scr een, and sa i d :
"That's it . "
Max ine ran up to him, and said :
"This is Ray, and he loves me."
Ray agreed.
"I love her," he said .
The audience went crazy, despising Ray for falling for the
loser . They stopped clapping . There was absolute silence . Ray had never used a gun
before. He fired into the air. The audience was still.
"Traitor!" someone yelled .
The progr am director came on the intercom, saying, "Ray, this is live T . V . and you
can't do this . " The logic of this nearly killed Ray . He grabbed her hand, and they
the y ran like l ove r s , away , l eav i ng the audience desperate and unappreciative .
Outside, (in the par king lot) the car wouldn't start, and it was raining, so Ray
and Maxine walked .
Thus love is the limelight, like being , for a moment, on television.
So, the Consolation of Philosophy shot out into the ionosphere for one last
time, bouncing endlessly in the heavens . One October, in the nineteen seventies, it
returned to earth, to the television set of Charles Augustus Gardiner, who, at the
time , held the r oy rogers chair for the humanities at Princeton.
The police were
called.
33
�Ripeness is All
Renee Bergland
My best friend's mother committed suicide .
Six years later, when we were both
ei ghteen, my f r iend Rachel aske d me to spend the s ummer wi t h he r i n t he house whe r e
it had happened, which was also the house where Rachel ' s mother had spent every summer of her childhood .
Rachel herself had only been there a few times befo r e her
mother's death .
In the years between, the neighbors had mowed the lawn and kept an
eye o~ the place, but no one had stayed there . We spent the fi r st week scrubbing out
the kitchen and a bedroom, and camped in the r est of the house all summer .
When the
bare minimum of cleaning was done, we divided our time between the rocky beach in
front of the house and investigation inside it .
We paged through her mother ' s third
g r ade notebooks , and we scattered s napshots of r elatives we we r e n't certain about
into p~les on the living room floor .
We hung her mothe r 's kindergarten drawing on
the fridge . We talked constantly about Rachel ' s mother ' s family , though we knew next
to nothing about them.
In August, Rachel and I searched out her mother's grave . She
bought a tombstone for it , and on the stone she had three words cut :
RIPENESS IS ALL
I wasn't sure of what the sentence meant .
When I asked Rachel
she said she
liked the sound of it, and she knew her mother had loved Shakespeare . '
I had read King Lear before my summer with Rachel, and my eyes had passed over
the phrase without noticing it .
When I read the play later , I recognized the words
from Rachel's mother's gravestone and began to cry . The whole sentence moved me .
Men must endure
Thei r going hence, even as their coming hithe r;
Ripeness is all .
(V, ii, 9)
My tears were n ot an incidenta l stinging.
I sobbed u ntil my r oommate threatened
to take me to the hospital, and then I went outside and wept my way into silence .
I
was not simply crying for Rachel or for her mother .
I wept for myself, for the hopelessness of my relationship with my parents , and for the hopelessness of the childr en
I might have ·
That night chasms opened a r ound me , separating me f r om everyone I
loved, and most definitely from my parents .
The nature of the chasms and the tears
mystified me .
My despair sprang from the first line and a half, from the idea that all of us
must only endure our births, that having been bor n i s as g r e a t a n af fliction as h aving to die.
It sprang at the same time from the awful coupling of unlooked - for birth
and longed- for death.
In eleven words, Edgar told his fathe r that it is human nature
to wa~t. t? die and to regret having been born, and that it is each human's deep re sponsib~lity not to acknowledge or act on either of these feelings .
My horror at
these ~i~es was also caused by seeing a son assume his father's foolishness, and by
recognizing the naturalness of the father's dependence on his son .
I saw the inev itability of the responsibility for both of their lives and their deaths especially
fo r his fathe r 's death , being thrust upon the son .
I saw that Edga r owed' a n unr epay -
34
able, though unwillingly incurred , debt of life to his father.
Pe r haps the most upsetting words of all were the last three, "Ripeness is all . "
They were offered as t he supreme consolation of the play, and they seemed almost
meaningless .
The phr ase is so ambiguous that it borders on nonsense , and it i s the
only phrase of hope we are offered in King Lear .
Since my night of tears , I have
often wondered about ripeness .
I have always wanted to know what it could be, and
how it might be all , i n both birth and death .
Rachel and I l i ved across the bay from my father that summer and I was not wel come in his house , the house of my childhood summers.
I am not welcome there yet .
Yea r s pass between our meetings , a nd when we meet, my father is angry and imperious ,
and I am wooden .
I have often thought about r ipeness between us, and have felt ce rtai n that i t is a laughabl e hope, ma d e complete ly ri diculous by the fact that I h ave
no real idea of what r ipene s s would be for us , o r how it would be a balm .
I am faced
with the question of whether I am ab l e to endur e my own birth, to accept it and the
parents who gave it to me .
I know that in spite of the pain he has caused me, my
father is very much my fathe r and always will be .
I must endure my birth .
I have
less choice in this matte r even than I have in the matter of my death . Where shall I
search for r ipene s s?
My own ambig uous feelings about my birth have made Edgar ' s lines impo r tant to
me .
Thei r comf o r t i s str ange, narco t ic , and mys t e ri ous .
I have taken the same
numbed comfor t f r om the words when facing death .
On the way to my cous in ' s f une r a l we stopped a t the house where the Quakers who
were going to di re ct it liv e .
It was hot .
I went into their living room , which was
walled with books , and sear ched out King Lear.
I r emember being happy that the peo ple in charge of Sam ' s funeral had such wonde r ful , worn books in thei r living room .
It was cool wi t h the cool of farmhouses . I sat in the back of the car with my b r other and siste r crunched nex t to me .
I searched and searched thr ough the play for my
favorite lines ; I knew them by hea r t anyway, but I wanted t o know where they were .
It was the stupi di t y that mercifully accompanies grief which made this sea r ch take up
the car ride and all of the time of sitting on the porch of the old meeting house,
waiting for the service .
I wanted to read the lines and say that I didn't know what
they meant .
Men must endure
Their going hence, even a s their coming hither ;
Ripeness is all .
Did they say that my t wenty - e i ght year old c ou s in h a d been stupid a nd wastefu l to
kill himself , that all we can hope for is ripeness, and that we can never decide our
own deaths?
Is suicide like plucking unripe fruit, does it make everything useless
and meaningless?
Was our shar ed despair at Sam's death the only appropriate r e action?
Or pe r haps the lines implied something else , that every human death is
equally appropriate , that the r e is r ipeness in all and for all.
Perhaps it is impos sible to die without be i ng ripe, and we ourselves are in touch with our own r ipeness
and our own deaths .
I wanted to say both because I felt it was somehow dishonest to
make only half the speech . But it would have been a speech .
Sam's childhood neighbors and college roorrunates were weeping t ogether and it was not the time to be ab stract or academic .
I didn't say anything .
I listened to my family's muffled weeping, I wondered whethe r ripeness was a comfor t o r a warning, and I wept myself . All
summer and on into now I have thought about ripeness and loved its ambiguity .
I have
wonde r ed what it is and might be, and whether I should hope .
Long before we can read, we know some words of Shakespeare and some from the
Bible .
We hear them on the lips of our par ents , and we have repeated some of them
hund r eds of times be f o r e we even wonder about thei r meaning or their context .
The
35
�kids in my neighborhood screamed, "To be or not to be" every time they acted out a
particularly dramatic death scene. My mother hissed, "How sharper than a serpent• s
tooth to have a thankless child!" at every occasion. Shakespeare's words often hold
as much power and meaning for us in our own contexts as they do in his context. At
S~. John's: we study Shakespeare for the sake of learning about Shakespeare, read and
discuss King Lear in order to better understand King Lear.
But I have read
Shakespeare outside of school as often as in it, sometimes for the beauty of his
words or the fun of shouting beautiful words out loud, sometimes for mere dist~action, and other times for myself, seeking wisdom and healing for my own sorrows
without a thought for the sorrows in the play. All of the meanings which these words
may have, and all of the ways we may read them are important.
They influence each
other immeasurably.
I have spoken about Edgar's words in the context of my own life because I want
to establish exactly what is at stake for me in my examination of the words.
The
sentence is as important to me in my own context as it is in the context of the play.
Nonetheless, I will use the play rather than my past to explore the ideas of endurance and ripeness. This exploration is bound to shed as much light on the play as on
~he sentence itself, and may well shed much light on my own situation. But the light
it casts for me on personal matters is secondary, and for the most part r will keep
it pr~vate. I am not writing an autobiographical essay or a self-analytical one. My
hope is that ~he meaning of the lines can be established on the strength of the play,
an~ tha~ I will come to a clear idea of the sentence and especially of ripeness,
which will help me to see myself.
I am neither Cordelia, nor Goneril nor Edgar· my
father is. neither Lear nor Gloucester.
I do not read the play as a~ analogy t~ my
own e~perience. However, I do believe that what is wisdom on the printed page and on
the lighted stage may well be wisdom in my cockroach infested kitchen.
I will discuss Edgar's words and their significance to the rest of the play in
the order which the words themselves outline.
First I will talk about the phrase
"Men must endure", then about going hence and corning hither. All of this will be i~
the interest 0£ ripeness, of deciding what it may be, and how it may be all.
Men must endure
Their going hence, even as their corning hither;
Ripeness is all.
Edgar speaks these lines to his father as words of comfort. He prefaces them by
asking' "What, in ill thoughts again?" (V, ii, 9).
We are reminded of his recent
attempt to cure his father's despair. That time, Edgar let his fathe r think that he
had attempted suicide and told him that "the clearest gods, who make them honors of
men's impossibilities have preserv'd thee." (IV, vi, 73).
Those words reminded
Glouc~ster . to hope.
These are intended to lead his father to hope again, even to
admonish his father to hope.
At the same time, they are the bitterly clear-sighted
words of a man leading the father who disowned him before being blinded.
They are
words of hope well informed by despair.
Edgar tells Gloucester that, "Men must endure".
I assume that when he says
II
II
h
d
men . e means 1men an. women. The sentence would be weak if it were gender-specific.
The first word s meaning is at least reasonably clear.
But Edgar says, "Men must".
If all human beings must do a single thing, it is clear that there is a common human
nature which unites all human beings. This human nature is tied up with their common
obligation.
"Must" is a funny word. The nature of the conunon obligation is confusing.
If everyone really did do what one "must", Edgar would have said, "Men do endure".
If we had a choice, Edgar would have said, "Men ought to endure". By choosing "must"' Edgar makes his statement into a sort of conditional:
if we are to be
36
human, then we "must".
If we are to be human, then we must endure. With these three words, Edgar has
made it clear that morality is part and parcel of human nature; that our humanness
entails an obligation which we must not shirk. This obligation, as we first see it,
is to endure. What we endure is important, but before looking at what we endure, we
must examine endurance by itself, so that we will be clear about precisely what we
must do.
I see two important possible meanings of "endure".
The simpler meaning is to
undergo.
When Edgar says, "Men must endure", he means that every human being must
suffer the things he speaks about, that they happen to everyone, and that in order to
be human everyone must let them happen. Even in the "undergoing" sense of "endure"
there is the implication that what we undergo is unpleasant and that we would avoid
it if we were given the choice. The second meaning of "endure" gives it more force.
I would phrase it, "Men must stand firm in the face of". This is probably the most
important sense of the word in these lines. We must not run toward things, and we
must not run from them.
We must stand where we are, in full knowledge of where we
are, and we must not flinch.
"Endure" is a transitive verb. It makes little sense without an object, without
something unpleasant to endure.
Edgar offers us two things to endure, going hence
and coming hither.
In the greater context of the play, human beings are called on to
endure the physical natural world as well.
Lear has shouted, "Pour on, I will endure!" (III, iv, 17), to the storm, and the idea of suffering and standing firm in
the face of the natural world is strong in the play.
Taken alone, the words "Men
must endure" are words about human nature and about physical nature. They are words
about nature.
The word "nature" is key in King Lear. Nature is invoked by almost everyone who
speaks
(the notable exceptions are Edgar and the Fool)
and means as many things as
there are lines which use it.
I have grouped the "natures" into three basic meanings.
"Nature" can be the natural physical world, where cause and effect govern every event, where storms blow and furrniter weeds grow. This is the nature where "the
younger rises as the old doth fall." (III, iii, 23) .
However, "nature" can also be
human nature, the opposite of the natural physical world. Human nature is precisely
what distinguishes us from planets or from plants. It accords (in theory) with natural moral law. In the play, human nature and human natural law are usually mentioned
in reference to the natural lawful love between parent and child.
When Gloucester
calls Edmund a "loyal and natural boy" (II, i, 84) , and when Lear tells Regan that
"she better knows the offices of nature" (II, iv, 174 ) than her sisters, they are
speaking of this human nature. Thirdly, nature can be used to describe one per son's
disposition, the unchangeable qualities with which a person is born and which establish individual identity. When France says that Cordelia has a "tardiness in nature"
(I, i, 235), and when Lear says that this tardiness "like an engine wrenched my frame
of nature" (I, iv, 257), they are speaking of the daughter's and the father's individual natures.
Each character's individual nature is revealed by his or her talk of the other
two natures, physical and human. Before I go on to the motion of the play, the going
hence and coming hither, let me draw clearly the fathers and their children, bad and
good.
I will describe where they stand by their own natures, in relation to the
physical natural world, and to moral human nature.
King Lear mentions nature twice as often as anyo ne else in the play. His first
fateful mention is his proposal to extend his largest bounty "where nature does with
merit challenge" (I, i, 52 ) . Lear thinks he is king enough to set up bouts in which
human nature is just another contestant, and to judge the contest himself. The whole
play falls out of his mistaken notion, and this notio n falls directly out of Lear's
own nature.
He was born king.
He is king of the country's lands as well as of the
37
�state.
Shadowy forests, champaigns rich with plenteous rivers, and wide skirted
meads are his to bestow on whom he chooses.
He speaks to the storm as if it were a
political ally turned treacherous, calling the elements "servile ministers" (III, ii,
21) to the wishes of his daughters the queens. He seems to assume that they were his
to command before he gave up his crown but have recently changed loyalty.
He thinks
he is king of human nature as well, that he can command his daughters' love above and
beyond the natural love of child for parents, and that he can bequeath his property
and his power without going through the natural ritual of dying.
He also thinks he
is king over individual nature, that he can settle the matters of his heart from his
throne, before his court.
He expect his own heart and nature to bend to his royal
power just as he expects the hearts and natures of his subjects to do so.
Lear's
nature is a king's nature.
His ignorance springs from his dominion over nature,
imagined though it may be. His gradual awakening happens as he goes hence to nature
and discovers his subjection to every aspect of it .
Gloucester is an earl rather than a king, and he is as aware of nature's power
over him as he is of the king's.
Gloucester's first mention of nature is far more
respectful than the king's:
"though the wisdom of nature · can reason it thus and
thus, yet nature finds itself scourged by the sequent effects." (I, 11, 99).
The
wisdom of nature is human knowledge of the natural world, and the scourged nature is
human nature itself .
The problem here is the one which Edmund points out .
Gloucester believes that physical nature is all powerful, and that human nature in
general and also in particular can have no effect at all on the events of the world .
Gloucester betrays his excessive faith in cause and effect .o ver and over:
first when
he laughs about the biology of Edmund's birth without a thought for his listening
son, again when he bemoans the astrology of the day without a thought for the grave
human mistake which Lear has made or for the characters of his own sons . Later, most
horribly, Gloucester trusts gravity to take his life, without a thought for the
natural human antipathy to suicide.
It is amazing that Gloucester can be so
completely in the dark about human nature . Although he manages to decide that Regan
and Goneril 's behavior is unnatural (after Lear has been tossed onto the nearest
heath), he misjudges his own sons as completely as possible.
Edgar is his
"unnatural, brutish villain" (I, ii, 73) , and Edmund his "loyal and natural boy" (II,
i, 84) •
Although Gloucester calls Edmund a "natural boy" as a compliment, we cannot help
but be reminded of Edmund's illegitimacy. He may be a natural son, but he is so by
biological nature rather than by moral human nature.
Edmund's first mention of nature is the most emphatic in the play:
"Thou, Nature, art my goddess," (I, ii, 1),
he shouts. He is singleminded and clear . He operates purely on the level of natural
physical laws unadulterated by human principles . This is not to say that Edmund does
not understand the human sorts of nature . He sees them as clearly as anyone else in
the play, but he chooses to reject them .
He rejects the human moral nature which
distinguishes human beings from animals because it is not in his nature.
Edmund was
born because his mother was fair and there was "good sport at his making" (I, i, 21) .
He knows his own nature perfectly and states it clearly in his first speech. He also
sees the natures of his brother and father clearly, describes them perfectly ("A
credulous father and a brother noble!" (I, ii, 68)), and manipulates them with ease.
Although Edmund is cer tainly evil, Edgar accuses him only of treachery, and there is
something fair about this.
Edmund behaves reasonably, according to the reasoned
principle of the natural world, that "the younger rises when the old doth fall."
(III, iii, 23).
Regan and Goneril are completely different from Edmund.
He serves a nature of
physical laws and reasonable principles. The evil sisters, on the other hand, bring
a general curse on nature (IV, vi, 205) . They are monsters.
If Edmund's treacherous
nature is a result of his base birth, Goneril and Regan's natures are results of
38
their gender.
In his madness, Lear says of all women that:
Down from the waist they are Centaurs,
Though women all above.
But to the girdle do the gods inherit,
Beneath is all the fiend's.
There's hell. there's darkness, there's the sulphurous pit:
burning, scalding, stench, consumption. Fie, fie, fie!
pah, pah! (IV, vi, 124)
This is the most hellish image of female genitals I have ever read. It clearly shows
women's connection to something which is much farther from human moral nature than
Edmund's rational physical nature is. Women are connected to fiends and to monsters,
to darkness and to mystery.
There are deep abysses in them, and even they cannot
reasonably explain the dark workings within those abysses.
The mysteries are not
wholly evil; creation and birth are among them.
But the womb is a dark place nonetheless, and it connects women to the real power and mystery of nature in a way which
makes them far more horrifying than any reasonable villain can ever be.
All women might be monsters: France asks if Cordelia's offense is of "such unnatural degree that monsters it" (I, i, 219}, and one of Regan's servants mutters
that 11 if she live long, and in the end meet the old course of death, women will all
turn monsters" (III, vii, 100).
(Foolish Gloucester, who knows nothing about human
nature, even goes so far as to wonder if Edgar is a monster. (I, ii, 90))
Not all
women are monsters, though everyone in the play is afraid that if Goneril and Regan
succeed, all women, and even all humanity, will lose not only their human principles,
but even their principled physical world.
Regan and Goneril are not aware of the mystery they carry or the horror they
instill.
They understand the natural world, human nature, and the natures of individuals fairly well; they understand th ems elves insofar as they know their own de sires.
They cannot understand themselves completely or rationally because they are
mysteries. They are connected to a nature which is deeper, darker, more threatening
than any other nature in the play.
Their willing connection to primordial nature
(they seize power, lust after the same man, and murder each other) has the potential
to completely destroy the world.
Lucky for the world, Lear has "one daughter who redeems nature from the general
curse which twain have brought her· to" (IV, vi, 205) .
Cordelia is as separate from
primordial nature as her sisters are close to it. She is guilty of "no vicious blot,
murder or foulness , no unchaste action or dishonored step" (I , i , 227) , and she s
swayed by no passion, by nothing unreasonable. When Lear asks for her profession of
love, she gives him a mathematical formula, calculating what she owes him as a loyal
daughter against what she will need to pledge as a faithful wife.
She is as inhuman
as she is good, but her unnaturalness and unhumanness lie in her total devotion to
the morality inherent in human nature, and in her success at subduing physical nature
and her own personal nature to that general morality. Cordelia's vision of nature in
all its aspects is as clear as either of her sisters'. But it is less personal and
more just than any other. She is not shallow. Her "smiles and tears" (IV, iii, 17)
at Kent's letter betray deep feeling and strong love. But even as she reads the letter unaware of her observer, she is 11 queen of her passion, who, most rebel-like,
sought to be king oe'r her" (IV, iii, 13}. The fiends may inherit everything below a
woman's girdle, but the gods possess everything above it. Her sisters' sex make them
able to be purely evil; because she is a woman, Cordelia is capable of being purely
good.
Finally, we come to Edgar. Edgar never says the word 11 nature", perhaps because
he does not oppose it as the others do. Edmund says that Edgar's nature is "so far
39
�from doing harms that he suspects none'' (I, 11, 169), and naivete is certainly a di mension of Edgar's nature.
However, Edgar is not as simple as his father or as
singleminded as his wicked brother .
Edgar is as strongly connected to the physical
natural world · as is Edmund, but Edgar's connection is different .
Edmund remains in
the human world and lives by the standards of the natural world .
Edgar flees to the
natural world and lives in it according to the standards of human rQ9ral nature.
Edgar is thP. man who is able to say, "Edgar I nothing am!" (II, iii, 21), and to mean
it, to give up his own individual nature in order to survive in the natural world
without betraying his moral nature.
When Edgar claims to be Tom o' Bedlam, he be comes Tom o'
Bedlam.
On the heath with Lear, Edgar has no purpose but to save his
own skin. He is nothing more than a lunatic beggar who keeps a mad king company. He
is comfortable as unnaccommodated man .
As unaccommodated man he leads his father,
but while he leads his father he becomes himself again.
At the start he is Mad Tom
because he is shocked at seeing his blinded father and because he is not sure how to
tell his father that the beggar who stands unseen before him is the son he disowned.
As he leads Gloucester toward Dover, the madness becomes a tool .
In the end, this
madness is the tool he uses to save his father from suicide, and to try to teach h{m
to endure, even to hope .
Edgar tells Gloucester that,
Men must endure their going hence .
In the literal sense, this going hence is simply going outside,leaving what is
familiar to us and facing what is "out there.''
In each of the first three acts of
King Lear, at least one major character is forced to leave home .
Lear's banishment
is the most poignant example of this sort of going hence. The others suffer in going
hence, perhaps as much as he, but their sufferings serve to underscore and compound
Lear's.
Leaving behind the castle, its comforts and its conventions, is the major
motion of the play.
The things which humans face, unprotected from the whims of a
powerful and threatening nature are dangerous.
Kent says, "Man's nature cannot bear
the affliction nor the fear."
(III, ii, 49) .
The play builds up to the crescendo of Lear on the heath in the storm.
The
rhetoric of fear begins when Lear banishes Kent, but allots him five days "to shield
thee from disasters of the world" (I, i, 174). Even in his rage, Lear is not cruel
enough to ignore the terrible threat which the natural world poses to unaccommodated
man. Disasters lurk everywhere "out there" .
Kent's farewell to Cordelia, "the gods to their dear shelter take thee" (I, i,
182), adds power to our notion of shelter as a real human necessity .
Cordelia's
going hence is slightly different from the other departures in the play:
she leaves
her father's castle for her husband's . Nonetheless, she has been banished as much as
Kent. She cannot come back . Cordelia's going hence may be natural insofar as she is
a daughter who leaves home to be married, but it is frightening and unnatural because
she leaves for good and is left dependent on strangers outside the castle .
If they
fail her, as is quite possible, she will be without shelter, alone against the opposing elements of a cruel nature.
Edgar's going hence is the third of the play and the third time the point is
made.
Edgar resolves to become Mad Tom, "and with presented nakedness outface the
wind's and persecutions of the sky" (II, iii, 12). Edgar's embracing the outdoors is
presented as a form of self-mortification and insanity.
The sky is a persecutor .
Being beneath it is an affliction .
When human beings face the natural world alone,
without roofs, the power of the natural world and its unthinking malevolence to anything small, weak, and naked is certain and deadly. Lear makes the best statement of
40
the weakness of humanity in the face of the natural world during his confrontation
with it:
Poor naked wretches, who so e'er you are,
That bide .the pelting of this pitiless storm,
How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides,
Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you
From seasons such as these?
(III, iv, 28)
Lear describes well the wretchedness of Kent, Cordelia, and Edgar.
It is
strange, though, that he speaks these lines about other people outside when he himself is enduring a terrible storm, unprotected.
A few lines later, Lear tells his
pomp to take physic , to "expose thyself to feel what wretches feel" (III, iv, 34) .
water streams across his face as he speaks, but it does not occur to him that he is
also passive, suffering the storm as helplessly as any other wretch would. Lear does
not know that the winds and rains and thunderbolts scorn royalty as well as poverty.
These speeches are among the most powerful and angry speeches in the English
language .
They are as saddening as they are anger - filled .
Lear sounds absurd and
old.
His assumption of control which he does not really have makes him look senile
and silly. At the same time, Lear's anger and confidence are impressive .
He speaks
nobly and bravely.
The king has been thrown out into the storm, so he conunands the
winds to blow and the rain to spout. Gloucester says, "yet, poor old heart, he holp
the heavens to rain." (III, vii, 61) . The king's tears join with the raindrops in
watering the earth, but more important than that , he becomes the storm, joins forces
with it. The sky manifests the power and tumult in his own mind even as it beats his
body down .
At the very moment that the triumph of physical nature over human nature is made
complete, the battle between Lear's human nature and his royal one has hardly begun.
He is still a king when he resolves to feel what wretches feel, in order to teach
himself to "shake the superflux to them and show the heavens more just" (III, iv,
35). This kingliness of Lear is what gives his endurance on the heath its power and
its absurdity. We, audience or readers, already know that the storm is greater than
the king and the man Lear.
Lear, however, decides that the storm shall be greater .
When he sees Mad Tom's abused flesh he murmurs that it is appropriate because the
flesh begot the daughters . When he sees Tom's bare forkedness, he shouts, "Off, off,
you lendings! Come, unbutton here." (III , iv, 103). Lear decides to be overw~elmed
by nature and actively renounces his coverings .
As a king, he declared himself
not- king of his country when he gave up his power to his daughters .
He acts as king
again in the storm and declares himself not-k ing again, this time not -k ing of the
unaccommodated man within himself. With his declaration he goes mad, but in his madness he becomes even more con~cious.
Lear's woes don't lose themselves, as
Gloucester thinks .
In his madness, Lear the man has learned what Lear the king commanded him to learn .
He has given up his throne, even his shelter, and has exposed
himself to feel what wretches feel.
In Act IV Lear crowns himself with rank fumiter and furrow weeds, and he celebrates his own new state.
Lear is a king in accord with the natural world, and as
such, he is nothing more than a man .
This is not merely a victory of the natural
world over a king, but also the victory of human nature and of Lear's own individual
nature over a king . we are left with the impression that nature triumphs because the
king decides it ought to.
Going hence in the first sense, going hence by leaving home, is something which
we must endure if we are to be human beings. Lear's endurance, and the humility and
humanity he wins by his endurance (at the price of his sanity) , are certainly somehow
part of ripeness.
41
�Although going outside is the literal meaning of "going hence", dying is the
obvious meaning .
"Going hence'' is a terrifying term for death because it is so appropriately vague and shadowy . "Hence" is not a place; it doesn't specify a destination or imply any kind of completeness. The great power of the play is its ability
to show horror and grief unflinchingly without tempering them, to make every death an
awful one. No one in King Lear is put to rest. We a.re glad when the villains die,
but we do not get a sense of fulfillment or completion from their deaths. They are
cut off, and we are left wondering why they lived at all, rather than being relieved
that they live no more. We are sorry when the characters we love die, but more than
we are allowed to mourn, we are forced to wonder why they have died, and where they
have gone. Death in King Lear ends life by cutting it off. It does not complete it.
Gloucester is the only character in the play who wants to die.
His blind baf fled reunion with Edgar, the son he cannot recognize, is confusing and pathetic. His
son's choice to deceive his father into thinking that he is led by Tom o' Bedlam and,
far worse, into thinking that he has leapt from a cliff, is horrible . Everything in
these scenes is unnatural.
Even Edgar says that he is trifling with his father's
despair (IV, vi, 33) in order to cure it. We must watch him trifle .
On the other hand, Gloucester's desire to end his life by leaping from a cliff
is an awful, unnatural desire, and his confession of this desire to his son is an
awful confession .
When Edgar sees his blind father stumbling toward him he says,
"World, world, O world! But that thy strange mutations make us hate thee, life would
not yield to age . " (IV, i, 10) . The sight of his sightless father immediately makes
Edgar think of death as some sort of comfort . His father's misery is almost too much
for him to endure and to watch his father endure . This situation has gone beyond the
pale of reality.
It happens somewhere out there where everything is completely
strange and unnatural , where death really does look tempting .
It is strange and unnatural for Edgar to be betrayed by Edmund, for Gloucester
to believe Edmund, for Edgar to decide to be Tom o' Bedlam, for Edmund to betray
Gloucester, for Gloucester's eyes to be put out by Cornwall, and for blind betrayed
Gloucester and his betrayed beggar son to meet and journey together toward a cliff
from which Gloucester plans to leap.
These events don't necessarily exceed the limits of credibility .
In fact, they
result naturally from the original situation .
Howeve r , every one of them violates
our sense of what would be natural for humans to do and to suffer . Edgar seems to
think that he acts unnaturally because he is in an unnatural situation; that to obey
his human instincts during this unhuman afternoon would be to doom his father and
himself .
He seems to think that s ·Jicide is such a serious crime against nature
(against all thre e n atu res : physical , human , and individ u al) , that to interfere with
it in a regular human way would be to fail his fathe r. Only supernatu ral c r eatures
can fight battles outside of nature's realm .
When Edgar meets his father at the foot of the imaginary cliff and speaks to him
in the new persona of a gentleman, he tells Gloucester that he thinks Gloucester was
led to the cliff's edge by a fiend . Although Edgar is deceiving his father about his
own identity, he is honest here . Two fiends stand at the top of the cliff . One is
Gloucester, a man who refuses to endure his life and tries to break every natural law
by killing himself .
The other is Edgar , his son, who leads him to that imaginary
cliff without revealing himself, without begging his f ather to reconsider .
Edga.r
makes the cliff imaginary when it could have been real, but he must act as a fiend to
lead his father to an imaginary suicide .
Hoping to save his father by doing it,
Edgar plays the fiend.
I respect this .
It makes sense to assume that suicide is something a person
must face alone, to decide that although it may be unnatural and evil, suicide must
be private as well.
Edgar interferes with Gloucester as much as he dares, but he
42
lets his father risk his life alone .
It is a brave and perhaps foolhardy thing to
do .
Defiance in the face of nature runs in Gloucester's family. Edmund defies human
moral nature .in service of his own physically natural desire for wealth and power .
Edgar defies normal human nature and his own individual nature in service of his superhuman concern for his father.
Both defiances spring from their father's strange
willingness to turn nature on its head. Gloucester's willingness, in turn, springs
from his own conviction of helplessness and uselessness . He is the man who said,
As flies to wanton boys are we to th' gods.
They kill us for their sport .
(IV, i, 37).
This view of things is defensible .
I could argue that the two lines are the
theme of the play, that everything which happens in it is just this sort of wanton,
meaningless sport of the gods . But somehow, in Lear, Cordelia, and Kent's cases (and
perhaps finally in Edgar and Gloucester's), the depth of our suffering and the acuteness of our misery give meaning to meaningless events.
Gloucester says that he
envies the king's ability to lose his woes in his distraction, but he is absolutely
wrong in attributing this ability to the king. Lear may be mad, but he is not for getful .
Gloucester, on the other hand, actually has the ability which he envies
Lear .
Gloucester is able to decide not to endure, to somehow numb his feeling of
sorrow. Where Lear shouts, "Pour on, I will endure!" (III, iv, 17), Gloucester instead thinks up a scheme which will release him from enduring . His resolve to kill
himself is an unnatural response to suffering .
He takes unnatural comfort in the
notion that his "misery could beguile the tyrant's range and frustrate his proud
will." (IV, vi, 64).
Gloucester sees his situation a little more clearly when he is blinded and realizes which son is actually a "loyal and natural boy" (II, ii, 84) and which is an
"unnatural, brutish villain" (I, ii, 76) .
This does not mean that his spiritual
sight is fully restored. The Gloucester who decides to kill himself cannot or will
not look his own misery full in the face . He does not see that human beings must
"bear affliction till it do cry out itself, 'Enough, enough!' and die" (IV, vi, 75),
until he has tried to end his enduring and has failed.
He fails in his suicide attempt because Edgar, his son, will not let him kill himself.
By this failure,
Gloucester is brought to his knees, forced to endure what he would rather avoid .
When Edgar finally tells Gloucester the whole truth, and Gloucester faces his life
with nowhere to shrink back to, he dies. Gloucester knew when he tried to kill himself that he would never be able to bear his sufferings . What he did not and could
not know o r see was that by being fo r ced to bear them, by living on till fortune
killed him, by enduring his own going hence rather than trying to force it - by and
through all these things he would finally achieve the only triumphant death of the
play.
Gloucester sees everything before he dies, and when his heart bursts, it
bursts "smilingly .. . twixt two extremes of passion, joy and grief" (V, 111, 198).
Gloucester's growth into awareness kills him, for he is not made of stuff stern
enough to bear clear sight . But while awareness kills him, it also saves him in a
way that no one else is saved. Gloucester feels deep grief at the end of the play,
but he feels joy as well.
Gloucester's death is vastly different from the numbed, twisted comfort he would
have had from suicide . Rather than tricking his fate, his fate has tricked him into
full awareness and a full death . However, although it is full, it is still the death
of a man who, if he had lived, could have been happy.
His death may be a supreme
moment for him, but even in Gloucester's case we do not feel that it is a completion,
that it is a solid, meaningful end. Gloucester has gone hence as much as anyone and
faces as much uncertainty .
Gloucester's triumph is his awareness of the great joy
and the great grief which human life and death must be.
43
~.
�After Edgar tells us of Gloucester's death, Regan and Goneril kill each other,
and Edmund is borne off the stage fatally wounded.
We do not see any of them die .
At this point, Oswald's miserable little death is the only one we have acutally witnessed. Goneril and Regan's bodies are briefly displayed, and then Lear enters with
his dead daughter in his arms. Howl, howl, howl!!!
Edmund held the fates of Cordelia and Lear in his hands and hesitated on the
verge of death and on the edge of goodness.
He decided to confess and try to save
them, but he decided too late. If Edmund had been faster, Cordelia would have lived.
This tragedy of timing has gone on throughout the entire play.
In Cordelia's death
it is manifested most clearly. If human ripeness is some sort of a goal, then timing
is obviously crucial.
It is hard to die young and ripe.
In thE sense of ripeness,
Cordelia's death is the most tragic in the play.
Cordelia's going hence by leaving home is a sad moment because she cannot return
freely. However, the sadness is not unbearable. It is natural for children to leave
home, and although their being thrown out is hard, it is also fairly common. Lear's
banishment, on the other hand, is unbearably hard. Fathers are not often thrown out
of their homes. When it happens, nature has been turned upside down in a frightening
and tragic way.
Fathers are supposed to die, and their children to survive them.
Although fathers' deaths are sad, and the violent suffering deaths which fathers endure in this play are unnatural, they are humanly bearable. For a father to bear the
death of his daughter is much harder than for a son to bear his father's.
The death
of any child is a more shocking and disturbing loss than the death of any parent.
Cordelia's death is unbearable and unnatural because she is not a parent but a child.
Even in the realm of death, Cordelia's suffering remains mute.
Lear suffers
when he is banished, and suffers again when Cordelia dies, even though the death is
hers. Lear dies with his daughter's body in his arms . We witnessed the first death
of the play, Oswald's, and we watch the last.
Though we see a few of the dead
bodies, Lear is the only important character whose death we watch.
Not seeing the
others lends much mysterious power to death. We have no notion at all of what it is,
why it happens, or where these people go. Lear's death does not help us with any of
these questions. In some ways it is a relief when he is finally allowed to die after
everything he has cared about, wrapped in Cordelia's body, is gone.
In another way,
it is the most frustrating moment of the play.
He doesn't enlighten us.
For the
first time in the play he seems really mad, to the point of unawareness . Kent says
"The wonder is he hath endured so long.
He but usurp' d his life." (V, iii, 316) •
Lear's death is at once the saddest moment of the play and the biggest relief in the
play. However, his death is no end at all. He dies telling us to look at something
we cannot see . Perhaps it is an illusion of life in Cordelia's corpse . Perhaps as
he joins her in death he sees that her immortal soul is really alive. Perhaps he has
finally turned into the confused old fool who, in our bitter moments, we suspected he
might be. We do not know. Certainly though, Lear's death is not a conclusion.
It
is as vague and shadowy as any other death, and because we watch it , we know for certain that it is not any sort of achievement, in that Lear finds no peace in it.
The inconclusiveness of his death is not Lear's tragedy. Every human being dies
an inconclusive death. The younger a person dies, the more meaningless and inconclusive the death.
It is a general tragedy of the human race that we die and that our
deaths are mere "going hences" to be endured, rather than final blasts of glory to be
savored and remembered by all who survive us.
We endure death in two ways:
We endure the deaths. of those who die while we
survive, and we endure our own. Being left behind is always inconclusive and lonely,
and in this respect every death in King Lear rings true.
However, the manner in
which we endure our own deaths is not nearly so uniform. Gloucester's death is almost triumphant for him. He is ripe and ready to go. Cordelia's death is absolutely
horrifying because she is young and green, completely unready and unripe.
Lear is
44
somewhere in between.
he could have become.
He does not want or even expect to die.
He is not fully ripe.
He has not become all
Edgar tells Gloucester that
Men must endure their going hence, even as their corning hither.
It is not as easy to distinguish between the literal and metaphorical meanings of
coming hither as it was with going hence.
If going hence does have a literal
implication of going outside, coming hither may mean something like corning inside,
coming into a situation which i.s already happening. The word "hither" means "here".
Edgar must either be talking about here, this world, or here, underneath this
particular tree during the unfavorable outcome of this particular battle.
I cannot generalize about coming inside the way I did about going outside because Edgar speaks the line outside. Everyone in the play has come outside in order
to get to Edgar's here, the final battle.
Instead, I' 11 talk a little about this
absurd battle. The play would be very different if Cordelia's army had won the day.
The villains would still have ample opportunity to kill each other off, and the likelihood of the happy survival of Gloucester, Cordelia, and Lear would be good.
It
makes sense that Regan and Goneril's forces would beat Cordelia's, but then it also
makes sense that Edmund would defeat Edgar in a duel.
The latter does not happen.
The former then, must be more than a victory of good warriors over a good daughter.
Instead, it is the inevitable result not of Lear's daughters' natures, but of Lear's
own nature.
Gloucester's ability to die twixt two extremes of passion, joy, and
grief, to die the best death in the play, is the ability which his sons have inherited.
Their plot does not conclude perfectly - Edmund hesitates too long before repenting - but it does end well. The good, lawful son inherits and the bad son dies
repentent.
Lear's family is not able to manage things so tidily.
They all die,
leaving no heir but the milk-liver'd Albany, husband of the most villainous member of
the family.
It is appropriate that the man whose own death is unambiguously tragic
should have a family which ends as ungracefully and as completely tragically.
However, Lear's family's ends are much more honest, much more appropriate to themselves than the ends of Gloucester's family.
The "hither" which Edgar might mean
literally is a battle illustrating the meaninglessness of everything which happens in
the family of the king.
The warrior sisters' armies win the day, and at the same
time one sister poisons the other and is stabbed by her. Their servants unthinkingly
murder their father and sister, even though they themselves "desperately are dead".
The whole thing is gruesome.
Edgar may have saved his father from suicide, but he
has led him hither, to a battle which cannot possibly end well. This is not Edgar's
fault.
Men must endure their corning hither, and living in England at the end of
Lear's reign necessarily means being involved in the bloody demise of Lear's family.
The real and important meaning of corning hither is not the literal one. Edgar's
words to his father are strangely double edged.
"Don't worry, Dad," he is saying,
"you must endure your death as I had to endure my birth. I cannot do anything about
being your son, and you cannot do anything about dying." The order and the emphasis
of Edgar's words imply that it is harder to endure birth than death, that being born
is a greater burden.
The idea that having a father can be a tragic event is
definitely central to the play.
There are few mentions of mothers in King Lear.
Gloucester mentions Edmund's mother when he blames her for conceiving Edmund and
having a baby for her cradle ere she had a husband for her bed (I, i, 13). Almost
every mention of mothers is connected with adultery and illegitimacy.
When
Gloucester is told of Edgar's treachery, he says of Edgar, "I never got him"
(II,i,80) .
When Lear arrives at Gloucester's castle in pursuit of Regan, he says
45
�if Regan is not glad to see him, he' 11 "divorce her mother's tomb, sepulchering an
adultress" (II , iv, 132).
It is frightening and funny to note that Edmund is the
only son whose fatherhood is never questioned. The only other mention of motherhood
is Lear's curse on Goneril, where he hopes she has a child of spleen that she may
feel "how sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child." {I, iv,
278) •
I mention the lack of mothers because I am certain that a mother on the cast
would throw the play into a completely different dimension.
Mothers have a natural
physical connection to their children which fathers, who do not carry their children,
can never have. The bond between father and child must be more social than that between mother and child . Fathers love their children according to human moral nature
and to their own individual natures rather than according to any real physical bond
(though raising someone fr om birth creates a strong bond) . Though fathers by nature
love their children, the bond between father and child is not necessarily an
indissoluble bond, or at least not an unassailable one .
Gloucester and Lear have
reared their children alone.
The children have grown up in situation$ where the
animal nature of families has been easily forgotten and where the bonds of nature
alone have been set up as standards, weaker for the lack of physical natural bonds.
Every child in the play suffers from having a .father. This is probably because
of the two particular fathers.
Both Gloucester and Lear reveal an almost total lack
of understanding of and concern for their children .
It is as likely in other human
situations to suffer from having a mother, but that suffering would be different. It
is not described in King Lear. This is not to say that the sufferings of children in
the play are the same.
Edmund must bear his father's scorn.
His father conceived
him for sport, mocks him in his presence, and sends him away for nine years at a
time, all without a second thought.
Edgar must suffer the same man, who does not
know or care about him, and who believes treason of him without a second thought.
Goneril, Regan, and Cordelia must bear a very different father, a king who treats his
daughters as subjects and their love for him as a matter to be debated in court .
Lear of fers his daughters complete material independence, but he offers it at the
price of complete emotional devotion or of flattery.
When Goneril and Regan buy
their kingdoms with deceitful tongues, Lear must know that they are doing so. He has
reserved the best portion for the daughter whose genuine love he is certain of , and
he has set the situation up so that his bad daughters can make their graceful, lying
speeches without having to do anything to prove the matter of their words . The price
Cordelia pays for being Lear's daughter is far greater than the honor which Goneril
and Regan give up.
If Cordelia were to swear her complete devotion to her father,
she would keep her word and wither and die without a life of her own .
Her other
choice is to not promise the emotional subjection which she does not want to offer,
and to suffer and die without her father's love or approval.
Edgar has endured his own coming hither, accepting his father for what he is ,
and behaving as the loya:-.., natural boy Gloucester thinks Edmund is.
Regan and
Goneril also endure their coming hither fairly well. Lear does not ask them to love
him, but to make fine speeches about love in his court . They do as he asks.
They
are savage and cruel to Lear, but this compounds rather than constitutes Lear's tragedy.
In fact, although he toys with the notion of their illegitimacy, Lear is certain that Goneril and Regan are his daughters. He muses that torturing his own flesh
may be the most appropriate response to his daughters' treachery, since his is the
flesh which begot those peculiar daughters. There is something to this. Goneril and
Regan are probably more cruel than Lear, but he has as little reason for banishing
Cordelia and Kent as they have for throwing him outside. They are definitely Lear's
daughters and they do not do anything to challenge or to try to change the relationship to Lear into which he puts them.
Edmund and Cordelia are the two who are unable to endure the situations they are
46
born into . Edmund cannot endure his bastardy. His lack of control over the circumstances of his birth continues , because of those circumstances, into every moment of
his life.
He does not and cannot believe that his being twelve or fourteen
moonshines lag of a brother affects his nature in any real or meaningful way .
Although he uses his father's love for him as one more proof of his own merit, he is
willing to subvert that love to a purpose which, in his eyes, is much higher .
He
will do whatever he must in order to take control of his circumstances. We get the
feeling that if things had been slightly different, if Edmund had been born twelve or
fourteen moonshines earlier, and had been born legitimate, he might have been able to
endure his birth and his father's failures.
Everything might have been vastly different .
Instead, Edmund decides , "Let me, if not by birth, have lands by wit; All with
roe's meet that I can fashion fit." (I, ii, 176). In the eyes of a bastard, legitimacy is simply a legalistic notion.
If the human morality is nothing more than "t~e
curiosity of nations" (I, ii, 4) in respect to the primary important matter of his
own birth, to decide that morality is no more than ridiculous law-making in every
other respect is not difficult. According to these ridiculous la~s, Edmund ou~ht to
have nothing and be nothing . At the same time, these laws predict that he will .be
lawless and base .
Edmund defies the expectations of his powerlessness by grabbing
for all he can get and by ruthlessly betraying his brother and his father . But ev~n
as he betrays the men whose existence nullifies his in such a complicated way, he is
playing the role of the outlaw, the bastard.
To ta~e a~tion to try ~o reverse the
circumstances of his birth is certainly to stop enduring it. However, in that Edmund
is at the same time completely affected by the circumstances of his birth, he is in
some way trapped into bastardy . He is responding according to the outlaw nature a
bastard is born with.
we are not meant to despise Edmund; his speeches are too attractive for that . The timing is off, though, as it is in every other facet of the
play. And so Edmund is forced to be base, to be unnatur~l by mor~l .h~an nature at
the very moment he is natural by physical nature. Edmund is by def~nition an outlaw .
The whole problem with being the child of a thoughtless father is brought . out by
Edmund's situation.
His birth is his biggest affliction, and he has carried the
brand of it through every moment of his life. He cannot unbirth himself, and he cannot even really regret the fact that he has been born.
He owes his fa:her h~s very
life, and at the same moment, his father is res ponsib le for every. misery in that
life. Because his father begot him at all, Edmund is bound to love him and obey him;
because his father begot him in the manner he did, Edmund must betray him .
Although Edmund rebels against the circumstances of his birth, he does notrebel
personally . His quarrel with his coming hither is f or. the mo~t part material rather
than spiritual, and his betrayals are motivated by his longing for land and power
rather than by any feeling of deep moral and emotional wrongdoing.
It is the base
material nature of his motivation which decides Edmund's villainy .
His father and
his brother have not tortured him after all, nor have they asked him to betray himself in any way which would force him to rebel, to stop enduring.
Instead, they
have, justly or unjustly, deprived him of the wealth and power he craves. We cannot
judge Edmund acco rding to normal laws because he was born outside of them.
However,
we know that he is aware of his family's love for him, and that he refuses to endure
his birth in spite of their love f or him and in spite of his for them.
Edmund betrays his family's love for the sake of their money, and in doing it, he becomes "a
most toad-spotted traitor" (V, iii, 139).
Cordelia is the other child who refuses to endure her birth, to obey her fath~r ,
to take from him what he offers her, or to promise him what he asks of her . Her circumstances, of course, are very different from Edmund's. She is the favorite ~augh
ter; Edmund is the unwanted son.
She is offered the most weal th and power in the
47
�Kingdom; Edmund has been promised nothing.
Cordelia's father demands that her love
for him be a matter of words and ceremonies, that what is most privately important to
her be demonstrated in his court.
She endures ·this by standing firm in the face of
it, but her firm stance is also a rebellion. She cannot do her father's will because
he wants her to promise him every bit of her love .
If Edmund suffers because his
father will not give him enough, Cordelia's suffering is tied with the much more
painful and destructive fact that her father demands too much from her. To give him
what he asks would be to deny her honor and to lie.
It would be to betray the relationship between them or to deny her own life and every freedom she has ever had,
thus betraying herself.
She chooses to stand firm, to maintain her honor and her
loyalty to herself . By doing this, she fails her father and rebels against him.
Cordelia rebels against her father because she loves him.
She cannot bear to
see Lear the man subsumed by Lear the king. She is deeply hurt that Lear her father
refuses to think of her as his daughter and instead tries to make her into a flattering courtier.
He..c rebellion, based on these offenses against humanity and
fatherhood, starts the tragedy, but her rebellion is not really an active one.
She
is trapped by circumstance as much as Edmund is .
She must love her father and she
must be true to him.
In order to do so she must betray the king, Lear, and disappoint the man, Lear. Although she rebels against her father and the circumstances of
her birth, Cordelia does not betray either.
In fact, she does nothing until she returns to invade her homeland and reinstate her father.
It is clear that she does not
want him to force his kingdom on her . When he wakes from his sleep in her care, she
11
asks, "How does my royal lord? How fares your majesty? (IV, vii, 44).
Cordelia's decision to speak in words of the court means two things . First, she
wants Lear to know that he is king and must be king until he dies, and that she will
not take his kingdom from him, no matter how insistently he offers it. At the same
time, she is finally capitulat:lng, speaking to him as king rather than as father.
She does not do this because she thinks of him as king rather than as father, but
because she knows he wants her to, and she is determined to obey him. When Lear is
convinced that she is real, he thinks that she is mocking him. Here is another tragedy of timing .
Just when Cordelia sees her way clear to being her father's subject
as well as his daughter, speaking to him in the royal language he once demanded, Lear
sees the foolishness and impotency which have come out of his royalty, and renounces
them.
He says he has given her cause to hate him, and Cordelia denies it.
"No
cause," she says, "No cause." (IV, vii, 75) . She tells the truth here . Lear's unnatural demand for a pledge of total devotion and his unnatural offe r of an inheritance
before he actually died, forced Cordelia to rebel against him, and to disobey him.
He banished her to a husband who loved her . Although her father ' s anger and her own
banishment must have caused her real grief, it was her father's foolishness and the
certain failure of his plans which saddened here the most . She has worried about him
and wept for him; she has not suffered much in her own fate.
Lear seems to see his
mistake here.
He has learned that he is a man as well as a king, and that the two
are separate. He has even gone so far as to decide that his manliness is more important than his kingliness.
If the play ended with this reunion, it would not be a
tragedy. Of course, it goes on. Lear and Cordelia are taken as prisoners.
The words I am writing this essay about are the last words we hear spoken be tween Edgar and his father . The scene which follows Edgar and Gloucester ' s last is
Cordelia and Lear's last scene together . The tenors are drastically different. If I
find hope in Edgar and Gloucester's last scene together, it must be severely tempered
by the despair with which the next scene fills me.
Lear's speech in this scene is
beguilingly beautiful, and I have often heard it referred to as the happy ending of
the play.
For me it is a final horror.
Cordelia and her father are taken captive.
Cordelia speaks words of selfless comfort to her father, and calls him "oppressed
king" (V, iii, 5) rather than "dear father" or any other name which expresses af-
48
fection.
Her words and her tone here sicken me.
She has not stood firm in her determination to be Lear's daughter rather than his subject. She speaks words as wooden as her first, but these, her last , are also false.
She speaks a hope which she
does not feel, she makes a final attempt to compete with her sisters and proclaim her
love for Lear, she falls into the courtly language she despises. Here, for the first
time, Cordelia endures her fo rtune in the weak sense of the word: she meekly suffers
it. Here, for the first time, she does not endure ' her circumstances by standing firm
in the face of them.
At the very last, Cordelia weakens .
Her weakening fills me
with despair .
I take little comfort from thinking that she may be standing firm in
the face of her going hence, because these words are f or her father.
Whatever implication they may have concerning Cordelia's death, it cannot outweigh the horrible
blinding of Lear which these words effect. Lear's speech in response to Cordelia's
last words is beautiful, and it is ghastly.
No, no, no, no! Come, let's away to prison.
We two alone will sing like birds i' th' cage.
When thou dost ask me blessing, I'll kneel down,
And ask of thee forgiveness . So we'll live,
And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh
At gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues
Talk of court news; and we'll talk with them too Who loses and who wins; who's in, who's out.And take upon's the mystery of things,
As if we were God's spies ; and we'll wear out,
In a wall'd prison, packs and sects of great ones.
That ebb and flow by th' moon .
Take them away
Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia,
The gods themselves throw incense . Have I caught thee?
He that parts us shall bring a brand from heaven
And fire us hence like foxes. Wipe thine eyes.
The goodyears shall devour 'em, flesh and fell,
Ere they shall make us weep! We'll see 'em starv'd first .
(V, iii, 8)
Although Lear has learned the wisdom of humility and humanity and the uselessness of
royalty, he has not learned to be a father.
He rejoices in the prospect of his own
captivity because it will also be his daughter's captivity.
He started the tragedy
by scheming to catch Cordelia, to force her to declare her love for him, and to arrange things so that he could spend every minute of his old age with her .
He thinks
he has accomplished his goal here, and he crows with joy while Cordelia begins to
weep with dismay. Surely, he will . ask her forgiveness continually and be glad to get
it.
But Lear will never regret anything now that he has "caught" Cordelia and can
command her constant attention and devotion. This is the saddest moment of the play.
It is the moment where a story which might have been about a good but foolish king
le arning wisdom through suffering becomes instead the story of a man who never learns
anything until it is too late, and who never escapes or even comprehends the fault
which causes his suffering.
This is also the moment when Cordelia must endure her father in a way that few
people are called upon to endure their parents. She must directly face the fact that
her father will never be a father to her.
He will always be someone who plots and
schemes in his effort to catch her, to have her all to himself, and to be cared for
by her .
If Gloucester's great and horrifying unnaturalness is his effort to end his
own life, to enforce rather than endure his going hence, Lear's horrifying unnatural-
49
�ness is his effort to demand from his daughter the love which a father ought to bestow on her.
Edgar tricks his father out of suicide into seeing all that ha.s happened to him
clearly and dying in an honest response to his clear vision.
This deceit is appropriate and effective. However, Cordelia has no weapon against her father's unnatural
demands except her honesty.
She can only refuse, and after fortune goes against
them, she cannot even refuse her father's unnatural desires.
(There is no evidence
that these are incestuous desires.)
Instead, Cordelia dies, a victim in every respect, having only been able to endure her birth, and now merely enduring her going
hence.
She is hung while her aged father fights a desperate battle for her _ nd
a
Edmund deliberates about whether to stop her hanging. Her death is completely pointless insofar as it advances no one 's cause .
There is no real reason to kill her.
Her death is also the most piercing event of the play. Cordelia cannot and does not
die ripe, because she is young and because she does not expect to d~e. Her death may
It seems
may not help her father to attain some sort of awareness and ripeness.
it thrusts him into madness, that he is never made aware of his terrible fathering, that he dies miserably not because he h.as wro.nged his daughter and . she ~as
suffered deeply but because he is alone again.
His only chance of reunion with
Cordelia and 0 / getting the love he craves from her is to follow her into death.
There is something evilly beautiful about Lear's selfish passion for hi~ Jau~hter,
but there is nothing comforting about it. Although Lear's last speech, i~ which he
humbly asks for help with his button, shows how far he has come from the king on the
heath who decided to be unaccommodated and then commanded his servant to unbutton
him, nonetheless he has not made the final important step. Lear has learned to be a
man, but he remains hopeless as a father.
~~at
Edgar says to his father,
Men must endure
Their going hence, even as their coming hither;
Ripeness is all. (V , ii, 9) .
Ripeness is offered as a result of , or a comfort in, the face of the things
which precede it: our endurance of nature, of going hence, a~d o~ coming hith~r.
Ripeness is a natural image, one which we would not ~rdinarily connect with human beings. Let me look briefly at ripeness in. the physica: natural world in order
to try to get a clear definition of the word in its most basic sense , before going on
to try to talk about ripeness in a human context .
The ripeness of a peach is not the peach's achievement . Peaches have no will
and cannot achieve or even act. Peaches are capable of being created , plucked, and
eaten .
All of the activities of a peach are passiv~ .
H.owev:r, .not every ~ea~h
ripens to full flavor . The reasons for a peach not being r ipe is either that it is
still green or that it has become rotten.
In the case of a peach, ripeness depe~ds
on the weather, and, far more, on the passage of time .
In time, e~ery .peac~ will
ripen.
Given too much time, any one will go rotten.
When a peach is ripe, it ~as
reached its peak .
It tastes best t o us, but our taste echoes nature 1 s perfection
rather than deciding it. Ripe fruit is ready to fall, ready to rot for the sake.of
nourishing the seed it bears and continuing the cyclical life of the ~lant wh ich
bears it . Ripeness is a fruit's perfection, but is is not earned by a fruit . Peaches do nothing but wait to be ripe .
Of course, people are no t peac h es . 0 u r Sou ls are not vegetable souls . Ripeness
for humans is more than the simple physical maturity which results from the pas~age
of time . Nonetheless, Shakespeare compares us to plants when he tells us that ripe-
ness is all.
Ripeness in humans . must be mostly. a result of the passage of time.
whatever ripeness may be, it is not something which human beings can strive for or
make strides toward.
What we produce is not important to Edgar or to Shakespeare.
we are not fruit-bearing creatures, but rather we are fruits.
What bears us is beyond our control, and so is what plucks us . The task of a human being is merely to
endure, most fully, all that confronts him or her.
One is ripe only when one has
endured patiently and bravely everything which will be endured and is completely
ready to be cut off from this life of endurance, to part from one's children as they
will part from theirs, because it is time.
This is the physically natural sense of ripeness in humans. We must also look
at ripeness according to human nature and to individual will.
Earlier, I mentioned
two kinds of endurance :
plain passive endurance (undergoing) leads to the natural
ripeness I have described . But endurance can also have a stronger meaning:
standing
firm in the face of . We must stand firm in the face of nature, of going hence and of
corning hither.
Standing firm in the face of nature is best illustrated by King Lear on the
heath in the storm. He shouts, "Pour on, I will endure!" (III, iv, 17) and he does,
remaining fully aware of himself and at the same moment, forcing himself to be fully
aware of the natural world which opposes him and to be honest about its power over
him. Lear's final ripeness is not complete. He does not stand firm in the face of
his death in that he does not really know he dies.
He does not stand firm in the
face of his fatherhood; standing still is vastly different from standing firm.
His
inability to change is an inability to endure because it is an inability to face himself anq his circumstances squarely . However, in spite of his failure as a father
and his failure in death, Lear's firmness in the face of nature is triumphant.
In
respect to the natural world and his awareness of his place in it, Lear grows ripe.
When he dies, he is, in at least one respect, fully ripe.
Lear on th~ heath is also a good example of enduring our going hence, in the
out-of-doors sense of going hence . Lear is not alone in his endurance of banishment
and of the things "out there".
Kent, Cordelia, Gloucester, and Edgar all endure
banishment, each in a slightly different manner .
Being banished and going hence is
the most certain and most common way in which people ripen.
Everyone in the play
seems to be able to stand firm in the face of their banishment, and all of them grow
wise because of it.
The other meaning of going hence is dying. Gloucester has more trouble facing
his death than any other character . However, when his "heart burst smilingly, twist
two extremes of passion, joy, and grief" (V, iii, 198) , Gloucester has endured his
death as no other character has.
In spite of himself, Gloucester waits for death to
claim him, and he endures it by allowing it to happen to him rather than by seeking
it. But his real triumph is in his standing firm in the face of his death, look ing
his death and all of his life full in the face , and dying completely aware of what
his life has been and of the fact that there is as much to be glad about as their is
to mourn .
This is ripeness in de-a th, this readiness combined with this hesitancy
and, above all else, with this awareness.
Ripeness in regard to our coming hither is most fully evinced by Edgar. He ac knowledges his father's weaknesses and goes to great lengths to help his father overcome his faults without shrinking from them or allowing them to remain.
In the
course of doing this f o r his father and for himself, Edgar is the most enigmatic
character in the play.
His mys t ery results from the fact that he is able to completely fulfill the advice he has given to his father.
Edgar is somehow able to ac cept nature, death, and birth . He is able to outface the winds and persecutions of
the sky, to lead his father to a false suicide thereby risking his father's actual
death, and to act always in accord with his responsibilities to and his unde rstanding
of his father .
51
50
�.:v!1u Ei_~l.ln_<h ~-::<2,'}$~nq_t.-. enpµr~.li ?-~ :1 W E111,, : -iP ,E(;paps b_~SC?-UP:ft _, Ri_qmun.?,.'s original situation is
1 .qar,~~r , tq '- ~~d't~· tz!1~~, )~:?-g'!l-,; ;~ .f?t~ (fS.9 .1(.9.ei~a , ca qn ~t. : P.9 ~t.: eith~;r l perhaps because she is
119..P ~,::f,a..y.~h~~· '1-11 · whth._, ,v;~.i;::~ue J 9o~egg;w,, ;· §h~ canl;lp~1 1 ....il}l!froy.is,~ , in her dealings with her
- ~,q.tp~r :>.W ._ i ,!;1. p . r; cr~p P0. ~8:e~r te± fwf1.. s1tu't-t~o~.,. 1 f;~ur:i~ ~~. :.tp,o\ ~ lexible . He gives up any
e
0 ~ftg>~~ .. ?-td~n~Hrn11c~ . !ll:DP ~al}ts ~,,B~s o,~ ru~§S . : w~;th.siut . ia , seyord thought . Cordelia, on
:. ~p,. e 5 q.~ h~,; r;I?-ar;yi~,~· i~) .. 11:qo ,, 9ti~~ a~d, ·:-,~poqeq ., J.O? : sa~911t ) up ;Lp her passive endurance to
" :fA?~}.~ ¥\.i'..-?t'r:~d · _
_:tirm<;1 ~·~.PJH:s. i~ : t_?~[ ~1egoy~p. t,p 1~0,~e :. -.:r;.ig9~ou~ ! standard of purity to be
~c gf? ie c-: t,.o ,,rEfsF><er8 ~s 0 n3r 1 rieA~u~~~qn ~..gerc:iQ.nd,s, <?-ri<;J., ..p~1p ._h,~:r: '~a~~er. ,and herself to ripeness.
Edgar's ripeness is interesting to me becq..µ,se ~~ s _eltls ,, .to know about ripeness from
e
.1 ~f:ie ~· "t!Ht .. <;i~Ch t_~1 te.aqh ,i, ~f f 11'?.r his _, J~1f!_ler t ,· I,t. 1 ,is q,s . :i if 1 be .k:qows that the only possible
:-i 5.~.P.?-YW~ 1:r;;t 1 h~ - ~~n ~ke . j:?,_; l.}i~\', •tfa;th~-:r;~; ..L o!_; h,a y"
f
incq.,, ,g-1-yern .. p~ri;i.,: l .~fe is to give his father
rg.eit.th1 BR:':- P r;Q£.~}~,Etri@ tbiP1.' j;.Qst bYi ·: ~~i:HUng )).}me. ,t ? tr:he.:_.J?oint where he can die com,,
.Yi
; ~. J?.tE; itr?: +~ riiJ?ie l° i«, ,§,9m~l;1;9,W- ..., he c,r~_P,.yfil,8 9 ~ , o.f ,'l the ,_; §R;n J ,e$.11lt,;:;,. from , the ripeness of the fat
~ (!rh~ ;t; ., 3 "! 1 , ,tlfiip.,~ · &,~a:t"' 1::~.~ - 1 . s,cµ,ne \I2,0~s,~I:? il. irty :~ T.X~.?:t: ed ·_. for.·_ Co ~~dylia and Lear : i f one had
been ripe in regard to the other, the other might have been led to ripeness. Their
I
foggiest are Rachel's mother's death and my cousin Sam's death.
What they endured,
whether they were ripe, whether their decisions were info rmed by clear vision or by
hopelessness, I will never know, and I have no way of finding out.
I
am certain
though, that Rachel and I have hope of ripeness, in respect to those who have left us
and to those who gave birth to us.
We will endure, and we will grow ripe, and our
ripeness will be enough .
~ a l;!-_u:r;~ , fh~ p.0 m1;1,tua.~ • <?;t;_l.~ ( j- aS 1,.Edga):" - and 1 · Glo,uc~.ster'. s s:uccess is mutual.
, '"' :.e,,t. ~~J?~f1:,Ss;·.- ~s . Rffy:>;ed ; by 1., E~4mt-F:· tf.o i 0louc~st~r :- a-s 1a,~ .c;Qif\fort .
It is a comforting
~)iq·Efp, b,,~c~~se_ i ~t. . ji ,!f . ~'?:t , .an ~ID,P,O§?Jbl~.... pne,.:
-Being : ripe-, q0es not r equire being com::PJ..,Efte).y, ,,, , q at. isf~EQ<;1,,_·; or ,:P .Ofl.\P;le:tely · ~a.I?P'Yr- i l ~ipeness " i~ •,, a •, J.C_omfort because it grows
H a~urall17 1 pu;t, q;f ,?_.li~ ,. po;r;,ro~s - and ,) OU·r
joys · , 1 • In:. order t,o be ripe, we must simply en.
.du,r~. . t:nd~r~ns~ ~, i ~ ,. r;tot:.~cqmp~etely.:- passj,ve; ·it .,i s · qu_ e .. p ossible to live through many
it_
j ,qys q.np, ,s orrows_ -W tihoµt be_
_:i
ing . ripened by them : .. Howeve r,· : endurance is not an impos_9,ih.l e d~pt~P.d 1 a:t;_1a _J,.-. 1 ,. vye mu,st. simply ;force .rqurselve1 1to ,be. aware of what is happening
*
s
t_ Lus. and, fo+c; e:r J 9'A13'se~v~s .-to , re,s pontj naturally .
o
., ,.•
1
,.
Ri.J;lER_n~w .s ;L s . ..f!.S IJ\Uc~:i., , a . result oj;: :0urr s_
uf.fe+ing as , it; is a comfort in the face of
,i _ . , 'I;'lt~ ) . less_,.we ,e:_;xp~rien9g r, . . 1 ap9.1 , t}:ie ~E?SS .fully we, allow . our.selves to experience the
t
events in our lives, the les~.,, ripe T-t~ 1wi].J.. _, g!OV{ . ·Qn .t he other hand , we can be shown
_ .e t,ruth p~i q~r. ctfXperiepi:re 1 ,~:f.te r ; it.: [la.s hap,pened,. , as Glqucester is.
:t;.f1.
Ripeness de P~f?.~ ;up.on tim~ 1.-,.:P,t!~ ·r.iP not . sub;:;e;rv_
ier:t; . to time ·.
Alt,hough ; we cannot be ripe without
. e,:>tP~;rie:µc~, 'V!c,e ~. san.... ;t>ecp!l\e.. 1 ,. .r_ip~ , rl _
ong<, jifte.r . our experief'.lc. s.
e
There are many kinds of
exp~!i-:~:r;iqe 1 ~.s ., w~;I.._!; ·. if . . . \fe t3) ,ook, .long . .nd: hardirCl.t th~ ·· books we read, we can be tempe red
a
~y ~ Pu! ; ~xperiep.~~ _
oJ, the.~ .. arid gro~ _mor~ r.~pe . because... of them •.
, ;· ·, ...~lte;r-e , care 1 "'t"fq~ _
waJlp, to; .!iea,d '-.' -q.ll:''. in ~'Ripen~ss is all... .
"All" may be some sort
of limiting word, saying something like, "Ripeness is the only thing we can hope for.
l.lt . ,i ,i:; ~;LJ .J, w_,e C}Ji~1 ,, ac:fiieve ., " . ,~ipenes~ .m ay ,9e a , stq.tement of fulfillment and compl.~t:ion,_: -, , "R;if), neRs _ s _
e
i all . ~e need- t9 achieve. To be ri,pe is to be a complete human
; be~ng . ", ]?oth :r;eadings maJse sense wi thqut contradicting each other .
Ripeness is all
}:hat a humap bE?in,g can hqp,e to . accomplish, and ripeness is the fulfillment of a human
beiµg. !'fuen _we a~e ripe, ~ we are complete.
·: I : spoke at tfhe . start a}?oµt, my hope that my e xplor ation of Edgar's words to his
fat,.};le:r: -. woulp , be . ':ls~fu,l .to , rqe .in .my ow11 con.text as .well as in the contex t of the play .
I will not s~~ . ~o~ t~is . explo~~tion has changed or will until time has passed and the
che3:~9e_~ have , happ~n.ed. ,. . ipeness .is something I can hope for, but not strive for .
R
Rachel spent that summer in her mother's house in an attempt to learn about her
mo :the:r and to .:fac,e the circumstances . of her own .birth and of her mother's death .
_
R~c.he.l is ~y age,. and she has much growing, learning, and experiencing before her .
I
am certai.n s~~- .'wi ,i 1 continue to endure ~ravely, and I respect her resolve.
-+ am .~1;:. ;i ll bitter toward my father, and he toward me . I do not know whether
,
~~ere ,, wi~l be ripeness between us, but I know . that the way toward ripeness is endur ance. with . in:t,eg~ity.
I know that. I will ripen i;f I do nCDt resent, and if I can keep
myse,1,f frol}l l('.e in.g . at odds with "the situation and from denying it.
r .u . , Five
yeari;:; ~ave pa!?.sed since the . surruner I spent with Rachel across the bay from
my father . , I ~ Dfl.Ve ne~ded the$e years to sift thr. ugh and begin tc see clearly the
o
things which happened then.
Some things will always be foqqy for me.
The two
ctr:_ag,~5
53
�To Molly in August 1986
An Examination of Aristotelian Awareness
David Walter
Fawn Trigg
As if we know sin too well
We blind the eyes with darkness
And let benign fingers do the seeing;
Because fingers desire, above all,
to feel what they see;
But eyes desire, above all,
to see what they feel.
"All men by nature desire understanding. A sign of this is their liking of sen sation "(Metaphysics 980a 20) .
This juxtaposition has always puzzled me. Why does the observation that we enjoy sensations illuminate the claim that we are of a certain nature, and that this
nature is to want to understand? Aristotle examines the question of our nature as
men not so much in the Metaphysics as in the third book of De Anima .
The initial
task of De Anima is to find what is common to all living things as living, to ask
what it means to be alive.* Iri the third book Aristotle focuses his search on what
is common to all men as men, to ask what it means to be a man.
Since man alone has
an intellect, and "intelligence, above all, is man," (Ethics 1178a 7) , the question
of what it means to be a man reads more specifically in De Anima as what it means to
have an intellect . Aristotle examines this question usi;g-the method of inquiry set
out at the beginning of the Physics (184a 17- 21) . He proceeds in De Anima from what
is more known and clearer to us, sensing, but also common to animal-;; to what belongs
only to men, knowing .
Sensation's role in coming to know is brought to light by his
search and so sheds some light on what it means to be knowing .
The stage is set for one of the comparisons between the simply animate and
sentient souls in the last chapter of Book II . Aristotle had discussed sensation in
terms of a general definition:
sensation is the receiving of the forms of sensible
objects without their matter (424a 18). In II . 12 he asks what is the difference be tween our being warm in the sun and plants' being warm, since in both of these cases
we could say a sensible form is received without its matter . To feel warm is different from being warmed, since in feeling warm we must sense, o r be aware, that we ·are
being warmed .
The sentient soul is not only affected, but also senses that it is .
In III . 2 he asserts that "we sense the fact that we are seeing or hearing . "
(425b
12) • The question for Aristotle is not "do we sense sensing?" but "what part of the
sentient soul senses sensation?* But to "sense sensing" he tells us, has several
meanings . While the ability to sense sensing is involved in the distinction between
what it means to be an animal and what it means to be a plant, it is not clear what
this awareness actually is.
This question remains. In III.4 Aristotle asserts, "the intellect is intelligi-
As if we know sin too well
We turn our backs toward it-Like Perseus, tracing the translucent
Image of Medusa in the smooth, handpolished
Cavity of his inverted shield-Because eyes,
seeing , may turn desire to stone .
And I imagine my hand r eturning to the lamp-Retracing its path in the just- darkness:
Wait, I want, for an instant to see
The obscured shape of ecstasy .
*If, indeed, there is something in common .
The definition of the soul at 412b 4 - 6
takes the form of a conditional sentence : "If, then, there is something common to be
said about every kind of soul, this would be : the first actuality of a natural body
which has organs ."
*A question for which he gives two answers :
in De Anima III
"
. so we should
assume that this first sense [vision or hearing]- senses itse1f."
(425b 18) and in
Sleeping and Waking "each sense possesses something which is special and which is
common .
. special to vision , for example, is seeing . . . but there is a common
power which accompanies them all, in virtue of which one senses that one is seeing or
hearing." (455a 12ff) .
54
55
�ble,"
(430 a 2) , and only explains when the intellect can know knowing, which is "after it has become several of i~objects."
(429b 10).
He mentions in the
Metaphysics in what way we come to s ense that we se nse and know that we know:
"knowledge and sensation are always o f other objects and only incidentally of themselves."
(1074b 35-36).
It is not clear what this awareness is.
Is this awareness
of knowing vital to what it means to be a man as a man and not as an animal, as
sentient awareness was vital in II .12 in distinguishing between an animal and a
plant?
Just as Aristotle does not explicitly discuss awareness , he does not explicitly
compare sensing sensing and knowing knowing. To find what sensing sensing and knowing knowing could be, to be able to compare them in the c ontext of this question, we
need first find out what kind of sensing and what kind of knowing Aristotle says we
sense and know .
s ensing sensing and knowing knowing are mentio ned in discussions focused on one
kind o f activity.
This activity is the being at one o f the objects of sense and
knowledge with the faculties of sensation or knowing.* In II.2 after he asserts that
we sense sensing, Aristotle discusses the activity of sensing:
"The activity of ·t he
sensible object and the activity of sensation [o f it ] are one and the same . "
(425a
26) .
He makes a similar conclusi on in III . 4, before stating we can know knowing,
that the "intel lect become s each intelligible object . "
(429b 6) .
Late in the
chapter Aristotle explains that "the intellect is intelligible," (43 0 a 2), by saying,
"that which thinks and that which is being thought are the same . "
(430a 4 ) .
This actuality of being at one rests o n Aristo tle's notion of the potentiality
and actuality of the s o ul . The faculties o f sensation and intellect exist in a state
of potentiality (417a 7, 429a 23). The sensible object is a particular which e x ists
apar t f r om the soul ; the knowable object is a universal which exists in the soul i n
some manner (417b 23) .
The potentially sensing facult y and the potentially knowing
fa culty are in some way similar to their obj ects and are affected by the activity of
their objects (429a 17 - 18) .
The activity occurs in t hat which is changing f r om
potentiality to actuality . The activity of the obj ect is the ac t ivity of the faculty .
They are one in that activity.
This change fr om the faculty existing potentially to becoming actual is a par ticular kind of change , because the faculty even while existing potentially is complete. So when actualized, it is not altered (431a 5- 8) . The faculty's change f r om
potentially sensing to actually sensing i s like the change a hammer undergoes when it
is put to work . The hammer is no t added to or subtracted from .
The hammer is complete, but becomes actually a hammer, because it is at work being a pounder of nails .
This kin d of change i s con t ras t ed with the chang e of mo tion whi ch "is t he ac t ua l ity
(43l a 7). The change involved in the pile of lumber in the
o f what is incomplete."
process of being built into the house is a motion (Metaphysics 1066a 7) .
The activity of being at one is the same for the sensing and know i ng souls , except the different faculties apprehend different kinds of objects . Nonetheless , the
objects a re analogous, insofar as they are objects of which apprehensi on can neve r be
false . Aristotle distinguishes two activities of the intellect, the forming of p r oposit i ons which may be true o r false, and the apprehension o f indivisibles . The sec ond is neither true nor false, except by equivocation. Apprehension of them would be
true, non- apprehension would not be true, and neither could be o therwise (Metaphysics
1 0 51b 22 - 26 ) .
Aristotle draws the comparison between this infallibility of the
intellective soul and that of the sentient:
An assertion, like an affirmation, is of something about
something else and in every case it is true or false. But the
intellect is not in every case of this sort . If it is a whatness
with respect to essence, it is true, and is not something about
something else; and just as seeing a proper sensible is true,
whereas that the white thing is a man (or is not a man) is not
always true .
(430b 27-31)
Knowing is then like sensing when apprehending, for they are both identical with the
object about which there can be no mistake .*
Then is knowing this kind of knowing similar to sensing this kind of sensing?
Perhaps it is acceptable to begin with a tentative yes, since sensing and knowing are
similar ways of being at one . The activity would have itself in activity as the object of its own activity .
That is, the sentient and intellective souls can be
self-aware.
There are problems with this account . $ince the first and second activities can
be simultaneous, how is it possible for the sentient or intellective faculty to be
both the object of the faculty in its being at one and the faculty which is also
aware of the object? Is this not demanding the faculty to be both one and two at the
same time?
Aristotle considers and rejects the possibility that there is a second faculty
which is aware of sensing .
If a second faculty is required to sense the second, ad
infinitum (425b 17-18) .
In re jecting this, Aristotle shows that he considers
sentient and intellective awareness as, necessarily, self - awareness .
If being aware
of sensing and knowing were the only consideration, he could have ended the regression by positing a single faculty which could be aware of sensing and knowing,
but not of itself .
The alternative is strange , that the -sentient and intellective soul be neces sarily both one and two at the same time.
But Aristotle, in the same chapters in
which he mentions awareness, discusses the discriminating faculty which also r equi res
the soul to be both one and two at the same time .
"The faculty which asserts diffe rence must be one " (426b 20) and two for "it is impossible that the same faculty
should be moved at the same time by contrary movements ."
( 426b 24) • The fa cul ties
of sensing and knowing could be of this same fundamental doubleness .
Insofar as the
faculty is at one with its object, it is one faculty; insofar as it is both the object and the faculty it is two . Without this doubleness, sensation would be nothing
more than the receiving of the for~s of sensible objects without their matter, and
*Be caus e the intellect "must exist without being blended" (4 29a 19 ) , and sense cannot, the f acul ty of sensation's being at one with an object entails the actualization
o f both an organ and a faculty, which are one in that actualization "numerically .. .
but the essence of each is different . " (424a 25 ) .
*Perhaps the reason for thei r respective infallibility could be something like this:
We know "the intellect should be related to the object of thought in a manner similar to that in which a sense is related to its sensible object, (429a 17- 18), and the
faculty is actualized insofar as it is like the object in activity.
The sense faculty and direct sensibles are essentially blended with matter .
Indi rect sensible are essences of objects which are directly sensed .
Since essence is
not essentially material, although not separate or separable from material things,
the apprehension of it by the essentially material faculty could be false.
Objects of the intellect are undivided or indivisible universals and irrunaterial,
whether by abstraction or as "the dispositions and attributes of sensible objects ."
(432a 5) .
The intellect also exists as simple and unblended with matter .
Affirmations and denials are not simple, so the assertion of these by a fundamentally simple faculty could be false .
56
57
�there would be no difference between being warmed and feeling warmed, or between being animate and sentient. Is it possible for the sentient soul to be warmed and not
feel warm; that is, is it necessary that the soul be aware of its activity?
Aristotle answers this directly in the case of the intellect:
"whenever the
intellect has become several of its objects .
. then it is capable ( sUvatcn ) of
thinking of itself . " (429b 5- 10) .
Although Aristotle does not make the analogous
statement for the sentient soul, it is not difficult to provide examples of sensing
without being self- aware .
City dwellers become oblivious to street noise, and are
not aware of it until a snowfall when everything is quiet .
I can be absorbed in a
book and not hear my name called nearby . We are not necessarily knowing knowing when
knowing and there seem examples of not sensing sensing when sensing . If awareness is
not necessarily concomitant with apprehension, does the original understanding of
what it means to be aware require broadening? Is ac t u a l appr ehension even necessary
for awar eness?
The answer seems characteristically Aristotelian, for it seems both yes and no .
Aristotle gives an example of awareness of the soul when not at one : when we do not
see, it is by vision that we discern darkness (425b 22) . The city dwellers are aware
of the absence of noise . The intellective soul has analogous experiences : I know I
do not know how to fix my car.
I need not be successfully apprehending to be
sentiently or intellectively self- aware .
What could I be aware of when aware of
non- apprehension?
Comparing
these
awarenesses
of
non - apprehension
to
unawareness
of
non- apprehension makes this clearer . An example of the latter is that I do not sense
that I am not seeing ultraviolet light. Another is that I would not have known that
I did not know about automotive mechanics if I had lived befor e there was such a
thing as an automobile (and its internal mishaps) . I would not have known that I did
not know about automotive mechanics .
I do not try to sense ultraviolet light and I
would not have tried to know how to fix cars before there were such things. When I
am aware that I do not see or do not know, I am aware of trying and failing .
I try
to see light; I do not; I call i t d arknes s.
I try t o know how to fix the car ; I do
not; I call it ignorance .
I must hold the actual seeing o f t h e light and knowing of
mechanics to be possible in order for me to try to see or know . To be aware o f these
attempts as failures , I must be awa r e of having actually sensed or actually known .
It is possible to be aware of having sensed or known, because after sensation a
sense impr ession o r image remains in the soul even after the object is gone (425b
25) .
After knowing, the soul possesses knowledge . The soul i s a ce r tain way after
apprehension , which al though different f r om its appr ehending way , i s not nothing .
Actual
apprehension
is
necessary
fo r
a warenes s ,
even
the
awareness
of
non- appr ehension .
The soul seems to have two opportunities fo r awar enes s, p r imar i ly in its infallible apprehension of objects, and afte r t h at i n its att empts and failures to
apprehend .
It is not necessary to be a ware whe n a pp rehend i n g, as the New York e r is
not necessar ily aware of street noise ; no r i s it necessa r y to be awa r e of
non- apprehending , as I am not aware of ultr a v iolet light .
The sou l' s awareness o f
apprehending o r not is only potenti al during thes e activities .
In On Sleeping and
Walking, this awareness is a " ~uvoµ.1lS' . . . in virtue o f which one perceives that one
is seeing and hearing."
(455a 12) .
Th i s potential for awarene ss is in the sou l 's
ability t o be at one with an obje ct. The actuality of this potential seems an activity and not a motion, for awareness is complete and an end in itself .*
*Speculation about awareness being an actuality seems to demand speculation on how it
came to be in activity . The change from potentiality to actuality requires there be
something in activity which effects the change, something actually aware . The burden
58
It also seems that the awareness of apprehending and of non- apprehending are
dissimilar . The soul's awareness of being at one while being at one with an object
is a different awareness from the Soul's awareness of not being at one with an
object. Awareness of apprehension is an awareness of two separate potentialities as
one actuality . Aristotle explains the activity this way :
The activity of the sensible object and the activity of sensation
[of it] are one and the same, but the essence of each is not the
same . I mean, for e x ample , that the actual sound and the actual
hearing of it are one and the same, for a man may have hearing
and not be hearing, and that which has sound is not always
sounding . But when that which can hear and that which can sound
is actually sounding, then the actual hearing and the actual
sounding occur simultaneously , and one might say that these two
are hearing and sounding respectively .
(425b 22ff)
An awar eness of this activity would be an awareness of two as actually one, of both
hearing and sounding . The awa r eness of not being at one is an awareness "in a dif ferent manner . "
(425b 22) . Not seeing or knowing is still an undivided whole , but
in compar ison to another whole , actually seeing or knowing . At stake in these different shades o f awareness a r e different kinds of discrimination , for Aristotle seems
to find the activity of awareness as the root of discrimination .
The closeness of
these activities is persuaded by the fundamental doubleness required of the soul fo r
both of them , and b y thei r ties in the te x t .
An awareness of having b e en at one alre ady implies a distinction between two
wholes .
Ar istotle begins III . 2 a sserting sensing sensing, then explains that "' to
sense by vision ' does not only have one meaning , for even when we do not see , it is
by vision we discr i minate darknes s and light . "
(425b 21 - ~2) . . ~ 'To .sense by vision"
can not only be awar eness , but disc r imination.
These discriminations between two
things , such as light and darkness , a r e called sentient discriminations .
This dis c r iminating faculty also "discr iminate s things not in the same genus , [white , sweet]
in the same manne r in which it disc r iminates contraries [darkness , light] . "
(43la
24) . The faculty also di s c r iminates ma t hematical magnitudes , which for Ar istotle a re
only aspects of sensible objects cons i de r ed separately(431b 13) .
.
There is a s econd disc r iminating power which distinguishes between a magnitude
and its essence (429b 10). Th i s f a culty, when p r esented with triangular things can
discriminate thei r essence a s t r iangular , and when p r esented with triangles can discriminate what it means to be a triangle.
Immedia te l y a f ter the passage in III . 4
which mentions k nowing knowing , Ar i s totle discusses this kind of discrimination .
It
is aga i n explained in III . 7, with a p r ominent discussion of the identity of the fac ulty and object in activ ity .
.
This suggests that ·the second kind of discrimination, like the fi:st, is re~ated
to awareness .
In this case the awareness , which is of being at one with the obJect ,
is an awareness of a whole without comparison to other wholes .
Since this activity
is the simultaneous actuality of t he two ·potentialities , it seems possible to be
aware both of the sounding of the object and the hea r ing of the obj ect, which a l though are numer i cally one are in essence two .
In being aware in this way , the soul
of this actual activity seems to come to rest at the feet of the prime mover, who is
nothing but knowing knowing . I do not know what it means to say such a thing, and I
can only observe that this actuality which seems required is already present in
Aristotle's system .
59
�is aware of an object which differs with each particular sensation , and is aware of
the faculty which remains the same . This is similar to the process of discrimination
between a thing and its essence . The soul presented with specific things can come to
find that by virtue of which a thing can be taken as undivided .
For these particulars there is one universal, which is not separate f r om the part iculars but numerically one with them . This is the universal "being one beside the many, which would
be one and the same in all of them [particular sensations] ."
(Posterior Analytics
lOOa 7-8) . *
While one of these discriminations is called sentient and the other is not, both
must be rooted in sentient awareness.
Since all knowledge has its origin in sensation, knowable objects must be found in particular sensations (432a 5) .
If discrimination is what finds these knowable objects in sensation, intellective apprehension cannot be prior to it.
The question-what is at stake in sensing sensing- then receives two answers . The
first is the soul's awareness of itself as sentient, of itself as animal rather than
plant.
Sensation is not only liked for its own sake, as Aristotle obserues further
in the opening paragraph of the Metaphysics, but is necessary for understanding .
This second answer is that sentient awareness is necessary for discrimination and so
is necessary for finding knowable objects .
Sensation's part in corning to know not
only provides the particulars in which we find the knowable universals, but is the
foundation for the discrimination for finding these universals.
Is the question, what is at stake in knowing knowing, in turn illuminated by
sensing sensing? Is it, like the fundamental meaning of sensing sensing, the soul's
awareness of itself as a knower? Is it again something which rests on this activity,
the way discrimination does on sentient awareness?
The text supports both questions:
"only after it [the intellect ] has become
several of its objects
does it have the potential to know itself."
(429b
5-10).
In the second question, knowing knowing would mean knowing what it means to
know . After the intellect has become several of its objects , it has the potential to
discriminate between these particular instances of knowing and the universal of what
it means to know.
For the first question, knowing knowing would be similar to the most fundamental
sensing sensing, and would mean knowing one's self as a knowing being . The intellect
must become several of its objects, not in order to have fuel for discrimination, but
to become fully 'developed .
The beginning of the sentence from which the quotation
was taken reads :
several things , as being a scientist implies knowing more than one thing about sci ence.
This second explanation would be similar to the fundamental sensing sensing, if
this becoming of several objects were like the sentient soul's waking up .
If being
awake is the sentient soul's most fundamental way of being aware, then waking up
could mean becoming aware.
If knowing one's self as a knower is the most fundamental
way of the intellective soul's being aware , then the apprehending of these several
objects is the same becoming aware . These two explanations of a more fundamental and
derivative awaren~ss are not exclusive; nothing prevents being aware of being a
knower and also being aware of what it means to know .
If one o f Aristotle 's aims in Book III of De Anirna is to ask of the intellective
soul something similar to what he asks of the soul in gen~ral, he is looking for
something common to all men insofar as they are men. The answer he may give is that
we are men because of our intellects, but just to have an intellect is as good as
being asleep .* We are awake when we know ourselves as knowers.
Aristotle tells us
in the Ethics that the intellect is man, and "it would seem strange if a man did not
choose the life proper to himself but that proper to another . "
(1178a 4) .
This is
not Aristotle's exhortation on the best life to live, but his examination of what a
life for man means.
Whenever the intellect has become several of its objects, in the
sense in which we speak of a scientist when he is actually a
·scientist (and this occurs when a scientist can exercise his
knowledge by himself . . . ) (429b 5-8 ) .
It may be the case that a scientist cannot think by himself as a scientist, and consequently cannot be a scientist until he has learned and can exercise several things
about science.
Knowing one's self as a knower could only be the result of knowing
*I have a speculation about the analogy which Aristotle uses to illustrate this in De
Anima. The analogy is as a bent line is to a bent line when straightened out, so is
sentient discrimination to intellective discrimination .
( 429b 18) .
The bent line /
even as an object of abstraction, can have infinite permutations, since it could incline at an infinite number of different angles .
There can be only one straight
line . The unbending finds within each line, not somewhere else, what is the same for
all bent lines, not the particular bend but the universal line .
60
*"A man who sleeps all his life lives like a plant . "
61
(Ethics 1176a 35).
�The Steeds of Hippolytos
Andrew Grablewski
The play Hippolytos by Euripides can be seen to have at its core a fundamental
concern with the struggle between humanity and certain natural forces.
Nature is
such an important element in Hippolytos that at times the play seems to overflow with
it.
The imagery used is one of animals: bulls, birds, bees, and horses.
We are
presented with meadows, flowers and oceans.
Even the gods who appear in the play
seem at times to be more representative of nature's powers than of divine will. Nature's powers are the principles of creations and destruction with indifference to
human concerns.
What seems to emerge gradually in the play is a theory about the
nature of the universe.
This is what is really at stake in the play.
Euripides,
like Plato in the Timaeus, and Lucretius in De Rerum Natura, tries to present us with
a sort of system to describe the way things work. The system is revealed through the
actions of the characters, and the characters are to be judged by the extent to which
they understand the essence of nature.
Iri contrast to the other systems, however,
man is in conflict with nature. The three major characters in the play are defeated,
humbled, and at last destroyed by nature. At the end, however, man uses what is essential to his being to shout down the power of the gods and to triumph over the
forces of nature which at first appeared inopposable .
Hippolytos is the most important character in the play . There are several reasons why this is so .
It is a flaw in his personality which produces the conflict of
the play . His scorn f o r the love of women and physical pass i on offends the goddess
Aphrodite who induces in Phaidra, his stepmother , an insatiable passion for him . His
decision to reject Phaidra ' s passion as · communicated by her nurse leads her to sui cide and a false char ge of rape .
Finally, in his death and r e c onciliation with
Theseus, the play is resolved in some sense with t he satisfaction o f the goddess in
her revenge .
The character of Hippolytos is problematic .
As the audience of the
play, we are made to feel somewhat ambivalent towa r ds him .
However , he has in his
favor many of the qualities admired in the philosophical dialogues . He appea r s to be
a man of reason .
He shuns the pleasu r es of the body and fa v ors comp anionship with
Ar t e mis , godde ss of the hunt , and the s ociety of other vi r tuous me n . Thr oughout the
play , his actions at least a r e indisputably jus t , and he a t t e mpts t o solve his
problems through r eason and persuasion .
On the o t he r hand , his dislike of women and
his scorn for love do not seem like admirable quali t ies . In th i s sense his characte r
appear s unbalanced . His love of sophrosune is clear ly more a love f or the quality of
chastity than a love for the othe r sense of the word as a quality of mode r ation and
balance . Most of us prefer to see Phaid r a as the sympathetic character of the play .
To me, however, Hippolytos is the sympathetic , t r agic , and finally heroic fig ure .
His flaw is not so much an imbalance as total ignorance of the laws of nature
around him and within himsel f.
He maintains this ignorance up to the end o f his
life .
In dying, not only does he refuse to succumb to the will of the gods, but he
also achieves a victory for humanity by showing the value of virtue .
Phaidra , too,
escapes nature, but her legacy is one of deceit and evil .
Hippolytos' ignorance of the character of nature , or more properly his misunderstanding of it, is revealed in his first speech as he dedicates a wreath to Artemis :
62
I have brought you this green crown,
goddess, fresh from the scene
where I spliced its flowers together
a meadow as virginal as you are,
where no shepherd would think it wise
to pasture his animals, a perfect field
no iron blade has yet cut down.
Only the bees looking for flower~ in spring
go freely through its cut grass.
This passage shows his great misunderstanding. He sees the beauty of nature, but he
attributes something to it which is other than its nature, that is, the human virtue
of chastity . Hippolytos fails to see the bees as agents of procreation . Instead, he
sees himself as being similar to an insect, attributing a quality to it which it
doesn't have. Shortly after this passage he makes another revealing statement. When
asked if the gods are pleased by genial souls he answers with total confidence, Yes,
if gods and humans
share the same inner
')
logic . ~
In his close companionship with Artemis, he has a false idea of both the nature of
god and of man . He thinks himself above what is congruent with the nature of humani ty, while assuming the gods to value human virtues.
However in the universe created
by Euripides, virtue is clearly a quality that has value for man alone.
The gods
enjoy the worship of humans and feel their slights, but to carry out their will they
are just as ready to sacrifice the just as the unjust . Aphrodite states,
That Phaidra dies
I regret , but not so much that I
would relinquish th~s great chance
to strike my enemy .
Hippolytos does not scorn the goddess completely, but he worships her distantly without emotion . To men this type of intellectual deference to the power of god may appear sufficient, but it is totally foreign to the nature of the gods who are satisfied only with,
payment in the god's coin .
4
Therefore, Hippolytos' nature is one of virtue .
However, he assumes that what
he considers virtue has a worth ~n the external world .
He seems himself as approx imating the divine through his virtue, when in fact he is virtuous only in so far as
he is human .
In Plato's Timaeus, it seems evident that the qualities of virtue and
beauty exist externally .
He seems to assume that the universe must reflect virtue
and moderation, since these are the best qualities .
But perhaps it is just as
erroneous on Plato's part to assume that these qualities have any relation to nature
at all . He assumes that these qualities are pa r t of the nature of man which we use
to order the universe rather than universal principles which man must strive to
partake of in order to reach his highest state .
Ironically, it is just the best part
of Hippolytos' nature which brings about his doom .
For it seems that his objection
to the offer made by Phaidra's nurse is solely due to the shame of it being from a
relative, as well as being crime against a man whom Hippolytos clearly loves and has
every reason to admire .
It is not due to an unnatural hatred of women, even though
he expresses such a hatred in reaction to the offer .
His refusal js clearly an act
63
�of virtue. He in fact could not act otherwise, since his nature is that of virtue.
So in his ~efu~al, his artificial nature, which is virtue, triumphs over his bestial
nature • . His vir~ue seems artificial because it seems cultivated and due to the fact
that he is a rational man, but this nature need not be thought of as inferior to other natures .
In fact his nature, like an unstoppable flood, forces his actions as the
natures of the other characters force them into action.
He cannot even violate his
nature to save his life.
Here I am, revering you, gods,
and yet it's you forcing my ruin. 5
The tragedy of Hippolytos is that he assumes that his virtuous and rational naThis does not happen because once again
his view of the universal system is other than its reality .
He overlooks the irrational and unjust side of nature as he had earlier refused to see its element of
sexuality·
Theseus, upon returning home and finding his wife dead with a suicide
note accusing Hippolytos of rape, is driven by his own nature for revenge.
Hippolytos pleads for law and justice:
t~re ';ill somehow s.ave him from destruction.
At least
won't you let time lay the facts
before you in my behalf?
'
'
'
T ime is our on 1 y incorruptible witness . 6
Law and justice are perhaps the only two things that could restrain the wild onrush
of human ?ature, ~owever imperfectly.
But in Hippolytos these do not seem to play
any part in the universe as a whole or in the state. Theseus refuses even to address
him in the se~ond person; much less is he prepared to listen to Hippolytos argue his
innocence .
Hippolytos is heroic in his persistence . His nature will not allow him
to abandon hope that reason will vindicate him, as it will not allow him to save
himself by betraying his oath to the nurse .
His arguments have g r eat credibility .
At the end however, not even unreasonable arguments can save him.
If only this calm intimate house
could speak for me and say fairly
if there's anything vile in my blood. 7
In effect , Hippolytos calls upon the mute to persuade the deaf, since Theseus'
conclusion was reached beforehand and cannot be alte red by persuasion . As Hippolytos
is banished, the chorus grieves,
When we imagine ourselves in the god's care,
our troubled souls are inunensely reassured .
But when deep inside us we struggle to make
rational sense of our lives
frustration strikes from all the erratic
crisscrossing paths of reality:
man's life is volatile; it will not run clear
and reveal its essence. 8
By the failure of virtue and reason to withstand the blind force of Theseus' nature
the just man is f o rced out and injustice and irrationality are victorious .
If thes~
forces are supreme, the nature o f the universe has been revealed.
It is not as in
the Timaeus, characterized by reason, justice, aod harmony, but by their opposites :
randomness, disorder and irrationality.
Faced with such a uni verse, man has two
options . Either we put our trust in god or surrender to the random forces of nature.
Neither choice allows us free will. Either we are dominated by the whims of the gods
or by the chance outcome of blind fate. Either way, as long as we live, we are driven by the forces of nature to our final end. The course of our lives cannot be de termined or revealed by reason.
In this play, Hippolytos is doomed by chance and nature.
It is hard to see what
actions, if any, could have saved him from ultimate destruction.
He is destroyed by
his nature which will not allow him to do an unjust act, and by chance external
forces.
It can be argued that he is somewhat to blame because of his slighting of
the goddess, but her actions seem extreme and arbitrary. At the end of the play, he
is destroyed by nature in a literal sense when he is dragged by his horses after they
a r e frightened by the bull of Poseidon.
Even at this point, he is convinced of the
rational order of nature. He calls out pathetically to his team,
Stop!
Stop!
You mares, .• y~u were my children!
Don't kill me!
Does he imagine that even they are capable of being persuaded? Or does he endow them
with the human property of gratitude? And what of the fact that he looks upon them
as his children? Once again his view of nature is totally different from reality.
He sees his horses as humans just as he confounds his own nature with that of the
gods. He cannot see nature at large as being other than his own nature.
He cannot
imagine a uni verse in which the causes of actions are so obscure as to be either
incomprehensible or nonexistent . He cannot imagine that the virtuous are to suffer
along with, or even instead of, the unvirtuous.
Well, I see my death-it's ineluctable,
it's downhill, and it's black.
All the good I did men through
the love of god evaporates now.
It adds up to nothing ...
Why me? I have not d~Be one wrong
act in my whole life.
Only in his last moments does he come to some realization of the external powers
which have destroyed him.
I wish we men could curse god's11
curse and destroy those killers from our graves.
His impotent rage and threats reveal that he still retains his distorted view of his
nature, as if the eternal gods could be destroyed by a dying man's wish.
To even
consider the possibility of such a thing coming to pass is ludicrous.
In contrast to Hippolytos is the character of Phaidra. Phaidra seems to realize
from the beginning that the only way to def eat the passion in her nature and preserve
her honor is for her to destroy herself. She is aware of
a compulsion that's been ~~sery
for the women of my clan.
which is her mother's passion for a bull ana her sister's for Dionysios.
She is
equally aware of the same elements in her own nature which compel her towards forbid-
65
64
�den love.
Phaidra knows her nature; her only problem is to decide whether to indulge it
and remain alive, or die and preserve her reputation for virtue . Her nurse takes the
position that total virtue is unobtainable.
The forces that compel us forward are
too powerful to resist.
To spend your life in a neurotic drive
for perfection is simply not worth it.
Look at the roof of your own house.
Is there a single timber not slightly askew?
As a roof it's a great success.
Sexual passion is a big rough sea
and not something you, especially
your frail majesty can swim through.
The best that you, like any person, can hope for in
life, is a little more good luck than bad.
It's high time Phaidra, to drop your crazy talk of suicide.
No more conceit , for it's ungodly conceit
to imagine you can win, when you fight
the powers who control your whole being . 13
But the nurse's plan ends in disaster because she fails to recognize that along
with the irrational driving forces that exist in the natures of most people, there is
an .opposite force that compels them towards virtue, or at least toward making an
effort to protect their reputations.
The nurse fails to recognize this trait in
Hippolytos which will prohibit his accepting her offer . She also fails to recognize
that Phaidra has this trait as well.
Phaidra cannot endure even one person knowing
the secret of he~ true nature, even if that person is bound by oath to keep silent.
The nurse is as ignorant of this aspect of human nature as Hippolytos is of the other
irrational side . Phaidra is the only character in the play who has an idea of both.
Phaidra realizes that the only outcome of the conflict between the two forces in her
nature is her death.
The death will frighten me.
On this day, gone from my life,
I will at last delight you, Aphrodite . 14
Only now, the forces in her nature demand that Hippolytos also die to preserve he r
secret and her children's future.
In Hippolytos, we are presented with a universe in which man is bowed by awesome
forces beyond his understanding. But the one aspect of man's nature that allows his
freedom is his mortality.
Death , like nature, pe r vades the play, touching all the
characters.
It is always seen as a force for the liberation of humanity.
By death
man may somehow transcend nature and destiny . As the chorus says,
This is clearly a wish for death.
similar:
Theseus'
I feel your life as vanishing
from my cradling hands,
leaping like a pulse of feathers,
16
a bird alighting in the underworld .
In both, the dead soul is compared to a bird flying in freedom from the forces of
nature . And Artemis comforts Hippolytos as he dies:
Get wings, fly off into a bird's safe life,
to keep your feet from miring
in this polluted anguish.
There are no men
.
who would ask you to share t h eir l'
ives . 17
Death is the one quality that seems to separate mortals completely from the gods .
Death is so alien to the nature of the gods that they are unable to bear even watching the death of a mortal .
In the universe of the Hippolytos, death is the only means by which the guilty
are punished. Artemis cannot save the life of Hippolytos; she can only promise the
satisfaction of revenge by bringing death to a favorite of Aphrodite .
Even though Hippolytos has lost his life, his death is his triumph over the
forces which resulted in his destruction. For by his death we gain the realization
that, though we are slaves to chance and nature, their hold over us is only for a
finite amount of time.
By posthumosly granting Hippolytos the status of hero,
Artemis has vindicated his belief in virtue.
Virtue is transformed to an external
quality by the eternal honor paid to Hippolytos .
In the sense that virtue continues
to be honored among men, it ceases to be only a part of his individual nature and
becomes the common property of all . Hippolytos' death not only results in the restoration of harmony in his family, but in a new sense of order in the world.
Man no
longer seems helpless in the face of the gods. Virtue has triumphed even in an irrational universe . The gods are exposed for what they are.
Athens, you will have your splendor, but never again
the splendor of this man you lose.
Aphrodite , I have not heart fof your graces .
8
I remember only your savagery .
It would be good to arrive in the mountains,
poised in a secret recess on the rock facea god there might give me an airborne lightness,
make me a bird arnoung the other high floating creatures;
My flight will at last touch down on the
Hesperian shore that gentle garden where apples thrive
1
and girls sing. 5
66
description of Phaidra's death is very
67
�All notes refer to the Robert Bagg Translation in the series of New Greek Tragedy in
Modern Translations
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
On Reading W.H. Auden's After Reading A Child's Guide To
Modern Physics. Too Late For Him To Answer
James Beall
112-121
153-154
29-83
176
1648-1649
1626-1629
1675-1677
1728-1735
1889-1890
2069-2092
2138-2139
525-526
721-736
1108-1110
1120-1137
1164-1167
1960-1964
2205-2208
You should have known that metaphors are zoos
used to cage the animals of creation.
Instead, we find confused in you
a faint nebulosity of irritation.
Caged, each moves within the finite
knots of a path--no one to lead us.
Here and there, vague symbols unite
or sprout in air as if to feed us.
If somewhere rings some law or regularity
stroking a vast sweep of remnant star
to make it sing, we might not see
it true as our own heat. Yet are
these laws not metaphors for lust?
Created in the furnace of our brains
they come to light and whirl us. In their dust,
contrite and incubating, we have lain.
69
68
�Cycadia
James Beall
Cycadia, these the same
low boil into the building hiss
rising unto the jet's wail.
It the same, hence years will make
no difference . The heat encompassed
in its vail of air gathers us
like love's holding loose and slick .
Our bodies, then, are our bodies,
and
But
yet
and
love the metaphor for air .
if insubstantial, still if fluid
the holding forms a strange
cyclic music , movements r emnant
of a forme r self , used ,
translucent beneath trees .
70
�
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Macfarland, Joseph C.
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r
FALL 1987
�ENERGEIA: The activity in which anything is fully itself.
it ... vou
EVEpyEta ~wit
...
(Aristotle's Metaphysics, 1072b)
Cover:
"IMPRESSIONS OF A POLISH ARTIST"
by Patricia Dawson
Acrylic Painting
Photographed by Greg Ferguson
Printed by the
St. John's College Press
St. John's College
Annapolis, Maryland
Staff:
Rachel Boyce
Anne Carpenter
Carloss Chamberlain
Jana Giles
Glenn Haya
Erika Hoffman
Daniel Hoh
Michael McShane
Ange Mlinko
Kenneth Paradis
Dwayne Rodgers
Sarah Waters
Co-Editors:
Laurie Cooper
Rhonda Datcher
Faculty Advisor:
Henry Higuera
Energeia is a non-profit, student magazine which is published three times a year
and distributed among the students, faculty, alumni, and staff of St. John's
College, Annapolis. The Energeia staff welcomes submissipns from all members of
the community-poems, stories, essays, artwork, photographs, original math
proofs, and the like.
�CONTENTS
BEFORE FIRST SEMINAR
Beth Cross
1
PRIZE-WINNING SENIOR ESSAY (ANNAPOLIS)
PENTHESILIA: -A LOVE AFFAIR WITH
ACHILLES-BELONGING AND HAPPINESS IN
THE WORLD
Catherine Irvine
2
ON THE SONNET
Daniel Hoh
35
CONVERSATION #4
Brian Cole
35
UNTITLED
Dwayne Rodgers
36
IOCASTA'S SONG
Rachel Duel
37
ON MECHANICS, GEOMETRY, AND NEWTON'S
CONCEPT OF GOD; OR, AN ATTEMPT TO READ
THE PRINCIPIA AS A PHILOSOPHICAL WORK
Jana Giles
38
CARTESIAN EQUATIONS FOR RECTILINEAR
FIGURES
Kim Paffenroth
43
IMAGINARY GEOMETRY?
Marcus Eubanks
47
THE BUS RIDE
Jennifer Mischer
48
THE PASSION
Ange Mlinko
50
THE DEATH OF ROMEO
Erika Wilson
51
ARIADNE ASHORE
Claudia Probst
52
CONVERSATIONS WITH THE MOON
Beth Cross
53
PRIZE-WINNING JUNIOR ESSAY (ANNAPOLIS)
REFLECTIONS ON LEIBNIZIAN SUBSTANCE
Robert Demajistre
55
AT CALVERT CLIFFS
Gretchen Berg
64
UNTITLED
Anne Carpenter
64
THE CONVERSATION
Adam Eggers
65
BRIDGE
Tequila Brooks
66
IN THE BLACK
Patricia Dawson
67
HONORABLE MENTION-FRESHMAN ESSAY
(ANNAPOLIS) A DISSCUSSION OF JUSTICE
AND ITS EVOLUTION IN AESCHYLUS'
ORESTEIA TRILOGY
Kenneth Paradis
68
A LETTER FROM AN ALUMNUS
79
�-----~-~------------------------------- --------
Before First Seminar
Beth Cross ('88)
The evening from solid stone
rises s o sure of itself
that our footsteps only echoe,
the blue that does not stir
with out passing words.
In the twilight our ideas
fold into themselves,
their impression forms
silent curves in the conversations
held under the twinkling sillhouettes
of locust leaves .
What we cover in our eyes
what is hidden from our gaze,
the night already knows
as if whispered far out at sea
where the tide unbridled
decides its heav ing weight
in favor of the shore--a balance,
returning
We are returning
t o each other ' s ta l k
to the quiet of well- lighted rooms
where behind straight back chairs
black ·rectangles of night
hang listening.
We bend
with intent and pending breath
to the voyage.
1
�Penthesilia: -A Love Affair With AchillesBelonging and Happiness in the World
Catherine Irvine ('87)
My essay is concerned with finding happiness in the world. In The Nicomachean
Ethics, Aristotle tells us, "all knowledge and every pursuit aims at some good.
Verbally there is very general agreement; for both the general run of men and people
of superior refinement say that it is happiness " (Bk. I, Ch . 3 : l i nes 13-21). He
goes on to say that the nature of happiness, however, is not so easily agreed upon.
I can only offer a personal thought: happiness is a contentment which is achieved
when an individual is in harmony with himself and has gained the things he deems are
important for him. I may perhaps be forgiven for the vague character of my def inition, since it is not happiness that I want to explore. I would like to show that
the ability to be happy depends upon an important relationship:
an individual's
feeling of belonging in the world.
It is my impression, and I readily admit it stems from personal experience, that
in the modern world we lack a sense of place . It is a world in which the laws governing behavior are constantly shifting, and the notions of the 'the good' are always
changing. No doubt these things were t rue in Aristotle's world also, but I think
that without a sense of place in the configuration of the whole, it is much more dif ficult to come to be happy in the world than it has been in the past.
In support of this notion that we lack belonging in the world and that this af fects our ability to achieve happiness, I will compare two charac.ters from literary
1
works. The first is Homer's Achilleus • The second is Penthesilea , Queen of the
Amazons, from a play of her name . It was written by the early nineteenth century
playwright Heinrich von Kleist.
The premise I go on is that the nature of an
artist's work reflects, in some measure, the consciousness of the people of his time .
The time gap between these two works will then allow a comparison of how a classical
individual and a modern individual each feels in relation to his world , and , base d
upon that, a sense of whether or not he can come to be content in the world.
The choice of these two characters from these particular wo r ks is not a random
one, nor does it rest entirely on the fact that they were pr oduced in such different
times. Penthesilea purposefully invites comparison with The Iliad . The most general
way in which the two works are connected i s in t he action of the p l ay:
i t t akes
place during the Trojan War, after Achilleus has killed Hektor . Kleist makes use of
the myth that the Amazons, led by Penthesilea, went to the battle at Troy as allies
of Priam. Kleist also plays upon the story that Achilleus slew Penthesilea and fell
in love with her as she died at his feet .
But the interesting thing about
Penthesilea is that Kleist alters these myths. In the play, the Amazons are allied
with no one, and it is not Achilles who kills their Queen, but Penthesilea who kills
her beloved, Achilles, in a maenad-like frenzy that calls to mind Euripides's
Bacchae.
The s i mi l aritie s be t ween the works connect them closely , but it is alterations like these that make it intriguing to try to discover what Kleist intended
to convey in the play .
Kleist brings to bear his interpretation of Achilleus in his treatment of his
own characters, Penthesilea and Achilles.
Penthesilea reflects certain aspects of
Achilleus, while Achilles takes on other characteristics of the great hero.
Penthesilea displays many of the striking feature of Achilleus. For example, she too
2
seeks fame, the fame gained through conquering the most renowned figure in The Iliad .
She says, "Once more the battle calls me to the field./ That young, defiant war- god I will tame him . / My friends , ten thousand suns melted into one/ Vast heat - ball seem
not half so bright to me,/ So glorious, as victory over him" (Scene 5: p. 186). She
is also protrayed as splendid, decked out in "war's rich panoply" (Scene 1: p. 168),
and thirsty for the clamour of battle. Odysseus describes his first sight of her in
the following way:
as the dawn comes creeping up the sky
Amazement seizes us ...
For there in the wide valley at our feet
Fiercely engaged with all the Trojan force
We see the Amazons! Penthesilea,
As storm winds sweep and rend the scudding wrack,
Tumbles the fleeing Trojans down the vale
As though her only though across the Hellespont,
Ay, off earth's orb itself, to scatter them.
(Scene 1: p. 168)
Penthesilea, like Achilleus, is the child of an immortal and a mortal, Ares and the
Amazon Queen Otrere. She also has about her the air of haughtiness that Achilleus
possesses.
There is another important respect in which Penthesilea and Achilleus resemble
each other.
Just as Achilleus must weigh his two fates against one another,
Penthesilea must struggle with the way in which she should live her life: as a woman
or as a warrior who thrives on the violence of battle. Achilleus, once Patroklos has
died, moves in fury towards the end of his life and the glory that will be his. So
too does Penthesilea strive after the fall of Achilles, because of the good she
thinks this act will bring her.
Achilles resembles his namesake in less striking and less flattering ways. He
falls short of the image one has of Achilleus, for the depth of spirit and strength
of character that Achilleus displays in The Iliad are transferred from his character
into that of Penthesilea.
For example, Achilleus' s refusal to participate in the
fighting following his conflict with Agamemnon is interpreted by Kleist as an insensitivity to the needs and desires of his fellow Greeks. In the play, when Agamemnon
orders his forces to stop fighting senselessly with the Amazons, Achilles disregards
the orders and instead pursues his own personal goal, which is to capture Penthesilea
and have his way with her. He says,
Fight then like eunuchs, if it pleases you.
A man I feel myself to these women,
Though alone of all the host, I'll stand my ground.
••. All's one to me; by heav'n you have my blessing,
If you would creep away to Troy again.
••. In short, go off. I'll follow you to Troy;
I'll soon have had my way with her. But though
I had to woo her many long months through Ay, years - I will not guide my chariot there
••. Nor once again see Ilium's tower'd heights,
Until I first have had my sport with her.
·
(Scene 4: p. 185 )
Here Kleist's contempt for the cause of Achilleus's anger, the abduction of Briseis,
3
�is revealed. He makes Achilles involved only in satisfying his own desires, which in
this case involve no high goal of honor, but simply the bedding of a woman.
Kleist also protrays Achilles as dishonest and manipulative.
In Scene 11, he
walks into the Amazon encampment completely unarmed and speaking words of peace. Yet
he comes accompanied by men who are armed, and he feels no compunction at ordering
them to kill the women who threaten him. This is Kleist's reading of what Achilleus
does in Book IX of The Iliad: he presents himself as being moved by things that
inspire his desire for a swift return to Phthia, when he is actually moved by pride
and bitter anger against Agamemnon.
One thing that Kleist does do, however, is to give the character of Achilles the
epithet 'god-like.' No other character in the play is consistently given such an
epithet. In line with this, Kleist retains the Homeric image in the clear way he describes Achilles:
Radiant he stands upon the rising ground,
Cased all in steel his steed and he; sapphire
Nor chrysolite cannot throw back such rays!
The earth herself, the gay, flower-sprinkled earth,
Wrapped now in thunder vapors' blackest gloom,
Lies but a dark background, a murky foil,
To make his flashing glory brighter yet!
( Scene 7: pp. 198-199; First Girl )
This passage calls to mind the image of Achilleus standing upon the ditch and screaming, helped by Athena who drapes the aegis about his shoulders and sets him all
ablaze with fire ( Iliad, Bk. XVIII: lines 203-206) . Yet it is nothing but a description that has a resemblance to that scene. It lacks the power Achilleus wields in
that moment and the sorrow that has engulfed his heart. Kleist's Achilles is incapable of such depth of emotion.
Though both Achilles and Penthesilea share aspects of the Homeric hero, nevertheless it is Penthesilea who captures the attention. It is her on whom I will concentrate with respect to Achilleus. Because my purpose is to examine how a feeling
of belonging is crucial to finding contentment in the world, I will first lay out the
natures of the worlds in which these two characters live.
Then, I will examine
whether or not they belong in their worlds. Finally, I will present my analysis of
how both characters come to contentment and of whether their contentments are
compatible with their worlds.
In each case, I will first put for th the Homeric
situation and then contrast Penthesilea's situation with it.
The world that Homer puts before us in The Iliad is a sharply defined one. Each
thing has its proper place and mode of being, and each is portrayed in a detailed,
clearly described manner. The most striking element in this carefully outlined world
is the presence of the Olympian gods. They are introduced fully formed, and rather
than being unearthly in character they are potent forces, supernaturally and physically. We see their strong presence in the very first pages of The Iliad when
Apollo angrily strides down from Olympos to punish the Achaians for their treatment
of Chryses (Bk. I: lines 43-52).
The gods are often the inspiration for men's actions. In almost every way that
a man can be moved to do something, the gods are found to be the cause. Zeus, for
example, is the reason for Hektor's extraordinary valor as he makes his way unhesitatingly toward the Achaian ships in Book XV. This is a case in which the spirit of
some emotion or physical attribute is instilled into men by the gods. There are also
instances in which the gods introduce notions into the minds of men. In the beginning of the poem, it is mentioned that Achilleus called the Achaians to assembly be-
4
cause the thought was "a thing put into his mind 'by the goddess of the white arms,
Hera" (Bk . I: line 55). Agamemnon's experience with Zeus's deceptive dream (Bk. II:
lines 20-47) is another example of how the gods put ideas and courses of action into
the minds of men.
The gods even appear physically and attempt to make mortals do their wishes. In
one memorable case, Athena appears to Achilleus and grasps him by the hair in order
to stop him from attacking Agamemnon (Bk. I: lines 194-214). In a later passage, the
river Skamandros, angered at Achilleus's slaughter of the Trojans, sends his flooding
waters out to hold Achilleus occupied with saving himself rather than with killing
men (Bk. XXI: lines 235-272).
Given the unavoidable presence of the gods in their lives, the men of The Iliad
put great stock in communication with the deities. Achilleus's response to Athena's
words of counsel is this:
'Goddess, it is necessary that I obey ... [you] •.• /angry though I
am in my heart. So it will be better./If any man obeys the gods,
they listen to him also.'
(Bk. I: lines 215-218)
Achilleus feels the ne9essity, and the advantage, of dealing with the gods in much
the same way as he would with men. It is not simply that the gods are more powerful
and capable of bringing disaster down upon men. It is also because the influence of
the gods in the lives of men is just as immediate as the influence that men have upon
men.
Libation, prayer, and sacrifice are therefore integral parts of the Homeric
man's life. He seeks to know the will of the gods by observing natural phenomena,
and he seeks to preserve his well-being through prayer and the rendering of proper
respect. He knows that, just as men, the gods like to be shown favor. Phoenix's
advice to Achilleus, when he warns of the danger of such immovable anger, captures
this principle of communication with the gods:
The very immortals I can be moved; their virtue and honor and
strength are greater than ours are,/and yet with sacrifices and
offerings for endearment,/with libations and with savour men turn
back even the immortals/in supplication. (Bk. IX: lines 497-501)
These words bring to light another aspect of the relationship that men have with
the gods: the gods exceed men in all things, yet these things are shared in the natures of both. Indeed, all parts of the Homeric world reflect one another. Natural
phenomena re fl ec t t he mood of the gods, and men are compared to both the gods , as in
'god-like Achilleus,' and to animals in nature. For example:
So these lords of the Danaans killed each his own man/ . .• as
wolves make havoc among lambs or young goats in their
fury,/catching them out of the flocks. (BK. XVI: lines 351-353)
Yet the connection between man, god, and nature goes further than this. All
three are intimately tied together. There is a thread of commonality running through
them. Rivers and winds are gods, men are children of the gods, and even the gods and
the animals may love and produce offspring (Bk. XX: lines 215-225). Thetis, mother
of Achilleus, is a good example of this merging of diff.erent beings into one another.
She is a goddess, but her realm is not mystical. It is utterly natural: she is of
the sea. And though she is a goddess, she was given in marriage to a mortal and bore
a son from that union.
5
�Though the world of The Iliad is held together by the meeting and mixing of its
parts, nevertheless it is a world of war. This means that it is a world in which all
things are opposed to one another . All the parts, while overlapping into one another, remain distinct and struggle to maintain that distinction. Thetis through her
association with Peleus does not forfeit her immortal status, and when she bears a
son he is not a hybrid of god and man. Achilleus is human and subject to all the
laws that other humans are subject to - most significantly , death. Although having a
goddess for a mother endows him with privileges (such as knowing what his fate will
be ) , Achilleus belongs to one specific mode of being, and that cannot be changed.
One of the taboos that prohibit the attempt by a being of one kind to place himself among the ranks of another kind is the ban upon a warrior for bidding him to
battle with a god. Zeus's comforting words to Aphrodite, when she suffers from an
attack by Diomedes, revea l this ban:
'It was the godded Athene who drove on this man / against you; poor
fool, the heart of Tydeus' son knows nothing / of how that man who
fights the immortals lives for no long time.'
(Bk. V: lines 405 - 407)
And Achilleus too, despite his fury, stops pursuing Apollo when he discovers he is
chasing a god:
Deeply vexed Achilleus of the swift feet spoke to him: / 'you
have balked me . . . most malignant of all gods, / when you turned me
here away from the rampart, else many Trojans / would have caught
the soil in their teeth .. . Now you have robbed me of great glory,
and rescued these people / lightly, since you have no retribution
to fear hereafter . / Else I would punish you.'
( Bk. XXIII : lines 14-20)
Striving to maintain one's proper place reveals itself internally among the separate beings and it takes its form in self-assertion . There is, for instance, a constant struggle between Zeus and the other gods. Zeus finds himself compelled to pr oclaim his superiority over and over again, since the other gods are always thinking
of ways to circumvent his commands. Many of the descriptive passages linking men to
animals also illustrate this self - assertiveness. The passages not only show how man
and animal come into conflict (like the wolves who attack man's livestock) (Bk . XVI:
lines 351 - 353), but they also depict animals battling one another in an attempt to
prove t hemse l ves t he stronger (Bk. XVI : l ines 823 - 829) .
Among men, this self-assertiveness is displayed in vaun t ing. The war riors meet,
hurl threats at one another, and when one falls or flees from fear, the other immediately begins to declare his dominance. Diomedes's fear of Hektor's boasting grasps
the importance that this assertiveness has for the men of The Iliad:
'this thought comes as a bitter sorrow to my heart and my spirit; / for some day Hektor will say openly before the Trojans: / "The
son of Ty deus, running before me, fled to his vessels." / So he
will vaunt; and then let the wide earth open beneath me. '
(Bk. VIII: lines 147-150)
The strong presence that the past has for both gods and men contributes to the significance of autonomy in the Homeric world. The closeness felt to the people and
events of the past causes men and gods to be acutely aware of their own being and
position in the world. The value that is placed upon genealogies illustrates the
6
weight which the past carries . When Glaucos and Diomedes face one another in Book
VI, they give up any hostile stance as soon as they discover the friendship t hat had
existed between t heir fathers (Bk. VI : lines 119- 231) .
Connected to the proximity that the past has to the present is the power of fate
in the world . Jus t as all t hat has occurred has a strong influence on the way that
men and gods behave, so too does fate bring them close to the world in all its forms .
It gives all their actions an important and immovable place in the patterns of their
lives, and this in turn gives their lives a definite place in the pattern of the
whole . Despite the opposition between groups and within them, everything is once
again connected by a thread of commonality through fat e.
Fate exists externally to all things . It operates from the outside, reaching
into the world to tie it up into a whole. No one, not even a god, has the ability to
evade it . Zeus has the power to direct the course of events and set the mechanism of
fate in motion. He looks far ahead to see what must occur in order that all the ele ments in the cosmos (actions, emotions, etc.) may come together and bring destiny to
fulfillment . He tells Hera,
'le t Pho i bos Apollo stir Hektor back into battle,/breathe
strength into him • .• Let him drive strengthless / panic into the
Achaians, and turn them back ... Let them be driven in flight and
tumble back onto the benched ships/ ... And [Achilleus] shall rouse
up
Patroklos/ . . . And
glorious
Hektor
shall
cut
down
Patroklos / .•. In anger for him brilliant Achilleus shall then kill
Hektor.' (Bk . XV : lines 59-68)
Although from passages like this it might seem that Zeus can arbitrarily arrange
what is to take place , it must be remembered that behind all the scheming lies the
general question of Achilleus's destiny and the manner of its fulfillment. It is not
simply the accomplishment of Thetis's request that Zeus grant her son glory , it is
also t ha t Achilleu s must die if he is granted that glory . If he kills Hektor , t hen
he will die. Even Zeus must work under the dictates of fate. His own wishes are
irrelevant. He cannot save Sarpedon from death (Bk. XVI : lines 433 - 457), and when
Hekt or finally faces Achilleus, Zeus mus t check his golden scales if it is truly the
right moment for Hektor to die (Bk. XXII : lines 208 - 212) .
The world of The Iliad is hence very ordered . There are certain laws which op erate in specific ways , and each object has its own place in the scheme of things.
It can be looked at alone, clearly outlined by the things around it , or it can be
seen as a distinct unit that goes into the structure of the whole . The world of
Penthesilea could no t be mor e different f r om the Homeric one . The comment that best
describes i t is uttered by a Greek man whom the Amazons have captured . He asks , "was
ever dream so crazed as this reality?" (Scene 6: p. 197).
Penthesilea' s world is full ~f confusion.
It consists of a swirling mass of
circumstances which do not come together in any coherent whole . There is nothing in
the play which can be looked at in its own right without reference to other things,
things both in the play as well as those brought to it by the reader. For instance,
the memory of The Iliad is present throughout; Euripides's Bacchae, in its most hor rifying moment, is reproduced in Achilles's death; Phaedra's consuming passion for
Hippolyt us i s c l e a r ly pre sent in Penthesilea ; and the myth of Actae on 's death, his
punishment for looking upon Artemis while she bathed, is also woven into the tale.
The descriptive passages bring to a focus the c9nfusion which is prevalent in
the play. The dust which the armies raise up as they wage war obscures the vision,
so that those looking on cannot see what is happening:
One great dust cloud,
7
�With flashes here and there of arms and armor:
The eye is helpless, strain how it will to see.
A struggling mass of maids - and horses too All in a jumbled welter. Chaos' self,
The aboriginal, had more of order.
(Scene 3: p. 180; Dolopian)
The contrast between The Iliad and Penthesilea is pointed out descriptively by Kleist
himself. There is a vision of Achilles rising over the top of a hill, clearly visible in every part:
Look! Look! Do you not see? Above that ridge
A head appearing , plumed and helmeted?
And now the neck - the massive neck beneath?
The shoulders now, the arms in flashing steel?
Now! Now! - The mighty, deep-set chest; oh see!
... His horses now, their white -starred foreheads - See!
His chariot's steeds; still but their legs - their hooves
Are hidden by the summit of the ridge.
Ah, now! Clear-cut against the sky behold
The whole equipage, blazing like the sun
That rises jubilant in his early spring.
(Scene 3 : p. 177; Myrmidon)
Yet within a very short time, a cloud of dust billows up in pursuit of Achilles:
But, look! Behind him - !
••• At the mountain's foot Dust Dust, uptowering like a thundercloud
And like the lightning sweeping on (Scene 3: p. 178)
The world of confusion in Penthesilea is pursuing the clearly delineated figure from
the Homeric world.
The first clue in the action of the play pointing to the confusion in this world
is provided in the opening scenes. The Greeks and the Trojans have no idea why the
Amazons have burst into the midst of their conflict. Each thinks that Penthesilea
must have come to fight beside one or the other , but she quickly disabuses them of
this idea. The Amazons' are at Troy for their own special reason: to reap a crop of
magnificent warriors to take back to Themiscyra as future fathers of their children.
The Amazons' independence in this war between the Trojans and the Greeks spreads
confusion. The sensible way in which the war was being waged, Greek against Trojan,
is disturbed.
The antagonists find themselves allied against the warrior women.
Odysseus says in bewilderment ,
Each force in Nature , creates its opposite
And fights with this; no room for any third.
What quenches fire will not make water boil
And turn to steam; likewise the opposite.
Yet here appears a deadly foe of both,
That makes fire doubt: should it not flow like water?
And water; should it haply burn like fire?
8
The hard-press'd Trojan, .fleeing the Ama3on
Shelters behind a Grecian shield; the Greek
Defends him from the maiden's blade, and both
Trojan and Greek are almost forced, despite
The rape of Helen, to hold each o~her friends
And join to fight a common enemy.
(Scene 1: p. 170)
Among the Amazons themselves there is much confusion.
Penthesilea is thrown
into confusion at her first sight of Achilles (Scene 1: p. 169; Ody.), and from that
point on her disturbance communicates itself to her army.
Bent upon pursuing
Achilles, she ceases to pay careful attention to her role as leader of the Amazon
host. As a result, none of her people knows exactly what is going on. Penthesilea
a lso ultimately causes the physical disbandment of her army. She orders that no one
other than herself may harm Achilles. Hence, when he comes marching into the Amazon
camp no one can stop him. Penthesilea refuses to leave, and the army must abandon
her and flee leaderless in many directions.
In this world of confusion, nature, so communicative in Homer's Iliad, is hostile. The landscape is hard and cold, full of dust and rfck. Indeed, it serves only
as a landscape, a place in which human action is staged.
Through its lifeless dust
it clouds the sight, and with its rocks it hinders human progress, unrelenting in the
face of human advances (Scene 2: p. 175-176). We see young Amazon girls eargerly
seek for roses in the plain, but the land is not bountiful. It will not serve their
need, but keeps itself protected from interaction with them:
'tis harder far to win
Roses upon these fields than prisoners.
Though on the hills around the bounteous harvest
Of Argive youths stand rank on rank and wait
Only for reaping by the eager scythe,
Yet in these vales so sparingly, believe me,
And so well-fortified the roses bloom,
That it is lighter work to hew through lances
Than break a way through their entwined thorns.
(Sc ene 6: p. 194; Second Girl)
In this world no river god, not even in anger, would raise its voice to speak with a
mortal in the way that Skamandros spoke to Achilleus (Iliad, Bk. XXI: lines 211-221).
Just as nature is devoid of communicative life, ~oo are the gods far away.
This is seen in many ways, and it is even said by Prothoe, queen Penthisilea's closest companion:
"what thy eyes behold, /It is the world, our transient, brittle
world,/On which the gods look down but from afar" (Scene 24: p. 261). When the
gods are present, it is in name only. They do not speak, they do not come down from
Olympos to aid or to hinder, and they send no omens or dreams. A good example of the
distance that the gods have from the lives of men is found in Penthesilea's relationship with her father, Ares. Whereas Achilleus always has close contact with Thetis
and hears what his fate will be from her lfps, Penthesilea never comes into contact
with her father.
Though she does hear from him that she is to lead the Amazons
against the men at Troy, it is her mortal mother Otrere who tells her this. Another
sign of man's alienation from the gods is the presence of a priesthood. Although
there are priests in The Iliad like Chryses and interpreters like Kalchas, these do
not play as great a role in the lives of men as the gods themselves do.
But in
Penthesilea, the priestesses of Diana serve as mediators between the goddess and her
people . Diana's words and Ares's words come through the mouths of mortals (Scene 7:
9
�p. 199; High Priestess).
It is not, however, quite correct to say that the gods have disappeared altogether. In their external manifestations, the way we know them from The Iliad, they
are gone. But they reappear in Penthesilea in different form. They are stirrings
within the individual. They belong to the human soul. Penthesilea is the character
through which we see them. She often speaks of the powerful presences that are with
her, but these presences are companions of her emotions, not the causes of the
emotions.
In her passionate haste to bind Achilles to her on the battlefield,
Penthesilea feels the presence of the furies, and when she believes she has conquered
him she feels beneficial deities joining her. She tells Prothoe,
Let my poor heart
Like a dirt-dabbled, happy child, sink deep
One wondrous moment in the stream of joy.
With every splash in those exultant waves
A stain is washed from my sad, sinful breast.
They flee at last, the dread Eumenides;
I feel the approach of godlike presences
And I would join my voice to their happy choir.
(Scene 14: p. 221)
These furies are not of the same kind as those who pursued Orestes, seeking vengeance for his matricide. They are not given external form.
They are tools with
which Penthesilea describes the nature of her own passions and desires.
These
'furies' push Penthesilea in the same way the Eumenides drove Orestes to Apollo's
sanctuary, but they push from within.
There can be no such statements as "He
[Apollo] spoke, and breathed huge strength into the shepherd of the people [Hektor]"
(Iliad, Bk. XV: line 262) in Penthesilea, for such stirrings belong entirely to the
soul. Penthesilea also says, "Man can be great in grief, ay, even a hero, /But only
in happiness is he a god" (Scene 14: p. 222). What she is conveying through these
words is that the clear boundaries between man and god that exist in The Iliad are
lacking in her world. The gods have moved from Olympos into the human heart, and man
himself can, upon achieving happiness, become a god. He is not 'god-like,' he is
god, and he can be ruler over all things, not just over other men. Penthesilea, in
her one moment of joy commands, "Out then and seek o'er the fields!
And if /The
niggard spring refuse me roses, breathe,/Breathe on the plain and it will burgeon for
me!" (Scene 14: p. 220).
Since the gods no longer are jn their own right, there are no ceremonious attempts to be in harmony with them.
There are no libations, no hecatombs, and the
only time something like a prayer is uttered, it is in a call of desperation - a cry
that begs for the aid and presence of the gods in a world that is empty of them:
nThee, Ares, I invoke, thou terrible one! /Thee, awful founder of our house, I
call!/Oh! Swiftly send me down thy brazen car" (Scene 20: p. 246; Penthesi5ea).
In the same way that the gods have lost their own forms and have become part of
human heart, fate loses its external power to pull the world together in a grand
scheme. It is changed into an extension of the human will . When Penthesilea refuses
to flee from Achilles and his henchmen who come to raid the Amazon camp, Prothoe
tells her, "Then, as thou wilt!/ If thou canst not, wilt not - good! Dry they eyes./
What thou canst not achieve: the gods forbid/ That I should ask it of thee" (Scene
9: p. 20~And when the High Priestess remarks contemptuously, "Cannot! I Though
nothing holds her, no fate binds her here/ Only her infatuate heart!" (ibid), Prothoe
retorts,
10
That is her fate!·
You'd say steel fetters are unbreakable,
Would you not? I say: she could break them, perchance,
But never this feeling you treat so lightly.
What darkly stirs within her, who can say?
A riddle is every heart's deep-flowing tide.
(ibid . )
Penthesilea's world lacks the nicely constructed pattern of Achilleus's world.
The rules are harder to understand, since both the power of the gods and of fate have
been transported into the individual. Penthesilea must bear all responsibility for
her thoughts and actions.
She cannot say, as Agamemnon can, that her anger comes
from Zeus (Iliad , Bk. XIX: lines 76-138 ).
In addition, Penthesilea lacks the
security of knowing that her actions are fated to be as they are and that they are
leading her toward a definite and unavoidable end. She must also bear the burden of
choice:
she governs the direction that her life will take.
Again, the High
Priestess says of her, "Oh, she runs steeply down to the abyss!/ 'Tis not to Achilles
she will fall, when he/ Encounters her, but to this inner foe" (Scene 7: p. 200).
The world of Penthesilea is turned upside down. Though the play takes place in
the same world that Homer described, nothing is as it was in The Iliad. Order has
become confusion. The next question is to see if the relationships that these two
characters have with their worlds undergo the same reversal: is Achilleus at home in
his world while Penthesilea is not?
The first thing to notice about Achilleus is that he does not doubt his world.
He does not question what he sees or hears, and he does not doubt his own judgments
about what is around him.
For instance, he accepts Athena automatically when she
descends to stop him from raising his sword against Agamemnon:
The goddess standing behind Peleus' son caught him by the fair
hair,/ appearing to him only, for no man of the others saw her./
Achilleus in amazement turned about, and straightway/ knew Pallas
Athene and the terrible eyes shining.
(Bk. I: lines 197-200)
To someone not comfortable in the Homeric world, it seems incredible that Achilleus
does not think he is seeing things when he turns to see a mighty goddess at his back.
But if we take Homer at his word, then we must say that Achilleus not only sees
Athena, but faces her without a qualm. A similar thing occurs when Skamandros speaks
in anger to the manslaughtering warrior on his banks (Bk. XXI: lines 211-213). It is
no surprise to Achilleus that a river should be holding a conversation with him, nor
is he shocked when his horse, Xanthos, given voice by Hera, prophecies his death (Bk.
XIX: lines 404- 424).
In the same vein, Achilleus is always capable of telling a friend from an enemy.
Once he has decided that Agamemnon is against him, he never wavers in his distrust
and dislike for the lord of the Achaians. Even when Achilleus 'unsays' his anger, he
indicates that he must force himself to do so, to push away from his mind the anger
"'sweeter ... by far than the dripping of honey"' (Bk. XVIII: line 110).
'We will let all this be a thing of the past, though i t hurts
us,/and beat down by constraint the anger that rises inside us.'
(Bk. XIX: lines 65 - 66)
Achilleus judges friend from enemy on the basis of behavior . If he finds that
their sympathies are not truly with him, then he will put no trust in men . For instance, when Agamemnon sends Phoenix, Aias, and Odysseus to Achilleus to try to lure
11
�him back into the fighting with gifts, Achilleus responds with aloofness. This indicates that he feels, and rightly so, that the embassy is working towards
Agamemnon's benefit rather than his own. Achilleus does not believe that the embassy
comes to him because Agamemnon has truly acknowledged his value. He knows Agamemnon
sent them from fear. His response to Odysseus in particular revels his skepticism:
'Son of Laerties and seed of Zeus, resourceful Odysseus:/without
consideration for you I must make my answer,/the way I think, and
the way it will be accomplished,that you may not/come one after
another, and sit by me, and speak softly./ For as I detest the
doorways of Death, I detest that man, who/hides one thing in the
depths of his heart, and speaks forth another.'
(Bk. IX: lines 308-313)
Achilleus also has conviction in his fate. This is shown in the way he takes
action based upon what he knows, from Thetis, of his fate. For example, Achilleus's
decision to kill Hektor following the death of Patroklos, though it certainly stems
from grief and a desire for revenge, is also influenced by his knowledge that after
Hektor dies he too is doomed to die . It may sound odd for a man to wish for his own
end, but Achilleus knows that if he dies young he will achieve everlasting glory ?nd he wants this glory more than anything else. Thus, Achilleus intends not only to
kill Hektor, but to do so in as spectacular a way as possible:
'Now I shall go, to overtake that killer of a dear life,/ Hektor;
then I will accept my own death ..• Now I must win excellent
glory.'
(Bk. XVIII: lines 114-121)
Although Achilleus does have moments in which he doubts that his fate will come
about exactly as his mother has promised, the most striking of which occurs when he
is trapped by the swirling waters of Skamandros (Bk. XX!: lines 273-278), he generally is sure that his fate will take place as his mother has foretold. He takes her
words seriously . This is shown when he sends Patroklos out to drive the Trojans from
the Achaian ships. Achilleus later reveals that he suspected, or perhaps even knew
without a doubt, that Patroklos would die:
'May the gods not
the way my mother
while I yet lived
light of the sun
the strong son of
accomplish vile sorrows upon the heart in me/in
once made it clear to me, when she told me/how
the bravest of all the Myrmidons/must leave the
beneath the hands of the Trojans./Surely, the,
Menoitios has perished.'
(Bk. XVIII: lines 8-12)
This passage explains why Achilleus so urgently warns Patroklos to return once
he had driven the Trojans from the ships. Achilleus knew in his heart that he was
sending Patroklos to his death, but because he wanted the accomplishment of his fate,
for which he knew Hektor must die, he sent Patroklos out while warning him strongly:
'You must not,
in the pride and fury of fighting , go
on/slaughtering the Trojans, and lead the way against Ilion,/for
fear some one of the everlasting gods on Olympos/might crush you.
(Bk. XVI: lines 91-94)
His next statement truly indicates that Achilleus knows much more about what will
happen than he lets on. Though he has, "deeply troubled," told Patroklos, "'I have
12
no prophecy in mind that I know of'" (Bk . XVI: line 50), he now tells him , "'Apollo
who works from afar loves these people/dearly. You must turn back once you bring the
light of salvation/to the ships'" (Bk . XVI: lines 94-96). And indeed it is Apollo
who brings about Patroklos's destruction (Bk . XVI: lines 786-792).
The serious way in which Achilleus treats his fate suggests that he has an understanding of how his world works, and this in turn indicates that he is at home in
his world. The shield which Hephaistos fashioned for him is a tribute to Achilleus's
belonging in the world. Though we do not see him experience all the different facets
of life on the shield, he is the one who carries it, and he is the only one who can
look upon it:
The goddess ... set down the armour on the ground/before
Achilleus, and all its elaboration clashed loudly./Trembling took
hold of all the Myrmidons. None had the courage/to look straight
at it. They were afraid of it. Only Achilleus/looked.
(Bk . XIX: lines 12-16)
Achilleus belongs in his world. Penthesilea, however, is displaced in the already twisted character of her world.
There are individuals in the play, like
Prothoe, who do belong in that world. That means that it is possible to be comfortable in that world, though it is not the case with Penthesilea.
The Amazon way of life and character in itself isolates and displaces
Penthesilea from the world at large. The Amazons live in a secluded community, in
the company only of women. When they do leave the confines of the community, it is
only to go on raids to win men from whom they can continue their race (Scene 15: p.
232-233; Penthesilea) . Strict rules maintain that they can only gain these men as
lovers by conquering them in battle. Penthesilea tells Achilles,
Son of the dread sea-goddess! Not for me
The common arts of gentler womanhood!
... I may not, as do your maids, chose my love
And draw him to me with shy downward eyes
Or with bright wanton nosegay
... I may not in the dark- leaved orange grove,
..• Sink on his breast and tell him it is he.
No, on the bloody field of war must I go seek him,
That youth my heart has chosen for its own,
And clip him to me with harsh arms of brass.
(Scene 15 : p. 228)
The Amazon tradition of only coming into contact with men through war, and their
custom of searing off one breast to facilitate use of the bow, set them apart from
the usual mode of being for women. The Amazons inhibit the female inclination to
love and be loved by men, and they only allow for it in the warped context of
agression and dominance.
Achilles asks Penthesilea, "But whence can spring, how
ancient is that law,/Unwomanly, forgive me, nay, unnatural,/A custom strange to all
the tribes of men?" (Scene 15: p. 228).
Yet even mor e unnatural than this style of life and approach to the female constitution is the Amazon ability .to mix together both the feelings involved in aggres sive conflict, feelings of hate, with feelings of love and affection.
Once the
maiden warriors have gained their prize, they let their warlike feelings fade away,
and they cultivate feelings of · love from which they can unite with their prisoners to
produce offspring. There is a passage in which this odd 'reversibility of ·the Amazon
character is protrayed: a group of Amazons tries to approach their Greek prisoners
13
�with love . But the prisoners, just recently confronted with these women in battle,
cannot comprehend this friendly behavior. To make the situation even more bizarre,
the Amazons cannot understand why their prisoners do not realize that they intend
them no harm, but would like to treat them like kings in the lap of luxury . One
Amazon asks, "Strange- mooded men! What gnaws thus at your hearts?/ Now that our ar rows sleep within the quiver,/ How can the sight of us affright you still?" (Scene
6: p . 196).
Penthesilea is therefore not in harmony with the world because of this Amazon
duality: the ability to one moment feel the hate necessary to wage war and the next
moment to feel love.
It is as Odysseus remarked: "Should [water] haply burn like
fire?" ( Scene 1: p. 170 ) . The Amazons not only completely atter their perceptions
and emotions, but they do so towards the same individuals.
But Penthesilea is
displaced in this already odd situation. For the Amazons, these feelings of love or
hate should only accompany the suitable circumstance of war or victory and peace.
Penthesilea cannot keep these feelin~ apart. She wants to conquer Achilles in battle, and the same time she has chosen him out specifically because she is infatuated
with him and wants to become his lover.
When Penthesilea looks upon Achilles, she is beset by both her emotions of love
and hate:
I long to see him grov'lling at my feet,
This haughty man, who in this glorious
And gentle field of arms, as no man yet,
Sows strange confusion in my warlike heart .
•.. Do I not feel - ah! Too accursed I While all around the Argive army flees,
When I look on this man, on him alone,
That I am smitten, lamed in my inmost being,
Conquered and overcome - I! Only I!
( Scene 5: p. 186-187 )
The High Priestess points out how strange a thing it is to have among the Amazons a
especially a Queen, so overcome with love:
wo~an,
The Queen, you say? Impossible my friend!
Pierced by love's shaft? How can that be? ...
She who doth wear the girdle of diamonds?
The daughter of Mars, who lacks even the breast
Where Cupid's poison'd shafts may strike and lodge?
(Scene 7: p. 200)
Because Penthesilea cannot untangle her aggressive feelings from her softer,
yielding ones, she finds i t impossible to see anything in a unified way.
Unlike
Achilleus who puts much trust in what he sees other men do, Penthesilea cannot judge
others. Her own thoughts and emotions make it hard for her to see what people are
actually doing. For example, she has both admiration and affection for her Amazon
people, yet she swiftly turns against them in anger:
Curses upon this beastly, wanton haste!
••• A curse on lusts that in my Amazons'
Chaste hearts like unleashed dogs do howl and quite
O'erwhelm the trumpet's brazen-throated voice
And all the leaders' cries of shrill command.
Victory - is that yet won, that you should thus
14
In fiendish mockery pluck triumphal garlands?
(Scene 9: p. 204)
Penthesilea herself has given the order for the plucking of the roses, and she
herself is the one who longs for love while the battle still rages on. But in her
distracted state she is not aware of these things, and she sees those who are merely
carrying out her orders as ridiculing her and as trying to take away her last chance
of winning Achilles in battle. This is anger against herself., but the anger is so
potent that it infects her ability to see objectively. Therefore, she strikes out at
friends as though they were enemies.
Penthesilea' s displacement both in the world and in .the Amazon environment does
not just show itself in her projected anger or in her conflicting emotions. She is
in real doubt about her world and herself in that world. Compared to Achilleus who
i s sur e of himself, Penthesilea is a lost individual. She questions what the ru l es
are that govern her behavior. She wonders if it is right to try to win her beloved
through battle:
Is mine the fault that I must woo him thus,
Here on the field of war must force his love?
What is it I long for, when I strike at him?
Is it to send him headlong to the shades?
I long - ye gods above! I only long To this warm beast I long to draw him close!
(Scene 9: p. 203)
And she wonders if it is not, rather, right to give way to her womanly feelings and
yield herself to Achilles as any other woman would. Her questioning of Amazon law
reveals itself in her discussion with Achilles:
like the fiery hurricano's blast,
We sweep into the forest of the menfolk,
Snatch up the ripest of the fallen fruit
.•. And bear them with us to our native plains.
•.• Here we conduct them in Diana's temple
Through many a solemn rite ...
•.. The seed is sown, and when the crop is up,
We heap on them full measure of glorious gifts;
On steeds richly caparisoned we send
Them home. The Fea~t of Fruitful Mothers this,
In soo t h a fes t ival of little joy.
Ah, son of Thetis! Many a tear is shed,
And many a heart, fast gripped by dresry grief,
Must ask itself: is Tanais The Great
For every binding word so praiseworthy?
(Scene 15: p. 233)
Penthesilea does not just question, however. She actually loses all ability to
recognize things for what they are. When she sees herself reflected in Achilles's
armour, she is not sure who she sees (Scene 5: p. 186-187). And though she is very
dependent on Prothoe, at one time she believes Prothoe to be working for her cause,
while at another time she thinks her friend wants only to thwart her (Scene 5: p.
189-193). This is because Penthesilea is never positive about what her cause is: is
it the well-being of her host, or is it her own satisfaction?
15
�Am I selfish? Is it !!!I desires
Alone that call me back into the field?
Is it not my people, threatened by the fate
That even in the maniac flush of victory
With audible wingbeat hastens from afar?
••• These captive youths that you have taken in fight.
You'll never lead them to the fragrant vales
Of our homeland •••
•.• Lurking in ambush, crafty, insatiate,
I see him everywhere - Achilles, ready to spring
Upon your happy train and scatter it.
(Scene 5: p. 188)
Ev.e n when Achilles is before her Penthesilea wonders i f h~ is really the man she has
heard so much about:
Achilles!
That man that slew old Priam's greatest son
Before the walls of Troy - Say! Was it thou?
And didst thou truly, thou, with these thy hands
Pierce his fleet ankles, then behind thy car
Drag him headlong around his native city?
(Scene 15: p. 225)
'0 wrapped in shamelessness, with your mind forever on profit, /how shall any one of the Achaians readily obey you/either to
go on a journey or to fight men strongly in battle?'
(Book I: lines 149-151)
Achilleus, with his genuine desire to halt the crisis and find a way to placate all
concerned, thinks himself a better man than Agamemnon.
The accusations that follow, however, point to an envy that Achilleus has long
harbored for Agamemnon:
"Never, when the Achaians sack some well- founded citadel/ of the
Trojans, do I have a prize that is equal to your prize./ Always
the greater part of the fighting is the work of /my hands; but
when the time comes to distribute the booty /yours is far the
greater reward.'
(Book I: lines 163-167)
At this moment it is evident that Achilleus is resentful because he is not given the
kind of recognition he thinks he deserves. He knows himself to be the 'best of the
Achaians,' and he cannot endure the thought that another man, whom he considers both
less noble and less warlike, should receive more honor simply because he is lord over
many men .
Taking into consideration Achilleus's knowledge of his two fates, it is possible
to reconstruct the way he must have felt about the enterprise at Troy, in order that
this disappointment over Agamemnon be so bitter for him. Knowing that in Troy he
faced death, but also everlating glory, Achilleus must have envisioned a splendid
career in the Argive host.
But though he is recognized as the mightiest warrior
among them, Achilleus is never treated as well as Agaemenon is • He finds himself
continually dominated by Agamemnon. He ·is disillusioned. When Agamemnon threatens
to take Briseis, Achilleus can no longer control his envy. This the ultimate dis honoring, and he is furious because instead of being honored as he had dreamt of being, he has been humiliated. He says,
At times, so bewildered and immersed in her powerful emotions is Penthesilia that she
does not know where she is. In her joy at discovering that Achilles is her prisoner,
9
though this is a deception, she is so elated that she thinks herself in Themiscyra
(Scene 14: p. 221), and when she wakes from her final madness she thinks she is in
Elysium (Scene 24: p. 261).
Finally, Penthesilea herself embodies that strange Amazon duality of love and
hate. She feels in extremes: joy, bitter sorrow, anger, or all three synthesized
into one blinding emotion. In her physical appearance, too, she brings together the
conflicting elements of the dufoity. She is very beautiful, and her eyes have enough
allure to draw any man to her.
She is soft and delicate, the epitome of a yielding
woman.
Yet her beauty is encased in war gear, and she seems indestructible.
Antilochus says of her, "A foaming-jawed hyena! 'Tis no woman!" (Scene 2: p. 176).
In embodying this duality, Penthesilea is not at home in the world. She is made
up of teeming opposites. Though Achilleus also has conflicting elements within him,
he belongs in his world and because of this is able to bring those conflicting parts
together - to achieve a resolution. Penthesilea, who has no firm ground to stand
upon, cannot find resolution in the world. She does attain a kind of harmony with
herself, but when she does so she must do it in madness, and when it is over she cannot remain in the world. Achilleus, on the other hand, comes to a resolution which
endows him with a fulness of character that is truly great in the world.
I will now examine how each of these characters comes to a resolution, and what
those resolutions mean.
Achilleus belongs in the world, but he is dissatisfied with the way it treats
him.
His criticisms of Agamemnon suggest certain things about the way Achilleus
thinks about himself. He becomes angry at Agamemnon's behavior over Chryseis, and he
accuses Agamemnon of being, in effect, childish in his attachment to his prize (Book
I: lines 122-129). This suggests that Achilleus is sensitive to an ignoble side of
Agamemnon's character.
The Achaian men are dying because of Apollo's anger, and
Agamemnon will not give up the girl to rectify the situation. Achilleus is astounded
that such a man would be considered a kingly leader:
Through the course of the story, however, a change takes place in Achilleus. At
the start, he is acutely aware that his desires are not being satisfied. But from
the moment that the entreats Thetis to plead with Zeus on his behalf (Bk. I: lines
393-412), he sets in motion a chain of events that not only results in the fulfillment of his desires, but also causes a growth in his understanding of himself in the
world.
The death of Patroklos is the pivotal point in this process. Hence, an examination of Achilleus 's attitudes towards himself and towards what will make him
happy, both before and after the death of his companion, wil~ afford a view of what
this change in Achilleus entails. In Book IX, Achilleus is a young man with a dream
of glory. He is drawn to the warrior's life and the fame that accompanies excellent
deeds , but he does not have any notion of what that dream will be when it is
translated into reality. Achilleus concentrates on the glory which is foretold, and
he does not give much thought to the death that is involved.
On one hand this is odd, since as a warrior Achilleus has been faced with death
many times, and he is at home on the bloody battlefield.
On the other hand,
Achilleus sends Patroklos out into the fighting even though he knows that his friend
will die. Achilleus does this for the sake of his fate. He knows that he is sac-
16
17
'the heart in me swells up in anger, when I remember/the disgrace
that he wrought upon me before the Argives,/the son of Atreus, as
if I were some dishonored vagabond.' (Bk. IX: lines 646-648)
�rificing Patroklos. Yet, despite prior knowledge of the event, Achilleus experiences
real agony over his friend's death:
the black cloud of sorrow closed on Achilleus./ In both hands he
caught up the grimy dust, and poured it/ over his head and face~
and fouled his handsome contenance, I and the black ashes were
scattered over his immortal tunic./ And he himself, mightily in
his might, in the dust lay/ at length, and took and tore at his
hair with his hands, and defiled it. (Bk. XVIII: lines 22-27)
Thus, though Achilleus knew he was to suffer a great loss, he was thinking more towards what that death would accomplish than towards the death itself.
Neither does Achilleus feel the force of fate, its completeness and its finality . He accepts fate as a given in his life, but he does not comprehend the range
over which it operates, that it brings together many events and emotions in order to
come to its accomplishment. he concentrates so much on the end result that he pays
no attention to what must happen and what he must experience in order for that end of
glory to be gained.
Achilleus's withdrawal into the fate which promised a long but obscure life illustrates that he is not truly in touch with what life is. Because of his disappointment with the way the Achaians have treated him, he persuades himself that he
wants the long life undisturbed by the turmoil of war. it is clear, however, that
Achilleus has no inclination toward that life: he is an aggressive man who craves
the opportunity to prove himself the bravest and the strongest of all men. He is not
a man who would be happy in the confined and unchallenging world of Phthia.
In Book IX, when Achilleus puts forward his reasons for wanting to return to the
land of his fathers, he is speaking out of frustration. He is striking out at the
Achaians because he feels hurt by them. It is a real moment for Achilleus, but he
does not believe what he is saying. He explains:
'For not worth the value of my life are all the possessions they
fable/ were won for Ilion ... Of possessions/cattle and fat sheep
are things to be had for the lifting,/ and tripods can be
won .•. but a man's life cannot come back again, it cannot be lifted/ nor captured again by force, once it has crossed the teeth's
barrier.'
(Bk. IX: lines 400-409)
This is a profound statement, but Achilleus does not know what it means. he has
already revealed the real reason for his threat to return the Phthia: his anger at
Agamemnon .
'Go back and proclaim to him all that I tell you, I openly, so
other Achaians may turn against him in anger/ ••• I will join with
him in no counsel, and in no action./ He cheated me and he did me
hurt •.• Let him of his own will/ be damned ... I hate his gifts. I
hold him light as the strip of a splinter./ Not if he gave me ten
times as much .•. not if he gave me gifts as many as the sand or
the dust is,/ not even so would Agamemnon have his way with my
spirit/until he had made good to me all this heartrending
insolence.'
(Bk. IX: lines 369-387)
Agamemnon offers him because he cares no longer ·for gifts. He wants complete and
utter recognition of his superiority. He will accept nothing less than Agamemnon's
subordination beneath him.
Achilleus hungers for transcendence over others, and his eyes look only toward
the brightness of his fate. This is why his threat to leave for Phthia is nothing
more than a threat. He intends to stay at Troy and be present for the unfolding of
his destiny:
'I shall not think again of the bloody fighting/ until such a
time as the son of wise Priam, Hektor the brilliant/ comes all
the way to the ships... slaughtering the Argives, and shall
darken with fire our vessels.'
(Bk . IX: lines 650-653)
Achilleus's lack of unqerstanding of the force his fate will have upon him indicates
that he is not quite in touch with himself. He has a splendid vision of what he
wants to be, but he has not yet found out who he is. He has not come into his own.
Following the death of Patroklos, however, Achilleus is forced to confront the
world that exists outside of his dreams. He tells Thetis,
'My mother, all these things the Olympian brought to accomplishment./ But what pleasure is this to me, since my dear companion
has perished, I Patroklos, whom I loved beyond. all other companions,/ as well as my own life. I have lost him.'
(Bk . XVIII: lines 79-82)
Now, instead of being like the king on the shield Hephaistos wrought for him, who
contentedly watches the reapers bringing in his crop (Bk . .XVIII: lines 550-560),
Achilleus suddenly finds himself deeply involved in the work itself. All this time,
from his ships, Achilleus has watched the events paving th~ way towards accomplishment of his fate, and now his fate has reached out and pulled him into the midst of
it. The shining goal of glory seems as nothing compared to the sorrow and the desire
for venge<;ince.
Achilleus is also forced to confront himself, not in the terms he had done so
before , thinking only of his own hurt and what he wanted from those .who had hu~t him,
but in terms of how he affected other:
'I must die soon, then; since I was not to stand hy my companion/
, when he was killed. And now, far away from the land of his fathers,/ he has per ished, and la~ke d my fighting str ength t o de fend , him. I Now~ . . since I was no light of safety to Pat·roklo.s, no.r
to my other/ companions, , . who in their numbers went down before
glorious Hektor,/buc sit here beside my ships, a useless weight
.on . the good land,/ .I, who am such as no other ... in battle .•. why,
I .wish strife would vanish away from among gods and mortals,/ and
gall, which makes a man grow angry for all his great mind,/ that
gall of anger that swarms like smoke inside of a man's heart/ and
becomes and thing .sweeter to him by far than the dripping of honey.'
(Bk. XVIII: lines 98-110)
There is only one way in which these words about the value of his life come from any
genuine motivation.
It is true that his anger does not stem from the stingy way
Agamemnon has treated him.
Achilleus will not now accept all the magnificence
Though there still lurks, in the background, the memory of an Achilleus who
works steadily towards the gain of glory - that same Achilleus who knew Patroklos
would die - here there is an Achilleus who recognized he lived for more reasons than
the achievement of glory . He realizes that there are things dearer to him than he
18
19
�had thought. He reassesses his judgments about what it means to live. As he confronts himself, he must also contemplate what his own death will mean. He had said
that no possessions could equal the value of his life.
With Patroklos 's death,
Achilleus sees that there is one possession for which he would gladly sacrifice his
life: the companionship of a beloved friend. With this recognition, Achiileus feels
the completeness of fate. He sees that it is not a dream far removed from the innnediate experience of living. He knows now that it touches him in every way, and that
it takes away from him things that he values.
The ruthlessness with which he pursues Hektor is not, then, simply inspired by
desire for vengeance. It is also inspired by a need to clear himself of his guilt in
Patroklos's death. He loathes himself - even to the point of guaranteeing his own
death. He tells his mother,
'there must be on your heart a numberless sorrow / for your son's
death .•. since the spirit within does not drive me / to go on living and be among men, except on condition / that Hektor first be
beaten down under my spear.'
(Bk. XVIII: lines 88-92)
Achilleus refuses even to eat or drink until he has both atoned for and avenged his
companion's death (Bk. XIX: lines 319-321 ) .
When it is all over, and Achilleus has taken the life from Hektor and may turn
to the burial of Patroklos, we see a different man emerge. He resembles neither the
fiery youth of the first sixteen books, nor the man consumed by murderous rage.
Achilleus still suffers moments during which his rage controls him and he drags
Hektor's body furiously around Patroklos's tomb. But these moments do not deny him
his new character; rather, they show that he is not yet secure in it.
During the funeral games, Achilleus acts with the same kind of grace and courtesy he gave a hint of when he received Agamemnon's embassy in Book IX (lines 185-198) .
Here, however, there is more substance to his behavior. Achilleus is not merely
pleasing his heart with music, dreaming of mighty warriors and deeds of fame. He is
taking part in the interaction between such men.
He carefully treats with the
feelings of each one, and having learnt of the dangers of quarrelling, he says during
a dispute, '"No longer now, Aias and Idomenus, continue / to exchange this bitter and
evil talk./ It is not becoming'" (Bk. XXIII: lines 492-493).
The consideration and civility that Achilleus exhibit during the games extend to
the time when Priam comes alone to him in supplication. Achilleus is following the
connnands of Zeus, yet he treats Priam with genuine sympathy and respect. He takes
him in, and together they mourn their losses. Achilleus is honestly moved by this
man who has wielded so much power, but who has suffered such devastation in the war
with the Achaians. he $ees Priam as a fellow human being who has been granted by the
gods both joy and misery and who is worthy of admiration (Bk. XXIV: lines 542-551).
Even when Achilleus responds warningly to Priam's request to see Hektor's body,
he does not indicate that his sympathy was simply an act. He warns Priam because the
freshness of his grief is still with him, and he does not want his rage to come to
the fore.
'You must not further make my spirit move in my sorrows, I for
fear, old sir, I might not let you alone ... suppliant as you are,
and be guilty before the god's orders.'
(Bk. XXIV: lines 568-570)
Achilleus does not want to disobey Zeus, and this is strong reason for his restraint.
Yet, he could have complied with the gods without showing the consideration and rev-
20
erence that he does show Priam.
By the end of the poem, Achilleus has come into his own. Despite the rage that
still smolders beneath the calm exterior, Achilles has discovered who he is in the
world.
The dream has been translated into reality:
he has all he wished for.
Achilleus has achieved great fame, and he has achieved dominance over Agamemnon.
Throughout the funeral games, Agamemnon defers to Achilleus's wishes, and Achilleus
says to Priam, "' (The Achaians ) keep coming / and sitting by me and making plans, as
they are supposed to'" ( Bk. XXIV: lines 651-652 ) .
Achilleus acknowledges that consideration for others is important. He is like
Aristotle's 'proud man' (Nicomachean Ethics, Bk. IV: Ch. 3) who is secure in himself
and magnanimously recognizes the value and worth of others. Now Achilleus extends to
Agamemnon the respect he deserves as lord of the Achaians . because Achilleus is no
longer threatened by Agamemnon. The sense that one has at the end of The Iliad is
also that Achilleus is far more aware of the value of his companions Automedon and
Alkimos than he was of the value of Patroklos. They serve him, but he does not take
them for granted.
Achilleus, because he has a place in his world, is able to come to contentment
in that world. penthesilea has a very different path to her resolution. it is full
of tension, and the only way for it to be resolved is through madness. Certain passages in the play indicate that Penthesilea, unlike Achilleus, is not inclined to the
warlike way of life. While he causes himself sorrow by abstaining from the war,
Penthesilea suffers because she is in a state of war that she does not want to be in.
While in Themiscyra, though Penthesilea was undoubtedly given military training,
she was kept from engaging in real war with real opponents. She tells Achilles that
until 1 fhe was twenty-three, she had not gone to war with the Amazons (Scene 15: p.
234 ) .
She also tells him that she was so overcome with grief at her mother's death
that she could not find any interest in taking her own place in life:
Long, long I wept, a whole grief-laden month,
At my dead mother's grave, neglecting still
The crown that lay beside me masterless,
Until at length the oft-repeated cry
Of the people, who, eager for joyful war,
Impatient, lay encamped around my palace,
Dragged me by force to mount the throne.
(Scene 15: pp. 235-236 )
This suggests that Penthesilea
protection of her mother's power,
the Amazon people she is destined
In addition, Pentesilea is
grace:
was more inclined to her life at home, in the
than she was to going out and proving herself among
to rule.
remembered as being a girl rull of compassion and
Oh, such a virgin, Hermia! So modest!
So deft in all the arts of women's hands!
So lovely when she danced or when .s he sang!
So full of wisdom, dignity, and grace!
•.. The mottled worm that sported in the dust
Before her delicate feet, she would not crush;
She would recall the shaft ere it could pierce
The savage wild boar's shoulder, and his eye,·
Glazing in death, could drag her to her knees
Before him, melted quite in soft remorse.
(Scene 23: pp. 254-255; First Priestess )
21
�l
Penthesilea does not fit into her Amazon environment. She is dependent on her
mother, and gains from her a false sense of belonging in the Amazon community. Her
strange nature among these women who clamour for battle can be seen when her situation is compared with the feelings of a young amazon girl who appears in the play:
Another time when all the Amazon host
Marches to war with cymbals and with drums,
We will go too, and not - oh promise us! Only to grace the mother's victory
With rose-plucking and winding toilsome wreaths!
My arm here - look! - can hurl the javelin,
And from my sling the stone flies swift and true.
Why not? Why not? I am no more a child.
(Scene 6: p. 195; First Girl)
Penthesilea is reluctant to go to war, just as she is reluctant to kill any living
thing. She does not care for the dominance that her position as Queen would give
her. She is also, perhaps, frightened of assuming the throne, since she feels alone.
and vulnerable in a community which thrives on self-assertion. When the priestesses
come to tell her that Ares has called her to war, Penthesilea begs, "Oh, let me stay
beside thee, Mother!/ Use it once more, thy royal dignity,/ - For the last time - and
bid these women go" (Scene 15: p. 235). She wants to stay beside her dying mother
because she cares for her, but she is also afraid to leave her nest of security.
As the host travels to Troy, Penthesilea begins to be filled with warlike feelings. These are not, however, natural to her. She describes them as though they
were a new experience, and exhilirating for that reason. Her feelings are fueled by
two things, neither of which stem from her own nature: her desire to fulfill her
mother's last wish (Scene 15: p. 235; Pen th.) and her hope that in overcoming
Achilles she will achieve a sense of belonging in the Amazon community. She says,
Nearer I drew to old Scamander's stream,
And every vale around through which I swept
Echoed the clash of battle before Troy,
So did my grief abate, and my wide soul
Drank in the universe of joyful war.
To myself I said: if they should all together,
The mighty moments of the daedal past,
Return for me, if all the company
Of heroes whom the songs of minstrels sing,
Should step down from the stars, I should not find
Not one more excellent to crown with roses,
Than that man whom my mother chose for me So dear, so wild, so sweet, so terrible The slayer of Hektor!
(Scene 15: p. 236)
The importance that conquering Achilles has in Penthesilea' s mind is seen in
Scenes 14 and 15 when she believes she has won him. Up until this point, Penthesilea
has been wracked by indecision and frustration, but here she falls easily into the
role of Queen.
She begins to think of preparations for the hosts' return to
Themiscyra, and she has an air of confidence about her (Scene 15: p. 227)
The surety and joy Penthesilea gains from the belief that Achilles has been tak-
22
en by her illustrates Penthesilea's notion of who she should be in the world. her
ideal is an Amazon one: to be completely detached from any submissive, loving, feelings and to be physically capable of subjecting any man to her will.
In taking
Achilles, she will have proved to herset~' and to her people that she is truly Amazon
and that she deserves her Queenship.
Her happiness is thus dependent on her
winning of Achilles. She explains to Prothoe the unhappiness she has suffered prior
to this supposed capture of Achilles:
They say misfortune purifies the soul,
But I •.. have never found it so.
Bitterness still, rage against gods and men,
Unseeing passion are its fruits in me.
With strange perversity I then have hated
On others' faces every mark of joy;
The blithe child playing in its mother's lap
Seemed but conspired to mock my sullen grief.
(Scene 14: p. 221)
She was a woman who felt her
means to fulfill her natural
then have given her both the
While she experiences
Penthesilea incorporates her
of Achilles that she becomes
displacement among her people and who did not have the
inclination to be loved. The capture of Achilles would
love she craved and her place among the Amazons.
those warlike feelings on the way to Troy, however,
own nature into them. She builds up so great an image
intoxicated with him. He fills all her thoughts:
0 thou son of Peleus!
Ever my single thought when I awoke;
Ever my dream in sleep wast thou! The world
Lay stretched before me like a patterned web,
And in each glorious, wide-gaping mesh
One of thy deeds with craftsman's skill enwoven;
Upon my heart, as on silk white and fine,
I burned each deed with colours steeped in flame.
(Scene 15: pp. 236-237; Penth.)
As a result, when she sees Achilles, she falls passionately in love with him (Scene
15: p. 237; Penth) . Her problem of trying to make a place for herself among the
Amazons is hence made even more difficult - and the solution even more important because while she tries to establish herself, her own inclinations towards love pull
her in the opposite direction: towards succumbing to Achilles. Such an act would,
of course, automatically dishonor her in the eyes of her people.
At the opening of the play, Penthesilea is in this state of tension. Achilles
stands before her as the shining key which will give her both happiness and belonging
in the world. The path she takes is one of frantically trying to capture Achilles on
the battlefield. His capture will make her what she wants to be. In this respect of having a bright goal to strive for - Penthesilea is like Achilleus. But whereas
he looked for his own ability and splendor to be recognized by the world, Penthesilea
looks for this through another: through Achilles, as though his brilliance might be
incorporated into her .
Penthesilea tries in every way to reach her goal, but she is hindered by several
things. Nature itself seems to put itself up as a barrier between Achilles and herself. At one point, she is near enough to reffh out and grasp him, but he swerves
and she falls as her horse stumbles on a rock.
By the time she recovers, Achilles
is far beyond her (Scene 3: pp. 178-179). Penthesilea's feelings of love also hinder
23
�her from striking at Achilles in battle. At crucial moments she stays her hand and
Achilles goes unscathed (Scene I: pp. 171-172). Finally, as Achilles again and again
eludes her, Penthesilea begins to feel desperate. She is overcome by doubts that she
can gain him at all. She also worries that in her headstrong pursuit of Achilles she
is endangering her host. This worry in itself undermines her ability to be the leader she yearns to be.
It is in Scene 9 that Penthesilea comes to terms with the futility of what she
is trying to do: work against her own nature. She has pushed herself to make one
last attempt to conquer Achilles, and she herself has fallen in the confrontation.
She feels then how much she does not want to meet Achilles in the context war. She
is stunned that he could treat her with such aggression:
So crush and bruise this breast! - How could he do it?
Oh Prothoe! It is as wanton-cruel
As though I were to rive the innocent lyre
That hangs in the night breeze, whispering my name.
At the bear's feet I would cower, nestling close,
Would stroke and fondle the blotch'd panther, who
Approached me with such feelings as I him.
(Scene 9: p. 203)
Penthesilea now abandons her hope of establishing herself among the Amazons, and of
finding love with Achilles. She admits,
The utmost I have done that human strength
Is able - I have tried the impossible I have staked all upon one throw - all that I have.
The fateful die is cast - it lies before me:
And I must understand - that I have lost.
(Scene 9: p. 207)
She also strikes out at those who have helped her think that she could ever reach her
Amazon ideal:
That hand I curse that decked me for the fight
This day, and that deceiving serpent-word
That told me I should conquer. Accursed! Accursed!
Oh, how they stood around me with their mirrors Flatt'rers! - on either hand and praised the form
Divine of my smooth limbs, molded in steel! 14
Pestilence smite you with you tricks of hell!
(Scene 9: p. 206)
Penthesilea regains this state of mind in Scene 15 after she discovers that
Achilles has, in fact, taken her in battle. The urgency of her request that he come
with her anyway to Themiscyra is a sign that one final time she is trying to achieve
place among the Amazons, and love with Achilles, in the context of Amazon thought
(Scene 15 : p . 240 ; Penth . ) . But when Achilles leaves her , Penthesilea abandons any
agressive stance. She accepts the shame of her un-warlike nature, and indeed, she
feels she can do so since she has been legitimately conquered in battle. In anger
she says:
Was I not his by every use of chivalry,
By fairest chance of war his lawful prize?
24
When man on man makes war ....
... Show me the law - I say, show me! - which then
Permits the prisoner who has yielded him
To be set free again from his captor's bonds.
(Scene 19: p.241)
Penthesilea, now trapped in an unsolvable situation, refuses to act at all. In shame
she says, "I must bury me in endless night!" (Scene 19: p. 243).
There is, however, a hint that Penthesilea expects Achilles to return and take
her for his own. That would be the only way in which she might escape her present
alienated situation among the Amazons. In Scene 20, when she hears that a herald
comes from Achilles, she says in anticipation, "'Tis from Achilles! - Ah; what shall
I hear?'" (p. 243). And though she follows this remark ~ith a command to bid the
herald leave, she is mer~ly feeling the impossibility of · her situation. Penthesilea
wants nothing more of the Amazon life. She wants only to follow her inclinations.
towards love. Now that she has heard from Achilles's own lips that he loves her,
Penthesilea is willing to leave behind the world she knows for another foreign one in
the arms Achilles.
This fragile reconciliation is doomed to be disrupted. Achilles is himself the
agent. He, assuming that Penthesilea is comfortable in her world, and that she would
never think of coming to without first~aking him in battle, challenges her to single
combat. He intends to make a farce out of their confrontation, fall to her, and to
go with her Themiscyra (Scene 21: pp. 248-249). But Penthesilea, having rejected the
warlike stance and having reconciled herself to her womanly ' inclinations, cannot accept - or comprehend - that Achilles approaches her in terms of war:
He, he, who knows I am too weak by far,
He sends this challenge, Prothoe, to me?
My faithful breast here moves him not a whit
Till he has crushed and split it with his spear?
Did all I whispered to him touch his ear
Only with the empty music of the voice?
(Scene 20: p. 244)
Penthesilea feels betrayed. This challenge reawakens all the tensions that had been
present before she came to terms with her lack of belonging in the Amazon world. In
their rebirth, they are much more powerful.
Penthesilea, experiencing the
re-emergence of all these tensions at once, is in agony in her awareness of them.
She retreats into madness and accepts Achilles' s challenge:
"Now I do feel the
strength to stand against him: Now he shall down and grovel in the dust" (Scene 20:
p. 244).
And Penthesilea goes to meet him, c~lling the gods down to witness her deed:
with maniac tread among her hounds
With foam- flecked lip she goes and calls them sisters,
Who howl and howl; most like a Maenad she,
Dancing across the fields, her bow in hand,
She urges on the pack that pants for blood
Around her, bidding them seize the fairest prey
That ever, so she tells them, ranged the earth.
(Scene 22: p. 251; High Priestess)
In this Bacchic frenzy, Penthesilea kills Achilles, who means her no hf5m. As he
hides in the boughs of a fir tree, she brings him down with an arrow
and th.en
25
�proceeds to tear him apart, in the same way that Agave destroyed Pantheus, · her son.
It is a scene of horror and insanity. The Amazon who witnessed the act reports, like
the messenger who looked into the hidden chamber where Oedipus put his eyes out before Jocasta's hanging body:
Oh you, Diana's holy priestesses,
And you, Ares' chaste daughters, hear me speak:
I am the Afric Gorgon, and to stone Behold ! - Your bodies' warmth I freeze at once.
(Scene 23: p. 252; Meroe)
This madness, despite its existence in the realm of abomination, does resolve
all of Penthesilea 's tensions.
In her madness she destroys them by killing that
which brough t them a ll t oge the r fo r her: Achille s.
I n killing him, Penthes ilea
proves beyond a doubt that she is Amazon and that she is worthy of descendence from
Tanais. Penthesilea had earlier-assured Achilles that despite her lack of a breast,
Here in this left breast (all youth's tenderest, sweetest
feelings ) have take refuge
And are, by threat much, nearer to my heart.
Not one shalt thou find lacking, friend, in me.
(Scene 15: p. 231)
But now, as Tanais symbolically tore her breast from her body at the founding of the
Amazon race, Penthesilea has wrenched out of her very being the feelings that that
breast symbolized. As Penthesilea drops the great bow of the Amazons at the feet of
the High Priestess, the priestess says,
Great Queen and lady! Oh, forgive, I pray!
Diana is full well content with thee.
I see thou hast atoned; her wrath is turned.
The mighty founder of our women's realm,
Tanais' self, I cannot well deny,
She did not wield the bow more worthily.
(Scene 24: p. 258)
Penthesilea also resolves the tension she has felt between being true to her Amazon
upbringing and therefore taking Achilles in battle, and being true to herself and
hence taking him in love. She takes him in war, and yet in her tearing of him she is
di ssolving t he barrieyg between herse lf and Achi lles. She is joining with him in the
most literal of ways.
When Penthesilea wakes from her frenzy, she feels· the peace which release from
tension brings:
"I am so happy sister! More than happy! / Quite ripe for death,
Goddess, I feel myself" ( Scene 25: p. 261). She senses that she has achieved all
that she could have wished for in life. She is ready for death because there is
nothing more she can accomplish. And although she is horrified when she discovers
what she has done, she finds that she can account for it:
Surely I kissed him? Or did I tear him?...
17
.•. So - it was a mistake. Kissing - biting Where is the difference? When we truly love
It's easy to do one when we mean the other.
How many a girl, her soft arms fast entwined
About he man's neck, says that she loves him so
26
lieyond words she could eat him up for love.
And then, poor fool, when she would prove her words,
Sated she is of him - sated almost to loathing.
Now, my beloved, that was not my way.
Why look: when my soft arms were round thy neck,
I did it word for word; it was no pretending.
I was not quite so mad as they would have it.
(Scene 24; pp. 265-266)
But in her realization of what she has done, Penthesilea also realizes that she does
not have an understanding of herself in the world. She had tried to compromise: to
think of what she ought to be, and the'ilto think of what she could be with Achilles.
She never actually dealt with what she was.
After her murder of Achilles,
Penthesilea has no context to put herself in. She has rejected the Amazon life, even
though she has now proven herself in it ( Scene 24: p. 266; Penth. ) , and she has
destroyed Achilles, so that she cannot find belonging in him either.
She can
therefore, perhaps hoping to find her place in another realm, only assert her
presence in the world through her death:
now I will step down into my breast
As into a mine and dig a lump
Of cold ore, an emotion that will kill.
This ore I temper in the fires of woe
To hardest steel; then steep it through and through
In the hot, biting venom of remorse;
Carry it then to Hope's eternal anvil
And sharpen it and point it to a dagger;
Now to this dagger do I give my breast:
So! So! So! So! Once More! Now it is good.
(Scene 24: p. 267 )
And Penthesilea dies.
It can already be seen that there is a great difference between Achilleus and
Penthesilea. He finds himself in the world, and though he is fated to die, it is not
necessary, by the very nature of his relationship to that world, that he die. Should
he have lived, Achilleus would have been the most glorious product of the homeric
world. Penthesilea finds herself and asserts herself. But she does this through the
aberration of madness. That in itself shows what an impossible thing she wanted to
do . She cannot, like Achilleus, consciously experience her coming into her own in
t he wo r ld. Thus, when she has forced a resolution, she cannot remain in the world
when she returns to consciousness.
In order to spell out the distinction between these two characters, an analysis
of the acts that facilitate their resolutions will be helpful .
Achilleus wants
glory, and in order to gain it he must kill Hektor. Penthesilea wants to find love
and place in the world.
In order to gain it she must kill Achilles. The ways in
which they kill, and the motivations for the killing, are very different.
Achilleus treats Hektor with utter disregard for Hektor's own glory and worth as
an idividual . So full of r age and pur pos e is Ach i lleus t hat t he re i s no escape for
Hektor. In the typical manner portrayed in The Iliad , Achilleus and Hektor face one
another and hurl threats at one another: they assert themselves. And when Hektor
falls, Achilleus vaunts:
'Hektor, surely you though as you killed Patroklos you would
be/safe, and since I was far away you thought nothing of me , / o
27
�fool, for an avenger was left far greater than he was, I behind
him and away by the hollow ships. And it was I; I and I have
broken you strength; On you the dogs and vultures/shall feed and
foully rip you; the Achaians will b¥8Y Patroklos.'
(Bk. XXII: lines 331-336)
There are two things to notice in this boast. Of the greatest importance is
Achilleus 's use of 'I.'
He uses it emphatically three times, and what he is
conveying to Hektor is this: I am the greater man. You are nothing in comparison.
Here Achilleus reveals his need to dominate, to stand alone as the most glorious of
all men. The next thing of interest is Achilleus's juxtaposition of Hextor's doom to
be devoured by carrion with Patroklos's imminent burial. Achilleus is stressing that
while Hektor will receive no funeral rites and will thus never gain access into
Hades, Patroklos, the man Hektor had dominated, will. Achilleus therefore not only
supercedes Hektor by taking his life, but he further impresses his dominance upon
Hektor by threatening to annihilate Hektor' s individuality in death.
In being
consumed, Hektor will be split into many parts, and he will be distributed among
many. To make his point strongly , Achilleus says,
'I wish only that my spirit and fury would drive me/ to hack you
meat away and eat it raw for the things that/ you have done to
me.
So there is no one who can hold the dogs off I from your
head.'
(Bk. XXII: lines 346-349)
For Achilleus, this is the supreme statement of dominance: a threat to destroy the
individuality of another by ingesting it into one's self. Achilleus's treatment of
Hektor's body is in the same vein. He abuses it and tries to mar it in every way.
His wish is that its unique form and beauty be destroyed.
What Achilleus wishes he had spirit and rage enough to do, Penthesilea carries
out. But Penthesilea's treatment of Achilles stems from motivations that are not the
same as those of Achilleus.
This changes the meaning of the act.
Penthesilea' s
desire to conquer Achilles does not primarily come from a need to dominate. She acts
with tremendous agression, but it is not directed a supercession. It is directed at
absorption of Achilles.
She moved to meet that youth whom she so loves,
•.. In the confusion of her youthful senses
Aiming with all the horrid terrors of war
Her hot desire to seize and possess him.
(Scene 23: p. 252; Meroe)
Penthesilea does not want to destroy Achilles.
She wants to merge with him
completely. Her deed demonstrates not a contempt of Achilles, but a valuing of him
as a special individual. She would go to any lengths to grasp him, and she is so
blinded by her eagerness that she does not realize that what she is doing destroys
the very thing she seeks. The Homeric Achilleus wishes to comsume Hektor, but he
cannot do i t because in that he would be bringing himself into the closest of
contacts with Hektor. What he wants to do is separate himself from Hektor as much as
possible. Achilleus must hence content himself with abusing the body in the dust
behind his chariot. Penthesilea, having inadvertently marred Achilles in her killing
of him, treats the body with love (Scene 24: p. 266).
Having seen the different meanings that the deed has for Penthesilea and
Achilleus, it is possible to gain clear insight into how very opposed these characters are to one another. For Achilleus, who belongs in his world, assertion of his
28
individualtiy is the most important function in liis life:
the glory he will gain
ensures his shining dominance over men even after his death. For Penthesilea, who
has no place in her world, assertion of her individuality has no meaning until she
finds belonging in the world.
She tries to find this through another individual:
Achilles. And because she put her goal in the being of another, her resolution in
the world became, with his destruction, only something which destroyed her also.
There are many ways in which Penthesilea's love affair with Achilles and the end
in which it results can be read. Return for a moment to the idea introduced at the
beginning of this paper that Kleist's Achilles and Penthesilea represent two sides of
Achilleus.
Looking at the two characters as parts of a whole, the play becomes
Kleist's interpretation of how Achilleus finally comes into his own in The Iliad.
Achilleus is a divided man. Part of him has great depth of feeling and great
splendor, and the other part is calculating an manipulative. This part looks only to
the end it desires. It will sacrifice anything to bring that end to realization.
Through the course of the story, both sides of Achilleus are at work, and he is not
in harmony with himself. But through the events that are fated to be, his emotional
side and his calculating side are forced to merge with one another. In the death of
Patroklos and Achilleus's resulting rage in which he destroys Hektor, these two parts
are synthesized. Achilleus becomes whole. That is what makes his youthful death
tragic: he has just recently become a mighty man.
Kleist's Achilles and Penthesilea try to come together in the same way that the
sides of Homer's Achilleus do. There is great conflict between them, and there is
much conflict in the character of Penthisilea that represents the part of Achilleus
that passionately desires and must feel the pain which the actions of that other,
colder side cause.
In this, Penthesilea and Achilles are like Artistophanes's
hermaphrodites. the female half, Penthesilea, and the male half, Achilles, want desperately to come together. This accounts for Kleist's portrayal of Penthesilea as a
Phaedra who, without the love of Hippolytus, cannot live her own life and wishes only
to fade into death.
It also accounts for why Kleist make Penthesilea an Amazon:
being one half of Achilleus, she must have both a female yearning to be united with
the male half and the ruthless rage of a warrior who blooms in battle.
Penthesilea's killing of Achilleus in the way Achilleus wished to kill Hektor is
very elegant, for it is in that moment, standing over Hektor, that the passionate
side of Achilleus is fused with the calculating side: at Hektor's death Achilleus's
glory is ensured, and he also atones for the sacrifice of Patroklos. Penthesilea,
the passionate half of this split entity, does away with calculating Achilles in the
same way the Achilleus loses his calculating side into a unity with his emotional
side when he kills Hektor.
It is also appropriate that Penthesilea must die.
Just as it is tragic that
Achilleus must die, it is tragic that there is nothing more she can do in the world.
And as part of a whole, once Achilles is dead, Penthesilea cannot live. Prothoe says
of Penthesilea (and this applies to the Homeric Achilleus also),
Her blooming was too proud and glorious!
Vainly the gale will shake the withered oak,
But with a crash he flings the living down,
19
Grasping with ruffian hands her copious locks.
(Scene 24: p. 268)
Yet there is more to Penthesilea than this connection to one aspect of
Achilleus 's character.
Recall Keist' s portrayal 'of Achilles with all the
distictiness that the figure is given in The Iliad. With this in mind, Penthesilea
can be read as a contrast between the classical Achilleus and a modern one:
Penthesilea. Kleist has worked the classical account of a man's struggle to come
29
�into his own in the world into a modern context.
The world of Penthesilea and that character's difficulties in the world
represent Kleist' s perceptions of the world of his time and the problems he saw
hindering an individual from finding contentment. The sense of existing in a world
where the individual struggles alone to find himself is Kleist' s evaluation of
modernity.
He purposefully incorporates The Iliad (and things like Racine's
formulation of Pahedra 'a character) into his play in order to make explicit the
difference he saw between the modern individual and the classical one·
He then
relies upon what the reader knows of the classical tale to make h~s meaning cl:ar.
Penthesilea captures for Kleist the tensions a modern individual experiences·
Given a lack of place in the world, the individual desires both to assert himself and
to lose himself by attempting to find belongin~ through other individuals·
The
0 (which is an unusual occurrence
importance that Kleist gives to the power of love
in classical works - only in Euripides's Phaedra do we see such a consuming emotion)
suggests that love in this unbounded, blinding mode has become, in the modern world,
the answer to this lack of belonging. Keist's opinion seems to have been that the
classical individual, because he had definite place in the world and rules that
governed him in that place, had no need for such passion.
In line with this, ·
Kleist's Achilles does not have the same kind of love for Penthesilea as she has for
him. He is fascinated by her, he wants to share his life with her, but he does not
want to be utterly merged with her.
21
Penthesilea's madness is Kleist's judgement
of what a modern individual must
do if he insists upon achieving harmony with himself in the world.
He implies that
it is impossible to do such a thing naturally.
It requires a madness that is monstrous. Penthesilea's death, achieved by drawing out of her soul an emotion that is
powerful enough to kill, is the only thing Kleist sees as glorious and beautiful
about the individual. He aggrandizes human mortality by depicting the human self at
its greatest height when it rejects its world. It is not just her Amazon world that
Penthesilea rejects; in destroying Achilles, she also rejects the shining image of
that classical individual who does belong in his world.
She has forced even glorious Achilleus to acknowledge the mightiness of her pure being which is uncluttered by
things of the world.
I think, however, that there is a more positive side to Kleist's analysis of the
modern situation.
Penthesilea can ,also be read as an allegory of romantic approach
to Achilleus:
the idealization of, and fascination with, that heroic figure.
Penthesilea then represents the modern romantic who is infatuated with Homer's
Achilleus. The love affair between the two characters is hence a description of how
people like myself, as readers of The Iliad, become intrigued with Achilleus.
We,
like Penthesilea, chase after an image which exists in thought, wishing to overtake
him, wishing to discover his tantalizing secret, wishing to assimilate into ourselves
his secret that we might become like such a man.
This interpretation of the play makes several things clear.
Kleist may have
made use of the Amazon character - the love / hate duality - to illustrate the
relationship that the lover of Achilleus has with the splendid image.
He both
idealizes him and yearns to be like him, and yet he feels that Achilleus outshines
him. He therefore envies Achilleus. The romantic wants to unveil Achilleus's secret
because he does not want the image to loom so far above him.
In the light of this idea, much of the disjunction between Penthesilea a nd
Achilles is made understandable.
If one tries to imagine actually meeting the
Achilleus whom one has idealized, the situation would certainly be full of
misunderstandings, and perhaps full of some disappointments as well, when the man did
not live up to his image. Penthesilea day-dreams about Achilles, and when she meets
him she is overcome by that vision out of the 'daedal past' that stands before her.
30
Yet when she talks with him, she is shocked because the man she is speaking with does
not seem to be the one she imagined. She asks him if he is really that man who with
such a heart of iron abused the body of Hektor. Achilles, too, does not know how to
understand Penthesilea. She fills him with wonderment. At one point he says to 22r,
"I was wond'ring/ If thou wert come down to me from the moon" (Scene 15: p. 232).
The inability, therefore, that Penthesilea and Achilles have of coming together
and understanding one another is an indication that they embody two completely different consciousnesses. Achilles is very much himself. He is in his proper environment. Penthesilea is misplaced both in his environment and in her own.
She admires
his stability and harmony in the world, while he is drawn to her literal
unearthliness:
0 thou, who with soft, heavenly radiance,
As though the realms of light had open their doors,
Descendest on me, strange beyond with: Who art thou?
How do I name thee?
( Scene 15: p. 226; Achilles)
That it is impossible, however, for these lovers to come together except in the
frenzy of Penthesilea' s madness, suggests that this play is a bitter comment on
Kleist' s part, resulting from disillusionment with such romantic idealization of
Achilleus. The black nature of the play may imply that Kleist thought this 'looking
back to the past' and searching for the secret of being a whole individual is not the
answer, that it could, in fact, be dangerous.
It could go beyond all bounds and
leave the modern individual floundering in an image that is truly imaginary. Just as
Penthesilea is doomed to fall as she reaches out to grasp Achilles, in looking backwards too fervently the romantic is bound to fall.
The presence of the myths concerning voyeurism - Pentheus peeking at the
maenads, and Actaeon watching Artemis bathe - might suggest that in delving so deeply
into the images of the past one is trying to see what is best not seen. In this attraction, the romantic could become an Oedipus, drawn almost against hi$ will towards
an end that is horrifying.
The element of punishment in these two myths might also be important with respect to this reading of Penthesilea. Although exact parallels cannot be drawn, it
might be that Penthesilea is being punished for refusing to work on understanding and
belonging in her world. Actaeon was punished for trying to gain access into a world
of the goddess that was forbidden to him. Pentheus denied Dionysus. Agave's fault
was much the same as his, though not as extreme. She refused to believe that Semele
had lai12 with Zeus and was bringing forth into a world a new kind of god.
Both
3
Pentheus
and Agave resisted working on understanding how the new god would change
their lives.
Penthesilea, like these people, took refuge in something other than
what could give her place in her world.
She tried to find place through another,
Achilles, who is not only a completely distinct individual from her, but who comes
from another world altogether. It is possible that Kleist felt that looking back to
the past was good thing, as long as it did not involve idealization. He might have
felt that the approach that idealized would result in an eclipse of what is great in
2
the modern individual.
I said earlier that this interpretation of Penthesilea as an allegory of the
romantic
idealization
of
Achilleus
was
more
positive
than
the
preceding
interpretation.
It is so because it does not make the·modern situation impossible.
It does not suggest that death, and glorification of that death, are the only acts
available to the displaced modern individual.
If Kleist's message is to be careful
not to lose what is great in the modern individual in looking back to the past, then
31
�Kleist would also advocate careful observation of the modern worzg: trying to see it
clearly without having the vision blinded by images of the past.
Perhaps Kleist never meant the play to be read as an allegory. Nevertheless, I
find such a reading helpful.
As I prepare to leave behind the images that have
filled my thoughts for the past four years, I wonder about that world that lies
beyond St. John's College, and I wonder how happiness can be found there.
I have
learnt from Kleist that, despite my own tendency to idealize the images of the past
and search fervently for their secrets, I must look for what is splendid in modernity
also. And though I do not feel at home in that world, I take Kleist's advice to work
at finding a place in it. There is much that the images of the past have taught me,
but I must hold myself back from turning blindly to them. They can give me a sense
of comfort, because of the stability they convey to me, but through them I will not
find belonging in my own world. Those images can guide me, since the past remains
embedded in the present, but they cannot replace the present.
ENDNOTES
1. I shall use Achilleus to refer to the character in The Iliad. Since he also appears in Penthesilea, this will help to distinguish between the Homeric individual
and Kleist's Achilles.
2.
Kleist is undoubtedly making fun of Homer's 'crafty Odysseus' in this speech.
3. Penthesilea is divided into twenty-four scenes. There are no acts which hold it
together. Thus, the play is itself like this landscape in which events simply occur.
4.
At least, no ceremonies that we see in the play.
5. It could be said that even the gods of The Iliad represent movements in the human
soul. But they are not depicted as such, and I am concerned with the ways in which
these things are described by the authors.
6. This is unlike Glaucos and Diomedes, who exchange armor as a sign of friendship.
They meet as general foes, but in discovering the specifics about one another, they
agree not to fight, though they fight others in the enemy camp.
7. The Amazon law also forbids that a woman pick her man. She is supposed to take
whomever the god sends her (see Scene 15: p. 235). Thus Penthesilea, in her love
for Achilles, is out of line in her Amazon world.
8.
Tanais was the first Queen of the Amazons and the founder of their traditions.
9. The scenes in which this deception occurs correspond to Books XIV and XV of The
Iliad in which Hera deceives Zeus. Both texts describe a love scene. Hera is able
to alleviate, for a time, the dire circumstances Zeus has put upon the Achaians, and
in the play Achilles's deception also, for a short time, keeps Penthesilea away from
her tensions and the end they will bring her to.
10. According to myth, the look in Penthesilea's eyes as she died from Achilleus's
blow made him fall in love with her. In the play, her gaze as she falls before him
in battle drives away all thoughts of violence that Achilles had towards her.
32
.
11. Penthesilea may have accompained the host, as' the young girls who pick roses do
in the play, but she would not have engaged in battle. In order to participate in
the Feast of Roses, an Amazon must have conquered her man in battle.
Since
Penthesilea has not taken part in the Feast of Roses, she cannot have battled with
any man.
'
12. What is initially taken to be a desire from fame (see p. 2, this paper) now
turns out to be a desire to gain place in the world. Thus, though she and Achilles
seem to be pushed by the same motivations, they are not.
Diomede say~ to Achilles, concerning this well-timed swerve,
Yet all that I have seen convinces me
That thy so masterly retreat was not constrained
But of free choice. One might indeed suppose
That with the crack of dawn ....
Already thou hadst marked that lucky stone
O'er which the Queen should stumble ....
With such sure course, by the eternal gods,
Didst thou ent~ce her to this very stone.
(Scene 4: pp. 182-183)
Kleist, therefore, responded to the character of Achilleus in much the same way this
I did, seeing him as manipulating his way to his gain of glory and seeing him as
willing to sacrifce Patroklos for this goal. Kleist also saw the ~reatness inherent
in Achilles. But he gave that greatness to Penthesilea.
13.
14. This is the moment in which Penthesilea most resemble Phaedra.
It is interesting, however, that she is most like Racine's Ph'edre:
Que ces vains or'n ements, que ces voiles me pesent 1
Quelle importune main, en formant tous ces noeuds,
A pris soin sur mon front d'assembler mes cheveux?
Tout m'afflige et me nuti, et conspire'a me nuit.
(Larousse - Act I, Scene 3: lines 158-161)
Kleist copies this passage almo$t exactly.
It is significant, I think, that he
chooses the modern interpretation of the character over Euripides's portrayal of her
in Hippolytus (this passage can be found in Scene 1: lines 198-202).
In his
reinterpretation of the character of Achilleus through Penthesilea, Kleist uses a
reinterpretation of the character of Phaedra.
15.Here Kleist mixes the story of Actaeon, who was changed into a stag and devoured
by his own . hounds, with the story of fentheus hiding in the boughs of a tree in order
to peek at his mother and the other maenads .
1
16. In Euripeides 's Bacchae, the mother, Agave, · des troys the separate individuality
of her son, the being to whom she had given that individuality. . In her consuming of
him (though that section of the text is now missing), she and her offspring become
one again. Pentheus returns to whence he came. In calling fort,h The Bac~hae, Kleist
is emphasizing the oneness of Penthesilea and Achilles at this moment.
17.
In the German this reads:
So - it was a mistake.
Kisses (Kiisse) - bites
(bisse) [They rhyme] . . When we truly love/It is easy to. grasp ~ne instead of the other.
18. Penthesilea's killing of Achilles . also occurs in the twenty-second part of the
play, though it is not described in full until later.
33
�19. The German reads: But with a crash it flings the living down/ Because it can
grasp the crown of the tree.
20.
There are also many Christ images present in the play.
Achilles is, for
example, crowned with a wreath of laurel thorns by Penthesilea after she has killed
him (Scene 24: p. 260; Pen th.). She also offers to sprinkle water upon his head,
which has overtones of baptism.
Penthesilea herself comes back from her deed
crowned with thorns (Scene 24: p . 235; First Amazon). This connects Kleist's use of
Phaedra and her love with the emphasis that is put upon love in the Christian
religion. It also makes sacrifical beings - saviors - out of both Penthesilea and
' Achilles. These images too, as copies of the maenad frenzy in The Bacchae, suggest
the presence of Dionysus: the breaking down of all rational barriers and the freedom
of the individual to forget his isolated individuality for a time through the gift of
wine.
Thus, merging with others and finding salvation through that merging, are
clearly issues the Kleist wanted to include.
21.
Kleist himself committed suicide on November 21, 1811 .
22 . When the play is read in this way, it becomes much less dark .
Some of the
interactions between the characters, and especially between Penthesilea and Achilles,
become very funny . They reveal a sharp humour in Kleist.
On the Sonnet
Daniel Hoh ('88)
Is it mere waste, a trap made just to bind,
An ill command, or prison, made to hold
One'~ words as fettered to an ancient m ld,
.o
Denying freedom to the po'~t 's mind?
With ornament and pretty meter lined,
So that the tongue into a ball is rolled
And meaning in the poem be annulled:
Is such the cost when poets are confined?
Look closer though, and read the words with care,
For in such bars are worthy thoughts held fast.
And though its stature's small and strict its frame,
It says far more .than words of order bare.:
A frame of wor'd s, which wood or gold outlast.
And if a trap, let beauty be the game.
23. Though the names Pentheus and Penthesilea exist separately in myth , since Kleist
wove Pentheus's story into Penthesilea's he must have connected the two together both because their names begin similarly and because he had some notion, whatever it
might have been, which connected them together in his mind.
.·. 1.
24. Penthesilea, as Kle ist's portrayal of a modern
splendor of Homer's Achilleus.
But she, in her
acknowledge her own splendor. Kleist is suggesting,
human soul is (KaAbv ) just like that of Achilleus,
put into its own context.
individual, has within he r
love for Achilleus, does
I think, that in modernity
and i t should be cul tiv a t ed
the
not
the
and
25. The dust which is predominant in the play might also b.e a sign of the way our
eyes are blinded by the grandeur of the past. The dust clouds t he vision of those
who are looking at Penthesilea's mad pursuit of Achilles, and we, as readers of the
play, see through the eyes of those who are looking . We, then , become confused by
the confusion inherent in that pursuit.
The texts I have used in the paper are as follows :
1.
Homer, The Iliad; Trans. R. Lattimore.
Chicago: The University of Chicago Press,
Phoenix Edition: 1961.
2.
Kleist, Penthesilea; Trans. H. Trevelyan.
The German Library: Vol. 25 , pp. 167-268.
New York: Continuum Publishing Co.: 1982
The passages which I quote are marked beneath by Book and line for The Iliad,
and by Scene and page (and if necessary, speaker) for Penthesilea.
If a passage is pointed out in the text, this indicates that the passage supports the argument, and may be referred to if desired.
34
Conversation
#4
Brian ·cole( '91)
Scattered corners of important papers
like clanging ief tove t pennies 'or
smoldering con~ort ions of ·some emotionIn trust they remained safe,
.
under r usty snap~ in jacket pocke t s. ·
Until challenge d by t~e middle- aged librarian, who,
speaking through her doctor's mask
.
-.
claims they should . be numbered under plastic Laminate d to last a lifetime.
I make my r eply gen t ly, asking
Why do you wear stockings to cove r your shaven legs?
And why haven' t you r eally looke d at the colou r s
in a rainbow ?
The y t oo s eem desolat e and uno r ganize d ,
but combine in blinding whi tene s s ,
She swore by her steri l e scalpe l t hat 'one day
I would have t o s t op asking que s tions,
But I know then I would just be l e f t wit h answers.
35
�Untitled
Iocasta's Song
Dwayne Rodgers ('90)
Rachel Duel('89)
t
One hundred twenty-fifth street lies prostrate and still.
Having spiralled down a gaping till,
Crudely smothered in flat black paint,
Not "Sam I am , " but "No I ain ' t "
Is spattered on concrete walls,
Loudly slanged from tenement stalls
Where a screaming man, formerly of four Skid Row,
Showers the gasping boys below
With "smelling salts for a wasted land!"
Where etherized phantoms drown in sand.
Night whispers, seducing the day,
Like a line of verse might say.
But useless are poetic wisdoms of the universe
When the boys glimpse a woman's beckoning purse,
Glimmering beneath a cracked lamplight
In the midst of this late summer's night.
They take the purse with stiffly intent fingers
Where the spectre of the whimpering woman lingers,
Where my grandfather jazzed to Coltrane's tune,
Drowsily dying and coming soon.
Where nubile girls with needle tracks
And peach fuzzed boys are laid on their backs
In graves shovelled by their own hand
Where etherized phantoms drown in sand.
Where the screaming man places his wreath,
Streaming from his dangling sheath.
"Smelling salts for a wasted land!"
And more trickles down his hand
Onto the foot of a grieving mother
Whose whimpering spectre grieves another.
Dwayne Rodgers
36
'I
Ah Oedipus , my sweet, my center; what was Laius compared to
you?
Naught but a shade, like you in form but in substance
lacking! You entered my life like a king, by nature splendorous,
and saved our city from the dreaded Sphinx. A young and strong
monarch you then became, strong where he was weak, giving where
he'd been immovable. Thinking back, you were much like him in
features; but I don't wonder it escaped me, so different were you
in kind.
You and he may have resembled one another, but our
souls were akin and I had eyes for this only. And what is it to
~w that I've offended the gods with my impure love for you?
You are my reason for living; while I tremble to remember Laius'
passion when he learned that I had borne him a son, I tremble
even more to think that I endeavoured with him to bring about
your destruction. I glory in a fate that allowed you to survive
and to achieve the greatness that was truly your heritage, and
one that allowed me great, all-consuming love! For I love you in
all ways, as my son, as my self, as my lover. Oh that god is
jealous who tries to destroy this passion by exposing it to the
corrosive air. Does it really matter how our love came to be if
it is in itself pure? Oh Oedipus, I love you more than life
itself for you are my existence! I cannot bear to think that you
who have truly known me will shudder with revulsion to have done
so.
By the god of the flames I am shredded up inside.
Your
inquiry has forced my hand and I sacrifice myself, not to Apollo
but to you, my self augmented!
37
�On Mechanics, Geometry, and Newton's Concept of
God; or, an Attempt to Read the Principia as a
Philosphical Work
Jana Giles ('88)
Newton begins his Principia with a discussion on the differences between mechanics and geometry and their relation to philosophy. He concludes the Third Book with
the necessity for a Supreme Being to exercise dominion over the world. Between these
two very genera l s t atemen t s t hat descr ibe his i ntent i ons , and perhaps his motivation
for writing the Principia, lie his mathematical principles and propositions which
collectively allow him to apply his universal law of gravitation to the phenomena in
his world. He describes the way he associates mathematics and philosophy in his Preface to the First Edition:
Therefore I offer this work as the mathematical principles of
philosophy, for the whole burden of philosophy seems to consist
in this- from the phenomena of motions to investigate the forces
of nature, and then from these forces to demonstrate the other
phenomena.
(Preface, p. xvii)
To understand his "experimental philosophy" requires an understanding of his'
distinction between mechanics and geometry. He describes mechanics as corresponding
to motion and matter, and geometry to the magnitude of that matter. Mechanics describes the existence of bodies and their motions, while geometry allows us to analyze the qualities of those bodies and to attempt to explain how they move and affect
each other:
The description of right lines and circles, upon which geometry
is founded, belongs to mechanics. Geometry does not teach us to
draw these lines, but requires them to be drawn, for it requires
that the learner should first be taught to describe these
accurately before he enters upon geometry, then it shows how ·by
these operations problems may be solved. To describe right lines
and circles are problems , but not geome t rica l problems . (p. xvii)
Mechanics would seem, then, to correspond to that part of us which is immediately
affected by the physical world. His definition of practical mechanics as that to
which all the manual arts belong indicates that we use practical mechanics in the art
of drawing a line or in seeing the motion of an object, or in being hit by a moving
object. However, practical mechanics has no self awareness. A hand is capable of
drawing a circle, but it has no knowledge as to whether that which it has drawn is
indeed a circle or is instead a right line.
This requires the first purpose of
geometry: to define a described circle as a circle, both in itself and in contrast
to a right line. While mechanics presumes the application of the relations of the
mind of--for example, resemblance, cause and effect, and contiguity in space and time
(to use Hume's terms)--geometry analyzes the action that the mechanical artificer has
performed, and distinguishes between the different relations. We then can apply the
second faculty of geometry: the ability to rearrange those objects and relations and
38
to synthesize new combinations. This is merely an interpretation of this statement:
"Therefore geometry is founded in mechanical practice, and is nothing but that part
of universal mechanics which accurately proposes and demonstrates the art of measuring" (p . xvii). Notice that he describes that art as that of measuring and not of
measurement. It is important to recognize that he is speaking about actions and mo tion, rather than a static state.
For , as was explained above, mechanics is
concerned with motion, and geometry with the analysis of that motion. But to analyze
something already requires that one stop the motion in mid-movement and examine its
distinguishable features: matter, position, time, speed, etc. Yet even more confounding is the fact that the act of abstraction is just that: an action. To abstract we must remove the burden of specific examples, locate the essential suppositions, and reunite these in a more general form. To synthesize we must ~ resemblances in different objects, actions, or ideas, we must be able to divide thes e into
parts, and we must substitute similar parts from different things so as to create new
ones. Therefore, geometry is, paradoxically, the act of describing a dynamic action
in static terms.
If practical mechanics is the original description of objects, and geometry is
the demonstration of the act of that description, then rational mechanics is the explicit joining of the two. In Newton's understanding: "Rational mechanics will be
the science of motions resulting from any forces whatsoever, and of the forces
required to produce any motions, accurately proposed and demonstrated" (p. xvii).
This procession from practical mechanics to geometry to rational mechanics seems
analogous to Newton's "burden of philosophy" cited above. This becomes even more
apparent when noting the organization and presentation of the Principia. He begins
by presenting a few universal laws and definitions taken from the general phenomena
he observes.
In formulating these definitions, he is applying the first use of
geometry to mechanical objects. From these first premisses, he moves on to combine
these general definitions and laws with each other and with new mathematical objects
to create the propositions that lead him to the universal law of gravitation. And in
Book III he reintroduces the phenomena to support his conclusion.
This brings us to the General Scholium at the end of Book III of the Principia.
Evidently Newton has found the harmony and coherence of his own argument so conclusive that he is moved to assert:
It is not to be conceived that mere mechanical causes could give
birth to so many regular motions ••• This most beautiful system of
the sun, planets, and comets could only proceed from the counsel
and dominion of an intelligent and powerful Being.
(p. 544)
Indeed, Newton's endeavour has been tight, fluid, and powerful, to say the least, but
these attributes have never been the standard of judgment for the truth of the existence of God. Whence, then, this conviction?
Newton's reasoning in this regard sounds something like St. Anselm's: God is
that which nothing greater than can exist. If we examine Newton's statements closely, we see that his argument for the existence of God is much like a geometrical deduction, for he has based it on the regularity and universality of his final general
laws of gravitation and centripetal force. As has been elucidated above, these laws
came f r om pr opositions formed using geometry, which in turn arose from the original
definitions based on practical mechanics. Here we see the root of the problem:
where is the origin of practical mechanics? The trouble is that we cannot answer
this question using geometry since it presupposes mechanics.
And we cannot
understand the forces involved in mechanics without geometry to define objects and
relate ideas.
Therefore Newton's argument for the existence of God is based on
phenomena that he fundamentally cannot explain. Did Newton see this problem and
39
�finding himself in a circular argument simply posit God as a final cause? Did he
abstract to the concept of God from his own experience? Or was his God based on a
different understanding , which either he did not describe , or I have failed to
apprehend?
If the case is the first, then God is merely a figment of Newton's imagination
inspired by a fit of desperation. It adds nothing to the credibility of his project.
If the case is the third, then this essay has been to no purpose. The second seems
more likely, and also gives me an opportunity to go on with this endeavor.
To assist him in his theologico-philosophical search, Newton presents four rules
for reasoning in philosophy. They are as follows:
Rule I: We are to admit no more causes of natural things than such as are
both true and sufficient to explain their appearance.
Rule II:
Therefore to the same
possible, assign the same causes.
natural
effects
we
must,
as
far
as
Rule III: The qualities of bodies, which admit neither intensification nor
remission of degrees, and which are found to belong to all bodies within
the reach of our experiments, are to be esteemed the universal qualities of
all bodies whatsoever.
Rule IV:
In experimental philosophy we are to look upon propositions
inf erred by general induction from phenomena as accurately or very nearly
true, notwithstanding any contrary hypotheses that may be imagined, till
such time as other phenomena occur, by which they may either be made mo ~ e
accurate, or liable to exceptions. (pp. 398- 400)
Allow me to clarify these using Hume's relations of the mind:
Rule I assumes that our mechanics are accurate, that we observe carefully, that
we make proper use of the relations of cause and effect, and that we are able either
to immediately apprehend or extract the ideas of sufficiency and simplicity from
natural things.
Rule II assumes that we are able to observe cause and effect, to see resemblances among specific .effects, and from these to generalize regarding causes , and
then to reapply these to the specific examples.
Rule III assumes that we apply the concept of resemblance to qualities of specific bodies, and that we generalize to all bodies, justified by the consistency of
the observation of those qualities.
Ru l e I V assumes t hat both our . mech anics and our geometry are perfect l y accurate .
He then applies these rules to his concept of God in the General Scholium:
Every soul that has perception is, though in different times and
in different objects of sense and motion, still the same indivisible person.
There are given successive parts in ·duration,
coexistent parts in space, but neither the one nor the other in
the person of a man, or his thinking principle; and much less can
they be found in the thinking substance of God. Every man, so
far as he is a thing that has perception, is one and the same man
during his whole life, in all and each of his organs of sense.
God is the same God, always and everywhere.
(p. 545)
In this statement he is assuming that the soul's perception of phenomena is accurate
and continuous, and he applies the simplicity of Rule I and the resemblance of Rule
40
II to posit the thinking substance of God. For although Newton clearly states that
God has no substance, he is abstracting from the existence of the thinking principle
of man to the thinking substance of God, and therefore the rules are applicable. God
is not the thing itself, but the being of it:
He is not eternity and infinity, but eternal and infinite; he is
not duration or space, but he endures and is present. He endures
forever, and is everywhere present; and by existing always and
everywhere , he constitutes duration and space.
(p . 545)
One can see that these assumptions present problems to those who see Newton's
reasoning as circular. But perhaps his understanding of God as an action rather than
an obj ect might bypass these problems. This brings us back to the conflict between
mechanics and geometry. To illustrate this further, I would like to introduce an
example. Lemma I of Book I states: "Quantities and the ratios of quantities, which
in any finite time converge continually to equality, and before the end of that time
approach nearer to each other than any given difference, become ultimately equal" (p .
29). Lemma I is essentially about motion. It is a substitute for the theory of division that presented so many problems to Zeno. The unending convergence to equality
of quantities in a finite time is analogous to the continuous division of a quantity
into smaller discrete quantities in a finite time. In the case of division, if we
divide our quantities into rational halves, theoretically we will never reach a single point since t here will always be left something to divide. The problem with division is that it is based on an abstraction, on a static geometrical analysis in
which each piece of matter is examined and defined individually . When the pieces get
too small, however, it becomes impossible for human perception, or mechanics, to dis tinguish one from another. Newton expresses this observation himself in Rule III:
Moreover, that the divided but contiguous particles of bodies may
be separated from one another, is a matter of observation; and in
the particles that remain undivided, our minds are able to dis tinguish yet lesser parts; as is mathematically demonstrated.
But whether the parts so distinguished, and not yet so divided
may, by the powers of Nature, be actually divided and separated
from one another, we cannot certainly determine .
(p . 399)
Lemma I would seem to obviat e this problem by appealing directly to mechanics and the
phenomena of motion as it is presented to the human mind, being an expression of
" ... the person of a man, or his t hinking princip l e ••. " ( taking " th inking principle to
mean that which perceives and is capable of the geometrical act of abstraction) .
When Newton says that "there are given successive parts in duration, coexistent parts
in space .•• ", he is referring to division, to the abstract idea of dividing time into
discrete particles. But just as the act of division does not explain how one may
arrive at a single point, neither does the dividing of time explain how one is living
in only a single present moment that is . passing by so rapidly that it cannot be
defined nor distinguished from the moment immediately before it (this being one abstract understanding of time) .
The implication of all this is that although man's thinking principle is capable
of abstraction, it cannot explain the thinking principle itself by means of abstraction because abstraction is contained within it as an operation of it.
Hence this reflection on God on p. 546:
We have ideas of his attributes, but what the real substance of
41
�anything is we know not.
In bodies, we see only their figures
and colours, we hear only the sounds, we touch only their outward
surfaces, we smell only the smells, and taste the savors; but
their inward substances are not to be known either by our senses,
or by any reflex act of our minds; much less, then, have we any
idea of the substance of God. We know him only by his most wise
and excellent contrivance of things, and final causes ..• by way of
allegory, God is said to see, to speak, to laugh, to love, to
hate •.. for all our notions of God are taken from the ways of mankind by a certain similitude.
It is obvious from the above statement that Newton's concept of God is indeed an
abstraction that derives its credibility from the presupposed Rules. This is an assumption on the part of Newton that, although substantiated by much evidence, ·cannot
hope to be accepted because of the lack of a criterion of truth.
Although we may remain dissatisfied with his proof for the existence of God,
perhaps his motivation for presenting such an idea in the context of his mathematics,
and hfs· awareness of the limitations of his "experimental philosophy" can be understood in his regard for the geometrical act of abstraction, or generalization, as
presented in Rule III as "the foundation of all philosophy". And perhaps this sheds
some light on his conclusive statement in the General Scholium: "And thus much concerning God; to discourse of whom from the appearances of things, does certainly belong to Natural Philosophy" (p. 546).
Cartesian Equations for Rectilinear Figures
Kim Paffenroth
In the sophomore mathematics tutorial, we were shown that all our beloved conic
sections - the circle, ellipse, hyperbola, and parabola - could be expressed by algebraic equations. We then found out that all these equations had the same general
form, a form that came to be known as the general equation of the second degree:
Ax. 2 + Bxy + Cy 2 + Dx + Ey + F = 0
Any conic section could be expressed in the form of this equation, and anything in
the form of this equation was a conic or a degenerate conic (line, pair of lines, or
point), if it was anything at all. The object of this paper is to see if we can find
similar equations, which will likewise share the same general form among themselves
and which will also represent rectilinear figures roughly equivalent to their conic
brethren.
Now, let's not jump right to the general equation. Let's start rather with the
most basic conic section, the circle, with the simplest equation, x 2 +y 2 =r 2 •
This
will, of course, be a circle with center at the origin and a radius of r. Looking
just at the algebraic equation, forgetting the figure for a moment, what properties
suggest themselves as bridges of similarity between conic sections and rectilinear
figures? The first property that suggests itself to me is that there are two values
of x for each value of y and likewise two values of y for each value of x, except
when x or y equals ±r, in which case the other variable must equal zero; these points
are, of course, where the circle crosses the axes. The other property is that there
are cetain limitations to the values I can assign to x and y, namely, that neither
can be less than -r nor greater than +r; this is, of course, because a circle is a
closed figure.
Now, what rectilinear figure will display these properties of a circle, and what
equation can we use that will also display these properties while representing a
rectilinear and not a conic section? After some thought, the two answers occur almost simultaneously: a square with its center at the origin and its vertices on the
axes, represented by an equation which includes absolute-value signs, as below.
(~o)
IXl+IYl=F
F>O
42
43
�Now we have the rectilinear equivalent of a circle centered at the origin, along
with its equation.
And i f we just think of how we can change the first simple
equation of a circle centered at the origin to represent first other circles, then
ultimately all the other conic sections, we will be able to similarly alter our
equation of a square to represent other squares and then other rectilinear figures.
How does one move the center of a circle to different coordinates? By adding or
subtracting a number from the x and / or the y value before squaring it. Similarly, if
we wish to move our square, we will add or subtract a number from our x and / or our y
value before we take the absolute value of it. And how does one change the size of a
circle ? By changing the radius and / or changing the coefficient of x 2 and / or y 2 , as
long as the two coefficients remain equal. Similarly, if we wish to change the size
of our square, we will change the value of F and / or change the coefficients in front
of our absolute- value signs, being sur e to keep the two coefficients equa l to one
another. Thus, we have as the most general equation of a square,
Now, if we wish to fold our square or rhomboid outward to make a pair of angles
opening outward to infinity, we do the same we would have done to make an hyperbola:
we make A and C of different signs. Thus---
(D, E.)
A\X-Df+CIY-El=F
A~D
A=:C
F>O
F>O
C<O
F>O
We have now arrived at an equation that looks very much like an unexpanded form
of the general equation of the second degree:
A(x-D) 2 + C(y-E) 2 = F
(see footnote)
This equation represents a circle if A=C and an ellipse if A does not equal C, but
they are· of the same sign. Similarly, I saw that if we wanted to turn our square
into any sort of rhomboid, we could do the same thing we would have done to turn a
circle into an ellipse: make A and C unequal, but keep them of the same sign. The
center and vertices of our rhomboid will be at the points shown in the diagram above,
since these are general for any square or rhomboid.
And finally, to make only one angle opening to' infinity, we observe that a
parabola, the equivalent curvilinear figure, has only one squared term in its
equation. Thus we remove one pair of absolute-value signs, our rectilinear equivalent of squaring, and our rectilinear equation becomes---
44
45
�.
A 1x-D\+cy=F
·
I
Ax +C. IY .~E I= F
OR
F>O
F>O
c<O
(f IE)
A>O
C>O
A<O
Equivalent degenerate sections can also be made. Setting A or C equal to zero
makes a pair of parallel lines, unless F=O, in which case there is only one line.
Removing both pairs of absolute-value signs gives us of course the familiar equation
of a straight line. And setting F=O will give us either a point, a line, or a pair
of crossed lines.
Footnote -- This form has almost the same properties as the general form, namely:
l)it represents a circle if A=C; 2) it represents an ellipse if A does not equal C,
but they are of the same sign; 3) it represents an hyperbola if A and C differ in
sign; 4) ~t represents a parabola if one of the terms is not squared. The manual
points ' this out on p. 16 (Eq . 12), p. 22 (Eq". 26), · p. 33 (Eq.· 42), ·and p. 19 (5 th Eq .
down), but it is easy enough .to · see, for if we go from the expanded to the unexpanded
form, or the other way, for that matter, A and C do not change their values or their
signs.
46
47
�ers.
The Bus Ride
Jennifer Mischer ('91)
As number 23A turned down Averiue . de 'la Liberte, I stepped into the circular
light of the street lamp so that the driver would be sure to see me. I dreaded these
late rides home from track practice at the stadium . The little town of Monastir ,
Tunisia folded up at seven o'clock and didn't reopen until dawn. The large red bus
slowed to an unsteady stop in front of me. Stepping up into the nearly empty bus, I
missed the security of the sweaty, molten mass of bodies· which had oozed on and off
earlier at lunch.
I chose to sit on the long cushioned seat, universally known to bus riders, in
the front. Across from me sat the bus's only other passenger--a robust woman, completely engulfed by her sari, as these Arab women often were, so that only eyes and
nose were visible. Two corners of the large white sheet were crossed and tucked under her powerful ·armpits, while the other corners had been pulled down over her head
and were clenched between· 'h.e r brown, crooked teeth. Fat and round, she seemed as if
she might roll more easiiy than walk.
Hooked on her left elbow was a faded
milky-green ·plastic basket filled with treasures from shopping at the open-market
souk. A· new lipstick, a bottle of dried garbanzo beans and a roll of mauve lace
topped the basket. Her left hand clutched a newspaper cone of jet black sunflower
seeds which she skillfully shelled ~ith her right hand and ate without dislodging the
corners of her sari.
"Bi 'l 'let..;" said the ticket man, swaying in front of me to keep his balance.
"Carte," I responded, surprised that he had failed to recognize me in my
schoolgirl tab'lier which clearly identified me as a Tunisian student who could ride
with a student pass.
The bus slowed, pulled right and stopped at the curb. Two teenage boys boarded.
Their rowdy talking interrupted the meditative silence of the bus. The broken ceiling lights inside the bus ·flic_ ered on and quickly off as the bus jolted forward.
k
The boys bought tickets to Sousse and took the front double seat on my side. They
obviously recognized me, and I was poignantly reminded of my instant identity as the
girl from America .
"You like Tunisia?" asked the tall lanky one, in confident English.
I sat stony, staring out the window above the woman's head.
"Come and sit on my lap," said the second boy in Arabic spoken so fast that I
could barely decipher the words. "We can have some fun. All right?"
"Oh, she won't talk to us," said the first to the second. "We' re too low for
her. Aren't we, pretty miss?"
"Will you make love to me? Come on. Let's make love."
I studied the window glass, memorizing the dusty patterns and the clear glass
streaks of its surface, aware of the images of the familiar dark streets as they
passed through its frame. The boys were silent now. I lowered my gaze to the floor.
I was surprised that my neck muscles had become stiff.
The bus turned left onto the long straight section of the route before reaching
Skannes. The white wall guarding Monastir's furniture factory came into view. The
carved bold letters in the wall, spelling MONASTIR MEUBLES, could just be seen in the
moonlight. The flat land extending beyond the wall seemed empty without its labor-
48
I was anxious for the bus to turn into Skannes, nearer my house.
"That's a nice tablier you're wearing," called one boy.
"Show us what's under your tablier, lady."
My school tablier had always been my camouflage.
I pushed my fists into its
navy blue pockets. I was frightened. My eyes were fixed on the window. I dared not
look away from the window.
"Take off your tablier and show us your pretty clothes" taunted the shorter one,
who had bad acne.
My heart raced. I began to perspire. The long sleeves of the tablier stuck to
my damp skin. I managed to swallow. As I turned from the window the piercing eyes
of the woman across from me met mine for a moment.
The boys moved quickly to sit on either side of me. My mind and body were paralyzed . Only my eyes could cry for help .
"Let's make love," cried the tormentor to my right.
The woman moved forward. She took the corners of the fabric of her sari from
her mouth with her right hand and held them in the air about an inch from her chin.
"You boys are disgusting," she hollered in an authoritative voice. "Look at her. She
is not a tourist. She wears a tablier. She goes to 'lycee. We see her on the bus.
You stop your nasty talk."
The boys recoiled to the back of the bus in silence, temporarily shamed by her
disapproval.
Still paralyzed, breathing very softly and shallowly, I looked directly at my
defender. We looked at each other intently, sharing a rare moment of understanding,
possible only when there is common respect.
The bus turned into Skannes. I stood to get off at the next stop. I did not
look back at the woman. I knew she would not be looking at me.
I stepped down out of the bus, breathed deeply, and let myself cry.
49
�The Passion
The Death of Romeo
Ange Mlinko ('91)
Erika Wilson ('88 )
Wood softens in this air, my nails
leaving carvings of despair upon
the table. But I am unseen.
The walls swell and the paint peels
the floor gives where you walk
swallowed moans
the outside breeze slakes off water
showered to the ground
lighted squares across backyards
black & drenched , fuming with rose .
The moment sticks
like windows at wrong angles to the sills,
or like people's faces here snagged be t ween
a grin and a gag, watching the street
from the vantage of their door
where, closely pressed, they sense the thing
that crowds their antique foyers
and nails them to the frame.
50
But, soft! What whisper doth escape thy lips?
Nay, 'tis but a dream departed
E'en as my heart now faintly trips,
Its amorous leapings thwarted
By Death's cuckolding embrace.
And now I rush to fill his arms,
Mine own grown weak that I must brace
Myself with stone to behold thy charms
One last lingering time.
For I feel the cold steal over me,
And hear the church bell chime
The heartbeats I have left with thee.
0! Mine eyes grow dim, by night caressed,
And I bow my head that I might press
My bitter lips to thy marble breast.
Yet, soft! And warm, that one might guess
A living heart to beat within!
Beneath my incredulous cheek I feel the wings
Of a bird once caged, eager to win
Its freedom from the deadly whisperings
Of marble tombs and silent stone.
0 my love, my life, I say goodbye
For we both shall wake alone.
You to grieve and wonder why
'Tis I who lie upon this stony bed
Not warm and sweet and welcoming,
But cold and still and wrongly dead,
Betrayed by love to prick myself with Death's destroying sting.
Once more, I vow , while strength is mine ,
To take from you a lover's right
And rob your lips of their sweet wine
And feast upo~ the rich delight
That lights your eyes with fierce desire.
But no, I feel the bony hand of Death,
And so with him retire.
I leave to you my last faint breath,
And with my whisper soft upon your lips
I feel you stir and answe r me,
Even as my life so very gently slips
Into the midnight sea.
51
�Conversations With the Moon
Ariadne Ashore
Beth Cross ('88)
Claudia Probst ('88)
I
Gravel sand biting into the soles of her small feet,
Ariadne shifted from side to side,
cast wild blossoms onto the receding waves.
And the waves, expelling her offering,
flung the sodden flowers,
which lay then beyond their reach
like frail ruined mollusks on the sand.
She stood, one hip hitched up
like a crane dancer, revolving slowly on her heels,
and, resting a hand on her matted, golden hair
she remembered Theseus, who had once cherished her,
worked out the knots in her tresses
with patient fingers and scented oil .
"My lord and love" she cried
"why did you forsake me here,
on harsh Naxos, when for you I betrayed my father?"
But he had gone, and taken with him her only ambition,
to die beloved, and her words were lost,
in the rhythmic mocking slap, slap of the waves
and the the blood was flowing freely down her thigh
to her ankle and seeping
into the sand, her womb's small life lost while
the wind plucked her dress delicately away, unstained.
How would she die,
she on the island beach,
her chapped lip chatter skipping time with the waves?
No trees stood near to chop and heave and plane,
no boards would appear from under the sand,
nor the bleached ribs of an abandoned boat,
which, restored and launched into the waves,
might yet save her.
Home the last night had been a shallow cave
that she had scratched out towards evening,
and slept in, bloodied hands folded across her chest.
She had no fire, and no other person to address
would have welcomed a strayed gull's mew,
or a feral dog's bark, sounds she would have gathered
and nurtured, during the dark hours,
within her thin sandpiper breast.
52
Spine White
and whittled away
tooth
sunk into the <lark's heart
I too
am salted down
to my narrow self
shouldered against
my dreams.
We stare at each other
in a stalemate
without stakes.
II
III
The odd shape
that begs the question
what is to be done with you-become?
Vexed sharpness
not quite concave
oblong, off balance ,
what shall I call you?-who are not ready to be named
or taken from.
Out of my upturned palm,
shallowed from footprints,
half-formed intent-of these
are you the echo
or impetus?
53
Like the cutting of wisdom teeth
you are not there
but the hardness hiding
is felt.
Like the things about a day
I dream instead of remember
you bite.
In the inside turning of sleep
where the wings whir stirs
darkness journeys.
There, was it there that I saw you?
Flying like a wild thing
while abscent from on high?
For why do I recognize the smile
which you wear
as you regain the sky?
�Reflections on Leibnizian Substance
Robert DeMajistre ('88)
IV
Pearl or seed
awash in all else
that is salt brine,
knot, pit
knuckled in around yourself,
so sure
of your circled shape,
your obstinance is full-Predecessor to my heart,
white as you are
and so cold
as to glow blue,
you are not hollow.
v
On a long journey
you follow in the clouds
their veil across your face
mimicking the quarters
you race through in a month.
The rails count the seconds
in which I watch you,
You, taunting-"Remember?
The time at full?
and where were you
as I slid to half?
and he?
What did my shadowed side
hold for you?
remember?
Can you ever be as swift as I?
Time carries-and you?"
The rails click
in syncopation
with the swooping telephone lines
outside the window.
"Will you ride with me tonight?
---out, alone--complete and evanescent
in ourselves."
54
Unless great care is taken, the system outlined in Leibniz's "Monadology" may
seem unintelligible. He seems to hold the most difficult and contradictory opinions
of both the Cartesians and the Schoolmen. He asserts that the universe is composed
exclusively of living creatures, yet, on the other hand, that it is meaningless to
refer the motion of bodies to the causes proper to the "souls" of .these creatures.
Upon reflection, however, one finds that the reconciliation of such seeming contraries as these would be very valuable, for although they oppose one another, the
force of the arguments offered by either of these two schools of thought is nearly
inescapable.
In dealing with these arguments, Leibniz is attempting to navigate
through the most treacherous areas of philosophic endeavor.
For this reason, his
work, whether successful or not, is of the utmost importance. Because of its importance and the extreme care needed to interpret the "Monadology," I have undertaken
the following detailed examination of some of the issues raised in this work.
Since the "monad," or simple substance, forms the basis of the "Monadology," I
believe it most advisable, in seeking to understand the work, to formulate a general
explication of substance, as well as of the relations between different substances.
As a result, this paper will be divided into four parts: 1) substance in general, 2)
God and substance, 3) the interrelation of simple substances, and 4) extension and
substance.
I. SUBSTANCE IN GENERAL
Questions relating to the being and qualities of a class of entities understood
to "stand under" things have challenged philosophers for centuries. Such a challenge
is no doubt based on the observation that though things are capable of change through
time, most changes seem to be gradual and proceed according to a rule. In the smallest perceptible time, a person undergoes a change, yet he rarely changes so much as
no longer to resemble himself. If nothing "stands under" such changes, the person's
identity is a mere illusion; yet if such a "standing under," i.e., substance, is
posited, it must be admitted that a thing is not the same as itself, at least in some
respect. Further, once substance is allowed, more questions arise, such as the scope
of its permanence and its ability to be affected by other entities. It will be the
purpose of this paper to explore Leibniz's answers to this second order of questions,
for he clearly asserts the being of substance. First, it will be necessary to give a
general description of his concept of substance, his ideas on simple and composite
substances, and his "detail of changes."
In the first few lines of the "Monadology," Leibniz separates the class of substances into the simple and the composite. Although the idea of composite substance
is very important to Leibniz's teaching ( indeed, its meaning will be discussed subsequently ) , our discussion of substance will be directed toward simple substances or
"monads." According to Leibniz, these monads are determined by the following limitations: 1) they have no extension, 2) they can be neither created nor destroyed by
natural means, and 3) they cannot be naturally altered from without. He also asserts
55
�•
that monads are' the "elements of all things" ("Monadology" #3) and that the "souls"
of men and animals are examples of simple substances.
There are at least two
questions to be asked at this point. If monads have no extension, and they are the
building blocks of all things, the manner in which extension arises is unclear. This
problem will be dealt with in chapter IV of this essay. The second question seeks
the possibility of sensation and death in Leibniz's system. Leibniz's response to
this question involves the idea of "detail of change." As stated earlier , an explanation of this detail will be given shortly.
Before dealing with those difficulties mentioned immediately above, we should
enquire into the meaning of composite substance. What can it mean for a substance to
be an aggregate of other substances? At this point, it may be helpful to look at a
similar division ·of the class of ·substance offered by another philosopher. Aristotle
also admits two classes of substance .
Substance, in the truest and primary and most definite sense of
the word, is that ·w hich is neither predicable of a subject nor
present in a subject ... But in a secondary sense those things are
called substances within which, as species, the prim.3f'y sub stances are included.
(Categories Ch. 5, #1)
monad to monad, and those simp1e substances that have "feeling," i.e., sense
perception, have the most distinct perceptions. Since monads are indestructible, and
in order to be, they must be perceiving (for wittiout perception they are
indistinguishable and thus identical or non-existent),
monads must always have
perception.
It is clear then, that sleep or death may be explained as a time of
indistinct perception. Since distinctiveness is an individuating characteristic of
the perceptions of a monad, therefore it must be determined by the detail of changes.
Thus, this detail of change in the qualities of a substance may explain seeming
alterations in the simple substance such as sensation and death.
This, then, shall suffice as an overview of the Leibnizian idea of substance in
itself, that is, considered without relation to other substances or entities. This
explanation is, however, clearly incomplete. Without an account of the interrelation
of these monads, any regularity or common perception in the universe must go without
explanation. Further, it would seem impossible to say that a monad has perception of
anything, as the monad has no faculty for being altered by any object.
Thus, it
would be impossible for us, being monads, to classify any parts of our perception as
substances. A relational account is therefore more than necessary. The first step
toward such an account is an explanation of the role of God in Leibniz's system.
II. GOD AND SUBSTANCE
These secondary substances are also, though in a different sense, collections of primary substances. A relation between the two concepts of secondary substances yields
an important observation.
Both thinkers assign the term "substance" to entities
which do not have the properties of their respective simple substances, but have similar fun·c tions. The species man is predicated of "this man," though for most other
relations, man ·may function as the subject.
Similarly for Leibniz, the composite,
e.g . , an animal, can have extension, and/or can be altered or destroyed. Yet it
forms a whole that is generally subordinate to a single monad and for this reason is
reflective of the same dispositions as this monad, though it is not clear as to the
manner of this reflection (see Ch . IV) .
Thus , the relat i on between simple and
composite substances differs from the relation of the individual to the species in
that a composite substance receives its unity through relation to a single simple
substance; whereas the unity of a species is supplied through the definition of that
species.
We have now to consider the manner in which alterations such as sense perception
or death arise in the monad. First, it is not entirely clear how a unity such as a
simple substance may be altered at all. For any gradual change assumes a multiplicity (one part endures while another passes out of being), and any sudden and complete
change destroys the substance , as nothing can "stand under" this complete disjunction.
Leibniz himself uses this argument ("Monadol." #7) to show that it is
impossible for a monad to be moved by another natural entity. He then asserts that
monads
must
have
some
distinguishing
qualities
or
everything
would
be
indistinguishable. The term "quality" must be taken here in a semi-logical manner,
that is, used to signify the contents or the predications of the substance viewed as
a subject at a certain time. This interpretation allows for the impossibility of
efficient causes affecting the monad (for a quality of a substance could not change a
quality in another, because neither has existence outside its respective substance)
("Monadol. " 117), without eliminating the possibility of alter a t ion, as t he s e
alterations are "accidental" rather than "substantial." Since nothing can change a
simple substance, and alteration occurs, the substance must change itself. Leibniz
calls the basis or "desire" for this alteration "appetition" ("Monadol." 1115), and
the qualification of appetition that distinguishes one substance from another, the
"detail of changes" specific to each monad ("Monadol." 1112). He then calls each
state of this change "perception." Such perceptions vary in distinctiveness from
As shown above, some necessary connection is needed in order for simple substances to relate to one another in the way in which we commonly believe them to.
Leibniz supplies this connection through deducing a transcendental cause of perception for all monads. Once such a cause is found and determined to be a unity, a
causal interrelation of monads will have been demonst r ated. This transcendental causality Leibniz attributes to God. Since he deduces God, at least in part, by means
of a causal argument, it will be necessary to explore briefly some of the technical
aspects of Leibniz's methods of reasoning. The first section of this chapter will be
dedicated to such an exploration. We shall then proceed to explicate the two proofs
of God given in the "Monadology," the one a posteriori and the other a priori. After
these arguments have been given, it will then be necessary to fill out Leibniz's idea
of God by a short description of the extent of God's power as required by the proofs .
It is commonly observed by students of the physical sciences, such as Leibniz
himself, that there are two basic classes of truths: those that are mathematically or
logically determinable and those that transcend mathematical or logical determination. That a body which falls with a uniform acceleration describes a parabola is a
truth of the first order; that bodies near the surface of the earth move with such an
acceleration is second order truth.
Leibniz refers to the first order truths as
truths of " reason " and those of the second order as truths of " fact " ( "Monadol. "
#33). From these two classes can be deduced two principles for discovery of truths:
"that of contradiction," and "that of sufficient reason" ("Monadol." #30, 1131).
Since the principle of contradiction had been overtly employed several centuries
before Leibniz, no more need be said of it here. The principle of sufficient reason,
however, is more obscure and merits further study. Though Leibniz is clearly not the
first to use this principle, he is the first to place it on a par with the principle
of contradiction. Leibniz presents a formulation of this principle in a fragment:
" t hat every true proposit i on which is no t known per se , has an a priori proof , or
that a reason can be given for every truth" (Wiener, p. 94). Further in the same
fragment he writes, "These [same] reasons are founded on the principle of contingency, or of the existence of things, i.e., on what is or 'a ppears the best among several
equally possible things." And in another fragment, (Wiener p. 95), the meaning of
"the best" is clarified:
"nothing ever happens without the possibility that an
omniscient mind could give some reason why it should have happened rather than not."
56
57
I
"
�From this, one can infer that contingent truths must be consistent with some
omniscient intelligence. It can also be observed that the principle of sufficient
reason , like that of contradiction, is very limited in its ability to produce true
propositions by itself, for it seems only to point to the existence of some unknown
cause and provides little aid in determining this cause. Let us now, having the necessary tools, proceed to the proofs of God.
The first proof is demonstrated almost completely through the principle of sufficient reason. First, Leibniz points out that the determination of the causes of
anything "might run into a detail without limits" ("Monadol." 1136). Further, each
one of the causes that have been determined must have a cause. Thus, no final determination of cause is possible within the series of contingents. The final reason
(required by the principle of sufficient reason) must then have caused the entire infinite series from without ("Monadol." 1137). Leibniz then concludes , "and thus it is
that the final reason of things must be found in a necessary substance, in which the
detail of changes exists only eminently, as in their source; and this is what we call
God." ("Monadol." 1138). As stated above, the application of the principle of suf ficient reason is the critical step in the proof. One of two interpretations of this
step may be offered:
1) since the principle of sufficient reason presupposes an
omniscient and in order to effect completely its designs - omnipotent intelligence,
the argument is circular; 2) this argument is merely an analysis of the principle of
sufficient reason, setting out to determine such presuppositions. Because there is
no indication as to which interpretation is preferable, for the sake of the argument
we shall adopt the second . We do so on the assumption that Leibniz could neither
allow, nor be ignorant of such an error in such an important section of the work.
Once adopted, this second interpretation itself gives rise to one or two observations: 1) this argument undermines the priority of sufficient reason, for if it
were a principle, it should presuppose nothing; 2) since it is impossible to determine whether God is contained in the principle or the principle is contained in God,
they may in fact be coincident. That is, this may be either a very improper application of the principle or it may be a very effective application , fo r t he pr oof of t he
existence of the cause of the regress suffices to demonstrate the proof. I am in no
position to give preference to either of these interpretations.
Leibniz calls the above argument an a posteriori proof because it proceeds f r om
contingent beings ("Monadol." 1145). He then offers a proof a priori. This proof is
almost wholly contained in paragraph 44 of the "Monadology":
source of all existence, he must be completely unlimited ("Monadol." 1141, 1145). This
follows because there can be nothing that could have cause to limit him.
Leibniz
ascribes to God absolute "Power", "Knowledge", and "Will" ( "Monadol." 1148) • Power
must be interpreted as the ability or necessity to be and corresponds to the "subject" of the created monad, that is, the very "substantiality" of the simple substance. Knowledge, or omniscience, corresponds to the "perceptive faculty" or the
"detail of changes" in created monads. Will is similar to the appetitive faculty.
Thus, all monads are indeed created in the image of God. This points to a third power of God, for not only is he the architect and the builder, but he is also an infinite prototype of the elements of his creation. No direct argument, however, is given for the unity of these powers. There seems to be no proof of one God as opposed
to three. Yet one might argue that Leibniz thought multiple necessary substances to
be absurd past mention, for each would limit the other.
Since we have found that the details of changes of all monads are caused and
supported by a single simple substance, a basis for their relation has been established. We also have found a tool with which to determine the origins of extension.
As the final cause of all contains infinite intelligence, and we may apply the principle of sufficient reason, in the course of our explorations we should find nothing
unintelligible or lacking a reasonable account. We shall, however, often be unable
to account for that which transcends our own intelligence . Indeed, all our reasoning
henceforth shall depend on the principle of sufficient reason, for only through this
principle have we been able to infer the existence of God. All our reasonings will
thus stand or fall by this principle .
III. RELATIONS BETWEEN MONADS
Understanding of this proof is, at least par t ially , fac i li t ated by ano t her fragmen t
(p . 92 Wiener) where Leibni z asserts tha t possible essences "st r ive " fo r exis t ence and
can exist only thr ough being "grounde d" in something actual. God is t hen t he abso lute ac t uali t y on which t he exis tenc e of any essence or e t ernal truth is based . This
pr oof is bas ed on a s ort of fo r mal causal re gre ss while t he former pr oof was bas e d on
an ef fi cient causal regress. This formal regress however need not be infinite. Yet,
unless someth i ng i s pos ite d t o pr ovj-de unity t o t he being of t h e s e pos sib les, the
regre s s s oon becomes unintelligib le.
From t he a bove arguments we have come to understand God as a necessary substance
wh ich pr ovi de s the f ina l reas on f or both efficient cause and the existence of essences and truths. Since God stands outside the chain of efficient cause, and is the
The above account has furnished us with the principle by which a monad is related to entities external to itself. It is now necessary to determine its specific
relations with such entities. We shall begin by examining the "connections" between
simple substances. Since these monads cannot be externally affected by anything except God, any relation between monads must be given in terms of a harmony. That is,
perceptions in each monad must be synchronized with the perceptions of all others to
which it is related. The particular organization of monads will be described in the
first part of this chapter. Leibniz also recognizes that it may appear to some that
monads are in some way limited by other monads. This appearance arises from the fact
that though the appetitive faculty provides desire within the monad, this desire is
rarely, if ever, attained, i.e., it does not achieve the perception to which it tends
("Monadol." 1115). This will be explained under the head of activity and passivity in
t h e l atter part of t his cha pter .
Since the relations of monads depend completely on God, Leibniz finds it necessary to consider the intent of God and then to deduce the order of monads according
to this intent. In one of the fragments cited above (Wiener p.91), Leibniz asserts
that of all possible series, the one that exists contains the most possibles. This
assertion, combined with that in paragraph 54 of the "Monadology," gives us a compre hensive formulation of the necessary state of the universe. This formulation is as
follows: the existent universe is composed of the series of possibilities containing
the maximum possible capacity of positive reality, that is, the series composed of
the greatest number of more perfect things. Obviously, this existence is brought
about by the choice of God, for this is the best possible configuration. This argument is based on two assumptions: 1) that the perfection of one possible tends to
limit other possibles; 2) that a universe with the most reality is the best. The
first assumption seems to be based on a presupposition of a sort of "conservation of
perfection," where the lack of boundary of one possible causes boundaries to arise in
58
59
For, if there is a reality in essences, or possibilities, or
indeed eternal truths, this reality must be founded in something
existing and actual , and consequently in the exis t enc e of the
necessary being , in whom essence involves exis t ence , or in whom
it is sufficient to be possible in order to be actual.
�others. The second assumption seems reasonable, for if a universe of a smaller de gree of perfection were created, this lack of perfection would impose unnecessary
bounds on creation, and therefore on God - and a bounded God is never as good as it
could be. All objections aside, this proposition of maximum perfection will provide
us wi.t h a means to deduce the necessary organization of monads.
It must be pointed out here that Leibniz does not seek to account for the entire
perfection of the universe merely through the relations of monads. Such a quest would
involve a study of the perfections of monads in themselves, while the present task is
a description of the organization of monads that is able to contribute the most perfection to the whole. According to Leibniz, this maximum potential for perfection is
brought about by allowing each monad to express, more or less distinctly, the perfections of all other monads. This leads him to conclude that a monad is a "perpetual living mirror of the universe" ("Monadol." il56). This relation enables the perfection of each monad to be reproduced to a greater or lesser extent in all the
monads that perceive it. Indeed, it seems impossible to conceive of any other possible configuration that admits of a greater possible perfection, (aside from an amplification rather than a simple reflection - though such a model, if not meaningless,
depends on the details of changes in individual monads, and therefore is not relevant
to the argument). This model yields some rather pleasing consequences, particularly
for those engaged in metaphysics or the physical sciences. In perceiving more clearly the perfections in nature and beyond, we increase our own perfection, as well as
the perfection of the entire universe.
Having described the relation of monads in general, we proceed to the said appearance of activity and passivity. Leibniz asserts that a creature is acting on
another as far as it accounts a priori for what takes place in the object of its activity ("Monadol" t/50). This a priori account he attributes to distinctness of perception ("Monadol." t/49). In other words, one creature acts on another insofar as it
can account beforehand for a change in the other. In order for the argument to be
intelligible, this account must be rooted in the desire or appetitive faculty of the
actor.
Otherwise, a meteorologist could be said to act on the weather.
Since a
monad can have no direct effect on another, however, these activities must be indirect or "ideal" ("Monadol. 11 1151), for in all cases, God is the true actor. In the
ideal interaction of monads, God judges between the appetites of the monads and determines which, if any, should predominate (presumably according to the principle of
the best). Insofar as each appetite attains its desire it is considered active. It
must be observed, however, that activity and passivity must be restricted to monads
in certain relations. With few exceptions, one member of such a relation must be a
composite containing or directly related to extension. Otherwise it would be possible for me to change your mind without mediation.
This should be a sufficient
explication of activity and passivity.
Thus, the relations between monads have been explained through God and the principle of the best. It seems impossible that Leibniz could have discovered any other
relation since he himself is a simple substance, some "reflectivity" must be assumed
in order for him to have knowledge of other substances. If he were unable to reflect
any substance, he could not have deduced this substance and would not have included
it in the universe. For one who includes himself in a plenum, this conclusion seems
inescapable.
In Leibniz's "New System of Nature" (113) he reveals that the idea of monads, or
"formal atoms", was originally formulated by him in order to account for insuf ficiencies encountered in mechanical explanations of nature.
It is clear from this
that monads bear an extremely important relation to matter and extension. Yet the
"Monadology" lacks a basic explanation of the principles of this relation. It does,
however, proceed as if the reader already has some understanding of them. No doubt
Leibniz has assumed that those approaching the "Monadology" have read some of his
other essays where the monad has been employed as an explanation of natural phenomena. As a result, reading the "Monadology" without textual perspective may give rise
to questions regarding the origins of extension, since monads are said to be the
"true atoms of nature" yet are not themselves extended. For this reason, the preliminary explication of the relation between monads and matter will draw on sources
other than the "Monadology" more heavily than the previous chapters. We shall begin
with an elucidation of the manner in which extension may be explained in
monadological terms. The character of some particular relations between monads and
matter will be dealt with briefly. Then a description of the general relations will
be given. Finally, the problem of the connection of the soul to the body will b e
discussed in terms of this general relation.
Because the basis for the connection of monads to matter is described by Leibniz
in works mainly concerned with the science of dynamics, it will be necessary to approach the problem in a manner different from that previously employed. This tack
involves assuming matter and deducing monads. In one essay (Wiener 11100), Leibniz
argues, against the Cartesians, that the actions of bodies cannot be described simply
through extension and impenetrability. He asserts there that a metaphysical principle, that is, substance, is necessary in order to explain the behavior of bodies. In
the "New System" (113) Leibniz argues for the need for simple substance. He asserts
that since no atomic unity could be found in a purely material body, i.e., since extended bodies can always be divided, at least in thought, and a continuum is not
composed merely of points, something non-material must provide the unity in bodies.
He calls this non-material unity a "formal atom," and this simple substance he later
calls a monad.
From this it follows that Aristotle's "prime matter," that is,
presubstantial, would consist of pure, undifferentiated extension. We may conclude,
then, that monads are the origins of the unity in, and the characteristics of,
bodies. In this way, Leibniz joins multitude (monads) and magnitude (extension) in
order to synthesize an intelligible interpretation of nature. Monads are, thus, the
true units or "atoms" of nature. We have, then, the basis for the relation of monads
and extension.
Since the arguments given above have been presupposed by Leibniz,
this method of deduction should be permitted.
There is a great danger that must be avoided at this point. If we accept the
fact that every body in the universe has its own unique form or "soul," each possessing an appetitive faculty, experimental physics is clearly at risk. There may be no
necessary consistency between experiments conducted on two similar bodies, or perhaps
on the same monad at different times , governed by two distinct mona ds . This ab sence
of necessary consistency is particularly dangerous in view of the fact that monads
themselves have been deduced, at least partially, from the conclusions of experiments. Leibniz recognizes this danger and takes provisions against it. In "Specimen
Dynamicum" (Wiener 11122, 11123)", he distinguishes "primitive force" from "derivative
force." The former he defines as the substance in its basic sense, or substance considered by itself. Derivative force, however, is a limitation of primitive force
which can be observed only when substances come into relation to one another. This
latter type of force is only concerned with local motion, and is wholly quantifiable.
The quantifications to which these forces are subject are commonly referred to as the
natural laws of motion.
This distinction must be based on the fact that though
monads cannot affect one another directly, God constrains the perceptions of substances in respect to certain qualities (most notably, the quality related to position). From these limitations arise the laws of nature. In this manner, the basis
of natural science is saved, and consequently, that of monadology also.
This distinction between primitive and derivative force yields some peculiar
60
61
IV. RELATION OF SUBSTANCE TO MATTER
�consequences. There arise from these two principles two separate chains of causality. The realm of cause assigned to primitive force is referred to as "final cause"
and that of derivative force as "efficient cause." Since the appetitive faculty of
any created monad is unable to cause motion, and, conversely, monads are unchangeable
by natural means, the perceptions of any given monad must be "synchronized" with the
chain of efficient causes in which it is directly involved. In the "Second Explanation of the System of the Communication of Substances" (Wiener #1 18, #119), Leibniz
states that this synchronization must be explained in one of three ways: 1) mutual
influence, 2) constant intervention of God, or 3) pre-established harmony contrived
by God. The first of these alternatives has already been eliminated. The second
choice seems to require a miracle at every point in time. The relation between final
and efficient causes, thus, is determined by a pre-established harmony. Though such
a harmony seems highly improbable, it could be very valuable to the natural philosopher. Not only are natural events predictable a priori through final causes, such as
the deduction of the principle of least time found in t4e "Discourse on Metaphysics";
this harmony is able to shed light on deeper questions, such as the connection of the
soul to the body.
The question of the soul's relation to the body has puzzled philosophers for
centuries.
This puzzlement is rooted in the lack of definite connection between
these two substances. As a result, many have denied any . connection at all, and in
this denial, have required themselves to discard one of the two systems of cause.
Those such as Hobbes have affirmed only efficient causes and found themselves facing
questions involving the origins of consciousness and unity in animals. Thinkers like
Hume, on the other hand, discard efficient cause and must seek some sort of subjective cause for perception. These thinkers find problems in determining the cause. of
the consistency of perception or the reality of things outside themselves.
Under
Leibniz's system, the connection between the soul and the body does not rest in the
animal, so no direct connection needs to be sought; the difficulties faced by the
other thinkers mentioned here are easily avoided. These problems, however, have been
faced and more or less accounted for . before this particular question was asked. It
is therefore necessary to study this system carefully and determine its truth or falsity as far as possible.
The relation between the monads and matter has been, for our purposes, sufficiently explained. If accepted as Leibniz has explained it, this relationship represents some very important natural and metaphysical advances in philosophy. It allows
for an extensi~e stud~ of efficient causes, without direct regard to final causes,
while preserving the metaphysical integrity of the system. It also allows for the
limited application of final causes in natural science, such as the above-mentioned
deduction of Snell's law. Such applications .of final cause yield valuabfe principles
such as laws of conservation, e.g., the conservaticm of energy or "vis viva, " without
necessarily admitting a "black box" into the system.
The advantages .to metaphysics
fur.nished by Leibn{z 's system have already been partially demonstrated in the above
secti~n on the connection of the soul to the body.
Further, this system may conceivably give rise to a new study where metaphysics is conducted through experiments
relating to efficient cause.
most natural philosophers at the time. He even shows that the curiosity that provides the impetus for the sciences is rooted in a tendency to increase the perfection
of both the student and the universe. It must be observed, however, that this system
is almost entirely based on the principle of sufficient reason and the principle of
the best. For this reason, Leibniz may be assuming much more intelligibilty in the
universe than he ought, thereby rendering his conclusions empty.
Though the word translated in this passage as substance (ousia) has no direct
etymological connection to the thought of "standing under," since it is used by
Aristotle to signify a thing that serves only as a subject to modifications,
such a meaning may be inferred. For since it is not able to function as a predicate, it is impossible for it to be changed in itself, though its function is
to bear attributes that may be altered.
2.
Leibniz asserts that absolutely indistinguishable entities are either one and
the same thing, or utterly non-existent. He justifies that proposition by arguing that such repetition is not consistent with the perfection of God.
3.
CONCLUSION
1.
e.g., a body near the surface of the earth falls in a parabolic path because it
is uniformly accelerated; it is uniformly accelerated because it is pulled toward the center of the earth over a small distance; why is it pulled thus?
If the basic assumptions are al.l owed, the "Monadology" would appear to answer
some of the . most .important questions of philosophy. The elegance of the system can
do nothing but reflect positively on its plausibility. Leibniz not only makes a
clear separtation between physics and metaphysics, eliminating the error resulting in
their confusion, but establishes a ground for their relations. Thus the science of
dynamics may stand upon firm metaphysical grounds, an accomplishment unparalleled by
62
63
�At Calvert Cliffs
The Conversation
Gretchen Berg ('75)
Adam Eggers ('91)
We play below chalk cliffs
embossed with fossils,
forming a ring in the water
with our pants rolled up.
The constant flux erodes us:
even as we shout, salt
cuts and wind culls
and we are stuff for eons.
Untitled
Anne Carpenter ('91)
This is a lovely kind of night,
that plays with your untucked shirt,
wafting.
God said to Adam
"My son
come to me my first, most sorrowful son
for we must talk"
"Yes, Father" Adam replied
And God spoke again
"But my son
do not come to me
If you have any hope for mankind
any dreams of love between peoples
The belief that one man can make a difference
Come speak to me
when you know what I have just said
is true
Come talk with me and we can discuss
my most wondrous, tragic experiment,
Man"
And
adam answered, most somberly
"I am not ready
Yet."
Sparkle of the charcoal road
and fireflies mingle,
like expensive scented powder,
and the pebbles dent the flesh
of your bare toes.
Drink the milk the stars are pouring
while bubbles break repeatedly,
and sweet divine,
sleeping cleopatra,
with your frayed edges,
remind yourself,
of the strands of gold ahead,
the pearly glow of patience
weaves around your head.
This is a lovely kind of night
This is a lonely kind of night
turn off your eyes of light
and bow your henna head.
64
65
�Bridge
Tequila Brooks ('91)
Flanked
by a grandmother
and two aunts
by the cowboy
and his sons
she enters
with t he pr omise
that-we're only
going to look-
neck in the noose
of a skinbiting
bit of lasso rope
And
the salesgirls
aches with her eyes
at the sight
of mounds of brightly
colored clothing which
surround her in the
blurr of the dressing room
and she
the cowboy's daughters
look on with
such sympathetic in their eyes
that
Dizzily,
forlornly
she
stampedes
the pulls tighter
her tongue strains
at the opening
of her throat
pounding hooves
beat the grass-stained dirt
chokes
whimpers
on dry tears
beseeches the ceiling
paneled sky with
pounding sc r eams
in the echoless
bounds of her mind
breaks free desperately
eyes wild with fright
front hooves nicked by
stones and grass and the
sting of scorpions in her
flight
until
she tells a lie
exits with pillow-tongued
- i'll take this one
she hurls
headlong into a
grinding tangle of barbed wire
now
and then
she walks with
cowed eyes
boring holes in the ground directly
behind her .
"
-/
/~
~.:A~~
66
67
�A Discussion of Justice and its Evolution
in Aeschylus' Oresteia Trilogy
Kenneth Paradis ('90)
So much blood is spilled on so many hands of the house. of Atreu~ that o~e shudders to speak of the tragic events of the Oresteia as having kin~hip with J~stice.
Yet each pair of bloodied hands fashions for itself an image of Justice to JUStify
the~r heinous acts of vengeance. Aeschylus exposes the wretchedness of just~ce based
on retribution and offers a resplendent vision of justice based on deliberation
through the acts of the bitter house of Atreus.
The litany of the Oresteia is the evolution of justice· From "bloodshed :or
bloodshed" to "grace for grace" (Eumenides 982, 984), the barbaric pas~ of vindictive
retribution concedes to a future of civilized clemency and temperate Judgement. Old
justice has a narrow, individualistic scope which only concerns itself with. the ben~
f its of the avenger and the punishment of the of fender, whereas new JUStice is
grounded in a pluralism in which judgements are made for the benefit of the whole.
One crucial aspect of justice's triumphant evolution is its transformat~on from personal vengeance to societal reason. Through the course of the Oresteia, Aeschylus
demonstrates the dangers of the old violence, in this case through the words of the
chorus:
Here is anger for anger. Between them who shall judge lightly?
The spoiler is robbed; he killed, he has paid. The truth stands
ever beside God's throne eternal: he who has wrought shall pay;
that is law. Then who shall tear the curse from their blood?
The seed is stiffened to ruin.
( Agamemnon 1560-66)
If the principle of justice is so limited as to be merely a matter of taking
life for life, the danger is not only that the seed ?f the house of Atreus ~~
"stiffened to ruin, 11 but also · that the seed of mankind is doomed to fail.
For
this justice is "eternal" truth, mankind is doomed to eternal violence.
How then does mankind escape this ruin? There are no inviolable standards ~f
justice by which to assess the actions of mankind because the role of the gods in
justice is in a state of becoming as is the ethic itself. Old justice has the intervention of the gods within its confines, and this does not lend stability to the system. In fact, the gods and mortals are both on trial in the Oresteia, and the gods
need an end to the discord and chaos old justice is wreaking as much as the house of
Atreus does. The gods are only one manifestation of the opposing forces that clash
to forge this new justice, not the controlling element that one might expect. The
violence of old justice has wrought similar conditions of social and political upheaval in the world of the gods and in the world of the men.
..
··
The Oresteia frees mankind from the , whimsical wills of .the childish gods_ A
.•
s~'cond aspect of just. fce 's evolution is th.a t it becomes a system based on the ·authority of the gods, but P,r acticed and maintained by mankind. Ridding mankind of the
gods' interventions and t~eir passions for vengeance is a necessary step in expelling
the mord1ls' penchant for the same ugliness. As we shall see, both Clytaemestra and
Orestes believe their actions are divinely inspired and authorized - Clytaem~str:,
through an interpretation of the laws stemming from Zeus, Orestes, through the inte -
68
vention of Apollo who shoulders the will of Zeus. In both cases, atrocities are committed, and the end result is more bloodshed - not resolution. The gods are ineffectual in fostering true justice and are committed to cultivating vendettas and hatred.
The marrow of human action lies within the act of decision. Therein lies mankind's power of self-determination. Furthermore, it is by the merits of an individual's decisions that he is judged, that he seizes a preparedness for the future and an
understanding of the past. Old justice not only strips mankind of his trait of deliberation, but it also seeks to discard basic emotions like compassion and love.
These characters labor under the duress of dilemma because old justice is pitting
pristine emotions against each other.
Love and justice are irreconcilable.
The
Oresteia spotlights this struggle.
"Justice so moves that those only move who suffer" (~ . 250), says the chorus of
old justice. Along with Clytaemestra, Cassandra, Electra, and Orestes, the reader
suffers the travesties of vengeful justice. As the reader grapples with the characters' decisions, they become his own; thus he experiences and understands justice's
evolution.
The clambering and struggle of each individual to fulfill his need for justice's
company leads to the ugly atrocities of the old justice. Since its place is such a
fundamental one, the struggle for justice can feed the ugliness of man's hatred and
anger or nourish the compassionate and beautiful aspects of his nature according to
the orientation of its laws. The plight of the house of Atreus is an extreme case,
an absurd example, in which the thirst for personal retribution overshadows love between family members and honor toward the people the royal house rules. The plight
of the house of Atreus demonstrates the inability of old justice to be a viable ethic
and lends credence to the justice of deliberation, moderation, and clemency.
The scope of this trilogy is expansive, and the themes are so closely interwoven
that all of the aforementioned aspects of the plays must be considered to relate a
somewhat comprehensive account of Aeschylus' commentary on justice. Therefore, let
us examine this evolution of justice - the role of the gods and mortals and its meaning for mankind - in terms of the decisions of the characters who are guided by the
entangled forces of the curse, fate and free will, pride and acquiescence, mortal and
immortal will, and love and hate in the context of the trilogy.
Much I have said before to serve necessity, but I will take no
shame now to unsay it all. How else could I, arming hate against
hateful men disguised in seeming tenderness, fence high the nets
of ruin beyond overleaping? Thus to me the conflict of ancient
bitterness is not a thing new thought upon, but pondered deep in
time . I stand now where I struck him down. The thing is done.
Thus I have wrought, and I will not deny it now.
(~. 1372-80)
These are the first haughty Clytaemestra dispatches to the chorus as she stands
over the dead bodies of Agamemnon and Cassandra in Agamemnon. She flaunts a hatred
simmered over a long period of time, and peppered with treacherous tenderness. She
proudly admits to the murder and the insidious premeditation that was involved to
insure its successful completion. The idea of a curse implies an involuntary affliction which debilitates its victims like a disease. Yet, Clytaemestra claims she
"pondered deep in time" on the "ancient" bitterness" of the curse, which leads one to
wonder if the act was prideful choice bas ed on more than fated action. Does this
passage imply that the curse is a course of action which ~an be voluntarily decided
upon and that Clytaemestra embraced her role in perpetuating the curse? Is this
curse a mad dog on a leash?
At this point, the reader is offered two views on the curse. Cassandra, armed
with a seer's wisdom, sees the house of Atreus as a place pervaded by a tangled evil,
69
�a sickness that she and every member of the house is doomed to catch. From Thyestes'
one voice, a choir of "vengeful spirits" has raised its voice "drugged to double fury
on the wine of men's bloodshed" (~ . 1188-90). Clytaemestra would lead the reader to
believe that the curse is not such a disease. Like the fire signals from Troy, it
grows stronger as the "watchers" awaken at every flaming post to feed the blaze and
"kindle another beacon vaster than commanded" (~ . 301).
She sees the curse as
hatred kindled by the individual.
Clytaemestra arrogantly sees the curse as her
weapon.
Perhaps both women are correct, in that the members of the house of Atreus display a propensity for violence that could be fate through an inherited character.
The members of the house may be like the waiting watchman with his "watchtime
measured by years" lying "elbowed upon the Atredae 's roof dogwise" (~ . 3). They
cannot control the curse's appearance on the horizon, but they are prepared for it
and a r e impelled to build on the hatred and nu r tur e its beacon .
Clytaemestra ' s
changing justif !cations tend to make the reader wary of adopting her view of the
curse and the validity of her choice.
Clytaemestra first appeals to the justice of the divine to justify her actions.
She states that when Agamemnon was down after having been struck twice with her
sword, she "struck him a third blow, in thanks and reverence to Zeus the lord of dead
men underneath the ground" (~. 1385-87). With these words, the authority of Zeus
and his justice are evoked in the defense of her actions to the chorus and the reader. The reader has no reason to believe that Zeus advocates or demands the death of
Agamemnon other than allowing the justice of "anger for anger" to exist among mankind. Aeschylus offers a deluded Clytaemestra in her understanding of divine endorsement. Her pride leads her to believe that she may call upon their gods' laws
for justification and that the authority of the gods themselves will be within those
laws. She is judged by the gods, and to them she offers her reasons. Clytaemestra
does not see a need to explain her actions to the people of Argos, for their judgements are not her concern. Clytaemestra refers to Zeus only to the extent that she
envisions the avenging of Iphigenia's death as an act that would be judged righteous
in Zeus' eyes and perhaps even necessary for the restoration of justice. Agamemnon
deserves his fate in her opinion -
carrion crow she sings the crippled song and is proud." (~. 1472-74).
The chorus also foresees the end that awaits Clytaemestra: "still fate grinds on
yet more stones the blade for more act of terror." The old men of the chorus, having
witnessed one of the prophesies of Cassandra reach fruition, anticipate in a cryptic
fashion the atrocities of the house to come. Both Clytaemestra and the chorus agree
that Clytaemestra committed the murder of h~r own volition. Up to this point, they
differ as to the "justice" of the incident and what the results of the action will
be, but not as to her responsibility.
.
"Can you claim that I have done this?" (~ . 1497) asks Clytaemestra of the chorus. She adds that in her shadow stands the "old stark avenger of Atreus" and that
"his revel of hatred struck down this man" (!&. 1502). Does this offer a refutation
of what she said earlier about committing the crime? Has the pride she displayed
over the murder disappeared? Is Clytaemestra claiming that her crime was fated for
her and that she was merely an extension of the curse and not responsible for what
occurred? Her decision is still valid, and her intention could be to add emphasis to
her contention that the murder of Agamemnon is a just act of retribution, a sacrifice
for the death of Iphigeneia. She may not be denying her free will in the killing of
Agamemnon, but rather making the point that she did so as a willing extension of the
"justice" of the curse. On the other hand, she may be completely denying responsibility and contradicting her earlier statements. In either case, Clytaemestra is
searching for justification.
Clytaemestra might also be readying the reader for the entrance of Aegisthus by
uttering in this selfsame passage the ambiguous line, "speak to me nevermore as the
wife of Agamemnon" (~. 1498-99).
This passage could be construed to mean that
Clytaemestra is noting a loss of identity in becoming an avenger of the old avenger
of hatred. The passage could also mark a change in identity, in becoming the wife of
the newest avenger who seethes with hatred and makes it his trade. At this point,
the reader finds himself wondering about the role of Aegisthus in Clytaemestra's decision.
Perhaps Aegisthus played on Clytaemestra's sorrow over the death of
Iphigeneia and turned it to hatred for her once-beloved Agamemnon. Once Aegisthus
had gained enough of Clytaemestra's trust to allow him to share her bed, sharing his
hatred was a step easily taken.
Were it religion to pour wine above the slain, this man deserved,
more than deserved such sacrament. He filled our cup with evil
things unspeakable and now himself come home he has drunk it to
the dregs.
(~ . 1432-34)
0 splendor and exaltation of this day of doom! Now I can say
more that the high gods look down on mortal crimes and vindicate
the right at last, now that I see this man - sweet sight - before
me here sprawled in the tangling nets of fury, to atone the calculated evil of his father's hand. (~. 1577-82)
- and his sacrifice is indeed necessary:
By my child's Justice driven to fulfillment, by her Wrath and
Fury, to whom I sacrificed this man, the hope that walks my chambers is not traced with fear.
(~ . 1432-34)
Clytaemestra is so firm in her conviction that her actions are just to the gods
that she does not fear the judgement of the chorus. She brandishes her o1d justice
"rights" with words that are as bitter as the wine of her vengeance. There is not
acquiescence to the will of the gods in her words, just prideful seizure of the gods'
ugly justice through vengeance.
Thus, the reader finds himself back in a "discussion" of fate and free will and their relationship to Clytaemestra' s pride.
Whether or not she chooses to do so, Clytaemestra discards the roles of wife, queen,
and mother. Does the fate of the curse cause her to shirk these roles and adopt such
hatred? She revels in her deed. Clytaemestra is seen by the chorus as unabashedly
proud of the act of murder itself.
"Standing above the corpse, obscene as some
70
This is a bold and brazen Aegisthus that appears at the end of Agamemnon. He
speaks as if the injustice he was subjected to has finally been corrected. He judges
that the gods in creating this atonement have restored the justice that existed before his father's rancid feast.
Aegisthus may have been the one who told
Clytaemestra that retributive justice was the will of Zeus and instilled a pride in
her hatred for Agamemnon. He certainly sees himself in a position to judge the gods'
actions. Aegisthus used Clytaemestra for his own ends; she was an instrument of his
will. This exposes the true nature of the curse in that Clytaemestra was susceptible
to being coached into thinking she had chosen to perform the act.
Aegis thus is not concerned with justice, not even in the barbaric sense of
retribution, but with something even more loathsome. The chorus threatens Aegisthus
by stating that the people will not stand for his actions and Clytaemestra's and that
they will retaliate with "stones of anger" aimed at his head (vengeance does not seem
to be a sickness limited to the house of Atreus). Aegisthus reacts by first berating
71
�the chorus and then stating, "still with money I shall endeavor to control the citizens. The mutinous man shall feel the yoke drag at his neck" (~. 1638-40). Thus,
we see that Aegis thus' intentions are insidious and beyond simply avenging his
siblings' deaths. He seeks the power of the kingship of Argos and the potential to
make of it a vile tyranny.
At this point in the play, Aegisthus and the chorus are about to draw their
swords to end the heated argument which has arisen over the murder of Agamemnon. The
reader is prepared to witness the ends old justice offers, more bloodshed. Aegisthus
claims that he is not afraid of death as he puts his hands on the sword hilt, and the
chorus states its resolve to test his fears and to "take up the word of fate" (~.
1653). Who is it that speaks to stop more bloodshed and more violence?
No, my dearest, dearest of all men, we have done enough
no more violence
Here is a monstrous harvest in bitter reaping time.
There is pain enough already . Let us not be bloody now,
honored gentlemen of Argos, go to your homes now and
give way to the fate of stress
and season. We could not do otherwise than we did .
If this is the end of suffering, we can be content
broken as we are by the brute heel of destiny.
(~ . 1653- 60)
The vengeance and anger of Clytaemestra have been replaced with an understanding
of the situation and a resignation to claim responsibility for the action taken. She
displays a reason that seeks to end the bloodshed. She refuses, at this point, the
image of justice she acted upon earlier. Lurking in Clytaemestra's words is the understanding "that the brute heel of destiny" will repay her for her actions. Is she
seeking an end to the bloodshed now? Is this sudden wish to end violence motivated
by a fear of old justice claiming her life as well? If this curse was ever on a
leash, it is absurd for Clytaemestra to think she can constrain i t af t e r she le t it
loose . For, as she said earlier, "before this old wound heals, it bleeds again" (~.
1450). Driven by fate, destiny, and the curse, the old system of justice is always
hungry for more blood.
So where is justice in this stage of its evolution? Justice is primordial .
Clytaemestra 's actions do not yield an end to this inward hatred, but its perpet uation. She ends the bloodshed between Aegisthus and the chorus , bu t her husband's
blood still flows beneath their feet . Only momentarily, in one instance, does she
see the futility of righting violence with more violence , of trying to reclaim a life
by seiz i ng anot h er. Cly taeme stra and her j ust ice st ill wear carriage-horse bl inders .
Clytaemestra's thirst for personal vengeance leads to more than her love turning
to hatred, it convolutes her loyalties and concern for the state of which she is
queen . Clytaemestra has not only stained the throne of the king (Zeus' representative), but also allows tyranny to enter the state Argos - which the chorus perceives
as worse than death.
If the purpose of justice is to restore the proper order of good after a wrong
has been committed, her actions were more than fruitless; they were unjust. The imbalance of order that the curse has created becomes more severe as the bodies of
Agamemnon and Cassandra are added to the vengeance end of the scales . This justice
has a limited vision of individual concern which not only obscures the concerns of
society and the wisdom of pluralism in decision making, but also fails most funda mentally in aiding the individual. Old justice momentarily mollifies seething hatred
and feelings of betrayal, and then, as the reader witnesses, repays the avenger in
the currency of twofold hatred and death.
As the reader turns his eyes and
72
·
expectations toward the inevitable homecoming of Orestes, the words of Cassandra are
remembered:
We two must die, yet die not vengeless by the gods. For there
shall come on to avenge us also, born to slay his mother, and to
wreak death for his father's blood ..• for this is a strong oath
and worn by the high gods.
(~. 1278-85)
The anger of the house in the Libation Bearers now manifests itself by
terrorizing the sleep of its inhabitants and most acutely Clytaemestra's. The chorus
graphically describes the state of the house of Atreus and the despair of ever resolving the curse.
Only new blood-guilt with deeper stains is brought on by
Agamemnon's death; at this point, "all the world's waters running in a single drift"
cannot wash out the stains. Yet, as the chorus stands before the grave with Electra
offering prayers to placate the angry spirit of Agamemnon, the women beseech Electra
to ask for more death as a means of attaining a just solution. In the midst of the
cacophony of voices filled with the prideful and angry timbre of vengeance, one
voice, Electra's, defies the chorus by introducing a crucial distinction . As she
asks the old women of the chorus how to appeal to her dishonored father, she entreats
Agamemnon's spirit to pay back Clytaemestra for the evils she has committed. Yet,
when the chorus tells Electra to ask for a body of men to ensure that her wish is
fulfilled, Electra makes a distinction not seen up to this point: "to judge them, or
to give them punishment?"
(Lib. 120).
.
In this passage, Electra recognizes that there is a difference between reaching
a judgement on a situation and inflicting punishment. She also imagines a judgement
rendered by a body of men, not by an individual.
The chorus tries to persuade
Electra into simply asking for a life to be taken to honor the corpse of Agamemnon,
as if she is foolish and deluded to ask such a question and make such a distinction.
Electra also asks whether her appeal for more violence would be considered just in
the eyes of one panel of judges, the gods. The chorus responds by simply quoting the
law that it is obviously "right to strike back when struck first."
Amazingly,
Electra does not respond as if entranced by a curse that strikes at an inward penchant to do evil . She asks for temperance . Although she asks for the justice of
vengeance, she admits that it is an evil prayer. Electra is not blind to moderation
in discerning good from evil and is aware of her brother's and deceased father's welfares, not just vengeance. The curse is not an involuntary affliction in Electra's
case, for she does not assume the destiny of bloodshed. With this recognition, the
hope of justice's evolution resides.
And for myself, grant that I be more temperate of heart than my
mother; that I act with purer hand such are the prayers for us;
but for our enemies, father, I pray that your avenger come, that
they who killed you shall be killed in turn, as they deserve be tween my prayer for good and my prayer for good I set this prayer
for evil: and I speak against Them.
(Lib. 140-46)
Enter Orestes. After confirming his identity to Electra and being exalted by
her as "hope of the seed of our salvation" (Lib . 269) and the recip i ent of a ll t he
love her sister, father, and mother would have received, Orestes explains his situation. The tone of his statements is not fraught with pride and blind conviction, but
with doubt and deliberation . He outlines to Electra and the chorus the "big strength
of Apollo's oracle" (Lib. 269) with as much intention to convince himself of the power of Apollo's words a5°his audience. Entering into his deliberation is the welfare
of others and an understanding of the vengeance that he thinks must also be acted out
73
�to appease Apollo's "justice" and the wrath of his father.
Shall I not trust oracles such as this? Or if I do not trust
them, here is- work that must be done.
Here numerous desires
converge to drive me on: the thought that these my citizens, most
high renowned of men, who toppled Troy in show of courage, must
go subject to this brace of women.
(Lib. 297 - 04)
Clytaemestra's.
At this point, the chorus and Orestes seem to have an inkling of the coming trial . The chorus explains that it thinks Orestes is right in his actions because he
was blessed by the gods, and that ceremonies will "wash clean and cast out the
furies" ( Lib. 968).
They see a time when the remaining members of the house of
Atreus will be free from the curse. Unlike his mother, Orestes publicly explains his
actions to the people of Argos. He shows concern for them and respect for their
opinions by offering this explanation. Orestes asks Zeus to "look on my mother's
sacrilegious handiwork and be a witness for me in my day of trial how it was in the
right that I achieved this death" (Lib. 986-88 ) .
The pride Clytaemestra displayed after the murder of Agamemnon is not present in
Orestes' words, but his concern for others' interests is: "I grieve for the thing
done, the death and all our race. I have won; but my victory is soiled, and has no
pride " (Lib. 1016- 17).
The reader then has a second murder which involves an individual who is not
fueled with hatred and bloodlust, a man who is compelled by the god Apollo and his
father's .curse. He is not proud of his action or under the sway of a lover and is
concerned with the welfare of the kingdom as well as his own, unlike Clytaemestra .
The reader may venture to say that this is a more "just" murder, considering the circumstances. Justice has evolved in its intentions but not in its ends. The act is
still wrong, and as even the chorus realiz~s, is not the answer to the end of bloodshed.
Clearly, Orestes is not void of anger, but he is not a vessel of blind rage,
overweaning pride, and a thirst for blood. He recognizes the concerns of others and
examines his situation.
Clytaemestra acted with less of an appeal to reason and
without consideration for others. It must be said on behalf of both that the chorus
is the only voice singing the thredony of vengeful justice joyfully .
Yet , both
Electra and Orestes still speak the vernacular and annunciate the laws of old justice.
Both still seek revenge and never contradict the enthusiasm of the chorus .
Electra, for all her wanting of temperance, still wishes to "smash their heads" (Lib.
395 ) , and Orestes asks to "take her life [Clytamestra's] and die for it" (Lib. 438).
But this reader tends to find it easier to sympathize with the words that follow from
Orestes and the mitigating circumstances and motives behind his actions than with
Clytaemestra . In lines 554 through 585, Orestes relates the plan of treachery that
Apollo spelled out for him and asks for that god to guide his actions.
Orestes proceeds with the plan and when he tells his mother of his own death
through the use of a stranger's tongue, she blames the curse for cutting down her
son. Clytaemestra is not relieved that her possible avenger will not have the capability of killing her now.
She laments the death of Orestes. After the chorus
follows through on Apollo's plan by informing Clissa to tell Aegisthus not to come
with bodyguards, it offers a prayer of supplication to Zeus and asks the "gods of
sympathy" to "wash out the blood in fair spoken verdict - let the old murder in the
house breed no more" (Lib. 802). The chorus sees sympathy in vengeance. The women
add that they want the gods to guide Orestes' hand in the "innocent murder." The
chorus seems to think that this bloodshed will cause an end to bloodshed.
First Orestes kills Aegisthus, and then he confronts Clytaemestra. He still is
doubtful of what should be done . He first asks his f riend Pyla des , "wha t shall I do ,
Pylades? Be shamed to kill my mother?" (Lib . 899) . From this point onward , we see
that Orestes is more a victim of fate and destiny than Cly t aemes tra ever claimed to
be. We see again in the coming responses that Orestes is not a blind agent of fate .
Pylades' response exposes the role of the gods (in this case Apollo) in determining
justice . He reminds Orestes that the oracles compel him to take Clytaemestra's life.
"Count all men hateful to you rather than the gods" (Lib . 902) , remarks Pylades.
Clytaemestra , hearing this , probably realizes t hat compassion has not left Oreste s'
heart and reminds him that she is his mother . Orestes' response is simple . He asks
how he could ever live with the woman who killed his father . She now changes the
position she held after the murder of Agamemnon by saying, "destiny had some part in
that my child" (Lib. 909). Orestes responds with, "why then, destiny has wrought
that this shall be your death."
Clytaemestra then reminds Orestes of the Furies that will haunt him i f he
carries out his deed and of the evils of Agamemnon's acts. When that fails, she ret or ts tha t he is re sponsible and that he just wants to kill he r . Ores t e s r e sponds,
"no, i t will be you who kill yourself. It will not be I" (Lib. 923) . Clytaemestra
again r em:Lnds him of t he Fur ies. Undaunted·, another motivation for having to kill
his mother emerges: "how shall I escape my father's curse if I fail here?" (Lib.
925). Orestes then takes her life . One must wonder if he would have taken his mother's life had not this mandate come from Apollo's and Agamemnon's avenging spirits.
Personal revenge and pride do not figure in his decision as they did in
The voice of old justice in the Libation Bearers whose strong words and frequent
quotation of "blood stroke for the stroke of blood" ironically speaks of the futility
in regaining peace and saving the royal house through this harsh, barbaric law. Perhaps the reader can find more sympathy for Orestes because of his circumstance, but
he killed his mother and that is unjust . The role of the gods and fate in his
actions may clear Orestes of responsibility, but an atrocity still has been committ e d. The fact that Orestes appears to have little or no choice in taking his mother 's life incriminates t he divine will that forced him into t hat situation. The gods
are not capable of being judges because they are merely criminals who use old justice
as an ins trument of t h eir wh i ms .
Driven out of the house of Atreus by Clytaemestra' s bloodhounds, the Furies,
Or estes seeks refuge in the sanctuary of Apollo's temple at Delphi at the beginning
of t he Eumenides. After Apollo acknowledges responsibility for the crime, he sends
Orestes to Athens to appeal to the wisdom of Athena in this matter. The sides are
formed: one is the ghost of Clytaemestra and the Furies, who seek the perpetuation of
vengeance; the other is Orestes and Apollo, who want an end to the bloodshed and the
haunting Furies.
The two sides represent more than vengeance and clemency.
The chorus (the
Furies) points out that Apollo is a "young god" who has "ridden down powers grey with
age" (Eum. 150) and that his acts spite tradition. Thus, the reader can also sense
that the argument of the Furies will be based on the authority of conventional justice and a fear of losing their role in that justice. They think a new distribution
of power which includes mortals in justice will not include the Furies. They thus
accuse Apollo: "he made man's way cross the place of the ways of god and blighted
74
75
The children were eaten:
there was the first affliction, the
curse of Thyestes.
Next came the royal death, when a man and
lord of Achaean armies went down killed in a bath. Third is for
the savior. He came. Shall I call it that, or death? Where is
the end? Where shall the fury of fate be stilled to sleep, be
done with?
(Lib. 1068-76)
�At the outset of the trial, the Furies show the inconsistency and lack of fore sight that old justice affords. They first connnent on a valid concern, namely, that
the precedent that could be set by freeing Orestes of responsibility would lead to a
chaos of matricide, claiming the lives of many. The Furies' concern for themselves
and for their role as representing the authority of tradition emerges. Because in
the following stanza the Furies feel "parents shal} await the deathstroke at the
hands of their children" (Eum. 498), they warn that they (the Furies) will "let loose
indiscriminate death" in order to punish mankind (Eum. 502). Thus, they do not seem
to be sincerely concerned with the welfare of mankind, but with the honor of their
office. For if it were a legitimate concern of theirs that this act of acquittal
would lead to the chaos of children killing parents, why would they have mankind
atone for this wrong by wreaking indiscriminate death? The Furies also must sense
the fall of the "house of Justice" in the process of deliberation itself, as well
they should. After all, as they argue, the only things that instill respect for the
laws are fear and pain. They doubt that fury would have any place in a justice of
deliberation and reason.
Within the Furies' questioning of Orestes, another fault of old justice is
exposed. When Orestes speaks of the dishonor his mother Clytaemestra committed the
•
chorus retorts, II of this stain death has set her free, but you still live." One ' must
pay for his dishonor with death in the old justice.
Orestes asks Apollo to help him at this point because he does not have a refutation of the Furies' claims. He does not scramble for contradictory justifications
like his mother, but courageously takes responsibility for his actions. Once again
his affinity for deliberation comes to the fore. Orestes asks Apollo to answer th;
Furies and adds, "but was the bloodshed right or not?" Apollo's response is another
appeal to authority in that what was done was connnanded by Zeus.
The gift of
kin~ship is a gift given by the hand of Zeus and through his own kingship.
Apollo
claims to act on behalf of a dishonored Zeus. The murder is justified as a correction of this dishonor.
In an attempt to prove Zeus a poor character witness, the Furies remind the jurors of how Crones was enslaved by him. The Furies claim this is proof that a stance
based on the divine stature of kings as unassailable is one of contradiction for
Ze~s.
Thus, the reader sees two additional sides being drawn. Apollo responds to
this attack by calling the Furies "foul animals" and stating that death, unlike enslavement, is an irreversible end. The Furies do not imagine any effective and fair
implementation of justice as being anything other than dealing out rations of death.
In such a childish fashion, the proceedings move along. The divine elements in
the play concoct bigger and better threats to sway the citizens of Athens. Neither
Apollo nor the Furies argue righteousness from any stance other than that of authority. They do not bait one another into serious discussions based on the motivations
of Clytaemestra and Orestes, the debacle of Argos, or the ends to which this justice
is leading them.
The citizens show integrity and thought in that their decision of half advocating acquittal and half not reflects the evidence that there are good reasons to judge
in favo r of eit he r the ghos t of Clytaemestra or Orestes within the old justice. They
are stalwart in their resolution and unaffected by the threats of the gods. The citizens also do not think the fact that Athena was born without a mother is an important consideration in the case. That · fact has nothing to do with the case before
them. Yet, in another display of frivolous, benighted divine judgement, Athena decides to cast her deciding vote for Orestes because she feels she is living proof
that the role of the father is necessary to the creation of life and the mother is
not. She judges Orestes' life or death on the basis that one kind of murder is less
offensive than another, namely that matricide is not as evil as patricide.
Orestes wins.
Despite the bickering and the childishness of Apollo and the
Furies and the limited wisdom of Athena, the bloodshed finally ends. The brooding
Furies are placated with a new name and station; they ·become the passion to be
treated justly. Thus, Athens is not blighted with a famine and the world has a new
resplendent justice. The bloodshed ends. Mankind has a future.
Along with Orestes, mankind wins this case because he can now free himself from
76
77
the age-old distribution of power" (Eum. 171 - 72).
Armed with their fears, the Furies insist incessantly that they have a right to
their justice. They claim that it is an integral aspect of the divine order. Apollo
responds by speaking °'f the ugliness of this justice of vengeance and stating, "the
gods spit out the manner of that feast that your loves lean to." This, the reader
could imagine, is a preparation for the outcome of the trial. Despite what the reader has witnessed of the gods using this justice in the past two plays, Apollo makes
it clear that now the gods find such justice repugnant.
The Furies have not a
chance, for the gods are vindicating themselves, even if through contradiction.
Apollo begins by facing the Furies' objections that kindred blood is more sacred
than a blood bond within the oath of marriage.
This they see as a way of making
Orestes' act more foul than Clytaemesta's. Apollo sees the relationship of a married
man and woman as guided by "right of nature" (Eum. 218). The two sides represent the
sides of blood bonds being the stronger and convenant oath bonds as the stronger.
Since the bond between a citizen and a state is one of oath, not blood, the justice
which is created to suit a society must be made with this distinction addressed.
Apollo seems to be concerned with keeping his oaths and promises to Orestes for fear
of the wrath Orestes will exercise if wronged. The reader witnesses the role of the
gods changing because mankind has a power which holds even the gods accountable; perhaps it is man's appeal to justice. "But I shall give the supplicant help and rescue,
for if I willingly fail him who turns to me for aid, his wrath before gods and men,
is a fearful thing" (Eum. 232-34).
Yet, both Apollo and the Furies are appealing to a false understanding of their
authority, like inept parents. Apollo wants to claim that he "speaks justly" because
of his seer's wisdom and favored position with Zeus. The Furies see their "right to
office" as license to "conspire to steer men's lives" (Eum. 310-11) with their song
of frenzy and fear.
But the dangers of justice based7olely on the authority of
those involved have already been shown. There is a difference between the two appeals though, in that the Furies see as a right of their office a justice that ignores circumstance. "We hold memory of evil; we are stern nor can men's pleadings
bend us" (Eum. 383), say the Furies. Yet Apollo asks Orestes to be cleared on the
basis of the reasons for his actions. Amazingly, both parties allow the court the
right to judge their case despite their contentions that their station makes their
actions right . Therefore, not only will the court of mortals be judging the actions
of a man, but they will also be asked to assess the offices of the divinities that
are in opposition. No more unconditional smiting, hunting or haunting will be afforded the gods. They are being held accountable - being judged. The gods will no
longer thrive on executive privilege.
The court is assembled. Twelve honored citizens of Athens shall strive to find
truth. All evidences are admissible and deliberation is recognized as essential.
The reader readies himself for an exciting stage of evolution. He pushes onward
through the pages anticipating a triumph, an end to the madness.
Litigants, call you witnesses, have ready your proofs as evidence
under bond to keep this case secure. I will pick the finest of
my citizens, and come back. They shall swear to make no judgement that is not just, and make clear where in this action the
truth lies.
(Eum. 485- 89)
�the pathetic litigants of this case. The gods' authority is imbued in the court, but
they no longer preside as judges. The gods have been escorted out of the ~ourtro~m
to adorn the steps outside with their marble images. This one aspect of Justice s
evolution reaches ifrluition. t
f its evolution is that it moves from individualistic
Another cruc a aspec o
.
h.
d
d
f Argos
vengeance to pluralistic reason. The preservation of the kings ip an or ~r ~
t
reflects a societal concern. The pluralism of the jury and th.e presence o t e cour
will not be obscured with cloudy, subjective thinking. The JUry can offer clemenc~
and com ass ion and can consider circumstances for mankind's benefit. The futu~e o
his law: and their interpretation is finally out of the hands of t~e s~lfish, fickle
ods
Man now has mastery over his fate; he has the power of true JUStice.
g
·Mankind's justice now has the capability to reflect and foste~ the beautiful
as ects of his nature:
compassion and reason.
Now hatred and JUStice are not
ir~econcilable . The chorus , which throughout the trilogy has been the vo~ce 0 ~ ~~:
justice, offers the reader the prayer of man's new justice in the conclusion o
Oresteia:
This is my prayer: Civil War fattening on men's ruin shall
not thunder in our city. Let not the dry dust that drinks
the black blood of citizens through passion for revenge
and bloodshed for bloodshed be given our state to prey upon.
Let them render grace for grace. Let love be their common will;
let them hate with single heart. Much wrong in the world thereby
is healed.
(Eum. 976-87)
All textual references are taken from Richmond Lattimore's
Oresteia printed by the University of Chicago Press in 1953.
78
translation
of
the
A Letter from an Alumnus
The following letter was written by a graduate of St. John's College and addressed to
current tutor. The New York Times Book Review article that is referred to in the
letter is entitled "What's Left Out of Literature" and was written by Charles Newman.
a
Summer 1987
Dear Tutor,
Here's the article from the NY Times Book Review that I mentioned. He occasion- --- --ally gets carried away with the literary criticism lingo, but most of it seems coherent, and I think he is very accurate with many of his arrows/observations. The musing in the final paragraphs about the "why" of it all relates to, gee, the debate
about liberal education--a debate that has perhaps subsided but the conclusions of
which, nevertheless, people don't really want to face. I think the "cultural weight lessness" this fellow speaks of is very much at the heart of the contemporary educated person's disposition towards the world. It receives expression not only in the
literature, which a lot of people don't like, but also in the music and certainly in
films, each of which are, in contrast to the literature, very popular. I think this
makes a certain amount of sense in that there is little to distract one from the emptiness of a novel or short story, while there is plenty of distraction to be had in
music and at the movies. Recent NY "art films," like Jim Jarmusch's Down by Law and
David Byrne's True Stories (which you've seen), and also the summer's Hollywood
smash, The Untouchables, are weightless in the extreme, to my eye, and for the most
part I do think this was the intention of the filmmaker. I am friends with the assistant editor of Down by Law, and was at the opening of True Stories, where Byrne
came out afterwards and fielded questions for an hour. He made it clear that the
irony of the movie was intended as detail and comic relief, and that the general expression was one of approbation. It was the judgement of a sophisticated New Yorker
that the small town scene in Texas is okay too and that whatever one does and must do
to find happiness has to be considered fine-- what basis for criticism exists, after
all? We all want to be happy. Byrne then was intending to lecture the sophisticated
New Yorkers a bit, in this odd way. I for one wish he had not been so generous. For
better or worse, I don't think that "whatever" is "fine." Too many nights listening
to conversations of Happy People in a taxi has left me with this sour state of mind.
My roommate and I had something of an argument about The Untouchables. She works
in video, is a movie person more or less, and, like most of the NY movie people I
know, thought it was a great film. I saw it with four movie people, and all they
could do was rave about the cinematography, the "sepia tones," the campy (but so
what?) performances of de Niro and Connery, and, above all, the director's "quotations" from Hitchcock, and of the famous baby-carriage-on-the-steps scene from the
classic Potemkin. On and on. All the while ignoring-- that is, accepting with no
qualms-- the comic book treatment of the theme. The theme was law and order, for
it's the story of the treasury agent Elliot Ness, who was imported into Chicago to
try to nail Al Capone. Every character in the film was a caricature. No attempt was
79
�made to defend with development any of the pertinent cliches.
A high- priced NY playwright did the script (David Mamet), and I have to assume he
had his reasons fo r restricting himself to the comic book approach. I can even think
of a good reason , to wit, to force a pseudo - sophisticated audience to face the cliches and acknowledge their simple truths, for the modern audience has seen everything.
There is no surprising or shocking it, and its sole critical activity has
become the activity of recognizing and filing away the familiar formulas.
In doing
so, it assures itself that whatever is being aired has been seen and presumably
deconstructed before and requires no direct consideration. I am not saying this very
well, but I think its one of the most important things to note about the way
contemporary, educated people approach expressions of all sorts, about the way they
approach the world. I listen to it all the time in the cab, and this is really one
of the main reasons I took to recording taxi conversations; what I would call social
considerations seem to ru l e 90% of a ll discussions, re gar dless o f content .
I t is
most important to have something to say immediately, to say it, to be agreed with,
and to pass on the next thing. That is, the aim is to dispense with whatever has
been said, and if there's to be any dissecting at all, it's accomplished with stupid
cynicism and pseudo-sophistication. Entertainment remains as the only value- - .how
entertaining, for whatever reason, was the film/play/book/painting/person, and more
importantly, how entertaining is the blithe discussion in which it/he/she is recognized and filed away? For Mamet, then, to write a screenplay about law and order
that is no more sophisticated than a Dick Tracy cartoon is to provide the audience
with very little entertainment of the latter sort, for the bare cliche is dispensed
with the barest amount of entertaining after- theater conversation.
The problem with this tack is that people simply ignore the theme altogether.
Especially when the movie's director, Brian de Palma, is obsessed with film history
and technique, and is notorious for making movies that say nothing.
If it was
Mamet's intention to try to make people face the simplicity of the cliche truth, it
didn't work well, at least not with the sophisticated NY audience, not with the NY
movie people. As to whether it matters that the theme gets no better treatment than
it does in a comic book- - to ask such a question is to invite embar assed silence. My
movie roollllllate finally said, in exasperation, that it's not necessary that the movie
say anything important. I replied that, of course, it's not necessary, but for that
matter movies period are not necessary. Necessity has nothing to do with it. What
one would like to see, rather, is the question. What one likes, finds interesting,
worthy of attention, worth the time.
In considering this, I said that a multi-million dollar project that says nothing more than a thirty cent comic book seems
less than what one should be satisfied with, and that during this summer America has
fallen in love with Oliver North and similar people who seem to have less of an unders tand ing of t he complexi t y of t h e l aw and order questions t han one woul d wish in
men working in the White House. When I made these admittedly simple and glib sort of
suggestions about what I would have pref erred The Untouchables to be, my roommate
said "I get very uncomfortable when I feel I'm being lectured," implying that when
something makes her uncomfortable she dispenses with it. Her meaning was that a "serious" treatment of the law and order theme was not only unnecessary but was not at
all to be desired, would be declasse, something NY movie people, and perhaps sophisticated audiences in other cities too, would not put up with. Further it would be an
insult to their intelligence. But these might well be the words of Ollie North, and
Poindexter, and who knows who else. In any case, the attitude that an attempt to
state a developed position, one in which certain values are seriously de.fended or
attacked, is something that should not be made is the serious underlying attitude of
the sophisticated audience. I do think it's pseudo-sophistication, and I think the
article here is talking well about this sort of thing. In the end, as the fellow
suggests, its a sign of an ignorance, "a king of a quiet nervous breakdown," due to
80
the fact that "we don't quite know what has happened to us."
To admit to such a
state wou ld b e quite paralyzing for people with a conscience.
Most of the contemporary music is trash. I've always thought Springsteen an exception, of course, and there are others I consider great poets and great r
The two needn't necessarily go hand in hand but they seem to th
d p otesters.
something from a lecture Albert Camus gave in Paris in 1957
ese abysf. This is
born:
'
, a year e ore I was
On occasion art may be a deceptive luxury ... For about a century
we have been living in a society that is not even the society of
~oney (gold can arouse carnal passio~s) but that of the abstract
ym~ols of mon:y. The soc~ety of merchants can be defined as a
society in which things disappear in favor of signs
Wh
ruling class measures its fortunes not by the acre of l~nd ore~h a
ingot of gold, but by the number of figures corresponding idealle
~o al~ertain number of exchange operations, it thereby condemn~
tse . to setting a certain kind of humbug at the center of its
experience •.. There is no reason for being surprised that such
society chose as its religion a moral code of formal principle:
an~ that it inscribes the words "liberty" and "equality" on its
priso~s.as well as on its temples of finance ... Is there anything
surprising in the fact that such a society asked art to be not
instrument of liberation but an inconsequential exercise and a:
m~~e entertainment? Consequently, a fashionable society in which
a
troubles were money troubles and all worries were sentimental
worries was satisfied for decades with its society novelists and
with the most futile art in the world, the one about which Oscar
Wilde, thinking of himself before he knew prison said that th
greatest of all vices was superficiality
'
e
In this way the manufacturers of ar~ of middle - class Europe
b:!~~~ and after 1900, accepted irresponsibility because respon~
si
ty presupposed a painful break with society (those who
really broke with it are named Rimbaud, Nietzsche Strindberg
a~d we know the price they paid). From that peri;d we get th~
~ eory of art for art's sake, which is merely a voicing of that
irresponsibility ... The more art specializes, the more necessar
popularis.ation become.s. In this way millions of people will hav~
the feeling of knowing this or that great artist of our time
because they have learned from the newspapers that he raises
canaries or that he never stays marrie d fo r mo re t han s ix months
The greates.t renown today consists in being admired or hated
without having been read ...
Consequently, there is nothing surprising in the fact that
almost everything worthwhile created in the mercantile Europe of
the nineteenth ~nd twentieth centuries - - in literature, for instanc:-- was raised up against the society of its time. It may
be said that until almost the time of the French Revolution current literature was, in the main, a literature of consent . From
t he moment when middle- class society became stabilized, a literature of revolt developed instead •..
There is no need of determining whether art must flee reality
or defer to it, but rather what precise dose of reality the work
must take on as ballast to keep from floating up among the clouds
0
:
from draggi~g along the ground with weighted boots. Each artist solves this problem according to his lights and abilities .
81
�••• The loftiest work will always be, as in the greek tragedies,
Melville, Tolstoy, Moliere, the work that maintains an equilibrium between reality and man's rejection of that reality, each
forcing the other upward in a ceaseless overflowing, characteristic of life itself at its most joyous and heart-rendering extremes. Then, every once in a while, a new world appears, different from the everyday world and yet the same, particular but
universal, full of innocent insecurity •.• That's just it and yet
that is not it; the world is nothing and the world is
everything-- this is the contradictory and tireless cry of every
true artist, the cry that keeps him on his feet ••.
Much is missing here between the last paragraph and the bulk of what I've typed befo r e it, mostly a discussion of social realism and of romanticism. The debate comes
to this ambiguous, uniting conclusion. Whatever its merits, the idea that "weightlessness,'' that a value-neutral literature, a literature of silence, can be reputable, seems something Camus would argue against, and something that itself calls for
protest. This hasn't been a very clear transistion from the stuff above about movies, but ••• Here is a Springsteen lyric. It eventually, at the end, touches on out
theme. It isn't a poem proper, but is a lyric to a song only a piece of the Piece,
but-JUNGLELAND
(somewhat quietly, with piano and flute in background)
The Rangers had a homecoming
In Harlem late last night
And the Magic Rat drove his sleek machine
Over the Jersey state line
Barefoot girl sitting on the hood of a Dodge
Drinking warm beer in the soft summer rain
The Rat pulls into town rolls up his pants
Together they take a stab at romance
And disappear down Flamingo Lane
Well the maximum Lawmen run down Flamingo
Chasing the Rat and barefoot girl
And the kids round here look just like shadows
Always quiet, holding hands
From the churches to the jails
Tonight all is silence in the world
As we take our stand
Dowin Jungleland
(crashing rock and roll)
The midnight gangs assemble
And pick a rendezvous for the night
They'll meet 'neath that giant Exxon sign
That brings this fair city light
There's an opera out on the turnpike
There's a ballet being fought out in the alley
Until the local cops
82
Cherry tops
Rip this holy night
The street's alive as secret debts are paid
Contacts made, they vanish unseen
Kids flash guitars just like switchblades
Hustling for the record machine
The hungry and the hunted
Explode in a rock and roll band
Face off against each other in the street
Down in Jungleland
In the parking lot the visionaries
Dressing in the latest rage
Inside the backstreet girls are dancing
To the records that the DJ plays
Lonely-hearted lovers struggle in dark corners
Desperate as the night moves on
Just one look,, and a whisper,
And they're gone
(breakdown in beat, turn to a long,
jazzy saxophone instrumental that
eventually dies down to the long piano,
sounding exhausted, lost )
Beneath the city two hearts beat
Soul engines running through a night so tender
In a bedroom locked in whispers of soft refusal
And then surrender
In the tunnels uptown
The Rat's own dream guns him down
The shots echo down them hallways in the night
No one watches as the ambulance pulls away
Or as the girl shuts out the bedroom light
( rising)
Outside the street's on fire
In a real death waltz
Between what ' s flesh and what's fantasy
And the poets down here
Don't write nothing at all
They just stand back and let it all be
And in the . quick of the night
They reach for their moment
And try to make an honest stand
But they wind up wounded, not even dead
Tonight in Jungleland
It's the silence, noted in the first two stanzas and then returned to in the
last, that made me think of this right now. The crazy str~ggles take place oddly
surrounded by sile~ce, and there's a protest here that some people, perhaps the "kid~
just like shadows
b~t clearly the "poet," should say something. They have an
obligation to say something. I think there's a reference to the very first important
83
�song written by Paul Simon, back in 1967, entitled The Sounds of Silence.
Jungle land seems to me far from a naive or romantic view of several different
strains of struggle, by the way. It adopts a cartoon hero form, but then turns on
itself: the black hero/dreamer dies ignominiously, in a sense a suicide, indeed; his
girl has no choice but to just turn out the light; the worshipping youth are conned
into a stupid war, eventually setting their world on fire, uncertain of what is real
and what is not, uncertain of the value of reality and fantasy. This is something
like the uncertainty that Newman writes about in his last few paragraphs perhaps;
Newman begins his piece by complaining about the silence of the poets in the face of
all this, whereas Springsteen ends his with the same complaint. But each suggests
that the poets are wounded, something quite different than the controlled silence of
Minimalist art of the seventies, for instance.
I really had no intention of writing all this. I have very little in the way of
organized things to say. Concerning my alleged novel , I h ave an i mp oss ible time t r ying to judge it, whether it is silent and empty. Or do I -- I guess I don't worry
that it's empty. I do worry that no one will, nevertheless, care enough about such a
character to read it. It is written from a depressed view of life, certainly. Today
such an attitude is not i n vogue.
I had not adopted the attitude; it w.as / is
something I have to contend with. The hero is not a cartoon character. He has to be
both strong and weak. There have to be reasons for people to care about him, as the
narrator does. At the same time, there have to be given the secrets of his failure,
which the narrator has only barely come to understand as he begins to wonder if he,
the narrator, isn't really the better man.
That's something he was always sure
wasn't so, having always been sure of his inferiority. But then is he the better
man, or merely better suited for life? Is viability the only criterion? If so, the
question of what happens to a good man in a bad city never gets aired. For such a
scenario to exist there must be other criteria to allow for the unviable organism to
be nevertheless deemed good. Without other crit eria the environment is always the
measure, cannot be deemed bad. Without other criteria, the bad city is a phantasma,
impossible. It is a woman, the dead hero's old girl and the narrator's new love, who
suggests to the latter that the hero was no hero , in that he was an unviable
organism, suggesting then that no other criterion exists. And, given the new love,
the narrator has good reason to agree, to dispense with the rival (dead but still a
rival). The post- mortem, then, takes place subjected to all sorts of pressures, and
is important in that it is an evaluation of how one evaluates life. Why live, why
not die?
I hope this isn't so vague it is rubbish for you. I've been feeling better the
past two weeks, but am still in the process of recovering. I've had little energy
all summer, and this has been, I guess, an attempt to bash through and think about
the task of painting this character . I've been writing very litt l e , rea l l y a f ra id of
doing it while my mind is slowed by the medical problem. I am feeling better, but
it's disturbing to feel less than what I know I am. The boundary between the physiological and the psychological, of course has long been blurred. "Know thyself"--no
mean thing.
I hope all is well with you.
Alla prossima,
St. John's Alumnus
84
�Non-Pro
BULK
U.S. PO
St. John's College
Annapolis, Maryland 21404
PA
PERMIT
ANNAPO
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Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
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<em>Energeia</em>
Description
An account of the resource
<em>Energeia</em> is a non-profit, student magazine, which is published once a year and distributed among students, faculty, alumni, and staff of St. John's College, Annapolis. Staff welcome submissions from all members of the community -- essays, poems, stories, original math proofs, lab projects, drawings, and the like.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
St. John's College
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Annapolis, MD
Contributor
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St. John's College Greenfield Library
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
energeia
Text
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text.
Page numeration
Number of pages in the original item.
ii, 84 pages
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
paper
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Creator
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Cooper, Laurie (Co-Editor)
Datcher, Rhonda (Co-Editor)
Title
A name given to the resource
Energeia, Fall 1987
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1987
Description
An account of the resource
Issue of the Energeia, published in Fall 1987.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
Energeia Fall 1987
Coverage
The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant
Annapolis, MD
Publisher
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St. John's College
Language
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English
Type
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text
Rights
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St. John's College owns the rights to this publication.
Format
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pdf
Energeia
Student publication
-
https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/57870db3daa8856f997cab7b44f35761.jpg
985021f19aa9f30c62244b0c5aa0b509
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
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Image Collection—Annapolis
Description
An account of the resource
<p>The Greenfield Library Image Collection houses over 5,000 photographs, postcards, drawings, and other graphic materials. The images in the collection document the history, academic, and community life of St. John’s College. </p>
To learn more about the Greenfield Library's archives use policy or to obtain high-resolution images, please see the <strong><a title="Image Collection Use Policy" href="http://www.sjc.edu/academic-programs/libraries/greenfield-library/policies/#photographicarchivepolicy" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">Library’s Image Collection Use Policy</a></strong>.<br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Photographic Archives" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=7">Items in the Image Collection—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
St. John's College
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
St. John's College Greenfield Library
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
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
imagecollectionannapolis
Still Image
A static visual representation. Examples include paintings, drawings, graphic designs, plans and maps. Recommended best practice is to assign the type Text to images of textual materials.
Physical Dimensions
The actual physical size of the original image
20.5 x 25.5 cm.
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
Photograph
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/.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
SJC-P-0875
Title
A name given to the resource
Trees and a Side View of Chase-Stone House
Description
An account of the resource
1 photographic print : b&w
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1940 [circa]
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Copy by Warren, M. E.
Subject
The topic of the resource
Chase-Stone House (St. John's College, Annapolis, MD) 1940
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
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Still Image
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
jpeg
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
St. John's College owns the rights to this photograph.
Chase-Stone House