36 20 5655 https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/a156e762f412ddde898f2f4816cc2317.pdf ff85cc8d6a884ee44d500aecf1ec22ec PDF Text Text 2019 CONVOCATION SPEECH On behalf of the faculty, your fellow students, college staff, and alumni—all of us—welcome to St. John’s. You have joined a community of learners who wrestle with bold and radical ideas. We are searchers and do our work with honesty tempered by civility. These values—honesty, a commitment to rigorous searching, civility, respect for and openness to the ideas of others—are largely lost in American higher education today. But they still have a home here at St. John’s. And now, you have a home here as well. Looking at you this morning, I am confident that you know that you have chosen to make your home in a very unusual community. But I am not sure you know how unusual it truly is and exactly why we continue to choose to be so different. Older admissions materials explaining the college say “The goals of the St. John’s Program are not those of other schools, and the meaning of a liberal arts education at St. John’s is not what is thought of as a liberal arts education elsewhere. The standard questions and usual considerations about college barely apply.” That was true when it was written decades ago, and it is even truer today. St. John’s is as different from other small liberal arts schools—such as Middlebury, Pomona, or Oberlin—as these schools are from the University of Texas or Ohio State. But what does this difference really mean? It is part of the St. John’s approach that we do not figure things out for you. But I believe that exploring this difference a bit this morning, thinking broadly about what we are really engaged in here, will provide you with an important context as you begin your St. John’s journey. �If you look around you, you will see signs all over campus for our fundraising campaign. That campaign is entitled Freeing Minds, and that title was chosen by our alumni as the best way to describe what it is we seek to do. So, it is our claim that what we do here can help to free your mind. How do we do that? Our mission statement offers some help here. It reads: "The educational mission of St. John’s College is to foster searching consideration of the most important human questions through reading and discussion of great books…Through the study of these works, the College seeks to free human beings from prejudice and unexamined opinion, and to help students make thoughtful choices in public and private life." Of course, freedom is a complex concept with multiple potential meanings. By joining St. John’s you are actually forgoing many “freedoms” that others view as important and that you would experience at other colleges. For example, our ambition to help free minds clearly does not mean granting you the freedom to suggest and choose what you are going to study. No, we are talking about a different kind of freedom. A freedom that is not given, but rather earned. The Statement of the Program says that “St. John’s College is persuaded that a genuine liberal education requires the study of great books because they are both timeless and timely. These books are the most important teachers. They illuminate the persisting questions of human existence and they bear directly on the problems we face today.” To say that our all-required curriculum and the beliefs behind it run against trends in American higher education is to engage in massive understatement. Most schools now encourage students to exercise the freedom to design their own education. It is one of their selling points. And I suppose for some students—no, why not say it truthfully—for a vast majority of students, this is what they would prefer. Students in these schools are not required to study outside of their �comfort zone. They are free to hold their beliefs relatively unchallenged. They are not asked to go places they do not want to go or have not already been. At St. John’s you will be required to confront ideas and ways of looking at the world that are markedly different from your own. You will be uncomfortable, not just on occasion, but often. We believe a freer thinker comes from when you know how others think, what they believe and why. And when you learn to listen. Really listen. Ours is also a challenging program. We ask you to overcome your fear of being able to do higher-order thinking in mathematics, science, philosophy, and literature. By learning you can do what you might have feared you could not do, you will become not just a stronger student, but also a stronger and a freer person. We do not believe that it helps free your mind to spend time in a lecture hall writing down what someone else is telling you to think. It is not just a semantic oddity that we call our faculty tutors and not professors… It represents something really important. The faculty at St. John’s will not “profess” the “truth” to you. Because of that, a question is even different here. At most colleges a professor will ask you a question to see if you know something that they already have fixed in their mind. Here at St. John’s, tutors will ask you questions to invite you on a shared exploration, not because they know the answer and are seeking to find out if you do as well. Tutors are also searchers, open to the possibility that they might, alongside you, learn something new about the Pythagorean Theorem in Freshman Math or in the Graduate Institute mathematics tutorial, or while reading Genji in the Eastern Classics program. You, the less experienced colleagues of your tutors, and the equal partners of your classmates, are now going on a search together…you will be dissecting the texts together. Looking for insights together, and helping to understand together. Another major difference, and one that you may be only marginally enthusiastic about, is that you will work very hard here. How different is this from many other schools? Just check out the recent book Academically Adrift, which examines how �little work many college students actually do and how little they learn. One conclusion: about a third of the 2,300 college incoming freshmen tested on measures such as critical thinking, analytic reasoning, and other higher-level skills had made no gains in those areas when tested again as outgoing seniors. The freedom to not apply yourself, to be a passive participant in your college years, is another “empty” freedom you will not enjoy at St. John’s. By giving up these various so-called freedoms we believe you have the opportunity to attain a far greater, far more important freedom. And that freedom—to understand the most important thinking that brought us to be who we are and where we are, to be able as our mission statement says to free yourself from prejudice and unexamined opinion—is a hard-earned freedom. To attain it you must give of your self…you must open your mind and your heart to new thinking. And you must dive deep. That’s how discoveries—intellectual, personal, and otherwise—are made. That’s how a life is built. That is how a mind is made free. I am convinced that becoming a freer thinker is why you chose to come here. To those who know me even a little, they can tell you I do not flatter. But I have to tell you that I am impressed by you. By your courage. By your willingness to take a more challenging path. I believe that your presence here is an indication of how you are going to make your choices throughout your life. You have shown both great humility and great courage in choosing St. John’s. Now you must show another equally important characteristic in life— perseverance. Commit to seeing through the struggles that are up ahead. You will gain greatly when you do. We know a good deal of what makes for a successful experience at St. John’s. The most essential positives? Connect. Engage. Commit. Learn how to fail and how to recover. Learn what is truly important to you…what lights your emotional and intellectual fires. And please, seek help if you are in trouble. We—all of us—faculty and staff are here to support you. Seek us out. We are working hard to make sure you have all the support services, academically and personally, that you might require. But it is essential for you to have the courage to ask for help when you need it. �And seek beauty. We live in a very dark time. A time in which it is ever more apparent that we, as a species, are self-deluding and short-sighted. And yet…beauty is all around us. There is spectacular beauty in the mountains and ever-changing skies of Northern New Mexico and there is also beauty in what you will be reading and doing here, in our attempts to take stock of our condition— our stories, poems, and our songs…Our attempts to understand ourselves, they matter a great deal. And now, begin with confidence. You chose St. John’s for a reason. Remember that. And remember that we know that you bring great things to us. You will add great value to this college, and you will receive immeasurable gifts in return. Thank you for listening. And welcome to your new home at St. John's. I declare the College in session. Convocatum est. � 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 Santa Fe Convocation Addresses Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Meem Library Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Meem Library Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Word doc Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 5 pages Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Santa Fe Convocation Address, Fall 2019 Description An account of the resource Transcript of the convocation address given on August 29, 2019 by Mark Roosevelt in Santa Fe, NM. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Roosevelt, Mark 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 Santa Fe, NM Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2019-08-29 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Meem Library has been given permission to make this item available online. Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context SF_Convocation_Fall_2019_Roosevelt, M. Convocation Presidents https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/9a323fd69d32872afa2b067cf2207558.mp3 19b6674d8df9f0767530ec9929e0cdce 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 Convocation Addresses Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Description An account of the resource Addresses given at convocation ceremonies held at the beginning of the semester at St. John's College. Includes both the undergraduate and Graduate Institute commencements. <br /><br />Click on <a href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=43" title="Items in the Convocation Addresses Collection">Items in the Convocation Addresses Collection</a> to view and sort all items in the collection. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context convocation Sound A resource primarily intended to be heard. Examples include a music playback file format, an audio compact disc, and recorded speech or sounds. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data wav Duration Length of time involved (seconds, minutes, hours, days, class periods, etc.) 00:26:32 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Convocation Address, Fall 2019 Description An account of the resource Audio recording of the convocation address given by Pano Kanelos for the Fall 2019 semester in Annapolis, Maryland. Includes students singing Sicut Cervus. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Kanelos, Panayiotis Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2019-08-21 Type The nature or genre of the resource sound Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource mp3 Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Kanelos_Pano_2019-08-21 Convocation Presidents https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/92f5cb04927232c147a82922dde36fb6.pdf 25130cf5c65c15e1b770dda2f336f826 PDF Text Text MITCHELL GALLERY 2018–19 PAST EXHIBITIONS AND PROGRAMS ALBRECHT DURER: MASTER PRINTS August 24–October 14, 2018 CHILDHOOD CLASSICS: 100 YEARS OF CHILDREN’S BOOK ILLUSTRATION October 24–December 16, 2018 PAINTED PAGES: ILLUMINATED MANUSCRIPTS, 13TH–18TH CENTURIES January 9–February 24, 2019 MAKING OUR MARK: EIGHT WASHINGTON PRINTMAKERS March 7–April 21, 2019 ST. JOHN’S COLLEGE COMMUNITY ART EXHIBITION 2019 April 28–May 12, 2019 IMAGE & IMAGINATION: ANNE ARUNDEL COUNTY JURIED EXHIBITION 2019 May 23–June 9, 2019 �ALBRECHT DÜRER: MASTER PRINTS AUGUST 24–OCTOBER 14, 2018 Albrecht Dürer (1471–1528). The Standard Bearer, 1502. Engraving. Reading Public Museum, Reading, PA. Visionary and imaginative Renaissance master printmaker Albrecht Dürer (1471-1528) revolutionized printmaking into an independent art form in the 15th-century. Rediscover the work of this virtuoso painter, etcher, and draftsman in this exhibition of 30 woodblock prints and engravings. The range of subjects include narratives from the Old and New Testaments, mythology, portraits, and images of saints. The exhibition also examines several works by some of Dürer’s most influential contemporaries: Albrecht Altdorfer and Martin Schongauer, among others. Albrecht Dürer: Master Prints is organized by the Reading Public Museum, Reading, Pennsylvania. Exhibition support provided by Rex and Katharine Pingle, Cynthia and Ed Shumaker, and Joan Vinson. �SCHEDULE OF EVENTS Docent tours on Thursdays from noon to 3 p.m. Free, no registration required. September 5 Art Express Lunchtime Tour. Art Educator Lucinda Edinberg will give a lunchtime gallery talk on the exhibition from 12:15 to 12:45 p.m. September 23 Try-It Workshop. Experience the carving technique of linoleum for an understanding of Dürer’s talent and craftsmanship. Led by master printmaker Max-Karl Winkler, participants will carve a small block and create a print. 2 to 4 p.m. $15 for Mitchell Gallery Members; $25 non-members. No experience necessary. Basic materials provided. This event is full. September 26 Lecture and Members Reception. Eric Denker, Senior Lecturer at the National Gallery of Art, will lecture on Albrecht Dürer in Context at 5:30 p.m. in the Great Hall of McDowell Hall. Mitchell Gallery Members’ Libations and Conversation Reception immediately following the lecture. September 30 Sunday Session: Print like Dürer! from 1 to 3 p.m. Learn how Dürer changed printmaking as an individual art form and create an original linoleum print based upon his woodcut techniques. Open to ages 7–15; materials fee is $15. This event is cancelled. Eric Denker, National Gallery of Art October 3 Book Club. Join members of the Mitchell Gallery Book Club for a docent tour of the exhibition followed by a discussion of The Relic Master by Christopher Buckley from 2:30 to 4:30 p.m. Tutor emeritus Tom May will lead the discussion. This event is full. October 14 Sunday Afternoon Lecture. Art Educator Lucinda Edinberg will lead a tour of the exhibition at 3 p.m. GIFTS IN-KIND Art Things, Inc., Graul’s Market, Kathleen McSherry, Merrifield Graphics and Publishing Service, and Up.St.ART. �CHILDHOOD CLASSICS: 100 YEARS OF CHILDREN’S BOOK ILLUSTRATION OCTOBER 24–DECEMBER 16, 2018 Hilary Knight (b. 1926), Cover, watercolor on board, from “Beauty and the Beast” by Marie Leprince de Beaumont, translated by Richard Howard, 1963. Illustrations that bring your favorite children’s books to life with over 140 original works. Explore the history of children’s books from the turn-of-the-century pen-and-ink Mother Goose art of Sarah Noble Ives, to the most popular works of today including the digital creations of Mo Willems. This exhibition features the original art of Dr. Seuss, Richard Scarry, Rosemary Wells, Hilary Knight, Maurice Sendak’s Where the Wild Things Are and Garth Williams’ Stuart Little. Revisit classic illustrations of fondly remembered characters including Dick and Jane, Eloise, Madeline, The Cat in the Hat, and Babar. Read a review of the "Childhood Classics" exhibition in the Baltimore Sun. The exhibition was curated and organized by Lee Cohen and Lois Sarkisian, co-founders of Every Picture Tells A Story, in association with Landau Traveling Exhibitions. Exhibition Tour Management by Landau Traveling Exhibitions. This exhibition is generously supported by Annapolis Subaru and PNC Foundation with additional support provided by Deborah B. Coons and George and Madeleine Hughes. �SCHEDULE OF EVENTS Docent tours on Thursdays from noon to 3 p.m. Free, no registration required. October 26 Members Preview Reception. Be the first to preview the exhibition at this elegant wine and hors d’oeuvres reception from 5 to 7 p.m. By invitation only. Call 410-295-5551 or become a member here. November 4 Try-It Workshop. Create your own storybook character in ink and watercolor pencil with artist and illustrator Lindsay Bolin Lowery. Ages 16 years and up. No drawing skills or previous art experience needed. Workshop runs from 2 to 4 p.m. with all supplies provided. $15 for Mitchell Gallery Members; $25 for nonmembers. Registration required. Call 410-626-2556 or register online. November 7 Collectors’ Lecture. “Childhood Classics” collectors and curators Lois Sarkisian and Lee Cohen will lecture on the exhibition at 5:30 p.m. November 11 Caritas Society’s Meet the Authors. This program complements the “Childhood Classics” exhibition. Three children’s book authors will discuss their work and approach to writing for young people. Sean Rubin, Susan Weisberg, and Tami Lewis Brown will discuss their work. Purchase tickets online. November 14 Art Express Lunchtime Tour. Join Art Educator Lucinda Edinberg for a tour from 12:15 to 12:45 p.m. December 6 Book Club. Join members of the Mitchell Gallery Book Club for a docent tour followed by a discussion of Charlotte’s Web by E.B. White from 2:30 to 4:30 p.m. Mitchell Gallery Art Educator Lucinda Edinberg will lead the discussion. Registration is required. Call 410-626-2556. This event is full. December 16 Sunday Afternoon Lecture. Art Educator Lucinda Edinberg will lead a tour of the exhibition at 3 p.m. GIFTS IN-KIND Art Things, Inc., Barnes & Noble Annapolis, Historic Inns of Annapolis, Kathleen McSherry, Merrifield Graphics and Publishing Service, The Symmetry Agency, and Up.St.ART. �PAINTED PAGES: ILLUMINATED MANUSCRIPTS, 13TH–18TH CENTURIES JANUARY 9–FEBRUARY 24, 2019 Joachinus de Gigantibus de Rotenberg (illuminator), German, active 1440s–1490s and Pietro Ursuleo of Capua (scribe), Italian, died 1484. Bifolios from a Book of Hours, Italian, 1465–1483. Opaque watercolor, gold, and ink on parchment. Museum Purchase Reading Public Museum, Reading, Pennsylvania. Explore the rich pageantry of the Golden Age of handmade manuscripts. Many of these Western and Non-Western artisans employed elaborate gold leaf decoration, calligraphy, and intricate ornamentation on parchment and vellum. This exhibition includes European and middle-Eastern medieval Bibles, prayer books, psalters, breviaries, and other sacred manuscripts. Examples from Hebrew texts, leaves from the Koran and the Persian epic poem, “Shahnameh” (the Persian “Book of Kings”), are included. Listen to the WBJC interview with Lucinda Edinberg, Mitchell Gallery Art Educator, about the Painted Pages exhibition. Painted Pages: Illuminated Manuscripts, 13th–18th Centuries is organized by the Reading Public Museum, Reading, Pennsylvania. Exhibition support provided by Melvin and Judy Bender, James W. Cheevers, Tara Balfe Clifford/Cliftara Bed & Breakfast, Rex and Katharine Pingle, Joan Vinson, and the Watt Family. �SCHEDULE OF EVENTS Docent tours on Thursdays from noon to 3 p.m. Free, no registration required. January 27 Lecture and Members’ Reception. Stephanie Stillo, curator of the Lessing J. Rosenwald Collection, Rare Books and Special Collections at the Library of Congress, will present a lecture on “The Painted and the Printed: The Illustrated Book in Western Europe, c. 1450-1500” at 3 p.m. Mitchell Gallery Members’ Libations and Conversation Reception immediately following the lecture. Become a member. Registration required to attend the lecture. Register for Lecture and Members’ Reception. Stephanie Stillo, Library of Congress January 29 “Tuesday Try-It” Workshop I, 2–4 p.m. Participants, led by artist Jean Brinton Jaecks, will create and paint a decorative initial letter from an illuminated manuscript based on examples from the Medieval to the Renaissance. No experience necessary. $15 for Mitchell Gallery members; $25 for non-members. Supplies provided. Adults ages 16 years and up. Registration required. Call 410-626-2556 or register for “Tuesday Try-It” Workshop I. This event is FULL. February 6 Art Express Lunchtime Tour. Join Art Educator Lucinda Edinberg for a tour from 12:15 to 12:45 p.m. February 14 Book Club, 2:30–4:30 p.m. Join members of the Mitchell Gallery Book Club for a docent tour followed by a discussion of selected chapters of Color: A Natural History of the Palette by Victoria Finlay. Artists Jean Brinton Jaecks and Harry Jaecks will lead the discussion. Registration is required. The book is for sale in the St. John’s College Bookstore with a 10% discount for Mitchell Gallery members. This program is FULL. February 17 Sunday Afternoon Lecture. Art Educator Lucinda Edinberg will lead a tour of the exhibition at 3 p.m. February 19 “Tuesday Try-It” Workshop II, 2–4 p.m. With the guidance of artist bookmaker Joan Machinchick, participants will create a simple two signature book sewn on tapes, with cover. No experience necessary. Supplies provided. $15 for Mitchell Gallery members; $25 for non-members. Adults ages 16 years and up. Registration required. Call 410-626-2556 or register for “Tuesday Try-It” Workshop II. February 24 “Winter Winds” Annapolis Symphony Wind Quartet in the Mitchell Gallery, 3 p.m. The Annapolis Symphony Orchestra presents “Winter Winds,” the second concert of their Chamber Music Series, taking place at a variety of local venues around town. The Annapolis Symphony Wind Quartet, featuring flute, oboe, clarinet, and bassoon, will perform compositions from French composers Jaxques Ibert and Jean Francaiz, and German composer Karl Goepfart. $25 per ticket. Limited seating is available. Call 410-263-0907 or visit annapolissymphony.org for more information. SOLD OUT! There are no tickets available. GIFTS IN-KIND Kathleen McSherry, Merrifield Graphics and Publishing Service, the Symmetry Agency, and Up.St.ART. �MAKING OUR MARK: EIGHT WASHINGTON PRINTMAKERS MARCH 7–APRIL 21, 2019 Max-Karl Winkler, Before Sunrise Gull Lake (2013). Color woodcut. A collective of eight prominent regional artists drawn together through printmaking. The artists—Andis Applewhite, Jenny Freestone, Pauline Jakobsberg, Lee Newman, Margaret Adams Parker, Terry Svat, Ellen Verdon Winkler, and Max-Karl Winkler—became friends and colleagues in the 1990s and early 2000s as members of the Washington Printmakers Gallery. They have been active in the Washington, DC area for many years, producing hand-pulled prints in traditional and state-of-the-art techniques, from woodcut and etching to solar plate and paper lithography. The show, consequently, features several varieties of printmaking, although each of the artists has contributed pieces in other media. Organized by Max-Karl Winkler. Support for this exhibition is generously provided by The Helena Foundation with additional support by Anna E. Greenberg. �SCHEDULE OF EVENTS Docent tours on Thursdays from noon to 3 p.m. Free, no registration required. March 8 Members Preview Reception. Be the first to preview the exhibition at this elegant wine and hors d’oeuvres reception from 5 to 7 p.m. By invitation only. Call 410-295-5551 or become a member. March 10 Artists Panel Discussion. Join the exhibiting artists in a discussion about their training, techniques, studio habits, and inspiration at 3 p.m. Free. Registration required. REGISTER FOR THE ARTISTS PANEL DISCUSSION March 17 Sunday Lecture. Christopher With, educator (retired), National Gallery of Art, and President of The Washington Print Club, will discuss the exhibition in the Mitchell Gallery at 3 p.m. Registration is required. REGISTER FOR THE CHRISTOPHER WITH LECTURE March 20 Art Express Lunchtime Tour. Join Art Educator Lucinda Edinberg for a tour from 12:15 to 12:45 p.m. March 26 “Tuesday Try-It” Workshop. Participants led by artist Lee Newman will create their own watercolor monotype print from 2 to 4 p.m. No experience necessary. $15 for Mitchell Gallery Members; $25 for nonmembers. Adults ages 16 yrs. and up. Registration is required. This event is FULL. April 4 Book Club. Join members of the Mitchell Gallery Book Club for a docent tour followed by a discussion of “The Indignant Eye: The Artist as Social Critic in Prints and Drawings from the Fifteenth Century to Picasso” by Ralph E. Shikes from 2:30 to 4:30 p.m. Artist Margaret Parker will lead the discussion. Registration is required. REGISTER FOR THE BOOK CLUB GIFTS IN-KIND Art Things, Inc., Kathleen McSherry, Merrifield Graphics and Publishing Service, and Up.St.ART. �ST. JOHN’S COLLEGE COMMUNITY ART EXHIBITION 2019 APRIL 28–MAY 12, 2019 This annual exhibition is a diverse collection of ceramics, paintings, drawings, prints, sculpture, textiles, and photographs that elegantly represent the artistic talent of the St. John’s College Community (students, faculty, staff, alumni, and friends). SCHEDULE OF EVENTS April 28 Artists Opening Reception and Charles Vernon Moran Prize Announcement from 1 to 2:30 p.m. Aisha El-Khatiba, Crimson Sky, Watercolor. T.S. Martin, Orchid House, Close Observations, Watercolor and ink on paper. �IMAGE & IMAGINATION: ANNE ARUNDEL COUNTY JURIED EXHIBITION 2019 MAY 23–JUNE 9, 2019 Wasted, oil on panel by Deborah Kommalan Celebrate the work of 83 local artists at Image & Imagination: Anne Arundel County Juried Exhibition. Juror LuLen Walker, curator of collections at Georgetown University, has selected pieces across many mediums from artists living or working in Anne Arundel County, including photography, sculpture, watercolor, printmaking, and mixed media. See the works on view in the online gallery and read the Artist Statements and the Juror’s Statement. Listen to the WBJC interview with Lucinda Edinberg, art educator at the Mitchell Gallery, about this year’s Image & Imagination exhibition. �SCHEDULE OF EVENTS May 23: Artists Opening Reception Artists Opening Reception from 5 to 6:30 p.m. Registration is closed. We thank the following for their continuous funding and support: Annapolis Subaru, Anne Arundel County, the Arts Council of Anne Arundel County, the City of Annapolis, Thomas P. Gohagan and Company, The Helena Foundation, the Maryland State Arts Council, the Estate of Elizabeth Myers Mitchell, the Mitchell Gallery Board of Advisors, Members of the Mitchell Gallery, Mrs. Ruth Mitchell, the John and Hilda Moore Fund, the National Endowment for the Arts, the Lillian Vanous Nutt Mitchell Gallery Endowment, Rex and Katharine Pingle, and the Clare Eddy and Eugene V. Thaw Fine Arts Fund. The Mitchell Gallery 2018–19 Exhibition Season is generously supported by Chesapeake Medical Imaging, Mark Baganz and Laura Salladin. 2019 IMAGE & IMAGINATION Just a few examples from this year’s Image & Imagination juried exhibition. SEE MORE SUBMITTED WORKS Lucent Dream by Kathy Dewalt, watercolor. Wildflowers from Rocks by Warren Kahle, archival digital photography. Reflected Morning by Joan Essex Johnson, oil on panel. Rice Paddy with Windshaped Tree, digital photographic print. �Image & Imagination: Anne Arundel County Juried Exhibition It must take an incredible leap of faith to contemplate a blank canvas, paper or other visual media while preparing to render an image or idea in the mind’s eye. Artists are visual poets and we are fortunate to enjoy the products of their eforts which enrich our experience and encourage us to think diferently about our world and where we ft within it. I was honored to serve as juror for the Mitchell Gallery’s biannual Image & Imagination exhibition celebrating the great artistic talent of the Anne Arundel community. It has been a privilege to view and assess a dazzling array of submissions in all variety of media. Choosing three award winners was extremely challenging, but ultimately I went with what spoke to me on something of a spiritual level. As Best in Show, Sally Wern Comport’s beautifully drawn illustration Harriet Tubman, Song of Freedom speaks to social issues we must confront on a daily basis. It portrays the bravery and strength of Harriet Tubman, the heroic escaped slave who helped so many others through the covert network known as the Underground Railroad. Comport was commissioned to paint murals for the Harriet Tubman Underground Railroad National Historical Park in Church Creek, Maryland, where one can see this scene on a large scale as part of the narrative of Tubman’s life. To recognize the outstanding photographic submissions I selected a digital print for Best Two-Dimensional prize. Te prismatic, A Starry Night by John T. Hanou resonated with me. Here, stars appear in the form of watery droplets among a framework that suggests a magnifed view of organic matter. In titling this work afer the iconic painting by Van Gogh, the artist draws some interesting parallels. Hanou began his photographic work in 1971 and has found ways to dynamically expand the camera’s efects through digital “darkroom” manipulation. As explained on his web page: “I try to capture the world as we know it, and ofer it in a manner we have not thought of.” Te choice for Best Tree-Dimensional work, De Divina Proportione by Eddie Lavin is from the aptly named series Transcendance. As an avid fan of Italian Renaissance art, I was drawn to the fgure emerging from the unblemished surface of the cold and beautiful marble like a living being. Lavin works in pure marble mined in Italy, perhaps the most beautiful medium for its purity and surface smoothness. His title is taken from Pico della Mirandola’s 1486 Oration on the Dignity of Man, a key treatise of Renaissance Humanism, vastly infuential to giants like Raphael and Michelangelo. Lavin’s idealized form refects the proportions delineated in della Mirandola’s writings. Te scope of Image & Imagination includes works that fall within four basic genres: landscape or nature, still-life, portraiture or fgural, and abstraction. Tese are presented in a wide variety of media and artistic perspectives. It’s a great opportunity to see how varied approaches interact with one another revealing multiple layers of perception, efectively channeling a visual dialog. Among the technical tours de force is Deborah Kommalan’s still-life Wasted, depicting an overturned glass with amber liquid and ice cubes splashing out of the picture plane, seemingly aimed toward the viewer. Tis is a masterful trompe l’oeil (literally meaning to fool the eye), a genre introduced and perfected by Dutch and Italian Old Master painters. In the same tradition is the assemblage of pop culture snack foods, candy, cigars and whiskey expertly rendered in Mary Ellen Geissenhainer’s drawing Bob’s Provisions. Te charming Pottery and Chinese Lanterns painted by Nancy McCarra recalls works by William Merritt Chase recently exhibited at the Phillips Collection in Washington, D.C. Both are inspired by Asian aesthetics and efectively use color to accent smaller objects. Te sense of quietude in these carefully arranged still-lifes imparts serenity. Some of them might tempt the viewer to reach in and handle the inanimate objects. Among the many lovely landscape views, Rick Schimpf ’s Annapolis Snow Day uses perspective to efectively draw the eye towards the steeple of St. Anne’s Episcopal Church in the heart of Annapolis. Tis has appeal for locals and visitors alike. Mike Torpe’s Clouds and Steam is an arresting photograph of a classic, steam-powered locomotive. Te heavy cloud cover seamlessly merges with the smoke from the engine, dominating the scene. Te absence of color is the perfect choice for this mechanical subject which imparts the expansionist vision of 19th century America. Technical control as well as a unique approach to landscape combine in Janice Hendra’s Ancestral, a compelling blend of representation and abstraction. Te high horizon line with shapes of houses foats above a fattened foreground with stenciled circles. Tere are some eloquent portraits in this show. Sandra Cohen, Harry Lloyd Jaecks, and Andree Tullier are impressive drafsmen of the human form. Possibly the most challenging of genres, portraits are most successful when they reveal some aspect of personality rather than a strictly mirror image. In Cohen’s Golden Shawl, a wistful young lady gazes into the distance, deep in thought. Jaecks’ Deadrise Captain, a masterful half-fgure, appears focused and listening, while Tullier’s pastel, Gabriel, captures an enigmatic expression on a sensitive youth. Also in the fgural category, Kathy Daywalt’s lighthearted and joy-flled watercolor Lucent Dream is a decorative approach combining shapes and patterns in a pallete of blue and gold. Te woman in blue merges with the swirls and discs of the background in an efect evocative of Art Nouveau master Gustave Klimt. Non-objective works which address composition, balance and color can be universal in appeal. Martin Beadle’s engaging mixed media Assembly presents four rows of brightly colored fbers dangling from horizontal twigs. Tis assemblage of color dances in front of a woven background of thin vertical strands. In her photograph Swirling Paper, Tara Cliford creates a fascinating arrangement of circular forms fowing across the surface in hypnotic, undulating waves. Among the few artists working in traditional printmaking, Mark Lindley’s lithograph Pilgrimage is a stand-out. His calligraphic black lines seem to contain countless human fgures layered with patches of sof color in a mid-century modernist ethic. Ingenuity and imagination are foremost in several of the three-dimensional works. As a curator employed in a library setting, I responded to Kass McGowan’s multi-media made from found objects. Te tribute to Eleanor Roosevelt, combines pages from an encyclopedia book-ended by a pair of carved architectural forms. Cindy Winnick’s Ruby Burlesque is a whimsical mannequin wearing a red feathered boa perched casually on a stool, one leg crossed over the other. I was compelled to wonder: is she a parody or a celebration of individuality? Tere are eighty-three artists represented in this exhibition and I want to congratulate them and thank the staf of the Mitchell Gallery, especially director Hydee Schaller, art educator Lucinda Edinberg, and preparator Neal Falanga, for pulling together this expansive and ambitious show. We’re excited to present this selection of the area’s fnest artists and artworks. Teirs is a calling that is deserving of recognition and support. I hope visitors will be attracted by the variety of imagery and media to return and discover many more wonders than could be included in this appraisal. We thank the following for their continuous funding and support: Anne Arundel County, the Arts Council of Anne Arundel County, Chesapeake Medical Imaging and Mark Baganz and Laura Salladin, the City of Annapolis,Thomas P. Gohagan & Company,The Helena Foundation, the Maryland State Arts Council, the Estate of Elizabeth Myers Mitchell, the Mitchell Gallery Board of Advisors, Members of the Mitchell Gallery, Mrs. Ruth Mitchell, the John and Hilda Moore Fund, the National Endowment for the Arts, the Lillian Vanous Nutt Mitchell Gallery Endowment, Rex and Katharine Pingle, and the Clare Eddy and Eugene V.Thaw Fine Arts Fund. �Image & Imagination: Anne Arundel County Juried Exhibition 2019 Artist Statements Harold Ashby (Annapolis, MD) When I travel to distant places, I try to isolate simple images from which I can create a work of art that makes a statement about the place I visited. My goal is to look beyond the iconic scenes and elevate an unusual and beautiful element into the consciousness of those who view my work. Contact: Harold@haroldashby.com Martin Beadle (Annapolis, MD) I gather natural materials with interesting shapes and combine them with beads and found objects. Contact: dougmartin703@gmail.com David Brault (Edgewater, MD) An emerging artist who paints landscapes of Anne Arundel County and the United Kingdom and, more recently, is exploring the possibilities of the zentangle. Influences include many local artists and teachers from Anne Arundel Community College, Maryland Hall, and the Muddy Creek Artists Guild. He is also grateful for the opportunity to finally realize a lifelong dream of being considered an artist. Contact: dbrault493033328@aol.com Tara Balfe Clifford (Edgewater, MD) Swirling Paper is an innovative way of turning trash to visual treasure. The image features aggregated circles and flowing ribbon based on a California Company's' imagination of how to recycle 40,000 pieces of paper from 18 years of annual reports. Contact: clifford.tara@gmail.com Sandra J. Cohen (Annapolis, MD) Rather late in life, retired from a career in the law, Sandy was inspired by her six irresistible grandchildren to try her hand at portraiture. This rapidly developed into an absorbing and widening focus on the beauty and particularity of portrait subjects, and to activities as an Artist in Residence and portrait studio manager, with recognition coming through awards both regional and national. Contact: sjcportraits@gmail.com Sally Wern Comport (Annapolis, MD) A young Harriet Tubman sings a hidden message of her departure to her remaining family members as she embarks on her first remarkable journey from enslavement. As part of The National Park Service’s Harriet Tubman Underground Railroad Visitor Center in Blackwater National Wildlife Refuge, the intention of the painting through palette, expression and the large life-size reproduction of this original artwork, is to capture the dramatic retelling of her story within the exhibit. Contact: sally@artatlargeinc.com �Carolyn Adreon Councell (Pasadena, MD) It was my intention to project the beauty and fragility of nature in my painting "Red Winged Blackbird." This is a scene I have experienced which has remained with me for years. I believe that being aware of our environment is so important to our quality of life which we need to protect. Contact: caramarb@aol.com Carol Cowie (Annapolis, MD) Whether I am outdoors or in my studio, my painting always starts with an idea. Sometimes it is the light, or a play of patterns and rhythms of shadows, magnificent skies, or simply a bold color. I always compose my concept in a small sketch I am excited about and stick to my idea. I believe a good design is the bones of a good painting. From there it is all fun mixing color, changing up brushwork, variation in edges, calligraphy, and dynamic energy. Paintings need to be expressive and draw the viewer in without a lot of detail, so I stick to my lifelong professional motto: keep it simple. Contact: carol@carolcowie.com Barbara Dahlberg (Crofton, MD) My favorite subjects for my art quilts are animals. I love the vast array of facial expressions and body language that I can dramatize in fabric and turn into whimsical portraits of our furry and feathered friends. Contact: barbaradg@comcast.net Kathy Daywalt (Glen Burnie, MD) Intuition and reaction are two tools I enjoy employing when working with watercolor on YUPO. I first apply paint freely, intuitively, without plan. The next step is to compose around what is there, adding texture and pattern to enrich the whole. Contact: kath@daywalt.net Karen Elaine deGraffenreid (Annapolis, MD) Karen Elaine is a retired educator who discovered a talent in watercolor after retiring from the school system eight years ago. She became inspired by nature and through her travels within and outside the U. S. Her work ranges from semi-abstract to realism. Contact: Karendeg8@gmail.com Trish Doty (Arnold, MD) I look at watercolor as a visual language which I strive to interpret through light and color, composition and mood. I favor subjects that have a sense of history and enjoy sharing those stories through my paintings. Contact: trishdoty@icloud.com Jim Earl (Crownsville, MD) My etching, “Paint Branch,” shows one of two streams that merge to form the Anacostia River. In this print, I used hard and soft ground etching techniques to depict a bridge from Hyattsville to Bladensburg where railroad tracks cross the stream. Contact: earl_ja@verizon.net Nina Maria Ellsworth (Edgewater, MD) In my work I strive to capture the specificity of a moment in time by depicting everyday places and objects, whether a downtown street on a rainy spring morning or the fall of morning light across a vase. I am an Annapolis native and love to paint on-location around town and beyond. Contact: nina.ellsworth@gmail.com �Anita Louise Ewing (Edgewater, MD) In watercolor there is always an element of surprise, of chance. The colors blend on the paper; the paints flow. I am always exploring other media, but so far, watercolor is still the medium that takes my breath away. Contact: ewing400@gmail.com Carol P. Falk (Annapolis, MD) With an academic background in Asian art, my brush aims for spontaneity and simplicity. The color, line, texture and layered symbols are intended to convey the mood and message of a moment in time. Contact: cpfalk@verizon.net Joyce Feldman (Chester, MD) Joyce is a former environmental consultant with a life-long interest in photography. She has studied printmaking, primarily at Anne Arundel Community College. Beginning with monotypes and intaglio, she has explored relief techniques and screen prints. Moving thorough deep etch intaglio/aquatint, her newest efforts are in photo lithography. Her art work has been part of shows in various Annapolis venues, Chesapeake College and the Kent Island Federation of Art. In addition, she has pieces that are now part of the AACC student art collection. Contact: joycefeldman.2000@gmail.com James H. Finnerty (Arnold, MD) I have been taking photos for over 65 years and I can honestly say that I have enjoyed every minute. I am also looking forward to lighter and faster cameras and to programs that will allow me to take images and turn them into art. Contact: jfinnerty08@gmail.com James Fitzsimmons (Baltimore, MD) My work stems from a desire to use the world and the objects in it to convey a personal sense of reality. I work towards representation beyond that of mere depiction or emulation. The world, its spaces and objects have a hidden meaning for me. My best work comes from the struggle of how a painting or drawing develops. The truth is, things appear and disappear and ultimately the work becomes what it wants to be. Great works of art are something like icons for me; they possess a soul. I would like my work to be the same. Contact: Jamesfitzsimmonsartist.com Catherine Fuller (Annapolis, MD) White Orchids - Like many watercolor artists, I enjoy painting flowers; especially orchids. These orchids were inspired by those on exhibit at the Philadelphia Flower Show. I took so many wonderful reference photos that I hope to paint someday. Contact: cfuller432@aol.com �Kathleen Ryan Gardiner (Arnold, MD) In my paintings of the horses of NC and MD I’ve attempted to capture the freedom and wildness of both the horse and the landscape. In “Morning Triune,” the wind moves the manes and tails and whips up the ocean’s surface while the trio faces east into the light of a new day. My work begins with a pencil drawing and then to the first of numerous washes working to slowly build up rich color, leaving some white sparkle, and eventually brushing in the dramatic earthy darks. Contact: kathyrgardiner@gmail.com Mary Ellen Geissenhainer (Pasadena, MD) My current work focuses on contemporary still life drawings. I collect and pose objects to create “connections.” Many of my pieces are biographical…featuring collections of objects that seek to create a “portrait” of a person. Strong color and lighting help to contribute to a photorealistic effect. Contact: www.maryellengeissenhainer.com Joseph H. Gruver (Arnold, MD) I have been photographing the Chesapeake Bay area since 1970. I first picked up a camera in 1964 while at MICA and have not put it down since. Through my sordid career (photojournalist, police crime lab supervisor, police detective sergeant and owner of Crabtown Photography), I always had a camera with me. I always try to see and photograph things that other people miss or don't see. Contact: crabtownphoto@msn.com David Matthew Haas (Annapolis, MD) Storms Come and Storms Go - The storm dramatically comes in on the left and goes out on the right, an event that occurs over time but here we see it all at once, it is an event of the mind. It is about “time,” the passage of time and what it means internally. Simultaneously it is also a metaphor for life. Contact: davidhaas1@verizon.net John T. Hanou (Severna Park, MD) A Starry Night is part of my “Broken Dreams” series of photographs of old car plated-glass windows that have endured the elements of weather over the years. I try to capture the world as we know it, and offer it in a manner that we have not thought of. I strive to create photos that sometimes transcend reality. Contact: hanouphotography.com Neil Harpe (Annapolis, MD) I studied painting at the Corcoran School of Art during the sixties when the “Washington Color School” was at its peak; so colorful geometric abstraction is nothing new to me. However, since my graduation from the Corcoran in 1969, my work has been primarily representational. My MFA thesis consisted of nine surrealist color lithographs entitled “Juxtaposition of Realities” which included subjects like butterflies and dragonflies portrayed in anomalous settings. For my watercolor “Juxtaposition,” I revisited the concept, intermingling a realistically rendered spider with a “color school” abstract. Contact: neil@stellaguitars.com Janice Hendra (Severna Park, MD) Creating an image that expresses my reality or displays a feeling that comes from within is always what motivates me to paint. Sometimes the feeling is sensitive and deeply personal and sometimes it's just lighthearted and humorous. Contact: janhend@hotmail.com �Joan Essex Johnson (Annapolis, MD) I find inspiration for my paintings from light, its movement across form, and the details that are revealed. “Reflected Morning” captures the golden light and intense reflections of a calm summer morning on Whitehall Creek. As I live on the Chesapeake Bay, I want to portray its unique emotion and beauty. Contact: joanjohnsonstudio.com Judy Jordan (Annapolis, MD) My husband saved “Adam,” a partial mannequin, from annihilation by performing a daring act of dumpster-diving. “Adam” was in terrible condition and sat forlornly in my studio for a couple years. After much repair, plastic surgery of sorts, hair design and a clay shirt, he is ready for reconsideration. Contact: judyjordanart.com Warren Kahle (Annapolis, MD) This image captures a detail seen in Acadia National Park in Maine while on a week-long photographic outing last October. It only required a glimpse to know that an opportunity was in my view, but it required some thought to produce a composition that brought together the angular rock structure and the small purple wildflowers that somehow had established roots there. Much of travel and landscape photography is sparked by an emotional reaction to our surroundings; we just have to produce a composition that makes visual sense and provides us a degree of personal satisfaction. This contrasts with, say, commercial, architectural, or portrait photography, which may require considerable planning and organizing of details. Contact: wkahle@aol.com Christine Kelsey (Annapolis, MD) I was lucky enough to discover a whole flock of black-headed vultures gathering near some abandoned houses. Made for a perfect art adventure with photographs and encaustic wax and pastel and wax crayon enhancements. Contact: kelswede22@verizon.net Deborah Kommalan (Pasadena, MD) Maryland artist Deborah Kommalan works in oils in a realist style in which her primary focus is capturing the essence of an object. She wants viewers to take a closer look at everyday things and to be curious about the subjects she chooses, so she is attracted to subjects that will cast interesting shadows. Working in a strong tenebrist style, she also enjoys manipulating the shadows to create implied movement in her not-so-still lifes. Contact: deborah@deborahkommalan.com Lyn Laviana (Severna Park, MD) Mysterioso is a six-screen design based on a photograph I took in the Rocky Mountains. Something magical happens to color in the translation from computer design to ink resulting in this moody print. Contact: lavianal@gmail.com �Eddie Lavin (Arnold, MD) One light. One life. One love. One meaningful interpretation of a creative intelligence that shares itself through the creative manifestations of art that we share with each other; so that through art, as a civilization, we may maintain a record of our hopes and dreams forging a path through the growth pains of evolution, fighting to share the light despite the frictions inherent to our rather fragile insight and the perils of our present human condition. Contact: Eddie@Gen3sis.com Mark Lindley (Annapolis, MD) For me art lives outside of fear, beyond boundaries and borders and social constraints. In making this two-color lithograph, I explored my past and future as an art maker. Pilgrims move through the hours of light and darkness to that interior castle where secrets vanish and vision rules. Simple color and bold marks support my move to continuing creation. Contact: lindley.mark@gmail.com Sharon E. Littig (Annapolis, MD) Trying to capture the quality of nature's light in a painting is not new. In the tradition of great artists from Monet to Henry Hensche I'm trying to capture that quality using color, as taught to me by my husband, John Ebersberger—an artist himself, who was a student of Hensche's. The outdoor still life is a great subject for exploring this idea. Contact: slittig@comcast.net Barbara Madden-Swain (Annapolis, MD) My work and I are constantly changing in a spirit of freedom to experiment, to change direction, and to discover improved ways and forms with clay. Contact: www.bmaddenswain.com Robert Madden (Annapolis, MD) As digital technology has become ubiquitous, increasingly our society uses images to communicate, and in so doing we become more sophisticated in discerning the visual relationships of those things that surround us. Using a limited palette along with a dramatic sense of scale, my photographs focus on these visual paradoxes. Those who have influenced my work range from John Constable to Robert Frank. Contact: RobertWMaddenPhotography.com Abigail Faye McBride (Chesapeake City, MD) I paint with longing. A longing to be a part of something greater than myself; to participate in the beauty of the natural world and to understand it more deeply. Every painting decision is made with intent to either learn or lead. It is work. It brings me joy to work and share what I’ve made. Contact: abigail@mcbridegallery.com Nancy McCarra (Crownsville, MD) Painting is a study of relationships; one color to another, warm and cool, light and shade. Painting is also an expression of what inspires me, whether it's a splash of sunlight striking a few branches of a tree, a dusty antique bottle casting a luminous shadow across a table top, or a face. Being an artist is a joyful journey, one which I pursue with passion, gratitude and dedication. Contact: nancymccarra@aol.com �Kass McGowan (Millersville, MD) Encyclopedia Series As a found object artist I work from an intuitive place, using treasures found on roadsides, salvage architectural pieces, and other detritus. Inspiration for me often comes from the object itself as well as from a conceptual place. Using a variety of mediums, the object’s existence is transformed. Encyclopedia pages became my focus when I realized I couldn’t part with my mother’s treasured, and very well used books. What better way to put her treasurers to use then elevate them, still calling them what they are, but giving them new life. “Even a brick wants to be something.” —Architect Louis Kahn. Contact: mdfedart.com/mfaentry/memsite/index.php Anne McLaughlin (Annapolis, MD) Anne is a restless printmaker having dabbled in intaglio, reduction woodcuts, Sculpy clay prints, Eco printing, and a quick stint with lithography, arriving at clay monoprints. The mystery of the final image while carving away as well as adding clay slips to build a print, and exploring the mixology of colors is irresistible. Clearly experimenting in printmaking is her present and future vision. Contact: anneartist13@comcast.net Alvin (Jim) Miller (Arnold, MD) “Image and Imagination” illustrates that art is not only what we see, but also what we feel. Reality versus what we can make of it. Contact: jimarcey1@yahoo.com Emily Carter Mitchell (Pasadena, MD) It was a foggy morning on the Chesapeake Bay and off in the distance I spotted some tall masts. The horizon was mysteriously enveloped in the fog as we approached. Tall, majestic and quietly moored “The Eagle” floated silently on the still waters. Photography allows me to preserve these fleeting moments to always remember and reflect upon. Contact: http://emilymitchellphotography.com Chris Mona (Arnold, MD) I am deeply and equally in love with American pop culture and the natural world. I also love the collisions of the two, and how they reverberate all around us. The layered images that I unleash are at once humorous, quotidian, oddly beautiful, and pleasingly discomforting. I work consistently in painting, printmaking, drawing, and digital media. Contact: cpmona@aacc.edu Christine Morgeson (Stevensville, MD) I live on Kent Island along the shores of the Chesapeake. Often I find fish in my crab pots. I photograph them before they are released then use the fish as subjects of my etchings. Contact: ckarm@live.com �Kathryn O’Grady (Tracys Landing, MD) I have been painting the many new saplings that have been planted by roadsides throughout Anne Arundel County over the last couple of years. I love their funny, fragile lines, and the absurd contrast with the established woods and fields. Beech Saplings by the Big Pond is about my realization that the new, native trees that spring up in the wild have much of that same look of being alien. Contact: squalodon@comcast.net Jean Ulmer Opilla (Annapolis, MD) I usually create fabric sculptures, but recently returned to print making after many years away from it. I am drawn to the graphic quality of screen printing, but because of my 3-dimensional orientation I have been incorporating relief into my prints. The dragonfly symbolizes change in almost every part of the world. It can be a change in perspective or self-realization. So to me it represents life’s ever-constant process of change. Contact: jeanulmeropilla.com Betty Pethel (Annapolis, MD) These ladies, some with children, dressed in all their Sunday finery, seem to have no particular place to go, but they're coming nevertheless, holding their umbrellas up high, meeting and greeting, as one can see during "An Afternoon Promenade." The painting reflects back to an earlier time but eternal is the bond and pleasure of friendship among Women. Contact: betty.pethel@gmail.com Emil Thomas Petruncio (Arnold, MD) I enjoy the interplay of light and shadows, and I especially like the brilliance of morning light and the long, sharp shadows it casts. To produce "First Light," I brought the outside in, merging a digitally manipulated photo of a sunlit forest (reduced to basic geometrical patterns) with a photo of morning shadows on the wall and ceiling of my living room. I hope this work reminds or motivates you to enjoy the simple blessings of bright mornings. Contact: eauceanblu@gmail.com Rebecca Wallace Pugh (Annapolis, MD) From concept to completion, this commission was a joy. I designed the painting to hang in a specific location in the family’s home. Using the client’s vertical photographs of the figures, I returned to the setting to create the composition—adjusting the perspective, color and morning atmosphere. Contact: rebeccawpugh@mac.com Elaine Weiner-Reed (Severn, MD) The Yellow Chair - My art focuses on relationships as people interact with each other, their own space, and the world around them. Life stops for no one—regardless of how we sometimes wish it would at least slow down so we could pause ... just for a minute. In this painting, the yellow chair solidifies as a beacon, a respite inviting us to sit a spell and enjoy the ride. Contact: http://www.weiner-reed.com �Donna F. Rhody (Churchton, MD) Donna is an award-winning artist from the Annapolis area. Her works in photography, colored pencil, and watercolor, have been accepted at ArtScape in Baltimore, Maryland Federation of Art and the Whitehall Gallery in Annapolis, and the River Gallery in Galesville. Sheppard-Pratt Hospital and Ginger Cove have purchased works for their permanent collections. Her work can be seen at: Contact: http://donnarhody.blogspot.com/ Phyllis Saroff (Annapolis, MD) Although I am not religious, the inspiration for this painting is from a poem I love by the Jesuit Priest Gerard Manley Hopkins. As an illustrator, my work usually accompanies written words. His words were my starting point. As Kingfishers Catch Fire BY GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame; As tumbled over rim in roundy wells Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell's Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name; Each mortal thing does one thing and the same: Deals out that being indoors each one dwells; Selves — goes itself; myself it speaks and spells, Crying Whát I dó is me: for that I came. I say móre: the just man justices; Keeps grace: thát keeps all his goings graces; Acts in God's eye what in God's eye he is — Chríst — for Christ plays in ten thousand places, Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his To the Father through the features of men's faces. Contact: phyllis@saroffillustration.com Leslie Sater (Pasadena, MD) Gestural identity is at the center of my work. Be it person, place or object, I translate the subject’s unique presence into the movement, tension and fluidity of edge and color. Contact: lesliesaterart@gmail.com James Sayler (Annapolis, MD) A few quail flash fly in panic on the way to Greenberry Point in the full sunlight of an early summer day. Contact: http://saylerworks.shutterfly.com �Rick Schimpf (Pasadena, MD) This painting is my impression of the view one would have of Annapolis as you looked toward Church Circle from West Street during the blizzard of 2016. The record-breaking snowfall brought Annapolis to a standstill. The timing of this storm interrupted many winter events including the 2016 Legislative Session. The annual legislative sessions bring legislators, staff, and community leaders from all across Maryland to Annapolis for participation and weekly lodging during the session. Typically, the view as seen in this painting would be of parked cars lining both sides of West Street with pedestrian traffic on the sidewalks as they traveled to and from businesses, restaurants, art galleries, pubs, government offices, and courthouses. Automobiles typically would be lined up bumper to bumper as they traveled West Street to and from Church Circle. However, the record amount of snow essentially stopped vehicle traffic and closed businesses of all kinds. Maybe those that were in Annapolis during the snow could enjoy the unusual quiet time and imagine Annapolis from times past. Contact: rschimpf1943@gmail.com Marietta Meigs Schreiber (Annapolis, MD) On a trip to see the ongoing restoration of Poplar Island on the Bay, I saw and photographed several egrets and herons. The reflections of this egret in the water caught my eye. The egret is extra white watercolor paper, left empty except for the subtle shadows. Contact: mschreiber520@gmail.com Deborah M. Schwab (Annapolis, MD) Deborah’s work is influenced by her time spent in forests, fields and gardens, bays and harbors as a landscape architect and sailor. The natural world is primarily what catches her eye as a topic for her paintings. Contact: dschwab.art@comcast.net Camilla Kenyon Schwarz (Annapolis, MD) The act of painting is a concrete way for me to connect with the ineffable. Each painting is an experiment; I love the process of surrendering to what the painting wants to be and at the same time, using my skills to guide the outcome. Contact: camilla.ks@verizon.net Cynthia Shumaker (Annapolis, MD) My favorite remark about being an artist is that to be one is to find a fine balance of privilege and necessity. It is a pleasure to not only create my paintings, but to bring pleasure to others, as well. Contact: www.caswatercolors.com Jen Sterling (Arnold, MD) My goal is to inspire energy and excitement—to empower the viewer to be bold. My paintings are meant to make you feel strong and powerful—to burst into your morning or invigorate your senses after a long day. Ideally, my art reminds you that life is for feeling and stretching and truly living. Contact: jensterlingart@gmail.com �Glenn Strachan (Pasadena, MD) I have been taking pictures since receiving a Polaroid camera from my father at the age of eight along with boxes of film from 47th Street Photo. I have been fortunate enough to be able to travel extensively throughout the world (116 countries) and have combined my love for travel with my passion for photography. I enjoy capturing the ephemeral, images which only exist for moments in time, like this image which lasted about 10 seconds before the woman answered her phone. All my photographs are taken using an Apple iPhone using the Moment App which produces huge high-resolution files for great image quality. Contact: glenn.strachan@jhpiego.org Kathy Strouss (Annapolis, MD) Art for me is photography, watercolors, pastels and mixed media. Inspiration for my art is from my travels and meeting people throughout the United States, Canada, and Europe. Art is a unifier of people, thoughts and emotions, but always a reminder of our wonderful life on this earth and to spend time here wisely doing things you love to do. Contact: ks21409@gmail.com Michael E. Thorpe (Annapolis, MD) I like contrast in my images. The old and the new, the dark and the light. My subjects usually have conflict in them which is what draws me to capture the image. Contact: guilfy1@aol.com David Trozzo (Severna Park, MD) David launched his photography career at the Capital Newspaper in Annapolis, Maryland. He has completed countless editorial and corporate assignments, including three books entitled Ocean City: Maryland's Grand Old Resort and The Chesapeake Bay Book: A Complete Guide, Edition II and Edition III. Dave’s photos have appeared in Audubon, National Geographic Traveler, Travel+Leisure.com, Chesapeake Bay Magazine, Boating Life, Baltimore Magazine, the Washington Post, and the Washington Times. He currently lives in Severna Park, MD. Contact: dtrozzo@gmail.com Sigrid Trumpy (Annapolis, MD) This print was an exploration of watercolor monoprinting in combination with drypoint etching. I had the opportunity to print a full sheet and the use of a large etching press, plus the space to do so while an Artist in Residence at Castle Hill Center for the Arts Edgewood Farm in Truro, MA. The beauty of Cape Cod and the proximity of the natural surroundings of ponds, forests, beaches and ocean inspired my print "Black Bass - Tahiti Rail." Contact: sigridtrumpy@gmail.com Andree Tullier (Annapolis, MD) The beauty of the world is magical. I strive to express that magic in my paintings whether describing the character of a person, discovering the light key of a landscape, or chasing the rainbow of a sunset. Contact: andreetullier.com Gil Ugiansky (Annapolis, MD) Gil is a metal sculptor who creates primarily non-representational art in mild steel, stainless steel, aluminum, iron, bronze, and occasionally found objects. He is strongly attracted to geometric shapes and shiny objects. Gil’s artistic goal is to capture the interest and curiosity of the viewer and elicit the thought: “how is that possible?” or “how did he do that?” And his goal is to do that while maintaining the highest aesthetic and quality of fabrication. Contact: gil@ugiansky.com �Marilyn Block Ugiansky (Annapolis, MD) Marilyn is a former graphic designer/creative director; currently non-representational painter/sculptor. She is particularly interested in exploring how mass works against mass in terms of color, texture, edge and gesture. Another area she is particularly drawn to is found objects and the texture, depth, and drama they bring to canvas. Contact: marilyn.ugiansky.com Annette Uroskie (Annapolis, MD) I am presently painting on a plastic like paper called Yupo and doing Photoshopped digital photography. When creating a work, I may change and alter it as I reconsider the final product. Hence, Calvert Cliffs and my altered shots of a model became a homage to my favorite painting. Contact: amuroskie@aol.com Louise Wallendorf (Gambrills, MD) This image is a surf lithograph created while an artist in residence in a dune shack at Cape Cod National Seashore. A ball grained lithographic plate was placed at the surf’s edge where the movement of the sand and water created the marks on the plate emphasized by the placement of tusche wash and drawing. Each of us has a personal response to the ocean’s edge. Contact: lwaves2002@yahoo.com Anna Watts (Annapolis, MD) My work is conceptual or storytelling in nature, often asking personal or societal questions, and layered in meaning and process. I want my work to be both direct and subtle: to be both visually pleasing and provocative. My inspirations often take me on a process-based journey across many mediums; from paintings being inspired by a digital photo-manipulation piece that was sparked from a photograph of a mixed-media work…and so the cycle continues. Contact: wattsupanw@yahoo.com Marguerite Welch (Annapolis, MD) Marguerite is a photographer and writer who spent 14 years sailing around the world with her husband Michael. Her forthcoming book, “Waterborne—A Slow Trip Around a Small Planet,” describes this journey. Her photographs tell a related but different visual version. Find her at www.mwwordsandimages.com and on Instagram at mwwordsandimages.com Cindy Ann Winnick (Annapolis, MD) Sculpting with fabric allows me to create a character or personality with color and form and, through this character, to comment on issues of identity, gender, and sexuality. My "Ruby" is strong, sexy and confident, with a great sense of humor. Contact: www.cindywinnick.com �Judy Wolgast (Stevensville, MD) As I struggle balancing the graphic quality with an impressionist view of my subject, primarily landscapes, I am usually rewarded as each multiple, handpulled from the press, results in new discoveries. Printmaking processes of material manipulation to render an artistic representation is heavily aligned with drawing, the early pursuit in my teens with pencil and charcoal. Pushing the tonal range for realism and depth, and striking marks for detail into a piece metal is just plain exciting. Contact: jwolgastdesigns@gmail.com Bryan Zidek (Mayo, MD) Submariner, turned Health Physicist, turned full time artist, Bryan Keith Zidek creates from a breadth of experience, a love of beauty, and his deep faith. He loves painting flowers, people and still life. In his studio, Bryan Keith, he explores the dynamic between the still life and color. He uses the context of a still life sometimes as a setting, where he draws upon the world of symbols, and their interplay with human experience. Contact: bzidek@gmail.com � 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 Mitchell Art Gallery Exhibitions Description An account of the resource Schedules of past exhibitions from the Mitchell Art Gallery. To see current exhibitions please visit the <a title="Mitchell Gallery" href="https://www.sjc.edu/annapolis/mitchell-gallery/exhibits-and-programs" target="_blank">Mitchell Gallery Exhibitions</a> webpage.<br /><br /><span>Click on </span><a title="Mitchell Art Gallery Exhibitions" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=30"><strong>Items in the Mitchell Art Gallery Exhibitions Collection</strong></a><span> to </span><span>view and sort all items in the collection.</span> Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data pdf Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 26 pages Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Mitchell Gallery Exhibition Schedule 2018-2019 Description An account of the resource Mitchell Gallery Exhibition Schedule 2018-2019. Exhibitions include Albrecht Durer: Master Prints, Childhood Classics: 100 Years of Children's Book Illustration, Painted Pages: Illuminated Manuscripts, 13th-18th Centuries, Making our Mark: Eight Washington Printmakers, St. John's College Community Art Exhibition 2019, and Image & Imagination: Anne Arundel County Juried Exhibition 2019. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource St. John's College (Annapolis, Md.). Elizabeth Myers Mitchell Art Gallery Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2018-2019 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this publication. Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Mitchell Gallery Exhibition Schedule 2018-2019 Subject The topic of the resource Art museums--Exhibitions Mitchell Art Gallery https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/e4eed640060ec97f170601cc63607355.mp3 82cf646ea10595f7e87131136baf2ff9 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 St. John's College Lecture Recordings—Santa Fe Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Meem 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 Santa Fe, NM Sound A resource primarily intended to be heard. Examples include a music playback file format, an audio compact disc, and recorded speech or sounds. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data mp3 Duration Length of time involved (seconds, minutes, hours, days, class periods, etc.) 00:48:20 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 What kind of political community does the U.S. Constitution form? Description An account of the resource Audio recording of a lecture given on July 23, 2019 by Elizabeth C'de Baca Eastman as part of the Graduate Institute Summer Lecture Series. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Eastman, Elizabeth C'de Baca 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 Santa Fe, NM Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2019-07-23 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Meem Library has been given permission to make this item available online. Type The nature or genre of the resource sound Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource mp3 Subject The topic of the resource Aristotle. Politics United States. Constitution Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context SF_EastmanE_What_Kind_of_Political_Community_Does_the_US_Constitution_Form_2019-07-23 Graduate Institute Summer lecture series https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/10f79a37c1987c872cbef4424dd7be54.mp3 d08a59953988d6d54e49a9c4328667b9 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 St. John's College Lecture Recordings—Santa Fe Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Meem 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 Santa Fe, NM Sound A resource primarily intended to be heard. Examples include a music playback file format, an audio compact disc, and recorded speech or sounds. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data mp3 Duration Length of time involved (seconds, minutes, hours, days, class periods, etc.) 00:36:58 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Suspicion and trust in George Eliot's Middlemarch Description An account of the resource Audio recording of a lecture given on July 9, 2019 by Richard McCombs as part of the Graduate Institute Summer Lecture Series. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource McCombs, Richard A., II, 1967- 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 Santa Fe, NM Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2019-07-09 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Meem Library has been given permission to make this item available online. Type The nature or genre of the resource sound Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource mp3 Subject The topic of the resource Eliot, George, 1819-1880. Middlemarch Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context SF_McCombsR_Middlemarch_2019-07-9 Graduate Institute Summer lecture series https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/816fd019a5e03ee261094b6eab533223.mp3 cfb73e60ce93e47a92a41c846b77efaf 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 St. John's College Lecture Recordings—Santa Fe Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Meem 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 Santa Fe, NM Sound A resource primarily intended to be heard. Examples include a music playback file format, an audio compact disc, and recorded speech or sounds. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data mp3 Duration Length of time involved (seconds, minutes, hours, days, class periods, etc.) 00:41:57 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 Alexis de Tocqueville on American liberty : ancient or modern? Description An account of the resource Audio recording of a lecture given on July 16, 2019 by Steven Forde as part of the Graduate Institute Summer Lecture Series. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Forde, Steven, 1954- 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 Santa Fe, NM Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2019-07-16 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Meem Library has been given permission to make this item available online. Type The nature or genre of the resource sound Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource mp3 Subject The topic of the resource Tocqueville, Alexis de, 1805-1859. De la démocratie en Amérique Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context SF_FordeS_Alexis_de_Toqueville_on_American_Liberty_Ancient_or_Modern_2019-07-16 Graduate Institute Summer lecture series https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/2fc3d7c3d983c53ba7d927a6030727e3.mp3 e8c661366318a732f7ac170634fc0820 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 Graduate Institute Summer Lecture Series Description An account of the resource The Wednesday Night Lecture Series, hosted during the summer term by the Graduate Institute at St. John’s College in Annapolis, is a less-formal version of the college’s formal Friday Night Lectures. The Wednesday Night lectures are an opportunity for tutors and for graduates of the college who are pursuing academic careers to present the first fruits of their thinking to an attentive and inquisitive audience. The lectures, held in the King William Room of the Barr-Buchanan Center at 7:30 p.m., with a question period afterward in a neighboring classroom, are free and open to the public.<br /><br />For more information, and for a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a title="Summer lecture series" href="https://www.sjc.edu/annapolis/events/lectures/summer-wednesday-night-lecture-series" target="_blank">St. John's College website</a></strong>.<br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Graduate Institute Summer Lecture Series" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=31">Items in the Graduate Institute Summer Lecture Series 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 Sound A resource primarily intended to be heard. Examples include a music playback file format, an audio compact disc, and recorded speech or sounds. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data mp3 Duration Length of time involved (seconds, minutes, hours, days, class periods, etc.) 00:56:41 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 Euclid as Teacher Description An account of the resource Audio recording of a lecture delivered on July 10, 2019 by William Braithwaite as part of the Graduate Institute Summer Lecture Series. Mr. Braithwaite is a tutor at St. John's College, Annapolis. His talk centers on Euclid's role as an educator not just of mathematics but also of life. In particular, Braithwaite examines the ways in which Euclid's mathematical reasoning has applicability outside of what would be traditionally thought. Using examples from Mark Twain, Abraham Lincoln, and others, this talk deepens an understanding of Euclid as a teacher of logic, mathematics, and life. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Braithwaite, William T. (William Thomas) Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2019-07-10 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource A signed permission form has been received stating, "I hereby grant St. John's College permission to make an audio recording of my lecture, and retain copies for circulation and archival preservation at the St. John's College Greenfield Library and to make an audio recording of my lecture available online." Type The nature or genre of the resource sound Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource mp3 Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Braithwaite_William_2019-07-10 Subject The topic of the resource Teaching Euclid. Elements Mathematics Geometry Education Graduate Institute Summer lecture series Tutors https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/88353dd29d1709fa0eb44d10ace26cf8.mp3 ab3bada414a04f901f4d4e14445e09ba 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 St. John's College Lecture Recordings—Santa Fe Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Meem 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 Santa Fe, NM Sound A resource primarily intended to be heard. Examples include a music playback file format, an audio compact disc, and recorded speech or sounds. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data mp3 Duration Length of time involved (seconds, minutes, hours, days, class periods, etc.) 00:49:55 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 Simone Weil on having an inner life Description An account of the resource Audio recording of a lecture given on July 2, 2019 by Eric Springsted as part of the Graduate Institute Summer Lecture Series. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Springsted, Eric O. 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 Santa Fe, NM Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2019-07-02 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Meem Library has been given permission to make this item available online. Type The nature or genre of the resource sound Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource mp3 Subject The topic of the resource Weil, Simone, 1909-1943 Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context SF_SpringstedE_Simone_Weil_on_Having_an_Inner_Life_2019-07-02 Graduate Institute Summer lecture series https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/302d20a208615e6b11f57d1ab6dc5e66.mp3 adc17445db596187ac3c7ff0c483a0ce 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 St. John's College Lecture Recordings—Santa Fe Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Meem 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 Santa Fe, NM Sound A resource primarily intended to be heard. Examples include a music playback file format, an audio compact disc, and recorded speech or sounds. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data mp3 Duration Length of time involved (seconds, minutes, hours, days, class periods, etc.) 00:34:19 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The weirdness of classical thermodynamics Description An account of the resource Audio recording of a lecture given on June 25, 2019 by Don Lemons as part of the Graduate Institute Summer Lecture Series. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Lemons, Don S. (Don Stephen), 1949- 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 Santa Fe, NM Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2019-06-25 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Meem Library has been given permission to make this item available online. Type The nature or genre of the resource sound Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource mp3 Subject The topic of the resource Thermodynamics Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context SF_LemonsD_The_Wierdness_of_Classical_Thermodynamics_2019-06-25 Graduate Institute Summer lecture series https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/9902489cb7cdadb2e698a38c372f9c6c.mp3 ae053f3ab1b7965341c422c1fe6fc79f 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 St. John's College Lecture Recordings—Santa Fe Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Meem 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 Santa Fe, NM Sound A resource primarily intended to be heard. Examples include a music playback file format, an audio compact disc, and recorded speech or sounds. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data mp3 Duration Length of time involved (seconds, minutes, hours, days, class periods, etc.) 00:42:25 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource A defense of Aristotle's Art of Rhetoric III.13-19 Description An account of the resource Audio recording of a lecture given on June 18, 2019 by April Olsen as part of the Graduate Institute Summer Lecture Series. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Olsen, April 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 Santa Fe, NM Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2019-06-18 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Meem Library has been given permission to make this item available online. Type The nature or genre of the resource sound Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource mp3 Subject The topic of the resource Aristotle. Rhetoric Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context SF_OlsenA_A_Defense_of_Aristotle's_Art_of_Rhetoric_III_13-19_2019-06-18 Graduate Institute Summer lecture series https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/284b54b84f10c8281a9edc1ddb904b6f.pdf de604215e7381b6d7c4e4cd0ee1f4b30 PDF Text Text EARLY WRITINGS AN ACADEMIC JOURNAL �! �Early Writings: An Academic Journal St. John's College Graduate Institute Santa Fe, New Mexico 2013 STJOHN’S College ANNAPOLIS . SANTA FE This project is dedicated to Susan Olmsted, a fisher of like-minded souls, who with her gentle steadfastness and quiet kindness helped each of us to make St. John's College our home. ��Early Writings: An Academic Journal St. John's College Graduate Institute Santa Fe, New Mexico 2012 Publishers Casey Carr Jeff Ondocsin Editors Casey Carr Brian Connolly Jeff Ondocsin Jesse Wilhite Matthew Zehnder Selection Committee Chelsea Allen Elliot Bernstein Brian Connolly Thomas Conroy Kevin Cowling Jeffrey Ondocsin Eduardo Vera Joan Marie Wood Matthew Zehnder Cover Design Alycia Smith ��Contents: A Note About Our Project Casey Carr and Jeff Ondocsin vi Sweet Showers, Sweet Breath Joan Marie Wood 1 Antinomian Sentiment in the Bhagavad Gita, Book II Elliot Bernstein 7 The Death of Kings: History and the Individual in Shakespeare's Richard II William Leavy 12 Seeing-Time April Olsen 22 Life Experience by the Books, or How to Read Nabokov’s Speak, Memory Grant Wycliff 33 �Searching for Geometrical "Truth" in Einstein's Relativity Jules Mancini 44 Nietzsche's Philosopher: The Antagonistic Redeemer Mary Creighton 54 Prince Myshkin's Beautiful Horizon: Exploring Death and the Infinite in Dostoevsky's The Idiot Kevin Cowling 65 A Proposed Atlas to the On-ramps and Off-ramps of the Road to Serfdom Jesse Wilhite 86 The Faith of the Poet Anthony Eagan 97 The Two Prakrtis Jeff Ondocsin 111 Chaucer's Grisild: Constreyned by Maistrie Leah Weed 116 IV �i’l- 5?? V �A Note About Our Project Early Writings: An Academic Journal 2013 marks the third edition of this project in the Graduate Institute at St. John’s College, Santa Fe. This unique collection of essays reflects the various ideas and texts that our graduate students encounter in both the Liberal Arts and Eastern Classics programs. Why do we study Great Books? The fact is that the pursuit of knowledge edifies not only the mind, but also the soul. We read carefully and rely on involved discussion with one another to work through the implications of the texts. This is not an attempt to be authoritative; we leave that province to the rest of the academic world. Our graduate students ask questions only to find that the process of asking questions of our authors begets yet more questions. Mastery is not the goal. We are interested in letting the books speak to us without imposing preconceived ideas or prejudices upon them. In this way, we attempt to explore the ideas of the authors for the pleasure and reward of inquiry itself. This, the third edition of the Journal, features such questions as: What happens when a king places love of himself above duty to country? Can a return to once abandoned values save a crumbling political system? Why is the philosopher necessary for society? What is the consequence of a theological doctrine that does not bind salvation to adherence to a specific moral code? Is there only one kind of knowledge that gives man access to God? Our questions are not strictly limited to political or theological matters. How does Chaucer’s general prologue presage the rest of the tales? How is understanding achieved through confounding the reader’s experience of both being and time? How do the truth and beauty of human experience manifest themselves in the various literary devices of both fiction and autobiography? What role can geometrical truth play in modern mathematics? Is experience transmissible between individuals? Does the poet make the poem or does poetry make the poet? What does the telling of the same story in two different moral systems tell us about the authors and their societies? Our design for this project is not only to showcase the efforts of our graduate students and the St. John’s program itself. VI �but also to invite the reader—whoever he may be—to use these essays as a springboard to embark on his own quest toward knowledge. It is therefore our pleasure to present you with the 2013 Graduate Institute Academic Journal. As with the first and second editions, this edition of the Journal was crafted according to a specific set of selection and editing standards. By means of these we aim to preserve the integrity of our project. A selection committee received anonymous submissions from our graduate student body to review for content, style, and coherence. Using a numerical rubric system, the committee voted on those essays which most conformed to our standards of academic writing and the St. John's process of inquiry. Those who submitted essays and were also part of the selection committee forfeited their right to vote on their own work. Upon selection, a smaller group of editors carefully combed the selected essays for necessary grammatical and syntactical changes. It is important to note that this editing, however thorough, was performed with great caution. It is our foremost aim to ensure that the original intention and style of the authors are preserved. Next, the publishers put together the actual design and format of a manuscript that was then sent to the press. We would like to thank all of the students who have contributed to this important project, as well as our Graduate Director, Mr. Carl. Early Writings would not be possible without the seriousness and sincerity of the St. John's College community. Your Publishers and Executive Editors, Casey Carr Jeff Ondocsin Jesse Wilhite �Vlll �Sweet Showers, Sweet Breath Joan Marie Wood Whan thatAprill with his shoures soote The droghte of March hath perced to the roote, And bathed every veyne in swich licour Of which vertu engendred is the flour; Whan Zephirus eek with his sweete breeth 5 Inspired hath in every holt and heeth Tendre croppes, and theyonge sonne Hath in the Ram his halve coursyronne, And smale foweles maken melodye, That slepen al the nyght with open ye w (so priketh hem Nature in hir corages); Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages. And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes, To feme halwes, kowthe in sondry londes; And specially from every shires ende 15 OfEngelond to Caunterbury they wende. The hooly blisful martirfor to seke, That hem hath holpen whan that they were seekeJ The first eighteen lines of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales may be presumed to set a context for the Tales, and, moved by a mysterious delight, 1 have found myself repeatedly drawn back to them. 1 propose to consider these lines in detail, with the goal of deepening my understanding of why Chaucer chose to begin his epic this way. First 1 will give an overview of this passage, and then 1 will take a look at each line in order to tease out some of the richness that Chaucer offers us. We start at the beginning—of the epic, of the journey to Canterbury, of the series of Tales. Beginnings are portentous: it is a launch time, a time for alertness, excitement, and perhaps, a time of openings, of new possibilities. These beginning lines, which comprise one very long sentence, can be divided into three 1 �sections. Each has progressively more focused content, and each is marked off from the others with a semi-colon (though there is an additional semi-colon after line 4, allowing Chaucer to begin line 5 with another “Whan," thus emphasizing the time element]. Lines 1 through 11, "Whan that April. . .nature in hir corages;" tell us that the season of this epic is spring, when warm rain produces flowers and new crops come forth. In this first section, Chaucer uses natural images2 and pagan references^; there are no overtlv Christian references. ^ Lines 12 through 14, "Thanne longen folk . . .in sundry londes; are a general response to lines 1 through 11- "Whan" it is this particular season, "thanne" folk long to go on pilgrimages. Here we have the first Christian reference in the word "palmers" returnees from the Holy Land, for whom spring, apparent^, refreshes the wish to wander to foreign shores as pilgrims. These three lines narrow the focus to the longing provoked in "folk"—in many people, we may presume—in response to the spring's quickening; specifically to Christians, including those who have been on pilgrimages before. Lines 15 through 18 bring us to a specific place and kind of Christian pilgrimage: that of persons who have been sick, and are now traveling from every shire in England to Canterbuiy. Presumably they travel to visit the shrine of the Catholic martyr Thomas Becket, as they have vowed. The following lines detail that the narrator himself has been on a pilgrimage to Canterbury and like thanne longen folk" can be presumed to understand why one would do so. And we are off ^ The first word. Whan repeated at the beginning of line 5, is a temporal signifies oes this indicate that time will be important in this epic? I cannot elp but make a parallel here with the first word of the Iliad wrath an emotive word around which that epic hinges. Aiournev takes place over time; it takes time to tell a story. But soecificallv With this 'man" Chaucer singles out the season'of early sS""' crucially important for the existence of the urge to go on a pilgrimage, or at least the kind of pilgrimage he will present Jhe first line reads: "Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote. On the literal level April brings showers that soften and 2 �moisten the soil for planting. That Chaucer uses the word "soote," meaning "sweet," intrigues me; why not "warm" or "fresh?" Looking back in the line to "Aprill," we see that at that time, astrologically speaking, April was in the sign of Taurus, which is ruled by Venus, the goddess of love. "Soote" connotes delectability, sensuous delight, and by extension, desire. Since astrological signs are important throughout the Tales, it seems that Chaucer signals in this first line that love, and perhaps especially erotic love, will be of major purport in this epic."^ In the second line, "The droghte of March hath perced to the roote," I am struck by the word "droghte." Literally, one could say there has been no rain, though perhaps slushy snow, in March, and the ground, still icy, has begun to thaw into mud. But why a drought? There is water left over from melting snow, but no water falls from the sky. Nothing grows yet, last year's root cellars are depleted, and humans, their resources exhausted, look to the signs of replenishment which spring brings. Astrologically speaking, March is the month of Mars, the god of war, who is also the lover of Venus. Here is something quite interesting: The sweet (erotic) rains of April "perce to the roote" the drought of March. This is an opposite image to the obvious one connoted by the word "perce," with its association of masculine penetration. Instead, the feminine water penetrates the masculine drought. 1 am still confused by the meaning of the word "droghte." Could this be a drought of life, i.e. Mars is a killer, or a drought of spirit? Is the sweet rain of quickening time penetrating physically or spiritually exhausted life forms? Line 3, "and bathed every veyne in swich licour," gives us an image of dessicated tissues being revitalized by moisture, and dormant desires moistened into presence. Furthermore, in line 4, "Of which vertu engendred is the flour" Chaucer presents us with the result of the activity detailed in the first three lines: the flower, something beautiful, a stage on the way to fruiting, attractive to insects and humans. The blooms emerge because the natural world is refreshed by sweet rain, or, seen metaphorically or astrologically, a drenching which produces the juices of desire. The flower image also connotes maidenhood and youth, times of sexual potency and urge. 3 �The next seven lines complete this first section underscoring and extending the theme of erotic desire. Zephirus the Greek god of the West Wind that blows In spring, has -s^ete" breath and quickens new growth.^ The image of sweet breath signifies erotic intimacy as well as the warmth of spring To experience the “sweete" breath of another we need the kind of closenGss associated with desire. Chaucer's first direct astrological reference, the Ram indicates the month of March, ruled by Mars. The "yonge sonne"' has passed out of Ram, which means into Taurus, the time of Venus, n the next three lines, Chaucer gives us the image of small birds singing, who sleep all night with open eyes. It continues, "so priketh hem nature m hir corages." What does this mean? If one sleeps with open eyes, one is restless. Does this mean one is worried? Or rather, since the birds have been singing, is it not likely that they are possessed by a distracted delight, as when a lover is first falling prevents one’s eyes from uttmg In this line Chaucer seems to suggest something inescapable about being a living being—that all of us will be kept up some nights because of erotic desire, whether we want it or not rniv^v- ? ^*”6, these images of nature and natural desire minate in the somewhat surprising statement, "Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages." As a practical matter, it would make sense that those moved to keep a vow to the saint who has helped them would choose to travel in the spring. Chaucer has emphasized the bursting forth of life, however, using images and symbols of erotic desire. This opens up the question, in what way is the longing to go on pilgrimages predicated on the quickening^of nature and the flow of erotic desire? In other words what is the rromres?'’ “ "longen" seems particularly Significant. Is Chaucer nviting us to consider the various motives that induce "folk" to participate m a pilgrimage? What might the motive be, if not the eepmg of a promise? Could these motives include the wish to find? ^ establish a reputation nd a wife or husband? Alternatively, if folk are "priked by nature’’ to keep a vow ii. spring, could Chaucer be inviting us to poXr 4 �whether the renewal of desire in springtime is providential, i.e. it aligns with the urge to keep a religious promise? Whatever the case, Chaucer seems to suggest that as readers we must keep our eyes open, for people who take pilgrimages, and this one in particular, may not be what they seem. The specific "folk” mentioned in the last six lines of this text are palmers. They hail from every shire’s end in England and are going to Canterbury to visit St. Thomas Becket, the saint and martyr. "That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke." One wonders why Chaucer devotes two lines out of eighteen to palmers, who visit "straunge strondes, to feme halwes, kowthe in sondry londes." One might call palmers, who are fulltime wandering votaries, professional pilgrims. If the palmers are professional pilgrims, how do they make money to support their wanderings? Perhaps they beg. On the other hand, there are many other ways of making money, licit and not. Here Chaucer may be inviting us to consider what spring’s rejuvenating pulse has to do with making money, and thus what it is to be any kind of professional, especially a religious professional. Finally, people from all walks of life come from every part of England to this Canterbury pilgrimage. These pilgrims, as the narrator makes explicit, are journeying to fulfill vows made when they were sick. Their illnesses, if indeed they existed, are not mentioned very often. The impetus for going on this pilgrimage, then, is not focused primarily on recovering from an illness, but rather the fulfillment of a religious vow. These first eighteen lines link the urge to go on pilgrimages to other natural [especially erotic) desires, yet presumably pilgrims travel due to a promise that they have made. Chaucer invites us to ask how we might live in a world of natural desires, a world in which we are able to make promises that often conflict with these desires. Desire, as a natural phenomenon, is like the sweet showers, the sweet wind, and the young sun that Chaucer speaks of in the first eight lines. It is basic, ancient, and inescapable. This being the case, could desire also be part of divine providence? If the renewal of the world through springtime is providential, then we are led to consider a paradox: human desire moves us to do things that are 5 �outside of our human agreements. How do we inhabit such a world? If the spring rains are filled with the spark of divinity, do we not need to find some way to honor both natural desires and our need to fulfill religious promises? Because Chaucer begins the Prologue with eleven lines of natural images, he seems to say that natural, erotic desires are a given, and must be attended to and respected. Because Venus is a goddess, and because she appears as Aprill" in the first line, this may suggest to us that we must look to women to discover how human desires should be honored. Returning to the mysterious delight that has drawn me back repeatedly to consider the beginning of the Prologue, the strongest images are those of water soaking the dry, cold earth into vernal juiciness, the wind encouraging new shoots, and the birds awake all night. Chaucer begins with natural images that can be taken literally, images familiar to everyone in all times. Yet, implicit in every line are resonances from the world of astrology, the realms of the gods of antiquity and, later, from the Christian world. The simple, natural renewal of springtime has cosmic significance. That erotic desire arises and challenges human promises is to be expected, and in fact, welcomed. The tensions that ensue are ours with which to come to grips. In choosing to start his epic this way Ch^aucer has opened the door for us to contemplate this paradox when, as readers on our own thoughtful pilgrimage, we begin our journey through these Canterbury tales Endnotes 1. Chaucer. Canterbury Tales. A. C. Cawley, ed. New York: Eveiyman’s Library, 1992. 1-18 2. Shoures, droghte, roote, ’ “flour,” “sonne,” “fowles.” 3. The god “Zephirus ” the astrological terms “Ram” and by extension April and March 4. See for example, The Wife ofBath's Tale and The Merchant's Tale 5. In the Odyssey, Zephirus starts the fruits, and later brings them to ripeness. [Book 7:118] Primary Texts Chaucer, Geoffrey. Canterbury Tales. Edited by A.C. Cawley Everyman’s Library. New York: Alfred A. Knopf. 1992. 6 �Antinomian Sentiment in the Bhagavad Gita, Book II Elliot Bernstein Therefore shall ye keep mine ordinance, that ye commit not any one of these abominable customs, which were committed before you, and that ye defde not yourselves therein: I am the Lord your God. —Leviticus 18:30 (KJV) In the West we often talk of the separation between the nomian and antinomian^ streams of a given religion. This breakdown does not necessarily apply to every tradition present all over the world— it would be hard, for instance, to imagine an antinomian version of Confucianism or Judaism, or a nomian version of Shinto— but in the case of the two major religions emerging from South Asia, viz. Hinduism and Buddhism, this dichotomy is extremely relevant. The second book of the Bhagavad Gita, in my opinion, is an antinomian programmatic for Hinduism. This sentiment is most famously summed up by the last pada of sloka 18.63, yathecchasi tathd kuruf which of course occurs much later. To read consequent books as being more nomian is quite easy as well, and there is an argument that will be considered throughout that the antinomianism of Book 11 is merely an attack on the Vedas and those who follow them as hidebound and ridiculous— not that law is not in effect. One of the antinomian themes presented in Book II is a degradation of the Vedas. Buddhayo 'vyavasdyindm are bahusdkhd hyanatds ca (2.41)3; bahusdkhd is a common epithet of the Vedas, whose various parts are described as branches.^ The chief complaint of the Gita appears to be the superfluous nature of the Vedas:ydvdn artha udapdne sarvatah sarnplutodake/ tdvdn sarvesu vedesu brdmanasya vijdnatah (2.46).3 The image of the well overflowing is a potent statement of this particular criticism— 7 �presumably a wise man would be able to simply take the water from anywhere and not need to go through the labor of drawing from the well. Here we also see that the person who doesn’t need the Vedas is a vijanatah. This term has an overly literal interpretation of something like "totally wise," from the root ina know plus the vi preverb, "away from," here used as an intensifier. This is echoed elsewhere in Book II; for example, where Krishna admonishes Arjuna that apvipascitah / vedavMarantah I ■ presumably a vijdnan would not enjoy such things. The Veda-bound are described as bhogaisvaryaprasaktdh r2 4417 indicating perhaps that the Gita does not reject that the Vedas do what they are stated to do, but does reject those goals as worthwhile. As is written just a little further down: traigunyavisaya veda nistraiguno bhavdrjuna C2.45),8 which is to say any goal involving the three gunas or the worlds they create cannot be considered worthwhile. The Gita goes on to elaborate on the condition of nistraigunah with nirdvandvo nityasattvastho niryogaksema dtmavdn [ibid.],’^ putting the various qualities in apposition to each other and giving the reader the information that a^d the^resV" equivalent to nirdvandvo The prefix nir-, "without," recurs in sloka 45, which was just quoted, four times, but one of those occurrences is false because niryasattvasthah does not actually include this morpheme, but simulates It no doubt intentionally, with nityah, which means eternal. In 2.45 we see the author of the Gita refer to the desirable state for a heroic individual as nistraiguno, which clearly parallels with the other nir- words, and the undesirable as traigunyavisayl The desirable state is summed up as dtmavdn. Without [nir-] all these other things, we see that the person is finally left with dtman and nothing further. This line of reasoning would be picked up by the non-duahst or Vedantist schools of Hinduism, e.g. in the writings of Gaudapada. ^ In light thereof, the antinomian interpretation of the Gita does not go unqualified. Obviously, being guna-less is good and bemg en-guna-ed, as it were, is bad. So there is some kind of law here, and in fact m various places the Gita uses the word dharma to 8 �refer to it. However, it is not what we would normally think of as a ritual requirement, in recognition whereof, the Gita often uses prajfia to refer to this ethical ideal. At times this begins to approach Stoicism or Taoism in its insistence on passively “going with the flow" and on the influence of the internal state of the person on their outward actions, such as where it is written: tasmdd yasya mahdbdho nigrhitdni sarvasah / indhydnmdriydrthebhyas tasya prajnd pratisfhitd (2.68).io But there is another character to this; it is not mere immobility but ascesis, as the Gita recommends: svadharmam api cdveksa... dharmydd dhi yuddhdcchreyo 'nyat (2.31).^^ That is to say, do not merely be content with withdrawal but find your svadharma and obey it. Many commentators insist that svadharma means something like "caste obligations," as it does elsewhere, but it seems to me that this interpretation might be missing the point. The prefix sva- indicates properness— proper, almost invariably, to an individual, not to a group. Each person has an internal law in the conception of the Gita. But Arjuna’s svadharma must involve battle because of his status in the ksatriya varna [ibid.). It is not merely whatever one wishes, but rather that one's wishes will, having been cleared of all obstructions, come into line with the caste law! Often salvation in an antinomian system is achieved through some kind of feeling or grace; in the Gita we see Krishna say that srutivipratipannd te yadd sthdsyati niscald / samddhdv acald buddhis taddyogam avdpsyasi (2.53).^^ Samddha somehow leads to the attainment of yoga— a word that literally means "yoke," but here is perhaps being used for ironic contrast with the nomian position, since there is no "yoke" as one would typically think, but instead one’s inner feeling. The justification given for antinomianism is simple: nothing can actually change; therefore no action can be forbidden. In 2.18, we seeya enarp vetti hantdrarp yascainarp manyate hatam / ubhau tau na vijdnito ndyarp hanti na hanyate^^; presumably this would apply to other actions as well. If nothing can ever change, what is the sense in acting, or in not acting? Arjuna has to go ahead with his pre-determined course, his path of least resistance, as it were, because that is the lawful thing to do. His downhill course, fashioned by his nature and the circumstances of his life, can be 9 �fought, but there is no sense in it. A man who has withdrawn totally into himself, detaching himself from his senses, simply rolls down his svadharma without resistance, knowing that whatever he is about to do would not be so easy if it were not foreordained by the Bhagavad. This answer is somewhat unsatisfying to the Western mind. If the path of least resistance is the optimal one, would that not justify any kind of crime, any kind of theft or violence? This objection can be answered by insisting that we look at the cultural context of Classical India, or of any pre-modern civilization. Each person was born into a given role, and was expected to absolutely follow that role to its bitter end. Who was born a stonemason lived a stonemason and would die a stonemason— not only that, but his sons would do the same. In a sufficiently stratified society, the path of least resistance is one that is at least moderately productive. Attempts to apply this philosophy to the modern world, where the individual is expected to find his svadharma without any hint given to him by the surrounding world, have proven unanimously disastrous. One attempting to follow the course of least resistance— an imperative common to many ancient and Eastern philosophies— in the United States in 2012 will find himself shuffled off to a housing project or incarcerated, which are increasingly popular options. A vine follows the path of least resistance too, but without the lattice it simply turns into a kind of dense undergrowth. This trackless wilderness of the world of the revolt of the third estate is an aberration, and the philosophies of the past can therefore only be understood by placing ourselves in the past. The intention of the Gita was not to justify any kind of brutality or mere anarchy, but to encourage people to make use of the existing structures— without those structures, these philosophies become meaningless. Endnotes 1. "Antinomianism” is the belief that salvation, or its local equivalent, happens independently of the obedience, or lack thereof, to a certain law or moral code. Nominianism is, of course, its opposite. 2. Translated by Aleister Crowley as "do what thou wilt." 10 �3. "The wisdom of the wavering is many branched and infinite." 4. For example, in Mahabharata we see someone who is very wise described as a "master of the branches," viz., of the Vedas. Usually, each Brahmanic family was associated with a particular "branch." Each branch has its own corpus of literature and its own Upanishads to describe that corpus. 5. "So much usefulness as there is in a well when water is overflowing everywhere is there in all the Vedas for the man of God." 6. "The ignorant delight in Veda-quotations." 7. "Pleasure-and-power-bound" 8. "The vedas are of the three-guna category; 0 Arjuna, be guna-less!" 9. "Non-dual, abiding in truth, without business, full of the self' 10. "Therefore, 0 strong-arm, whose senses are withheld totally from the objects of those senses, his wisdom is established." 11. "Having apprehended your own law, because of that law, indeed nothing is better than battle." 12. "Anti-revelation is unto you; where the fixed, meditating, and unmovable intellect stands, there you will reach the yoke." 13. "Who imagines this one a slayer, who imagines this one slain— both are unknowing, they neither slay nor are slain." Primary Texts Van Buitenen, J.A.B. Trans. The Bhagavadgita in the Mahabharata. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. 1981. �The Death of Kings; History and the individual in Shakespeare's The Tragedy of Richard II William Leavy Is Shakespeare's The Tragedy of Richard II regarded as tragic because of what happens to Richard, the King? Or would Richard of Bordeaux, who was better loved, have been a better king, if he had ruled England in another time? Is it a tragedy because of what happens to England as a result the misrule of King Richard? If it is the case that Richard of Bordeaux would have been a good king in another time, then one must acknowledge that he is indeed an historical figure. Unlike later kings such as Henry V and Richard III, who essentially invented themselves, remaking history in the process, Richard II is depicted in Shakespeare’s play as a king acting and reacting within the historical parameters of the time in which he reigned. In other words, Richard is an historical king, whereas Henry V and Richard III are not constrained by the parameters of their time. All three kings, as they are dramatized in Shakespeare’s history plays, are individuals in the sense that they exist outside of the expectations and limitations that are imposed upon England’s sovereign by the nobility, the Church, and the royal family itself. But in Richard II s case he is both ahistorical, in the sense that he rules according to his own whims regardless of the expectations that come with the throne, and historical, in the sense that he is compelled to surrender his crown by virtue of his defiance of these concerns and expectations, sowing the seeds of rebellion through his misrule. This discussion of Shakespeare’s Tragedy of Richard II will examine the sense of the tragic from the perspective of King Richard as an individual in his own time. Additionally, I will examine how the idea of Richard, as such an individual, intersects with England, Christianity, divinity, nature, paganism and sex. 1 shall begin the discussion by examining Shakespeare’s tragic individual and his relationship with time. In his only soliloquy in the play, Richard reflects on his life, saying, "I wasted time, and now doth time waste me."i What are we 12 �to make of this king who, now imprisoned, reflects on neither how he has wasted the resources of his kingdom to fight a war nor on his wasted chance at greatness? Richard remarks instead, in what seems to be the closest he shall ever come to feelings of remorse, that he has “wasted time." But to waste time, in this case, is not a reflection on the corporeal, outer world, but rather a reflection on the consciousness of the man, the self. To Richard, the kingdom over which he had ruled before his deposition was never truly his realm. Instead, Richard’s empire is Richard himself, as well as the world that he perceives from his own vantage point. If we regard the essence of tragedy as that which inevitably happens when an individual arrives on the scene and fails to live up to the role of a god, then Shakespeare's Tragedy of Richard // differs from Greek tragedy as to the root cause of its inevitability. Unlike the tragedies of Aeschylus and Sophocles, in which the protagonist is inevitably destroyed by fate, Richard II is inevitably destroyed by his ego, or by his idea of himself. Richard’s sense of self is not grounded in the way the king is regarded by the rest of his kingdom, and it wastes time to such an extent that fate never has any need to intervene. His ego, in the sense of his individuality, inevitably brings about his downfall. That Shakespeare’s Richard is inevitably a tragic figure because of his ego, rather than as a result of fate or the gods, might explain why Richard bemoans the loss of time, rather than the loss of England’s wealth and reputation. Richard II is isolated in time by his historical context. He understands while he is incarcerated that he is an historical figure and not an ahistorical one: the tragedy, therefore, is that while still the King, Richard has acted as though he were an ahistorical king, when in reality, history and time [in and of themselves) reduce Richard to an historical figure. Only too late does Richard acknowledge that he "wasted time, and now doth time waste me.’’^ Does Richard of Bordeaux feel guilt in Shakespeare’s play? Is he merely ashamed that he has been deposed? Unlike his rival Bolingbroke, who became king well into his adulthood, Richard was a king long before he became a man; he was still a boy when he was crowned. Richard, therefore, as king, never had any higher authority to which he was compelled to answer. By virtue of the 13 �doctrine of the Christian Church, which declared him sovereign through God, Richard never had any occasion to learn guilt. Richard the man is incapable of experiencing feelings of guilt; he can only experience a sense of shame. This, Shakespeare reveals to his audience, is an essential facet of Richard the individual, one that condemns him to the role of a tragic player in England’s history. Richard is a stranger to guilt, but he embraces his shame. The ego in this case may have decided in hindsight that it was fated to be deposed. Shakespeare, however, asserts through his portrayal of Richard as wasteful, overreaching, and imprudent, that the inability of the self to feel guilt is characteristic of tragedy. Richard, as has been mentioned, is an historical figure: he is a king who reacts to, and is shaped by, time. He does not invent his ego successfully in the same sense that Henry V and Richard III would later invent theirs. But as a tragic figure, Richard H isn’t starcrossed; he "pluck[s] a thousand dangers"^ onto his head, in the words of his uncle, the Duke of York. The individual that is Richard of Bordeaux is dramatically, as well as historically, "we” rather than "I," referring of course to the royal "we" of England. Hence, in the early acts of the play Richard speaks of "our justice’’^ and alludes to himself as the Lion, the emblem of the kings of England. The royal "we," however, is not limited to Richard, but rather is shared by all of England’s monarchs. The "I” that is Richard himself, who attempts to rule the kingdom as an individual, forsakes the counsel and advice of his uncles and other older, wiser heads. He wishes to be an ahistorical king. Richard is unaccountable and unconcerned with the welfare of England. After all. King Richard speaks on behalf of England, so why should he spend time concerning himself with what his England happens to think? Richard is king by divine right. He does not, therefore, have to maintain the approval of his subjects to claim legitimacy. Rather than the "we," it is this "I” that plucks disaster down onto his crown, and not fate. This suggests that Richard is a tragic king because he is an ahistorical ruler at a time in history that demands an historical one. Perhaps it is this sense of the needs of history that Richard understands, only too late, when he laments that he "wasted time.” 14 �Richard looks like a lion and plays the role of the lion, but he has neither the favor of the nobility nor the popularity with the commoners that his successor enjoys. The "I” who is King Richard wastes time that should have been devoted to winning the loyalty, admiration, and love of his subjects. As a result, England rebels, so that the royal "we” of Richard’s sovereignty is reduced to the "I” of a solitary subject when Richard is dethroned. In this regard, it is not surprising that Richard orders a mirror with which to look at himself at the moment he loses his kingship. If this incident is an invention of the pla3Avright, it is revealing of Richard’s character that he is more concerned with his own welfare than that of his kingdom. Richard loves Richard—as long as Richard sees England when he looks in the mirror. When England is no longer seen in the reflection, as is the case when Richard surrenders his crown, Richard smashes the mirror, and the illusion. Richard, as Shakespeare shows, is a vain individual, and the young king indeed has the preoccupations that are the province of most young men. Sex, at first read, does not seem to figure as prominently in Richard II as it does in the other history plays, but the sexual relationships that are intimated in the play should cause the reader to think again. Richard’s marriage to his young queen, Isabella, in what appears to have been an arranged marriage, is opposed to that of Henry V’s pursuit of Kate in a later play in the cycle. In Richard II there is a tender scene of parting in Act V when Richard is led off to prison and Isabella is sent back to France. However, Richard’s lack of progeny, his seeming lack of interest in producing an heir to the throne, and the language used in this scene, "set forth in pomp / She came adorned hither like sweet May," suggest a platonic relationship with the queen, devoid of heat or lust.5 The implication, then, is that Richard prefers the company of his favorites. Bushy, Bagot, and Green. In the eyes of both the nobility and the commoners, the "natural" relationship between Richard and Isabella has been replaced with an "unnatural” relationship. When Bolingbroke condemns two of Richard’s favorites. Bushy and Green, in Act III, he accuses them, among other offenses, of destroying the marriage between the king and his queen: 15 �You have in manner with your sinful hours Made a divorce betwixt his queen and him. Broke the possession of a royal bed, And stained the beauty of a fair queen’s cheeks With tears drawn from her eyes by your foul wrongs...^ Here, Richard is able to put the interests of his favorites ahead of his kingly duties and conjugal obligations without any qualms. He is never made to feel ashamed about his illicit affairs with Bushy, Bagot, and Green, nor about his neglect of Queen Isabella. It is the Earl of Northumberland, however, who describes the harmful effect Richard’s extra-marital affairs are having on the realm. "The King is not himself, but basely led / By flatterers.”'^ Inside his closet, his personal quarters, Richard’s self comes before the responsibilities of the Crown. The ego who is Richard sees no schism between himself, the Crown, and the Church. To engage knowingly in such a relationship with one’s favorites is a mortal sin in the eyes of the Church, the institution that validates Richard as King of England. While he is still king, Richard shows no remorse for calling on God to have John of Gaunt die quickly so he can seize his wealth to pay for his military campaign in Ireland. Lastly, it is Bishop Carlisle who has to remind the king, when they have returned from Ireland to face rebellion at home, that the "Power that made you king/Hath power to keep you king in spite of all.”^ The Bishop voices this opinion after King Richard has revealed his pagan sensibilities in response to the threat of rebellion. The reminder works, momentarily, at least, as Richard concurs: Not all the water in the rough rude sea Can wash the balm off from an anointed king; The breath of worldly men cannot depose The deputy elected by the Lord...^ By contrast, after Richard surrenders his crown, he is content to play the role of the martyr, going so far as to liken himself to the Redeemer, particularly in the deposition scene: 16 �Though some of you, with Pilate, wash your hands. Showing an outward pity, yet you Pilates Have here deliver’d me to my sour cross. And water cannot wash away your sinA^ Unlike Richard 111, whom Shakespeare depicts as someone incapable of self-pity, Richard 11 raises self-pity, with the absence of guilt, to a biblical level: "So Judas did to Christ; but He, in twelve, / Found truth in all but one; 1, in twelve thousand, none."ii Although these divine sentiments, expressed upon his abdication, clash with his pagan sensibilities, this new martyr role is consistent with Richard’s inability to feel guilt over his inadequate rule, and he instead attempts to place the source of his shame on those who are forcing him to step down. Self-pity typically makes it difficult for the individual who engages it to have pity for others. Such is the case with Shakespeare’s Richard II. The self has a divine right to be king, and when that is no longer the case perforce, it reserves the right to be the wronged late king. Richard does allow himself, while imprisoned in Pomfret Castle, to contemplate what role his ego ought to play. In the aforementioned soliloquy, after meditating on divinity, Christianity, and the seemingly inherent contradictions in Scripture, he comes to the conclusion, "But what e’er I be, / Nor I, nor any man that but man is, / With nothing shall be pleas’d, till he be eas’d / With being nothing.’’i2 This is a reversal of Richard’s ego which was inextricably identified with his role as king. The power to be nothing is power nevertheless. Time and the ego’s destruction result in the movement of the ego through a series of successive states: nihilism succeeds power, and power, albeit in a new, spiritual form, succeeds nihilism. Shakespeare has ascribed an arc to Richard’s individuality, revealing with this new facet of his character why the role demands such great range from actors. The character of Richard is one of the most complex and seemingly contradictory in all of Shakespeare’s plays. Richard, the individual, is as conflicted and full of factions as is his kingdom. Richard never vacillates more in emotion and in identity than when he returns home from Ireland in Act III. Faced with the 17 �news of the rebellion, Richard, the Christian king, calls upon the earth to “[f)eed not thy sovereign’s foe."i3 This speech, directed towards nature and earthly things, is filled with pagan sentiment: But let thy spiders, that suck up thy venom. And heavy-gaited toads lie in their way. Doing annoyance to the treacherous feet. Which with usurping steps do trample thee. Yield stinging nettles to mine enemies; And when they from thy bosom pluck a flower. Guard it, I pray thee, with a lurking adder. Whose double tongue may with a mortal touch Throw death upon thy sovereign’s enemies.^'’^ As a result of expressing such language, the king is rebuked by the Bishop and reminded by his friends that he is both a Christian and the King, which Richard seems to appreciate. But Shakespeare again reveals Richard as an individual who will uncrown himself, as the next piece of information the king receives discourages and disheartens him. Richard ultimately falls into such despair that he exclaims, "By heaven. I’ll hate him everlastingly / That bids me be of comfort any more.’’^^ Richard has given up, and he seems to prefer this new state of despair over one that would have him continuing to fight to hold onto his crown: Let’s talk of graves, of worms, of epitaphs. Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth. When Richard invokes heaven, it is to surrender himself to the rebellion as its sacrifice. When he defies the rebellion, he invokes the earth to destroy his enemies. Richard’s sense of divinity is more pagan than Christian. Other characters in the play invoke metaphors of nature to describe the King, such as the language that Richard’s uncle John of Gaunt uses to describe Richard’s recklessness: His rash fierce blaze of riot cannot last. 18 �For violent fires soon burn out themselves; Small show’rs last long, but sudden storms are short; He tires betimes that spurs too fast betimes; With eager feeding food doth choke the feeder; Light vanity, insatiate cormorant. Consuming means, soon preys upon itselfd^ Richard’s despairing uncle compares him to animals (cormorants, horses] as well as to the elements (storms, fires]. His tempestuous disposition is regarded similarly by another uncle, York: "Deal mildly with his youth, / For young colts being rag’d do rage the more.’’!^ The kings uncles reveal sensibilities that are natural in origin, but not necessarily pagan. There is no appeal to divinity involved. Instead, these are observations of an appetite that is out of control and unnatural in its gluttony. "Now comes the sick hour that his surfeit made.”^^ The natural result is dissolution. Perhaps it is this conception of nature and appetite that sees Richard equate loss of power with loss of abundance: "Our sighs and they shall lodge the summer corn, / And make a dearth in this revolting land."2o For it is in such language that Richard realizes that he has lost his power: 1 live with bread like you, feel want. Taste grief, need friends: subjected thus. How can you say to me I am a king?2i Richard’s pagan sensibilities contrast with his previous remark concerning the rebellion: "Revolt our subjects? That we cannot mend, / They break their faith to God as well as us.’’^^ Richard’s ego is pagan when it suits him, and at other times Christian to suit his pleasure. Divinity serves Richard, not the other way around. Shakespeare’s Richard sees his crown as his identity, instead of his office. It is his privilege, not his duty. He is outraged that anyone could be so bold as to mount a rebellion against him. The notion of revolt taints his England as though the land itself were a disloyal subject or an unfaithful lover: "Dear earth, I do salute thee with my hand, / Though rebels wound thee with their horses’ hoofs.Although "this traitor’’^^ Bolingbroke maintains that he 19 �has returned seeking only his inheritance and not the crown, Richard realizes that if one of his subjects can amass sufficient power to force him to give back what he has taken from him, then he is no longer the King. This is both a political realization as well as an emotional one: Richard’s ego has been humiliated and shamed into the loss of sovereignty. But along with the shame of losing the crown, Richard still manages to retain his personal pride and regal bearing, even as he accedes; "Now mark me how I undo myself.”25 He is thus able to revolt against the rebels, by retaining the identity of a king even as he is undone. Having examined Shakespeare’s tragic rendering of Richard II as an individual who attempted but failed to become an ahistorical king, this discussion finally raises additional questions about how the playwright expects his audience to think about Richard. The story ends in the last act of the play, but his deposition results in a series of civil wars and discord throughout the kingdom for the next eighty-five years. Shakespeare foreshadows the decades of ensuing bloodshed in speeches he gives to the Bishop of Carlisle as well as to Richard. Richard II becomes a prologue to the civil wars, plots and power struggles dramatized in the subsequent plays in Shakespeare’s history cycle. The question remains, does Shakespeare see the wasteful and riotous rule of King Richard II as the tragedy that befell England, or rather, is it the ensuing violence and war that results following Richard’s deposition that is England’s tragedy? Which is the more tragic; the division of a king, or the division of the kingdom? Endnotes 1. Shakespeare. The Riverside Shakespeare: The Tragedy ofRichard II. Evans, Blakemore, ed. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Co., 1974. V.v, 79 2. Ibid., V.v, 49 3. Ibid., Il.i, 893 4. Ibid., I.iii, 535 5. ibid., V.i, 78-79 6. Ibid., Ill.i, 11-15 7. Ibid., Il.i, 241-242 8. Ibid., Ill.i, 27-28 9. Ibid., Ill.i, 54-57 10. Ibid., IV.i, 239-242 11. Ibid., IV.i, 170-171 12. Ibid., V.v, 38-41 20 �13. Ibid., Ill.ii, 12 14. Ibid., Ill.ii, 14-22 15. Ibid., Ill.ii, 207-208 16. Ibid., Ill.ii, 145-147 17. Ibid., Il.i, 33-39 18. Ibid., Il.i, 69-70 19. Ibid., Il.i, 84 20. Ibid., Ill.iii, 162-163 21. Ibid., Ill.ii, 175-177 22. Ibid., Ill.ii, 100-101 23. Ibid., Ill.ii, 6-7 24. Ibid., Ill.ii 1455 25. Ibid., IV.I, 203 Primary Text Evans, Blakemore, Ed. The Riverside Shakespeare: The Tragedy of Richard II. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Co., 1974. �Seeing-Time April Olsen With the first sentence of Uji, Dogen gives the reader a gloss of the repeated phrase found in the ancient Chinese poem which introduces his essay, and in that same opening sentence he summarizes the meaning of the entire essay itself: "'For the time being’ here means time itself is being, and all being is time.”i Dogen recognizes that many people will misunderstand "for the time being," so he must clarify the definition of time-being in the sentences that follow. Yet every subsequent sentence is the opposite of a clarification. As one reads Uji the simple statement that time is being and being is time becomes more and more complicated. Why does Dogen attempt to explain the meaning of time-being by confounding the reader's understanding of both time and being? Our everyday understanding of time and its relationship to the beings we see around us is the great obstacle to a complete and true understanding of time-being. We do not see time, as we see beings, but we should. According to Dogen, time's "glorious golden radiance” can be seen once one realizes that "the sixteen-foot golden Buddha body is time."^ In other words, seeing time means seeing time's beauty, and one is able to see time's beauty when one understands that time itself is not separate from the radiant being of the Buddha, or any other being. Dogen insists upfront that time and being are not separate, but simply stating such an identity is not sufficient to dispel our everyday understanding of time as something separate from us. One may hear and repeat the words "time is being and being is time” without understanding them, seeing them merely as a conceptual relation represented by the term time-being. As Dogen offers more complex reiterations of time-being, it becomes increasingly difficult for the reader to swallow the concepts and spit them back out. Once one progresses past the first sentence of Uji, it is impossible to hear the words Dogen uses to explain time-being without either dismissing his explanation as nonsense masquerading as wisdom or dismissing one's own 22 �unquestioned assumptions about the experience of time. Therefore, perhaps the most important aspect of Dogen's essay, at least for an ordinary being such as myself, is his proof that our everyday understanding of time is mistaken. Uji problematizes our notion of time in order to clarify the meaning of time-being. But even this "in order to" is misleading. The essay does not offer clear premises and conclusions, and attempting to pull out such a philosophical argument from Dogen's writing may destroy the teaching meant to be transmitted through it. On the other hand, as in many of Dogen's essays, he directs the reader to examine, investigate, study, and reflect upon the instruction he has offered. Uji presents our everyday understanding of time as a problem for us to examine, and that examination should lead us to confirm that time is being and being is time. Before the reader understands "for the time being,” she must first realize that the simplicity of time-being is not simple in the ordinary sense. Ordinarily we think of time as an obvious occurrence and of being as an obvious existence, and it is a mistake for the ordinary person to understand time-being as simply the equation of these two obvious thoughts. The obvious occurrence of time separated from being and the obvious existence of beings separated from time are both mistaken, so any understanding of time-being that attempts to preserve these two abstractions by merely conceptually combining them will fail. The absence of doubt can be the greatest obstacle to understanding because the reader will have no reason to examine closely an experience that is obvious and free from doubt. Hence Dogen must first provoke his reader to doubt the "obvious” experience of time. "Even though you do not measure the hours of the day as long or short, far or near, you still call it twelve hours. Because the signs of time's coming and going are obvious, people do not doubt it. Although they do not doubt it, they do not understand it.”^ Dogen points out that the ordinary person's lack of doubt regarding time is not based on some deep understanding of time, but rather on the superficial acceptance of obvious evidence. The "signs of time's coming and going” are taken to be time itself. People do not doubt the fact that time comes and goes because they 23 �accept obvious signs as proof of their limited understanding of time. One aspect of time is taken to be all of time. (The section on the lack of doubt regarding time is immediately followed by a discussion of time's relation to the self and to the entire world. For the time being, I will skip an examination of this.] When one begins to doubt the superficially obvious experience of time, the doubt itself does not guarantee that one will come to understand time-being. The ordinary person may still mistakenly simplify the expression "for the time being” by imagining it to say "for a while I was [one thing] ... for a while 1 was [another].The ordinary person who is beginning to doubt time will still think of time as a crossing or passing; "This is like having crossed over rivers and climbed mountains. Even though the mountains and rivers still exist, 1 have already passed them and now ... those mountains and rivers are as distant from me as heaven is from earth.”^ This seems to be a reasonable account of time. If 1 travelled here from San Diego, crossing the Cuyamaca mountains and the Colorado River during my journey, then now, as I sit here in Santa Fe, 1 can say that the time of my traveling and the place of those mountains and that river are distant from me. In feet, this account of time already acknowledges a relationship between time and being. Both the moment when I crossed the Colorado River and the place where the river flowed under my car are described as distant from me here and now. Thus the beginner's understanding of time-being does equate the abstract occurrence of time with the abstract existence of a being; they are identified in that they both occupy some distant when and where from my present when and where. Hence an ordinary person succeeds in accepting that time is not fundamentally separate from being, but gets stuck in thinking that the self occupies one specific time-being while other time-beings occupy places at varying distances to the time-being of the self here and now. "It is not that simple. At the time the mountains were climbed and the rivers crossed, you were present. Time is not separate from you, and as you are present, time does not go away.”^ The distance imagined in the ordinary person's account of time is only possible if time is understood to be passing away. We 24 �experience the present moment, and imagine that past moments, having flown away, are now far from us. If this notion that time flies away is maintained, then one's understanding of time-being will not be complete. "Do not think that time merely flies away. Do not see flying away as the only function of time. If time merely flies away, you would be separate from time. The reason you do not clearly understand the time-being is that you think of time only as passing."^ Dogen admits that flying away is one function of time, but he insists that understanding all of time to be embodied in that one function is a great mistake. When an ordinary person blindly accepts the obvious evidence of time's coming and going in the everyday signs that we measure, then time becomes understood as merely a flying away of moments. Time ends up being only experienced in the present moment and all other moments are distant from the present self. One can rectify this misunderstanding by rejecting one of the consequences of thinking about time as flying away; namely, the separation of your self from time. We imagine that time flies away because we imagine that we are separate from time, so in order to understand that time does not merely fly past, we must understand that time is not separate from us. This is confusing. Here is an alternative translation of the first quotation cited in the previous paragraph: "But the true state of things is not found in this one direction alone. At the time the mountain was being climbed and the river being crossed, I was there [in time]. The time has to be in me. Inasmuch as I am there, it cannot be that time passes away.”® The simplistic understanding of time makes the mistake of looking for time in one direction only. When I think about my travels over the mountains and across the river, if I only look back and measure time-being from my present moment and place, then I arrive at the conclusion that those mountains and that river are distant from me and that time must have passed away in order to make that separation possible. Finding time in that one direction alone ignores the fact that the mountain was climbed and the river crossed by me while 1 was in the present. Somehow, in order for that to be the case, time must be in me rather than passing away outside of me. Time must be passing through me, but without passing into me or passing out of 25 �me. "As I am present” or "Inasmuch as I am there [in time]," time cannot pass away. If time were passing away, then I could not find myself in the present moment. Since I find myself in the present moment, time should not be understood as merely passing away. There appears to be a necessary relationship between the existence of the present self and time's not merely passing away, but the reason for this necessity is still unclear. Here is the alternative translation of the second quotation cited above: "You should not come to understand that time is only flying past. You should not only learn that flying past is the virtue inherent in time. If time were to give itself to merely flying past, it would leave gaps. You fail to experience the passage of being-time and hear the utterance of its truth, because you learn only that time is something that goes past.”^ The ordinary person fails to hear the truth of "for the time being” and fails to experience the passage of being-time within himself because he imagines that flying past is the functional virtue of time and that as time's virtue, the function of flying past is the best understanding of time. Now where Tanahashi translates, "If time merely flies away, you would be separate from time,” Waddell and Abe render the same characters, "If time were to give itself to merely flying past, it would leave gaps.” The latter makes it sound as if time itself would have gaps, while the former results in a gap between oneself and time. Both accounts may say the same thing. If time were merely flying past, then there would be a gap (the distance) between myself and time, and if there is a gap between me and time, then time itself would have gaps (the distances between the times of my past). If time has gaps, then it cannot be unified and would merely be the scattering of isolated times that have flown past. If time is not unified then it would not have the opportunity to fly past in the first place. Therefore, in order for time to be one, without gaps, time must not be separate from myself. Now is a good time to return to the section that was skipped earlier. After criticizing the ordinary person's unexamined understanding of time for its inability to doubt the "obvious” evidence of time's passage, Dogen somewhat abruptly makes a few strong assertions about the self: "The way the self arrays itself is the form of the entire world. See each thing in this entire world as a 26 �moment of time. Things do not hinder one another, just as moments do not hinder one another ... Thus the self setting itself out in array sees itself. This is the understanding that the self is time.''io So, in the explanation for why one should not understand time as passing away, Dogen argued that such an understanding makes time's unity impossible. Now, Dogen explains that because the self is what it is, and time is what it is, the self and time are one. This is the meaning of time-being. One cannot understand time­ being while maintaining the separate occurrence of time, the separate existence of beings, nor the separate experience of the self. Time and being, while never actually separated, appear to merge in the self as the ordinary person comes to understand time­ being. Because the self arrays itself, the entire world has the form that the self sees; in turn, because the self arrays itself as the entire world, the self is able to see itself; and finally, because the self is time, then as the self arrays itself it is able to see time. The self arrays itself, and the self that examines this truth is able to see the entire world, see oneself, and see the glorious golden radiant illumination of time. Time, the world, and the self are all time-being. That last sentence appears to be stuck in another swallowing up and spitting out of mere concepts. This essay began with the simple and misunderstood equation: (time) + (being) = (time-being). Now, rather than foolishly adding the abstract concepts of time and being together in an attempt to understand time-being, such an understanding is supposed to be reached through a series of equations; (time-being) = (time) = (being) = (self). It all appears to be equal, and yet what Dogen teaches us about time-being feels like more than a simple "all is one, one is all" doctrine. Or even if such a brief statement is true, Uji at least shows the reader that memorizing a trite formula is not enough. So once again, rather than regurgitating the simple idea that time is the self is the world, one must investigate this further. Dogen goes on to say, "Each moment is all being, is the entire world. Reflect now whether any being or any world is left out of the present moment.”ii This reflection could be the self seeing itself in its array. Whenever Dogen urges the reader to reflect, examine, investigate, study, etc. he may be referring to this 27 �character of the self. But this arraying is more than a "character” of the self; the self is what it is because it arrays itself so that it can see itself as the entire world, as each moment. Conceptually this sounds beautiful, albeit confusing, but what does it mean for the self to see all beings and all times, and thus see itself in its array? The self-array section is translated by Waddell and Abe as follows: "We set the self out in array and make that the whole world. We must see all the various things of the whole world as so many times. These things do not get in each other’s way any more than various times get in each other's way ... We set our self out in array, and we see that. Such is the fundamental reason of the Way—that our self is time.’’^^ The first person plural makes this arraying appear to be a project which many people engage in rather than the functioning of some abstract individual self. Moreover, the "that” which we "see” when we array the self may be either the sight of the formed world or the sight of the active arraying. Or perhaps both of these sights are aspects of the same thing: the world is not merely a passive object to be observed, nor is the self merely the action of arraying; both are time. "The way the self arrays itself is the form of the entire world” or "We set the self out in array and make that the whole world.” Although the self array forms or makes the world, this is not an account of its creation. Because time is being and being is time, Dogen is not concerned with figuring out when this world began, as if the moment of the world's creation were as distant from the present moment of the world as those moments of climbing and crossing are from me now. Inasmuch as the world is right now, and inasmuch as 1 am my present self, this moment is the moment of the world's "creation” because the forming of the world is the arraying of the self. But even this may be saying too much. Insisting on an account of the beginning of the world is already limiting one's understanding of time-being. It is separating the beginning of the world from every other moment of the world and each of those moments from each other. The "self arraying itself is a strange concept. One might imagine the self as a projector that radiates time to make objects appear around it, or the self as a ghostly spirit that drapes itself with the ornamentation stuff of the world, or the self as a great 28 �conglomeration that breaks itself up and arranges the pieces to create the order of the world. And then one can also imagine Dogen objecting to each of these visuals. Is the self an agent? Does the understanding of time-being give one greater control over the arraying? Can the enlightened self radiate, ornament, or arrange the world at will? No, there does not seem to be much of a "will” behind this arraying of the self. Nor is the self array a kind of instrument that an ordinary person can learn to use more skillfully. In this section on the self array, Dogen does not imply that we should stop understanding time as passing away and begin understanding the self as time so that we can take control of the world through this self array. Therefore the realization that the self is time and that the self array makes the world does not give the self greater world-creating powers, but it does enable the self to see what is being arrayed and to identify with it. In order to see, one needs to make distinctions. If the self and time and the world are all just one undifferentiated time-being, then there can be no real sight. Somehow the self is time, is the world, in such a way that the self is able to see itself as the world because it has time. The self can make the necessary distinctions in its array because things "do not hinder one another.''^^ Ordinarily I like to think that I see separate objects around me because they are independently lined up next to each other, and the fact that my eyes can detect their edges allows me to see the world truly. "Not hindering one another" would be a silly way to describe this ordinary person's understanding of objects. However, the ordinary person's view of the world runs into trouble when one examines those obvious edges between objects. The world ends up with spatial gaps in the same way that time ended up with temporal gaps. Therefore, we must "See each thing in this entire world as a moment of time” because "Things do not hinder one another, just as moments do not hinder one another.If we do not see things as times, then we end up with gaps in time and space, and we continue seeing superficially because we blindly accept partial (obvious] evidence as the whole truth. According to Dogen, the whole truth is this: "In essence, all things in the entire world are linked with one another as moments. Because all moments are the time-being, they are your time-being. 29 �The time-being has the quality of flowing ... Because flowing is a quality of time, moments of past and present do not overlap or line up side by side.”i5 The fact that all things are "linked” as moments, solves the problem of gaps in between objects in space while preserving our ability to see distinctions in the world. Moments are able to provide this linkage that distinguishes things from each other without separating them because they are time-being within me. My time-being holds together time so that it does not suffer gaps, and time's unity allows for the unity of the world. In that sense both times and beings are "created" by my self arraying itself. The array is the perfection of arrangement because things and moments neither overlap with each other nor do they separate in a row. This is the flowing of time that allows the world to appear as it does. Before one begins to doubt time, the world's appearance may be taken for granted and the self is able to separate being and time from each other, and one thing from other things, and one moment from other moments, not realizing that if such separation were true then there would be no unity with which to see at all. The ordinary person sees, but also fails to see what makes seeing possible. "Altbough the views of an ordinary person and the causes and conditions of those views are what the ordinary person sees, they are not necessarily the ordinary person's truth. The truth merely manifests itself for the time being as an ordinary person. The ordinary person's assumptions about time and being are not untrue because even the limited understanding of time-being is made possible by the truth of time-being. Similarly, in the section on doubt discussed above, Dogen claims, "When sentient beings doubt what they do not understand, their doubt is not firmly fixed. Because of that, their past doubts do not coincide with the present doubt. Yet doubt itself is nothing but time.'’^^ Seeing the obvious signs of time's coming and going without doubt, or seeing those "obvious" signs with doubt, or seeing times as beings and beings as times with doubt, or seeing the truth of time's flowing without doubt—all of these ways to see time are time-being. Even when one is merely swallowing up words and spitting them back out, this is also time-being. In fact this way of understanding truth is similar to the understanding of time's flowing: "Does this time-being not swallow up the moment when you climbed the mountain [and the 30 �moment before you were doubting time and the moment when you simply regurgitated Dogen's words]? Does it not spit them out?”i8 Thus the ordinary person's truth is not separate from enlightened truth, just as time and self and being are not separate from each other. Truth must flow in the same way that time flows. There is no separation between one's unenlightened self and one's enlightened self; they do not overlap nor do they line up side by side. You should see the glorious golden radiance of time, and you should also see that radiance in yourself because each ordinary person is the sixteen-foot golden body of the enlightened buddha. "Because you think your time or your being is not truth, you believe that the sixteen-foot golden body is not you. However, your attempts to escape from being the sixteen-foot golden body are nothing but bits and pieces of the time-being. Those who have not yet confirmed this should look into it deeply."!^ Although getting rid of the distance that separates yourself from the Buddha, and the distance that separates the present moment from the moment of enlightenment, may seem like an unconditional boon, we must also get rid of the self that we imagine to be outside of time and separate from other beings. An ordinary person may want the reflection of the self arraying itself to instill some greater world­ controlling power on the self, but to reflect on this truth one must no longer see oneself as entering time from outside in order to act in the world. Increased control makes no sense if there is no separation between self and time. Rather than accept this, the ordinary person refrains from doubting in order to escape reflecting about the self that arrays itself. Yet even this "escape” is time-being and therefore no escape at all. Once the ordinary person begins to doubt the obviousness of everyday experience [possibly with the aid of Dogen's essay], he should continue to look deeply, to examine, to see time-being in order to make his understanding of it firm. That confirmation of time-being must be in the second half of Uji. For the time being, I will content myself with this half-examination of Dogen's essay. 31 �Endnotes 1. Dogen. Moon in a Dewdrop: Writings ofZen Master Dogen. Kazuaki Tanahasi, ed. New York: North Point Press, 1985. 76 2. Dogen. The Heart ofDogen's Shobogenzo. Trans. Norman Waddell and Masao Abe. Albany: State University of New York Press, 2002. 48 3. Tanahashi, 76 4. Ibid., 77 5. Ibid., 77 6. Ibid., 77 7. Ibid., 78 8. Waddell and Abe, 8 9. Ibid., 51 10. Tanahashi, 77 11. Ibid., 77 12. Waddell and Abe, 49 13. Tanahashi, 77 14. Ibid., 77 15. Ibid., 78 16. Ibid., 79 17. Ibid., 77 18. Ibid., 78 19. Ibid., 79 Primary Texts Dogen. Moon in a Dewdrop: Writings of Zen Master Dogen. Kazuaki Tanahashi, ed. New York; North Point Press, 1985. Dogen. The Heart of Dogen's Shobogenzo. Trans. Norman Waddell and Masao Abe. Albany: State University of New York Press, 2002. 32 �Life Experience by the Books, or How to Read Nabokov's Speak, Memory Grant Wycliff Because not all artists offer their audience a proviso detailing which elements of their work to pay attention to or declaring a specific method for consumption, 1 see no reason for this to be a requirement for artists. In fact, the popular consensus seems to be quite the contrary: individuals are allowed and even encouraged to engage art and interpret it however they please. Despite this we often do look to certain authorities, whether they be academics or contemporaries of an artist, in an attempt to gain greater understanding of that artist concerning both generalities and particulars. Although balancing one's approach to art between these tensions is not usually problematic, 1 find it difficult to decide what to make of Vladimir Nabokov’s Speak, Memory. This book is an autobiographical work he initially describes as "a systematically correlated assemblage of personal recollections" that, while initially published serially, has been rearranged from its sequence of publication to be read as a proper way to interpret Nabokov’s life "from August 1903 to May 1940. The specific difficulties 1 have in interpreting this book stem from my need to discern whether this should be read according to the approach laid out in Nabokov’s essay "Good Readers and Good Writers,” and what the various implications of understanding Speak, Memory are based on whether these two works are read as complementary or exclusive.^ That essay, written as a preface to selected lectures on his literature, holds advice that can clearly be applied to fiction writing in general. At the same time, the essay waffles in its disposition between concern for readership of fiction and readership in general. Speak, Memory espouses a similar vagueness of identity: while ostensibly maintaining a fidelity to autobiography insofar as he attempts to accurately represent his life, Nabokov does not actively admit of any difference between how this art form and fiction ought to function, even going so far as to say that "The following of... thematic designs through one’s life should be, 1 think, the true purpose of autobiography.”^ The 33 �objectives of this paper are twofold: to determine whether Nabokov intends for the reader to apply the principles in "Good Readers and Good Writers" to his or her understanding of Speak, Memory, and to reflect on Nabokov’s understanding of how closely an autobiographical project ought to resemble the major aesthetic qualities of prose fiction. While I will evaluate his autobiography, I will do so holistically, only referring to particular moments of Nabokov’s life as he describes them in order to illustrate larger points about his approach to autobiography as a discipline. Ultimately the goal of this paper is to explore Nabokov’s understanding of human experience by abstraction, and to identify important elements of experience that are made available in these two works in ways that his fiction might neglect. Anyone familiar with Nabokov’s fiction would find his arguments in "Good Readers and Good Writers” hardly surprising; they are dogmatic yet convincing, focusing heavily on writers who are highly concerned with art and readers who take literature to be a very serious enterprise. Among the many aphorisms he offers, one is immediately relevant to the problem I seek to confront. After describing a division between "writers of genius” and "minor authors,” Nabokov offers a rule he considers highly pertinent: The art of writing is a very futile business if it does not imply first of all the art of seeing the world as the potentiality of fiction. The material of this world may be real enough [as far as reality goes] but does not exist at all as an accepted entirety: it is chaos, and to this chaos the author says 'go!’ allowing the world to flicker and to fuse.^ The first relevant element of this view is that it appears to apply to all writing, not fiction writing exclusively. This means that for all writers, even those who are pursuing a project as personal as autobiography, there is something about the art of writing that naturally distorts "reality,” transfiguring our world of experience and recreating it for the reader in a more palatable form. But while the author does offer the reader the chance to make sense of the world in a way that would otherwise be simply unavailable, he 34 �seems to do so at the cost of breaking down the boundary between truth and fiction. This is not to say that I think writing cannot accurately report the facts of reality according to this Nabokovian principle; I am confident that Nabokov accurately represents the objective truths of his history to the best of his ability. However, maintaining that writing is futile without treating the world as "the potentiality of fiction" does two things to autobiography: It paradoxically encourages the writer to willfully misrepresent the world in order to furnish greater understanding of the world, while forcing the reader to accept these rather subjective interpretations of reality from the author. In Chapter 8 of Speak, Memory we find Nabokov recalling a series of tutors he had as a child. Several instances of reflection in this chapter stand out as examples of Nabokov admitting to the troubles that arise in attempting to convert the "chaos” of reality into writing, either directly or through the aforementioned misrepresentation of facts for the reader’s sake. Nabokov relates several short recollections of one tutor he had called Ordo, and admits that in his attempt to recall one particular memory of the man, he may have unintentionally transferred the detail of Ordo's wearing a particular cloak from a previous experience. Nabokov is rather self-aware in admitting to potential inaccuracy in this passage, saying, "It seldom happens that I do not quite know whether a recollection is my own or has come to me secondhand, but in this case I do waver.On the basic level of his attempting to recall this specific person there is nothing problematic; he has shared these memories of Ordo while supplying the necessary caveats. What this passage illuminates is the set of tendencies we all share in memory recollection. No matter what the causes might be, it is a widely documented phenomenon that we often do revise our memories and filter them in a way that fails to accurately recall our actual experience. This problem is one that every autobiographer faces, for memory is really the only means by which one can know oneself. But Nabokov only seems to treat this as a problem in this particular instance; the rest of the book is written with a complete confidence in the accuracy of his recollections. It should not be surprising that Nabokov does not continually address the issues 35 �related to memory because confidence in one’s assertions is not only necessary for this sort of project, but also for being able to maintain a sense of self. While the basis for his having selected many of the memories we read in this book remains mysterious, it is particularly puzzling that he would limit the discussion of this major issue to something as trivial as the recollection of a tutor he had only briefly. Another kind of misrepresentation occurs soon after this one in the series of his childhood tutors we meet. Nabokov tells us about two tutors he had who appear to have been renamed by him for the purposes of this book. The first one is a medical student, described as having a resemblance to a French actor named Max Linder, whom he proceeds to call Max. The second tutor, who seems to have been quite important to Nabokov as he is discussed at length, appears to have been assigned a false name as well. Nabokov merely says "he will have to figure here under the name of Lenski.”^ He has no problem telling of his personal experiences with these characters, nor does he have an issue with furnishing plenty of background details about the tutors independent of his experience with them. In my view, these issues in Speak, Memory— his refusal to accurately name these two tutors as well as his lack of explanation for why he would rename them—are not symptoms of a failure of memory. 1 imagine that while writing this book he did have many failures of memory, but that in most cases those failures entailed omission of certain stories rather than their modification. A more reasonable explanation for his justifying such behavior is that Nabokov’s sense of human experience is quite similar to the model of artistic sensibility described in "Good Readers and Good Writers.’’ In addition to treating the world as pregnant with artistic meaning and possibilities for storytelling, writers and readers alike should experience it with imagination. Nabokov did not name the tutor for Max Linder because the man’s parents wanted to name their child after the actor, but because it enabled the "artistic harmonious balance between the reader’s mind and the author’s mind’’ that Nabokov determined to be most appropriate for gaining understanding of his life in that setting. While it seems unfair to consider that tutor’s full life as trivial, the emphasis on Nabokov’s experience of him seems far more relevant 36 �to the autobiography. That he would arrange this instance, as well as the structure of the entire book, in this manner seems to stem from his attitude that "everything that is worthwhile is to some extent subjective.”^ Reading Speak, Memory with the imaginative, subjective disposition encouraged in his essay should help the reader to make sense of two topics Nabokov treats early on in the book: his understanding and valuation of time, and his condition of synesthesia. To understand time for Nabokov it is worth first looking at the book's overall trajectory. Clearly it differs from most autobiographies, which begin with the author’s early years and proceed chronologically; they often make a point of identifying early foundational trends in the author’s life that might produce the distinctive habits and skills which would later earn that person a publishing deal. Speak, Memory does not conform to this model of storytelling at all; it is even debatable whether this book functions as a traditional story at all. Nabokov clearly has no desire to describe or justify his current circumstances as they relate to his maturation and upbringing. What he has offered is a set of recollections bolstered with beautiful language and interspersed with reflections on life as experienced. Given these loose outlines for preparing his account of himself, it makes perfect sense that Nabokov would begin to address the issue of time in the opening pages of the book. His view that "the beginning of reflexive consciousness in the brain of our remotest ancestor must surely have coincided with the dawning of the sense of time”^ seems to be the genesis for the entire project. For, given the role of memory in the project, what is an autobiography but an extended exercise in reflexive consciousness? As mentioned earlier, Nabokov states in the foreword to Speak, Memory that the series of recollections he is presenting begins in August 1903, despite his having been born before that time. This is attributable to the description he offers of walking in a park with his parents where, upon conversing with his parents and discovering their ages relative to his own, he felt that he had undergone "a second baptism" where he was "plunged abruptly into a radiant and mobile medium that was none other than the pure element of time.”^ While he describes this recognition 37 �of time (and his existence relative to it) as being a moment so pivotal in his life as to be considered a rebirth, it seems that the penchant he would later develop for indulgence in aesthetic bliss would largely take the form of attempting to reject and stand outside of time, eventually leading him to his present perspective from which he tells the reader, “I confess I do not believe in time."i° Maintaining an existence outside of time would likely be the pinnacle of experiencing life on a subjective basis. The progress toward this pinnacle is embodied early on by Nabokov with his condition of synesthesia and the behavioral inclinations it entails. He does not merely mention his condition, but instead describes to the reader in detail what that experience is like for him. Nabokov could, perhaps, be paying heed to the relative obscurity of that condition for most readers, but it primarily seems to be a clever way of compelling the reader to begin accepting the Nabokovian standard of writing. The reader at once is forced to accept the author as someone whose experience is inestimably different than their own, while being given the chance to imagine what the synesthetic experience is like. Nabokov's fiction often works in a similar way. The protagonist of Lolita is afflicted with pederasty, and uses his narrative platform to entice the reader into accepting him as a likeable, charming man before actually having to witness the horror of his ways. In a similar way, the "editor” of Pale Fire portrays himself as a relevant authority whose commentary is necessary for understanding the poem, and leverages that position in order to relate numerous bizarre and dubious stories concerning himself I found similarities between the narrative voice in the two books and Nabokov's actual voice not only because of the brilliant use of the English language in each, but also in the shared psychological tendencies between them. The utility of subjectivity in Nabokov's writing clearly is not limited to its power to enable aesthetic bliss as an end in itself Subjectivity and imagination in writing, combined with his view that "a major writer combines these three - storyteller, teacher, enchanter,” are rather effective means towards that end.^i The power of literature for Nabokov lies in creating an entirely new world with which the reader is forced to engage, not merely in crafting beautiful prose for the reader to 38 �read. The payoff in reading a book like Lolita does not rest only in the beautiful composition of the last pages or the finding of any sort of resolution; it is the journey on which Humbert Humbert takes us, where we find enchantment and bewilderment within his universe, that creates such pleasure for the reader. This is one of the first lessons about which we are cautioned when learning how to be good readers, according to Nabokov: We should always remember that the work of art is invariably the creation of a new world, so that the first thing we should do is study that new world as closely as possible, approaching it as something brand new, having no obvious connection with the worlds we already know.12 Thus far it seems that the benchmarks for good readership of fiction have coincided with an appropriate reading of Speak, Memory. Nabokov clearly has treated the world of this book in ways rather similar to the worlds we witness in works of fiction As it is related to the reader, Nabokov's personal universe has been crafted according to his view of life as a subjective experience rather than according to a strictly focused fidelity to the facts of his development and the people involved in it. And, while we are enticed to enter that world and be entertained by his nostalgic meanderings about growing up as an aristocrat and all of the indulgences such a lifestyle afforded him, there is something highly problematic about applying this last maxim of "good readership" to non-fiction, and particularly autobiography. Although Nabokov says "the work of art is invariably the creation of a new world," in the case of autobiography that statement seems to be false. Even if we accept that autobiography is a personal account of one’s own life that could serve any number of purposes (whether validating his accomplishments or simply following the thematic designs of his life), we have to further probe the nature of subjectivity both in prose and in life as experienced to determine whether the autobiography creates a veritably new world. That it is impossible for me to fully understand anyone else’s experience seems obvious - in this respect 1 agree with 39 �Nabokov’s assertion that "to be quite objective in these matters is of course impossible.”^^ Our everyday lives, however, seem to suggest that, as far as human beings are concerned, it is quite possible to approximate an understanding of one another’s experiences. Many of the foundations of society, including art, take this as a given: that we all share roughly similar life experiences and have the ability to identify with each other accordingly. This is how Nabokov’s art can even function in the first place. Although I can certainly appreciate Humbert Humbert’s universe being quite different from my own, Nabokov relies upon conventions like language, empathy, and morality to relate Humbert’s position to the reader. While this fictional universe and countless others should necessarily be treated as distinct from our own, Nabokov’s universe in Speak Memory does not seem to deserve this treatment at first glance. No matter how different his subjective experience is from the reader’s, it has at the very least taken place (much to Nabokov’s disappointment) in the same space and time dimensions as the reader’s. He admits this much in the foreword, where he describes the reactions to the book that close family and friends had. Many of them disputed the factual basis of certain recollections, arguing that he had transferred details from one memory to another (reminiscent of the aforementioned reflections Nabokov offered in Chapter 8). If we concede that someone other than Nabokov has the right to make claims on the realities of the world in Speak, Memory, then we can rightfully treat the book as taking place in a world not entirely apart from our own. But given that we have already accepted Nabokov’s contrary premises concerning the similarities between autobiography and fiction, there seems to be a need for compromise within his views on writing. We can preserve the notion that certain books should be treated as creating universes with no connection to our own (and that readers must treat them as such), and let that set of literature be referred to as fiction. At the same time, it is possible to consider treating all of the universes created by the art of writing as occurring on a continuum, where certain sorts of prose are intended to be congruent with our world. Thus, rather than marking a strict distinction between fiction and non-fiction, readers may respect the right of an author to ground 40 �himself in our world while maintaining a great degree of subjectivity in interpreting that world. This mode seems to be precisely the one that Nabokov seeks in Speak, Memory. While he clearly wishes for the reader to understand this work as an account of his life taking place in our world, it is a personal one where the reader must embrace Nabokov's tendency to present his experience of our world as pursuant to a subjective, highly aesthetic worldview on par with the experience of characters we find in fiction. This is not to say that Nabokov’s disposition is necessarily unique, but the combination of his upbringing, literary talent, and particularity concerning art are unusual enough to make him seem that way. Trying to place Nabokov’s autobiography on this literary continuum recalls the notion that autobiographies seem to generate their own value, which varies according to the author’s motivation in writing an account of his own life. Speak, Memory is probably as close to a fictional aesthetic as autobiography can get, because Nabokov’s primary motivation is to engage the reader with life recollections that he finds important primarily because they contribute to his profile as a lover of beauty. While he presents memories like the pursuit of an especially rare butterfly to show his ability to appreciate beauty in the world, there are plenty of complementary moments where Nabokov simply discourses on his opinions. Rather than always relying on a real moment in time to illustrate his views, he finds utility in simply explaining things like his distaste for sleep: "1 simply cannot get used to the nightly betrayal of reason, humanity, genius. No matter how great my weariness, the wrench of parting with consciousness is unspeakably repulsive to me.’’^^ It is statements like this one that help to ground a story that would otherwise be practically surreal. This latter objective—grounding his account in reality— seems quite important to Nabokov. While it would be sufficient for his private life to simply enjoy the pursuit of beauty and only interface with memory when a certain memory would generate the pleasure he seeks, that clearly is not all that he wishes to present to the reader. For the writer is not just an enchanter and storyteller, but a teacher as well. To that end, Nabokov’s decision to write an account of his own life must have been in part spurred by a belief 41 �that he could teach his reader something with these recollections that he could not do with his fiction. Because he seems to be concerned with teaching about the human condition, it is fitting that autobiography is distinct in certain ways from fiction. For although we often find great comfort in lessons learned from novels, depending exclusively on fiction to understand ourselves might be an unhealthy sort of escapism. While Nabokov does seem to partake of practices like catching butterflies, writing literature and espousing a rejection of time that might seem to be escapist, he hardly uses these as a way of avoiding life’s unpleasantness (in a Schopenhauerian sort of way). Nabokov’s embrace of aesthetic beauty is instead a positive one, where he finds these sorts of pursuits to be life affirming. Speak, Memory is the autobiography of a man who is truly content with life, and who proves it by describing all of the pleasures he has enjoyed despite the typical condition of man described in the opening lines of the book: "The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness.With this line Nabokov has effectively primed the reader to "read with his spine.Having framed the proceeding account of his own life in this context, Nabokov demands that the reader appreciate the autobiography in the same way that Nabokov appreciates aesthetic beauty: as an experience that fortifies life’s luminescent moments against the dark abyss surrounding them. Endnotes 1. Nabokov. Speak, Memory: An Autobiography Revisited. New York: Vintage International, 1989. 9 2. Bowers and Nabokov. Lectures on Literature. San Diego: Harcourt, 1982. 3. SM, 27 4. GRAGW, 2 S.SM, 156 6.SM, 159 7. GRAGW, 4 8.SM,21 9. SM, 21 10. SM, 139 11. GRAGW, 5 12. GRAGW, 1 13. GRAGW, 4 14. SM, 108-109 42 �15.5M, 19 16. GRAGW, 6 Primary Texts Nabokov, Vladimir Vladimirovich. Speak, Memory: An Autobiography Revisited. New York, NY: Vintage International, 1989. Nabokov, Vladimir Vladimirovich, and Fredson Bowers. Lectures on Literature. San Diego, CA: Harcourt, 1982. �Searching for Geometrical "Truth" in Einstein's Relativity Jules Mancini Einstein begins his combined work on the special and general theories of relativity with a consideration of Euclidean truth. His first chapter, titled Physical Meaning of Geometrical Propositions, points out our tendency to determine the truth of an idea via its connection to a real object in the physical world. According to Einstein, however, "Geometry is not concerned with the relation of the ideas involved in it to objects of experience, but only with the logical connection of these ideas among themselves. He challenges the reader, who is no doubt steeped in Euclid, by asking, "What, then, do you mean by the assertion that these propositions are true?" A distinction is drawn between truth as a result of the human habit of thought, relegated to some senseobject, and truth as the internal consistency of a series of propositions. If mathematical truth is ultimately limited to the internal consistency of some set of ideas, what bearing does mathematics have on physical phenomena? What bearing does "pure” mathematics have on the theory of relativity? Expressing the truth of physical phenomena ultimately seems to rely on mathematics. How, then, are physical phenomena placed in relationship with geometrical ideas? While unpacking the general theory of relativity, Einstein convinces us to abandon the world of Euclidean geometry. We also discard the rigid body of reference and the Cartesian coordinate system. We take the fork in the road that leads to non-Euclidean geometry, non-rigid reference-bodies, and Gaussian coordinates. What is at stake here? What changes mathematically between the special and the general theory? Minkowski's four-dimensional quasi-Euclidean space works for the special theory of relativity and, Einstein says, "without it the general theory of relativity would perhaps have got no farther than its long clothes.How does Minkowski’s quasi-Euclidean world simultaneously function as a culmination of the special theory and as a foundation for the general theory? 44 �Einstein first speaks of Minkowski’s four-dimensional spacetime continuum at the end of his explication of the special theory of relativity. Prior to introducing Minkowski, Einstein speaks of the limits of the Cartesian system of coordinates, saying, "Every description of events in space involves the use of a rigid body to which such events have to be referred. The resulting relationship takes for granted that the laws of Euclidean geometry hold for 'distances.’"^ Given this language, the reader is dubious from the outset that the Cartesian coordinates will provide a sustainable medium for representing physical phenomena. Nevertheless, Einstein grants the reader the privilege of experiencing the trajectory of growth from three-dimensional Euclidean space to four-dimensional Euclidean space, and ultimately to four­ dimensional non-Euclidean space. Minkowski’s mathematical equations allow for a four­ dimensional space-time continuum, which resembles Euclidean three-dimensional space. What is a four-dimensional Euclidean space and what purpose does it serve? A given point in threedimensional Euclidean space lies at the intersection of three perpendicular coordinates x, y, z. This random point lies among indefinite, infinitely dense points and, therefore, moving from one to the next can constitute a continuum as opposed to requiring a jump. Minkowski’s four-dimensional world is likewise a continuum, though one comprised of space-time coordinates x, y, z, as well as t for time. Simply adding t moves us from three-dimensional space to four-dimensional space-time. However, how does this new four­ dimensional world retain quasi-Euclidean properties? Replacing t with the imaginary number ct removes the distinction between space and time coordinates and "the time coordinate plays exactly the same role as the three space coordinates...these four coordinates correspond exactly to the three space coordinates in Euclidean geometry.How does the imaginary number accomplish this important task of blurring the lines between space and time? Einstein says, "If we choose as timevariable the imaginary variable ct instead of the real quantity t, we can regard the space-time continuum - in accordance with the special theory of relativity - as a 'Euclidean’ four-dimensional 45 �continuum.'’^ There is a marked difference between having three space coordinates plus a time coordinate and having four spacetime coordinates. Making the time coordinate indistinguishable from the space coordinates allows Minkowski's space-time to behave identically to Euclidean space. Minkowski’s four­ dimensional world, in which time is represented by an imaginary number, can fit into a three-dimensional paradigm. Put mathematically, equations A and B below are functionally equivalent. As Einstein says, "The analogy [between the equations] is a complete one.”^ ,1 Equation A: X, Equation B: X, a , ,2 , ,2 4- X2 -|- X3 , ,1 -l- X2 , 2 = X, ,2 . -h X3 '2 , 2 , -X2 +X3 4 2 , -I-X4 =x, -1-X2 + X-, H-X, It seems impossible to talk about Minkowski without reference to the Lorentz transformation. Still, given the scope of this paper, 1 am going to avoid delving into the construction of the Lorentz transformation. Suffice it to say that the shift from the generalized Lorentz transformation to Minkowski’s world looks something like this: Lorentz; + y'^ + z'^ - c^t'^ ^x^+y^+z^- cY Minkowski: xf + x'2 + xf -h x'^ - Xj^ -I- X2 + X^ -V X^ The Lorentz coordinates turn into the Minkowski equation. Where the Lorentz transformation has for time, Minkowski’s time coordinate takes on exactly the same appearance as the space coordinates. In fact, Einstein goes further, asserting, "...'time’ enters into natural laws in the same form as the space coordinates.’’^ Minkowski himself said, "Henceforth space by itself, and time by itself, are doomed to fade away into mere shadows, and only a kind of union of the two will preserve any independent reality.’’^ Minkowski’s quasi-Euclidean world is a necessary culmination of the special theory because time is no longer absolute but 46 �dependent on the reference body, as seen in the example of relative simultaneity. Time is embedded in space and relative to it. The general theory of relativity also needs this blurring of the lines between space and time. How does Minkowski’s world prove foundational to general relativity? Einstein’s approach to space-time under the general theory hinges on Gaussian coordinates. Einstein introduces the Gaussian coordinate system, most simply characterized as a more general version of the Cartesian one, as necessary to the general theory of relativity. Gaussian coordinates can apply to non-Euclidean continua, and this seems to be why the general theory needs this new system. Einstein says, "the description of the time-space continuum by means of Gauss coordinates completely replaces the description with the aid of a body of reference, without suffering from the defects of the latter mode of description; it is not tied down to the Euclidean character of the continuum which has to be represented.’’^ However, Gaussian coordinates only apply to nonEuclidean continua when they are small enough to behave like their Euclidean counterparts. What is the nature of this freedom if it relies upon shrinking the non-Euclidean domain down to the actual point where it behaves like the Euclidean one? Gaussian coordinates can accommodate non-Euclidean four­ dimensional space-time, whereas Cartesian coordinates only apply to quasi-Euclidean four-dimensional space-time. Once Einstein establishes that the space-time continuum is necessarily nonEuclidean, we are left with no choice but to abandon the Cartesian coordinates in favor of those better able to represent the variations present in non-Euclidean spaces (such as gravitational fields and variably heated marble slabs]. In the case of the marble slab, measuring rods are no longer directly reliable units of measure, as the surface varies. In the case of the gravitational field, inertial motion and the constancy of the velocity of light are challenged by the deflection of light around a body such as the sun. Somehow, Gaussian coordinates come to the rescue. Einstein says, "We assign to every point of the continuum four numbers, x,,X2,X3,X4 (coordinates], which have not the least direct physical significance.’’^^ It does not even matter which of the four represents time. But this blurring of space and time was introduced earlier, 47 �with Minkowski, under the special theory of relativity. What is new here? The ability to accommodate the non-Euclidean is significant and seems to begin when we free ourselves from the rigid reference body, the external "real" object alleged to behave in a Euclidean manner. Physical phenomena in the general theory cannot correspond to rigid reference bodies because "in gravitational fields there are no such things as rigid bodies with Euclidean properties."^! In fact, rigid bodies in general become a kind of fiction. The Cartesian coordinate system corresponds to rigid bodies of reference whereas the Gaussian one relates to nonrigid reference bodies. Ultimately, Gaussian coordinates go further and do away with reference body altogether. This change in coordinate systems essentially replaces the rigid with the arbitrary. No system based on rigid bodies can directly give us position or time. Therefore, we "refer the four­ dimensional space-time continuum in an arbitrary manner to Gauss coordinates."!^ There seems to be some subtle difference between placing our unit of measure in the surface as opposed to on the surface. Einstein, in a footnote, speaks of the problems of using Cartesian coordinates on the marble slab, saying, "The surface is not a Euclidean continuum with respect to the rods, and we cannot define Cartesian coordinates in the surface."'^^ Perhaps there is a shift away from expressing a relationship between the coordinate system and some surface and toward expressing the relationship of one part of a surface to another part of it. Is one of these approaches truer? If geometry only concerns itself with the ideas internal to it, then the second option, in which points simply encounter points, seems to better fulfill the requirements for geometrical truth. Regardless, given the constraints implicit in Cartesian coordinates, it is clear that we need a new coordinate system. Einstein declares, "The Gauss coordinate system has to take the place of the body of reference."!^ The coordinate system/measuring body replaces the rigid reference body. Einstein continues, "The following statement corresponds to the fundamental idea of the general principle of relativity: 'All Gaussian coordinate systems are essentially equivalent for the formulation of 48 �the general laws of nature.’"'^'^ Does this mean that geometry has, in some sense, absolute physical meaning? Special relativity required us to perform the Lorentz transformation on its equations because all reference bodies were not equally valid for the formulation of natural laws (only rigid bodies of reference were suitable]. However, under the general theory, equations simply lead to equivalent equations. No Lorentz transformation is necessary. All transformations are reduced to transitions in the coordinates themselves, as all coordinates are equally valid for the general laws of nature. There is no need to calculate a new value to account for rotation; in fact the coordinates themselves aren’t even “real" values. The general laws of nature must persist regardless of which coordinates are chosen. Still, I am struggling to see the freeing of space-time from the rigid body of reference in the Gaussian equations themselves. What is the radical difference between the two equations below? ds^ =dx^~ +dx2 +dx2 -^dx^ ds^ = g, I+ Ig^^dx^dx^ + gjit&Z + Ig^^dx^dx, + g^^dx^ + Ig^^dx^dx^ + g^^dx^ The first equation is an example of a Euclidean continuum in which Cartesian coordinates would hold. It requires that the u-curves and v-curves are straight lines. However, the idea of a straight line has lost all meaning.^^ Further, "according to the general principle of relativity, the space-time continuum cannot be regarded as a Euclidean one."i^ The second equation reflects a curved space-time continuum in which Euclidean geometry no longer holds. The g numbers are magnitudes corresponding in a "perfectly definite way” to u and v (here simply dxi and so on] (80].These g magnitudes also "determine the behavior of the rods relative to the u-curves and v49 �curves.”!^ Perhaps splitting the g magnitudes into two categories will help. The magnitudes show up when we are simply dealing with the same point twice, as it is squared in the equation. However, ^12’^23’5^34 show up when we are dealing with the value (still "perfectly definite"] that lies between gi and g2. Instead of squaring a single point, we multiply adjacent points (for example for gu we would multiply dxi and dx2]. Given that the g values determine the behavior of the rods, calculating ^22 allows us to know the relationship of the surface between two points, which thereby allows us to determine distance. Einstein offers a summary, saying, "Gauss invented a method for the mathematical treatment of continua in general, in which ‘size-relations’ ('distances' between neighboring points] are defined.”i5 Prior to introducing Gaussian coordinates and nonEuclidean geometry, Einstein says that "we are not in a position to define exactly the coordinates x,y, z relative to the disc by means of the method used in discussing the special theory, and as long as the coordinates and times of events have not been defined, we cannot assign an exact meaning to the natural laws in which these occur."20 We are seeking exact definitions, which will in turn provide us with the exact meaning of natural laws. The Gaussian solution seems to lie in defining the coordinates and times of events arbitrarily, in such a way that they are internally consistent and fully adaptable to endless variations, as opposed to being relegated to an external, rigid sense object. This shift returns us to the introductory chapter’s exploration of geometry and physical meaning. Are Gaussian coordinates, given their internal relationship to one another, somehow a truer geometrical expression? Can this internal relationship of one arbitrarily numbered point on the surface to another one really convey any physical meaning? According to Einstein, physical meaning always boils down to encounters involving the space-time coincidence of two events. Under special relativity, encounters relied on having two distinct entities - a reference body (as a sort of base to which events are referred] and a means of measuring the coincidence of events (clock, rod, coordinate system, etc.]. General relativity, on the other hand, abandons the reference body, and encounters occur between 50 �points themselves. The coordinate system functions as both reference body and system of measurement. Einstein speaks at length about such encounters, saying, The only statements having regard to these points which can claim a physical existence are in reality the statements about their encounters. In our mathematical treatment, such an encounter is expressed in the fact that the two lines which represent the motions of the points in question have a particular set of coordinate values, Xl,X2,X3,X4 in common. After mature consideration the reader will doubtless admit that in reality such encounters constitute the only actual evidence of a time-space nature with which we meet in physical statements...Every physical description resolves itself into a number of statements, each of which refers to the space-time coincidence of two events A and B. In terms of Gaussian coordinates, every such statement is expressed by the agreement of their four coordinates Xl,X2,X3,X4?^ Points replace the body of reference in the Gaussian system and we can make physical descriptions of events simply by stating their coincidental coordinates. Gaussian coordinates accomplish a monumental task by freeing geometrical expressions from external sense objects, which in turn enables physical meaning to operate on itself mathematically, with an internal logical consistency, and without reference to any "real" object lying outside of it. The geometrical expressions themselves become statements with physical meaning. Ironically, it is as though freedom from the physical is ultimately what lays the foundation for articulating physical meaning. Einstein, in the final chapter, speaks more generally about geometry and physical meaning, saying, "According to the general theory of relativity, the geometrical properties of space are not independent, but they are determined by matter."22 Thus, if we are to have anything logically sound to say about the universe, we must 51 �regard matter as knowable. At first glance it seems as though we are back to the logical fallacy of the opening chapter, in which we are tempted to refer truth to sensible objects. However, perhaps something different is at work here. If geometrical properties are dependent on matter, then it either seems as though there are few, if any, absolute geometrical truths or that matter is everywhere the same. Could one interpret this to imply that geometry is relative?23 After completing his work on the general theory of relativity, Einstein wrote an essay titled Geometry and Experience. In this essay Einstein says that "as far as the laws of mathematics refer to reality, they are not certain, and as far as they are certain, they do not refer to reality...yet on the other hand it is certain that mathematics generally, and particularly geometry, owes its existence to the desire to learn something about the behavior of real things.”34 p[as Einstein found a way, with Minkowski’s four­ dimensional world and Gauss’ coordinate system, to retain the certainty of geometrical propositions while also referring those ideas to physical descriptions? Minkowski and Gauss take steps away from experience, blurring the lines between space and time and abandoning rigid reference bodies, respectively. The end result seems to be a self-contained geometrical whole, which is both an internally sound theory, and also, at its core, a set of physical descriptions. Geometrical propositions are only concerned with the "logical connection of these ideas among themselves,” and yet the connection of those ideas—here as coordinates—directly describes the physical world. Endnotes 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. Einstein. Relativity: The Special and General Theory. Nevk^York: Penguin, 2006. 8 Ibid., 54 Ibid., 12 Ibid., 54 Ibid., 84 Ibid., 112 Ibid., Ill 'Space And Time’, a translation of an address delivered at the 80th Assembly of German Natural Scientists and Physicians, at Cologne, 21 Sep 1908. 9. Relativity, 87 10. Ibid., 86 52 �11. Ibid., 89 12. Ibid., 86 13. Ibid., 14. Ibid., 78 15. Ibid., 75 16. Ibid., 85 17. Ibid., 80 18. ibid. 19. Ibid., 82-82 20. Ibid., 75 21. Ibid., 86 22. Ibid., 103 23. Matter determines geometrical properties and geometrical properties in turn determine natural laws, as all Gauss coordinates are equivalent for the formulation of natural laws. Thus it seems that geometry is relative to the matter in question and yet, if all coordinates lead to equivalent natural laws, there must be some absolute geometrical truths. Does geometry somehow accommodate the infinite variations in matter by limiting the laws of nature? 24. Pesic, Peter. Beyond Geometry: Classic Papers from Riemann to Einstein. Dover Publications, 2007.147-8. Primary Texts Einstein, Albert. Relativity: The Special and General Theory. Penguin Classics, New York: 2006. Minkowski, Hermann. 'Space And Time,' a translation of an address delivered at the 80th Assembly of German Natural Scientists and Physicians at Cologne, September 21,1908. Pesic, Peter. Beyond Geometry: Classic Papers from Riemann to Einstein. Dover Publications, 2007. Pages 147-8. 53 �Nietzsche's Philosopher: The Antagonistic Redeemer Mary Creighton 10[175] Hatred of Mediocrity is unworthy of a philosopher: it is almost a question mark over his right to 'philosophy.' Precisely because he is the exception, he must take the rule under his wing, must help everything average to keep up faith in itself Nietzsche's recurring insights into the 'herd' and the 'mediocre' in his Writings from the Late Notebooks inform us that a "desperate," "dangerous," and "irreversible mediocratisation" has befallen 19* century European culture. Nietzsche postulates "everything we in Europe today are used to admiring as 'feeling for humanity,' as 'morality,' 'humaneness,' 'sympathy,'" etc., is "nothing other than the diminishment of the whole human type.''^ It is a phenomenon in which man "sinks" and gives rise to the "herd animal." Nietzsche continually refers back to this notion of the mediocre as a diagnosis of European man - so much so that it becomes a highly charged term in his entire telos, if in fact he can be said to have one. However, on page 203, a peculiar passage arises in which he describes the archetypal figure of the philosopher. Standing apart from the "superman" or "oversoul"^ who is described as the antithesis and redeemer to the mediocre, Nietzsche introduces the philosopher as the "exception" to the mediocre. Nietzsche writes in Note 10[175]; Hatred of Mediocrity is unworthy of a philosopher: it is almost a question mark over his "right" to philosophy. Precisely because he is the exception, he must take the rule under his wing, must help everything average to keep up faith in itself.^ In this passage, the characterization of the philosopher as "exception" implies that there is a kind of intellectual position taken in the method of his philosophy that somehow circumvents his falling prey to mediocrity. This essay will explore what makes 54 �hatred unworthy of the philosopher, what exactly his "right” to philosophy entails, and how he must take the rule under his wing to help the average keep up faith in itself Mediocratisation: The Sleepless Sphinx Nietzsche’s "suspicion, which keeps returning; [his] concern, which never lies down to sleep . . . [his] sphinx, alongside which there is more than one abyss," refers to the phenomenon of "mediocratisation” that has proliferated among the European nations in the 19* centuryMediocratisation is marked by a subscription to values that weaken and soften "powerful [and] fundamental drives.”^ These powerful and fundamental drives are replaced by drives prescribed for the masses rather than drives that emerge organically within an individual. Nietzsche’s favorite examples of such weakening drives are due entirely to the influence of European Democracy and Christian morality, most aptly embodied in the moral values of "selflessness” and "equality.” While the powerful and fundamental drives are the mark of one’s will to power, impulses toward values like selflessness and equality are self-negating and self-diminishing. To posit that all men are equal, as democracy does, inspires men to accept their position as no better or worse than their fellow citizens. To instill such beliefs in the heart of man is to teach him to suppress all that is unique about him. In doing this, man reduces himself holding the conviction that he is only as valuable as his neighbor. Furthermore, "selflessness,” a Christian moral virtue, encourages a similar phenomenon whereby one denies or sacrifices themselves for the sake of another. If everyone sacrifices their self for another, no one has the capacity to rise to greatness and demonstrate strength of character in any of its awe-inspiring forms. With such values, whence does greatness burgeon? Ultimately, Nietzsche finds any value that suppresses the individual for the sake of the masses to be one that encourages a "herd” instinct. Furthermore, Christian morality, "the illusion of the species,’’^ establishes one system of right behaviors, right desires, and right existence that applies to such masses. This attempt to 55 �establish the "right" desires for the masses is at odds with the very heart of Nietzsche's notion of the individual. These systems "cultivate” and "develop the herd animal in man” and "push back those other and opposite virtues which give rise to a new, higher, stronger” species.^ Furthermore, these values instill an "instinctive conspiracy of the whole herd against everything that is shepherd, beast of prey, hermit and Caesar, to preserve and elevate the weak, the oppressed, the mediocre.”^ It is important to consider that the shepherd, the hermit, the Caesar, etc., are not distinct from the herd simply because they are not characterized by "feeling for humanity,” "morality,” "humaneness,” or "sympathy,” but because they deviate from the status quo, or the "herd.” Their distinction is characterized by the fact that they hold a blind allegiance to the behaviors of the general public. The latter mark the masses or the herd; the former mark the individual(s3 who stands apart from it. Why Hatred is Unworthy of the Philosopher: Hatred as a moral position Hatred, for Nietzsche, is "a mob pose”^ because it takes a moral position against another. On page 243 of Writings from the Late Notebooks, Nietzsche claims, "Hating is a value judgment ruled by revenge.”!® Revenge and resentment are in direct opposition to one’s will to power in that they transfer responsibility for one's personal sufferings onto another. To say this in other words, one would not hate if one could change one’s situation oneself. This explains why such emotional responses are a "mob pose.” It is the manner of the mob (the "quiescent herd”] to resent and hate the ruling "superior” class. Because the ruling or superior class is more powerful than he, the common man has systematically deemed that which is powerful to be dangerous.!! Thus, the lower class hates and resents the dangerous powerful class of "superior” men. With this pattern in mind, we can understand why Nietzsche defines such moral and emotional responses as characteristic of the common man. Hatred must in fact be a moral position because it implies that the mediocre (the potentially "hated” in this case) could not be otherwise. This is to say that there is no free will on the part of the 56 �mediocre insofar as they are unable to, on account of their own willing, change their situation. To endorse the notion that there is no free will is to subscribe to the Christian postulate that man’s fate is in fact determined by a God or a divine will. To say it another way, man’s only excuse for his incapacity to change his state [as a mediocre being) is that God himself has willed it or determined him irrevocably as such. With this determinist view of nature, it would then mean that the philosopher himself was taking a Christian moral position in the act of hating the mediocre. For the philosopher to be a man who has himself ascended above mediocrity, he would in fact have to subscribe to the belief that either there is free will, or that man is without a will at all. Nietzsche does not maintain that free will is the means by which the mediocre must rise above their state. Rather, he maintains that there is no will at all. Man may alter his state by his drives, his will to power. In this sense, the philosopher could hold the mediocre in contempt for not rising to the will to power, but such hatred would be altogether irrelevant. It is unworthy because the act of hatred would reduce him to a state of moral valuation in which he becomes resigned to the powerless nature of mankind, resigned to reside in hatred, which is a moral judgment and not a philosophical position. "Hatred" looks down upon the masses because they are [helplessly] mediocre, rather than because they are allowing themselves to dwell among the herd.^^ The Philosopher's Right to Philosophy: The Exception to the rule Nietzsche considers that thus far, all philosophers have been unworthy of the title because their task has been merely a will to Truth and to moral arbitration. These men "hold fast some large body of valuations ... of previous assignments and creations of value [logical or moral ones).”!^ This "kind" of philosopher is engaged in "summarizing and abbreviating" the "present and the past" by "making all events and all evaluations up to now easy to survey, easy to think through, to grasp, to manage.’’^^ Nietzsche thinks that these "philosophical labourers" embody the mildest form of philosophy, serving almost more as historians than 57 �philosophers. Nietzsche claims that the "only way [he] still allow[s] [philosophy] to stand is as the most general form of history;"i5 such intellectual work belongs more to the field of history than to that of philosophy. Instead, Nietzsche reserves the name of philosophy for a more stalwart enterprise. Nietzsche warns his readers not to allow the term "philosopher" to be "confined to the philosopher who writes books, or even introduces his philosophy into books."i6 This historian-philosopher explicates or translates cultural and intellectual behaviors, but he himself does not does create or produce them. He is not a "legislator of valuations."i7 A philosopher who can "command and legislate" emphatically proclaims, "this is how it shall be."^^ His words do not include rococo drapery to disguise moral teachings. This "legislator of new values arises with a new and unprecedented terror"i9 because he stands outside of the previous status quo, which has adopted a purely moral interpretation of Truth. It is this type of philosopher that stands as an exception to the mediocre. For Nietzsche, the philosophic tradition, the very will to Truth (incontrovertibly, the goal that has marked the entire enterprise] has been conflated with Virtue and Happiness. This tradition has reigned since the time of the Ancients^o, as seen in the work of Aristotle who equated the notion of the "good" with the "Truth," thereby demonstrating the only path to "happiness. "21 Nietzsche sarcastically references this notion in his section of aphoristic splendors in Beyond Good and Evil when he writes, "Where there is the tree of knowledge, there is always Paradise."22 Similarly, Nietzsche claims that "nobody will very readily regard a doctrine as true merely because it makes people happy or virtuous;"23 however, these are the very conclusions Aristotle's Ethics draws. The desire for Truth is inextricably bound, for traditional philosophers, to the will to Morality; if it is not the impulse to Truth itself that drives a man to be moral, then it is the hope for life that will. In establishing the very idea of Truth as something apodictic, one finds that there are only means of behaving, of existing. Ultimately, these means are defined by whatever behaviors serve this established Truth. Our philosophic tradition has told us that "the certain is worth more than the uncertain, that 58 �illusion is less valuable than truth.'’^^ Man wants to find certainty; he wants a causa sui. Thus, Nietzsche claims, the role of God and the accompanying moral code satisfy man’s longing for such certainty. This notion is demonstrated most aptly by the Socratic teachings, whereby man finds that Virtue is in fact knowledge.^s By equating the idea of Truth with morality or virtue, there lies the temptation to assert that all impulse to Truth is in fact moral. Not only has this premise been held as impervious, but also it has been recapitulated in the work of all philosophers. On page 17 of Beyond Good and Evil, Nietzsche writes. The power of moral prejudices has penetrated deeply into the most intellectual world, the world apparently most indifferent and unprejudiced, and has obviously operated in an injurious, obstructive, blinding and distorting manner.26 Such moral philosophy "always creates a world in its own image”^^ because the philosopher is "secretly influenced by his instincts"28 to perpetuate a moral imperative. Previous philosophers who have attempted to circumvent such prejudices seem to fall terribly short. The "thou shall" commands of these philosophers "on no account sound to their ears like an T want,’ but rather 'only as the command of a God do they dare to discharge their task.”’^^ in this case, the philosopher’s proclamations are merely echoes of externally imposed moral valuations. This is why "this same will to blindness rules among the founders of religion.’’^^ Take one of Nietzsche’s favorite examples, Immanuel Kant: His attempt to discover a groundbreaking philosophy is for Nietzsche little more than a reiteration of the moral world order. Hidden in this moral argonaut’s^i discussion of a Categorical Imperative, Kant reaffirms the idea that there is one single system by which all men may achieve moral truths— and that this is inherent in us by means of a priori synthetic judgments. This establishes a moral code for all of mankind, implying that all people ultimately share the same valuations. This is the very basis of Nietzsche’s fear that all metaphysics thus far has served as merely a handmaiden to Theology. Similarly, we are reminded that "a virtuous man is a 59 �lower species if only because he is not a 'person' but acquires his value from conforming to a schema of man that has been fixed once and for all."^^ This "fixed" state of "once and for all” characterizes the precise nature of Kant’s Categorical Imperative. This kind of behavior amounts to little more than Christian moral cheerleading and is for Nietzsche congruent with the mediocre person’s instinct to follow the herd rather than stand outside of it and make valuations for one’s self. Nietzsche calls for a braver kind of philosopher: one who boldly stands outside this moral imperative, outside the herd. The philosopher’s "right” to philosophy is his ability to stand outside of moral philosophy as it has been practiced thus far. The right to philosophy is his because he is the exception to the rule, to the mediocre. The philosopher of exception does not make moral prescriptions a part of his intellectual pursuit. It is the courage and wisdom of the philosopher to function as a supramoral figure. For Nietzsche, this means stepping outside of moral examinations of humanity, as well as purely intellectual illuminations of it. The philosopher stands outside the mass, moral valuations, and predetermined philosophical constructs. Nietzsche describes the "heights of the soul” whereby the philosopher belongs to an "esoteric class” that "views things from above downwards.”^^ These "things” that the philosopher views are human behaviors, human "insights,” and human "follies.”^^ On page 220, our exceptional philosopher writes. One should at last put human values nicely back in the corner where alone they have any right to be: as personal little values. Many species of animal have already disappeared; if man disappeared as well, nothing would be lacking in the world. One must be enough of a philosopher to admire even this nothingness (- nil admirari For Nietzsche, if man were to disappear, and thus his moral valuations with him, there would be "nothing lacking in the world.” Implicitly stated in this is the fact there would be no goodness or evil lacking in the world either. Such moral valuations are contrived 60 �and imposed upon the world by man himself. This nothingness, this extramoral landscape, can only be admired when one has come to understand human values as symptomatic of a contrived moral system. Truth, if it exists at all, is marked by "the degree to which we permit ourselves to understand the fact" that "moral distinction is only perspectivally conditioned."^^ If the philosopher aspires to any Truth at all, it is to remove the moral lens through which men have traditionally viewed human behavior. Removing this lens, one may freely admire the view: a nothingness that merely lies lackluster under an indifferent, ever retreating horizon. The philosopher is the exception because he shares the qualities of a "stronger species.The "means by which a stronger species preserves itself' is by "granting [itself] a right to exceptional actions."^^ The exceptional action of the philosopher is the conducting of his intellectual work outside of the moral imperative. This is itself "an attempt at self-overcoming and freedom": "an ascendency in respect to one’s strength of will."^^ This is the most apt description of Nietzsche’s concept of the self­ overcoming of man. The Rule Under His Wing; The Philosopher as Antagonistic Redeemer If approaching the universe and formulating values outside of a moral world-order is "a great stretching of the limbs" for philosophers [who are "warriors of knowledge’’], so much more of a stretch must it be for the general public, whom Nietzsche regards pejoratively as "the mediocre.’’40 For the "beast in us wants to be lied to - morality is a necessary lie.’”^i Morality is necessary only insofar as our plebian lusts for an ordered world depend on it. However, what this new philosopher provides is a rousing of spirits away from such established moral systems, replacing them with the strength to formulate such valuations for oneself. In this sense, the philosopher is not only the exception to mediocrity, but a model for its abandonment. Submitting to the self-negating moral postulates of the mediocre is a "symptom of weakness" that is "incompatible with an ascending and affirmative life.’’'’^^ -The philosopher’s affirmation and ascension are seen in a "replacement 61 �of morality by the will to our goal, and consequently to the means of gaining it... [and a] replacement of the categorical imperative by the natural imperative."^^ The idea of ascension is significant because it implies a rising above that which is average to a superior position. The philosopher’s self-overcoming ascends, beckoning all others to do the same. If it were simply the responsibility of the philosopher to inspire the mere imitation of his behaviors, it would then mean that his role is to help everyone average keep up faith in themselves. However, this is not the statement that Nietzsche makes in Note 10[175]. Rather, he "must take the rule under his wing and help everything average keep up faith in itseW (italics mine). We must remember that despite the fact that the philosopher is the one that "takes the rule under his wing," he is no angelic redeemer. He is a commander, a legislator! The philosopher commands his underlings, "thou shall."'’^'^ In this sense, he is an antagonizes This antagonistic redeemer, if we may call him such, does not extend a hand to us, but "arises with a new and unprecedented terror."'^^ Such antagonistic and terror-inspiring legislation only serves to threaten the individual. In the old model, everything powerful was considered dangerous; power inspires terror. However, without moral valuations and labels ("You evil thing!”) to justify such terror, one has no choice but to react, respond, fight and command back. There is no more "considerateness, tact and forbearance, of goodnatured pause before the rights of others ... [no more] benevolent instinct of human values in general, which reveals itself in trust and credit. .. [and] respect for men."^^ This inspires the emergence of an individual whose "genesis and survival are different from those of the average man"'*^^: "Their 'knowing' is creating, their creating is law-giving, their will to truth is - Will to Power."^^ Confronted with this antagonism, the average man must keep up faith in himself in order to survive. The average thing is average no longer; rather, it becomes stronger, bolder— more individual. It is in this process that one learns how one becomes what one is: that is to say, by necessity. 62 �Endnotes 1. Nietzsche, Friedrich. Writings from the Late Notebooks. Cambridge Texts in the History of Philosophy, Cambridge: 2003. pp 67. 2. Ibid., 177 3. Ibid., 203 4. Ibid., 67 5. Ibid. 6. Ibid., 113 7. Ibid., 68 8. Ibid. 9. Ibid., 172 10. Ibid., 243 11. Nietzche, Friedrich. Beyond Good and Evil: Prelude to a Philosophy of the Future. Dover Publications Inc., New York: 1997. pp 128. 12. At first glance, this reasoning seems helpful and correct: The philosopher is "above" hatred because he believes in the free will of individual. Furthermore, he believes that all of the individuals that comprise what Nietzsche call the 'herd' and the ‘mediocre,’ have the free will and the capacity to rise above their state. However, true to form, Nietzsche challenges many of the intellectual traditions that we have thus far taken for granted. Nietzsche claims it is false to take two antithetical concepts and thus infer an implicit proposition from an explicit one. An example of this kind of antithetical inference is seen in the idea that "hatred of a world that makes us suffer expresses itself in the imagining of a different world” [141). In this example, one uses the fact of lament over suffering as a basis for proving that a world without suffering is also possible; otherwise, one would have no reason to lament at all. Simply put, the world could not be any other way. However, for our pioneering polemicist, this kind of deduction would be a "blind trust in Reason" (141). Such deductions set up the world as necessarily [and falsely) causal and dialectical (141). On page 141, he continues to assert that such conclusions are so instilled in man’s rational tradition; however, such tradition is not enough to "prove what is asserts" (142). With this consideration in mind, would it then be false to make the claim that hatred of the mediocre implicitly suggests that the mediocre could be otherwise. 13. Nietzche, Friedrich. Writings, 39 14. Ibid. 15. Ibid., 26 16. Nietzche, Friedrich. Beyond, 29 17. Nietzche, Friedrich. Writings, 39 18. Ibid. 19. Ibid. 20. Nietzsche's earliest examples are those of Aristotle and Plato but these were not necessarily the first. 21. Most explicitly discussed in Aristotle’s The Nicomachean Ethics. 22. Nietzche, Friedrich. Beyond, 52 23. Ibid., 24. Ibid., 3 25. This marks the most significant conclusions of Plato’s Protagoras. 26. Ibid., 17 27. Ibid., 6 28. Ibid., 2 29. Nietzche, Friedrich. Writings, 39 63 �30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. Ibid. Nietzche, Friedrich. Ecce Homo. Penguin Classics, London: 2004. pp. 71 Nietzche, Friedrich. Writings, 187 Nietzche, Friedrich. Beyond, 23 Ibid. Nietzche, Friedrich. Writings, 220 Ibid., 200 Ibid., 229 Ibid. Ibid. Ibid., 220 Ibid., 69 Nietzsche, Friedrich. Ecce Homo, 98 Nietzsche, Friedrich. Writings, 146 Ibid., 39 Ibid. Ibid., 203 Ibid., 177 Nietzsche, Friedrich. Beyond, 83 Primary Texts Nietzsche, Friedrich. Beyond Good and Evil: Prelude to a Philosophy of the Future. Dover Publications Inc., New York: 1997. Nietzsche, Friedrich. Ecce Homo. Penguin Classics, London: 2004. Nietzsche, Friedrich. Writings from the Late Notebooks. Cambridge Texts in the History of Philosophy, Cambridge: 2003. 64 �Prince Myshkin's Beautiful Horizon: Exploring Death and the Infinite in Dostoevsky's The Idiot Kevin Cowling Dostoevsky's novel The Idiot, through the character of Prince Lev Nikolaevich Myshkin, presents the reader with a man who claims access to knowledge of the infinite. More precisely, the Prince claims at times in the novel that he has experienced and has witnessed others experiencing moments in which they "know everything.” These are the moments that seem to inspire so much joy in the prince. They may also be to blame for his decision to act candidly with everyone in society after returning from four years in a Swiss sanatorium where he was treated for his epileptic condition, even though participating in society is somehow painful to him.i It is the decisions behind these actions—and the actions themselves—that deserve further exploration, particularly because Myshkin's character is contrasted so starkly with other characters presented in the novel, notably Ippolit Terentyev [another sick young man) and Parfyon Semyonovich Rogozhin. Each of these characters, in his own way, also faces death in the novel. Ippolit even seems to access the same type of infinite feelings that we see Myshkin describing on many occasions. What, however, differentiates their experiences from Myshkin's, making them unable to see the beauty of life as the prince does? Myshkin seems to act in order to help others find the infinite that he himself has known, but his actions do not lead these characters to see the infinite in the same way. Is Myshkin's access to the infinite fundamentally different from the experiences of those around him? It will first be fruitful to look at some examples of how Myshkin describes his experiences and conceptions of the infinite, which he discusses with Lizaveta Epanchin and her three daughters on the day he returns to Petersburg. In relating anecdotes of his experiences abroad, the prince begins to discuss the improvements brought about by his treatment and thus his increasing number of walks around the Swiss village. He then talks about an experience he had just outside the village: 65 �I kept thinking about how I was going to live; I wanted to test my fate, I became restless especially at certain moments. You know, there are such moments, especially in solitude.... Also at noon sometimes, when I'd wander off somewhere into the mountains, stand alone halfway up a mountain, with pines all around, old, big, resinous; up on a cliff there's an old, ruined medieval castle, our little village is far down, barely visible; the sun is bright, the sky blue, the silence terrible. Then there would come a call to go somewhere, and it always seemed to me that if I walked straight ahead, and kept on for a long, long time, and went beyond that line where sky and earth meet, the whole answer would be there, and at once I'd see a new life, a thousand times stranger and nosier than ours; ...And then it seemed to me that in prison, too, you could find an immense life.2 Here, in his mention of the horizon, Myshkin relates to the Epanchin girls his initial impressions of the infinite. The striking thing about this impression is that, even here, where it seems that this infinite horizon is unreachable, Myshkin's response is a positive and not a negative one. Even more can be gained from this insight if it is coupled with a quotation from the previous page: 'We came to Lucerne, and 1 was taken across the lake. I felt how good it was, but 1 also felt terribly oppressed,’ said the prince. ‘Why?’ asked Alexandra. ‘I don’t understand why. I always feel oppressed and uneasy when I look at such nature for the first time— both good and uneasy.’^ In both of these instances the prince is describing times when he was in a natural environment and how those experiences affected him. Knowing that scenes of nature make him feel "oppressed," but knowing also that they bring him a good feeling, allows for deep 66 �insight into Myshkin's experience of the horizon discussed above. It is quite likely that in looking toward the horizon and feeling a need to move toward it, into some kind of infinite space, the prince feels an immense oppression. Pair this with his solitude and the fact that he himself has a corrupt nature (his sickness), and it is clear that his feelings regarding the horizon do not appear to have been exclusively positive. If this is the case, then he made a choice about his convictions concerning this infinity that is present before him, yet not attainable. The closing lines of the initial quote of this paragraph seem to show that his choice has been made. Myshkin has chosen to think about the horizon not as a limiting factor in his life, but as something that will open his eyes to allow him to see the beauty of all of the things that surround him. Even an environment as oppressive as a prison cannot overcome the immensity of the beauty that he chooses to see in that horizon. This is just the first of many examples wherein the prince discusses his feelings regarding the infinite, and it would be unfair to say that somehow this moment sums up everything Myshkin feels on the subject. Later in his meeting with the Epanchins, the infinite again arises, but this time through anecdotes about two men who are facing their own death. It is in these descriptions that Myshkin's thoughts become entangled with questions of mortality, a theme that pervades the way characters in the novel either experience, or at least approach the possibility of experiencing, the infinite bliss that Myshkin contemplates above. The first story involves a man who is sentenced to death by firing squad, but is told only a quarter of an hour later that his sentence has been lessened and that he will not be killed. Myshkin describes a conversation with this man: He knew beforehand what he was going to think about: he kept wanting to picture to himself as quickly and vividly as possible how it could be like this: now he exists and lives, and in three minutes there would be something, some person or thing— but who? and where? He wanted to resolve it all in those two minutes! There was a church nearby, and the top of the cathedral with its gilded dome shone in 67 �the bright sun. He remembered gazing with terrible fixity at that dome and the rays shining from it: it seemed to him that those rays were his new nature and in three minutes he would somehow merge with them...The ignorance of and loathing for this new thing that would be and would come presently were terrible; yet he said that nothing was more oppressive for him at that moment than the constant thought: 'What if 1 were not to die! What if life were given back to me—what infinity! And it would all be mine! Then I'd turn each minute into a whole age. I'd lose nothing. I'd reckon up every minute separately. I'd let nothing be wasted!"^ There is a parallel here between the prince's experience with the horizon and the experience of the man sentenced to death, only the man sentenced to death seems to have added something: knowledge of his impending death. The idea of merging with the reflected rays of sunshine is almost identical to the idea of walking into the horizon; that is, Myshkin's desire to merge with the infinite and find "the whole answer" is the same feeling that the prisoner finds when contemplating his existence merging with the reflected rays. The problem is that Myshkin desires this mysterious infinity when not faced with death. The prisoner, on the other hand, feels so oppressed by the thought that he might merge with the infinite that his desire is only for life and the infinite opportunity that it seems to offer in opposition to the certainty of death. But are these two views really different? Is the prisoner's desire given the opportunity to embrace life different from Myshkin's desire to merge with the infinite? As stated above, Myshkin knows that this horizon and this infinite knowledge are somehow unattainable, but through his experience he encounters ways to glimpse this infinite. Both Myshkin and the prisoner seem to have had a glimpse of this infinite and both have decided to take the oppression that it makes them feel and turn it back on itself, using this oppression to import a positive view of the world into their everyday existence. This view seems to be further reinforced later in the conversation. After explaining the feelings of the prisoner and the 68 �fact that the prisoner was eventually pardoned, Myshkin and the Epanchin girls discuss the story: 'Did he live 'reckoning up' every minute?' asked Alexandra. 'Oh, no, he told me himself—1 asked him about it—he didn't live that way at all and lost many, many minutes.' 'Well, so, there's experience for you, so it's impossible to live really "keeping a reckoning." There's always some reason why it's impossible.' 'Yes, for some reason it's impossible,' the prince repeated. '1 thought so myself...But still it's somehow hard to believe...' 'That is, you think you can live more intelligently than everyone else?' asked Aglaya. 'Yes, I've sometimes thought so....And...l still do.'^ The prince states in this dialogue that although he has shared some sort of experience with this prisoner, he feels that he can somehow succeed where the prisoner has failed. He admits here that what the prisoner has set out to do is impossible. One cannot try to live each moment of life as if it were the most precious of moments. Even the prisoner, who faced death, could not achieve that goal. But with all of the evidence against him, the prince cannot help but feel that his convictions about the impossibility of the goal are wrong: he has the ability to "live more intelligently" than one whose convictions on the subject should, it would seem, be stronger than his. After the story of the prisoner, the prince is once again called to talk further about his ideas with the Epanchin girls. Aglaya, the youngest of the Epanchin girls, seems remarkably intrigued by his positive attitude, even in the face of the prisoner's story. She then questions the prince about what it might be like to witness an execution, an experience that Myshkin has discussed previously in the novel with General Epanchin's valet. Aglaya presses the prince to recount this moment as well, and the prince once again begins to discuss the themes of the infinite and how one 69 �can find goodness even in the most trying of circumstances. The discussion centers on the face of the man about to be executed. In the prince's opinion, this face would be a wonderful subject for a painting. He describes: ...the very moment when he had climbed the little stairway and just stepped onto the scaffold. He glanced in my direction; I looked at his face and understood everything....On the contrary the head is terribly alive and must be working hard, hard, hard, like an engine running; I imagine various thoughts throbbing in it, all of them incomplete, maybe even ridiculous, quite irrelevant thoughts...and meanwhile you know everything and remember everything; there is this one point that can never be forgotten, and you can't faint, and around it, around that point, everything goes and turns. And to think that it will be so till the last quarter of a second, when his head is already lying on the block, and he waits and...knows, and suddenly above him he hears the iron screech!...Portray the scaffold so that only the last step is seen closely and clearly; the criminal has stepped onto it: his head, his face white as paper, the priest offering him the cross, he greedily puts it to his blue lips and stares, and—knows everything For the prince, the face of the man who only has a minute to live has the same quality found in the horizon. It holds a key to understanding everything; only this time the prince is able to capture this understanding in some tangible way. He does this by attempting to live through the moments that the condemned man has just lived through, is currently living through, and will soon live through, until he ceases to live. When the infinite horizon was just that, a horizon before him that was unreachable precisely because of its constant distance, Myshkin's access to it was only possible in the form of a recognition. Here, in the experience with the condemned man, Myshkin seems to have bridged that distance by associating himself with the infinite horizon, through recognizing 70 �mortality in the face of this man. This recognition of another man's mortality has allowed the prince access to new ways of thinking about his own mortality. He perceives himself as the one about to be executed and experiences what the moments leading up to, and even the moment of, the execution must be like. Obviously, this is one of the most important moments in the prince's life. In the first five chapters of the novel he has already discussed it twice with five total strangers, and on both occasions with great veracity. It is not only significant that the prince recognizes the importance of this moment himself but also that he believes the moments before death have had a similar effect on the condemned man. It seems that Myshkin's ability to access the infinite in the face of the condemned man is contingent on the fact that the prince believes that the man is able to access this infinite knowledge in these final moments himself. The apparent qualifier for this access by the condemned man is his assurance that his death will soon occur, that he is facing his mortality in a fixed, temporal way. What is even more intriguing about the prince's thoughts here is that he feels that this image, if captured correctly in a painting, would have the same effect that it had on him when he witnessed the events. In essence, he is asserting that in facing one's own mortality, one can gain access to this infinite horizon. What one does with the knowledge of this infinite horizon is still unclear, though it seems that some insight has been gained into what the prince thinks he can do with the knowledge he believes he has received from these experiences. Of course, it would be fitting to place the discussion of Myshkin's feelings surrounding the infinite horizon and death within the context of the scene in which he faces his own mortality. Before moving to that moment, however, it is worth taking a look at a conversation between the prince and Rogozhin, the man who will eventually wield the knife against Myshkin and allow the prince to face death in a way that he never has before. Rogozhin, though the first character introduced in the novel, quickly takes a backseat to the exploits of the prince. The two seem to get along well enough in the beginning, but by the end of Part One they have locked themselves into a love triangle, both desiring the affections of the beautiful Nastasya Filippovna. After she spurns the prince's initial 71 �marriage proposal, she runs off with Rogozhin, later returning to Myshkin only to leave him once again, and the action picks up with Myshkin paying Rogozhin a visit in Petersburg six months later. During this visit the two discuss a painting that hangs in Rogozhin's home; a copy of Hans Holbein's Christ's Body in the Tomb. The painting is a very undignified depiction of Jesus' corpse. Upon pointing out the painting, Rogozhin asks the prince if he believes in God, which takes the prince by surprise. Dostoevsky then writes: ‘But I like looking at that painting,’ Rogozhin muttered after a silence, as if again forgetting his question. ‘At that painting!’ the prince suddenly cried out, under the impression of an unexpected thought. ‘At that painting! A man could even lose his faith from that painting!’ ‘Lose it he does,’ Rogozhin suddenly agreed unexpectedly. They had already reached the front door. ‘What?’ the prince suddenly stopped. ‘How can you! 1 was almost joking, and you're so serious! And why did you ask me whether I believe in God?’^ Earlier, Myshkin was describing a painting of a man before his death and how that painting could bring the notion of the infinite to others by using their empathy to explore what it would mean to face their own death. Here, Rogozhin and Myshkin are looking at a painting of the dead Christ, but not just any painting of the dead Christ. This painting shows Jesus as a corpse, and there is little, if any, divinity noticeable in the representation. Interestingly, it is the prince who points towards this when he notes that one may "lose his faith” because of the painting. He quickly discounts this thought as something of a joke after Rogozhin's surprising response, but nevertheless the question remains: if the prince is striving to see the beauty in all things, then why make such a remark? For the prince there seems to be a difference between the actuality of death and the moments of life that exist before death, and these should not be confused. To clarify: It is not the death of 72 �the condemned man that was so significant for Myshkin, but the moments leading up to death, and the feelings of infinity experienced within these moments. Of course, these moments only exist due to the knowledge of death's impending actuality: Access to the infinite exists for Myshkin when he sees the beheading because he sees a man that knows his death will come in a finite period of time. For Myshkin then, and presumably Rogozhin at some point as well, seeing the image of Jesus [who is considered both fully human and fully divine) as a corpse provokes a much different way of thinking about death. Life does not exist in this painting whatsoever, even in the face of the Christ, the bringer of eternal life. If Rogozhin stares at this painting often, as he seems wont to do, how can he bring his thoughts about mortality back into life in the same way that Myshkin has? It seems that the answer comes in the form of these few lines spoken between the two gentlemen in the passage related above. Rogozhin sees in this painting death's finality, and it has caused him to lose faith in life. Thus, he has no desire to seek out beauty in the way that Myshkin has thought to seek out beauty in life. Instead of life, Rogozhin has based his existence on death, which will become clearer when some of his further actions are explored. After the two men part, Myshkin continues to walk around the city with an uneasy feeling. Throughout the entire day he has been seeing eyes watching him wherever he has gone but it is only at Rogozhin's house that he recognizes them as Rogozhin's eyes. On some level, the prince attempts to downplay this paranoia by attributing it to a flaring up of his illness, but he soon realizes, to his chagrin, that both the eyes and his increasing feeling of illness are quite real. Here Dostoevsky gives the reader some insight into Myshkin's thoughts concerning his illness. On his walk, the prince thinks back on the experience of the moments just before his epileptic fits. The novel reads: The sense of life, of self-awareness, increased nearly tenfold in these moments, which flashed by like lightning. His mind, his heart were lit up with an extraordinary light; all his agitation, all his doubts, all his worries were as if placated at once, resolved in a 73 �sort of sublime tranquility, filled with serene, harmonious joy, and hope, filled with reason and ultimate cause....Reflecting on that moment afterwards, in a healthy state, he had often said to himself that all those flashes and glimpses of a higher self-sense and self-awareness, and therefore of the "highest being,” were nothing but an illness, a violation of the normal state and if so, then this was not the highest being at all but, on the contrary, should be counted as the very lowest. And yet he finally arrived at an extremely paradoxical conclusion: 'So what if it is an illness?’ he finally decided....lf in that second, that is, in the very last conscious moment before the fit, he had happened to succeed in saying clearly and consciously to himself: ‘Yes, for this moment one could give one's whole life!’—then surely this moment in itself was worth a whole life....’At that moment,’ as he had once said to Rogozhin in Moscow, when they got together there, 'at that moment I was somehow able to understand the extraordinary phrase that time shall be no more.’^ The above excerpt has implications for almost everything that has been previously discussed. First, it seems that Myshkin relates this moment before the fits to his gazing out at the infinite horizon and his experience of looking the condemned man in the face. The difference is that the experience being related here does not require some sort of outside, sensory experience, but rather is an introverted, psychological experience that is followed by a complete disconnection with sensory experience. Again he is faced with a choice: He can either look at this situation as one that is completely oppressive, dismissing his feelings as stemming from an illness and therefore illegitimate and not to be venerated, or he can accept that his illness can provide him with moments of extreme beauty. He concludes that the latter is the way that he would rather look at the situation. With scattered thoughts, the prince roams the city when he is overtaken by a "new, sudden idea.’’^ Though not fully explained 74 �outright, this new idea involves visiting the house where he believes Nastasya might be residing, something which he has told Rogozhin he does not plan to do. Because of this, Myshkin is incredibly conflicted. Not only is he feeling paranoid and ill, but for the first and maybe the only time in the novel, we see the prince in a morally suspect position. He not only thinks negatively about other people in these moments, but he also recognizes these moments of weakness in himself and chastises himself for it. At one point Dostoevsky writes, "It was from the fit that all this darkness came, from the fit that the 'idea' came as well!"io Clearly, this is one of the prince's darkest hours. He is close to forgoing all of his previously held beliefs. Then, in one moment, he seems to have found his way back to seeing the beauty. Myshkin thinks, "Compassion is the chief and perhaps the only law of being for all mankind. Oh, how unpardonably and dishonorably guilty he was before Rogozhin!"ii When he sees Rogozhin following him and recognizes him, however, his faith is shaken once again. At this moment, "He saw only an unhappy man whose inner state was dark but quite comprehensible.This comprehensibility is no comfort to Myshkin. On the contrary, it is so concerning for Myshkin that it allows him to lose track of the beauty inside Rogozhin. If there is no beauty in Rogozhin, then what reason is there to say that there can be beauty anywhere? Myshkin's worldview seems to be contingent upon the fact that beauty can be found in all things without exception. In the text, Myshkin confronts this question directly. Conviction—of what? (Oh, how tormented the prince was by the monstrosity, the "humiliation” of this conviction, of "this base foreboding," and how he blamed himself!) ‘Say then, if you dare, of what?’ he said ceaselessly to himself, in reproach and defiance. 'Formulate, dare to express your whole thought, clearly, precisely, without hesitation! Oh, I am dishonorable!’ he repeated with indignation and with a red face. ‘With what eyes am I to look at this man now all my life! Oh, what a day! Oh, God, what a nightmare!’!^ 75 �When combined with Myshkin's realization that his “sudden idea" stems from the fact that he knows that Rogozhin is following him and that he is violating his promise not to seek out Nastasya^^ this "conviction” arising in him now concerning Rogozhin seems to center around the violence of which he believes Rogozhin is capable. The prince, hoping against all hope that his mind could ignore this violence somehow, is ashamed that it cannot. He paints himself as an unfit judge when he looks upon Rogozhin in a negative light. For the prince, it is only appropriate to treat others with compassion. This treatment is not limited to a physical treatment, but also to the way one conceives of another. Seeing Rogozhin as capable of violence, or even as inevitably drawn to violence, as the prince does here, is not a compassionate conception. It is the opposite, and the prince, feeling that he has lost faith in his own convictions, is overwhelmed by despair and humiliation. Myshkin returns to his hotel, contemplating his shameful new outlook on Rogozhin, when he thinks he sees the man once again. On the stairs, Rogozhin suddenly emerges from a niche and raises a knife to kill Myshkin. This is the moment that should be captured in the painting Myshkin describes for Alexandra at the Epanchin household. The conviction that was discussed in the previous paragraph and the "sudden idea" seem to have led the two characters to this moment. Myshkin has known that his death is waiting here in this stairwell. Just before entering the stairwell Dostoevsky writes, "His heart stood still. 'Now everything will be resolved!' he said to himself with great conviction."^^ This is Myshkin's chance to truly live out the experience of the condemned man. The knife is raised and Myshkin, seeing Rogozhin's distorted face, calls out to him, "Parfyon, 1 don't believe it!...,”i^ before he sinks into a fit, preventing Rogozhin from going through with the murder. Dostoevsky writes, "Then suddenly it was as if something opened up before him: an extraordinary inner light illuminated his soul."i7 With his earlier conviction that the moments before his fits were "worth one's whole life," it seems that this circumstance helps bring Myshkin back to his original convictions by exposing him to the infinite, both through facing his own death and through his 76 �epileptic seizure. He was truly facing his own death at the hands of Rogozhin, but his illness prevented his death precisely at the moment when he was questioning the most basic premise of his convictions: that beauty can be found in all things in life, even the ugliest. This scene can be explored from the perspective of Rogozhin as well because he, too, faces death when he raises the knife to kill Myshkin. In a sense, he is experiencing the face of the condemned man like Myshkin had back in Lyon at the execution. But there is something much different here: notably, the conviction already present in Rogozhin when confronted with this face. Rogozhin has spent his time looking at the Holbein painting and in this image of death he simply cannot find the kind of beauty in the life that surrounds him as Myshkin is able to in his confrontations with death. While Myshkin's experience allows for some kind of empathic human feeling, the painting, and, perhaps even more strikingly, the competition that exists between the two men, have not allowed Rogozhin the same access to this experience. In fact, the competition for Nastasya allows Rogozhin to remove his experience from the prince's, building up the hatred that leads him to violence. It seems the painting has contributed to this conviction because of what it symbolizes for Rogozhin: a loss of faith. If death is the true finality, so true that even Christ cannot overcome it, then this should be the solution to the problem with Myshkin as well. No conception of human experience or of the beauty of all things can overcome the finality and the inevitability of death. Like Myshkin, Rogozhin embodies this conviction and outwardly expresses it, sharing his beliefs in the form of violence. Ironically, while trying to kill the prince to assert his faith in death, Rogozhin further entrenches the prince in his own positive outlook on the beauty of life precisely because of the existence of death. Instead of providing a solution to his problem, violence has only exacerbated it, leaving the door open for more violence. The rivalry between Rogozhin and Myshkin has created clear distinctions between the outlooks of the two characters, but these are not the only two approaches to the subjects found in the novel. One other highly developed approach comes from the character named Ippolit, a young man with tuberculosis who is 77 �able to work his way into the lives of the characters through some rather dubious circumstances. In Part Three he has his most telling scene when he arrives at the prince's dacha to read what amounts to a lengthy suicide note entitled "My Necessary Explanation." In the note, Ippolit states that a doctor has informed him that he has two weeks left to live and that this knowledge has left him with little purpose in life. If he can no longer finish anything he begins, then why begin anything new at all? In a sense, Ippolit is very much like the condemned man about whom Myshkin talks with the Epanchins, but in this instance, the condemned man is able to relate to Myshkin what he is actually feeling about his approaching death. The explanation is full of contradictory thoughts, highlighted in the story of a doctor to whom Ippolit returns a wallet. Before this story Ippolit writes, "people are created to torment each other,"!^ but during this story he ends up helping the doctor by visiting an old school acquaintance. In this visit he says: 'In sowing your seed, in sowing your "charity,” your good deed in whatever form it takes, you give away part of your person and receive into yourself part of another's; you mutually commune in each other; a little more attention, and you will be rewarded with knowledge, with the most unexpected discoveries. You will be bound, finally, to look at your work as a science; it will take in the whole of your life and maybe fill the whole of it. On the other hand, all your thoughts, all the seeds you have sown, which you may already have forgotten, will take on flesh and grow; what was received from you will be passed on to someone else. And how do you know what share you will have in the future outcome of human destiny? And if the knowledge and the whole life of this work finally raises you so high that you are able to plant a tremendous seed, to bequeath a tremendous thought to mankind, then...’ And so on, I talked a lot then.^^ 78 �While not exactly the same as Myshkin's outlook regarding the beauty of the world around him, there does seem to be some connection between the two viewpoints, namely that each regards worldviews as shareable through actions. In this instance Ippolit is discussing charity, which is similar, though not identical, to the compassion with which Myshkin seems so concerned. Ippolit does admit that actions of charity can have an effect on others, but the real insight he seems to bring to the equation is that there is no true knowledge of what effect this might have. In essence, this appears to be Ippolit's major concern, though it will take more explanation to fully bring this idea to light. The previous quote shows that at one point Ippolit had some positive feelings regarding life and how one may be able to act towards others. But later that same night, Ippolit thinks for the first time that he would be better off killing himself than living. For the moment it seems that Ippolit, when facing the infinite, has chosen the path of Rogozhin rather than the path of Myshkin. This hypothesis is further reinforced by the fact that Ippolit seeks out Rogozhin and the two discuss his suicide, which Ippolit dubs his "ultimate conviction” in the note. He writes: There was a contrast between us, which could not fail to tell in both of us, especially me: I was a man whose days were already numbered, while he was living the fullest immediate life, in the present moment, with no care for "ultimate” conclusions, numbers, or anything at all that was not concerned with what...with what...well, say, with what he's gone crazy over;...I gave him no hint of my "ultimate conviction,” but for some reason it seemed to me that he guessed it as he listened to me....I hinted to him, as I was leaving, that in spite of all the differences between us and all the contrasts—les extremites se touchent..., so that he himself might not be so far from my "ultimate conviction” as it seemed.^o Ippolit states there is a contrast between the two, and ultimately I agree with that statement, but in this moment it seems that their 79 �contrast lies only in the kind of solution they are seeking in death. Rogozhin is able to guess that Ippolit has made up his mind to kill himself simply because violence, and ultimately death, are Rogozhin's own answer to all things, in the same way that beauty is the answer to all things for Myshkin. Neither of these is the case for Ippolit, though in this moment he has chosen death for himself The difference lies in Ippolit's concern for "ultimate" conclusions, a concern that he does not see in Rogozhin. In essence, Ippolit is searching for a type of knowledge, but not the type of knowledge that Myshkin or Rogozhin may offer. Ippolit seems much more concerned with an earthly knowledge. He wants his convictions to be confirmed, not because he feels a certain way, but because they are somehow inherently true. This is why he says that Rogozhin is not concerned with "numbers.” Ippolit wants to understand in the sense of a mathematical, objective understanding, as contrasted with Myshkin and Rogozhin's beliefs, both of which are heavily based on the two characters’ subjective interpretations of experience. The desire for this type of understanding is why Ippolit may never be able to share the same convictions as either of these men, and why he is so easily able to disregard the above quote concerning charity. One can never really know the outcomes of one's actions toward another, so a conviction like Myshkin's [that compassion is the true law of mankind) is completely unpredictable and, as such, cannot be counted on as an absolute conviction. If this is indeed true, then such a conviction can never be a comfort to a mind like Ippolit's. Interestingly, Ippolit seems to understand Rogozhin's convictions during their discussion. The statement, "with what he's gone crazy over," can be read as Rogozhin's obsession with violence and death. This reading is supported by the French phrase which translates, "extremes meet," implying that although Ippolit understands that the two men seek different things, they have ultimately both chosen death. Later, Ippolit even says, "His house struck me; it resembles a graveyard, but he seems to like it, which, however, is understandable: such a full, immediate life as he lives is too full in itself to need any setting.”2i He sees that Rogozhin's existence is so engaged with death that even surrounding himself with death would not be a concern to a man 80 �such as this. It is important to note Ippolit's understanding of Rogozhin's convictions because he will later describe the Holbein painting and how it could lead a man to believe that there is no beauty in the world. He even goes so far as to suggest that if Christ had seen the picture himself, he may have decided not give himself over to be crucified.22 This understanding of Rogozhin merges with Ippolit's experience of the infinite, discussed toward the end of Chapter VI of Part Three. In this segment, he writes about a night of delirium in which he has an experience similar to the one Myshkin does when looking at the horizon. This is immediately followed by an apparition of Rogozhin. He writes: Can something that has no image come as an image? But it was as if it seemed to me at that moment that I could see that infinite power, that blank, dark, and dumb being, in some strange impossible form. I remember it seemed as if someone holding a candle led me by the hand and showed me some huge and repulsive tarantula and started assuring me that this was the dark, blank, all-powerful being, and laughed at my indignation.^^ Though this seems to be some kind of experience of the infinite horizon like Myshkin's, the two differ. This difference stems from Ippolit's "ultimate conviction.” Because Ippolit is attempting to put his faith in violence, the infinite horizon present in front of him comes in the form of a violent beast (the tarantula). Ippolit then moves from this state of delirium into a further state when he sees the apparition of Rogozhin enter his room and stare at him for a long time during the night. He later reveals that the door to his room was locked the whole night, and the door to the house as well, so it would have been impossible for Rogozhin to actually have entered his room, reinforcing the reading that the vision of Rogozhin is an evolved version of this tarantula figure.24 Rogozhin has become the embodiment of the convictions that Ippolit has 81 �recently attempted to embrace: death as the solution to the problem of the infinite. In this scene, however, Ippolit is possessed by fear and revulsion when confronted with Rogozhin. Ippolit's vision of fear and revulsion in the face of Rogozhin is a sign that he has not fully embraced Rogozhin's convictions, preventing him from carrying out his suicide. By imagining Rogozhin sneaking into his room at night, Ippolit is picturing Rogozhin as coming to face death—Ippolit as a condemned man—without fear, something that Ippolit himself is unable to do. He says after this experience that it is here that he becomes truly resolved, not out of logic, but out of revulsion.25 It seems that this is precisely why he could never have brought himself to suicide. He desires an explanation of the infinite horizon that involves logic, but his complete rejection of logic in order to embrace violence and death is in contradiction to the character of an individual who would write a document called "My Necessary Explanation." Following this story, the beliefs expressed in Ippolit's note begin to encounter those of the prince. He writes toward the end of the note; What do 1 need your nature for, your Pavlovsk park, your sunrises and sunsets, your blue sky, and your all-contented faces, when this whole banquet, which has no end, began by counting me alone as superfluous? What do 1 care about all this beauty, when every minute, every second, 1 must and am forced to know that even this tiny fly that is now buzzing near me in a ray of sunlight, even it participates in this banquet and chorus, knows its place, loves it, and is happy, while 1 alone am a castaway, and only in my pusillanimity did not want to understand it till now!^^ He cannot see that the beauty before him is there, precisely for the reason he believes it should not exist. The prince understands that his mortality is what has made coming back from the experience of the infinite horizon so glorious. He can see beauty in each thing because he recognizes in that moment that his ability to experience 82 �beauty depends on his being alive. Someday he will not be there to see the beauty of the world, or it will not be there for him to experience. Ippolit, in this quotation, says the exact opposite. How can he see the beauty, knowing that he cannot always experience it? How can the fleeting moment in time possess something glorious when he cannot understand the significance of its fullness? He is so caught up in the idea that he must understand, truly understand the things that occur around him that he does not allow himself to give in to those things, as do the fly and the prince. There seem to be at least three differing views presented in regard to the infinite horizon and death. Prince Myshkin, upon experiencing this horizon a number of times, allows this experience to bring him to a fuller understanding of the beauty of life around him. Because the infinite horizon is so closely related to death, it is mortality that allows Myshkin to brighten his life in this way. By attempting to live his life as if he were facing death at each moment, he has learned to appreciate the amazing beauty of each of the individual moments of life, and can see the beauty locked within their confines. He can even see beauty in those moments that seem devoid of all beauty. This view is contrasted with the convictions of both Rogozhin and Ippolit. Rogozhin embraces death, mostly due to his loss of faith. Furthermore, his competition with Myshkin for the affections of Nastasya drives him to extreme violence, reinforcing these deadly convictions. Ippolit seeks a solution through violence as well, but embarrassingly [or perhaps even on purpose) fails to properly load his gun before trying to kill himself. He then lives out the next few weeks of his life without becoming like Rogozhin or Myshkin, but instead living as a gossip of sorts around the other characters of the novel. As this figure, he acts as the one who knows more than those around him, which fits with his attempt to understand his place within the world. To revisit two of the original questions: Why do Myshkin’s actions not lead these characters to see the infinite in the way that he does, and is his access to the infinite fundamentally different from the experiences of those around him? The answer to the first seems to be that Myshkin’s actions are actions of empathy towards others. Though they may be considered beautiful by some, not all people see his actions as he sees them, and therefore he cannot rely 83 �on his convictions to bring out the same emotions in others. Thus, Myshkin's pity for Nastasya does not provide Rogozhin with the opportunity to see the beauty in her that Myshkin's pity is attempting to reveal, simply because Myshkin's convictions regarding the beauty of this pity cannot be interpreted in the same way by Rogozhin. In a similar way, though Myshkin sees beauty in the trees of Pavlovsk, this same beauty cannot be accessed by Ippolit. To the second question, the answer seems to be yes. But, this is only because in exploring this subject it has become clear that each character experiences the infinite horizon in a unique, personal way. To say that one’s experience of it could be shared wholly with another is likely to lessen that experience, even when talking about characters in a novel. On some level, the characters may understand one another and one another’s motivations, but their experiences are their own. Myshkin especially seems to have an extraordinary set of experiences precisely because of his illness and his lack of experience in society. Ultimately, is this what it takes to have the convictions that Myshkin has? Can one live within a society without a sickness and still believe that there is beauty in all things? Endnotes 1 Dostoevsky. The Idiot. Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky, trans. New York: Vintage Classics, 2003. 75 2. Ibid., 58-9 3. Ibid., 58 4. Ibid., 60-1, emphasis in original. 5. Ibid., 61-2 6. Ibid., 64-6, emphasis in original. 7. Ibid., 218 8. Ibid., 226, emphasis in original. 9 Ibid., 227 10. Ibid., 229 11. Ibid., 230 12. ibid., 232 13. Ibid., 233 14. Ibid., 231 15. Ibid., 234 16. Ibid. 17. Ibid. 18. Ibid., 395 19. Ibid., 405 84 �20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. Ibid., 406-7 Ibid., 407 Ibid., 408-9 Ibid., Ibid., 411 Ibid. Ibid., 413 Primary Text Dostoevsky, Fyodor. The Idiot. Translated by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokohonsky. New York: Vintage Classics, 2003. 85 �A Proposed Atlas to the On-ramps and Off-ramps of the Road to Serfdom Jesse Wilhite As F. A. Hayek guides us spiraling down The Road to Serfdom in his cautionary tract, he confronts us with a number of choices, branches which, if taken one way, will continue on the path that Western civilization has mapped out for us, but another will lead toward dark places. Hayek does not spend a great deal of time examining any deep philosophical foundations that may underlie these options. He merely shows us the choices, analyzes the paths taken by others, and speculates about where we seem to be going. He seems to assume that a reasonable person, when presented with the options side by side, will choose to return to the recentlyabandoned road of traditional Western civilization and liberalism rather than to continue on a road that leads to modern serfdom, the worst of totalitarianism in both its Communist and Fascist forms. One of the great questions fundamental to this decision pertains to morals and values. What are the moral underpinnings of the traditional liberal system? What are the values one must hold to choose the abandoned road? Are they compelling, or even possible? How might they be maintained or, if they have been lost, how might they be reacquired? To a great extent, Hayek takes certain values for granted. He assumes that we understand good and evil and agree that they exist, and that there is a kind of wickedness in the realities brought about by the Nazi regime with which England was at war during the writing of The Road To Serfdom. From the beginning, he frames the drift from the abandoned road to the road to serfdom not in terms of a departure from values per se, but rather in terms of the pursuit of good intentions that reaped bad but unintended consequences. His fundamental argument is not that we have the wrong values, ideals, and morals, but that in pursuing the right ones in the wrong way we have abandoned them, changed them, and we risk losing them altogether. For Hayek, basic ideas and social order, the foundations of civilization, have evolved over time. Based historically in Classical 86 �thought and Christianity, and germinating in the flowering of the Renaissance, Western civilization is rooted in "respect for the individual man qua man."i This is the fundamental idea, the moral base Hayek assumes we share, which, along with material prosperity, he warns that we are in danger of losing altogether. This fundamental idea, this fountain flowing with morals and values, is important as a fixed point from which to view the world. In criticizing the disappearance of these virtues under socialism, Hayek asks, "What are the fixed poles now which are regarded as sacrosanct, which no reformer dare touch, since they are treated as immutable boundaries which must be respected in any plan for the future?"^ For virtue or morality to mean anything, there must be fixed points of reference, boundaries that may not be moved. Individual self-determination seems to be the foundation of the abandoned road, the sine qua non of liberalism. This individualism is not only held as an a priori axiom. "The fundamental fact on which the whole philosophy of individualism is based” flows from the fact that only limited knowledge is available to any one person about the values and needs of the multitude of other individuals; that is, only partial scales of value are possibly knowable.3 Therefore: From this the individualist concludes that the individuals should be allowed, within defined limits, to follow their own values and preferences rather than somebody else's; that within these spheres the individual's system of ends should be supreme and not subject to any dictation by others. It is this recognition of the individual as the ultimate judge of his ends, the belief that as far as possible his own views ought to govern his actions, that forms the essence of the individualist position.^ The impossibility of knowing or imagining a complete scale of values and needs means that a complete ethical code is unavailable to any central planner, which seems therefore to necessitate an individualist position simply in order to have a properly functioning economic system. 87 �Another necessity for morality or values, another fixed pole, is a respect for truth as such. Referring to relativism, Hayek says, "The moral consequences of totalitarian propaganda which we must now consider are, however, of an even more profound kind. They are destructive of all morals because they undermine one of the foundations of all morals: the sense of and respect for the truth."5 It may seem too obvious to need stating, but as we will learn later, respect for truth as truth is a fundamental principle Hayek assumes to be necessary to morality. In The Road To Serfdom we find two litanies of liberal virtues. These virtues include "independence, self-reliance, and the willingness to bear risks, the readiness to back one’s own conviction against a majority, and the willingness to voluntary cooperation with one’s neighbors,” and "independence and selfreliance, individual initiative and local responsibility, the successful reliance on voluntary activity, noninterference with one’s neighbor and tolerance of the different and queer, respect for custom and tradition, and a healthy suspicion of power and authority.’’^ The common character essential to all is a sort of self-sufficiency, not simply for its own sake but also as a supporting element in a liberal extended order. Virtue lies not only in defending oneself from coercion and in respecting the foundations of tradition, but also in openness to what is different. There are three intersections of values and morality that bear addressing in concert with one another. The values of freedom and equality intersect, as do the questions of morality as end or as means, and of morality as an individual or a collective phenomenon. As we have seen, individualism is taken to be a fundamental principle, and inherent in it is the principle that each should be free to pursue his own ends. Thus freedom or liberty is a basic tenet of liberalism. This is freedom of action within a consistent, prior framework: the rule of law. It is freedom to pursue one’s self interest, one’s own values and needs. Hayek points out the danger of the extension of this concept of guaranteed freedom to include freedom from want and material need.^ Essentially, this redefinition or extension, the expectation that government should free the individual from material need, is dangerous for several reasons. In abdicating economic responsibility to the government. 88 �the individual also abdicates power or control over all that is attached to economic needs and economic activity; in Hayek's terms, over virtually everything. The individual moves from independence to dependence. Freedom, when thus extended, ends in servitude. The liberal good of equality is subject to a similar negative extension. Under individualism or liberalism, each deserves to be treated equally as man qua man. Equal protection exists for all, without privilege for any, according to predetermined rules, known as the rule of law. This is equality before the law, equality of conditions. One of the on-ramps of the road to serfdom involves the extension of this concept of equality to include material equality, or equality of ends, an extension which necessarily cancels out equality before the law. Given different capacities, different people must be treated differently in order to achieve equality of ends. Here again a well-intentioned expansion of the range of a liberal good changes the direction of the ultimate path. One fundamental problem consists in determining where the good lies—in the ends or the means, in the individual sphere or the sphere of collective planning. In other words, do we aim at justice or some standard of good as an end, and use whatever means necessary to accomplish it, or does justice or the good lie in the means, a framework we use to allow a multiplicity of ends? Is justice a matter of ends or of means? For Hayek, a complete ethical code, one that would encompass the needs and values of each individual, is impossible even to imagine, so morality must be understood in the realm of the individual and justice must lie in a consistent framework of the rule of law rather than in some sort of requirement of particular ends, such as material equality.^ It seems simply impossible to have complete or even sufficient knowledge of needs, values and means to allow for planning in such a way that we will accomplish just ends without generating terrible, unintended consequences. Morality exists only on an individual level, because the individual is the ultimate agent of action, the only one who both knows his values and the only one who can connect those values to the moment of action. Any attempt to shift morals to a higher or prior sphere cancels them out and they cease to exist as such. Beyond this, there is a difference between the moral sense 89 �that urges us to attempt to plan for just ends and those coercive ethics that would be required to execute them on a mass scale. "The interaction between morals and institutions may well have the effect that the ethics produced by collectivism will be altogether different from the moral ideals that lead to the demand for collectivism.”^ Ultimately, justice must be understood primarily in terms of means and a consistent rule of law as a framework for individuals to pursue their self-determined ends. To attempt to accomplish specific collective ends is neither possible nor safe. We arrive at a significant question. If these ideals of liberalism and traditional morality are necessary to civilization and a liberal free market, and if we are in danger of abandoning them for a road to serfdom, how may we preserve them? Alternately, if these ideals already have been to some degree abandoned, how might we recognize and reestablish them? Hayek gives us a few clues, and we may discover a few of our own. They can be imagined as on-ramps and off-ramps of the road to serfdom. One of the first on-ramps we come to is simple impatience. Hayek identifies this as having been one of the primary and early motivations for abandoning the free market extended order responsible for the growth of civilization. As the market order was systematized and advanced in the nineteenth century on an unprecedented scale, "the crude rules in which the principles of economic policy” consisted still required development and there was "just irritation with those who used liberal phraseology in defense of antisocial privileges and the boundless ambition seemingly justified by the material improvements already achieved.”!*^ Instead of patiently developing the economic system, carefully fostering the rule of law, and essentially building upon the foundation of the advances in the free market, the temptation was to start over by fiat on a different foundation. "Because of the success already achieved, man became increasingly unwilling to tolerate the evils still with him which now appeared both unbearable and unnecessary.’’^^ Development unfolds over time, and it would seem that the maintenance of traditional morality and the free market requires a sort of patience on the part of all involved, allowing natural market processes to bring prosperity in due course, taking time to foster the rule of law, and experimenting 90 �with and adjusting the framework as necessary as it evolves over time. Another important on-ramp to serfdom is the atrophy of moral sense. Traditional morals are communal information, transmitted and inculcated in ways that we do not perhaps fully understand. But they also seem to be fostered and maintained individually through practice. One must exercise them in order to avoid the vicious cycle of the blunting of our moral sensibilities: What our generation is in danger of forgetting is not only that morals are of necessity a phenomenon of individual conduct but also that they can exist only in the sphere in which the individual is free to decide for himself and is called upon voluntarily to sacrifice personal advantage to the observation of a moral rule. Outside the sphere of individual responsibility there is neither goodness nor badness, neither opportunity for moral merit nor the chance of proving one’s conviction by sacrificing one's desires to what one thinks is right.^^ This once again speaks to the point that morals are inherently individual and disappear at the level of central decision-making. But it also implies that it is vital that the individual be called upon to sacrifice voluntarily. Where there is no opportunity to exercise this moral capacity it seems to disappear, either because the conditions no longer exist or perhaps because of a drying up of the individual moral capacity. Mere participation in political democracy is not sufficient. The periodical election of representatives, to which the moral choice of the individual tends to be more and more reduced is not an occasion on which his moral values are tested or where he has constantly to reassert and prove the order of his values and to testily to the sincerity of his profession by the sacrifice of those of his values he rates lower to those he puts higher.13 91 �There seems to be a habitual aspect to individual participation in moral choices and moral traditions: Either we use them or we lose them. A third on-ramp to the road to serfdom shows up in a somewhat odd place, in the social order itself. "It should never be forgotten that the one decisive factor in the rise of totalitarianism on the Continent, which is yet absent in England and America, is the existence of a large recently dispossessed middle class.’’^'^ The main reason this leads to serfdom is that large disaffected social classes tend to become enemies of the current regime. Those who were once materially and socially mobile, such as the middle class, tend to fight to regain the advantages they have lost. Another reason that a dispossessed middle class is especially problematic, however, is that this class will tend to expand in a liberal free market system, drawing the other classes into it. The middle class is the center of gravity of the liberal system, the class most directly involved in the economic life of a society, that which has the most vested in a free market system, and that which most reinforces free market values. Preserving the trading class, or at least not intentionally leveling it, would seem to be important to maintaining the extended order. The corruption of language is another factor in the path to serfdom. We have seen how the extension of the concepts of freedom and equality has paved the path toward collectivism. The redefinition of the word liberal from its nineteenth century meaning to its current one is another example. In the realm of propaganda, language is manipulated and words are redefined in order to move people into new ideas using redefined familiar terms.New concepts parasitize the host language such that its traditional moral content is lost in favor of new ideas aimed at transforming the people’s imagination, mores, and ultimately their direction. The greatest means to preserving the traditional liberal ideals and thus avoiding many of these on-ramps to serfdom lies in education, both formal and informal. Hayek does not spend much time addressing this issue here, but he leaves a tantalizing indication of this concept tucked away in his discussion of a 92 �potential new international order. "Nowhere has democracy worked well without a great measure of local self-government, providing a school of political training for the people at large as much as for their future leaders."!^ There is a sense in which participation in local government, which directly concerns the citizens’ immediate interests (and often takes place in small countries such as Switzerland) is a kind of informal education, a continuous internship in the necessities and limitations of political and economic liberty. It can be a breeding ground for ideas, a greenhouse for liberal traditions, and a school for habituating the young to freedom and to the society in freedom that seems to be superior to the society in socialism. Hayek echoes Tocqueville here, as he does throughout much of The Road To Serfdom. Local political life and participation in good things accomplished through free and voluntary associations can provide a vital inoculation against the bug of collectivism. It bears mentioning that there is at least one principle that is important in any attempt either to reintroduce the rule of law and liberal principles where they have been abandoned, or to introduce them where they have not yet existed. This is the voluntary submission of the powerful to the rule of law. As long as the powerful seek to aggregate or maintain privilege and position for themselves, the rule of law is impossible. The birth of such a system, therefore, must mirror its moral condition, the recognition that one's greater interest requires a voluntary relinquishment of potential privilege or advantage for the greater good of freedom and general economic opportunity. "The great opportunity we shall have at the end of this war is that the great victorious powers, by themselves first submitting to a system of rules which they have the power to enforce, may at the same time acquire the moral right to impose the same rules upon others.This essential principle is the foundation on which individualism, liberalism, and traditional western morality are built. The fact that Hayek felt the need to write The Road To Serfdom when he did and the response its publication garnered show the vulnerability of a truly free market liberal position. The fact that intellectual opinion was rapidly shifting toward socialism, mere decades after the flowering of liberalism in the nineteenth century, indicates that a truly free 93 �market might not be as fundamental as Hayek would have us believe. If the extended order of the free market survived thousands of years of the tooth-and-nail competition of ideas since the first glimmers of civilization, then it seems likely that it will continue to survive much longer. If it has really distilled the elements that make extended order possible, then traditional morality should continue as the most viable evolutionary strand. If socialism is truly built on faulty foundations, then it will eventually crumble. And yet, if this free market system is so natural and fundamental, why does it seem so vulnerable? An examination of the previously discussed on-ramps may provide a clearer view. Several, if not all of them, are deeply imbedded human characteristics. To be impatient is to be human. It is not characteristic of the mass of men to abide injustice due to the expectation of some future good. Facility in deferring gratification is not common to man. If it is necessary that we be patient to tend the garden of budding liberalism, few of us will likely be liberals. Moreover, exercise of and habituation to the moral virtues, whether imagined in an Aristotelian sense or in the sense Hayek uses them, is no simple task. In one sense we simply receive the traditional morals as given, but if exercising them is also necessary to their perpetuation, what is to guard us from simply coasting into socialism? The gutting of language seems to be a natural process that simply happens over time. Language changes, deteriorates. This constant linguistic evolution has only become greater with the technological and social advances that have come from the flowering of the free market. When language is changing so quickly, how can we imagine that old terms might not be manipulated to bear new and contrary ideas? With the great centrifugal force of national government drawing all political power to itself from the farthest local hinterlands, how long will there be places where the people may still learn democracy, independence, voluntary cooperation and how to use their freedom in the local sphere close to home? Finally, how long can we trust the strong to defer to the rule of law out of the understanding that it is in their best interest? It seems doubtful whether there is room for much optimism. If Hayek is correct, then whatever the means of the transmission of 94 �civilization are, whatever those things are that inculcate his virtues of independence, voluntary cooperation, non-interference, healthy suspicion of coercive power, individualism, and the rest, must be fostered if we are not to end up in the ash heap of history. Tocqueville saw a similar problem. "Do you not see that religions are weakening and that the divine notion of rights is disappearing? Do you not find that mores are being altered, and that with them the moral notion of rights is being effaced?”!^ His solution, however, makes a great deal of sense. "If in the midst of universal disturbance you do not come to bind the idea of rights to the personal interest that offers itself as the only immobile point in the human heart, what will then remain to you to govern the world, except fear?’’i^ Somehow, when the transmission of traditional values is failing, these ideals must be bound to self-interest as the universal driving component of human beings. One of the great difficulties of this task, in relation to the conflict between liberalism and socialism, is that the latter seems to be driven by sentiments and motivations that bind a kind of self-interest with a communal sense in a way that is often intellectual, but often visceral and deeply human. Endnotes 1. Hayek, F. A. The Road To Serfdom. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007. 68 2. Ibid., 218 3. Ibid., 102 4. Ibid. 5. Ibid., 172 6. Ibid., 217-219 7. Ibid., 77 8. Ibid., 101 9. Ibid., 158-159 10. Ibid., 71-72 11. Ibid., 72 12. Ibid., 216 13. Ibid., 218 14. Ibid., 215 15. Ibid., 172 16. Ibid., 234 17. Ibid., 235 18. de Tocqueville, Alexis. Democracy In America. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002. 228 19. Ibid. 95 �Primary Texts Hayek, F. A. The Road To Serfdom. Chicago; University of Chicago Press, 2007. de Tocqueville, Alexis. Democracy In America. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002. �The Faith of the Poet Anthony Eagan I. Midway along his journey through the afterlife toward the morning of his second night in Purgatory, having recently heard Virgil’s lecture on distorted love as the source of all sin, Dante falls asleep and dreams of a siren. He and his guide are approaching the fifth terrace, where the avaricious and prodigal expiate their monetary love. Though every progressive level in The Divine Comedy can be said to show a turning point in the pilgrim’s education as a poet, this turning point, coming as momentum shifts from the heaviness of hell to the lightness of heaven, holds special significance. The pilgrim has seen and learned from the suffering of hell-bound souls who sin and refuse repentance. Now, observing sinners who have cast off their pride in hope of seeing God, he draws closer to earthly paradise at the heights of Purgatory; soon he will ascend to true Paradise to be among souls who lived and saw correctly. In the dream, a cross-eyed and crippled hag appears. She is deathly pale, with crooked feet, stammering speech, and arms that have been amputated at the wrist. She is the embodiment of human frailty and decay. By the power of his gaze, however, Dante transforms the hag into a tantalizing woman, straightening her figure, repairing her eyesight, empowering her with eloquence, and enlivening her with charm. Her voice becomes so alluring that as she sings, Dante cannot look away. Despite her revelation that she is the "Siren who causes / sailors to lose their way,’’ Dante is transfixed and fails to heed the warning. She tells him that a night with her can provide such satisfaction and delight that no man would willingly leave her side. But when she mentions having turned Ulysses from his homeward course, the dream also changes course. A Beatrice-like figure appears, "alert and saintly," to liberate Dante from the siren’s influence.^ By their contrast, the magnificence of this new lady once again diminishes the aura and eloquence of the siren. The saintly lady calls out to Virgil, who materializes, assesses the situation, and 97 �rips the siren's clothes from her body, revealing her sex and releasing a stench so powerful that it wakes Dante. The sudden reek evokes hell, where "such a stench rose up / as usually comes from festering limbs,"^ and whose nine circles are filled with rot, feces, blood, urine, semen, muck, murk, fog, and putrefaction. Had the saintly woman failed to intervene and summon Virgil, had Virgil failed to tear the garments, the truth behind the hag’s artificial beauty would have remained concealed from Dante, and he would have been ensnared once again by the avarice and covetousness of earthly pursuits. To the dutiful reader (the only type of reader the poet wants, as will be shown], this dream reiterates what has been described in so many previous episodes and what Dante will continually emphasize throughout Paradiso; any temporal things a human may possess or seek to possess, from clerical robes to political clout, from gold and riches to reputation and physical love, are subject to time's decaying power, and will escape his grasp in one way or another. Ambition for these objects sows envy, pride, and greed, and human behavior is perverted by such blind pursuit. Sins of pursuit aside, however, even the achievement of an earthly desire by virtuous means will prove fleeting and unsatisfactory—a sort of Pyrrhic victory for the soul—igniting new and stronger desires, and degradation through avarice, since satiation increases craving. It was lust for Paolo, and the experience of momentary bliss, that fated Francesca to the second circle of Inferno, where she flutters about in a "hellish hurricane,"^ as erratic as her prior life’s whims. Similarly, an excessive love of money fated the clergy found in the fourth circle to roll stones endlessly, having lost all identity, for "the undiscerning life that made them filthy now renders them unrecognizable."^ The epicureans, and "all those who say the soul dies with the body,"^ lie in open sepulchers, fated by their shortsightedness to permanent entombment, fittingly alive in soul but dead in body. As to a siren, mortals are drawn irresistibly to the world's multiple enticements. They forget that inherent in all nature’s substances is the seed of corruption. Only that which exists outside of matter and the senses is worth pursuing, because only that 98 �which is outside of matter and the senses has the power to accurately direct human vision and behavior. Beatrice herself, the reigning authority on virtue, suggests this very point soon after her arrival in the poem, in Canto XXX of Purgatorio. In fact, all of Dante’s mistakes up to this point, both on earth and during his journey, emerged from a failure to look higher. Beatrice has come to replace Virgil as Dante's guide, and like a stern mother she immediately scolds Dante for his emotional weakness and lack of proper vision. In a symbolic gesture, Dante, upon recognizing Beatrice despite her veil, turns backward in search of Virgil, hoping to alleviate his joyful fear, and, seeing his former guide has disappeared, begins weeping. "Dante!” Beatrice says, "do not yet weep; do not weep yet," and continues her chastisement fifteen lines later, asking, "How were you able to ascend the mountain? Did you not know that here all men are happy?”^ This whole time, a throng of singing angels has been gathered about Dante and Beatrice. Now, in their song, coming to the pilgrim’s defense, the angels ask Beatrice, "Lady, why do you hit him so hard?" She answers, "Not simply by the working of Nature’s great wheels. Aiming every single seed to some end Determined by stars shining at its birth. But through the enormity of God in His grace Some will attain to altitudes so high That we no longer attract them with our eyes— And one such was this man’s new life on earth. So all good inclinations, all predictions. Should wonderfully be proved by the life he lives... For a time, the sight of my face was enough to sustain him: By showing him my youthful eyes I led him With me, moving toward a goal of goodness. But as soon as I approached the holy threshold Of my second age, and changed from that life to this. He turned away from me, giving himself to others. Beauty and virtue grew to new heights in me. But I meant much less to him, no longer pleasing. And he turned his steps to a path that held no truth. 99 �Following fraudulent idols that promise goodness, But never pay their accounts when payment is due...”^ Beatrice, on earth, guided Dante’s love. She was so stunning and pure that when Dante looked upon her he envisioned the workings and mystery of God. He saw that beneath the surface of beauty exists a power that cannot be understood, that is greater than the sum of all earth’s beautiful and not-so-beautiful entities, for it creates these entities and allows for their movement towards His good. Nothing proved the importance of the ineffable more than the face of Beatrice; nothing was more sublime and awe-inspiring; nothing instilled faith so well in the onlooker. Her death, then, should have given Dante further insight into the ineffable and elevated his poetic soul. If this most pure of human creatures is subject to suffering and death, then all things less beautiful must be transient, less worthy. Nothing lasts here on earth. My vision and poetry must seek the place where, truly, Beatrice now resides. Such should have been Dante’s thoughts. We see now why, halfway along his journey through life, Dante was in a "wood so dark.’’^ According to Beatrice’s speech, all life comes to darkness if we blind ourselves to God’s mystery. We also see now why Dante’s siren dream, halfway along his journey through the afterlife, is so deeply important. Within Dante’s mind or soul— wherever dreams are born— he has already learned the error of pursuing earthly temptation; that seed of knowledge reveals itself to him while he sleeps to dream in the ring of the avaricious. The dream is an exact parallel of what the poet describes in the opening of Inferno. His obscured, earthbound vision misleads him, projects a false value onto that which is subject to decay, and enshrouds him in error. As when Beatrice summoned Virgil on Holy Thursday, she here again intervenes, calling on Virgil to reveal truths to Dante and alert him to "the stench of paganism.’’^ The pilgrim’s dream, we see, allegorizes the poet’s larger allegory. Dante, initially enticed by human objects and concerns, is rescued by Beatrice and Virgil, and comes to see the error of distorted love and misdirected vision. But why is Ulysses mentioned in the dream? Does the siren drop his name merely as an allusion to her power? Or does the poet 100 �I [ want to evoke Inferno yet again, specifically Ulysses’ explanation there of how he descended into hell? In Canto 26, Dante and Virgil ventured to the eighth ditch of the eighth circle of sin, where the thieves and false counselors blaze in anonymity, "each sinner wrapped in the sin which burned him on earth/’i'’ From a perch, Dante surveyed the depths and observed two souls inhabiting a single but divided flame. He questioned the identity of the two thieves, and learning that the greater sinner of these was Ulysses, his curiosity swelled, and he implored Virgil to initiate a conversation. "Master, 1 beg you, and beg / Again a thousand times...for you can see the desperate desire / That pulls me, bending my body in that direction."!^ Virgil agreed, sensing the force of Dante’s passion to speak with the famous man of twists and turns. After all, Dante and Ulysses shared many traits, at least at this stage in the pilgrim’s progress. Both were exiles, both eloquent; both journeyed in search of knowledge, both were proud and in their pride went astray— off their charted course— and both had fought, in some sense, for their homes. Ulysses’ answer, in the form of a speech, which is arguably the most moving poetry up to this point in The Comedy, begins: ‘When 1 left Circe, Who’d stolen more than a year of my time, close By Gaeta (although that was long before Aeneas Had come and given it its name), it wasn’t For my young son’s sweetness, or any concern About my aged father, or the debt of love 1 owed Penelope, which would have pleased her. For nothing could conquer in me the craving to know This world we live in, learning its nature, and how To deal with human vice or worth.’i^ 101 Looking back to this through the lens of Dante’s siren dream, the issues become more apparent than when the reader first encountered the passage. Not only did Circe ensnare Ulysses, but �"evidence of things not seen.”^^ pje left her side, his familial duties, and the home he fought for, in search of human knowledge. In a sense, this moment shows a reversal of the character we knew so well—for ten years after Troy he struggled to return to Penelope. But in another sense, the speech comes as no surprise; experience of the world leads a man to yearn for more of the same. 'Now hear: I’d set myself on the open sea With only a single boat, and nothing but men Who had not turned and run away from me... '0 brothers,’ I said, 'you who came through a hundred Thousand dangers, at last reaching the West: We still have time yet to use Our human senses, and how could such brave men Refuse this final, daring experience. Tracking the sun where no other man has been?’ ...The moon had waned, then waxed again, five times. Five months of full and perfect lunar cycles Since we’d launched ourselves out on the ocean. When suddenly a mountain appeared in the distance. Dark and seeming, to my eyes, surely the highest That I had ever seen. My men and I Rejoiced, but immediately our happiness Was turned to grief, for out of the new lands came A whirlwind, striking hard at the bow of our ship It whirled us around three times, we and the water. And on the fourth it lifted the stern up high And drove the prow straight down, to the great delight Of Someone Else, and over our heads the sea closed. In his pride, Ulysses could not see the signs of Someone Else—at least, not until his ship was swallowed. On this ship sailed "nothing but men," thus no God, no faith, no hope of higher truths. The moon, the first of Heaven’s spheres, waxed and waned before him for five months; yet he questioned nothing of what instigates the lunar cycles, or what made the stars shine and the ocean glimmer. He directed his ship onwards, through the Strait of Gibraltar and southbound, towards the Mount of Purgatory, a place 102 �forbidden to those without faith. Never in his story did Ulysses reveal a sense of awe, only selfishness, ambition, and joy at reaching sights unseen by any other man. At first glance the journey seems commendable, if somewhat selfish, to the reader and it remains unclear just why this quest for knowledge results in Ulysses’ descent into hell. Dante’s dream, almost thirty cantos later, clarifies the mistake Ulysses made. Knowledge without faith will cause the sea of experience to swallow you whole. II. 0 you who are within your little bark. Eager to listen, following behind My ship that, singing, crosses to deep sees. Turn back to see your shores again: do not Attempt to sail the seas 1 sail; you may. By losing sight of me, be left astray. The waves 1 take were never sailed before.^^ Here Dante addresses the reader as the pilgrim arrives in the first sphere of Heaven, the Sphere of the Moon. The passage unifies two ideas that become vital to Paradiso: That the poetry will become more difficult, will contain subject matter paradoxical and beyond human understanding, thus reflecting higher beauty, and that endeavors lacking faith, suspension of reason, and recalibrated vision will end in shipwreck. So readers beware, have trust in my talents, pay attention, and recall all that I have previously written. What is Dante’s endeavor? Where is he taking us? What is his poetic mission? Is The Divine Comedy, above all, an epic poem about epic poetry or is it the story of the making of the poet? The epic poet has several goals, not simply in The Divine Comedy but also in the great works that precede and follow it. The first goal is to describe the range of human experience, and in so doing to pay homage to the poets who first made the attempt. The second is to raise poetry to a level higher than the words of those poets to whom homage is paid— in order to come even closer to truth through beauty. The third is to provide a moral framework for readers, using episodes and incidents as allegories through 103 �which the hero experiences what it is to be mortal and learns how to conduct his life as a result. The Iliad is often likened to a Greek bible in which Homer exalts the values of courage, honor, and dignity in the face of mortality; so Virgil’s Aeneid exalts pietas, or duty to one’s society, above personal interest and comfort, and finally the Bible— which, while not an epic poem, is a work replete with sublime poetry epic in scope and narrative— exalts the Christian values of faith, hope, charity, and love. The fourth and final goal of the epic poet is— through the accomplishment of the three prior objectives— to become immortal through artistry. Throughout The Divine Comedy, Dante is constantly aware of these goals, and by turns expresses anxiety, doubt, pride, concern, and despair in regard poetry. Especially in Paradiso, where in nearly every canto he references his lines, his task, or his readers, we see that, as he draws towards the center of the immortal world, his hopes for the poem take a more central role as the subject matter. In one of these countless moments of self-reference and thoughts of immortality, he writes: 0 Godly Pegasea, you who give To genius glory and long life, as it. Through you, gives these to kingdoms and to cities. Give me your light that 1 may emphasize These signs as 1 inscribed them in my mind: Your power—may it appear in these brief linesl^^ Perfect poetry, then, has the dual action of benefiting both the author and society; if one is uplifted, so is the other. Perhaps the best way to approach the questions of how the poet achieves perfect poetry, how he accomplishes these four aforementioned goals, and how the allegorical afterworld through which Dante the pilgrim travels references these goals and exemplifies their accomplishment is to bear in mind our notion that the dream of the siren manifests the major turning point in the pilgrim’s growth. We must also remember the mistake Ulysses made on that final journey which resulted in the worst of all descents. In exile, having lost everything he held dear in the earthly realm—first Beatrice, next his political reputation, and finally his 104 �home—Dante, as author of The Comedy, is excessively aware that "he may grieve / indeed and endlessly— the man who leaves / behind [divine] love and turns instead to seek / things that do not endure eternally.”i^ If a man invests all the muscle of his soul towards what can die or be torn away at any moment, be it his name and standing, his wealth or his beloved, then the man loses with its loss. In other words, if a poet invests all the power of his talent in what is transitory, his poetry dies with passing time. Worse yet, if a poet does not use his talent to better his name and his community, he squanders the gifts God bestowed upon him. This is not to say that a poet should not focus on flowers, politics, sex, and sin: this very poem is filled with innuendo and gorgeous images of grime, and ends with the obscure description of a rose. Rather, if the poet writes of these things, he must see behind their corruptible physical nature to what they reveal about the spiritual world, the world we cannot understand or describe no matter the level of our faith. We know that a flower lives, as well as how it lives, but even science cannot explain the process behind that process. To seek an explanation that justifies the awe we should have for something as simple as a flower and simultaneously be aware that this explanation, however adroitly worded, will fall short of capturing its essence, is to participate in the faith of poetry. If you water roses and provide sunlight, growth will occur; these are the facts of a rose. Also, it will have thorns. The poet must make these facts both reach into and stand for the unseen. The observable must reach behind the veil and yank out a portion of the essence that resides there, thrusting this portion of essence into the face of the reader. '"Look at the sun that shines upon your brow; / look at the grasses, flowers, and the shrubs / born here, spontaneously, of the earth.”’i8 These words, spoken by Virgil as he points the pilgrim toward earthly paradise, glorify the grass and the flowers. These words thrust forward a chunk of their spiritual essence, and entreat the listener to see beyond the pretty veil of stalks and stems, petals and pistils, into the ineffable origin of all. Although Virgil is a pagan, his mind, as poet, is always in touch with the essence of things, as were the minds of Homer, Statius, and Ovid, even if their vision of truth did not match Dante’s. 105 �Of course, Dante the poet learns from Virgil the poet. The Divine Comedy seems to show Dante asking, over and over. If Virgil's poetry is beautiful because it hints at the essence behind our world, how beautiful would my poetry be if given my talent, I spoke of this essence alone? If I changed the tradition by following its natural arc? If I traveled through hell, down through the earth, up the Mount of Purgatory, and ascended into the Empyrean, describing everything that is impossible to know? Would describing everything beyond human life— the essence of essence— elevate my words, and thrust the unseen into the gaze of my reader? The metaphor of this garden passage thus pertains to the entire allegory. Dante the pilgrim, in the earthly paradise, will heed Virgil the guide, grow from his words, and soon move beyond the spiritual capabilities of the pagan; Dante the poet will follow Virgil the poet, grow from his example, and soon move beyond the aesthetic capabilities of the laureate. Dante’s poetic mission is not only to talk of the essence of hatred and strife, parricide and politics, lust, gluttony, wrath, shame, trickery, cunning, rape, heresy, betrayal, hypocrisy, cannibalism, schism, and all that results from improperly directed vision, but also to create images of that which cannot be known by mortals, based no longer on the influence of Virgil and Ovid but on the influence of the Bible and its metaphor of the Incarnation. Dante wishes to direct the vision of his society of readers beyond the fleeting concerns that have destroyed both the author’s known world and the peace of Florence. This is why his poetry becomes more beautiful and challenging the higher the pilgrim ascends; as the subject matter becomes more ineffable, Dante, paradoxically, comes closer to the truth behind human nature. From the opening canto of Inferno, we read of nothing but essences. The darkened wood is the essence of Dante’s emotions in the year 1300. The she-wolf, never sated, is the essence of human hunger. Fire is the essence of passions that leave their possessor in metaphysical ashes. Climbing is the essence of improvement. Francesca, St. Bernard, Plato, Cato, Cavalcante dei Cavalcanti, Filippo Argenti, Farinata, all the popes, and so many other shades upon whom we stumble are not human characters hiding, as do the 106 �living, behind the inscrutability of behavior, but rather they are momentary, honest distillations of entire lives of earthly pursuit and the secret motivations that bent their actions towards frail objects. The contemplative contemplate, the wrathful rage, the slothful long for sleep, the gluttonous hunger; each similarly pursues his nature according to its kind. The shades Dante describes, jointly exhibiting the entire range of human emotion, capture the essence behind the emotion and reveal the spectrum of mortal impetuses. Thus, if Dante were to ignore God, seeking knowledge in the manner of Ulysses on that final voyage, creating beauty out of corrupt material as with the siren dream, his epic poem would fail. “Passing beyond the human cannot be worded," he insists in canto II of Paradiso, and yet we have before us nearly 15,000 lines— 150,000 words—describing nothing but what is ostensibly beyond the human. Really, then, since all of what Dante expresses is beyond human sense, every line reaches beyond the infinite flowers of experience, and thrusts its ineffable spirit at the reader. III. Is God, therefore, merely Dante's favorite metaphor for the ineffable? If a poet writes of a man waking to find he has been transformed into a cockroach, and we read this transformation as a metaphor of the artist’s alienation, or if in a story the portrait of a boulevardier ages in lieu of his body, and we see the portrait as a metaphor of conscience and the power of art, then why do readers constantly pigeonhole this tale of a poet’s journey through the afterlife as a religious tale, and fail to consider the ascension as an allegory for art’s immortal purpose and immortal achievement? We do see countless moments of sacrilege. To name only one, the poet worships false idols; even in Paradise, as he prepares to describe all that he has seen, he invokes Apollo to be his new muse. 0 good Apollo, for this final task Make me the vessel of your excellence. What you, to merit your loved laurel, ask.^^ 107 �In Canto IV of Paradiso, Beatrice explains a point of confusion to the pilgrim. He has just met his first heavenly soul, Piccarda, once a nun, who against her will was pulled away from the convent and forced into relations with a man. She is more distant from God than other souls in heaven, she says, because she did not fight unto death to preserve her virginity for God, as was her original will. In response, Dante wonders why souls in heaven are arranged hierarchically. Certainly Piccarda is not so pure as the Virgin Mary, but is Heaven not a place of equality under God’s eternal benevolence? Why has God banished Piccarda and her companions to the Moon? Beatrice, reading Dante’s mind, clarifies that The spirits you saw did not appear Because their existence is here, but simply to show Your eyes what the least exalted of angels look like. We need to speak in this way, to your organs of sense. Since such perception, and no other, prepares Itself to be understood, in the end, by your mind. And it is for this reason that scripture lowers Itself to levels your mind can deal with, assigning Hands and feet to God, to teach you more...2o So the heavens are not structured as the pilgrim observes. What he observes is but a demonstration of Paradise as it can be understood by his limited human comprehension. Likewise, scripture does not properly explain God, but provides stories, allegories, images, tales and paradoxes that aim to demonstrate the essence of the inexpressible. As a result, its readers have a framework to live by, concrete examples, and a higher realm towards which they might direct their vision and love. Dante the poet knows that therein exists the power of the Bible, the most successful and widely read of any work of literature. Its purpose is to teach, to improve society, to warn against blind endeavors, false glories, and sin. First, however, in order to reach this goal, it must be dramatically entertaining and sublime in language, wise and sad, containing all sorts of human fates and a 108 �range of characters from peasants, to kings, to the Unknowable Himself. The framework of Christianity is probably the best and most comprehensive metaphor we have to explain the world beyond human comprehension. It attempts to allegorize why we sin. It aims to elucidate the dangers of selfish pursuits, or a life subject to whim and therefore loss. It shows us how to avoid a living hell. It remains the best guideline for reaching above the temporal and material world so that, by its example, we may become immortal through virtue, good deeds, and properly guided accomplishments. Perhaps we should not take Dante's complex explication of divinity as a sign that he has total faith in Christ as the embodiment of God, that he lived on earth, performing miracles, raising the dead, and opening once again the Gates of Heaven, but rather as an acknowledgement that no higher moral foundation for behavior exists than so-called divine poetry. Perhaps we feel in The Divine Comedy the comfort of words that explain the processes behind the processes, the essence behind the flowers, even if the explanation is wrong. What Dante details of the Empyrean is foreign, and goes beyond scripture. Certainly, Mary is present, and some saints, and even "our effigy." But otherwise it is pure light and circles, radiance, blind vision, perfect movement, mental feeling, emotional knowledge and seeming confusion, and, as he describes the Image, he reiterates that nothing can be described. It is achingly beautiful. The faith of the poet is faith in the power of his own work to reach into universal experience. Without such faith, the poet could not have the patience to devote years of his life to describing things. Yet the faith of the poet is in Someone Else, no matter what form He takes—be He Bearded, Rose-shaped, or a Gust of Wind. Did Dante truly feel that Christ died so that we might become immortal? Or did Apollo bequeath this gift of eloquence? Did he truly love Beatrice, or is she, too, a device? All we can know for certain is that in talking about what is impossible to know or express, the poet becomes immortal. And by directing his vision away from the observable and corrupt world, by projecting his desire towards the spiritual world as he had once projected vision and desire towards the hand-less hag, he taught the Something. The pilgrim gets lost 109 �among the stars, he creates, and the poet emerges, ready to describe the experience. Where Nature comes upon discrepant fortune. Like any seed outside its proper region. Nature will always yield results awry. But if the world below would set its mind On the foundation Nature lays as base To follow, it would have its people worthy.21 Endnotes 1. Dante. The Divine Comedy. Allen Mendelbaum, trans. New York: Everyman's Library, 1995. Purg. XIX. 1-34 2. /n/XIV. 51 3. Inf. V. 31 4. /n/VII. 53-54 S.InfX. 15 6. Purg. XXX. 74-75 7. Ibid,. 111-132 8. Inf I. 2 9. Para. XX. 125 10. Inf XXVI. 48 11. Ibid., 68-69 12. Ibid., 90-99 13. Para. XXIV. 64 14. InfXXVl 100-143 15. Para. 11.1-7 16. Para. XVIII. 82-87 17. Para. XV. 9-12. 18. Purg. XXVII. 133-135 19. Pora. 1.13-15 20. Para. IV. 37-45 21. Para. VIII. 138-144 Primary Text Mandelbaum, Allen, Trans. The Divine Comedy. New York: Everyman’s Library. 1995. 110 �The Two Prakrtis Jeff Ondocsin At first glance, Ramanuja's commentary on the Bhagavad Gita is a dense, layered text which can seem hardly penetrable. But there is something in Ramanuja's discussion of the two prakrtis that might aid in establishing a solid foundation of what Ramanuja is trying to do in this text. More than just outlining the different yogas that the Gita represents as the different paths to God, (karmayoga, jnanayoga and the ultimate form of worship, bhaktiyoga, the culmination of the philosophy of the Gita), Ramanuja is ultimately advancing an argument about the Atman of God and its relation to the individual atman, if in a seemingly roundabout way. However, I believe that by examining the issue of these two prakrtis a little closer, we can perhaps establish a satisfying answer to the question asked in seminar about both the spiritual and non-spiritual things that simultaneously constitute God's body and depend on him as their atman. In the section titled "The True Knowledge of the Proper Form of the Supreme Person Who is the Object of Bhakti,"^ Ramanuja discusses the two prakrtis of God. Prakrti is a term that occurs across a wide variety of Indian philosophical thought, but the basic definition of the word is "nature." However, in this case, nature does not entirely do justice to what the term prakrti conveys. Prakrti could be construed as the basic stuff of the universe, but more than this, prakrti can be interpreted to be the force that drives all action in the world. Indeed, Ramanuja says of the lower prakrti that it "is the prakrti of this world consisting of endless various objects, means and occasions of material experience and divided into eight categories, viz. the five primordial elements and their qualities, senses and mind, Mahat and finally Ahamkara.''^ This statement denotes the various things that exist in the world, as well as the faculties that observe the occurrence and existence of these things as it relates to the life of the individual. However, the lower prakrti is not made up of the individual atmans themselves, but "solely consists of the objects experienced by the spiritual beings."^ Ill �Early on in the text, Ramanuja says that Krsna reveals the "doctrine of the atman" to Arjuna so as to overcome his perplexity and inability to carry out his ksatriya dharma. This inability to take action, Ramanuja says, proves that "Arjuna has no insight into the distinct natures of body and atman.He goes on to say that the body "is subjected to development and naturally involves birth and death...the atman is different from the body and immortal: that it is not subject to birth and death.Thus does Ramanuja declare that the atman is the non-dying observer of the lower prakrti, distinct from the physical self, as well as the faculties that allow the detection and use of the things of the lower prakrti. According to Ramanuja the second, higher prakrti is made up of the spiritual beings that experience the lower prakrti, and indeed are the support for the lower prakrti. Ramanuja describes the higher prakrti as "God’s chief prakrti,"^ for it is the observer, or experiencer, of the lower prakrti. Also, this is seemingly the only time in the text when Ramanuja uses the term jiva, a word that is defined as "a spiritual being”. It is unclear from this section whether or not the term jiva is intended to supersede the term atman, but another part of the text may help us resolve this issue. In the “Discussion of Body and Atman" section, Ramanuja says, "the entity atman, which is a spiritual being, pervades the non-spiritual entity which is different from the atman.”^ This statement asserts that an individual atman of the higher prakrti is a spiritual being, or jiva, that pervades the lower prakrti, the type of prakrti which consists of non-spiritual entities. Thus, it would seem that the individual Atmans exist in the higher prakrti, and are separate from the lower prakrti which they pervade. Ramanuja goes on to say that God "is the cause of his two prakrtis,"^ and that the prakrtis themselves are then the cause of all things that occur in the nominal world. Further, "all beings composed of cit and acit, from Brahma to tuft of grass, whether existing in a superior or an inferior condition, originate from these two prakrtis of God, and so they are of God."^ At the beginning of the essay, however, Ramanuja declares that God makes three statements in the Gita about the Atmans and their relationship to God. "1. that there is difference between God and the individual atmans; 2. that there is difference between the individual atmans 112 �themselves; 3. that this difference is absolutely reaL’’^^^ What this seems to mean is that, in light of the assertion that all things originate from the two prakrtis and are thus of God, the world of the two prakrtis is absolutely real, but is different from God himself. Simultaneously, both prakrtis are of God themselves and are supported by Him in the same way that the lower prakrti is supported and pervaded by the atmans of the higher prakrti. So, while the world of the prakrtis is absolutely real and different from God, it still emerges from God only and is in that way dependent upon him, although the prakrtis are different and other than God. Thus the statement, "all spiritual and non-spiritual things, whether effects or causes, constitute God’s body and depend on God who is their atman."ii The path to reach this kind of knowledge is difficult for the practitioner, as it is easy to be led off track by the prakrtis. However, one who practices only karmayoga and is not negligent follows the path towards this knowledge of the nature of God and is considered successful when he is "no longer able to interest himself in the objects of prakrti differing from the atman or in corresponding acts, because naturally he does not experience anything but the atman; for then all delusions have gone." 12 The paths of the yogas are manifold, but their pinnacles are the same. A yogin is said to have reached the highest stage of development when he knows that "the atmans of all creatures are equal when their proper form is separated from prakrti, for all of them have one and the same form, knowledge; inequality is of the prakrti.’’^^ Additionally, the yogin "will view God in all atmans and all atmans in God.”i'^ So, while God is absolutely different from the individual atmans, at this highest stage of yoga this idea is seemingly reversed, as the yogin recognizes that God pervades the individual atmans as surely as the individual atmans pervade the lower prakrti. However, while both prakrtis are pervaded by God, God does not depend on the prakrtis as the individual atmans are dependent on their bodies for sustenance and the like. Indeed, Ramanuja says that "to God his body serves no purpose at all; it serves to nothing but his sport."is The individual atmans, then, are seemingly required to utilize the prakrtis in order to attain knowledge of the nature of atman and God. 113 �While the first half of the text deals with the necessity of realizing that God is absolutely distinct from the two prakrtis, the second half purports to help those who have that realization attain God himself. Ramanuja discusses the four types of people who resort to God, and elevates highest those called jnanin, those who know “the atman as an entity different from prakrti but wish to attain God himself, because they know that God alone is the highest aim to reach.”i6 In the section titled "On the Excellence of the Supreme Person, On the Different Kinds of Jnanins and On the Proper Form of Bhakti,"i^ Ramanuja reiterates his notion that the spiritual and non-spiritual parts of the universe are all equally pervaded by God, and that God does so "in order to reign and maintain them, although they themselves [the spiritual and non­ spiritual beings] are unable to see him. In this way all beings depend on God because they constitute his body.''^^ He further explains the distinction between God and his two prakrtis by stating that God is "not conjoined with them by nature, [but] supports them by his own miraculous power.''^^ God is thus the originator of the prakrtis, but not the cause of the acts of the prakrtis; he only furnished the conditions under which the gunas, the operational forces of prakrti, create inequalities between beings, not the inequalities themselves. This central teaching, of the distinction between God and the prakrtis, despite the fact that the prakrtis originate from God and are pervaded by him, is at the crux of the text, but the attainment of God himself through the practice of bhakti rounds out the text as the last act of the one who is truly devoted to God. At the last, Ramanuja says that "it is only through bhakti that God may be either known by the Shastras, or experienced directly, or approached as he really is."20 The last stage of the jnanin is bhakti, devoting oneself wholeheartedly to God, while remaining firm in the knowledge of the distinction of God and prakrtis. Even low castes and women can come to experience God through bhakti, for "when one has found one’s sole support on God and in virtue of boundless and unsurpassed love enabled one’s mind to experience Him, one shall attain Him.’’2i However, the ability for bhakti to be undertaken by those who do not have the advantage of being able to actively pursue knowledge of the nature of God makes one 114 �question whether knowledge is a necessary part of salvation any longer. If the individual can come to experience God through whole-hearted devotion to Him, then what need is there of any knowledge at all? Endnotes 1. Van Buitenen, JAB. Trans. Ramanuja on the Bhagavadgita. New Delhi: Dass, 1969. 99 2. Ibid., 100 3.Ibid. 4. Ibid., 49 5. Ibid., 49-50 6. Ibid., 100 7. Ibid., 55 8. Ibid., 101 9. Ibid. 10. Ibid., 50 11. Ibid., 101 12. Ibid., 92 13. Ibid., 95 14. Ibid. 15. Ibid., 101-102 16. Ibid., 104 17. Ibid., 18. Ibid., 114 19. Ibid. 20. Ibid., 132 21. Ibid., 121 Primary Text Van Buitenen, J.A.B. Trans. Ramanuja on the Bhagavadgita. New Delhi: Dass, 1969. 115 �Chaucer's Grisild: Constreyned by Maistrie Leah Weed As the beloved fifth husband of the wife of Bath once had been, the clerk of the Canterbury pilgrimage is an Oxford scholar. Like the much-wedded wife, this clerk is well-read and has traveled abroad. The clerk speaks little, but what he does say is “short and quik, and ful of hy sentence.''^ He is enamored of erudition: "For hym was levere have at his beddes heed/ Twenty bookes, clad in blak or reed,/ Of Aristotle and his philosophie,/ Than robes riche, or fithele, or gay sautrie.''^ He is a serious young man who values learning over wealth. The clerk does not pursue riches; indeed, he is unashamed to live at the expense of others. His tale is admittedly taken from another, yet his embellishments of it indicate his quick wit. The clerk's narrative closely follows Petrarch’s, but where Petrarch’s "Griselda" recommends patience in marriage only to wives, the clerk’s additions are in keeping with Chaucer’s recurring theme in The Canterbury Tales of extending this recommendation to husbands. The clerk’s tale seems a clear response to the wife of Bath’s prologue and tale. The wife declares herself an expert on the "wo that is in mariage’’^ and decries the prevalent misogynist literature which denounces women as incapable of fidelity and in need of mastery. She complains that "no womman of no clerk is preysed. The clerk, whan he is oold, and may noght do/ Of Venus werkes worth his old sho,/ Thanne sit he doun, and writ in his dotage/ That wommen kan not kepe hir manage!’’Chaucer’s clerk, telling a tale of extreme "wo” in marriage - one which, however, like the wife’s marriage to her fifth husband, ends happily - acquits himself of the charge the wife of Bath brings against clerks. He retells another clerk’s tale [that of an elderly clerk, in fact) which illustrates a woman’s fidelity in the most trying of circumstances. The wife of Bath quotes Dante to illustrate that children are not necessarily like parents, and that "gentillesse cometh fro God alone.”^ The tale of Grisild which the clerk relates likewise notes that daughters are not necessarily like fathers, and that heredity and education are not the sources of nobility and wisdom. The 116 �clerk concludes his tale and dedicates his envoy’s “song" to "the wyves love of Bathe."^ He acknowledges that scholars rarely praise women and that, while Job gets lots of press, "Ther kan no man in humblesse hym acquite/ As womman kan, ne kan been half so trewe/ As wommen been.”^ The clerk's envoy’s warning to husbands not to test their wives’ patience and his advice to wives to vocally and fiercely defend their interests would seem to directly oppose the moral Petrarch has intended his tale to convey. The clerk has taken a scholar’s tale of wifely patience and tweaked it to challenge jealous husbands’ insistence on mastery and deceit, an emendation likely to be approved of by the wife of Bath. Though Chaucer may well have been familiar with the original version of Griselda’s story in Boccaccio’s Decameron, the version of the story cited by the clerk, which he has clearly memorized and closely translates, is Petrarch’s. That Chaucer was aware of the existence of Boccaccio’s tale and the motivations of Petrarch in translating and expanding it, appears certain. The clerk’s explanation of Petrarch’s reason for telling the tale mirrors his letter to Boccaccio explaining his motivation in translating the story. Petrarch explains in this letter, as the clerk does in his tale, that Griselda’s example of patience should help all persons submit themselves to the will of God. Both Petrarch in his letter to Boccaccio and the clerk in his tale go on to cite the Apostle James’ claim that God tempts no man, then to say, somewhat contradictorily, that God "still may prove us, and often permits us to be beset with many and grievous trials.The clerk notes that God "preeveth folk al day ... And suffreth us ... With sharp scourges of adversitee.”^ The clerk, like Petrarch, explains that God does not test us to enhance His knowledge of our characters or intentions, as He already knows each human’s frailties.Both Petrarch and the clerk indicate that the intention is not that wives should imitate Griselda. However, while Petrarch explains that her patience "seems to me almost beyond imitation," he implies that, if it were achievable, such sufferance would be desirable.^! Chaucer’s clerk, on the other hand, says that, if wives were to emulate Grisild, it would be "importable.’’i2 The clerk tells a tale of extreme wifely obeisance, but in his interjected commentary, he discourages such subjection. 117 �In The Decameron, Boccaccio’s storyteller, Dioneo, prefaces his Griselda tale by describing the actions of the marquis as "senseless brutality,” remarking that "it was a great pity that the fellow should have drawn any profit from his conduct/’^^ Petrarch, in his retelling, does not comparably condemn Walter, though he characterizes the marquis’ inclination to test Griselda’s fidelity as "a desire more strange than laudable.Chaucer’s clerk, however, does forcefully condemn Walter. He interjects into Petrarch’s text exclamations of outrage at the marquis’ treatment of Grisild and small details that highlight the humanity of Grisild and her father, thereby increasing readers’ sympathy for them. This is in keeping with The Canterbury Tales' recurrent concern with the abuses and dishonesty of those in positions of power. Before describing Walter’s initial test of Grisild, the taking of her first child, the clerk insists in an aside to his listeners that "as for me, I seye that yvele it sit/ To assaye a wyf whan than it is no need,/ And putten hire in angv^ssh and in drede.’’^^ In Petrarch’s version the young daughter has been weaned when she is taken, but in Chaucer’s she has just nursed a short time, heightening the sense of the mother’s anguish and dread. Chaucer also inserts the specifics of Grisild’s blessing of her daughter, whom Grisild believes she will not see again, thus highlighting the mother’s grief. When Walter has "caught yet another lest/ To tempte his wyf’ by taking from her their second child, a son, the clerk exclaims, "0 needles was she tempted in assay!/ But wedded men ye knowe no mesure,/ Whan that they finde a pacient creature.”!^ As the marquis wonders at Grisild’s patience at the loss of her children, knowing her to have been a devoted mother, the clerk inserts into Plutarch’s tale a question prompted by outrage: "now of wommen wolde 1 axen fayn/ If thise assayes myghte nat suffise?/ What koude a sturdy housbonde moore devyse/ To preeve hir wyfhod and hir stedefastnesse,/ And he continuynge evere in sturdinesse?’’!^ When Walter is about to ask Grisild to return to her father’s home and make way for his new wife, the clerk denounces this "wikke usage’’!^ of her. The clerk also adds to the tale a wistful memory of their wedding day. Grisild recalls and reminds Walter "how gentil and how kinde/ Ye semed by youre speche and youre visage/ The day that maked was oure mariage!”2o She goes on to note that "Love 118 �is noght oold as whan that it is newe."2i The clerk supplements Petrarch’s tale with Grisild's father’s cursing of "the day and tyme that Nature/ Shoop hym to been a lyves creature/’^^ so distraught is he that, as he had feared, the marquis has had his way with his daughter and disposed of her. The clerk also invents a moving detail: When she returns barefoot and bare-headed, in just her smock, to her father’s home, Grisild’s old clothes no longer fit her.23 The young maiden of the wedding day is no more. While Petrarch’s admiration of Griselda’s wifely forbearance is tempered in the clerk’s telling of her tale by outrage at the way in which she has been mistreated, the message that nobility is not conferred by birth is retained. Boccaccio’s Dioneo, in the original version of The Decameron, notes that "celestial spirits may sometimes descend even into the houses of the poor, whilst there are those in royal palaces who would be better employed as swineherds than as rulers of men.’’^^ Petrarch, followed by Chaucer’s clerk, repeatedly drives home the message "that under low degree/ [is] ofte vertu hid.’’^^ The clerk even suggests a parallel between Grisild and Jesus when he reflects that "God somtyme senden kan/ His grace into a litel oxes stalle.’’^^ The most admirable characters are not necessarily the high-born. The narrator in his prologue speaks most reverently of the poor village parson and his plowman brother. The wife of Bath asserts, "gentillesse [...] descended out of old richesse [...] is nat worth an hen.’’^^ It is of Christ "we clayme [...] oure gentillesse,/ Nat of oure elders for hire old richesse.The person who behaves most virtuously is the most noble. Similarly, education does not ensure wisdom. Grisild, though uneducated, is a wise and effective leader in her husband’s absence. The narrator asks in the prologue, when describing the manciple - a much less admirable character than Grisild - "Now is nat that of God a ful fair grace/ That swich a lewed mannes wit shal pace/ The wisdom of an heep of lerned men?’’^^ As the wife of Bath asserts, "genterye/ Is nat annexed to possession,’’^^ and ones "gentillesse cometh fro God alone.’’^^ Chaucer champions noble deeds and wisdom and argues that the capacity for them is not inherited. He is clearly concerned with the inherent contradiction 119 �between a social order that associates noble birth and wealth with value and a Christianity that embraces poverty. The unjust treatment of women, experienced by Griselda, is noted by many of the storytellers in The Canterbury Tales. In "The Man of Law’s Tale," Constance - like Griselda - patiently endures unimaginable suffering (hers, however, primarily at the hands of evil stepmothers rather than at the hands of her husbands), and still maintains her faith. Though she is an emperor's daughter, her high birth does not afford her independence. Like Emily in "The Knight's Tale," Constance does not have the power to choose her life’s course and notes that "Wommen are born to thralldom and penance,/ And to been under mannes governance."^^ jn "The Physician’s Tale," the virtuous maid, Virginia, notes the injustice of the biblical sacrifice of Jepte’s daughter: as "God it woot, no thing was hir trespass."^^ Virginia is then sacrificed, for the sake of her father’s honor, in comparable fashion. Daughters are disposed of as fathers see fit. And men, whether they place women on pedestals or revile them, have absurd perceptions of them. Sir Thopas, though he is love-lorn and obsessed with unreal chivalric romance, imagines that "in this world no womman is/ Worthy to be" his mate, so goes off to seek an elf-queen.^'^ The merchant has Proserpyne, in conversation with Pluto, belittle Solomon and other misogynist male authors: "I sette right noght, of al the vileynye/ That ye of wommen write, a boterflye!’’35 The merchant refers to the widespread literary argument, so hateful to the wife of Bath, that no wives are true, but also references the record of forbearing wives and martyrs for feminine chastity. Neither body of literature provides a woman much encouragement. The clerk, in the person of the envoy, warns husbands not to test their wives and advises women to assert themselves, as is echoed throughout The Canterbury Tales. Indeed, freedom, generosity, equality (in libido, if not in age), and mutual respect are presented as the basis for a successful marriage. In "The Franklin’s Tale," a knight pledges to his beloved that "nevere in al his lyf he, day ne nyght,/ Ne sholde upon hym take no maistrie/ Agayn hir wyl, ne kithe hire jalousie,/ But hire obeye, and folwe hir wyl in al.”36 As a result of his giving her "so large a reyne,"^'^ she chooses to be his "humble trewe wyf.’’^^ The franklin views marriage as a 120 �partnership, a friendship, and says that "friends everich other moot obeye,/ If wol longe holden comaignye./ Love wol nat been constreyned by maistrie./ Whan maistrie comth, the God of Love anon/ Beteth his wynges, and farewell, he is gon!"39 The franklin says that both women and men desire liberty, and that the one most patient in love has the advantage. Both the young squire and the manciple note that a caged bird, however well cared for and fed, wants to escape and eat worms.'^o Attraction to the new, Chaucer suggests, is natural for man and for woman. The parson, who does not believe those who claim "that they ne be nat tempted in hir body,”'^i advises that "a man sholde here h5mi with his wif [...] in suffraunce and reverence."42 in "The Knight's Tale" - based on Boccaccio’s "II Teseida” - an independent-minded woman winds up happy with a husband who respects her, loves her, and "hire serveth so gentilly."^^ The marriages of Emily and Palamon and of Dorigen and Arveragus illustrate that generosity and mutual respect are key to a successful union. Repeated throughout the Tales is the warning that jealous attempts to master a wife by force are counterproductive. The Shipman, in his tale, notes - as did the wife of Bath - that wives want husbands to be obedient and "fressh abedde.”'^'^ In "The Miller’s Tale” a jealous elderly husband who keeps his wife "narwe in cage”‘^5 jg cuckolded. The young wife Alisoun successfully makes fools of the men who desire her, and is the only character to emerge from the events of the tale unscathed. In "The Reeves Tale” we are told that "jalous folk ben perilous everemo;/ Algate they wolde hire wyves wenden so.”^^ But the miller, a jealous husband and protective father, however perilous he may be, is cuckolded and defied by his daughter. In the "Wife of Bath’s Tale” a rapist learns that what women desire most is sovereignty over their husbands and lovers;^^ is reformed and rewarded when he puts himself in his wife’s "wise governance.In the merchant’s story of a January-May marriage, January imagines that a young wife will be more easily manipulated than an older, wiser woman would be; "certeynly,” he claims, "a yong thing may men gye,/ Right as men may warm wex with handes plye.”^^ Though he calls May his "lady free,”5o January’s "jalousie it [is] so ourageous,/ That neither in halle, n’yn noon oother hous,/ Ne in noon oother place. 121 �neverthemo,/ He nolde suffer hire for to ryde or go/’^i January’s attempts at mastery do not prevent May’s infidelity. In "The Manciple’s Tale’’ Phebus, the flower of knighthood and chivalry, is a jealous husband who murders his wife when he learns of her infidelity, but then is filled with remorse. Throughout The Canterbury Tales, attempts to secure fidelity by force and a short leash are doomed to failure. Petrarch, in his letter to Boccaccio, points to the "precept of Horace in his Art of Poetry, that the careful translator should not attempt to render word for word.’’ Petrarch tells Boccaccio, "I have told your tale in my own language, in some places changing or even adding a few words.’’^2 his retelling, Petrarch adds some words and subtracts others. He removes Boccaccio’s comment that avoidance of marriage is an indication of wisdom. He also removes his accusation that the marquis’ treatment of his wife is irresponsible. Chaucer in turn gives the tale his spin, in his own language, challenging the wisdom of Walter’s cruel and deceptive trial as well as that of the unstinting devotion of Grisild. Chaucer’s clerk asserts that prudent wives should not allow humility to silence them nor give scholars the opportunity to write of them a story like the one told of Griselda.^^ They should not suffer in silence, but stand up for themselves. Endnotes 1. Chaucer, Geoffrey. The Canterbury Tales. London: Everyman Library, Orion Publishing Group, 2004.10:306 2. Ibid., 9:293-296 3. Ibid., 158:3 4. Ibid., 116-117:706-710 5. Ibid., 188:1162 6. Ibid., 255:1170 7. Ibid., 248:932-938 8. Petrarch, Francis. "The Story of Griselda: to Boccaccio." Trans. Peter Sadlon. 10 Sep. 2007. Web. 15 Feb. 2012 <http://petrarch.petersadlon.com/read_letters.html?s=pet06.html>. 9. Chaucer 254:1155-1157 10. Chaucer 254:1159-1160; Petrarch "The Story...” 11. Petrarch, "The Story..." 12. Chaucer 254:1144 13. Boccaccio, Giovanni. The Decameron. Trans. G. H. McWilliam. Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1972. 813 122 �14. Petrarch, Francis. "Petrarch: The Tale of Griselda." Trans. Peter Sadlon. 10 Sep. 2007. Web. 15 Feb. 2012 <http://petrarch.petersadlon.com/griselda.html>. 15. Chaucer 234:460-462 16. Ibid., 237:560 17. Ibid., 239:619-623 18. Ibid., 241:696-700 19. Ibid., 244:785 20. Ibid., 246:852-854 21. Ibid., 246:857 22. Ibid., 247:902-903 23. Ibid., 247:915-917 24. Boccaccio, Decameron. 824 25. Chaucer 233:425-426 26. Ibid., 227:206-207 27. Ibid., 187:1109-1112 28. Ibid., 187:1117-1118 29. Ibid., 18:573-575 30. Ibid., 188:1146-1147 31. Ibid., 188: 1162 32. Ibid., 131:286-287 33. Ibid., 341:242 34. Ibid., 385:791-795 35. Ibid., 285:2303-2304 36. Ibid., 311:746-749 37. Ibid., 311:755 38. Ibid., 311:758 39. Ibid., 311:763-766 40. Ibid., 305-305:610-617; Chaucer 524:163-174 41. Ibid., 550:816-817 42. Ibid., 594:2616-2618 43. Ibid., 82:3104 44. Ibid., 365:177 45. Ibid., 86:3225 46. Ibid., 107:3961-3962 47. Ibid., 185:1138-1139 48. Ibid., 190:1231 49. Ibid., 263:1429-1430 50. Ibid., 281:2138 51. Ibid., 280:2087-2090 52. Petrarch "The Story..." 53. Chaucer 255-256:1189-1197 Primary Texts Boccacio, Giovanni. The Decameron. Trans. G. H. McWilliam. Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1972. Print. Chaucer, Geoffrey. The Canterbury Tales. London: Everyman Library, Orion Publishing Group, 2004. Print. 123 �Petrarch, Francis. "Petrarch: The Tale of Griselda.” Trans. Peter Sadlon. 10 Sep. 2007. Web. 15 Feb. 2012 <http://petrarch.petersadlon.com/griselda.html>. Petrarch, Francis. "The Story of Griselda: to Boccaccio.” Trans. Peter Sadlon. 10 Sep. 2007. Web. 15 Feb. 2012 <http://petrarch.petersadlon.com/read_letters.html?s=pet06.htm 1>. �19111846R00073 Made in the USA Charleston, SC 07 May 2013 �� 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 Early Writings: An Academic Journal Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Meem Library Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 138 pages Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Early writings : an academic journal, 2013 Description An account of the resource The annual academic journal published by the Graduate Institute in Santa Fe. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Carr, Casey (Editor) Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Santa Fe, NM Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2013 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this publication. Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context SF_Early_Writings_2013 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Connolly, Brian (Editor) Ondocsin, Jeff (Editor) Wilhite, Jesse (Editor) Zehnder, Matthew (Editor) Smith, Alycia (Cover Design) Wood, Joan Marie Bernstein, Elliot Leavy, William Olsen, April Wycliff, Grant Mancini, Jules Creighton, Mary Cowling, Kevin Eagan, Anthony Weed, Leah Academic journal Early Writings Student publication https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/294f1edca060f3451fc793df8d122246.pdf 66b4848ba1b9dccc642ef216df17e052 PDF Text Text EARLY WRITINGS AN ACADEMIC JOURNAL ��Early Writings: An Academic Journal St. John's College Graduate Iilstitute Santa Fe, New Mexico 2012 SIJOHN’S College ANNAPOLIS • SANTA FE This project is dedicated to Mary Versace, without whom we would be lost in a haunted wood, children afraid of the night, who have never been happy or good. ��Early Writings: An Academic Journal St. John's College Graduate Institute Santa Fe, New Mexico 2012 Publishers Mary Creighton Casey Carr Jesse Wilhite Editors Mary Creighton Casey Carr Jesse Wilhite Brian Connolly Jeffrey Allen Selection Committee Brian Connolly Jeffrey Allen Kevin Cowling Jeffrey Ondocsin Sky Tallman Caitlin McShea Charles Brogan Max Coscia Jesse Wilhite Casey Carr Cover Design Anastasia Kilani �Contents: A Note About Our Project Mary Creighton, Casey Carr, Jesse Wilhite iv Synergy and the Possibility of Knowledge in Plato’s Meno Jeremy Boor 1 Reductionist Language, Expansionist Soma Jeffrey Ondocsin 15 Because It Feels Wrong: Hume’s Account of Moral Judgment Joshua Falconer 20 Surrender to Poetry: The Unsolved Duel Between Idea and Experience Bethany McGee 27 Kindness in Aristotle’s High-Minded Man Daphne Leveriza 35 11 �A Work in Progress: The Natural Connection in the Land of the Future in Hegel’s "Geographical Basis of History" Jeffrey Allen 41 The Path of the Good King: A Journey from Loss to Renewal and Return in the Mahabharata Turner Resor 46 That Fair Passion: Dejection and Desire in Alexander Pushkin's Eugene Onegin Mary Creighton 58 111 �A Note About Our Project Early Writings: An Academic Journal 2012 marks the second edition of our project in the Graduate Institute at St. John’s College, Santa Fe. This publication is a collection of essays composed by graduate students in both the Eastern Classics and Liberal Arts program. One of the crowning practices of those studying the Great Books is that of inquiry. We find that the passage through any text is both byzantine and yet necessarily careful. Each step is precise, specific, and each is directed by the kind of questions we ask. In our experience studying these texts, we have learned not only to ask careful and precise questions, but also to ask the most demanding and largest questions we could. This collection of essays is compelling proof that students are taking up these questions outside of the classrooms that initially inspired them. Further, students are developing, investigating, and truly grappling with the inquiries that emerged in communion. Consider the questions in this compilation alone: What is the precise meaning of recollection for Socrates? How can language be used to organize the psychic realm? Can we acquire moral judgments through sensory experience alone? How can one find refuge through poetry given the seemingly irreconcilable logo-centric notions of “idea” and “experience”? What kind of man is Aristotle’s “high-minded man” and is his magnanimity at the expense of his kindness? How can Hegel’s notion of Spirit be understood through geography? How does the Mahabharata explain what it means to be a “good” king? And what must a ruler endure to become one? How does Pushkin re-interpret the Christian tale of man’s fall in Eden? What role do passion and desire play in human happiness? Each of these inquiries addresses a “how” or a “why” question. Not only do these inquiries investigate deeper philosophical issues, but they seek to explain the details and inner workings of the ideas at hand. One does not ask, “What makes a good king in the Mahabharata?” but, “How is he good and what psychic and spiritual experiences have made him that way?” One does not ask if geography plays a part in Hegel’s notion of Spirit but “How does a geographically-based culture affect IV �Hegel’s very meaning of Spirit?” These very investigations are the mark of eager minds and their earnest quest toward knowledge. This edition of the Journal was created in the same manner as its pilot edition. Anonymous copies of student submissions were carefully reviewed by a selection committee comprised of members of the Graduate Institute. It is due to their hard work and dedication that this diverse collection exists for you to read today. Editors who submitted to the journal surrendered their voting rights during review of their essay and the occasion of their submission remained confidential. Upon selection, a small team of editors reviewed the works for minor changes and corrections, including grammar and syntax. Next, an even smaller team of publishers designed and formatted the content for publication. Thank you to all those in the student body who have worked so hard to put this project together and to our Graduate Director, Mr. Davis, who continually supports us through all of our endeavors. Your Publishers and Executive Editors, Mary Creighton Casey Carr Jesse Wilhite ��Synergy and the Possibility of Knowledge in Plato's Meno Jeremy Boor jusv ro/wv TOVTOV TOO Xoyiaiiov, m Msvcov, deig. fioipg (paivemi napayiyvopevt] ^ dpexfi oig av napayiyvrjxai- to de oaipsg nepi avrov eiaopeda TOTS, OTav Ttpiv Sttvi TpOTTCp ToiQ dvOpoiTtoiQ napayiyvsxai aperi^ , npoTspov SKixsipr\a(opev amb l^t]T£iv ti ttot ’ scniv dpsTtj. vvv d ’ spot pev &pa noi isvai, av Ss Tama xama dnep avxbg nsTTSiaai neiOe xai rov (fevov rov^e "Awtov, iva npgoTSpog p- cog sav neiapg tovtov, scniv Sti Kai ’Adpvaiovg ovpasig. According to this thinking, 0 Meno, it appears to us that it is by divine dispensation that virtue comes to be with those men to whomsoever it may come. And we will be more certain about this when we apply ourselves first to seeking what virtue is in itself before asking in what manner it comes to be with men. But now it is time for me to go. But do convince your guestfriend Anytus here about these things concerning which you yourself are convinced, so that he may be more gentle. For ifyou should convince him, you will also truly benefit the Athenians. [Meno, Plato 100;b2-c2J* Increasing Virtue by Declaring it Un-teachable Socrates, that old stingray, is befuddling us again. He appears to be couching some immortal intuition (some dpOfj do^a, darkly retained from his hypo-/hyper-cosmic psychic sojourns between lives] between an ostensibly sound conclusion on one hand, and a hopeful bit of moral advice on the other. In so doing, and quite to the point, he utterly contradicts himself. There is a bold, if somewhat hidden, disagreement between the dialogue’s resolution— that virtue is un-teachable, extra-natural, and unaccompanied by knowledge— and Socrates' opinion that Anytus will become meeker if only Meno should convince him of this very thing. It will be odd, if upon conclusion, we see that one can lead a man to virtue by teaching him that virtue cannot be taught. We should certainly investigate what this might mean. We might try to escape this confusion by saying that Socrates is not thinking of virtue at all when he asks Meno to help improve Anytus through argument. Perhaps the meekness that Socrates hopes will come to Anytus is not a part of virtue, or perhaps it does not require the kind of 1 �virtue that is unattainable by natural or didactic means. But the change in character that Socrates predicts does in fact agree with the more definite descriptions of virtue that have appeared in the dialogue. A constant relationship between virtue and good statesmanship has been maintained throughout. The virtuous man is always beneficent; if he is a statesman he will be a good one, valued by the polls. To be virtuous is to be good, to be good is to be beneficent, and the beneficent man guides us rightly in our affairs.i He is therefore good for the polls. Socrates re-invokes this relationship immediately before his parting advice to Meno; "... [virtue] comes to those who possess it as a gift from the gods which is not accompanied by understanding, unless there is someone among our statesmen who can make another into a statesman."^ Socrates believes that Anytus shall be a better statesman, by way of increased meekness, if he learns to see virtue as a divine gift, one beyond man's power to attain through learning.^ But does Socrates give Meno this last advice in earnest? Are we to read him as sincerely believing that Anytus can and will become meeker and more beneficent if Meno can only convince him to stop thinking of virtue as a kind of knowledge that one man obtains from another, and to begin thinking of it as a gift from the gods? Perhaps he is being coy, or Plato is being sarcastic. Given the historical records of both Meno and Anytus, we might be meant to read only tragic irony in Socrates' parting words. The reader is assumed to know that Anytus is going to accuse Socrates before the Athenian court in the irascible way in which he accused the Sophists earlier in the dialogue, showing himself thereby to be anything but npdoq. Whether Meno tried to persuade him or not, Anytus did not become better. He continued in his ways to the lasting detriment of Athens (and perhaps of Socrates, depending on your point of view]. Remembering the stiffness of Anytus' neck, we are to lament the naivete of Socrates, who did not see the vanity of his own counsel. Such counsel Plato only puts in his mouth as a final, historical, and dramatic demonstration of the insurmountable incommunicability ofvirtue.'* On the other hand, Socrates' choice of words implies that he does not merely hope that Anytus will become better if Meno should convince him. He is certain that an improvement will result; "For if you should convince this one, it is the case that you are going to benefit the Athenians"* (cw? eav micjtjg romov, saxiv on xa'i ’AOtjvaiovq ovrfaEiq). "Convincing” and "being meeker” are stated in the subjunctive, but the result of benefit to the polis (which depends on the former] is stated in 2 �the indicative. Anytus may be a difficult case, and Meno might fail to persuade him. But if he does persuade, the results are certain and the increase in virtue implicit. Socrates believes that understanding virtue as a divine gift is morally beneficial, at least as far as Anytus is concerned. The conclusion of the dialogue thus stands: Virtue cannot be taught. But if you manage to teach a bad man this fact, he will get better. To make matters worse, it is difficult to be sure that Socrates is thoroughly persuaded of the truth of his and Meno's resolution concerning the provenance of virtue. He speaks of the conclusion guardedly, making it contingent on the correctness of the initial conditions of inquiry. However, he has accepted these conditions only as a concession to Meno:"... but if we were right in the way we investigated this whole discussion . . . ,"5 "According to this reasoning (Ek ^isv xoiwv xovxov xov Xoyiaixov), it appears to us that virtue comes . . . according to divine fate ... "^ There is still more to learn about this matter, and a greater degree of certainty to be attained. This certainty can only be approached by abandoning the conditions on which the resolution was reached. This Socrates accepted when he conceded to Meno's insistence on seeking how virtue is attained without first having decided what virtue is: 5s aa(peg nspi avxov siaopeda xoxs, oxav npiv axivi xpoKCp xoig a\>9pco7xoig napayiyvsxai dpsxi], npdxspov snixsipdocopsv avxd Cfjxsiv xi Tiox ’ saxiv dpextj. TO The conclusion, while morally beneficial for Anytus, is as valid as its premises, which are in doubt. This is not the first time that Socrates has indicated that some convictions can make us better even if the dialectic that leads to them is questionable. Immediately after the slave-boy experiment, he says: I do not insist that my argument is right in all other respects, but I would contend at all costs both in word and deed as far as I could that we will be better men, braver and less idle, if we believe that one must search for the things one does not know, rather than if we believe that it is not possible to find out what we do not know and that we must not look for it. (86:b7-c2) Socrates is not as concerned with the veracity of his account of learningas-recollection as he is firmly attached to its result; namely, that we can and should learn what we do not know. One must be convinced that we 3 �should seek knowledge because this conviction will make us better. We might be justified in thinking that he has a similar attitude regarding the conclusion that virtue comes to man in no other way but by mysterious divine dispensation [which itself appears simply as an incomprehensible alternative to the more easily conceivable "teaching” and "nature"). Removing the acquisition of virtue from the grasp of teaching and nature produces, in Socrates’s eyes, a morally effective teaching that is well suited to the characters of both Meno and Anytus, regardless of the solidity of the dialectical foundations of the same teaching. None of this is meant to say that Socrates thinks that his and Meno’s conclusion regarding virtue and its acquisition is simply false. Eacp^g, when it refers to assertions or facts, means "sure,” "certain.” When it refers to persons, as in this case, it means "unerring." If we continue the attempt to seek what virtue itself is before asking how it is attained, we will be more sure about the means of attaining it. If this certainty still includes a statement that virtue cannot be taught but is a divine gift, then we will understand such a statement better, having a better idea of what virtue in fact is. But for now we know only that the outcome of our discussion of its attainment is true insofar as the hypothetical discussion [beginning with Socrates' agreement to seek the origin of virtue on Meno’s terms) is valid. But two very different attitudes toward teaching and knowledge have been demonstrated during the dialogue. If there will be a difference in the way we see the conclusion once we have investigated what virtue is, it will likely have to do with the difference between the view of knowledge that Socrates espouses before his concession to Meno, and the one that he adopts in order to bring the discussion to a firm conclusion, as Meno wishes. We shall examine the difference between these two views more thoroughly hereafter. The Concession Since we will be referring not infrequently to what I have called Socrates’ concession to Meno, it would be good to establish that such a concession did occur, and to point out just what was conceded. After being convinced by Socrates that learning is really recollection, and that we will always be better men if we believe that we can find out what we do not know, Meno is almost ready to take up the quest for virtue again, but not quite: Meno: But Socrates, I should be most pleased to hear your answer to my original question, whether we should try [to discover 4 �virtue] on the assumption that virtue is something teachable, or is a natural gift, or in whatever way it comes to men. Socrates: If 1 were in control, Meno, not only of myself but also of you, we would not have investigated whether virtue is teachable or not before we had investigated what virtue itself is. But because you do not even attempt to rule yourself, in order that you may be free, but you try to rule me and do so, 1 will agree with you— for what can 1 do? (86:c8-d9]* Here Socrates quite grudgingly agrees to go on with the discussion in the way Meno wants to proceed. He portrays himself as being forced to do so by Meno's overbearing will and his lack of self-control. Here Meno is not ruling himself, but rather is trying to rule Socrates. This is symptomatic of a state of soul Socrates associates with Meno's lack of freedom. In a single turn of phrase, Socrates and Meno have gone from being of the same mind (6/uovoov/uevf and taking-in-hand to seek in common [Koivfj Cwivy the nature of virtue, to being portrayed as adversaries divided by Meno's perceived insistence on ruling others but not himself. If Socrates sees Meno's failure to rule himself— his failure to be the principle of himself (av aavtov ovS emxsipeig apxsiv, iva Stj s^svOspog — to be a failure of freedom, then Socrates has implied that he himself is in fact free, since he does rule himself, but not Meno: “’AAX si psv sycb ^pxov, & Msvcov, pfj povov spavxov alia xai aov ...." And so Socrates, preserving his internal freedom in submitting to Meno's lack thereof, gives up what has been his main contention for the preceding bulk of the dialogue; that, since he does not know what virtue itself is, he is unable to seek out whether or not it is teachable. Not only has he conceded this point, but he goes on to rescind the outcome that had seemed an important demonstration about the nature of learning. "First, if [virtue] is another sort than knowledge, is it teachable or not, as we were just saying recollectable? Let it make no difference to us which term we use: is it teachable? Or is it plain to everyone that men cannot be taught anything but knowledge?"ii Perhaps there is nothing dangerous about this equation. "Recollection" was, after all, the Socratic picture of what men normally call "learning."i2 But during the demonstration Socrates did not insist that knowledge was not learned, since learning can be another name for recollection. He wanted to show that it was not taught, where teaching is understood as the transmission of quantities of information from a knowing subject to an ignorant one. This is what Socrates strives to show 5 �that he is not doing with the slave-boy. Recollection consists of the soul's gradual elucidation to itself of facts and principles that somehow lie hidden within it, even though the process may be aided by the questioning of an experienced interlocutor. But now, capitulating to Meno's desire to discover how virtue is obtained, Socrates also accepts a view of knowledge that makes it coextensive with teaching. The latter is conceived precisely as Meno always tends to see it: as the transmission of a quantity of information, which can then be easily transmitted to others, perhaps for a fee, or at least for a good reputation. The examples of "teaching” that are given in the post-concession dialogue conform to this view. The conclusion that virtue is not knowledge, and is therefore neither teachable not learnable, is based on premises that Socrates accepts only hypothetically, in order to finally be able to maintain a discussion with Meno that is capable of coming to some sort of conclusion. Socrates speaks of these conclusions guardedly, making them contingent on the correctness of the initial hypotheses: "... but if we were right in the way we investigated this whole discussion . . . "According to this reasoning of the moment (Ek jusv wivvv rovrov too Xoyia/uov), it appears to us that virtue comes ... according to divine fate ... /'14 The main difference between the pre-concession and post­ concession portions of the dialogue seems to lie in the attitude taken toward knowledge and teaching. Socrates strives to bring Meno to his own view of knowledge within the context of a discussion about virtue, while Meno unflaggingly clings to his old attitude, summed up in his repeated requests to have Socrates simply tell him about virtue. Having finally failed to bring Meno around, Socrates accepts Meno’s attitude hypothetically, and the two of them begin to come to conclusions rather rapidly. Simple equations at last begin to be made: Knowledge is what is taught.15 Virtue as a whole or in part is wisdom.Revising this view, knowledge is solidification through reasoning of right opinion.i^ Thinking along with Socrates that a Meno or an Anytus can be morally improved by thinking of virtue as having little to do with their ideas of knowledge, teaching, or nature, we must ask whether there are different ideas of these to be had. And if there are, we should see if this tells us anything about virtue. If we are very lucky, we might have some idea of how to acquire it, which idea may or may not include some more thoroughly explained notion of virtue as a divine gift. 6 �The Language of Knowledge in Meno For those of us who would like to gain a clearer understanding of the intelligible world by attaching ever more precise descriptions of rather elusive concepts to an ever increasing number of old Greek words, the Meno is a frustrating work. Aristotle, in his Nicomachaean Ethics, is kind enough to precisely delineate acocpia, emax^nr], vovq, and (ppovijaig as "dianoetic virtues." Aristotle's waters are never muddied (except in translation) by classing these under such a nebulous and unwieldy term as "knowledge” or "wisdom." But the Socrates of the Meno has little interest in such niceties. Prior to the slave-boy episode, Socrates uses mostly verbs and adverbial phrases to speak of knowledge, and almost always in the negative: [ovSe avrd 6ti kox’ saxl to napanav apsxr\ wy/dvco eidcog). At the conclusion of the slave-boy episode, emart^pt} becomes the favored nominal form for knowledge, being the thing that the slave-boy has discovered within his own soul. Likewise, in the concluding discussion of the relation of knowledge and true opinion, smartjpt] is what opOfj Sd^a may become when clarified and stabilized by causal reasoning. But, in between and throughout, Socrates uses (ppovtjoig, emcrciipr], and vovg interchangeably. These names refer to a single thing, and we know only that, when present, knowledge makes everything in the soul act well. Later, we learn that there is an assistant in this duty, which seems to do most of the work while real knowledge is away. It would seem that the distinction between knowledge and true opinion is the only one Socrates is interested in making. If we are to get at his attitude toward knowledge in order to ask how it differs from Meno’s, and subsequently to inquire what this difference might say about the moral efficacy of the dialogue’s conclusion, then we must look to the distinction between knowledge and true opinion. This distinction is, after all, one of the only things that Socrates would claim to know, if ever he were to make such a claim.i^ Knowledge and Right Opinion Opdfi do^a makes two distinct appearances in the dialogue. Its second entry, right before the conclusion, is the more conspicuous, since it is here that right opinion is plainly contrasted with knowledge, and their relationship elucidated. The explanation of the difference between the two allows us to see how virtue, although it is beneficial, can be something other than knowledge, how it is not necessarily "accompanied by understanding."!^ 7 �But right opinion also has a significant role to play in the slaveboy discussion, and its distinction from knowledge there is not as clear: Socrates: How does it seem to you, Meno? Has he answered with some opinion that was not of his own? Meno: No, but it was his own. Socrates: And wasn't he ignorant, as we said a short time ago? Meno: You speak the truth. Socrates: So were these opinions inside of him, or not? Meno: Yes. Socrates: So a man who does not know has within himself true seemings [opinions] about the things that he does not know?" Meno: It appears so. Socrates: And now these opinions have been put back into motion within him, like a dream. And if someone were to ask him many such things and often, you know that finally he will know about these things as accurately as anyone. [85:b8-dl]* The true opinions that exist in the slave-boy’s soul are the basis of his newly recollected knowledge. They are also evidence of the previous existence of knowledge in his soul. The opinions which existed before Socrates' questioning show that he had knowledge already. The opinions that are the content of his conclusions are part of knowledge, rather than merely a sort of pre-knowledge. The attainment of knowledge requires true opinion as condition, while the process of attaining knowledge produces more true opinions, weeding out false ones. Socrates says that the slave-boy has "had and learned” these opinions or seemings "at some other time.'’2o Knowledge and true opinion do not seem to be separate within the "time” of the extra-human life of the soul. Socrates wants to show that the soul has previously known all things, before being darkened by the ignorance that somehow dogs human intellectual vision. He has no problem calling the things that are 8 �attained independently of this state of affairs "opinions" or "seemings." The strict distinction between knowledge and true seeming that obtains at the dialogue’s end has no bearing in the realm of extra-human learning; for, that kind of learning, which precedes and enables human learning, involves no processes of recollection, nor perhaps any "tying-down" through causal reasoning. If the process of recollection which we call learning is a progress from one true opinion to more true opinions, destroying false ones as we go, and if this process is evidence of the pre-subsistence of knowledge within the soul, then the otherworldly attainment of the knowledge (or seeming) that is the basis and precondition of learning within human life cannot be another process of recollection, nor can it be a transfer of information from the knowledgeable to the ignorant. In that case, Socrates’ account would result in an infinite regress. The learning that took place during "the time when he was not a human being”2i must rather have been a sort of “beholding all things, both here and in Hades.’’22 It is called "learning" not in the sense of recollection, but in the sense of direct experience of the things that now need to be recollected. Synergic Learning and the Theory of Recollection We have already pointed out that Socrates believes more firmly in that which the recollection account intends to demonstrate than he believes in the literal truth of the account.23 The conclusion that knowledge is possible precisely because it is somehow hidden in the immortal soul is one of only two absolute convictions which Socrates espouses in the Meno. The other is the difference between knowledge and right opinion. Given the hypothetical and illustrative value of the recollection account, it will not be surprising if we note that Socrates is not strictly faithful to Pindar as a mystagogue or religious authority. A Pindarian fundamentalist he is not. The poetic-mythological quotation from Pindar, while it provides a starting point for Socrates’ reflections, is not taken seriously as an account of the goings-on in the underworld. The poem says only that some souls are allowed to return in the ninth year, and that these become great men, but Socrates infers that all souls are in fact travelling all over the place all the time, that all are continuously reborn, giving them plenty of time to learn everything and forget it again. This means also that all souls are capable of gaining knowledge (and, perhaps, greatness). Beginning with a pious belief in a religious myth, Socrates proceeds to a generalized belief about the soul and its potential for knowledge, and finally to the categorical assertion that, "the truth about 9 �things that are is always in our soul, so that the soul should be immortal, so that we should always boldly take up the task of seeking calling to mind again what we do not happen to know at the moment, that is what we do not remember.”24 Then he declares that we should cleave to the notion of the possibility of knowledge for its morally edifying effects, even if his argument for it is not entirely correct. Ultimately, the notion of transmigration of souls is no more essential or defining to his final conclusion about the soul’s immortality than the poem is to his statements about the rebirth of all souls. The important thing is not that souls fly around learning things in order to recollect them during various lifetimes, but that the presence in the soul of true opinions and the ability to reason about them is logically inseparable from the conviction that the soul is immortal and is connected to a world that transcends and (at least logically] pre-exists the state of ignorance in which the soul now finds itself. In fact, if we were to press the notion of recollection "from another time" as if Socrates meant the soul had learned everything simply by being around for so long, we would find that we must indeed mean something more fundamental than this. If, instead of saying that the potential for knowledge about geometry inheres in the slave-boy’s soul because of its connection to an immortal world, we say that he knows it simply because he learned it in a previous life, then a soul that has not had a geometry lesson either in Hades or in some earthly location will not be able to "recollect" the Pythagorean theorem. Only those who have been good shoemakers previously will become good ones now, etc. But the immortality of the soul that is indicated by its potential for recollection is more than its existence throughout an indefinite expanse of time. The slave-boy learned geometry "when he was not a human being," that is, during a time when his experience of his own nature was not subject to death or ignorance. The "truth about beings" did not come to the soul at a certain previous point, but is always [ad] in the soul. This seems indeed to mean that it was never absent from the soul but belongs to it simply according to its immortality, as a participant in a meaningful, ordered, and beautiful cosmos. It is the potential of the soul to proceed further and further into a truth that is inherent in it, the recognition of which is inseparable from the fact of the soul’s immortality. The right opinions of the slave-boy "subsist inside" [ssmv') him, regardless of his state of ignorance or forgetfulness. If we are right about this, then it is also the case that the knowledge (or right opinion) which the slave-boy latently possesses has never been given to him from without, at least not by another "human 10 �being," at least not while he was a human being. The potential for knowledge is evidence of a divine aspect of the soul, or of the soul’s divine origin. When Socrates says that he would not maintain that his argument is correct in all respects, he may even mean that all of it can go (even the reincarnation and the extra-human "time"], so long as we maintain that the clear notions we find in our souls, even while we are unable to "tie them down" by causal reasoning, are evidence of an immortal aspect to the soul that must be believed in and cultivated. All souls, even the souls of slave-boys, can participate in this process of discovery, of recollecting, what rightly pertains to them. Knowledge, that which clarifies and establishes right seeming, is the soul’s attainment of what properly belongs to it by nature, regardless of how far it may have strayed from participation in its own immortality. The soul that recognizes its ignorance and begins to know does not become what it was not, but what it always was. "If, then, the truth about the things that are is always with us in our soul, the soul would then be immortal... .’’^s This conclusion, which Socrates believes can make us "better, braver, and less idle," 26 is the only thing essential to the recollection argument. The soul that recollects is recollecting not only knowledge, but also its proper nature as an immortal being. The process of recollection and the tying-down by causal reasoning that it entails, are themselves means of re-obtaining the simplicity of vision that belongs to the knowing soul according to its immortality. Teaching If knowledge inheres in and belongs to the immortal soul in spite of any ignorance it might now be experiencing, then it must belong in the same way to every soul, regardless of each soul’s present level of recollection or even its personal aptitude for the process. The true opinions that are in a soul but have not yet been "put back in motion" are in every soul, even if they are not active, and they can all be recollected and made active. Thus, Socrates takes pains first of all to employ a slaveboy for his demonstration, and secondly to point out that if the slave-boy keeps being asked questions he will know geometry as well as anyone. This means that knowledge does not properly belong to anyone in an exclusive sense, even if one happens to have a piece of it now while another does not. Knowledge is not something like a possession which one man can give to another. Everyone somehow has it, even the ignorant, and the teacher must not presume himself to be giving 11 �something to the student. He is only showing him what he already possesses. Thus Socrates insists that he is not "teaching" the slave-boy, since for Socrates "teaching" means the transfer of an opinion, the giving of a piece of information that was not previously present in the learner. This meaning for SiSaaKcdia is kept quite consistently by Socrates, which makes it a ^^ bit suspicious when he conflates "teachable" and recollectable during his concession to Meno. If we want to call what Socrates does with the slave-boy "didactic," we must concede that we mean something different by the word than Socrates does here. The act of the learner and his questioner is a cooperative one, a single act of elucidation in which both participate, and which assumes a common divinely oriented nature. While we might object that Socrates asks the slave-boy "leading questions," and therefore does in fact give him information, Socrates would not consider this a point against his conviction about learning. Since the slave-boy is able to answer every query according to his own understanding, according to whatever true and indubitable seemings are present to him in his soul, Socrates sees the new information as coming as much from the slave-boy as from himself. And, more importantly, from the immortal nature of the soul, as well as from nature as a whole, which is "all akin." The questioner and the learner share a single nature, one that somehow contains within it the truth about the things that are" at all times, even when it is not aware of this truth and cannot explain it. Moreover, if the slave-boy were to accept the hidden information suggested by Socrates without relating it to the notions already clear to him, he would be neither knowing nor recollecting it, but only opining it (and that in a way inferior to what he already opined according to the true opinions that his soul has retained on its own]. Such opinions, according to the later account of knowledge and true opinion, would not stay long in the slave-boy’s soul. According to Socrates account of the soul, real learning, which does not come from "teaching," can only be a synergic process. Any notion of teaching as the mere transfer of information violates the basis for belief in the possibility of knowledge, namely, that it is inherent in the soul, even while we are ignorant. Learning can be the self-elucidation of a single soul or a co-operation between two souls sharing a single natural condition and goal. But it can never be a transaction after the manner of a sale, one man giving to another what he did not already possess, that which Socrates calls "teaching." It is under terms of sale, transfer, and acquisition that Socrates persistently speaks of both teaching’ and learning after his concession to Meno. 12 �In his interactions with Meno, Socrates emphasizes the synergic nature of the search for knowledge, contrasting it with eristic, unfriendly and divisive attitudes towards philosophic inquiry: [I]f the one asking me were one of the wise, eristic and competitive, then I would say to him "I have answered. And if I don't speak rightly, then you must take up the argument and refute me." But if some friends, like you and I are now, should want to have a discussion with one another, then they must answer more meekly [npaoxepovy’ and dialectically. (75:c8-d2)* Where "teaching" means the transfer of information or knowledge [as a sort of commodity or possession) between men, both virtue and knowledge are entirely un-teachable. "Knowledge" in this case is something one has, wields, and might even sell. But, on the other hand, if knowledge is something mysteriously inherent in the soul, which the soul somehow has within itself without having yet comprehended it, then we might hope that the same is true of virtue. This would not make virtue any less a divine gift, since knowledge [absent of its dependence on a transactional account of teaching) is also something of a gift to the soul. The first attainment of knowledge somehow preceded the soul's human experience. The pre-existence of knowledge is the possibility of knowledge. A man who sees knowledge [or virtue) along the lines of a possession to be attained cannot be helped except by beginning to think of it as unattainable by human means. These efforts are, after all, based on a state of need and self-defensiveness that cannot allow one to make the declaration of ignorance, to submit to the "numbedness" that is the beginning of real knowledge. The same constraints of acquisition [or, rather, participation) apply to both virtue and knowledge. One can neither have it nor teach it for oneself, but only for all, and only as a matter of participation in a nature common to all men, a nature that is both prior to and perfecting of the common human experience, benighted as it finds itself by the mixture of true and false impressions and seemings. * indicates author's own translation. 13 �Endnotes 1. Viz. 98:27-10 2. 99:e6-100:a2 3. Plato thus places Socrates (and, at least potentially, Meno) in the running for virtue-teacher and statesmen-maker, even as Socrates declares that no such teacher exists. 4. (heavy sigh] 5. 99:e2* 6. 100:b2* 7. 86;c4 8. Ibid. 9. 86:d6 10. 86:d2 11. 87;b9-c3 12. Viz. 83:d2 13. 99:e2 14. 100:b2* 15. 87:c2 16. 89:a3 17. 98:a8 18. 98;b2-5 19. 99:e9 20. Viz. 85:e7 and 86:al 21. 86:a3* 22. 81:c6* 23. Viz.86:b5 24. 86;bl-4 25. 86:bl 26. 86:b8 27. Unlike Anytus, who lacks npgidzriTog. Primary Text Plato. Meno. Trans. G.M.A Grube. Indianapolis: Hackett, 2002. 14 �Reductionist Language, Expansionist Soma Jeffrey Ondocsin An oral tradition, disseminated by clans of priests, The Rig Veda is a text that relies on the efficacy of the spoken word for the success of any ritual action. Passed down orally from guru to student for centuries, it is highly likely that hymns propagated by myriad and diverse families of the priestly class were compiled and reorganized into their present orientation. This has allowed for a bevy of contradictions to spring up in the text, lending it an air of richness and mystery that has fueled enduring interest. In a tradition defined by oral retention and the sacred nature of speech uttered during sacrificial rites, it comes as no surprise that there are numerous iterations of the power of speech, even going so far as to deify it. Speech, or more simply, language, is seen as an empowering, creative force that provides a framework of meaning for the Vedic world. Out of this framework come the various depictions of the creation of the universe, the genesis of the gods, and their effect on the world, as well as the role of the priestly class in undertaking sacrifices on behalf of their community. To a large extent, it would seem that the nature of language is to define, to delineate and to create the world as it is experienced and understood by humans. However, some of the hymns, particularly those that expound upon the ritualized consumption of soma, seem to contradict other ideas of speech as seminal in the creation of the experienced world. In these rituals the user moves beyond the conventions of language and society, and experiences the world directly without the reducing valve of speech ingrained by society. Hymn 10.125 is a logical jumping off point for exploring the idea of speech as the architect of the experienced world. Consider verse seven, for example. Verse seven reads, "I gave birth to the father on the head of this world. My womb is in the waters, within the ocean. From there I spread out over all creatures and touch the very sky with the crown of my head.”i Verse eight continues, "I am the one who blows like the wind, embracing all creatures. Beyond the sky, beyond this earth, so much have I become in my greatness.”^ All that exists in the world of humans must be defined by speech in order for it to be known. Even those things that exist beyond the experienced world come to be understood by language. This is the very cornerstone of how Vedic humans understood and interacted with their world. Language, both as it is utilized in ritual as well as in the experiences of daily life, has a tremendous impact on the 15 �ways that people can understand the world around them. Indeed, as verse four states, the one who eats food, who truly sees, who breathes, who hears what is said, does so through me . . . Listen, you whom they have heard: what I tell you should be heeded."^ Experience cannot be talked about, let alone experience, without the focus and commonality provided by the power of language to delineate its boundaries. If I were to i^ake the argument that my word for "sun" is different from your word for "sun," then it would be possible that through our different notions of what a "sun" is, we would have a different experience of the fundamental nature of reality. However, our different experience of what we call "sun" is shattered by this notion of a commonly held and expressed image of sun. The attempts of the individual to assert himself in a way that differs that differs from the norm established by society are broken once people can come to talk about an idea in shared terms. This is the nature of speech, it would seem, in the Rig Veda. Speech is granted the power of creation by virtue of the power that naming a thing has over given conceptions of that thing. Thus, one could argue that speech functions as a reducing valve for the burgeoning realm of existence, delineating the boundaries of things through the power of naming. But speech was created by the sages and disseminated among the people simultaneously. Hymn 10.71 develops this seemingly contradictory idea of speech as both created and creating. In the first verse the poet states, "when they set in motion the first beginning of speech, giving names, their most pure and perfectly guarded secret was revealed through love."^ It can be understood from this verse that when the sages gave names in the beginning, they were residing in a position of superior understanding about the nature of things and through naming were able to extend their knowledge throughout society. Their love for their fellow humans manifested itself in the creation of commonly held notions for the experienced world, allowing people to share together in this world through the power of ritual language. This is further expressed in the second verse, where the poet says, "when the wise ones fashioned speech with their thought, sifting it as grain is sifted through a sieve, then friends recognized their friendships. A good sign was placed on their speech."5 Here, the image of grain sifted through a sieve is particularly demonstrative of the assertion that the power of speech lies in its limiting function. Language has power through its ability to define the boundaries around difficult concepts in a sense "creating" them. The wise ones were aware of this power and were consequently careful in their use of language to describe the experienced world. This can perhaps explain the seeming inability of characters in the Mahabharata to take back their own 16 �speech and vows, even when appropriating that speech would negatively impact their lives. However, despite the power accorded to language, it is in the soma ritual in particular that the practitioner moves past the realm of what can be understood and described by language. Despite the use of speech by humans, there exists much in the world that cannot be effectively described through language— things so ineffable that they defy the categorization and certainty that language seeks to impose on them. Hence, verse seven of hymn 10.129: "[WJhence this creation has arisen— perhaps it formed itself, or perhaps it did not— the one who looks down on it, in the highest heaven, only he knows— or perhaps he does not know.'’^ But as can be seen from many of the soma hymns, consumption of this substance results in the user denying, or perhaps defying, the power of language to delimit ideas. The poet of hymn 8.48 starts out by saying, "I have tasted the sweet drink of life, knowing that it inspires good thoughts and joyous expansiveness to the extreme,”^ qualities that the reducing valve of speech does not seem to possess. Soma allows the individual an opportunity to break through the limitations of speech and experience "joyous expansiveness to the extreme," a state perhaps encountered in no other way. Further on the poet says, "when you penetrate inside, you will know no limits . . . We have drunk the Soma; we have become immortal; we have gone to the light; we have found the gods."^ Soma allows for an experience of that which is ineffable, that which language fails to describe or, by its very nature, is incapable of expressing. Soma seems to be something akin to a wilderness state, easily as capable of delivering a transcendent experience for individuals as of leaving them in a terrifying domain where the foundation of all their civilized knowledge and experience is meaningless. The soma experience is in its nature complimentary to an understanding of the universe solely through the medium of speech and could be considered a perfect antithesis to the structured, logical nature provided by a linguistically organized understanding of the world. Both the ritual power accorded to speech and the transcendent power of the soma experience, if considered complementary in a Vedic religious experience, play roles in the creation of the experienced world of the Vedic individual. Boundaries of expression are necessary, or else the individual would never be able to relate to or understand the others around him. Equally as requisite as language for society, however, is the experience that allows the individual to recreate his world unconstrained by speech. Without soma, or some other transcendent experience, the individual cannot help but be ruled by the linguistic and other conventions of his time. Again, however, one must consider the 17 �importance of speech as a creation. Hymn 10.136 advances the notion that speech is created through transcendent experience. "Long-hair holds fire, holds the drug, holds sky and earth. Long-hair reveals everything, so that everyone can see the sun. Long-hair declares the light."® The figure of Long-hair" possesses an understanding of all that is present in the experienced world and through the medium of the transcendent drug experience He "creates" the world around him. Long-hair knows the reality of the experienced world, but must turn to the power of speech to disseminate the understanding he has of his universe. Speech could then be said to emerge from the understanding of the experienced world gained through a transcendent drug experience. Indeed, the poet says Long-hair declares the light" [emphasis added], thus stating that just as Long-Hairs experiential knowledge of light is a necessary requirement hcuZ of speech While at first glance the transcendent properties of the soma experience seem to be independent of structured speech, I believe that the two are fundamentally linked. They are fundamentally linked through the equal desire of the individual to use both methods of experiencing the world to create understanding among humans. It is an experience that allows the individual to transcend the normal reality he inhabits and return with new insight, enriching the fabric of his society. The boundaries of language can then be extended to encompass the new experience and insight, granting speech the power of new ideas and preventing its stagnation. Speech determines what individuals can understand about their world, but soma imbues speech with new life, ensuring that new and dynamic understanding is continually disseminated throughout society. Endnotes 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. Doniger, trans. pp. 63 Ibid. Ibid. Ibid., 61 Ibid. Ibid., 25-26 Ibid.,134 Ibid. Ibid.,137 18 �Primary Text Doniger, Wendy. Trans. The Rig Veda. London: Penguin Books, �Because It Feels Wrong: Hume's Account of Moral Judgment Joshua Falconer Is it possible to distinguish between moral good and evil through reason alone, or must there be some other principle necessary to make this distinction? In support of the latter possibility, David Hume argues that since vice and virtue are not discoverable merely by reason, or the comparison of ideas, it must be by means of some impression or sentiment they occasion, that we are able to mark the difference betwixt them."i From the other side of the debate, Thomas Reid contends, "In the approbation of a good action, therefore, there is feeling indeed, but there is also esteem of the agent; and both the feeling and the esteem depend upon the judgment we form of his conduct."2 This paper will set out the significance and meaning of Hume's claim, followed by a careful interpretation of the dialectic. I will then frame Reid’s objections, respond on Hume’s behalf, and in the end argue that although Reid's criticisms ultimately fail to sink Hume’s argument, they posit a starting point for further criticism. Hume s ethical system springs from the nomenclature and method of the British empiricist tradition. As Bertrand Russell notes, "he developed to its logical conclusion the empirical philosophy of Locke and Berkeley, and by making it self-consistent made it incredible."3 As Reid observes,^ the epistemological claims of Descartes and Locke led to the belief that secondary qualities of a body, such as heat or color or taste, are mere impressions of the mind, not in the object itself. Berkeley further applied this notion to primary qualities as well, such as extension and motion. The epistemological claims were carried over to notions of taste, then beauty, and then naturally to morality. This debate over whether moral judgment derives from reason or sentiment was unprecedented, as both Hume and Reid observe.^ What is at stake here? According to Reid, the following consequence issues from Hume’s theory: If what we call moral judgment be no real judgment, but merely a feeling, it follows, that the principle of morals which we have been taught to consider an immutable law for all intelligent beings, have no other foundation but an arbitrary structure and fabric in the constitution of the human mind. Thus by a change in our structure, what is immoral might become moral, virtue might be turned into vice, and vice into virtue.^ If Hume is correct in his claim that no moral judgment can result without an antecedent impression, then the common way of referring to morally good or evil actions as reasonable or 20 �unreasonable is an illusion. This notion is contrary to the ordinary sense of morality in all tongues and at all times, as Reid might put it. What are moral judgments according to Hume? To call any action or character praiseworthy or blameworthy, virtuous or vicious, good or bad— these are all examples of pronouncing moral approbation or disapprobation, respectively. When we attribute any such judgment to an action or character, do we mean to say that they are matters of fact existing in the object itself— a real relation that exists with respect to the objects in consideration? If so, then they may be properly be called objects of reason or of the ideas. Otherwise, they are called objects of impression or sentiment. This distinction between ideas and impressions involves the two kinds of perceptions of the mind. From this basic distinction, Hume draws the conclusion that it is not by means of our ideas, but rather of our impressions, that we form moral approbation or disapprobation. Hume's theory of moral judgment posits the following interpretations of forming moral judgment: (i) the non-propositional interpretation, (ii) the personal point of view, and [mj the common point of view. By interpreting these three methods of forming moral judgment, I intend to inform a critical discussion thereof. The non-propositional interpretation: Hume is well known for the claim that it is impossible to derive "ought" statements from "is” statements. This means that moral judgments cannot be derived from non-moral facts. In vain would one attempt to deduce a "right” or "wrong” from the propositional facts tied to any event that would elicit moral judgment. If one were to steal a painting from a museum, for instance, one may list as many true or false propositions about the event, such as the circumstances of the thief, what his motives were, or how he did it, as one liked, but such facts in themselves would never obtain something called a "vice.” "The vice entirely escapes you, as long as you consider the object,” says Hume. "You never can find it, till you turn your reflection into your own breast, and find a sentiment of disapprobation, which arises in you, towards this action.”^ That is, the action itself may cause or provoke certain feelings in oneself which vary according to force. We sense these feelings in a way that is analogous to the other senses. Impressions of the visual field are effected by the sense of sight, just as impressions of morality are effected by the moral sense, or the conscience. To call something "beautiful” is merely to say that it is pleasing to the eye; likewise to call an action virtuous is merely to say that it is agreeable to the moral sense, according to Hume. The personal point of view: It may be a true proposition to say, "I (I) (II] 21 �feel disapproval about the theft." But Hume thinks that to call the statement, The thief should not have stolen," a true or false proposition is to use words in a vulgar way. For the statement suggests that the subject "the thief’ has the real property that he "should not have stolen." But how could the thief have such a property in a true and meaningful way? When you really break down this sort of moral judgment, Hume argues, all you really mean is that you are expressing your own feeling of disapproval that the action: "So that when you pronounce any action or character to be vicious, you mean nothing, but that from the constitution of your nature you have a feeling or sentiment of blame from the contemplation of it."8 In order to more thoroughly understand Hume’s concept of moral judgment, we must also grasp his sense of moral motivation, for what we know about morality is directly informed by the moral sense, and the feelings of the moral sense involve moral motivation. Hume thinks that reason is incapable of either motivating action or of opposing the passions. The role of reason, then, is merely to inform us as to the best way to achieve the ends our passions set for us. One way it accomplishes this is by associating causes and effects. If a past action has caused us pain, then the memory of that pain informs our passion such that we are motivated not to repeat the same action. This is an example of how feelings of the moral sense accompany moral motivation. These feelings of unease or disapproval are that which we refer to when we pronounce moral disapprobation. Likewise, those objects we associate with pleasure will produce in us a judgment of moral approbation. In this sense Hume follows the Hobbesian notion of forming judgments from self-interest alone, but as will be discussed later, his system includes a concept unaccounted for in Hobbes’ theory. (Ill) The common point of view. In certain cases, there is a way to acquire a better judgment of a given action than would be possible if restricted to the first-person perspective. By means of a hypothetical outside point of view, we may imagine how one would react if she were immediately affected by a given action or character. This is especially useful when personal bias gets in the way of forming a clear judgment. For instance, Harriet sees that Rodney has just helped an old woman cross the street. Harriet holds a grudge against Rodney, so that she views this action with bitter disapproval— "What is he trying to prove?" But suppose Harriet, for whatever reason, wishes to form a better judgment. She cannot do this herself, so she must imagine how an observer untainted by her paradigm would react to the event. In this way, she may attain a theoretical knowledge even as her feelings may run counter to it. 22 �This is what Hume meant when he said, "The good qualities of an enemy are hurtful to us; but may still command our esteem and respect. ‘Tis only when a character is considered in general, without reference to our particular interest, that it causes such a feeling or sentiment, as denominates it morally good or evil.’’^ To restate, Hume thinks that moral judgments (0 refer to matters of fact, not about the characters or actions in consideration, but rather about the sentiment of the one pronouncing the moral judgment; [ii] are produced merely by feelings that accompany the moral sense with reference to self-interest; and (m] in some cases require an outside hypothetical perspective for a clearer judgment. Having interpreted these three methods of forming moral judgment, let us now consider some of Thomas Reid's criticisms, which apply directly to (i] and (ii), and indirectly to (m]. To frame the objections, recall the claim in question: "When you pronounce any action or character to be vicious, you mean nothing, but that from the constitution of your nature you have a feeling or sentiment of blame from the contemplation of it."i“ Reid agrees that a feeling of blame accompanies one’s moral judgment of an action or character. But this feeling is entirely dependent upon one's judgment that the character in consideration acted contrary to reason. There is here an unreduced notion of "real” judgment that is both ontologically and logically prior to the notion of feeling. Therefore, it is not the case that all claims of moral judgment mean nothing, but that one has a sentiment of approval or disapproval from the contemplation of it. To clarify this point, Reid posits two propositions referring to a case known by both the speaker and the listener:^ (a] "Such a man did well and worthily, his conduct is highly approvable.” (b] "The man’s conduct gave me a very agreeable feeling.” Reid interprets Hume’s claim above to infer that (a) does not contain any property that is not contained in (b). Reid denies this for two reasons:i2 (1) "The first expresses plainly an opinion or judgment of the conduct of the man, but says nothing of the speaker. The second only testifies a fact concerning the speaker, to wit, that he had such a feeling." (2) "... the first may be contradicted without any ground of offence. 23 �such contradiction being only a difference of opinion, which, to a reasonable man, gives no offence. But the second speech cannot be contradicted without an affront; for, as every man must know his own feelings, to deny that a man had a feeling which he affirms he had, IS to charge him with a falsehood." Reid summarizes his objection as follows: "This doctrine, therefore at moral approbation is merely a feeling without judgment, necessarily carries along with it this consequence, that a form of speech, upon one of the most common topics of discourse, which either has no meaning or a meaning irreconcilable to all rules of grammar or rhetoric, is found to be common and familiar in all languages and in all ages of the world while How would Hume respond to such criticism? Would he think that Reid gave a correct interpretation of his theory? If that were granted would the objection sink his argument? Perhaps the argument could be saved given that Hume never claimed to commit to ordinary usage He was committed rather to the abstruse, philosophical, or precL meaning of terms in order to codify a nomenclature unclouded by the vagaries of common usage. senes ui Otherwise, Reid's interpretation approximates the effect that "moral approbation is merely a feeling without judgment."i4 That said, is there a real difference between (a] and (b) about which Hume is silent? Let us consider (IJ and (2J, beginning with the latter. Is (2) true? Not obviously. It does not take much reflection to realize how easy it is to obtain examples m which a judgment statement (a] may have more or less grounds of offense as a feeling statement (b). So let us reject (2]. Is [11 bullet ordinary usage problem. Hume could bite the bullet and affirm that his abstruse use of terms does go against the common sense usage, and thereby represents a completely original yet accurate means of describing human psychology There is a stronger sense to (1) that Reid himself does not developf excellent starting point for further criticism. It is R.fh 7^ the conduct of the man in terms of virtue Rather than reducing moral adjudication to terms of sense, why not consider it m terms of excellence? We know, as a matter of fact, who is the fastest man in the world, given that "the fastest man in the world" refers to the one who currently holds the world record for the 100-meter sprint namely, Jamaica's Usain Bolt. In like manner, why can we not say who is onest, given that "an honest person" is one who habitually acts in ways 24 �that are honest and trustworthy? The same might be said for the other virtues and vices. Moral judgment then becomes a useful measurement of human conduct given certain parameters. Of course, Hume takes a similar notion of virtues into account, but it remains to be seen whether Hume considered virtuous qualities to be properties that truly belong to the person in question. In this sense, then, could not moral judgment be a way of describing a true or false proposition regarding another person’s virtue or vice? To push the analogy, when we say that the thief acted wrongly, we could take this to mean that the thief acted poorly in terms of a certain kind of social performance. If we follow this line of thinking, however, the question becomes "What kind of social performance?” One could steal or kill very effectively. If the objection holds, then there must be another, deeper source for substantiating the content of moral judgment, if indeed such a thing exists. Endnotes 1. Hume, David. A Treatise of Human Nature. Reprinted in Raphael, D.D., ed., British Moralists: 1650-1800. London: Oxford University Press: 1969. pp. 505. 2. Reid, Thomas. Essays on the Active Power of Man. Reprinted in Raphael, D.D. ed., British Moralists: 1650- 1800. London: Oxford University Press: 1969. pp.917. 3. Russell, Bertrand. The History of Philosophy. New York: Simon & Shuster, 1972. pp. 659. 4. Reid, 908 5. Hume, 907; Reid, 907 6. Reid, 944 7. Hume, 503 8. Ibid. 9. Ibid. 10. Ibid. 11. Reid, 919 12. Ibid., 920 13. Ibid., 924 14. Ibid. Primary Texts Hume, David. A Treatise of Human Nature, Reprinted in Raphael. Raphael, D. D., ed., British Moralists: 1650-1800. London: Oxford University Press, 1969. 25 �Reid, Thomas. Essays on the Active Power of Man, Reprinted in Raphael 26 �Surrender to Poetry: The Unsolved Duel Between Idea and Experience Bethany McGee Throughout Goethe’s Botanical Writings, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe struggles to understand the seemingly irreconcilable divide betv^een experience and idea. He attempts to delineate both realms against common notions and in relation to the Kantian philosophical tradition of transcendent concepts. Scientific endeavor strives to unite the two, but the effort is continually frustrated. In his essay "Indecision and Surrender,’’! Goethe claims that in order to navigate this division, "we justifiably take flight into poetry" and then proceeds to close the piece with a short poem. How are we to understand this particular poem as a reply to the essay and the "surrender" to poetry as a "justifiable" response to "indecision” in general? A "definite chasm appears to be fixed," claims Goethe, "between idea and experience." The nature of this division is illuminated by understanding the necessary limitations of human experience. We are bound to face episodic sensory impressions of our surroundings, determined not only by the passage of time but also by our state-of-mind and subjective standpoint. Through experience we come to understand individual parts of our world, yet these flashes of comprehension remain isolated and it is left to the imagination to connect them in a meaningful manner. "An idea," on the other hand, "is independent of time and place.” It is with his notion of ideas that Goethe feels he is misunderstood by his contemporaries, and especially by Schiller. He is taken aback when Schiller claims that the theory of The Metamorphosis of Plants^ "is not an empiric experience, it is an idea." "How could any experience," Schiller continues ("in the manner of a trained Kantian’’], "ever be gauged by an idea, for the characteristic thing about an idea is that it can never be congruous with an experience." The issue seems to be that Goethe firmly believes his ideas are rooted in years of collecting empiric observations, rather than transcendent a priori concepts. The "[bond sealed] through the great duel between the objective and the subjective’’^ with Schiller, however, seems to have affected Goethe’s conception of ideas. He concedes that "the philosopher [presumably Kant] might probably be right who asserts that no idea can completely coincide with experience." 27 �Goethe's understanding of the term "idea," and its relationship to the Kantian conception, remains somewhat obscure. It is clear that the “idea" must provide a means through which man can grasp at comprehending the whole. "In an idea,” he explains, "the simultaneous and the successive are intimately bound up together, whereas in an experience they are always separated." Here we see the importance of ideas and the indispensable role they must play not only in scientific pursuits, but in day-to-day existence. Without ideas to organize and make sense of the multitude of perceptions we receive at every moment, life would be chaotic. We need ideas to connect isolated events, understand causes, make predictions and even to fuse snapshots in time into associations of continuous being. In plant studies, for example, we take careful observation of a flower. Each day it changes slightly, eventually passing from seed to stem with leaves and bloom, then ultimately to producing fruit and again seed. We need ideas not only to understand the nature of this change, but also in order even to conceive of it as the same plant from one day to the next. Yet, while both "idea” and "experience" are required for scientific research, "the difficulty of uniting [them] appears to be a great obstacle." The two realms, though they at first glance appear entirely distinct, must in fact relate to each other in some meaningful way if their interplay is to be man’s means to knowledge. "We strive eternally to overcome this hiatus," Goethe explains, "with reason, intellect, imagination, faith, emotion, illusion, or— if we are capable of nothing better— with folly." However, our efforts to bridge the chasm are forever in vain." We cannot grasp the whole of a single organism, let alone the expanse of the universe when our sole access to the world is through our sensory perception. The effort to conceive of Nature as "both simultaneous and successive . . . seems to drive us to the verge of insanity." How is mortal man to comprehend eternity and existence outside of time? How can a thing always be, yet continually come into being? We are doomed to frustration, for "the intellect cannot picture united what the senses present to it separately, and thus the duel between the perceived and the ideated remains forever unsolved." "For this reason," Goethe responds, "we justifiably take flight into poetry. Poetry must stand outside both idea and experience, occupying a distinct space. It is either the bridge man seeks between experience and idea, or it is a resignation to the paradox. It would be odd if poetry were this bridge, inhabiting as it were a sort of middle ground between two disparate modes of being. It would have to partake of both worlds and yet belong to neither. Though arguably, poetry is about experience and 28 �expressive of an idea, it does not serve to reconcile the two any more than science does. If scientific study cannot bridge idea and experience, neither can we expect poetry to do so. So are we to view the "flight into poetry" simply as surrender, and thus concede defeat in the face of the incommensurability of the two domains? Or, by acknowledging our limitations and abandoning ourselves to the mystery of the paradox, do we gain something more profound? If poetry is distinct from both experience and idea, does it provide a unique vantage point allowing a new way of seeing— both with the physical and the mind's eye? Goethe provides a key to the quandary within the essay: "that idea and experience are analogous, indeed must be so." What is the nature of this analogy and how might understanding the relationship as "analogous hope" help solve the eternal duel? To claim simply that one is like the other does little to clarify the conundrum. To term a relationship "analogous," implies that the two subjects under comparison must bear a relationship to one another and that the juxtaposition of one to the other should significantly illuminate each. Goethe has provided his reader with an example of such an analogy in his essay — he has given us a poem. Does this poem seek to express the analogous relationship, or are the lines of the poem themselves analogous to the ideas in the essay they follow? Is the understanding available through the analogy of this poem unique, or is it ultimately the aim of all poetry to reconcile this seemingly eternal divide? Goethe closes "Indecision and Surrender" with a poem, "Antepirrhema," calling it "a new form to an old song."^ We turn now to the "Antepirrhema" in the hope that a deeper comprehension of its meaning will lead to a greater mastery of Goethe’s thought and a fuller understanding of the nature of the analogous relation between idea and experience. Thus view with unassuming eyes Regard with silent wonder The Weaver Woman’s masterpiece: The Eternal Weaver’s masterpiece. One pedal shifts a thousand strands. A single movement sends the shuttle The shuttles back and forward flying. Over, under, till the myriad threads Each fluent strand with each complying. Meet and interlace, creating One stroke a thousand links commands; Countless unions at one stroke! No patchwork, this, of rag and tatter. The warp, not mounted thread by thread. Since time began She plots the matter. But laid down in the timeless past So may the Master, very deft. Awaits the casting of the weft. Insert with confidence the weft. Forever waits the Master’s will. -C. Middleton, trans. -English rendering by Aldyth Morris 29 �The poem, like its namesake, demands to be read as a response to what has preceded it. Here, we should expect the author to provide his audience with an answer to the "[unsolved] duel between the perceived and the ideated." Perhaps in understanding how "Antepirrhema" illuminates, complicates, or resolves the questions put forward by the essay, the reader can hope to glimpse the larger sense of how poetry can answer to the mysteries in the chasm between idea and experience. The central conceit of the poem is the Weaver's creation of her masterpiece, yet the symbolic meaning is enigmatic. What do these two focal images intend to represent? "In observing the cosmic structure from its broadest expanse down to its minutest parts," Goethe opens his essay, "we cannot escape the impression that underlying the whole is the idea that God is operative in Nature and Nature in God, from eternity to eternity." Upon first look, it would seem that the Weaver is meant to be God and the masterpiece. Nature itself. Yet, the claim is not simply that "God is operative in Nature," but that there exists a reciprocal relationship in which Nature is operative in God. In the poetic metaphor, it is conceivable that both the Weaver and the masterpiece each represent an eternity. Here, the Weaver clearly has an effect on her masterpiece, but how can we understand the masterpiece equally affecting its maker? Can an artist be so moved by his own work that we can say it is operating upon him? Though a piece of art can be inspirational to all those who view it, it seems that Goethe wants to apply more agency to Nature than that of an incidental influence on its maker. Perhaps we do disservice to the metaphor by falling back again into a cultural understanding of God as creator, as God as Weaver. Goethe seems to think it is more complex. The masterpiece is all of existence. It is "the cosmic structure from its broadest expanse down to its minutest parts." It is "the whole." Here, the metaphor of the woven work reinforces the notion that all things are connected. Cut one of the "myriad threads," and it would unravel. In the Weaver's work, the strands "meet and interlace, creating / Countless unions." This is the intricate majesty of the interconnectedness of life. Each intersection of the strands is an individual, a part we can come to know by experience. Yet these "interlacings” are meaningless and non-existent without the whole. These parts, while enabled, organized, and given significance by the whole, are necessary for the very existence of it. The analogy here lives up to the demand of making comprehensible what formally was obscure— the 30 �necessity of the reciprocal nature of the relationship of the whole to its We cannot let ourselves be deceived by the simple lucidity of this analogy of the whole to the part. The woven masterpiece of the poem is Tke none we have experienced. For '.he warp" was not "mounted thread by thread" after the manner of man, "but laid down in the timeless past. In two lines, Goethe has communicated man’s maddening predicament m tr^^ng to imagine "an operation of Nature as both simultaneous and successive." For experience tells us that a warp must be set one thread at a t L, but Goethe’? warp has been laid down all at once. Moreover it ha always been as it is now, as it was created in "the timeless past The atter^pt to conceive of a thing as having always been capable of undergoing change, "drive [s] us to the verge of insanity. ^ Not only is it impossible for the human mind to grasp the creation of a warp as both simultaneous and successive, but also now the poet asks us to grapple with eternity and the existence of a timeless past If there were existence before time, how can it make sense to speak of "nast" and "was"? The description of the warp harkens back to primordial beginnings" of which Goethe speaks in the opening of his essay. This mention goes unexplained, as if the meaning of these beginnings, and even the fact of their existence at all, were intuitive to the reader. Are the "primordial beginnings" God and Nature, or is this warp representative of the "stuff of our universe— of the material of all plants, animalSjJgy.^g masterpiece, we turn again to its maker. If the warp is %ssive, "Await[ing] the casting of the weft / Forever waitling] the Master’s will," then the Master, the Weaver, must be the active argent. A "single movement" from her has the power of creating / Co^ntl^L unions at one stroke!" In an instant she "sends the shuttle and "castlsl the weft." The creative power of this Weaver is unfathomable an her Will unknowable. Is .his the same force ascribed to Nature the Metamorphosis of Plants? Could this Naturea goal "prescribes fate," "ceaselessly carries on her eternal work and exercises her right"—be the Weaver of our poem?5 ^ If the "Master’s will" is Nature’s creative force, then what of God. Perhaps we can envision God and Nature united m the f Weaver. Yet this conception seems contradictory to *6 claim that they operate upon one another. Is it more accurate to consider them as the ultimate cases of the tension in Goethe’s use of "Gestalt and ^^dung ^ While Gestalt is something fixed in its character, Bildung is m ceaseless flux It is the complex relationship between Being and Becoming. Being �always is and always has been. Becoming constantly evolves, but will never have "existence" in an absolute sense. Yet, how can a thing have reached that state without ever becoming, and how can a thing Become without having any Being? It appears to describe the same enigma as does the correspondence between idea and experience. If Nature is seen as Becoming and God as essential Being, then we have reversed the conventional role, making Nature the creator and God the material of her Whether one can definitively interpret the symbolic images within the lines of the poem, the reflection inspired by them is not to be overlooked. If we take the title literally, we should consider the poem in light of an answer from a classical Greek theatrical chorus. An antepirrhema is a chanted response to the action that has preceded it— in our case the essay "Indecision and Surrender”. As the Greek chorus often expressed information, a character's inner emotions, or an ideal response to the drama or insight for the characters themselves, so the poem resounds as a chorus for the reader. Here, the poem tells the audience, and perhaps the author himself, "Regard with silent wonder / he Eternal Weaver’s masterpiece." It is the same imperative given to Job as he ponders the unknown divine; "Stand still, and consider the wondrous works of God."? The message to the reader and the author is at despite man's desire and his eternal quest for knowledge, the Eternal Weaver s masterpiece" will forever remain a mystery. Man should position himself toward these marvels understanding that he will never fully know them, but nevertheless eternally considering them and allowing himself to be overcome by awe. It is this exactly this sense of wonder that is lost in prose and scientific experimentation. Through the apprehension of an isolated part man shortsightedly believes that has understood something about the whole. However, the whole to be considered— "the cosmic structure"— IS forever unavailable to him precisely because he is one of its parts Intuition, observation, and contemplation lead us closer to these mysteries, Goethe explains, "We are presumptuous and venture ideas of our own; turning more modest, we merely form concepts that might be analogous to those primordial beginnings." Poetry is Goethe's modest attempt. If the essay ventures to put forth presumptuous ideas of its own then the poem itself is a "concept that might be analogous to these primordial beginnings." Goethe needs the poem to capture the spirit of his thought. In his scientific prose he is bound either to express specific parts only, thereby missing the whole, or to grasp at the threads of an abstract idea of the 32 �whole, inevitably falling short of the impossible task. The analogy available in poetry allows him to express the inexpressible— to put into words something that cannot be named. He abandons the presumptuous idea that he can capture the whole with an idea, and instead humbly puts forth a concept that he claims might be analogous to it. In this mood, I too am resigned to accept the limitations of prose and its inability to convey ideas that lie beyond human comprehension. With my decision to surrender to analogous concepts, I humbly justify my own flight into poetry: Stand in awe before the amaranthine stage. Surrender to disinterested passion! Displace one note and the chord collapses. Yet the solitary tone moves no listener to tears. Harmony, dissonance, discord Orchestrated by the maestro's baton. Notes pass into phrases and escape Forever into the unreachable past. We are moved by the symphony of sound. Hearing but one beat in time. MCGee: Epode Endnotes 1. Unless trans. otherwise indicated, "Indecision Woodbridge, and all quotations Ox Bow from Bertha Mueller, Goethe's Botanical Writings. Surrender.” Connecticut: taken Press, 1952. pp. 219-220. All quotations within the essay are referenced in the Primary Texts list. 2. Bertha Mueller, trans. "The Metamorphosis of Plants.” Writings. 3. Bertha Mueller, Writings. 4. Goethe's Botanical Woodbridge, Connecticut: Ox Bow Press, 1952. p. 30-78. trans. "Propitious Encounter.” Goethe's Botanical Woodbridge, Connecticut: Ox Bow Press, 1952. p. 215-219. Translation from Morris taken from "Indecision and Surrender.” p. 220. Middleton translation from: Christopher Middleton, ed. "Antepirrhema.” Johann Wolfgang von Goethe Selected Poems. Boston: Suhrkamp/Insel Publishers, 1983. p. 163. 5. "The Metamorphosis of Plants." P. 40,44,48, 61, 70, etc. 6. Bertha Mueller, Writings. 7. trans. "Our Objective Is Stated." Goethe's Botanical Woodbridge, Connecticut: Ox Bow Press, 1952. p. 22-26. Job 37:16. 33 �Primary Texts R /- ■ 'Wolfgang. "Indecision and Surrender." Goet/2e'5 fr“rp^2™!22r^ ^Goethe, Johann Wolfgang. "The Metamorphosis of Plants. Goethe's Botanical Writings. Trans. Bertha Mueller. Woodbridee Connecticut: Ox Bow Press, 1952. p. 30-78. ^ Goethe, Johann Wolfgang. "Our Objective Is Stated." Goethe's Botanical Writings. Trans. Bertha Mueller. Woodbridge, Connecticut; Ox Bow Press, 1952. p. 22-26. R y ■ 'Wolfgang. "Propitious Encounter." Goet/ie's BlTrSrp'n'zir' Ox rn rh Td"' ed. "Antepirrhema.'7o/2onn Wolfgang von Goethe Selected Poems. Boston: Suhrkamp/lnsel Publishers, 198? p. 163. �Kindness in Aristotie's High-Minded Man Daphne Leveriza In Book IV of his Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle develops his vision for the perfect human being. He calls this person the high-minded or magnanimous man. As with all the other virtues that he enumerates throughout the Ethics, Aristotle explains the deficiency on one end and the extreme on the other end of the mean, the virtue in the perfectly balanced middle. In the case of the high-minded man the deficiency is, naturally, the small-minded man, who looks like something of a coward in comparison with himself. The small-minded man underestimates his self-worth and may even be guilty of false humility, as translator Martin Ostwald points out in a footnote. Whether it is due to a lack of self-understanding or a reluctance to point out his own merits to others, the small-minded man ultimately fails to claim what he actually deserves. On the opposite end of the spectrum, the extreme of the high-minded man is the vain man, perhaps a more familiar personality in our world today. The vain man thinks too highly of himself, puts too much effort into making others see him in the same glowing light, and makes the mistake of believing that he deserves things that he does not actually deserve. Aristotle even goes so far as to call this man a fool, in order to emphasize that "no man, insofar as he is virtuous, is either foolish or senseless" (1123b.5). As the epitome of all that Aristotle sees as virtuous, this highminded man is anything but foolish; in fact, he cannot even be mistaken for foolish because his foremost concern is honor. Ultimately, what defines the high-minded man is magnanimity, which "is the crown, as it were, of the virtues: it magnifies them and it cannot exist without them" (1124a.5]. In order for someone to be high-minded, then, he must possess all the virtues; once he occupies this state, he will be magnanimous. This culmination of the complete set of virtues will magnify them all and emphasize how truly virtuous he is. What is puzzling about this vision of the perfect man is the fact that while Aristotle goes so far as to describe how the high-minded man walks and talks, we know much more about how the he thinks than what he actually does. Aristotle’s portrayal of the high-minded man focuses on what this man values and how he looks at others; yet, in many of these situations, we must come to our own conclusions about what sort of action he takes. Furthermore, imagining the high-minded man's course of action in some of these situations actually calls into question how 35 �complete his virtues are, specifically those which Martin Ostwald labels gentleness and friendliness.” In short, a close consideration of certain aspects of Aristotle s magnanimous man raises the question: is the highminded man a kind man? There are two particular instances in the description of the highminded man wherein it seems that his attitude or thoughts would lead to unkind action. Take, for instance, his primary concern with maintaining honor and avoiding dishonor. Aristotle defines honors as the greatest of external goods (1123b.20], so it makes sense that this would be the main concern of a man who possesses ultimate and total virtue. However, there is a problem with honor; namely, there is no honor that is actually good enough to be bestowed upon a person of perfect virtue. As such, the highminded man actually despises the praise and honor shown to him by people who are lesser than him, for he deserves enormously better than the accolades of small-minded or vain people. It is as if the greatest of all athletes simply could not be excited by the ogling praise of an amateur who is beneath his level of talent. The troubling concept is that the highminded man, the man who serves as the embodiment of virtue in its most complete and excellent state, would actually despise anything that someone gives to him, even if it were given not out of spite or malice, but out of simple admiration. Regarding this scenario of praise conferred upon the high-minded man, Aristotle comes close to depicting what sort of action he would take, but only insofar as he explains how the magnanimous man reacts when people of equal standing honor him: From great honors and those that good men confer upon him he will derive a moderate amount of pleasure, convinced that he is only getting what is properly his or even less ... yet he will accept it, because they have no greater tribute to pay him. (1124a.5-10] From this description, we must assume that the high-minded man does not accept honors given to him by less virtuous people. Yet, is there a contradiction in the fact that he will not take these so-called honors from lesser men because they are not worthy of him, but he will accept honors from fellow good men even when they are less than what he deserves? The high-minded man’s disdain of admiration, praise, or (what he considers) false honors from lesser men is further developed in Aristotle s later assertion that any attitude of condescension that the magnanimous man has towards those of less virtue is in fact warranted. 36 �Indeed, the magnanimous man has the correct opinion of these lesser men, while most people make the mistake of looking down upon others without legitimate reason for doing so. The vain man in particular must be guilty of this misjudgment of others and himself. Yet if the highminded man is justified in looking down upon others, does this mean that he is permitted to act upon this correct opinion and thus engage in unkindness? If the magnanimous man knows that he is superior to others and if it is a foremost concern of his to maintain his honor and superiority, how does he treat those who are beneath him? How does his justifiably superior attitude manifest itself in his behavior toward others? If he sees a dissolute man stumbling drunk on the streets, does he ignore him? Spit upon him in just anger and disgust? Offer to take him in even though the dissolute man is not worthy to offer petty tokens of admiration to him? Shortly after the assertion that the high-minded man has every right to look down upon others, Aristotle offers an even more confounding insight into the mind of this man: The high-minded also seem to remember the good turns they have done, but not those they have received. For the recipient is inferior to the benefactor, whereas a high-minded man wishes to be superior. They listen with pleasure to what good they have done, but with displeasure to what good they have received. (1124b.l0-15] In addition to the possibility of being seen as unkind, the high-minded man is perhaps also ungrateful. He is indifferent to the kindness of others due to the fact that he is preoccupied with his own good deeds rather than those of others. Furthermore, any instance in which he the recipient rather than the benefactor does not meet his standards of superiority. He rarely asks for favors but he is always ready to be of aid to others; this may look like an apt description of generosity, but the high-minded man takes this position so that he can more often occupy the position of superiority (the benefactor). It seems, then, that the only thing more out of character for the high-minded man than asking for help is thanking someone for those few favors that he rarely and reluctantly seeks. This would require remembering those favors, an act that he always carries out with displeasure. Ultimately, this question of whether or not the high-minded man acts kindly is a difficult one; Nowhere in the Ethics does Aristotle describe 37 �a virtue named kindness. It is only in the discussion of gentleness and friendliness that he discusses something that could be akin to kindness. In keeping \vith the fact that the high-minded man possesses all the virtues (his magnanimity is, after all, the crown of all virtues], we must consider how the virtues of gentleness and friendliness would manifest themselves in his behavior. In discussing gentleness, Aristotle first establishes the deficiency and extreme of this virtue, which are apathy and a short temper, respectively. The gentle man is particularly good at controlling his emotions; he does not let them control him. When he is angry, it is only under appropriate circumstances and for a reasonable amount of time. What is interesting about gentleness is that Aristotle states that it is actually a mean that is more akin to its deficiency, apathy, than it is to its extreme, short-temperedness. Certainly, the gentle man does not go so far as to allow others to dishonor him or his loved ones, but he does tend to be forgiving more often than he is vindictive. This virtue of gentleness, then, has a great deal to do with relating to others in a "correct" way at a "correct" time; and, when it comes to anger, keeping one's emotions even and reasonable. In the case of the high-minded man receiving praise and honor from those lower than him, it seems that if he were to maintain his virtue of gentleness, he simply might not react at all, thus, erring on the side of what appears to be apathy. On the other hand, he might show a tempered reaction, reluctantly accepting honors, while in his mind forgiving those who foolishly offer him meaningless praise. At any rate, he makes sure not to compromise his magnanimous character by accepting such gifts. Nor does he lash out in undue anger towards lesser people who may not know any better. Both of these reactions would be a departure from the mean of gentleness. In the same way that Aristotle arranges his discussion of gentleness around anger, he also reduces the virtue of friendliness to a social virtue. The excess of this virtue is obsequiousness, a vice of which people-pleasing flatterers are guilty. The deficiency is grouchiness, which causes people to "object to everything without caring in the least whether they give pain" (1126b.l5]. The friendly man occupies the mean between these two extremes. As with gentleness, friendliness causes its possessor to put up with things in the appropriate way and at the right time. Though the friendly man is primarily concerned with social relations, he is concerned in such a way that he aims for what is honorable for himself and beneficial for others. As such, friendliness seems to be a virtue that has much to do with manners, for the friendly man behaves differently towards different types of people. He adjusts his behavior based on 38 �whether or not he knows someone or their social standing, making sure to please where it is appropriate to please, and to avoid causing pain. Thus, the friendly man would not treat a stranger with the same affection that he would treat his own mother, for that would be offering too much pleasure to the stranger. Nor would he scorn a stranger the same way that he would scorn a deserving enemy, for that would not be giving enough pain to the enemy. , j i j In the case of the high-minded man and the dissolute drunkard, then, it seems that Aristotle would require more context to determine how the magnanimous man would treat such an inferior. If the man were asking for money with the admitted intent to purchase more wine, the high-minded man would refuse, perhaps causing pain because it would not be honorable to acquiesce to this particular pleasure, which is ultimately harmful to the dissolute man. And, perhaps, if the drunkard were behaving loudly and in a belligerent manner, disturbing the peace the high-minded man would silence him with the appropriate amount of anger, thus being gentle, and with the right treatment, thus being friendly, so as to force the dissolute man himself into correct social relations. Although it is a bit clearer now how the high-minded man behaves in terms of kindness, the matter is still complicated by the fact that Aristotle does not give the title "kindness” to any of his virtues. Nor, however, does he assign the terms gentleness and friendliness to the virtues explain above. As stated earlier, these are labels created by Martin Ostwald in his translation of the Ethics. In fact, in the sections on gentleness and friendliness, Aristotle explicitly states that he himself lacks the words to describe these means. Though he does use the world gentleness, he asserts that there is not actually a proper term for the person who exhibits the mean between apathy and a short temper. In regard to friendliness, he is even more uncertain, going so far as to say that the two extremes of obsequiousness and grouchiness "appear to be only opposed to one another, because there is no name for the middle (■1127a.10). In considering the actions of the high-minded man, Aristot e s lack of precision in naming some of his virtues actually makes sense. He addresses the difficulty of acting well when discussing gentleness, asserting that discerning the line between correct moral action and incorrect moral action is not as simple as it may seem. Finding this line is dependent upon the particulars of the circumstance as well as the keenness of our own individual moral sense. Proper moral action, then, is about striking a balance, just as achieving virtue is always a matter of finding the mean between two extremes. Perhaps this is why Aristotle makes it a point to say that the high-minded man is, in fact, a man who 39 �acts rarely and takes his time in considering how to act when he does decide to act. This is why the few actions of the magnanimous man— the man who is the paragon of virtue at its most complete and most excellent, the man who always knows the mean and how to act upon it— are always great and distinguished (1124b.25]. Primary Text Aristotle. Nicomachean Ethics. Translated by Martin Ostwald. Prentice Hall: Upper Saddle River, New Jersey, 1999. �A Work in Progress: The Natural Connection in the Land of the Future in Hegel’s "Geographical Basis of History" Jeffrey Allen Georg F.W. Hegel offers three methods of history in the Introduction to his Philosophy of History: Original History, Reflective History, and Philosophical History. The first is the purview of a Herodotus or a Thucydides, those who were witness to the events that they chronicled and "whose spirit they shared."i In the second, history transcends the present and the historian attempts to form a picture of the whole (e.g. Livy). The third method is the focal point of the Introduction and the work as a whole (hence the title), as Hegel traces the history of thought and the role of the eternally present Spirit within its WorldHistorical development. The final section of his Introduction, "Geographical Basis of History," examines what he calls the "natural connection that helps to produce the Spirit of a People." 2 Within his discussion of Philosophical History, Hegel makes an important distinction between an "abstract form" and a "concrete development."^ The former is the place where Spirit, Reason, Freedom, and Consciousness are found, the latter is the historical location of these ideas in time and space, and it is the role of the former that takes precedence in tracing the philosophy of history. In the first paragraph of "Geographical Basis," Hegel returns to this idea, focusing here on the Spirit’s "embodiment as a series of external forms."'* He notes that while this "appears an extrinsic element... we must regard it as the ground on which that Spirit plays its part ... an essential and necessary basis.’’^ If history is the development of Spirit in Time, as he says, this section addresses how that Spirit is understood in relationship to the natural world. How does the natural connection help to produce the Spirit of a People? What does it look like for the Spirit to operate within the natural world? Hegel notes that the Spirit of a people is found in their activity: "[I]t is a Spirit having strictly defined characteristics, which erects itself into an objective world, that exists and persists in a particular religious form of worship, customs, constitution, and political laws."^He goes on to summarize these features by saying, "That is what this particular Nation is. Nations are what their deeds are."^ 41 �According to Hegel, the scene of world history has its foci in Africa Asia, and Europe. It is here that men are free to act, whereas such elsewhere The northern hemisphere offers landmass and biological commonality, whereas the southern hemisphere is largely divided and contrasted^s addition to these north-south distinctions, there are divisions between the Old and New Worlds as well. The New World constitutes true world history for Hegel, a "concern . . . with that which with id? f of a world that has wrestled WoH? A °f^,®3son Consciousness, and Freedom. He considers the New World- America and Australia- to have operated outside the sphere of world history, as is the case with places like sub-Saharan Africa. However, unlike the former, the latter is considered "the land of the future "lo It is this consideration of America as the place "where, in the ages that lie before us, the burden of the World's History shall reveal itLlf^i that drives us to ask about her natural connections that form the ground for the Spirit of a People and about the relationship of these natural connections with this "land of the future." Hpapi phrase "land of the future" raises a couple of questions. If, as Hege claims, Asia is the beginning of history and Europe is its "absolute end, ,n what way is America the "land of the future"? Is America able to take part m history because of its inhabitation by European emigrantsis and Its continuation of Europe as the end of history? Or does its status as a uture-oriented nation remove it completely from the realm of history? ? to Hogel, "is only an echo of the Old e expression of a foreign life."i4 This speaks to the idea that the character is heavily conditioned by its European ancestry, and hat if It IS to become something beyond historical, it must redefine itself within Its North American context. Hegel makes a very interesting discussion of America back tl which hitherto the History of the World has developed itself."i5 The ground upon which the History of the World has developed, if it is to be understood as the same ground to which Hegel refers in reference to the development of the Spirit of a People, is the natural connection, the geographical basis of history. In citing a statement by Napoleon, "Cette vieille Europe m ennuie"^e (-This old Europe bores me"), Hegel captures the necessity of moving out of the Old World and into the New. This quotation seems to be the place where the European spirit becomes reinvigorated by the immense American continent. It is the vastness of this undiscovered country, the mystery of the frontier, which appears to 42 �form a natural connection between the Spirit of the European people and the potential of the New World. The aforementioned features of national character (a particular form of religious worship, customs, constitution, and political laws) are here identified in their American iteration, signifying the cooperation of the natural world with the disposition of individuals. Religious and political principles are recast in this new land: What was once industry for the sake of Protestant religious activity and the good of the community became "acquisition, commercial profit, and gain; the preponderance of private interest.” The community becomes simply an "aggregation of individuals as atomic constituents,"!® and the state "merely something external for the protection of property.”!® it is as if these principles have been turned back against themselves. Industry and economics were previously informed by religious and political principles. Now it is the religious and political principles that are acted upon by industry and economy. The sheer volume of land circumvents the necessity of civil and political discord by offering a natural "outlet of colonization,” one that Hegel notes is "constantly and widely open, and multitudes are continually streaming into the plains of the Mississippi.'’^® The only limit to America’s historical potential seems to be the frontiers themselves. Hegel says that "only after the immeasurable space which that country presents to its inhabitants shall have been occupied, and the members of the political body shall have begun to be pressed back on each other”^! will America have to address the questions that confront Europe. The words "immeasurable space” and "pressed back” connote this natural connection. It is because of the immeasurable space that the North American continent affords that the political character of the people is formed. Pressing back evokes a vivid sense of both physical proximity and political tension. America is both physically and psychically acting upon the principles that were exported to its shores, which is to say that the physical geography of the North American continent and the opportunity it affords are found to be acting upon the economic, political, and religious forms of national character that made their way over the pond. The place where people live, eat, breathe, labour, and die is not accidental to the character of a people. It is not as though the natural world is the sole determining factor for the activities and character of nations and peoples; however, Hegel recognizes its significance in forming their Spirit. A fine vintage of grapes that is produced by the dirt, the sun, the water, the wind, and the invisible hand of the winemaker is 43 �not simply the sum of its parts. But it is not a fine vintage of grapes without terrior, which influences the character of the grape to such an extent that it would not be the grape it is without such features. The North American continent seems to offer fertile soil for the cultivation of the Spirit's development, a place where the Consciousness and Freedom of the Old World are manifest through the natural connection of a New World. Thus, the end of history is not a terminus,^^ but a telos, where the progress of the Spirit meets the land of the future. Endnotes 1. Hegel, Georg 2. The Philosophy of History. F.W. Books, 1991, pp. New York: Prometheus 1. Ibid., 79. 3. Ibid., 12. 4. Ibid., 79. 5. Ibid., Italics his. 6. Ibid., 74. 7. Ibid. Italics his. One hears echoes of Herder’s national genius (J.G. von Herder, Reflections on the Philosophy of the History of Mankind) 8. Ibid., 80. 9. Ibid., 87. Italics his. Brackets mine. 10. Ibid., 86. 11. Ibid. 12. Ibid., 103. 13. Cf 81-82 14. Ibid. One might offer a sort of counter-Hegelian argument with regard to the presence of Europeans in the Americas. the character of the existing structures This event has a dramatic effect on (political, economic, etc. It is not difficult to imagine that those operating outside a Hegelian view of history would see these events as deeply problematic (ethnocentrism, colonization, conquest, and economic oppression might be possible counter-narratives) 15. Ibid. 16. Ibid. 17. Ibid., 85. Italics his. One Democracy in America, 18. 19. 20. cannot help but hear Tocqueville here (cf. Vol. 1, Ch.2, Pt. 6, et al). Ibid., 84. Ibid. Ibid., 86. 21. Ibid. 22. Nietzsche history suggests and historical that that what rondo.” Hegel might remained Since he did was not, have “only called a his time musical Nietzsche the coda believes that terminus of the it has of worldplaced modem man at the mercy of “the power of history”— simply as a yes man to progress and success. This could well lead to a quite robust discussion on the 44 �potential of Nietzsche, the individual within the progression of history (Friedrich On the Advantage and Disadvantage of History for Life. Indianapolis'. Hackett Publishing, 1980, 47). Primary Text Hegel, Georg F.W. The Philosophy of History. New York: Prometheus Books, 1991. 45 �The Path of the Good King' A Journey from Loss to Renewal and Return in the Mahabharata Turner Resor walic of battle at Lanka, after Ravana had fortified the walls of his city and Rama, along with Hanuman and his monkey armv has bivouacked in the surrounding forest, Angada is senT by R^ama to del ver a message to Ravana and his ministers. Standing amidst a Countries and cities that incur a king of unmade soul who is bent “f = Policy, and destroved 7 (7 stroyed It is you alone who have committed a crime bv abduct,ng Sita forcibly. But this will lead to the slaughter of others Who are innocent.i (Van Buitenen, 268.10] The foretold annihilation of Lanka is a powerful reminder of how tenuous he glories are for an “unmade" king and his kingdom. Ravana’s pnde the downfallhim blind to dharma and leadin' the downfall of his city, people, family, and himself. His character serves counter-example or anti-hero included as part of Rama’s heroic journey towards reunion with the self, as symbolized by Sita, and the recovery of Sita is being related to Yudhisthira by Markandeya as a storv that is meant to show the significance of the Pandava ruler’s own period hL^htf'T'’' "^hese circumstances reach thei^ height following the incident of Draupadl’s abduction by Jayadratha. By looking at the stories of Yudhisthira and Rama when they on DuhsanTa the T "" *e example of forLt before ^ets drawn into the the cycle of .ul ^ ^ begins to emerge that frames the cycle of the heroic individual in the phases of departure storipf ' 3od return to the throne. Mainly these tTshow thrtT“° leadership and to show that there is an individual responsibility that must be fulfilled before one becomes king. It is a responsibility that runs deeper and is faJ 46 �more personal than the superficial kingly qualifications that are more commonly understood. It is a responsibility to an inward exploration, seemingly involuntary but more likely fated, that can be experienced but not taught; it presents a challenge, no less consequential than the outcome of war; and it threatens the leader's individual existence by removing the shelter of artificial rank and social position, testing the mettle of their virtue alone. In short, "the king must conquer first himself.”^ On the successful completion of this journey, which seeks a reunion with the source and culminates at a point either of self-discovery or self-affirmation, hinges the order and prosperity of the kingdom. Having reached the source, the king gives himself back to the people as a link between the two worlds, the one he has obtained and the one where he will rule. Subsequent to this larger heroic framework there are several recurrent archetypes at play. There is the idea of the “other" that lies beyond the city walls, a land of wild animals, demons, and Brahmins, identified in these stories by the forest. There is a "loss of identity” by the heroes that travel into these lands, and along with that a "disorientation" that shows the heroes’ vulnerability and tests their individual prowess. This loss of control often results in the abduction of their women by "antihero" characters who misuse their powers to fulfill adharmic desires deluded by jealousy, anger, or greed. And finally, there is the "return" to the kingdom, a stage no less difficult than the others, requiring that the king ultimately give himself to his people. Maybe the most important archetype in each of these stories is the hero's wife. The hero’s wife stands as the counterpart to the hero's soul. Separated from his wife, the hero cannot live fully. She is the anthropomorphized "reunion with the source;” she is the destined "self’ that takes an otherwise restless masculine drive and tempers its powers of destruction with the powers of creation; "a husband enters his wife and is reborn from her."^ It is through the feminine that the important connection with the other is maintained after the hero has returned, thus allowing for the nurturing of the kingdom and the conception of an heir. Each archetype arises organically and serves as the person or point in time in which he must act and prove his legitimacy. The hero will consistently strive to respond to these ideals dharmically, while the antihero will be driven by attachment, the acquisition of power for power’s sake, and other base desires. To understand the nature of the hero’s journey it is helpful to identify the archetypes that are at work within the various stages of the cycle. 47 �The first stage is marked by a departure from the kingdom into a largely unknown and uncontrolled realm, generally represented as the "other." Along with departure comes a loss of kingly identity. With Yudisthira and Rama this is seen in their exiles to the forest. Duhsanta leaves his kingdom by choice to go hunting with his army, also in the forest. The forest is a liminal domain. In an age of high dharma, Brahmins who have renounced city living in pursuit of moksa, or final release, are the forest’s main human occupants. As dharma declines it also attracts other marginal characters, some ascetics and deviants, who are driven by unchecked human emotion and materialism and who understand that the land is a place where they can attain to higher powers. Yudhisthira’s exile into the forest and loss of kingdom during the gambling match with Sakuni is the most dramatic example from the three stories. After Dhrtarastra returns the possessions of Pandu's sons, which were lost in the first gambling match and amounted to their entire kingdom including themselves and DraupadI, "Duryodhana, Kama, and Sakuni . . . plotted together in their pride against the Pandavas”^ and invited the Pandavas back to gamble a second time. Yudhisthira, adhering to his Ksatriya dharma and understanding that it is fate that is in control, cannot refuse the offer. This time the wager is that the losers must go into exile in the forest for twelve years, while in the meantime the winners are given the losers' portion of the kingdom. Sakuni predictably wins again and "Kunti's sons, defeated, turned their minds towards exile in the forest; one after another, they took antelope-skins for their upper garments.’’^ At this Duhsasana gloats: '"They are stripped of their happiness and of their kingdom; they are lost for endless years! . . . Stripped of their wealth . . . they are going to the forestl’”^ It is worth noting that in the second gambling match the Pandavas retain their selves. The account of Rama’s exile is similar. Jealous of Rama, Kaikeyl, the mother of Rama’s brother Bharata, tricks King Dasaratha into giving Bharata the kingdom that was intended for Rama, and further, exiling Rama to the woods. In both cases it is deceit and greed for the riches of others, and the adherence to dharma by Yudhisthira and Rama, that sends the heroes into the woods. This establishes the tension between the sacred and profane is established. It may seem as though these two kings are exiled against their wishes, but it can also be said that they choose the path of dharma, and the desire for dharma is preeminent amongst the wise. Evidence for this is seen when Draupadi questions Yudhisthira’s adherence to dharma following their exile. He responds by reminding her that "he adheres to 48 �dharma not in hopo of gain but because it is right... Proclaimed by wise seers ... The rewards for practicing dharma may be invisible to mortals, but they are assuredly real.'’^ To believe this requires faith that dharma is capable of yielding something greater than the opulent life they themselves used to live,”8 an idea seemingly absurd to Duryodhana and his cohorts. Duhsanta’s journey into the depths of the woods is at first intended and later incidental as he is led deeper and deeper in search for deer. In a way his journey is also logical. He is already thought of as a great king living in a time of high dharma. Supposing, as this paper does, that this journey is naturally occurring and prerequisite to a successful rule, following his dharma as a good king would inevitably lead him onto this path, thus further establishing him as more than a good king but also the founder of the Kuru dynasty. Leaving the defined boundaries of the relatively mundane and the more obvious delineations of dharma, descending further into distant lands, these three kings carry onward. Thresholds are overcome and markings of past identities are shed. Yudhisthira and his brothers are forced to dress in antelope-skins, while Rama and his brother Laksmana put on "the scant adornment of ascetics.”^ The separation from subjects and friends is also seen when the people of the city attempt to follow the Pandavas into exile but are told to go back since the brothers will no longer be able to support them.io These heroes who are renouncing their old garments, comforts, and company are symbolically metamorphosing from Ksatriyas into Brahmins, and it is the Brahmin’s land of hermitages, dharmic subtleties, and spiritual attainment in which they now find themselves. The hero’s sloughing-off of identity as he wanders into more distant lands is well illustrated in the tale of Duhsanta who travels through four different realms before finding his future wife Sakuntala in the hut of her father, the renowned seer, Kanva. Upon leaving his city for the hunt, Duhsanta first leaves the womenfolk who watch his departure from their balconies, after which the "town and country folk followed him a long way, until the king finally dismissed them and they returned. Duhsanta and his army now go into the first woods where they utterly destroy all the big game. The slaughter represents another important archetypal element in which renewal or a return to the origins is preceded by violence, upheaval, and destruction. Leaving the main army behind Duhsanta continues, "supremely strong, though hungry and thirsty, [to] penetrate by himself into the depths of the forest,’’i2 until passing three more thresholds at which point 49 �he "halted his escort of chariots with footmen at the gate of the wood” instructing them to "remain here until my return.'’i3 He continues now with only his closest personal and spiritual advisors: And upon entering that wood, like another paradise of Indra, the lord of men shed his hunger and thirst, and became overjoyed. Discarding his regalia and accompanied only by councilor and priest, he walked to the grand hermitage ... At last, reaching Kasyapa's sanctum, Duhsanta dismisses his councilors and priest. From here he can only continue on alone. At the threshold of each realm he leaves behind another part of his identity, eventually finding himself alone at the hermitage at which point he shouts, "Who is here?" because he is encountering his unaffected self for the first time. Duhsanta’s progress is constantly moving from the material to the spiritual, from the particular to the universal, and from the lower classes to the higher classes. The Vaisya and Sudra castes are left behind at the city. He moves onward with his Ksatriya warriors. The description of the animal slaughter has a visceral weariness and weight to it that poetically captures a kind of separation anxiety which continues to bind these men to the material and to isolate them from the spiritual. They are referred to as "starving tiger men" who eat meat raw and attack elephants that in a panic are "dropping dung and urine and streaming with blood."i4^ A baseness and desperation are vividly depicted when these two worlds collide. Simultaneously, the warriors are compared to the beasts of the forests and put at odds with them. Unable to understand their profound sympathy to these beasts, the Ksatriya warriors in fear resort to an instinctual masculine domination. Unable to go on, they are left behind as Duhsanta goes further and thus the weight of his own embodiment is gradually alleviated. Traveling onward, the king loses his hunger and thirst. The meta-geography of this journey can be imagined as the king passing through the ringed layers of a concentric circle, moving always towards the center. With each move inward the surroundings become more and more harmonious, the forest increasingly fertile and interlaced with the channels of holy rivers. The sweet songs of the Vedas share the air with the "pollen of flowers . . . [that] accosts the trees as though to make love to them."i3 As the king melds into his surroundings and drops the clothes that separate him, he sees "beasts of prey and deer peaceably together" and is "filled with the purest joy."i6 In the last stage of his reconnaissance, Duhsanta reaches the center: 50 �Thereupon the illustrious warrior drew nigh to the hermitage that most enchanting everywhere, was the image of the world of the Gods. He saw the river that embraced the hermitage with her holy water spreading out like the mother of all creatures ... The sound of holy Vedic lessons wafted over the river; sandbanks strung pearls upon her ... When he saw the hermitage and the river that enclosed it, the king set his mind upon entering. (64.18-23] When Duhsanta crosses over the channel of water between himself and the hermitage he does so alone. No counsel, secular or religious, can take him further; it is only his individual courage and lack of attachment that can. And it is not an easy last step, for as he leaves the last of his bonds to the old world on the outer bank, he is stepping entirely into the unknown. It is a living suicide, the razor's edge that can be crossed over only with faith that what is on the other side is divine. It is a symbolic death and rebirth in which he is giving "up the earth for the sake of [his self].”!^ On the other side of the river lies the center of all the realms he has passed through, the origin of all beings, the center of the Turning of the Wheel, and Sakuntala, his wife to be. He has connected with the source, and now he has seen what he needed to see before going back and becoming a true king. The whole reason for the hero’s journey into the forest is to discover this source, which is the same as the individual and universal self. The importance of the source is demonstrated allegorically at the beginning of the Pandava's exile. Yudhisthira asks his priest Dhaumya "how he may provide for the Brahmins; Dhaumya advises him to turn to the Sun, source of all nourishment."i8 It is also seen in the symbolic importance of the forest as a place where the Brahmin caste goes in isolation to study the Vedas, which would be considered the source of knowledge. After Duhsanta shouts "Who is here?” he sees Sakuntala and falls in love. Sakuntala is the personification of this reunion with the source and the powers of creativity that it establishes. "The wife is half the man, a wife is better than his best friend, a wife is the root of law. Profit, and Love.”i^ Sakuntala also represents a piece of the origin that Duhsanta will eventually bring back to the kingdom with him once they are secretly married. As his wife, she will be a source of stability and a balance to his masculinity, and as a woman, someone able to create new life, ensuring the continuation and prosperity of the entire kingdom. 51 �The heroic cycles of the Rama and Pandavas are not as clearly demarcated as that of Duhsanta, but the same principles are at work and the wife remains an important figure. Rather than finding Sita for the first time, Rama’s exile becomes the quest to recover Sita, who was already his wife, and "whom the Maker himself had destined to be Rama's beloved queen, sita is abducted by Ravana, who comes to her posing as a Brahmin after Rama and Laksmana go in pursuit of Ravana's accomplice, Marica, who has disguised himself as a splendid deer. It is implied more than once in this tale that Rama will not be able to return from exile, regain the throne, or even continue to live unless he is able to recover Sita. Looking for help from the apes to find Sita, Rama pleads: Will you bring me back to life? . . . Shall I once more rule the kingdom of Ayodhya, after slaying the enemies in battle and recovering Janaka’s daughter? I cannot bear to live without freeing and killing foes in war, bereft of my wife and exiled! To get Sita back, Rama must first overcome many obstacles that will test his prowess. He must save Laksmana from the hideous Raksasa Kabandha; he must help Sugriva usurp the throne from the lord of the apes, Valin; with Hanuman and the monkey army, he must cross a great Ocean; finally he must defeat Ravana at Lanka. So again in the story of Rama, as with Duhsanta, the hero in exile is faced with challenges and passes through many phases that culminate in the reunion with his wife, at which point he is ready to return to the throne. The story of how the Pandavas lose DraupadI is nearly identical. The brothers are out hunting when King Jayadratha passes by the hermitage and sees DraupadI. He tries to persuade DraupadI to abandon her husbands and to go with him. When she refuses, Jayadratha "drags her into his chariof'^i The brothers "may have recovered her by killing the Saindhava army, but [they] did have [their] own wife abducted absent-mindedly."22 This last lamentation reflects the necessarily disorientating nature of the forest. Vulnerable outside the walls of their kingdom, where dharma is more easily understood, even the Pandavas are susceptible to the loss of their wife. As seen above in Duhsanta's story, the wife is analogous to the hero’s soul. In one passage of this story this association is almost directly stated. Speaking to King Duhsanta, who has now returned to his kingdom, Sakuntala states that, "A man who despises his soul and dissembles will find the Gods of no avail and his soul of no benefit,” and in the very next 52 �line adds,23 "Do not despise me." Supposing that this connection holds constant for the other stories, it is interesting to consider how Rama and the Pandavas become disoriented in the forest and consequently lose their wives for a time. For the heroes, this loss is the definitive and most trying crisis of their exile. Without their wives they will remain lost and unable to regain their kingdoms. Once they find their wives again, they are tried and true. In all three stories there are anti-heroes, powerful Raksasas, misguided ascetics, or lustful kings who are contrasted against the purposes of the heroes. For the Pandavas there is Jayadratha. In the story of Rama there is Ravana, and in the story of Duhsanta there is a sub-story that portrays Visvamitra, "who was born a baron and by brute force became a Brahmin."24 Their deviance is usually ambiguous. What they have achieved through austerities is often quite impressive, but they are betrayed by their lawless intentions that eventually reveal themselves, leading to the anti-heroes' fall. Rather than strictly following dharma these characters remain attached to their actions, and are ambitious for the powers, riches, and pleasures that can be gained from dissembling. This evil-mindedness is spoken of in The Colloquy of the Brahmin and the Hunter: Man is ruled by greed and battered by love and hatred; his spirit is not pointed to the Law, but he pretends to observe the Law. He pretends to follow the Law, but, in his dissembling, enjoys Unlaw. His spirit delights in the riches to which he succeeded while he dissembled, good Brahmin, and then turns to evil . . . Under the influence of the vice of his passion, his lawlessness flourishes triply: he thinks evil, speaks evil, does evil.23 These evildoers and law-abusers illustrate the dangers of the journey and display the range of human desires and emotions that threaten the singleminded purpose of the heroes. Their lot is a cursed one. Since they cannot create, they must consume and can never be fulfilled because their own behavior offends themselves, whereas to follow dharma is to nurture oneself. The anti-heroes are often found desperately pursuing satisfaction where it cannot be attained, i.e. in the conquest of another man’s wife, which again and again is said to be impossible. They are tragically lost souls, but are never far away from the hero, a point that emphasizes the tremendous perils that the hero risks. They, like Ravana, cannot be good rulers since they only consume and do not create. They are prevalent in 53 �the realm of the "other" since there they are free from law and able through austerities, to gam power, which they will misuse. If the heroes can avoid the trappings of these adharmic characters and complete their quest, the return to the throne is all that remains This IS often much more difficult than it would seem. Up to this point the heroes might have imagined that they would return to their kingdom at last satisfied but after all the obstacles, all the years of exile, and all the battles, much has changed. Yudhisthira, Rama, and Duhsanta all struggle to reintegrate or return to the way things were before. *■ destroys Lanka and Havana's army he is hesitant to accept Sita again as his wife. He feels that he has fulfilled his dharmic responsibility by freeing her from captivity, but is wary that her being has been compromised during her imprisonment. He tells her: Go, Vaidehi, you are free. I have done what I had to do. Once you found me as a husband, good woman, you were not to grow old in a Raksasa’s house— that is why I killed the Night Stalker. For how would a man like me, who knows the decision of the Law, maintain even for an instant a woman who had been in another man s hands? Whether you are innocent or guilty, Maithili, I can no more enjoy you, no more than an oblation that has been licked by a dog. U75.11-14] There is a contradiction in Rama’s logic. It was the king’s adherence to dhormo and his decision to go into exile that led to SIta’s abduction. It was dharma that informed Rama to rescue Sita from Havana. But now it is also dharma that tells Rama he can free Sita, but not reunite with her It appears as though by necessity Sita must be trusted since it was fate that created her captivity, but Rama cannot accept that fact. His stringent guidelines resemble the more practical interpretation of Ksatriya dharma even though m many ways he has been living in and advanced to a realm of Brahmin dharma. Only after four Gods tell Rama that Sita is worthy of his love does he hesitantly take her back. The dilemma illustrates how the Ksatriya king is now confronted with a paradox between the higher dharma he has attained and the dharma that is appropriate to his caste. Duhsanta, apparently, also must find a balance between his secret marriage in the forest and the dharma of the city people.^^ . . ^odhisthira appears to be caught in a similar situation. After the battle IS over and he and his brothers are finally able to return to their 54 �kingdom he appears to have doubts. To the objection of all of those close to him he declares that he will now go perform austerities in the forest like a Brahmin to prepare for final release. He is told that this is contrary to his dharma, that "the dharma of kings is different from that of Brahmins."27 in a sense, Yudhisthira is being told that nothing he has done was done for himself. It is at this point that he begins to understand what true renunciation means. Yudhisthira must return because all of the other classes are dependent upon the Ksatriya king: The Vedas state that the dharmas of the non-ksatriya classes all depend upon the dharma of the king; without the king's rod of force the Vedas would perish and so would all dharmas and the stages of life themselves . . . Ksatriya dharma was Visnu's first creation; all other dharmas followed. Without the Ksatriya dharma there would be no Brahmins, no dharmas, no classes of society, no stages of life.^s Ksatriya dharma is valued because it creates a politics for peace amongst the other classes. The problem for the hero who must return to the throne is that he has come to know the weaknesses of being human from experience; he knows the depravities of man better than anyone else because he has overcome them; and he no longer wishes to be associated with this reality. As an individual he has transcended the profanities to which the Ksatriya class is inextricably linked yet he must remain adherent to his class dharma. Reconciling these two kinds of dharma appears to be extremely difficult and unpleasant. It is the hesitancy to rule that makes this person a great king. He is now whole and has now surpassed the weaknesses that rule the human body, thus he becomes "a great deity in the form of a man, taking on different divine aspects as he performs his different duties."^^ Only a person like this hero can be trusted not to rule the kingdom for his own benefit, for "a king exists to foster dharma not to pursue his own interests."3o So the adherent to dharma will not know his fate until the very end and it may not be what was expected or longed for. The Ksatriya hero who seeks final relief or final release will seek it in vain for it is his dharma to postpone this last departure. His only consolation is in the belief that the good king will eventually attain the heaven of Indra. In understanding the cyclical journey that leads to the proper attainment of the throne, which various heroes undergo during this eastern epic, a light is shone throughout the Mahdbhdrata as a whole. As an extracted framework the hero's quest is given a body and obtains an 55 �almost living quality capable of breathing life into the other paradigms of the story with which it is intertwined. Once the pattern of language that rests below the superficial variances of the individual story is revealed, new insights can be made into the nature of the elements that are subsumed. The importance of the discovery and reconnection to the feminine is essential to the journey itself, but is also telling of the nature of pure love. The shedding of one's material possessions must come before the hero departs for the forest, illustrating the bonds that separate the mundane and the spiritual. And the King’s difficulty in reconciling the Ksatriya and Brahmin dharmas provides an interesting look into the nature of politics and the sacrifices made by a rightful leader. The King's path is one of many frameworks in the Mahdbhdrata, but like the others it holds to an underlying truth in a way that charges the embedded motifs with meaning. The truth is what holds fast, and by familiarizing oneself with the constant, one nears a better understanding of the dharma. Endnotes The Mahdbhdrata. 1. Van Buitenen, J.A.B. (University of Chicago Chicago) 1981. The Abduction of Draupadi: Rama, pp. 268.10. 2. Smith, 609. 3. 4. 5. 6. John D. The Mahdbhdrata. (Penguin Classics: The Mahdbhdrata. Smith, John D. The Hall, pp. The Hall, pp. 159, The Hall, pp. 160. 7. Smith, John D. 8. The Mahdbhdrata. 9. The Abduction of Draupadi; Rama, pp. 261.37. 10. The Mahdbhdrata. The Origins; Sakuntala, pp. 63.10. 12. Ibid., 64.1. Ibid., 64.25. 14. Ibid., 63.20. 15. Ibid., 64.10. 16. Ibid., 64.15. 17. Smith, John D. 18. The Forest, pp. The Mahdbhdrata. The Mahdbhdrata. The Forest, pp. Press: 168. 164. The Hall, pp. The Origins; Sakuntala, pp. 68.40. The Abduction of Draupadi: Rama, pp. 258.10. The Mahdbhdrata. 135. 164. 19. Smith, John D. Chicago 156. The Forest, pp. 20. 21. of The Forest, pp. 168. 11. 13. do 2009 ’ Van Buitenen, J.A.B. (University Chicago) 1981.The Origins; Sakuntala, 68.35. The Mahdbhdrata. The Mahdbhdrata. The Mahdbhdrata. The Mahdbhdrata. London) Press; The Forest, pp. 210. 56 �22. The Abduction of Draupadl: Rama, pp. 257.5. 23. The Origins: Sakuntala, pp. 68.30. 24. Ibid., 65.25. Menaka’s seduction of Visvamitra is another example of how 25. The Session with Markandeya: The Colloquy of the Brahmin and the Hunter the feminine force can quell the destructive powers of masculinity. 201.5 26. Duhsanta’s case may be intentionally ambiguous, making it seem on the one hand that he is now attempting to forget the truth he knows in his heart, and on the other hand as though he is orchestrating a performance so as not to incur the blame of his people. 27. 28. 29. 30. The Mahabharata. The Mahabharata. The Mahabharata. The Mahabharata. Smith, John D. Tranquility, pp. 599. Tranquility, pp. 608. Smith, John D. Tranquility, pp. 609. Tranquility, pp. 609. Primary Texts Smith, John D. The Mahabharata. [Penguin Classics: London, England] 2009. Van Buitenen, J.A.B. The Mahabharata. [University of Chicago Press: Chicago) 1981. 57 �That Fair Passion; Dejection and Desire in Alexander Pushkin's Eugene Onegin Mary Creighton In magnis et voluisse sat est. To once have wanted is enough in great deeds. -Propertius In Eugene Onegin, Alexander Pushkin invites his readers into the world of the title character, an emotionally disintegrating nineteenthcentury Russian dandy. Years after Onegin’s marriage refusal of the tenderfooted and callow young Tatyana, their reunion marks a grand departure in Onegin's character. We find that this departure in character is not merely an aberration in the behavior of the Onegin readers had come to recognize, but rather a spiritual renaissance. Contrary to the familiar romantic indifference of Onegin, we see an obsessive and energetic man. It is at this crowning moment in the narrative that Pushkin turns his pen to the quandary of humanity at large. Pushkin writes. Meanwhile, Eugene was vainly thrusting Tatyana’s image from his mind: Not of poor shy Tatyana-trusting, In love, obscure, unrefined. But of the princess who serenely. Like sheltered godhead, ruled the queenly The lush imperial Neva. Ah, men! The curse of Eve, our far Progenetrix is still enduring: The proffered palls, half-concealed. The tree, the serpent ever wield Their immemorial mystic luring. Forbidden fruit we still implore. Or Eden Eden is no more. (VIII.27) The fact that we, as readers, are grouped in the address "Ah men’’ (Arndt, 208) and "Oh humans! All of you resemble ancestress Eve” (Nabokov, 58 �VIII.27.8], indicates that we too share the insatiable and dissatisfied nature that Pushkin relates. Here, we find ourselves forced into a more sympathetic attitude toward our hero, Onegin. After all, he is the very epitome of this insatiable nature. As we recall, nothing profoundly satisfies his soul. What we, as readers, once passed off as mere ennui, we share with our protagonist in this passage. In casting ourselves in the role of the insatiable Onegin, we recognize that we too suffer from "our far progenetrix" and an "immemorial mystic luring" (Arndt, 208], We are thus forced to either re-evaluate our protagonist, or admit that we are in no way superior to the man we once considered a gilded youth, cold and self-indulgent. In either case, we find that somehow we have had a change of heart. Suddenly, we sympathize with Onegin. Both the "immemorial" quality of this luring, and the fact that we are forced to acknowledge ourselves as victims, introduces this spiritual malaise as a universal and timeless experience. What is Pushkin telling us in this passage? Are we to assume he means that spiritual satisfaction is incompatible with human life? If so, is it attributed to our natures or a misguided mind? Pushkin writes. Forbidden fruit we still implore. Or Eden Eden is no more. (VIII.27.13-14] There are two possible ways to interpret this passage. In both cases we find that our desire for the forbidden fruit is the very prerequisite for Eden’s existence. First, let us consider the simpler interpretation. The forbidden fruit, our desire, is the prerequisite so that Eden may exist. Rather, it is only with the satisfaction of our desires that life becomes paradise to us. This explains why in Nabokov’s translation we see written, tersely, "you must be given the forbidden fruit, / for Eden otherwise is not Eden to you" (VIII.27.13-14]. However, let us consider another possibility. If we return to Arndt’s translation we read, "forbidden fruit we still implore, / Or Eden Eden is no more." In this rendering we see a darker, potentially more hopeless reflection of humankind. With this interpretation, it may not in fact be the receipt of our desires that marks paradise, but perhaps it is the very human act of wanting, desire itself, that distinguishes it. Read this way, it is the imploring that causes Eden to exist. What is so paradisical about desire? How can we justify this claim if it means that in an unsatisfied state, we are actually in paradise? To explore this idea, one must first consider Onegin’s dissatisfaction and his later heartbreak. 59 �Onegin’s Two States of Being If Onegin is in some way consistently unfulfilled throughout the entire novel, what marks the difference between his earlier sate of ennui and his latter torment at Tatyana’s rejection? Upon reflection, we find that there are two kinds of dissatisfaction that we see in Onegin. Put simply, there is one state in which he experiences mere ennui and another in which he is consumed by desire. The latter is powerful, rich, active, and full of soul and yearning. Essentially, it is a lively human experience. In contrast, the former is a static experience. His dissatisfaction resembles a desire-less misery rather than a noble asceticism. The time that Onegin is filled most with desire is in the end of the novel, when his unrequited love for "queenly” Tatyana causes him to ache and desperately reach out to her indifferent heart. Yet, it is no surprise to recognize that it is in this moment that we feel most sympathetic for Onegin. We want Tatyana and Onegin to embrace. Further, we want him to be satisfied. We want them reconciled. The moment we wish most for Onegin’s happiness is the moment when he appears most human to us. He is not simply apathetic and motionless in a state of malaise or ennui. Rather, he is passionate and full of life. How is one then to reconcile Onegin’s grave torment with idyllic paradise? The answer is found in Onegin’s passion, not his torment. Torment here has an object, a direction. In Onegin’s prior episodes, we see that his torment is stagnant and merely internal. Onegin’s Early Ennui From birth, Onegin is described as "likeable, yet wild” (1.3.8]. This wild nature and beginning is a far cry from his young adult life. "Likeable, yet wild" suggests that the two qualities are at odds with one another. However, once Onegin joins society, he learns the part of "London’s dandy fashion" (1.4.6). His "likeable" and "wild" sides cease to be at odds. Rather, the latter gives way to the former until no "wild’’-ness is detectable in his character. "Society’s verdict ran," he is now merely "a bright and very nice young man" (V.4.14]. From the time of his early entrance into fashionable society, Onegin slips into a careless depression. The narrator tells us that Onegin was "To hold life cheap for Sound" and "took forever/ lambic for trochaic verse" (1.7.1-4): 60 �What early meant in equal measure His toil, his torment, and his pleasure. What occupied at every phase The leisured languor of his days. Was the pursuit of that Fair Passion Which Ovid sang, and for its sake Was doomed to drain, in mutinous ache. His glittering life’s remaining ration. (1.8.5-12) In this stanza Pushkin informs his readers that Eugene was, in his early youth, occupied with "the pursuit of that Fair Passion." Onegin longs not only for passion but the "Passion" of which Ovid sang. It is interesting to consider that the kind of passion that most resounds within Onegin was that expressed so eloquently by Ovid, a prolific writer best known for his elegiac love poetry. It is this very passion, we are told in an ominous moment of foreshadowing, that will later "drain" the remainder of his life. Like the wild nature of his youth, Onegin's love for poetry dissipates upon his entrance into fashionable society. This Ovidian passion is lost in the "leisured languor" that we are told marks his young adult days from here on out. We see that this passion is revived upon reunion with Tatyana, but lies lifeless and dormant before that fateful reunion. We learn in the very next stanza that his passion had turned to contrivance. Furthermore, any earnestness is overcast by a philanderer’s contrivance; "How soon he learnt to feign emotion" (1.10.1). In the following two stanzas we are told that his romantic exchanges are both active and insincere. He "act[ed],’’ "seem[ed],’’ "scared," "[a]mazed," "[sjeized," "lure[d],’’ "implore[d]," and even "ambush[ed]’’ his "prey" [1.10.2,4;!.11.2,3,5,8-10,14). In stanza 19 of Chapter One, the narrator first introduces the banal and tiresome repetition of St. Petersburg social life and the theatre that serves as its epicenter. Here, the stage becomes reminiscent of Eugene’s fashionable life itself. Speaking of the cast, the narrator laments, Are you the same? Have others banished And barred, yet not replaced you all? Or will the listless eye not see On tedious stage familiar faces. Scan with distraught binoculars An alien world bereft of stars; 61 �Shall I be yawning at the cast And mutely hanker for the past? [1.19.3-14) Here, both Saint Petersburg’s fashionable society and the theatrical cast are "tedious faces” whose platitudinous and dizzying repetition induces merely a yawn from its audience. St. Petersburg, in all its fashion, "makes for cultured whimsy / Of novelties polite and flimsy" [1.23.5-6). This world is not reminiscent in any way of Onegin’s "wild" youth and Ovidian passion, but is "an alien world bereft of stars." The theater, like his very life, inspires little more than a "hanker[ing] for the past," when life still appeared before him in all its glitter and possibility. Although he is unaware, our hero is reminiscing about his childhood, before life was reduced to a mere bromide, eliciting a "listless" spirit and a yawninspiring ennui. Eugene has only "an absent gaze at the ballet / then with a yawn he turn[s] away" [1.21.10-11). Our languishing protagonist has "seen it all," claiming that "on me ballets have lost their hold / Diderot himself now leaves me cold" [1.21.6,13-14). In Nabokov’s translation we see a more sentimental response to the theater. The characters that were once "full of soul” in Nabokov’s translation are met with a "mournful gaze" rather than a "listless eye." The actors are referred to as "goddesses," an image more akin to muses that entertain and inspire. These fallen goddesses are met with a cry, "Hark my sad voice"! But the muses do not listen; one is left merely "disenchanted" and rendered mute in a sea of voices that comprise the tepid indifference of a madding crowd. Onegin’s life at this point is "ceaseless play,” an expression of "youth’s bloom, free of prohibition" [1.36.9). However, the freedom and bloom hold no genuine pleasure for the hero. "Each day a feat, his life a game,” we are told [1.36.10). In the midst of this reflection our narrator pauses to ask his readers, "Was he content with his condition? / Or was he hearty and inane / Amid carousals— but in vain?" [1.36.11-14). It is not hard to conceive that the answer for both the readers and the narrator is emphatically, "Yes" [1.37.1). The narrator continues, "Feeling early cooled within him; / He came to loathe that worldly grind; / Proud beauties could no longer win him / And uncontested rule his mind" [1.37.1-4). The "constant inconstancy turns dreary" and of "friends and friendship [Eugene] grew weary" [1.37.5-6). He becomes "overfed” with social life [1.37.13). Onegin becomes "strange," "embittered," "wry” and "gloomy" because "Life had numbed all vest,” extinguishing "the glow” within "his 62 �breast" (1.38.9; 1.45.10-11). We are told that he becomes "infected” with a "disease" colloquially referred to as "the Blues" (1.38.4-5). He "ceased to notice anything" other than the dull ache within his impassive chest (1.38.14). The narrator expounds, Eugene has had his measure. Apostate from the whirl of pleasure, He has withdrawn into his den And, yawning, reached for ink and pen. He tried to write— from such tenacious Endeavor, though, his mind recoiled; And so the paper stayed unsoiled. (1.43.5-14) Pushkin makes it clear that his torment is less an emotional enterprise than one born from boredom. This is seen in the very fact that Pushkin continually accompanies Onegin's distress with the act of yawning rather than a strictly emotional response. By stanza 43 of Chapter One, Onegin has yawned four times, yet never once wept or otherwise complained.' His distress is a stagnant malaise, devoid of living grief or impassioned fervor. Described as an "apostate,” Onegin appears before us clad with pen and paper as a strange kind of psychological turncoat. He has not only left his previous life behind but has deserted the pleasures that once amused him. He remains to us now as a mere derelict, longing for the catharsis of the pen, but finding instead only a vacant mind and "unsoiled" paper. His mind "recoils" because he cannot yet transfer outward to paper the distress he experiences within. His distress is locked within himself, motionless. He is forced, therefore, to remain in a greater solitude than the mere physical kind. This image stands in stark contrast to that of his companion, Lensky, who "Across his mind the world still drew / Its web of glitter and Ado" (II.7.7-8). Similarly, Lensky only illuminates his compatriot’s mute expression. Lensky, in contrast, "never put the exalted Muse to shame: / From his proud harp there never came / Aught but exalted feelings" (11.9.10-14). Our narrator, who admits his intimacy with Onegin in "that season" of his life, tells us that Onegin acquired an "acid derogation" and a "humor, half shot-through with gall” reminiscent of "Grim epigrams' malicious drawl” (1.46. 12-14). This character type, if we may call it that, is not unfamiliar to readers who can immediately recognize this kind of "frigidly dissecting mind" (1.45.7). Onegin is a perfect portrait of the sardonic intellectual whose acerbic wit both charms us and forewarns us of erudition’s toll. 63 �While staying at his uncle’s country house, Onegin genuinely attempts to explore the world around him in hopes of finding solace in the pastoral estate. We are told, "Two days the solitary meadows / Retained for him their novel look, / The leafy groves with cooling shadows / And sedately murmuring brook" (1.54.1-4). However, his rural sensibility lasts only the two days and "Next day he did not take the trouble / To glance at coppice, hill, and stubble"; rather, they "brought on a sleepy mood" (1.54.4-6). The narrator continues to divulge that melancholy spares no victims and affects souls of every background and sort: "Spleen does not spar the landed gentry, / It needs no palaces or streets, / No cards or balls or rhymed conceits. / Spleen hovered near him like a sentry / And haunted all his waking life / Like a shadow, or a faithful wife" (1.54.12-14). Pushkin here claims that depression, or "spleen," preys on all of humankind, reiterating the notion that a life of privilege, and even Eden itself, may silence but will not satisfy the human soul. Tatyana’s quixotic enthusiasm for life and love stands in contrast to Onegin’s early ennui. Though the introduction of Tatyana is somewhat of a jocular affair, we find her to be such a lively character because of her impassioned spirit. In the hyperbolic emotional state of adolescence, her "young imagination, / Enflamed in tender, languored mood, / Had yearned for the celestial food, / Long had a throbbing agitation / In vain sought in her bosom room" (III.7.9-13). For Tatyana, "Creative fancy’s vivid creatures / Lend their imaginary features" (IIL9.5-6). All of life seems mysterious and fantastical because of her "fancy-fed imagination" (III.10.1). "Her heart is full to overflowing," it is said (III.16.5). The notion of her overflowing heart reflects a rather different mood than that of Onegin’s continual open-mouthed yawning. Also, unlike Onegin, Tatyana cannot help but express her feelings in a tumultuous outpour of emotion. However, when confiding in her nanny, Tatyana finds little comfort. Her nanny, who is described as "dim-witted," is the most bereft of passion of nearly all of the characters. She can offer nothing but simple advice and, in "prayerful awe” at Tatyana’s words, "Crossed Tatyana with her wasted claw” (III.19.13-14). It should be no surprise to us that this character, bereft of passionate inclinations, is described as having a "claw." This conjures the image of something akin to a creature, subhuman. The image of Nanny’s claw serves not only as a comical device depicting a desiccate old woman but serves doubly as a frightful image. Her very soul is what makes her animalistic and incapable of sympathy. She is therefore unable to reach out with a tender hand. She instead confides in the heavenly spirit to guide over her young mistress. 64 �It is this very idea that we must consider in our investigation of Tatyana’s frightful dream after Onegin refuses her. In his refusal, Onegin is indifferent; his minimal affection appears avuncular at best. He offers her something akin to a "sermon” (IV.17.1), presenting "simple nobility of heart" in contrast to her "quailing” (IV.18.4). After the affair with Tatyana, Onegin returns to a "state of pensive sloth” (IV.44.2). Her interpretation of Onegin as unsympathetic and devoid of passion is what makes him so frightful and alien to her "overflowing” spirit. Thus, he appears both in life and in dream to be bestial and daunting. In her dream, Onegin’s "mighty paw with razor talons” is reminiscent of the Nanny’s clawed hands (V.12.9). In the very same dream, Tatyana is chased by a bear whose sudden disappearance offers Eugene’s figure in its stead (V.16]. Even when Onegin’s figure does appear, he is the company of "nothing human,” but only "freaks” and "horrors” (V.17.1). This subconscious expression only reiterates Tatyana’s prior suspicion regarding his unsympathetic and unimpassioned nature. These qualities are merely symptoms, however, of a far more grave internal state of malaise. Even when Onegin returns from his long years of travels we find him accompanied by a morose stanza. This stanza, punctuating and pausing the plot, stands as an ode to life lost, not gained. Pushkin laments. But sad to feel, when youth has left us. That it was given us in vain. That its unnoticed flight bereft us And brought no harvest in its train: That our most fondly nursed ambitions. Our fancy’s freshest apparitions. Have swiftly wilted one by one. Like leaves by autumn blasts undone; To see no prospect but an endless Array of meals in solemn row. To watch life like a puppet show. Do as the Romans do, yet friendless. And sharing with that titled crew No single passion, taste, or view. (VIII.ll) We must observe that this ode lacks any hard punctuation to separate its statements. Rather, it is intended to flow as a single thought, mawkish and lachrymose. This passage fits our hero’s character well as we find 65 �him still peevish and morose after years abroad. We are told that in his absence, he sought "solitude wherein a shadow” (Vlll.lS. 5). It is this and only this shadow that he brings home with him. Tatyana's and Onegin's Reunion; Eugene's Transformation It is only upon Onegin and Tatyana's reunion that this spell breaks. Upon meeting the wedded Tatyana, who offers little more than disinterested amiability, Onegin is stirred within. His feelings become only more intense upon realizing that he is met with a woman content, indifferent, and seemingly disinterested in him. He is suddenly "confused and fretful," with "dreams now alluring, now regretful” (VIII.21.1,3]. These dreams "pursue” him and he finds himself in a "strange trance” that has "upset his torpid self-possession; thus, he wonders to himself if it is love he feels once again” (VIII.21.10]. Pushkin writes. The days flew; winter had retreated And here he was— still undefeated By verse, lunacy or death. And spring restored some animation: He breaks hearthside hibernation Goes driving through the morning brightness Down the embankment in a sleigh: All gold and blue, the sunbeams play On brittle floes; the fareway's whiteness Is thawing into muddy slush. And through it, whither does he rush (VIII.39] In this stanza we see that despite Tatyana's painful rejection, the winter months have not been enough to break his spirit. Something resilient, strong and life-like has awakened within him. He "breaks hearthside hibernation, and for the first time in years, wakes up early enough to confront the "morning brightness.” Even the "gold and blue” sunbeams are at "play.” During our protagonist's stay at his uncle's estate, we remember that his rural sensibility lasted only the two days and "Next day he did not take the trouble / To glance at coppice, hill, and stubble.” 66 �We find the Eugene of old to be incompatible with the man who now rushes outside and "goes driving through the morning brightness / Down the embankment in a sleigh." His "rushing" and "driving" reflects an eagerness for life and an appetite for what it may present him. This appetite is an ambition, a recognition that life does have more to offer, and reminds us of the appetite conjured by the forbidden fruit. In the cases of both Eve and Onegin, implicit in their desire is the recognition that one’s lot may improve: that one can in fact be happier, better off. To think otherwise is to denounce life as a static enterprise unworthy of our celebration. Line fourteen, where the narrator asks, "whither does he rush," is strongly reminiscent of earlier passages describing him rushing to the balls and social gatherings. We recall the narrator’s jocular yet rhetorical inquiry, "Whither does our prankster scurry?" [1.15.6). We recall the hasty manner with which he "drives out and joins the promenading" (1.15.13). Yet, it was this life of promenading and glitter that Onegin quickly came to resent. What makes this scene remarkably different is that despite Tatyana’s adamant refusals of him, he does not grow weary of his love for her. The social gatherings of the past were mere entertainment. They lacked the passion and character of lively rejuvenation. The narrator describes "his pupil" as "well-nigh inspired" (VIII.38.6). Eugene "dogs her footsteps like a waif’ (VIII.30.8). He "perseveres, won’t cease from trying, / Is ever hoping, ever vying; / With feeble hand, but greater pluck / Than he had shown in health or luck" (VIII.32.5-8). He writes his love an "impassioned message" (VIII.32.9). In his letter, Onegin is said to "expose [his] soul" in a manner unfitting to his prior self (VIII.33.6). Tatyana confronts Eugene’s passionate outpour with little more than "cold wrath” (VII.33.14). She "ignores his swoons” (VIII.32.4), and we are told "she fails to notice or— to care” (VIII. 31. 10). Though in "mortal anguish,” he is "with love’s wild fevered curse" (VIII.32. 60). His "flesh is parched with thirst" (VIll.32.62) and he "longs to clutch [her] knees, and sobbing, in supplication bent” (VIII.32.63). After Tatyana’s painful rejection, our narrator again laments, "[I]n his heart, what stormy ocean / Of feelings seething in revolt!" (VIII.48.34). Even in this torment, Onegin’s "heart" is full of "seething" feelings. As a stormy ocean confronts us with the fear of death, we feel all the more alive with passion in the presence of our mortality. It is in this very way that Eugene, despite his circumstances, is confronted with the fresh reproach of mortal life with all its pain and suffering. Additionally, we see him for the first time turning to advice, rather than offering it unwarranted, as demonstrated by his newfound 67 �obsession with “journals anxious to instruct” (Vlll.35.10]. We are told. Desires, dreams, and regrets were jumbled / In dense profusion in his soul” (VIII.36.3-4]. This dense profusion consists of a longing for Tatyana’s love and a regret for his prior mistreatment of her. Further, Pushkin recalls, "And while drowsy stupor muffles / All thought and feeling unawares, / Imagination deals and shuffles / Its rapid motley solitaires” (;viII.37.1-4). It is a morose, insular life that causes a "drowsy stupor. This stupor muffles and causes one to be "unaware” of thought and feeling. However, in his state of longing, with its "rapid motley solitaires, Eugene s imagination” is provoked. He begins to come alive in both heart and mind. Pushkin’s Eden: Reflection on the Two States A purely insular life of stagnant dejection is the mark of death and a morbid soul. When one’s torment is stifled, it becomes drowsy, an unimpassioned, wan mood. But once turned outward toward the world, one is in communion with something external to and greater than one’s self. In the same manner that "a pond without an outlet is stagnant, so his grief, without refreshment, is moribund.”^ If we are fallen beings in a post-Edenic world, then it only makes sense that the further outward we reach, the greater communion we experience with the divine. For, although there may be divine qualities within us, they lay motionless under the oppression of solipsistic malaise. This goes rather against Christian theology, which tells us that man must look inward to commune with the divine. Perhaps the terrifying prospect that Eugene Onegin faces is that were he to look inward, he would in fact find nothing at all. Left to his own devices, he lacks the ability to write poetry, to enjoy travel and leisure he lacks even a reason to live. This also means that we must interpret, through Pushkin s eyes, a new notion of Eden. Perhaps our great progenetrix, Eve herself, because of her yearning and reaching for the forbidden fruit, made Eden a paradise. She turned her life in Eden from static, lifeless acceptance— of God’s supreme power— to a dynamic, fluid, and living experience. Thus, it was at the very moment that she desired (and reached for] the forbidden fruit that she and Adam both created paradise and simultaneously thrust all of humankind from it. Eve is still enduring, is still a progenetrix, still intimately kin to us, because we as humans, in our more energetic yearnings, commune with her and the desire she embodies. She lives in us as we live. However, we only live when we want. Thus, Pushkin’s words ring far truer to us than we could 68 �ever imagine. "Ah men! The curse of Eve is still enduring ... The tree, the serpent ever wield / Their immemorial mystic luring. / Forbidden fruit we still implore, / Or Eden Eden is no more.” We are in paradise, so long as we feel desire. It is only once this fades to mere dejection that paradise no longer exists for us. For it is then that we cease to truly live. It is important to consider that both Eve an Onegin experienced a longing for things much greater than themselves. Eve extended her hand toward supreme knowledge, where Onegin toward loving companionship. It is by Eve's act that man has traded in his immortality. But what kind of exchange was it? What did she trade immortality for? Is it not odd that Pushkin would suggest Eve’s epic gesture cost man his communion with the divine, only to replace it with the chance for communion with fellow humankind? If so, what is it that human companionship offers that divine communion could not? In the case of Onegin, it is the opportunity to know himself through another. If Onegin is plagued with the empty, lachrymose soul that Pushkin has described him as possessing, then it is only through a reciprocal other that he comes to recognize himself as a living being. Could it be that he must reach outward for any sense of wholeness? The reason we sympathize more with Onegin at the end of the novel is because his dissatisfaction turns to passion. It is his very wanting that makes him lively, mortal— in summation, human and familiar to us as readers. We recognize ourselves in Onegin similarly. If it is in fact this state of human longing that makes life paradise, are we to believe that an impassioned spirit is joy itself? Is this very human experience the closest to paradise that we will ever be? Pushkin seems, in fact, to be telling us so. Whether in jubilance or despair, it is an imperfect life that offers us joy. It is this life, ultimately, that offers us the chance to know ourselves, imperfectly human as we are. Endnotes * All citations are taken from translation by Walter Arndt unless otherwise noted. 1. 2. 38.12; 1.21.11; 1.19.13; 1.1.13. Cartmell, Nathan. Intimations of Re-Creation From Recollections of Dejection and joy. 69 �Primary Text Pushkin, Alexander. Eugene Onegin. Translated by Walter Arndt. Dana Point, California: Ardis Publishers, 1981. 70 �Made in the USA 12559718R00041 Charleston, SC 12 May 2012 ��781475 � 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 Early Writings: An Academic Journal Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Meem Library Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 83 pages Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Early writings : an academic journal, 2012 Description An account of the resource The annual academic journal published by the Graduate Institute in Santa Fe. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Creighton, Mary (Editor) Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Santa Fe Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2012 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this publication. Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Carr, Casey (Editor) Wilhite, Jesse (Editor) Connolly, Brian (Editor) Allan, Jeffrey (Editor) Kilani, Anastasia (Cover Design) Boor, Jeremy Falconer, Joshua McGee, Bethany Leveriza, Daphne Resor, Turner Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context SF_Early_Writings_2012 Academic journal Early Writings Student publication https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/3e3c050e426b6c7b373c8d3366a28777.pdf d29a03701798995e54e469cb82dd23df PDF Text Text t i �i i,. r I' i. I ‘ r I \ I �Early Writings: An Academic Journal St. John’s College Graduate Institute of Santa Fe, New Mexico 2011 STJOHN’S College ANNAPOLIS • SANTA FE This project is dedicated to Mr. Matthew Davis, without whose support and supervision this project would not have been possible. ��Early Writings: An Academic Journal St. John's College Graduate Institute of Santa Fe, New Mexico 2011 Editor: Mary Creighton Editorial Board: Brian Connolly Jeffrey Allen Grant Wycliff John Hungerford Caitlin McShea Max Coscia Alex Kun Charles Brogan Cover Design: Anastasia Kilani Cover Image: Copyright Maria Friberg, Courtesy Conner Contemporary Art. �Contents: Our Project in Brief Mary Creighton iv The Poetic Prose of King Lear Bethany McGee 1 Aristotle's Ethics: Human Nature and Sociability Celine LePluart-Kamm 5 Ge Zhichuan Moving His Dwelling Reina Lopez 9 Reflections on Xenophon’s Two Accounts of Socrates' Last Days Clint Condra 15 What Nature Contributes to Character Natalie Plowman 25 No Country for Old Men: Does Kant’s Categorical Imperative Have Any Place in the American Political Ethos? Jeffrey Allen 34 A Selection From: Intimations of Re-Creation From Recollections of Dejection and Joy” Nathan Cartmell 39 Meditation on Li Bai's Invitation to Wine Turner Resor 55 11 �The Rights of a Citizen and the Rights of Man: Constitutionality and Natural Law in the Dred Scott Decision and Lincoln’s Springfield Speech of 1857 Kanishka G.B. Marasinghe 60 Wisdom and Wizardry: Vimalakirti’s Inconceivable Technique for Reinvigorating the Dharma Brian Connolly 67 The Problem of Pederasty in Plato’s Phaedrus John Hungerford 84 The Unmentioned Standing Reserve Caitlin McShea 97 Reason in Crisis: A reflection on Edmund Husserl’s The Crisis of European Sciences Nick Urban 108 �Our Project in Brief: In his hook Aspects of the Novel, E.M. Forster claims, "the final test of a novel will be our affection for it." From ancient tragedies and philosophical manuscripts, to modern political treatises and novels, there are those works in the Great Books curriculum that so baffled or provoked us, so inspired or intrigued us, that we are left with no option other than to confront them in our writing. So, in a sense, this book resembles more a collection of essays about our affections than it does an academic journal. In other words, presented in this book are academic essays that illuminate the intellectual investigations that we have undertaken while enrolled in the Graduate Institute at St. John’s College in Santa Fe. In addition to our authors’ contributions. Early Writings: An Academic Journal of the St. John's College Graduate Institute has burgeoned from the hard work of eight diligent editorial board members and an industrious cover designer. This group of editors volunteered their time and energy to review and edit a selection of the twenty-nine submitted essays. Once a submission was sent to the stiohns.gi.iournal@gmail.com email address, an anonymous copy was reproduced for editorial review. Once an essay’s approval by majority vote determined its inclusion in the journal, a group of two to five editors began the editing and reviewing process. Editors who submitted to the journal surrendered their voting rights during review of their essay, and the occasion of their submission remained classified. The editing process included changes in spelling, grammar, syntax, word usage, basic content changes, and organization. The author was then contacted with a copy of these changes as submitted by the board before the essay proceeded to the formatting stage. All submissions remained anonymous and at no point was the review board privy to personal information regarding the authors. The decision to include a submission was based on a number of variables. The ultimate decision to include a work was based not only on its quality, but its length, subject matter, etc. For instance, if there were multiple essays submitted on a given subject, only one may have been selected for publication, for the sake of subject diversity. Similarly, space constraints had an impact. This does not mean, however, that more obscure and shorter pieces were given preference. Rather, an amalgamation of many variables determined an essay’s precedence and subsequent inclusion. Our objective has been to provide a polished forum to feature curriculum-based academic essays of currently enrolled Graduate students of both the Eastern Classics and Liberal Arts programs. The inquisitive reader will find that our selections include a wide range of IV �subjects, thinkers, genres and writing styles: Included in our selection are Master's Essay Abstracts, Preceptorial classroom essays and Tutorial classroom essays. The prudent reader, furthermore, will find in this diversity proof that in the St. John's community, there is no one predominant method by which texts are explored. In completing this project, we are reminded that there are as many perspectives from which one may investigate a text, as there are texts to investigate. In each of these explorations we find something classical, something provocative, something earnest, and something charming. We hope you find the same. Mary Creighton Editor V ��The Poetic Prose of King Lear Bethany McGee S?J=*=SH=r.S , Enter Edgar. these divisions. Fa, sol, la, mi. ' ' do portend —Edmund (I.ii.128-1483 Edmund s soliloquy in the second scene of the first act of Kinn i ■ P??S=“S==i=2 into the ,„.o„s both w,.h,„ the laf,:: ^ aSe' Mv.CSa'S''; Through animal, sexual and biblical imaeerv ^ u ■ t?"T^aTa*™ “of man s ambiguous position between god and beast Thp ...o /, ?S=SS5H=iS=«: ~Y.x-^;~5Br€r something that is beyond our control. As he goes on to te I us PH h 1 �"bastard" at large as well as to his own situation. Yet he refuses to make excuses for his own disposition. Instead he asserts that he would be the same man had his birth been at any other time. His thoughts are interrupted with the entrance of his legitimate brother Edgar, of whom he has just begun to speak. This brings him back into the action of the play and to his villainous plot. Edmund paints a dismal portrait of human nature. The examples he gives of man are of the worst kind: "villains,” "fools,” "knaves, thieves, and treachers," "drunkards, liars, and adulterers,” and then "whoremaster,” "rough" and "lecherous.” He believes that man is ruled by his appetites, and excessively so. We are "surfeits of our own behavior,” indulging to the point of disgust. With the words of his speech, "goatish,” "Dragon” and "Ursa" (or bear), he emphasizes this animalistic nature. In fact, the only adjectives he uses with any positive connotation seem meant to be taken as ironical. He uses "excellent” to depict the "foppery of the world” and "admirable” to describe the "evasion of whoremaster man.” The root of his disgust for humanity appears to be primarily sexual. Emphasizing his obsession with his own bastardization throughout the play, his soliloquy is wrought with sexual imagery. Beyond the blatant usage of "adulterers,” "whoremaster,” "lecherous” and an account of his "bastardizing” in which his "father compounded with [his] mother,” his language hints at a sexual drive which is all the more powerful for its subtlety. The mention of "goatish disposition,” as well as making an allusion to the astrological sign of Capricorn, conjures a lustful and lewd image. The phrase "under the Dragon’s Tail” rings phallic when followed so closely by the virginal description of something as "maidenliest.” Even the "divine thrusting on” of the first sentence can be understood within a sexual framework. In stark contrast to the language of vulgar sexuality and animalism, the listener is reminded of the eternal heavens. We are treated to "the sun,” "the moon,” and the three-times-mentioned stars, as well as things described as "heavenly,” "planetary” and "divine.” The soaring prose reaches its zenith in the final allusion to a heavenly body with the phrase "the maidenliest star in the firmament twinkled.” This striking difference in language and theme highlights the contradiction Edmund sees in trying to connect one’s base existence to some higher purpose. For Edmund, this association is detestable. Human nature is obscene and he admits, being "rough and lecherous,” that he is no exception. Yet he differs from those he despises by making no excuse for his character. "I should have been that I am,” he declares, "had the maidenliest star in the firmament twinkled on my bastardizing.” Even worse than our animalism is making the heavens "guilty of our disasters.” In this we not only make excuses for our shortcomings and misfortunes but seek to associate 2 �ourselves with the eternal and the divine. By resisting the temptation to put his "disposition on the charge of a star,” Edmund has reclaimed not only culpability but agency as well. He views his "villainous melancholy" as a choice rather than a "necessity,” and in that choice he sees power. Edmund's hesitation to associate himself with the divine is subtly undermined by the words Shakespeare puts into his mouth. There is an undercurrent of Christian imagery running throughout the speech. It is first brought to the reader’s attention in Edmund’s claim that "[He] should have been that [he is] had the maidenliest star in the firmament twinkled on [his] bastardizing." This reads as a version of the Immaculate Conception of Christ. Birth under the "maidenliest star” is reminiscent of the perfect virginity of Mary who, by giving birth out of wedlock, gave birth to a bastard son. The Christian tones are enforced by language that is strikingly biblical: "nativity” rings of The Nativity; "firmament” is a key word in the creation story; "Bedlam” is a corruption of "Bethlehem”; and, we hear of a "divine thrusting on,” as if the Divine had thrust the seed of a child upon the Virgin. By painting himself both as a Christ-figure and a human agent, Edmund sets himself up for the comments he makes at the end of his soliloquy. He has put himself at a level above the other characters and somehow at a level above the play itself. He is able to view the events and his own person from an outside position almost as one of the audience, and recognize the action for what it is — a piece of drama on a stage. He, more than any other character, is allowed a view of the whole. He is able to reference previously spoken lines ("0, these eclipses do portend these divisions”: an allusion to lines spoken by his father] as well as those to come ("with a sigh like Tom o’ Bedlam”: the character his brother will assume in later scenes]. He has gained such a wide perspective on the entirety of the drama that he can comment upon the workings of the very play in which he participates. He verbalizes his "cue” upon Edgar’s entrance and remarks that it is "like the catastrophe of the old comedy,” or like the culminating event of a drama by which the plot is resolved. Even in this moment of meta-drama, Edmund seems to ignore the fact that "catastrophe" is generally the domain of tragedy. He seems unable to recognize the seriousness of his situation and imagines he is on a path to a happy — comic — ending. Because of Edmund’s heightened awareness of drama and the frequency with which he addresses the audience throughout the play, his speech in Act I stands out. This is the only time he, who normally speaks in verse, soliloquizes in prose. One must ask what is significant in this choice of form and what effect it has on an audience. In contrast to Edmund’s other soliloquies, the prose section seems to consciously resist being broken into iambic feet and thus pays little regard to a regimented 3 �number of syllables within a phrase. Yet the prose is full of poetic elements: elevated language, metaphor and vivid imagery. And, though not consistently regulated, upon recitation, the selection takes on a metered cadence. So why not write the passage in verse? Why single out this speech with the distinction of prose, a traditionally less-celebrated form? Why choose words of heavy stress like "adulterers," "whoremaster,” "fools,” "knaves," "thieves," "treachers," and "evil" that are not typically the content of lyrical, iambic poetry? It is as if the subject of the soliloquy would defile poetic language. As if neither the author nor the speaker could bear to elevate such a cruel, lewd portrait of humanity and hypocrisy to the level of the poetic. Yet there are moments, as in the lines "by spher | ical | predom | inance” and "enforced | obe | dience | of plan | etar | y in | fluence," where iambic feet, and even rhyme can be found. Here, poetry, the language of the stars, interrupts the vulgar prose. Within the harsh description of reality we see flashes of eternal ideals spoken in elevated poetry. Though the effect may be lost on the listener, the distinction between prose and verse is glaringly apparent to the reader. Upon close inspection of the passage, the complexity and contradictions within both Edmund and the play as a whole become apparent. The soliloquy illuminates the tension inherent in man's position as hovering precariously between the animal and the divine. The use of poetic prose to express this situation reinforces the dialectic nature of the problem, with poetry representing the heavens and prose the animal appetites. He is a man who laments being put into a position beyond his control and desires the power to improve his situation. This upward movement involves betraying the familial bonds and the compassion for others that one would assume to be natural. By disparaging Nature and reclaiming an independent agency, Edmund can sooth his conscience and act without fear of immorality. This response is not unique to Edmund, but rather is shared by many of the play’s characters. Shakespeare has presented a man meant to embody evil, yet he looks familiar- both like the personages who share his stage and also like the members of his audience. Through the use of poetic prose and skillfully subtle conceits, Edmund’s soliloquy gives the audience a picture of a tortured soul and the world that has created it. Primary Text Shakespeare, William. King Lear. Ed. R.A. Foakes. London: The Arden Shakespeare, 1997. 4 �Aristotle's Ethics: Human Nature and Sociability Celine Le Pluart-Kamm In the Nicomachean Ethics Aristotle affirms, "man is by nature a social being" (1097b6]. His association of nature and society, which are generally viewed as distinctively different and opposed to each other, presents an interesting paradox. The contradiction is further deepened when he adds that the qualities, or virtues, necessary for man to exercise his natural sociability do not arise from innately, but artificially by training. They are learned behaviors within the city. It is easy to find a tension between the two opposing states of what man is "naturally” and "socially." If, as Aristotle theorizes, nature made the city come into existence as a result of necessity or common interest and endowed its citizens solely with tendencies to act in a particular way, we can therefore infer that the choices and actions that enable these citizens to function originate not in nature, but in the city: they originate in the socialized man himself. Thus, we are led to believe that the forces and processes controlling the phenomenon of the making of the city, as well as the intrinsic and essential character of those who live in it, are independent of human volition; however, the processes of collectively creating a high level of development and pursuit of goodness are dependent on human volition. This raises again the question of the correlation between the Aristotelian views of nature and culture, and more particularly, of an important distinction about which Aristotle was not completely clear: when does one break away from the other and become unique to man? In what sense can we say that a human being is a social being? Natural or artificial, what does sociability tells us about our humanity? Aristotle's political ideas regarding human nature differ widely from thinkers who affirm that man is by nature anti-social. Contrary to Hobbes or Rousseau, for whom civil life — viz., the city — is unnatural, Aristotle positively declares that the city is a natural state for mankind. In Politics, he asserts, "it is evident that the city belongs to the class of things that exist by nature, and that man is by nature a political animal” [1253a2]. As a "political animal,” man is thus inclined to naturally seek out the company of other people. However, by defining man as a "political animal," Aristotle seems to make a crucial distinction between human and animal societies. Indeed, man is not the only "animal” to live in a community; other animals, such as elephants or wolves, live in groups, albeit in a less organized fashion. Bees or ants, however, have been observed to form organized and hierarchical societies evocative of those of humans. But the difference is, however, that humans are more 5 �"political” than these other animals. People are drawn together not only in response to basic physical needs, but to form and maintain political associations from a common interest, seeking to attain a share of the good life. In that sense, man's social endeavor is much greater than that of other animals; it is beyond the call of necessity. In fact, his sociability consists of an essential ethical component: the realization of the good life — i.e., happiness or fulfillment — that Aristotle examines in the Ethics. Aristotle thus starts the Nicomachean Ethics on the premise that society is fundamental to the nature of man. For him, to be a human being can only mean to be a social being. He goes even further in saying that a life outside the city is not that of a human but of something rather subhuman or superhuman. He he points out in Politics: The man who is isolated, who is unable to share the benefits of political association, or has no need to share because he is already self-sufficient, is no part of the city, and must therefore be either a beast or a god. (1253a25-29) This different sort of being, lacking the ability to live in association with other citizens, is thus alienated from the city's ultimate end. On one hand, he may be considered less than human: either a beast or a brute, limited by survival needs and base instinct. On the other hand, he may be considered more than human: a god, self-sufficient and perfect in every way. While acknowledging that man cannot exist in isolation, but only in relation with other fellow-citizen, Aristotle makes the claim that brutish and godlike states are in fact rare among the Greek race: And since it is rare for a man to be divine, in the same way a brutish person is also rare among human beings. The type is commonest among the non-Greek races, but some cases also occur that are due to disease or arrested development. (1145a27-31) Despite the fact that the lowly beast and the supremely happy man are both self-sufficient and can survive independently, Aristotle calls attention to the hardship of such solitary life: Now a solitary man has a hard life, because it is not easy to keep up a continuous activity by oneself; but in company with others and in relations to others it is easier. (1170a5-6) It is friendship, he writes, that brings people together. Aristotle clearly separates the miserable beast — enslaved by its own survival needs and brute instinct — from the happy man, free from any needs. In 6 �view of this, Aristotle specifies that a happy man will need virtuous friends; It is also paradoxical to represent a man of perfect happiness as a solitary; for nobody would choose to have all the good things in the world by himself, because man is a social creature and naturally constituted to live in company. (1169bl8-19) It thus becomes apparent that the development of the city evolves from the need to connect and form meaningful relationships. From this standpoint, we find a natural sociability going back to a primary joining of familial communities. Aristotle describes the emergence of the city as a natural progression: It is a generally accepted view that the perfect good is selfsufficient. By self-sufficiency we mean not what is sufficient for oneself alone living a solitary life, but something that includes parents, wife and children, friends and fellow-citizens in general; for man is by nature a social being. (1097b9-ll] Starting from the union of families to that of hamlets, the city completes, as a result, the process of unification. As it has been demonstrated, man achieves — in actuality — what living in the city has made him for, thus occupying a particular place in nature that is different from that of other animals. However, in this ultimate realization of Aristotle’s naturally sociable man, there is no discernible break that occurs between nature and the nature of man. There is, nevertheless, an apposite nature of man characterized by the faculty of reason and the ensuing acquisition of moral virtues: The moral virtues, then, are engendered in us neither by nor contrary to nature; we are constituted by nature to receive them, but their full development in us is due to habit. Again, of all those faculties with which nature endows us we first acquire the potentialities, and only later effect their actualization. (1103a24-28] Here Aristotle not only presents man as impelled by nature to live in the city, but also as being provided with a certain disposition complimentary to the duties and obligations of civil society. This is seen when making conscious choices or decisions to act toward the fulfillment of his ends. From potentiality to actuality, man must undergo a development to realize the moral virtues necessary to achieve a higher state of positivity — viz., the good life. With the use of reason, the exercise of his will gives a 7 �moral sense to his acts. In a sense, the potential for future development belongs to the realm of nature, while the formation and framework of social life belongs to the realm of will and rational thoughts. Thus, man is left to shape an enduring system of relations that serves human interests. Such enterprises then complete a socialization process that nature cannot complete for him. So, if sociability relates to nature and our inclination to live in the city, it also relates to culture and our volition to attain its ultimate end: the common good. In this way, the break between nature and the unique nature of man seems to occur during this realization of his potential. While sociability emerges as a quality unique to man due to reason and culture, it implies more than a means to a self-interested end. It tells us that we are social beings whose existence is incomplete outside a social whole. In short, Aristotle reminds us that contrary to increasingly prevalent individualist views, a human being is an unfinished being without society to help perfect his own nature. As a result of individualism, is mankind becoming more like beasts or gods? Primary Texts Aristotle. Nicomachean Ethics. Translated by J.A.K. Thomson. London: Penguin Books, 1976. Aristotle. Politics. Translated by T.A. Sinclair. London: Penguin Books, 1981. �Ge Zhichuan Moving His Dwelling Reina Lopez Wang Meng was born in Huzhou, now known as Wuxing in 1308. Scholars believe that he took informal lessons in watercolor from his grandfather, but there is no record of any formal training. At any rate, one can safely assume that Meng’s family served for generations as painters for the emperor. His was also a political family. He followed in his family tradition of official service to the government by taking a minor post for most of the 1340s. The invasion of the Mongols brought his political career to a halt and he moved to the Yellow Crane Mountains to take the studio-name "Firewood Gatherer of the Yellow Crane Mountain." He was the youngest of the great masters of the Yuan Dynasty who famously refused to serve the Mongolian rulers of his time. Because of his refusal to serve the Mongol rulers of the country, none of his works are painted on silk — all are painted on paper. With the ousting of the Mongols and the subsequent founding of the Ming dynasty in 1368, Meng returned to political office and reluctantly accepted the post of prefect in Shandong Province. A loose association with the minister Hu Weiyong (who was accused of treason and executed in 1380) caused Meng a subsequent accusation of sedition. Meng was sent to prison in 1375 where he spent the last five years of his life. Wang Meng’s style is unlike many of his contemporaries. His paintings are dense, almost cluttered, and his brush strokes pile on top of each other creating masses of color and texture. In his landscapes very little of the painting surface is left untouched by ink, creating full, almost claustrophobic, images. His most famous paintings are Forest Dwellings in Chu-ch'u and Forest Grottoes at Juqu. The exact date of the painting Ge Zhichuan Moving His Dwelling is unknown, as it was left undated by the painter. However, based on its style, many believe that it belongs to his middle period of painting in the 1360s. The painting is a hanging scroll measuring 139 x 58 cm. It is currently housed in the Palace Museum in Beijing. Based on an inscription on the painting later added by the artist, many believe that the painting was for Zucheng Rizhang, a Buddhist monk for whom the painting Forest Grottoes at Juqu was also painted. It is quite interesting (and more than a bit confusing) that Meng painted Ge Zhichuan, a prominent Daoist author, as the subject of a painting to be given to a prominent Buddhist — but this concern will be addressed later. Upon initial observation of Ge Zhichuan Moving His Dwelling, one immediately notices the density of the image. Only a small portion at the bottom left and a small band across the top of the paper are barren. Furthermore, one notices the different qualities and density of both the 9 �ink and color of the painting. Most of the black ink is diluted and used as a wash for the mountains as a light grey. Intense black ink is reserved for a few rocks near the bottom of the painting, clumps of trees in the top third of the painting, and to highlight Ge Zhichuan’s robe. Meng also makes use of different densities of color. Dense blue trees can be seen at the bottom of the painting while lighter shades of blue and red characterize the trees in the upper third of the painting. One also notices that the lighter shades of blue from the trees are echoed in the color of the distant mountains in the background. Interestingly, the only other use of the color red is found muted in the roofs of the houses and again muted in the color of the domesticated animals that Ge Zhichuan is using to assist his move. The intense red color is reserved for the prominent stamp at the top of the page, a few minor stamps to the bottom left and one to the bottom right of the painting. Looking closer at the trees, one notices that the texture of each species of tree is different yet consistent throughout the painting. Each tree is painstakingly precise and detailed. As is pointed out in 3,000 Years of Chinese Painting, Meng "draws his pictorial material — figures, trees, rocky masses — with extraordinary finesse, using dry, precise brushstrokes and avoiding all that is gestural, calligraphic, or indicative of spontaneity" (177). This lack of spontaneity implies that the artist executed the painting according to a precise agenda. It seems obvious to move from the trees to that upon which they are standing — the mountains and land. Although the mountains take up the majority of ink on the page, they are neither overbearing nor ominous. Starting at the bottom of the page, one notices that the land actually touches the very edge and essentially splits the page in half so that it marks an equal proportion of land and water. The rocks at the bottom of the page have a dark grey wash, to echo the dark grey mountains at the painting’s northernmost edge. Also, the rocks seem to have deep crevasses (marked by a pure black ink), to echo the dark black ink of the plants and shadows also in the top half of the painting. Compared to other paintings of this st>’le, Ge Zhichuan Moving His Dwelling has a striking lack of mist surrounding the mountains. This omission does two things. Firstly, it forces Meng to use different techniques to create depth in the painting; secondly, it forces the viewer to search for the specific pathway leading to the dwelling at the upper right of the painting. The artist intends the eyes’ movement toward this pathway as it prescribes a specific path to the dwelling. It gives the viewer merely one way by which we, like Ge Zhichuan himself, may reach the dwelling. To create depth in his painting, Meng uses scale and detail of trees and plants. At the bottom of the painting the trunks of each tree are 10 �meticulously detailed. At the top of the painting the trunks of the trees are less detailed. This technique is similar to that of Chao Meng-fu’s Autumn Colors on the Ch'iao and Huo Mountains. However, Ge Zhichuan Moving His Dwelling is a much more crowded image than that seen in the open plains of Autumn Colors. The composition of the mountains give the sense of a continuous sequence to create depth; however, this is more clearly observed at the top of the page where the mountains seem to stack on top of one another. By combining these two techniques, Meng plays with perspective, never allowing the viewer to settle into any one viewing mode. Rather, the viewer is constantly uncomfortable and unstable in his perspective. The unsettled viewer is obliged to search for Meng’s intended pathway up the painting. Unlike many of the paintings in which the mist between the mountains create a pathway for the eyes, Meng forces the viewer to search for his pathway — the path that Ge Zhichuan and his family are already walking. This prescribed path, and only this path, leads the viewer to the dwelling obscured by the trees in the valley. One does not dare seek another path to the dwelling, lest his eyes become lost among the mountains and trees. Looking at the bottom third of the painting, one notices that the dark rocks and the clear water are given equal value on the page. This essentially splits the painting surface area in half. From the unpainted water on the bottom left of the page, our eyes are drawn slightly upward and to the right where the water is blocked by the dark rock. Fritz van Briessen, a scholar of Chinese painting and its styles, describes this technique as "Opening and Closing” or "k'ai ho" [van Briessen, 134]. The water on the left of the painting wants to flow endlessly, thus opening the painting. This element opens up the painting in order to let it "fly free." Left unconstrained, the water would continue to flow in all directions, as it does at the left bottom, where it seems to flow off of the page. Meng, however, contains the water on the right hand side of the page with dark rocks. These rocks "close down" the openness of the water and "hold it fast" (van Briessen, 134) within its banks. The rocks also force our eyes back to the left and up the path of the water to the human subject of the painting. Interestingly, van Briessen suggests that the opposing pairs in the painting become identical at a higher level. By dividing the painting horizontally in half, we notice that Meng has given equal space to the combined water and rocks at the bottom of the page with the sky at the top of the page. In a sense, the water and rocks are identical to its mirrored sky. If we take into account that the subject of the painting (Ge Zhichuan) was a prominent Daoist, the importance of the equal and balanced yet contrasting rocks and water take on an even deeper meaning as a symbol 11 �of Yin and Yang. This symbol of eternal transition and duality illuminates a strong Daoist philosophy within the painting itself. Furthermore, the relationship between the bottom of the painting [Earth] and the top of the painting [Heaven) and the equality which Meng gives them suggests that in the balance between opposites [Yin and Yang] one can indeed find harmony, represented by Heaven, here on Earth. As our eyes are pushed left by the rocks at the bottom of the page, we come to Meng's intended path. We first notice that this path has no definite beginning. Instead, it seems to appear from behind the trees on the bottom right side of the painting. The path leads us across the bridge, on which Ge Zhichuan stands, and again disappears off to the left side of the page. The path briefly re-appears as it follows the river only to quickly disappear again to the left. We notice the footpath further up the page with a servant waiting for Ge and his family. From this point the path continues, undisturbed, to Ge's future dwelling. Ge's dwelling is nestled in a valley in the upper center left of the page. Aside from this footpath, no other entrance is visible; alas, it is a secluded and singularly accessible dwelling. The mountains surrounding the dwelling are also slightly different in character. They are characterized by darker plant life and shadows as compared to the mountains lower in the painting. The dwelling's proximity to the sky [Heaven] suggests that this dwelling in fact represents the closest that man may come to enlightenment while still grounded on earth. This would also explain why Meng violates one of the six principles of a successful painting — namely - having a path with a definite ending point. The ending point of the path, the dwelling, or enlightenment, is the final destination for man on Earth. Moving once again to the beginning of the path, we notice the subject of the painting, Ge Zhichuan and his family, at the bottom center. Ge Zhichuan stands on a bridge looking back, waiting for his wife and child on ox-back. Uncharacteristic of paintings of its type where human figures are often androgynous or of indistinguishable age, Meng deliberately gives his characters identity. Furthermore, by placing Ge's wife and child in the painting, Meng suggests that sex and age do not matter on the path to enlightenment. One can reach enlightenment regardless of gender or age provided that they are on the correct path. Our eyes easily travel from the bridge to what appears to be a servant carrying a package and then slightly upward to another servant resting by the river. This character has specifically set down his baggage to rest. He sits upright, an implication that his path has not been extremely burdensome or tiring. His upright posture suggests also that he has plenty of energy and enthusiasm for the path ahead. Following the path, we encounter a final unburdened servant waiting for the family at 12 �the dwelling. Ge and his family seem notably unencumbered and upright compared to the human figures that we observe in many other paintings, where heavy loads burden characters as they move across the painted scenes. Why does the disposition of Ge’s family stand in stark contrast to other figures of its kind? Is this the literal moving of one's dwelling, or is this a metaphorical move toward enlightenment? The location of the housing in the upper half of the page, Meng’s singular and vertical path to the dwelling, and the knowledge that Ge Zhichuan is a prominent Daoist, all suggest that his move is the latter. Van Briessen tells us that "a close examination of any good Chinese painting will reveal an intangible quality which can perhaps be best expressed by saying that the painting seems to be knit together by strong invisible threads" (130). The final portion of this paper will examine Wang Meng’s Ge Zhichuan Moving His Dwelling according to the four key principles — Dragon Veins, Host and Guest, Heaven and Earth, and Opening and Closing — which van Briessen remarks as critical to the composition of a painting. The first principle that van Briessen describes is the principle of "Dragon Veins." This term is used to describe "those invisible threads or connectives which are woven in an ingenious and complex system across a painting" (130). Dragon Veins give life to the painting. In the case of Ge Zhichuan, the Dragon Veins emerge from the mountains themselves. They can be seen in the darkest areas of ink on the page. One notices the dark ink on the character of Ge Zhichuan. This color is echoed in the vertical lines of the waterfall just above the human character and again in the dark foliage on the center mountain. These dark areas stretch the eye from the bottom of the painting to its top, seamlessly connecting each section to another. The second principle van Briessen describes is that of "Host and Guest." In this principle, "two parts of a picture are set in a relationship with each other" (130) which represent the "giving and the taking, the passive and the aggressive, and form a unit which is then set against another part of the painting in a further host-guest relationship" (130). Because of the cluttered nature of Meng’s painting, the Host and Guest principle is not accessible upon first acquaintance. Rather, we must look very closely to see how it plays a part in the painting. Van Briessen suggests that the principle can most easily be studied by looking at groups of objects. Using trees as an example van Briessen tells us that the Host tree will generally be "bent, with spread branches” (131), like a host creating space for his guest. The Guest tree is then in contrast with the host by standing "slim and straight” (131). Looking at unlike groupings, one immediately notices the contrast between the horizontal cliffs at the 13 �center left of the painting (representing the Host) and the completely vertical and smooth nature of the waterfall that represent the Guest. This micro-relationship forms another Host and Guest relationship as seen in the cliffs that extend up and to the right while the waterfall continues to act as the Guest, drawing our eyes vertically. After our eyes have reached the origin of the waterfall, we once again see a Host and Guest relationship in the valley in which Ge’s dwelling is located. Here, the dark foliage of trees creates a "V” shape in which the lighter and more pastel colored dwellings, as the guest, reside. The next principle. Heaven and Earth, deals with the vertical balance of the painting. The principle of Heaven and Earth includes the "binding together of all that is anchored to the earth and all that floats free of it” (132). Binding the vertical elements of a painting relies heavily on the use of the Dragon Veins, which were discussed earlier. The Dragon Veins connect the top and bottom portions of the painting. Furthermore, the very nature of Dragon Veins as subtly bringing the painting to life, embody that which binds together all that is anchored to the earth and all that floats free of it. The Dragon Veins are both a part of the physical painting and float free of it as well. The last principle of composition, "Opening and Closing,” was mentioned earlier in the discussion of the lower portion of the painting. However, the true nature of the principle is to connect the painting as a whole work. In this particular painting, the principle of Opening and Closing is identical with that of Host and Guest. No further discussion of Opening and Closing is needed. Through the use of meticulous detail, fastidious texture, and extreme number of brush strokes, Wang Meng created not only a masterwork of art, but a masterwork of philosophy. He cleverly juxtaposes pairs of opposites to create a living sense of balance not just to his work, but to express the importance of this equilibrium in life as well. When this balance is achieved, one is able to move his dwelling, in fact, move his life, unburdened toward enlightenment. He moves his dwelling to one that is as close to heaven as possible while remaining grounded here on earth a truly Daoist subject for a truly Daoist painter. Primary Texts Van Briessen, Fritz. The Way of the Brush: Painting Techniques of China and Japan. Boston: Tuttle Publishing, 1999. Barnhart, Richard M.; Cahill, James; Chongzheng, Nie; Hung, Wu; Shaojun, Lang. 3,000 Years of Chinese Painting. New Haven, London: Yale University Press, 1997. 14 �Reflections on Xenophon's Two Accounts of Socrates’ Last Days Clint Condra Xenophon offers us accounts of Socrates’ last days both in his Apology of Socrates to the Jury and in Book IV, chapter 8 of his Memorabilia. What are we to make of this? That this eminent student of Socrates’ simply made the mistake of repeating himself we do not consider. We assume, rather, that had Xenophon believed a single account of his teacher sufficient, he would not have left us two. That the accounts are similar yet not identical suggests that Xenophon left something of these events and their significance for the careful reader to discern. This, indeed, we take to be our task; bearing it in mind, then, let us compare and contrast the accounts for ourselves. We notice, first of all, certain broad similarities between them: each commences with a declaration of intentions; each relates a conversation between Hermogenes and Socrates that took place during the latter’s last days; each conclude with remarks in praise of Socrates.i We find the following declaration of intentions in the Apology. And regarding Socrates, it is in my opinion also worth recalling how, when he was summoned to court, he deliberated about his defense and the end of his life. Now about this others too have written, and all touched on his boastful manner of speaking — a fact which shows that Socrates really did speak in that way. But they did not make quite clear that he already believed death to be preferable to life for himself, so that his boastful speech appears to be rather imprudent. (1] Xenophon means here to disabuse readers of the notion that Socrates spoke imprudently at his trial — which notion, we gather, Xenophon believes to follow from the assumption that Socrates would have preferred life to death. In light of this, we may understand the Apology, at least in part, as Xenophon’s attempt to vindicate Socrates’ prudence by relating how and why Socrates had in fact come to believe death "to be preferable to life for himself." Following this declaration of intentions, the Apology continues with Xenophon’s relation of Hermogenes’ conversation with Socrates. Before we turn our attention to this, though, let us consider the intentions Xenophon declares in his Memorabilia. Here it is not Socrates’ prudence but rather his piety that Xenophon intends to vindicate: "And if someone thinks that he was proven to be lying about the divine thing . .. since he was condemned to death by the 15 �jurors although he claimed that the divine thing . . . signified to him beforehand what he should and should not do” (1), Xenophon declares, that person should consider certain facts in light of which condemnation and death appear to have been the best outcomes available to Socrates. For one, "he was already at the time [of his trial] so far advanced in age that his life would have ended not much later, even if not then;" moreover, by dying when he did and as he did, Socrates "left behind the part of life that is most burdensome" and "in place of this . . . acquired additional fame by displaying the strength of his soul” [1]. This strength of soul Socrates displayed in two ways — "both by stating his case most truthfully, most freely, and most justly of all human beings,” which Xenophon relates in his Apology, and "by bearing his condemnation to death most gently and most courageously” (1). It is with the latter subject that the Memorabilia continues. Specifically, Xenophon offers Socrates’ behavior during the thirtyday interval between the latter’s condemnation and his death as evidence "that no human being within memory has borne death more nobly.” For, during this time [Socrates] was visible to all his acquaintances living in no way other than during the previous time. And yet previously, of all human beings, he was most admired for living in good spirits and contentedly. (2) Xenophon next constructs a sort of chain of causation out of a series of rhetorical question marks, which we here paraphrase: because Socrates died a death most noble, he therefore died a death most happy; because he died a death most happy, he therefore died a death most dear to the gods. Now although Xenophon does not indicate how this might pertain to the matter of whether or not Socrates was lying about "the divine thing,” we have reason to take what Xenophon says here as evidence that Socrates was telling the truth: if Socrates had fabricated "the divine thing” in the hope that such a defense would help him secure his own acquittal, then during these thirty days we should have seen him either skip town, or else continue to plead his case. At the very least we should not have expected to see him "living in good spirits and contentedly.” Having now surveyed some of what precedes Xenophon’s relation of Hermogenes’ conversation with Socrates in each account, we may go on to consider with regard to Xenophon’s declared intentions, how he relates this conversation in each account. According to the Apology, Hermogenes, the son of Hipponicus,. . . was a comrade of [Socrates’] and reported about him such things as make it clear that his boastful speech fitted his purpose. For upon 16 �seeing Socrates conversing about everything rather than about the trial, this man said that he said: ‘Shouldn't you consider, Socrates, what you will say in your defense? (2-3) In the Memorabilia Xenophon writes, 1 shall tell also what I heard about [Socrates] from Hermogenes the son of Hipponicus. For he said that after Meletus had already entered the charge against him and he himself heard him conversing about everything other than the trial, he said to him that he should be examining what his defense would be. (4) In both accounts Socrates responds to this by asking whether or not it seems to Hermogenes that he, Socrates, has spent his whole life doing just this. Again, in both accounts Hermogenes responds in turn by asking how this is so. What happens next is of much interest. In the Apology Socrates answers Hermogenes by saying, "I have gone through life doing nothing unjust" (3). In the Memorabilia Socrates gives Hermogenes a fuller answer: "he said,” Xenophon relates, "that he had continuously done nothing other than thoroughly examine what the just and the unjust things are, while doing the just and refraining from the unjust” (4). What might the difference between these two answers here given by Socrates have to do with the different intentions declared by Xenophon in each account? We recall that Xenophon intends in his Apology to vindicate Socrates’ prudence — to show, that is, that Socrates’ "boastful speech fitted his purpose." Why in the Apology, then, might Socrates not have told Hermogenes that, in addition to having "gone through life doing nothing unjust," "he had continuously done nothing other than thoroughly examine what the just and the unjust things are?" The charges brought against Socrates as cited in the Apology — "that he did not believe in the gods in whom the city believes but brought in other strange daimonia and [that he] corrupted the young" (10) — may shed some light on this. Namely, perhaps Socrates in the Apology had the prudence not to mention his examination of what the just and unjust things are^: after all, as far as the Athenians are concerned, if the gods in whom they believe have told them what the just and the unjust things are, then for someone to examine these things for himself must be seen as superfluous at best — and may well be seen as evidence of impiety. Then again, if venerated human lawgivers — the likes of Solon, for instance — have bequeathed unto the present generation a time-honored account of what the just and 17 �the unjust things are, then for Socrates to encourage his followers to examine these things may well be seen as corrupting the young. We continue by comparing what comes next in the conversation of Hermogenes with Socrates in each account. The Apology reads: "Don't you see," Hermogenes tells Socrates, "that the Athenian juries, when annoyed by a speech, often killed those who did nothing unjust, and often acquitted those who acted unjustly but whose speech moved them to pity or who spoke agreeably?” Socrates said: "Yes, certainly, by Zeus, and twice already I tried to consider my defense, but the daimonion opposes me.” [4) In the Memorabilia Xenophon relates this exchange as follows: And once again, [Hermogenes] himself said, "Don't you see, Socrates, that the Athenian jurors, when annoyed by speech, have already put to death many who committed no injustice and released many who did commit injustice?” "But, by Zeus, Hermogenes,” [Socrates] said, "I have already attempted to worry about my defense to the jurors, but the divine thing [daimonion) opposed it.” [5] In the Apology Hermogenes explains how those who have acted unjustly have managed to get themselves acquitted — namely, by speaking agreeably or else in such a manner as moved juries to pity. Also in the Apology, Socrates clearly indicates to Hermogenes his awareness of this fact about Athenian juries. In the Memorabilia, however, Hermogenes does not say how those who have committed injustice have managed to get released, nor does Socrates affirm that he already knows what Hermogenes has just told him about Athenian juries. It seems to me that Xenophon's declared intention to defend Socrates' prudence in the Apology goes some way in accounting for these differences. Those who had acted unjustly yet managed to secure their own acquittal, secured it thanks to their prudence: they intended to secure their own acquittal, and they took such actions as brought to pass what they had intended. Now we have seen that Socrates, too, evidently knows of the susceptibility of juries to manipulation. Socrates, in other words, surely could speak agreeably or in such a way as moved the jurymen to pity, had he intended to secure his own acquittal. What we learn here, though, is that Socrates did not so intend. We learn, indeed, not only that Socrates did not consider his defense, but why he would not: "the daimonion opposed it.” Both of Xenophon's accounts continue with Hermogenes, for his part, telling Socrates that he says amazing things, and Socrates, for his, explaining that the gods have good reason to oppose his consideration of 18 �a defense speech. First, says Socrates, none has lived a better life than he; second, his friends and associates recognize this fact about him; third, were he to live longer he would surely have, as he puts it, "to pay the dues of old age” — that is, to suffer mental and physical decline. Now although Socrates makes these same three points in both of Xenophon's accounts, we should notice that in the Memorabilia he makes them at greater length and in a more philosophical manner. In the Apology, for instance, Socrates states the first two of his three points as follows: Don’t you know that up to this time 1 never conceded to anyone that he had lived better than 1? For — a thing which is very pleasant — 1 knew that 1 had lived my whole life piously and justly, so that, while greatly admiring myself, I found that my associates recognized the same things about me. (5) In the Memorabilia, by contrast, Socrates includes in the first of his points a general claim regarding the relationship between the good and the pleasant: "For 1 think that those live best who best attend to becoming as good as possible, and that those live most pleasantly who perceive that they are becoming better" (6]. As for his second point, Socrates in the Apology merely mentions that his "associates recognized the same things” about him, whereas in the Memorabilia he also asserts that it is because his associates recognized the benefits they could attain by being in his company that they sought and kept it: it is not, says Socrates, because they love me [for those who love the others could also make the same judgment about their own friends), but for the very reason that they think that by being in my company they themselves, too, would become best. (7) With respect to his third point, finally, Socrates says in the Apology that if my age will advance further, I know that it will be necessary to pay the dues of old age, to see and hear less well and to learn with more difficulty and to be more forgetful of what 1 have learned. And if 1 perceive that 1 am becoming worse and 1 find fault with myself, how ... could 1 still live pleasantly? (6) In the Memorabilia Socrates says this much, but pronounces also that "for one who did perceive” that he was becoming worse at things at which he formerly was better, "life would not be worth living" (8). It seems to me that the differences here, like those we have seen before, follow from the differences between Xenophon’s declared intentions: what Socrates omits here in the Apology reflects Xenophon’s 19 �declared intention to vindicate Socrates’ prudence. How, though, do Socrates’ fuller answers in the Memorabilia reflect the intentions Xenophon declares in that account? Recall that earlier Socrates told Hermogenes that he had "gone through life doing nothing unjust," whereas in the Memorabilia he told him that "he had continuously done nothing other than thoroughly examine what the just and the unjust things are, while doing the just and refraining from the unjust.” The thorough examination of what the just and the unjust things are pertains, I say, to the virtue of philosophical human being, and it is as a virtuous philosophical human being that Xenophon intends to present Socrates in the Memorabilia. This interpretation also explains Xenophon’s inclusion in the Memorabilia of Socrates’ fuller, more philosophical statements regarding why the gods were right to oppose the consideration of a defense speech: it is as a philosophical human being that Socrates has determined that "those live most pleasantly who most perceive that they are becoming better." It is, moreover, Socrates the philosophical human being who asserts that the life of anyone who fails to perceive that he is becoming worse at things at which he formerly was better is not a life worth living. We have established that Xenophon intends in his Apology and Memorabilia to vindicate Socrates’ prudence and his piety, respectively. Consider how Socrates defends himself against the charge that "he did not believe in the gods in whom the city believes but brought in other strange daimonia" {Apology, 10]. He cites, first, his performance of public sacrifices as evidence of his belief in the city’s gods. Whether this amounts to a sufficient defense, though, is not clear — one might object, for instance, that a man could perform public sacrifices that felt no true piety in his heart. Next, in addressing the notion that he had "brought in strange daimonia,” Socrates claims that there is nothing strange about his "saying that a sound from a god manifests itself’ to him, "indicating what ought to be done” (12); birds, oracles, and thunderclaps he offers as familiar examples of sounds and sights understood to have divine significance. He goes on: But doubtless both that the god knows what will be and that he forewarns whom he wishes — with respect to this too all say and believe just as I say. Yet, whereas others name what forewarns them 'birds’ and ‘sayings,’ and 'signs’ and prophets,’ I call this a 'daimonion’ and I think that in naming it thus I speak both more truthfully and more piously than those who attribute to the birds the power of the gods. (13) 20 �1 say that Socrates’ prudence partially explains his speech here. Though he does not name any of the city's gods as the source of the sound that manifests itself to him, Socrates emphasizes in his speech the familiarity of his practice of receiving and interpreting sounds as omens. He does not assert himself to be a pious believer in the city’s gods, but he certainly defends his piety — he seems, in fact, to claim a higher piety "than those who attribute to the birds the power of the gods.” In order fully to account for the things Socrates says here, we must also bring considerations of his piety to bear upon them. We know, for a start, that according to Xenophon, "the divine thing signified to [Socrates] beforehand what he should and should not do." In particular, we know that Socrates submitted to the divine thing’s opposition to the consideration of a defense speech. But of what exactly does such a submission consist for Socrates? A few lines later, upon declaring to the jurymen what Apollo had told Chaerephon about him, he responds to their clamor thusly: "Nevertheless, do not rashly believe the god even in these things, but examine one by one the things the god said” (15). From this we might infer something of an answer to our question. Namely, Socrates’ submission to a divine pronouncement is either confirmed by, or else comes only after, an inquiry into the truth of that pronouncement. In this case, Apollo had pronounced to Chaerophon that "no human being was more free, more just, or more moderate” (14) than Socrates. Here in his trial Socrates, having thoroughly examined the pronouncement, offers the jurymen several carefully-considered reasons why he accepts it. All this leads us to a more basic question. We have just seen Socrates affirm the truth of a pronouncement of Apollo’s; yet, we have also seen that Socrates does not call the sound that manifests itself to him by any other name than "the daimonion,” "the divine thing,” or else, as in the following instance, by the even more vague designation "the gods.” Can we make any sense of Socrates’ piety? We might begin by asking why Socrates listens to and trusts the daimonion. How does he know that it does not intend to do him harm? Consider what Socrates says to Hermogenes here: And the gods were correctly opposing the consideration of my defense speech ... at that time when it seemed that we must seek the means of acquittal in every way. For it is clear that, had I accomplished this, instead of presently ending my life, I would have arranged to end it while being pained by sicknesses or by old age, where all the difficult and cheerless things converge. (8) At first, we gather, it had seemed to Socrates that "we” — Socrates and the daimonion, perhaps? — "must seek the means of acquittal in 21 �every way." Then, though, the daimonion indicated to Socrates its opposition to this — at which time Socrates undertook to figure out the reasons for this opposition, and since which time he has amassed many reasons why "the gods were correctly opposing the consideration of [his] defense speech." By examining the pronouncement of the daimonion for himself, in accordance with his understanding of piety as something other than mere "rash belief," Socrates determined that the god meant well. He determined, in a word, that the daimonion was a providential one to be listened to and trusted whether or not it could be identified.^ Now this hardly solves the mystery of Socrates' piety; nor could we aspire so to solve it in our concluding remarks. It seems to me, though, that by making a distinction between kinds of piety — between, that is, a higher, philosophical kind and a lower, conventional one, as I call them — something about Xenophon’s intentions becomes at least a little clearer. We have seen, on one hand, that Xenophon intends in his Memorabilia to vindicate Socrates’ piety; on the other hand, we have seen in the Apology that rather than asserting that he believes in the gods in whom the city believes, Socrates attempts to show how his daimonion communicates things to him in much the same way that the gods communicate things to others through certain sounds and sights. We have also seen Socrates in the Apology distinguish between piety and mere rash belief and claim a higher piety for himself than those could claim who "attribute to the birds the power of the gods." Rash belief and the reading of divine signs into the movements and cries of birds we suppose to belong to conventional piety. Precisely what Xenophon intends to show in his Memorabilia, 1 contend, is that Socrates’ philosophical piety lies at the core of his virtue as a philosophical being;"* the whole of Socrates’ philosophical activity stems from a pious impulse. It should not surprise us that the philosophical piety we attribute to Socrates is not necessarily compatible with conventional piety — Socrates is on trial for his life here, after all. What Socrates has to say in the Apology about his own piety does suggest, though, that he intended to present himself, his piety, and the philosophical activity inspired by his piety as at least compatible with convention. As Xenophon explains. On the one hand, Socrates at that time made it his goal above all else to appear neither impious as regards gods nor unjust as regards human beings; and, on the other hand, that he did not think that he ought to hold out against dying but believed that it was even an opportune moment for him to die then. (22-3] We recall that Xenophon means to show in the Apology how Socrates’ "boastful speech fitted his purpose." Here, Xenophon seems to state that 22 �purpose explicitly. Though he had been charged with not believing in the gods of the city and with corrupting the youth of the city, Socrates made it his purpose to appear pious qua pious as regards gods and just qua just as regards human beings. In light of the verdict we may ask whether Socrates failed so to appear or whether the jurymen convicted him despite his so appearing. The second of these possibilities seems to me both more plausible and more interesting — more plausible, because Socrates does make himself appear neither impious as regards gods nor unjust as regards human beings; more interesting, in that the second case leads us to raise a question of utmost importance. It is a question that, I gather, Xenophon intended to raise in the mind of the careful reader: Can philosophy and convention be reconciled? Consider Socrates' self-defense against the charge of corrupting the young. Asserting that all the men present "know what corruptions of the young are,” Socrates asks Meletus outright whether he can name anyone who, under Socrates' influence, "has gone from piety to impiety, or from moderation to insolence, or from temperate living to extravagance, or . . . who has yielded to another base pleasure” (19). The exchange goes on: "But by Zeus,” declared Meletus, "I know those whom you have persuaded to obey rather than their parents!”/ "As regards education, at least,"' [Hermogenes said that] Socrates declared, "I admit it. For they know that this has been an object of care to me. But as regards health, human beings obey doctors rather than their parents. And doubtless in the assemblies, at least, all the Athenians obey those who speak most sensibly rather than their relatives. In fact, don't you elect as generals whomever you believe to be most sensible in matters of war, in preference to both fathers and brothers — by Zeus, even in preference to yourselves?”/ "For this way, Socrates,” [he said that] Meletus declared, "is both advantageous and customary.” (20) Here we have it: As advantageous as it may be for human beings to entrust their education to those for whom education has been an object of great care, the fact remains that among Athenians, education is conventionally understood to be the prerogative of parents. If we may take the sentiment here expressed by Meletus to represent the general sentiment of the Athenian jurymen, then we may conclude that Socrates aroused against himself the full force of a certain visceral attachment to custom, the likes of which one finds in all conservative societies.^ Indeed, it has not been made clear that Socrates' philosophical activity posed no 23 �threat to customary Athenian piety and educational practice; thus, we cannot simply say that the force of custom ought to yield to philosophical activity. We ought, instead, to take away from our brief investigations here an appreciation of the problem at hand: custom and philosophy are both good things, but how might we reap the benefits of the one without giving up those of the other? Endnotes 1. We have largely confined our considerations to the first two of these three broad similarities. 2. Or else, at least, Xenophon had Socrates omit mention of it, in accordance with his intention to vindicate Socrates’ prudence. 3. That Socrates calls the sound by no single specific name suggests to me that he simply cannot name it—and that he refers to it obliquely out of a certain pious agnosticism: "Something divine speaks to me, 1 know not what," Socrates might think to himself. 4. Indeed, in the remarks in praise of Socrates with which the Memorabilia concludes, Xenophon lists Socrates’ piety first in a list of seven of Socrates’ virtues [1 !)• 5. By "all conservative societies" I suppose I mean all societies that, unlike our own, emphasize the upholding of ancestral ways over that willingness to adapt to change without which the realization of a theoretically better future would not be possible. Two familiar cases come to mind, both from the American musical theater: Harold Hill ingratiates himself with the stubborn lowans by posing as a defender things old-fashioned against things newfangled; Tevye chooses to disown his daughter rather than accept her marriage to a Gentile. Primary Text Xenophon. Apology of Socrates to the Jury. In The Shorter Socratic Writings, translated by Robert C. Bartlett. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1996. �What Nature Contributes to Character Natalie Plowman 7 walk: I prefer walking." —Anne Elliot In both Persuasion and Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen draws a clear distinction between the roles of nature and the roles of society in an individual’s personal life. Austen implies that positive influences on the characters occur in nature, while stifling and oppressive influences occur within the confines of society. What is it that each of these environments (nature and society) signify, and how do they each sway the decisions and define the characters of the two novels’ heroines? In both novels, the act of walking is highly significant. In Pride and Prejudice, Elizabeth is distinguished from other characters by her affinity for walking. In one of the first instances that the reader is acquainted with Elizabeth’s love for walking, Darcy begins to see Elizabeth in a different light. When Elizabeth arrives at Netherfield, having walked three miles to get there, Mr. Darcy is "divided between admiration of the brilliancy which exercise had given to her complexion, and doubt as to the occasion’s justifying her coming so far alone" [Pride, 22). Here the reader can detect not only Darcy’s growing esteem for Elizabeth, but also his concern for her well-being. Walking seems to differentiate Elizabeth from the rest of her family, who are perceived as ridiculous by Darcy, and from the rest of her peers. This singularity of character seems to draw Darcy to her. Walking in Pride and Prejudice also draws Elizabeth and Darcy closer together in a more intimate way. While at Rosings, Elizabeth continues to enjoy her walks outside. However: more than once did Elizabeth, in her ramble within the park, unexpectedly meet Mr. Darcy. She felt all the perverseness of the mischance that should bring him where no one else was brought, and, to prevent its ever happening again, took care to inform him at first that it was a favorite haunt of hers. How it could occur a second time, therefore, was very odd! Yet it did, and even a third. [Pride, 127) While Elizabeth does not yet fully grasp Darcy’s motive for wanting to be with her, these walks are important in driving the novel’s plot. The reader witnesses Darcy’s attempt to get closer to Elizabeth as seen by the fact 25 �that Darcy clearly knows where he might find Elizabeth, and makes an obvious effort to join her there. Elizabeth is on a walk when Darcy gives her the letter containing the contents that mark the turning point of the novel. It is while Elizabeth is outside walking that she is exposed to Darcy's true character. Elizabeth sees Darcy as he truly is while she is reading the contents of his letter, both delivered and read outside. One of the most crucial moments of the novel, Elizabeth's realization of who Darcy is, happens in a natural setting. Austen is clearly making a statement that one's true character is revealed when in a natural, uninhibited, unrestrictive setting, far removed from the pressures of society. Another key scene in the novel in which Elizabeth is walking, is where she encounters Darcy at Pemberley. As the two of them (in addition to the Gardiners] are walking along the Pemberley grounds, "Mr. Darcy took [Mrs. Gardiner's] place by her niece, and they walked on together ... they now walked on in silence, each of them deep in thought. Elizabeth was not comfortable; that was impossible; but she was flattered and pleased” [Pride, 175], Elizabeth realizes here that Darcy still wants her to be acquainted with his sister. She begins to wonder at his civility and his intentions with regard to the introduction of someone so dear to him. Here the reader sees that there is still a spark of hope for a romantic union between the two of them. Perhaps a reason that the two are reunited outdoors and through a walk on the grounds of Pemberley is to draw the distinction between the influences of being outside in a neutral and less hostile environment as compared with the confinement of the indoors and society. This walk outside also allows Elizabeth to associate Darcy's character with his property. Darcy's land is beautiful, spacious (generous], and Elizabeth "longed to explore its windings” (173]. Here, Elizabeth begins to see Darcy's character through his land. Elizabeth sees the beauty and generosity of both Pemberley and Darcy's character. Her longing to explore more in this passage refers not only to Pemberley itself and the walks outside, but also to Elizabeth's longing to explore more of Darcy's character. In each of these walking scenes in Pride and Prejudice, essential steps are taken for Elizabeth and Darcy to unite. Darcy sees Elizabeth's beauty through her love of walking; Elizabeth is introduced to Darcy's genuine character; and the two of them are able to make silent amends while walking on his property. These scenes reveal that there is something meditative and reflective about walking, and it is the characters who most love walking outside that are more self-aware because of this very ability to reflect quietly, unrestrained by the noises of society. This selfawareness is what allows them to perceive other characters in the novel 26 �accurately, as seen in the fact that both Elizabeth and Darcy can see one another’s character more clearly in nature. Waking is portrayed with equal significance in Austen’s novel Persuasion. The protagonist, Anne, is another character who seems to revel in walking in the outdoors. In Persuasion, too, it is outdoors that the critical moments of the novel take place. The first walking scene depicts the Musgroves walking with Anne and Wentworth. On this walk, Wentworth learns from Louisa that Anne had refused another man in his absence: a significant element in sparking hope in Wentworth that perhaps Anne can be won over again. Anne herself is also privy to this conversation between Louisa and Wentworth; and, therefore, is also aware that Wentworth now has intimate knowledge of her love life during his absence. Anne "saw how her own character was considered by Captain Wentworth, and there had been just that degree of feeling and curiosity about her in his manner which must give her extreme agitation" [Persuasion, 1088). Again, when two individuals are walking outside, there seem to be revelations about the true characters that society seems to obscure. It is as if being outdoors allows Anne and Wentworth to unmask the facades that society implements so that true character studies may take place. While Anne is walking with her party outside at Lyme, both Mr. Elliot and Wentworth [as a product of Mr. Elliot’s attention) notice Anne looking "remarkably well; her very regular, very pretty features, having the bloom and freshness of youth restored by the fine wind which had been blowing on her complexion" [Persuasion, 1096). This walk introduces Mr. Elliot. Because of Elliot’s attentions toward Anne, Wentworth also notices her. The walk illuminates to Wentworth Anne’s true beauty, a beauty that he presumed had altered. This walk also seems instrumental in restoring some confidence in Anne’s character. This is the first time that both the reader and Anne are able to witness Wentworth really noticing Anne again. This encounter produces confidence in Anne, who had previously been so reserved and shy. This confidence adds to her attractive countenance; being outdoors, Anne is ‘restored’ by nature. Thus, nature here seems to have a healing ability. Also in Lyme, on the walk during which Louisa is injured, Anne’s strength of character is highlighted. Louisa’s immaturity and unchecked spontaneity reveals to Wentworth her undesirable qualities. The incident only seems to strengthen his opinion of Anne. Anne is quick to jump to action when Louisa is injured, and she becomes a leader during the upsetting event. Wentworth acknowledges that there is "no one so proper, so capable as Anne" to care for Louisa [Persuasion, 1101). The reader, in addition to Anne herself, is able to see Wentworth’s high esteem for, and even dependence upon, Anne in this situation. The 27 �unfortunate events of the walk give Anne more of the confidence that she needs to emerge from her meek and melancholy shell, and this gives Wentworth another glimpse of the strength of Anne’s character. These walks outside seem instrumental in revealing more of Anne to Wentworth, and in restoring Anne’s youth and vitality. These components are necessary for Wentworth to be able to renew his sentiments for Anne. The walk at the end of the novel allows Anne and Wentworth to finally discuss the events of the past eight and a half years and they ultimately become engaged. Until this point, communication between the two has been fraught with complications. Anne never seems to be able to speak to Wentworth in public. Whether this fact is owing to the restrictive societal expectations of manners or her reserved personality is difficult to determine. Each time the two have a conversation it seems incomplete and uncomfortable. When the two are walking outside at the close of the novel, the "quiet and retired gravel walk" gave way to a "power of conversation [that] would make the present hour a blessing indeed” (1168]. It seems that Anne and Wentworth are only able to have an unrestricted and open conversation when they are walking together outside and removed from society. As they walk, they are "heedless of every group around them” (1168). Over the course of the entire novel Anne and Wentworth have clearly needed to discuss their past in order to move on to the future. However, it is only when they are outside walking together that they are able to clear away misconceptions and verbally renew their affections for one another. It seems that a barrier is removed once they are outdoors. This alludes to Austen’s notion that there are restrictions on communication in society, and that two people can only speak honestly and openly when they are outside and removed from these constraints. The descriptions of landscape, in addition to the walks outside, seem to coincide with the internal experience of the characters. In Pride and Prejudice, the description of Pemberley is sensual, tranquil and full of vitality. They "entered a beautiful walk by the side of the water, and every step was bringing forward a nobler fall of ground, or a finer reach of the woods to which they were approaching” (Pr/c/e, 173). The words ‘nobler’ and ‘finer’ as applied to Darcy’s land seem to have double meaning: not only is the land noble and fine, but so is Darcy himself, which Elizabeth can now see all the more clearly. Though Pride and Prejudice does not seem to contain as much figurative language as Persuasion, there are moments at Pemberley where the figurative language seems quite direct. Austen describes the walking party as they 28 �ascended some of the higher grounds; whence, in spots where the opening of the trees gave the eye power to wander, were many charming views of the valley, the opposite hills, with the long range of woods overspreading many, and occasionally part of the stream. {Pride,173) Immediately following this description, Mr. Darcy himself appears upon the scene. It seems significant that the group is "ascends” to a spot where the opening of trees allows a clearer view of the estate. Elizabeth expresses that she wishes she could explore the land more. Immediately after she says this, Darcy appears. Austen seems to be connecting the eye­ opening view of the landscape with Elizabeth’s eye-opening tour of Mr. Darcy (revealed through his property). The life and vitality of the hills and stream seem to be connected with a sort of rebirth of Elizabeth's character. She is shy and restrained in this part of the novel, blushing frequently, and this is a new side of Elizabeth for the reader. With the assistance of nature (the views and the introspection), the characters seem to be able to take the steps that they need in order to view others more clearly and fairly. Nature seems to lift the veil that society drapes over a person’s eyes, clouding vision and judgment. Outside, Elizabeth can see Darcy with clarity. In Persuasion, the description of Lyme seems intentional, since it stands out as the most descriptive passage of nature in the novel. The group is in Lyme late in the year with "its old wonders and new improvements” {Persuasion, 1091). Additionally, Austen writes about Lyme in a way that seems parallel to Anne herself. Austen claims that "these places must be visited, and visited again, to make the worth of Lyme understood” (1091). Anne, too, is later in her life (as far as social expectations regarding marriage are concerned). Anne might still have her "old wonders” but also some "new improvements.” Perhaps Anne, too, needs to be seen again and again by Wentworth in order to make him appreciate the fact that he still loves her, and that she has not altered as much as he initially thought. The description of Lyme is in direct contrast with that of Bath. Lyme is described as "luxuriant,” "sweet,” "pleasant,” "cheerful,” "romantic,” "beautiful,” and "unwearied” {Persuasion, 1096). The diction in this passage conveys that Lyme, a place associated with nature, has a certain charm about it. Nature also seems to be associated with romance, according to this passage. Perhaps that is another reason why the couples in the novels seem to connect with one another in the outdoors. It is in Lyme, after all, that Wentworth’s sentiments toward Anne become more apparent. Lyme is also the place where Anne regains "animation of the eye" (1096) and a healthy glow that is attractive to 29 �Wentworth as well as to Mr. Elliot. Lyme’s natural setting is necessary in order to bring Anne back to life, and more into Wentworth’s notice. In contrast with the scenes that occur outdoors in a natural setting, the events that take place indoors seem to be full of misunderstanding and oppression. While the characters can be more open and uninhibited with one another in a setting of nature, they are under more rigid guidelines for how to behave when in the company of others. These societal expectations stifle characters from speaking what is honestly on their minds. Similarly, these expectations allow for misunderstandings to occur and negatively influence the opinions regarding the personalities of other characters. In Pride and Prejudice, the social balls seem to serve as catalysts for negative impressions and influences. The first time that Darcy and Elizabeth are acquainted, Mr. Darcy’s character is determined within minutes by his company. He pleases his company until "his manners gave a disgust which turned the tide of his popularity; for he was discovered to be proud ... his character was decided. He was the proudest, most disagreeable man in the world, and everybody hoped that he would never come there again” [Pride, 6). The hyperbole of Mr. Darcy being the most disagreeable man in the world seems to underscore the absurdity of the situation. Though Mr. Darcy’s manners may not have been what they should, to write him off immediately seems extreme. Yet the whole of society seems content with their judgment of him, and his character is established firmly amongst them without much of any verbal dialogue between society and Mr. Darcy. There is also the moment at the ball when Mr. Darcy first sees Elizabeth and asserts that Elizabeth is "not handsome enough to tempt [him]” [Pride, 7]. Immediately, Elizabeth is left with a negative impression of him. Because he is so quick to judge her, she is also quick to judge him. There is a certain way that one is expected to act at these balls or social gatherings, and because Mr. Darcy is uncomfortable in this setting, and does not behave as he should, his character is misunderstood. Though Darcy’s personality needs some finetuning before the novel is over, his character is something constant. It seems sirnply to be oppressed in a societal setting where certain behaviors are expected of him. Society obscures a person’s true character because of the restraints and expectations placed upon him or her. Again, at the Netherfield ball, Elizabeth and Darcy have a negative encounter with each other. Though their dance together has some flirtatious moments, the discussion quickly turns sour when Elizabeth addresses the subject of Darcy’s character. While Elizabeth attempts to keep the conversation light, she misreads Darcy’s responses and upsets him. Darcy takes the conversation more seriously and does not accept or pick up on Elizabeth’s attempt to lighten the conversation. Elizabeth’s 30 �misreading of his character leads to his cold reply, and so they "parted in silence; on each side dissatisfied, though not to an equal degree" {Pride, 67). If the two of them had been able to talk freely and openly, or had been able to understand each other better, then perhaps this misunderstanding might not have occurred. In Persuasion, society’s negative affects on Anne are clearly illustrated. Bath is synonymous with society, and Anne's general dislike of the city ties in with its negative atmosphere. Austen writes. When Lady Russell not long afterwards, was entering Bath on a wet afternoon, and driving through the long course of streets from the Old Bridge to Camden Place, amidst the dash of other carriages, the heavy rumble of carts and drays, the bawling of newspapermen, muffin-men and milkmen, and the ceaseless clink of patens, she made no complaint . . . Anne did not share these feelings. She persisted in a very determined, though very silent disinclination for Bath; caught the first dim view of the extensive buildings, smoking in the rain, without any wish of seeing them better. {Persuasion, 1111) The diction in this passage highlights the filth, distraction and noise of Bath. The 'bawling,' the 'ceaseless clink’ and the 'heavy rumble’ of the city do not seem to allow for the openness and solitude that a place like Lyme does. There is a sharp contrast between the rain and the smoke, the noise of the city and the silence of nature. This passage also draws a distinction between Lady Russell (society) and Anne (nature). Here, the reader sees Anne’s opposition to the city and the society that it holds. In Bath, she is reunited with her father and sister, whose company is undesirable. Associated with Bath is also Mr. Elliot, who represents manipulation and deceit. Lady Russell, despite looking out for Anne, represents persuasion, or dissuasion, another negative impact of society. In Bath, Anne is reunited with all of these stifling influences. Though Anne is also able to reconnect with Wentworth in Bath, it happens outside of society, within a letter and outside on their walk. When Wentworth cannot seem to speak to Anne because of their present company, he writes her a letter instead. In this scene, Anne has just remarked to Captain Harville that women "live at home, quiet, confined, and [their] feelings prey upon [them]” (1163). Here again we see the in-doors and the home are associated with confinement. Wentworth’s assertion that he "can listen no longer in silence” (1166) implies that he cannot speak within the confines of their present society. In order to make his feelings understood, he "must speak to [her] by such means as are within [his] reach” (1166). The only way to do so appears to 31 �be through the written word, as it is isolated from the presence of the others. Again, this scene reveals that the characters do not feel that they can be themselves in the company of others because such society encourages a certain way to behave. Wentworth chooses to do so in the seclusion of a letter, the reading of which allows the two characters to finally communicate. A person's voice is unable to be heard in society, so Anne must be able to find another way to express herself. Austen reveals the options of nature and of the written word as means of expressing oneself. Austen reveals that within each of her heroines, Elizabeth and Anne, there appears to be an element of nature. Anne is closely associated with autumn. Anne does not want to leave Kellynch during the fall because of the "influence so sweet and so sad of the autumnal months in the country" [Persuasion, 1058). There is a link between the sweetness and sadness of Anne and of autumn. Anne is older, and a little bit past the prime marrying age, and there is a certain melancholy about her that is linked with the passing of seasons into autumn. Anne’s patience and sweetness are represented in the month of autumn. Wentworth has an element of nature within him, too, as a captain. He spends a good portion of his time on the sea in unpredictable and sometimes harsh climates. This seems to tie into his character as well, being unpredictable and sometimes harsh toward Anne. These harsh and unpredictable elements of personality relate to the harsh and unpredictable qualities of nature. Darcy, too, with his land and property at Pemberley, seems to be fairly immersed in nature. Austen demonstrates • that each character that enters into a successful relationship must be in tune with some element of nature. Elizabeth’s character seems to be attached to spring and summer and the playfulness and liveliness of the two seasons. When she is at Pemberley and meets Darcy there, the season seems to be late spring or early summer. Her adventurous spirit is connected with travel and being outdoors: ‘My dear, dear aunt,’ she rapturously cried, 'what delight! what felicity! You give me fresh life and vigor. Adieu to disappointment and spleen. What are men to rocks and mountains?’ [Pride, 108) Elizabeth’s statement "what are men to rocks and mountains?" seems to indicate the recognition of the insignificance of mankind in comparison with nature. Maybe Austen is saying that a hero or heroine must have the ability to look past the trivial events that occur within society, and be able to realize the smallness of such trifles in comparison with nature. 32 �There is something of nature in each of our lives, and a lack of connection to this natural side, often caused by the haze of society's influences and expectations, can prevent a person from seeing or behaving what and how he or she should. It seems that Austen highlights this notion in her heroines. Elizabeth and Anne are successful in their relationships with Wentworth and Darcy due to their relationship with nature. It is outside, in the uncluttered environment of nature, that the two women can see the characters of Darcy and Wentworth clearly. Furthermore, it is outside, in nature, that the two women appear most attractive to Darcy and Wentworth. Darcy and Wentworth choose to express themselves openly in letters, also a method of communication that is removed from society. Nature restores vitality to both Anne (at Lyme] and Elizabeth (on her trip with the Gardiners). Being outdoors brings health and life to these characters. What is it exactly about nature that Austen saw as such a positive influence on her characters? It is very evident that both Elizabeth and Anne are unique because of their relationships with nature. Is it just the meditative quality of nature that can allow for introspection that guides clarity and earnest behavior? Is it that one must be able to disengage from society in order to make decisions that are healthy and right for one’s self? Or is there something else, something more powerful, that Austen saw in nature and was trying to communicate through her heroines? Primary Texts Austen, Jane. Persuasion. In Jane Austen. Seven Novels: Complete and Unabridged. China: Barnes & Noble Publishing, Inc., 2006. �No Country for Old Men: Does Kant’s Categorical Imperative Have Any Place in the American Political Ethos? Jeffrey Allen 1804 was a remarkable year on both the Continent and in the Americas. It was a year that saw Thomas Jefferson purchase almost a million square miles of the North American continent from recently crowned Emperor Napoleon — an area that Meriwether Lewis and William Clark set out to explore almost immediately. It was also the year that saw the deaths of both Immanuel Kant and Alexander Hamilton, two men whose worlds were nearly as different as their fields of labour. Immanuel Kant (b. 1724) lived in Konigsberg, Prussia during his entire life, concerning himself with philosophy, metaphysics, and ethics. Alexander Hamilton (b. 1755/57), was born in the Caribbean and moved to the colonies in the 1770s, fighting in the American Revolution and embarking on a political career thereafter. Hamilton, along with James Madison and John Jay, produced a series of articles, now popularly termed The Federalist Papers, in support of the United States Constitution in 1787 and 1788. These argued for a stronger central government to preserve the union between the States, as well as the internal strengths of the Constitution as it pertained to governance and the good of the public.i 1804 was also witness to another event — the impending arrival to a French aristocratic family of a baby boy, one who would visit America just 27 years later and write the famous Democracy in America, Alexis de Tocqueville (d. 1859).2 He also took up the political life, offering not only the aforementioned work, but several others in his lifetime. These three primary figures — Kant, Hamilton, and Tocqueville — are introduced as representatives of the discussion herein. Kant, in his Fundamental Principles of the Metaphysics of Morals, offers the 'Categorical Imperative,’ an ethical consideration on whether an action can be judged to be moral. Regarding the essential elements of this Imperative is that it must be based on volition, "not from the purpose which is to be attained by it,”^ and that this action, done from duty, must have as its sole object a "pure respect’’^ for the law. The test, then, according to Kant, is that any maxim "should become a universal law,”5 and this without condition. Says Kant in his footnotes: "A maxim is the subjective principle of volition."^ In other words, a maxim is that which one wills to do, and is regarded as moral even if the outcome is detrimental to one's own interest. Thus, for Kant, morality can never be decided by empirical data; it must exist a priori. 34 �From this basis, we ought to (pun intended] consider how this Categorical Imperative figures into the American experience, if at all. Do the founding documents of the United States yield any reliance upon the ethical considerations of Kant? Are there incompatibilities between Kant and early American political writers? One area of congruence between Kant and early American documents is the self-evidentiary nature of human reason. Part of Kant’s argument is based in the fact that men have a general sense of right and wrong, even if ignorance and innocence are ultimately barriers to a sufficient understanding of morality.^ In Federalist Paper No. 49, Madison echoes these ideas by stating that "it is the reason, alone, of the public, that ought to control and regulate the government. The passions ought to be controlled and regulated by the government.''^ Madison is arguing that checks within the separate branches of the government are necessary to avoid a legislature that creates laws based on the whims of the populace. This seems to approach a Kantian view of morality as external to the individual, rather than a view of ethics that is determined by contingencies. Madison and Kant part company very quickly, however, in light of Federalist Paper No. 50, titled "Periodical Appeals to the People Considered.” Kant’s moral imperative concerns itself with timeless, universal realities, whereas Madison’s maxim on government is still subject to the review of the governed. Thus, the American people can alter the form of certain legislation, creating a contingent base for law. The idea of a contingent moral base for law is found throughout the Declaration of Independence. The words "necessary” and "ought” are both used twice to describe the actions of the colonies against the abuses of the King of Great Britain. "Right” and "rights” are even more significant, mentioned fourteen times, serving as a basis for their present actions. But these are contingent imperatives (what Kant would call hypothetical], rather than categorical, for they are not universal in their application. Within the present ethical dilemma, the British colonies are stating their grievances against (perceived or real] slights by the British government. There is not a universal maxim in this case, especially at a political level (though one could perhaps make a case with regard to these "certain unalienable Rights ... among these Life ...,” though this argument may be rife with contingencies]. The colonists could have chosen a number of different methods to address their situation; ultimately, they would choose revolution. However, couching their decisions in terms of "ought" and "right” does up the ante by making a moral claim. This leads to what is perhaps the most significant difference between Kantian philosophy and early American political philosophy: the shift from a universal good to the public good and ultimately to a private good. 35 �As was discussed earlier, Kant has developed a system of ethics that is based on an external, universal good. Certain elements must be present in order to ascertain whether an action is moral, and all of this is geared toward a view of the common good. The relationship to the whole can be found in Kant’s discussion on the "kingdom of ends," where each member is both the giver of universal laws and subject to the same.^ Thus, no one would create a society in which they would be at an advantage over another, for the same rule would apply to all. What this offers is an inherent dignity of the individual, an idea that allows for the necessary autonomy of the will to establish moral imperatives. This autonomy of the individual and subsequent free moral agency of the individual (a necessary corollary of reasonjio is an idea echoed in the founding documents of the United States. The Declaration of Independence puts forth a view of humanity with "certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness." This is a government designed around the idea that the good of the whole is the good of the individual within the corporate body. This can be seen in the opening statement of the Declaration, when "it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another." The colonists believed that their well-being was counter to what the British crown desired, and felt that the good of the colonies was at odds with the good of the state. The Declaration, the United States Constitution, and the writing of Hamilton all attest to the good of the national whole, citing "Union," "Justice," "Tranquility," "Welfare," and "Liberty,"ii as well as "political safety and happiness."i2 By the time of Tocqueville’s publication of Democracy in America in 1835, a different sort of "good" was present in the American ethos. Interestingly, Tocqueville begins his tome with the poignant remark that it was the "equality of social conditions"i3 that was so remarkable during his visit. This seems to serve as a testament to the political good of the whole, but his reflections on the decentralized character of the country's government sheds light on a distinctly American characteristic, that of the good of the individual. In comparing township and county, he writes that "county and township are founded upon the same idea, namely that each man is the best judge of his own interest and the best able to provide for his own private needs."!'* Whereas Hamilton and Madison saw in the Constitution the establishment of a restrained, orderly republic, Tocqueville's exploration of early America seems to yield a democracy characterized by the "sovereignty of the people."!^ This present dialogue has offered the opportunity to explore some of the basic differences between Kantian ethics and American political philosophy. What we may surely say is that both are concerned with questions of "ought," and "good," though the later one gets in the 36 �American experience, the more these questions privilege the individual over the whole. Ethical considerations are not absent in the New World; it seems that they are questions that have been reworked for an expanding continent. Further discussion would most certainly include an examination on duty and freedom, two ideas that run throughout Kant’s Metaphysics of Morals and are significant in early American documents. Not long after Tocqueville left the shores of the American continent, railroads would be built, skyscrapers would rise, and the television would alter communication forever. The volition of the American people was not that of a good will, but of practical will. Here the people would be given the greatest degree of autonomy, the moral free agency of the individual woven into the national myth, creating not a kingdom of ends, but a kingdom of means. "If it seems useful to you to divert man's intellectual and moral activity upon the necessities of physical life and to use it to foster prosperity... ifyou aim to create not heroic virtues but peaceful habits ... if instead of moving through a brilliant society, you are satisfied to live in a prosperous one; if, finally, in your view, the main objective for a government is not to give the whole nation as much strength or glory as possible but to obtain for each of the individuals who make it up as much well-being as possible, while avoiding as much suffering as one can, then make social conditions equal and set up a democratic government" -Alexis de Tocqueville Endnotes 1. Charles Kesler, introduction to The Federalist Papers, edited by Clinton Rossiter, [New York: Signet Classic, 1999), xv-xix. 2. To be sure, 1 am stretching the 1804 theme just a bit here, as Tocqueville was actually born in July 1805. But counting back nine months ... well... you get the idea. 3. Immanuel Kant, Fundamental Principles of the Metaphysics of Morals, trans. Thomas Kingsmill Abbott (Mineola: Dover Publications, 2005), 16. Italics his. 4. Ibid., 17. Italics his. 5. Ibid., 18. Italics his. 6. Ibid., 17. Italics his. 7. Ibid., 20-21. 8. James Madison, Federalist Papers, No. 49. Hamilton makes a similar claim in No. 15, "The Insufficiency of the Present Confederation to Preserve the Union." 9. Kant, Metaphysics ofMorals, 51. 10. Ibid., 74-75. 11. Constitution of the United States, in Federalist Papers. 12. Hamilton, Federalist Papers, No. 15. 37 �13. Alexis de Tocqueville. Democracy in America. Penguin Books, 2003), 11. 14. Ibid., 97. 15. Ibid., 68. 16. Ibid., 286-287. Vol. 1, trans. Gerald Bevin (London; Primary Texts Kant, Immanuel. Fundamental Principles of the Metaphysics of Morals. Translated by Thomas Kingsmill Abbot. Mineola: Dover Publications, 2005. Rossiter, Clinton, ed. The Federalist Papers. New York: Signet Classic, 1999. de Tocqueville, Alexis. Democracy in America. Translated by Gerald Bevin. London: Penguin Books, 2003. 38 �A Selection From: Intimations of Re-Creation from Recollections of Dejection and Joy NK Cartmell In 1798, William Wordsworth and Samuel Taylor Coleridge published Lyrical Ballads, a collection of poems that, according to the preface of the work, differed greatly from all poetry that came before. "The pleasure which 1 have proposed to myself to impart," Wordsworth wrote in the preface, "is of a kind very different from that which is supposed by many persons to be the proper object of poetry" {Preface, 600).1 This volume birthed the British Romantic movement of poetry, causing much controversy at the time. Coleridge remarked upon this in his major critical work, the Biographia Literaria: From [Wordsworth's Preface to Lyrical Ballads], prefixed to poems in which it was impossible to deny the presence of original genius, however mistaken its direction might be deemed, arose the whole long-continued controversy [regarding expressive poetry]. {Biographia, 479) Lyrical Ballads was only one of many examples of their close work together, their professional involvement stimulated by their personal friendship. Much of their correspondence has been recovered, which reveals an ongoing mutual involvement in each other’s art. One of the most interesting of these dialogues is found in two poems, Wordsworth’s "Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood" and Coleridge’s "Dejection: An Ode." Wordsworth wrote the first stanzas of the poem, which he called simply, "Ode," in March 1802, and in late March Wordsworth read his new work, "Ode," to Coleridge. In early April 1802, Coleridge composed "Dejection" {Selincourt, 464-5). "Two years at least passed between the writing of the four first stanzas and the remaining part," Wordsworth revealed in his notes {Fenwick Notes, 61); he reworked his poem in late February or early March of 1804, resulting in "Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood." The similar subject matter, similar lines, and compositional timeline all indicate that these two poems are in direct dialogue with each other. Wordsworth wrote the "Ode" and read it to Coleridge. Coleridge wrote "Dejection" as a response to Wordsworth’s poem, giving his views on the same subject. Wordsworth, upon reading "Dejection," felt Coleridge had misinterpreted 39 �his "Ode" and so wrote "Intimations," reworking some of the extant text of the "Ode" and adding seven additional stanzas. The undeniable connection between the two poems makes them valuable to study in tandem. These two central figures of British Romanticism, in this unaffected conversation, reveal foundational philosophies of the movement. A close scrutiny of these two monumental works will reveal at least a part of this philosophy. Pursuing the connection between the poems will divulge themes the two poets share, and will direct the reader in a better understanding of their works as a whole. In addition to producing artistic work, both poets also wrote critically about the art of poetry; their major prose works, Wordsworth’s Preface to Lyrical Ballads and Coleridge's Biographia Literaria, will inform the reading of their poetry. Despite some minor differences of opinion between the two poets, their critical writings are largely complementary. It is appropriate to apply Coleridge's theory to Wordsworth's poetry, and vice versa; doing so only deepens the understanding of the Romantic movement as a whole, and the connection in particular between these two poems. A third poet, Percy Bysshe Shelley, will also be appealed to in his critical capacity. Heavily influenced by Wordsworth’s poetry, Shelley's insights into Romanticism are eloquently pertinent. His critical work, A Defence of Poetry, can only serve to illuminate the works of his precursors. This essay, one of several parts, will explore Coleridge's "Dejection." As it is a selection from a larger whole, which also covers Wordsworth's "Intimations" and the critical implications of the comparison between the two poems, there are references and quotations from material not contained here. The full text is available in Meem Library at St John’s College Santa Fe, or may be obtained from the author, at nathan.k.cartmell@biola.edu. "Dejection: An Ode" opens with a short quote from a popular Scottish ballad: when the dark remainder of the moon is easily seen next to a bright crescent, there will presently be a storm. Coleridge expands on this borrowed stanza, but colours it extravagantly: Well! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes. Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes. Upon the strings of this i^iolian lute. Which better far were mute. (Ins. 1-8) 40 �It may seem that doubt is cast upon the forecasting skills of this other poet by Coleridge’s use of the word "if' in line 1. But reading further, the weather does turn violent. Coleridge’s thoughts are spurred by an accurate foretelling, not by any flight of fancy. Coleridge’s accuracy is the first clue in the poem that he is not, while writing, in a state of dejection. The Poet has a clear grasp of the workings of nature, and bases his poetry on this understanding. This first stanza paints specific personifications of air. Lines 3-5 describe a lethargic zephyr, "those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes," contrasted with the building winds. Lines 6-8 calls it a sorrowful breeze, "the dull sobbing draft,” voicing feelings Coleridge would rather not hear. The moaning, sluggish breeze embodies the emotion that Coleridge tries to overcome in the work, an emotion that appears throughout the poem, and is especially evident in the title. He is heavily under the influence of this poisonous dejection in the first few stanzas, and because of dejection’s influence finds typical natural occurrences (the breeze) disturbing.2 Coleridge looks forward to the storm, which he sees as fundamentally different from the lazy wind and the dull draft. He has experienced a moon-wrought storm before, and found it uplifting. The penultimate stanza shows that the storm is the poem’s destination, and is identified in the last line of the first stanza: Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed. And sent my soul abroad. Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give. Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live! (Ins. 17-20) The coming storm, Coleridge believes, can alleviate his dejection and send his soul outside himself; abroad, his soul can experience the general condition of man rather than sit mired in personal failings. Shelley recognised the poet’s ability to look beyond his own particulars in the Defence of Poetry when he said, "A poet participates in the eternal, the infinite, and the one; as far as relates to his conceptions, time and place and number are not” (^Defence, 348). A poet is concerned with universals, with problems and passions affecting the whole of humanity. The Poet does use his own personal experiences to find such truth, but he must move beyond experience, rather than wallow in it. The awe-ful feeling of line 17, produced by the wind, will not dispel his dejection, but will rather fashion it anew, with purpose. Lines 17-18 give voice to the Sublime, a combination of the splendid and dreadful. When looking up at Mont Blanc,^ we recognise the beautiful grandeur — the awesomeness — of the natural. In the face of this utterly inhuman 41 �object we are forcefully reminded of the smallness of the human self, in both a physical and mental way. This amalgamation of awesome and awful (line 17) is the Sublime, a feeling that is expanded on by Coleridge later in the poem when he employs the Imagination. Imagination is a force that allows the Poet to access nature; it is through the power of the Imagination that Coleridge later finds a cure in the storm.^ This first stanza is characterised by the storm, the hoped-for cure to Coleridge’s titular dejection. The second stanza moves on to express his peculiar unhappiness, the central issue of the work. Coleridge's sorrow is no glorified anguish, no great heartache. His is "a grief without a pang," "stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned” (In. 21-2), noteworthily similar to the breeze from the previous stanza. This grief is dead. Coleridge believes this to be an aberration of grief; presumably, sadness should "move and live" (In. 20). Perhaps the core problem Coleridge experiences is that his grief has "no natural outlet" (In. 23). He has bottled up his emotions, has not indulged in "word, or sigh, or tear.” (In. 24). Just as a pond without an outlet is stagnant, so his grief, without refreshment, is moribund. Due to this "wan" mood (In. 25), Coleridge is out of tune with nature. The throstle does not draw him, the curiously coloured sky does not spark his thoughts, the stars do not affect his feelings. Dejection springs, it may be surmised, from a modern callousness identified by Wordsworth in the Preface: "a multitude of causes, unknown to former times, are now acting with a combined force to blunt the discriminating powers of the mind" {Preface, 599). Coleridge (and the reader) feels this dejection because he cannot clearly perceive the messages nature offers to any observer, delicate truths that the frantic pace of industrialised life drowns out. This is not somehow nature’s fault for being feeble, but is rooted in what Wordsworth calls a "degrading thirst after outrageous stimulation” present in modern society [Preface, 599), which prevents people from taking delight in the subtler beauties of the natural world. Coleridge can rationally understand that beauty is in these natural images but simultaneously does not feel anything about them (In. 38). Coleridge recognises this problem in a letter to a friend. "When we declare an object beautiful,” he writes, the contemplation or intuition of its beauty precedes the feeling of complacency, in order of nature at least: nay, in great depression of spirits may even exist without sensibly producing it. [Complete Poems, 553) What seems to have affected modern man is an under-appreciation of natural beauty and an ignorance of its proper effects. The natural world produces no feelings in mankind. In this stanza Coleridge agrees 42 �with Wordsworth's assertion that beauty in nature "moves us not" [Wordsworth, 270). This lack of appreciation of natural beauty is one of the serious problems Coleridge is addressing, and a main object of Romantic poetry is to cultivate appreciation of nature. Coleridge says in the Biographia Literaria: It is the prime merit of genius, and its most unequivocal mode of manifestation, so to represent familiar objects as to awaken in the minds of others a kindred feeling concerning them, and that freshness of sensation which is the constant accompaniment of mental no less than of bodily convalescence. [Biographia, 476] Poets have this genius, and it is to the poetic responsibility that Coleridge speaks. Man has become dulled to the world, and nature no longer feels fresh, because every waking moment he is inundated with stimulation. The sense of wonder that a child feels is not felt by the adult — recall the first stanza of "Intimations." In the word "convalescence," Coleridge even implies that this desensitisation is a disease and a sickness; the cure can be induced by genius through art, and Coleridge uses poetry to this end. Artists have a responsibility to reawaken this sense of newness and freshness so that man can feel and be moved by beauty, not just know it intellectually. The cure for a stagnant spirit is motion. A moving spirit, actively engaged in the world, cannot be bogged down by dejection. In this second stanza Coleridge is already laying the groundwork for a cure. While his dejection has "no relief' (In. 23] because he has not talked about it, the poem is addressed to a Lady,^ meaning that this poem, in explicating his distraught sensations, may well be the cure to his gloom. And if writing the poem is a cure (or the record of a cure] for Coleridge, reading it is plausibly a cure for us as readers. Coleridge, as a Poet, must already be cured in order for him to have written this work. Wordsworth says in the Preface that the Poet's "passions and thoughts and feelings" are connected with our moral sentiments and animal sensations, and with the causes which excite these; with the operations of the elements and the appearances of the visible universe; with storm and sun-shine, with the revolutions of the seasons, with cold and heat, with loss of friends and kindred, with injuries and resentments, gratitude and hope, with fear and sorrow. [Preface, 607-8] Coleridge's imagery and subject are obviously identifiable here. For him to name his dejection, to notice his separation from nature, and to hope 43 �for a cure is to be under the influence of genius. He writes genially (In. 39) about a time when his genius was not functional. If the first few lines of stanza two give a clue about the method of the work, the rest of the stanza turns back to an explication of Coleridge's problematic state of mind. Mired in his stagnant grief (examined a few paragraphs above), Coleridge ignores the curative pleas of nature: "to other thoughts by yonder throstle woo’d" (In. 26). The birds try and move him to other thoughts than his dejection, but their melodic sound cannot overcome his mental opposition. If sound (which he earlier rejected in lines 7-8, wishing the lute were mute) cannot restore him, neither can sight. He gazes "on the western sky, / And its peculiar tint of yellow green” (Ins. 28-9), a shade both startling and intriguing. This sight should be enough to cause his soul to rise, unique and beautiful as it is. But Coleridge's eyes are blank (In. 30) of understanding, uncomprehending of nature’s truths.^ As the twilight fades, the stars emerge and Coleridge is spurred to further thoughts. There is sharp contrast between the motion of the stars and the immobility of his own emotions. This paralysis allows him only to "see, not feel, how beautiful" these natural images are (In. 38). Coleridge’s insensate immobility links back to his letter, quoted earlier: in great depression, man does not feel beauty. The problem is located, Coleridge would say, in the esemplastic power, the Imagination, which he describes in the Biographia Literaria: The primary imagination I hold to be the living power and prime agent of all human perception . . . [The secondary imagination] dissolves, diffuses, dissipates, in order to recreate; or where this process is rendered impossible, yet still, at all events, it struggles to idealise and to unify. It is essentially vital, even as all objects (as objects) are essentially fixed and dead. [Biographia, 477) Coleridge can still see the stars, but he cannot feel them. Mental images can still be constructed, because the primary imagination functions; but meaning cannot be wrought from the images, because the vital secondary imagination is mired in dejection. Coleridge’s dejection is emphasised by its contrast with the moving stars "that glide . . . / Now sparkling” (Ins. 33-4). In the Biographia he claims that objects are fixed and dead, but he sees the stars moving. This perceived movement betrays meaning behind the objects, truth that can be apprehended through the observation and synthesis of natural images. There is not meaning in the familiar scientific objects themselves (objects as objects), seen by the primary imagination: gaseous nuclear reactions give no insight into a deeper truth, a truth pointed to by the beauty of the stars. Coleridge, in his dejection, cannot utilise the secondary imagination, 44 �F and so cannot feel the stars' beauty. This point anticipates the sixth stanza, where Coleridge reveals the origin of his dejection and the reason his imagination failed: while he is not so far gone as to completely ignore nature — the moving stars — he struggles to understand the truths that perceived motion indicates. Coleridge can only see the stars as mundane. The inability to comprehend truths in beauty is not surprising in the common man, but in a Poet it is disaster. Shelley says that poetry (and therefore the Poet] "lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar" [Defence, 351]. Coleridge’s dejection prevents him from seeing the stars anew; familiar objects cannot inspire as forcefully as fresh visions. His despair results in the failure of his powers of genius, his ability to lift the veil and create freshness; he acknowledges this dysfunction in the first line of the third stanza: "my genial spirits fail” (In. 39]. The despair felt by the Poet, then, is a consequence of failing his function (in an Aristotelian sense]. It is the function of the Poet to see beauty in nature and re-create uplifting images for the pleasure of the reader. Coleridge, by not engaging in this process, is failing his inborn responsibilities as an artist.'^ Artists have a responsibility, because of their innate genius, to share their beneficial visions in the hopes that the audience will be enlightened to the deeper truths of the universe. Coleridge's recognition of his failure of function contributes to his feelings of despair. The third stanza marks the deepest depression of the poem. Coleridge recognises that his poetic genius has, for the time, left. But, he says, "what can these avail / To lift the smothering weight from off my breast?" (Ins. 40-1]. He doubts — even if he were still in control of his Imagination — that he would ever be able to escape dejection. In these two lines, Coleridge has completely lost hope in his own poetic faculties and perhaps all poetic genius: "It were a vain endeavour, / Though I should gaze forever / On that green light that lingers in the west" (Ins. 424]. He can see no way, through nature’s effects or through selfmotivation, to make his soul move again. In Coleridge’s despair there is a startlingly astute observation. While he has dismissed nature and his own poetic faculties, claiming that neither have the power to cure his disease (although this claim is suspect, coming as it does from a diseased mind; we later see that his faculties are responsible for curing him], he acknowledges that nature has not failed — rather, he is the problem: "I may not hope from outward forms to win / The passion and the life, whose fountains are within” (Ins. 45-6]. The movement that he longs for springs from himself, his own Imagination. If there is no understanding, then nature is "fixed and dead," a stuffed. 45 �scientific curiosity. Any cure to this dejection must come from a change in Coleridge’s way of thinking rather than from a revolution in nature.^ The third stanza most clearly exemplifies Coleridge's understandable interpretation of the first version of "Intimations.” In reading the first four stanzas, it is possible to believe that Wordsworth blamed nature for the loss of celestial light ("Intimations” In. 18). Coleridge wants it to be clear that he faults himself, not nature, for his dejection. If nature were blamed for dejection, Wordsworth’s claims about the desensitisation of mankind could be dismissed as the degradation of nature. Since Wordsworth says in the Preface and elsewhere that man is at fault for his own misunderstanding and unhappiness, his poem must obviously mean something else. Coleridge’s gross misinterpretation of Wordsworth’s meaning, which prompted him to write "Dejection,” prompted Wordsworth to add stanzas five through eleven in order to clarify his view of the relationship between nature and man’s poetic faculty. The fourth stanza of "Dejection” continues the thought expressed in line 46; The search for meaning starts within the human soul. Meaning is not found within, though. Coleridge writes, "we receive but what we give” (In. 47); this is not in the manner of giving anger and receiving anger back, but refers to giving a seed to the earth, and receiving a fruit back. If Coleridge gives honest inquiry, he will receive understanding. The willingness to plant comes from within; but the product, the meaning, the end, is not found in man — it is displayed through nature and comes from the universe. There is a vital interplay between the duties of man and the function of nature. "In our life alone does nature live,” Coleridge says (In. 48). Without man nature is unmoving, "fixed and dead.” But with man’s active understanding (the secondary Imagination) applied to natural images, meaning can be found in the movements of the stars and the music of the birds. Coleridge illustrates the interplay of nature and man, at once showing the consequences of apathy and interest: And would we aught behold, of higher worth. Than that inanimate cold world allowed To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd. Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud Enveloping the Earth (Ins. 50-55) The "poor loveless ever-anxious crowd” (In. 52) is common man, full of apprehension, devoid of superior feeling. To this man, the world is inanimate and cold (In. 51), motionless and lifeless. It can hold no interest and can give no succour to the mind. If we would find truth and beauty in 46 �nature ("aught of higher worth”], a light — removing darkness and giving comprehension — must fountain up from within the soul. The fair luminous cloud (In. 54] will enable Coleridge to understand what has in previous stanzas moved him not: the throstle, the stars, the coloured sky. The light from his soul illuminates the entire world, all of nature, and is the first step toward understanding. As Coleridge addresses sight, a heavily recurring theme in the poem, he also deals with sound: "And from the soul itself must there be sent / A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth, / Of all sweet sounds the life and element!” (Ins. 56-8]. At the moment of birth, the human soul emits a note so poignant and beautiful — "this beautiful and beauty-making power” (In. 63] — that it informs (or should inform] all of man's subsequent hearing. When Coleridge recollects this sound from early childhood, he can again search for meaning in the "sobbing draft” and "Aiolian lute” (Ins. 6, 7] that, under the influence of dejection, he found repellent. Where the third stanza showed Coleridge’s deepest depression ("my genial spirits fail”], in the fifth stanza Coleridge has recovered his genius and jubilantly shares it with the reader.^ This "sweet voice” and "luminous cloud” (In. 71], he says, is Joy. Joy is the light that illumines and the sound that harmonises, the emotion born in the soul that allows the Poet (and his readers] to search for meaning in nature. As Coleridge has shown in the previous stanzas, without Joy nature appears blank and irrelevant. With Joy, truth and beauty can be found in nature. Joy is the essential first step, since from it "flows all that charms our ear or sight, / All melodies the echoes of that voice, / All colours a suffusion from that light” (Ins. 73-5]. In the fifth stanza, Coleridge introduces a moral issue to poetic understanding, one that is connected closely with Joy. 0 pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me What this strong music in the soul may be! ... Joy that ne’er was given, Save to the pure ... (Ins. 59 -65] The man who is "pure of heart” (In. 59] is already familiar with Joy, and this good man is contrasted with "the sensual and the proud” (In. 70], those who will not inhabit the new Heaven and new Earth (In. 69]. Joy, or what enables man to properly comprehend nature, is given to good men only, "in dower” from Nature (In. 68]. Selfish, bad men will never properly understand the truths of the universe, those beauties to which nature points. A Poet must have a pure heart; and a reader, to be moved by poetry, must also have a pure heart, either entering the poem or through the poem’s action on him. Once a man becomes pure, he can join with Nature in a marriage-like relationship. The closeness and love of a 47 �I marriage in stanza five is contrasted with the shallow appreciation of nature in stanza six. After stanza five’s introduction to Joy, the anti-dejection, Coleridge moves into stanza six with a history of his own interactions with Joy. There was a timeio when, though my path was rough. This joy within me dallied with distress. And all misfortunes were but as the stuff Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness: For hope grew round me, like the twining vine. And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine. (Ins. 76-81] Coleridge has not always been dejected, and he has actually found some measure of pleasure in milder forms of misery ("distress" In. 77]. This joy was due, Coleridge says, to hope. Hope came from outside the self (Ins. 80-1], but Coleridge believed the source to be from within: "foliage, not my own, seemed mine" (In. 81]. Hope’s fruits and leaves Coleridge mistakenly thought to emanate from himself. This false conviction — that man, rather than nature, is the source of goodness — contributed substantially to Coleridge’s slide into dejection.n When Coleridge discovered that hope was not an inherent part of the human soul, his understanding of what made up a human collapsed, leaving a dearth of any beliefs, easily filled by dejection. Coleridge’s present dejection is possible only because of his earlier self-deception. True happiness comes from a proper use of the Imagination, but these earlier "dreams of happiness," false and unfounded fantasies, are born of Fancy. Coleridge explains Fancy, and its difference from the Imagination,!^ in the Biographia: The fancy is indeed no other than a mode of memory emancipated from the order of time and space; and blended with, and modified by that empirical phenomenon of the will which we express by the word choice. But equally with the ordinary memory it must receive all its materials ready made from the law of association. [Biographia, 477-8] Fancy results in dreams of happiness, rather than actual happiness, because Fancy can build nothing original, but can only desperately try to fit together incongruous experiences in the hope of finding joy. This false happiness may appear at first to be genuine and lasting, but it collapses when challenged by actual experiences contradictory to the constructed viewpoint. 48 J �Now Coleridge explicates his fall into despair: "Now afflictions bow me down to earth each visitation / suspends . . . / My shaping spirit of Imagination" [Ins. 82-6). Where in earlier life Coleridge’s Joy helped him manage his distress, he has now lost Joy, causing him to give in to the dejection affliction brings. "Nor care 1 that they rob me of my mirth” [In. 83), he says, distinguishing between unhappiness [a lack of mirth or jovial spirits) and true, listless dejection. Dejection, Coleridge points out in this passage, is not born from solemnity: its roots are a dysfunction in the Imagination. This original dysfunction lays the ground for the future state of dejection described in lines 21-24. Dejection's source is a lack of Imagination, and Coleridge does not hesitate to explain specifically how the Imagination degenerates: For not to think of what I needs must feel But to be still and patient, all I can; And haply by abstruse research to steal From my own nature all the natural man — This was my sole resource, my only plan; Till that which suits a part infects the whole. And now is almost grown the habit of my soul [Ins. 87-93) Coleridge loses his powers of Imagination by being still, rather than actively addressing his problem [Ins. 87-8). This stillness in his life foreshadows the stagnation of spirit [like the pond without outlet) that so affects him at the depth of dejection. Coleridge directs his energies to "abstruse research” [In. 89), recondite knowledge, rather than more natural truths available from simple observation of the universe. This pursuit of the esoteric changes Coleridge into something artificial and affected, removed from Nature, ironically cutting him off from true insights into human being. The dysfunction of the Imagination prevents Coleridge from following any other path, however. Coleridge realises that eventually his entire self will be subsumed by this poisonous habit; once the transformation is complete, there is little hope that the poetic faculty will ever be restored. The inability to avoid abstruse thoughts [In. 89) comes from the attitude Coleridge had in the first part of the sixth stanza: "fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine” [In. 81). The mistaken belief that truth is within the self leads to an unimaginative view of nature. The obsessive quest for knowledge in the human psyche is an esoteric pursuit, and results in a disregard for the general revelation found in nature, available to all men, either through the genial spirit [for the Poet) or through poetry [for those without the poetic faculty). 49 �Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind. Reality’s dark dream! I turn from you, and listen to the wind. Which long has raved unnoticed. (Ins. 94-97) Coleridge rejects these dreams "of happiness” (In. 79) spun from fancy, unrealistic and unimaginative, deceitful and misguiding. Finally, Coleridge turns to nature; faith in his genius breaks through the habits (In. 93) that nearly consumed him. He rejects the poisonous viper and listens to the storm. The storm, foretold in the first stanza, has buffeted Coleridge for some time, overlooked due to his lethargic dejection. Coleridge’s disregard of the forceful gale emphasises the deep state of dejection he was in. Even though he begged for the storm to sweep away his lassitude (Ins. 15, 20), he cannot be moved by it when it first arrives. In addition to an act of nature, Coleridge himself must will his soul toward a healthy state. Coleridge must see nature once again with that particular aptitude given to poets. To the common man, deep in his habits of dreaming fancy, this storm would do nothing, for he would never have the poetic Imagination to change himself.i^ Coleridge, as a Poet, remembers the freshness of nature and is called to return to this view. Coleridge does not here rationalise or over-think the storm. All that is required of him is a will to stir his stagnant spirit. The storm washes over him in a hurricane of sensory input; there is no rational pursuit of the storm’s meaning. In this state of acceptance Coleridge can begin to find truth in natural images. For the reader, as well as Coleridge, the truth he finds in the storm’s billows is unexpected. What a scream Of agony by torture lengthened out That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that rav’st without. Bare crag, or mountain-tairn, or blasted tree. Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb. Or lonely house, long held the witches’ home, Methinks were fitter instruments for thee. Mad Lutanist! who in this month of showers. Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers, Mak’st Devils’ yule, with worse than wintry song. The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among. (Ins. 97-107) 50 �In the first stanza, Coleridge wished that a storm, rather than a "dull sobbing draft" (In. 6], would come and move his soul to life (In. 20]. The sad breeze played the j^olian lute (In. 7]; there was a sharp distinction, in Coleridge’s dejected mind, between a sad nature and a moving, living nature. But here, in the seventh stanza, Coleridge names the hoped-for storm as the player of the lute and echoes his earlier sentiment: the lute should be mute (In. 8,103-4]. Coleridge can find only pain in the melodies of the lute; he believes that a pleasanter song could be found if the wind played objects not purposed to be instruments (peak or pond or timber, Ins. 100-3]. More than even anguish, Coleridge hears blasphemy ("Devils’ yule”] in the harp’s notes: this is a "wintry song" (In. 106] out of place in spring, when things should be birthing and growing. But he perseveres in his newly-regained faculty. Coleridge sees the wind as artist, and himself as audience; "Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds! / Thou mighty Poet, even to frenzy bold!" (Ins. 108-9]. This disquieting tale was not what Coleridge expected to hear with his reinstated genial power; but he trusts nature’s teaching, and pursues the unfolding vision. Coleridge hears real horror in this disturbing lute, expressed in the next few lines: What tell’st thou now about? ’Tis of the rushing of an host in rout. With groans of trampled men, with smarting wounds — At once they groan with pain and shudder with the cold! (Ins. 110-113] Coleridge’s hoped-for cure, Joy, seems to be at extreme odds with the sentiments he sees expressed by the storm; instead of delight, he perceives only pain — violence inflicted on men by men. Coleridge’s newly-restored poetic faculty seems to have betrayed him: instead of healing and peace, he is given a vision of death. This clamorous blowing quickly changes into quiet, and Coleridge finds significance in the reversal. But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence! And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd. With groans, and tremulous shudderings — all is over — It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud! A tale of less affright. And tempered with delight. As Otway’si'^ self had framed the tender lay. ’Tis of a little child. Upon a lonesome wild. Not far from home, but she hath lost her way; 51 �And now moans low in bitter grief and fear, And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear. (Ins. 114-125) This tale — told in silence and so different than the zephyrous battle — is Coleridge’s own; he is the little child. The Poet-as-child metaphor will appear again in "Intimations,” where Wordsworth discovers that man needs to be like a child. This poem, "Dejection," is a tale "less deep and loud" (In. 117) than other poems ("The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,” for instance). It is not a poem of suspense or fear, but is a flowing melody describing Coleridge’s dejection and convalescence, enjoyable to the reader, "tempered with delight" (In. 119). Coleridge, playing in the fields of dreamful Fancy (In. 79), soon strayed from the path of true genius, "not far from home, but she hath lost her way" (In. 123). It is at times difficult to distinguish true Imagination (the genial power. In. 39) from mere Fancy, but that small distance is the difference between dream and reality. Coleridge’s continued efforts to find his way home are rewarded: he fights through the dejection and regains his poetic faculty, enabling him to write this poem about the experience. Coleridge closes the poem with a prayer for his companion (the reader, see line 25). "Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep!” (In. 127), he wishes, both for her mental well­ being (curing dejection is a trying experience for all involved) and for his own continued poetic abilities. "May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling,” Coleridge prays (In. 130), the sparkling, moving stars of stanza two letting her feel beauty in nature. "Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice; / To her may all things live, from pole to pole" (Ins. 134-5): The Joy that Coleridge rediscovered he now wishes upon the reader, that they may see (perhaps through this poem) the motion truth imparts to nature. The true dejection in Coleridge’s work is absent from "Intimations,” and yet both poets tell a similar tale. Wordsworth begins with happiness, moves quickly through "a thought of grief’ ("Intimations" In. 22), and ends in Joy. Coleridge starts with "dreams of happiness" (In. 79), almost loses his genial spirit, and eventually arrives at Joy. "Dejection" makes it clear that the Poet has a duty to enlighten mankind through poetry. The Poet, says Wordsworth in the Preface, is "endued with more lively sensibility, more enthusiasm and tenderness, who has a greater knowledge of human nature, and a more comprehensive soul, than are supposed to be common among mankind” [Preface, 603). Since not all men can access truths in nature because they have not the poetic genial spirit (In. 39), the Poet must use his special talent to enliven the souls of his readers. 52 �Coleridge, in "Dejection," clearly acknowledges that it is his own fault he can no longer feel beauty. He lays out the way in which he regained his ability to use the Imagination, and expounds on the beauties of the natural world. He works through his dejection, inspired by nature, and concludes with an exhortation to the reader to arrive at the same state as the Poet: pleasurable understanding of natural beauty. Endnotes 1. The British Romantics [namely Wordsworth, Coleridge, Shelley, and Keats) saw the poetry of their time as frivolous and damaging. Wordsworth addresses his "contemporaries" in the Preface: "[They] think that they are conferring honour upon themselves and their art, in proportion as they separate themselves from the sympathies of men, and indulge in arbitrary and capricious habits of expression, in order to furnish food for fickle tastes, and fickle appetites, of their own creation" [Preface, 597). 2. Coleridge is clearly not dejected when writing the poem, because his genius must be operative for poetry to be written. He does, though, write about a time when his poetic faculty was inoperative. This claim is investigated further on the following pages. 3. Shelley illustrates this feeling of wonder and dread in his poem, "Mont Blanc." 4. The Imagination is discussed more fully as it becomes apparent in the poem. 5. "Lady” [line 25) in the final version. In earlier versions this word was variously "Sara," "William," and "Edmund." Coleridge personalized the poem for various reasons, but ultimately addressed whomever reads it, art for all men. 6. Recall the end of Keats’ "Ode on a Grecian Urn": "Beauty is truth, truth beauty." 7. Coleridge believes poetic genius to be inborn, see In. 85-6. 8. This begins to touch on the paradoxical balance between feeling and thinking that Coleridge’s despair springs from; he addresses it further in stanza six. 9. "The passion and the life, whose fountains are within. / 0 Lady! we receive but what we give, / And in our life alone does nature live" [Ins. 46-8). 10. The line here mimes the first line of "Intimations"; "There was a time ..." This is one of many textual clues that the two poems are in direct dialogue with each other, and that Wordsworth and Coleridge are speaking to the same subject, perhaps even the same type of incident. 11. Goodness exists outside the self, while movement [the pursuit of goodness) starts inside the self, as line 46 makes clear. 12. Recall Coleridge’s discussion of the Imagination. 13. The common man, unable to be moved by the storm, would never naturally be in a state of dejection as the Poet can be. 14. Thomas Otway, a popular English playwright in the seventeenth century, was most famous for Venice Preserv’d, 1682. An omnibus was first published in 1712. 53 �Primary Texts Coleridge, Samuel Taylor. Biographia Literaria. In The Norton Anthology of English Literature. Edited by M.H. Abrams, Seventh Edition Vol. 2. New York: Norton & Company, 2000. ---------. "Dejection: An Ode." In The Norton Anthology of English Literature. Edited by M.H. Abrams, Seventh Edition Vol. 2. New York: Norton & Company, 2000. De Selincourt, Ernest, and Helen Darbishire, eds. The Poetical Works of WilliamWordsworth, Vol. 4. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1958. Wordsworth, William and Elizabeth Fenwick. The Fenwick Notes of William Wordsworth. Edited by Jared Curtis. London: Bristol Classical Press, 1993. ---------. Preface to Lyrical Ballads. In The Major Works. Edited by Stephen Gill. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000. 54 �Meditation on Li Bai's Invitation to Wine Turner Resor Invitation to Wine -Li Bai Do you not see the waters of the Yellow river streaming from the sky How they rush tumbling to the sea and never return? Do you not see, within the high tower, someone who sorrows for his white hair before the bright mirror? In the morning like black silk, at evening turned to snow? In human life, when hopes are won, we should drink our joys to the end. Not leave the golden wine jar empty in the moonlight. The things that Heaven made must have a use! Though I squander a thousand gold pieces, time may restore them. - Boil the sheep! Kill the ox! Let us be merry! Three hundred cupfuls of wine we must drink this time! Master Cen! Doctor Danqui! I am bringing the wine Don’t put down your cups! I shall sing you a snatch of song: Listen to me please. Gongs and drums, costly dishes, little I prize them! I only want the long dream of wine and never to wake. Through all the ages, the good and wise were passed over in silence! Only the mighty drinkers left a name behind. Think of the Prince of Chen in former days, feasting at Pingle palace The wine at ten thousand a flagon, the endless jesting and laughter. . . How can a host complain he is short of money? I must hasten to buy the wine to put before my friends My horse dappled with the five colours And my thousand-guinea furs I will call the boy to barter them for a splendid wine That you and I may forget for sorrows of all the ages. �There is a window in time somewhere between five and seven o'clock, depending on the season, between day and night, that, for as long as I can remember, has given rise to melancholic musings. I am saddened by the passing quality of the evening light. It is the light that peeks over passes and spills its shafts down valleys; it warms the bark of aspen groves, and signals the last call for summer swimmers. Dancing before us are the final dramatic measures of the sun's daily opus, and the closing notes - merciless and beautiful - ask us, "Have you been listening? Have you been living?” We respond to the hour restlessly. Enforced by the light's stern glare, we move in the direction of home, to the places that tell us we are somebody. Transitions are brief spans in time when nothing is asked of us beyond what we feel, and I find myself with little to do but reflect. My mind wanders and flashes, darting from bright to dark as the light's own rough-edged mosaic plays through the landscape. I half-meditate, shifting through the fallen leaves of thought and memory; I pretend that some forgotten piece might give an answer to my emptiness. I think of loves that could have been and others that could have been better. 1 wonder if I should have been a rider of bulls or perhaps a farmer. Why has it been so hard to follow my heart? I think of anything so that I can think of nothing, like a man who has never before seen water trying to talk his way out of walking the plank. When I was younger there was some relief in my mother's calling me in for dinner, and in this way waking me from my reveries. I would take the path out of the woods toward our house and the illusion of home. I remember the numbed orange glow of living room lights soaking the logs of our family cabin- our minds drowsy from the day that we would soon be forgetting. Inside with the doors shut, I felt as though I had left some essential belonging behind, like a baseball glove in the rain, something that in my negligence 1 had left out alone in the dark and cold. Any effort to recall my abandoned thoughts was soon drowned-out by the conversations of the dinner table. I did not realize that it was only I who needed artificial warmth, that the true idea can live in any environment, and that I need only learn to live with the idea. Before, my fears were assigned to the dark of night; now I see that the dark of night has been assigned to my fears. Our external landscapes and how we respond to them are the material reflections of some aspect of our internal landscapes- so what I cannot accept is always personal. The darkness of night corresponds to our fear of all that is unknown within ourselves, just as the climax of the evening's light that I am drawn to corresponds to the potential for great beauty in each of our souls — even if only momentary. The trouble is that they are inseparable. Day runs into night and paradox is the nature of life. Those 56 �who acknowledge only the good will forever find themselves wanting, and if I ever want to fully experience the light without I must accept the darkness within. Our minds avoid the reconciliation of opposites like a hand that instinctually jerks away from the flame. There always appears to be a better time than the present to confront our fears. When I was young 1 lived with the safety of tomorrow; in this way I secured my relative comfort in the present by investing its hopes in the future. I am older now, and I have become conscious of my efforts to elude concentration. I am tired of chasing the existential tomorrow. This new consciousness has left me exposed in a no-man’s-land, stuck between two worlds that cannot reasonably exist in the same universe. I am coming from a world in which I unknowingly shaped everything - environment, home, friends, and myself - in order to protect my ignorance of the world where I now wish to go. Therefore the value of the first is necessarily deflated by the realization of the second, since the former existed almost entirely in defiance. I will not be able to return and understand the land that I have come from until 1 have seen all there is within myself, and I am nervous to forge ahead. The undecided middleperson becomes a tragic character through their inactivity. Ambivalence is the curse of decisive passion and the mother of empty soliloquy. "Through all the ages, the good and wise were passed over in silence; only the mighty drinkers left a name behind.” Similarly, my timidity has made me a wiser evader of my deeper soundings, and has put me in peril of becoming intellectually dishonest. But if I listen with intent, my consciousness can also be my most trustworthy guide, and recently it has been telling me that now is the time to act, now is the time to walk out further into the unknown, so that I can come back refreshed by what I have known all along to be true. Still, I hesitate. In my hesitation I turn to books and poetry. 1 amuse myself with the stories of others and their confrontations with this psychic borderland. Then I read Li Bai’s Invitation to Wine, and he speaks to me as a master and compassionate friend. He tells me that I will be rewarded if I stop and pay attention. He tells me to "not leave the golden wine-jar empty in the moonlight,” since he and I and all "the things that Heaven made must have a use.” He tells me all this and 1 am happy to accept his invitation. The poem's message comes as an echo from another shore booming across the wild waters of a swollen river. It sings that we must brave the internal mists that confound and isolate us all and join the singer on the opposite bank. It is a forceful reminder of all that can be won if we are mindful. His voice is boisterous and invigorating, demanding our attention. Just as the fleeting grace of the light tries to hold my eye, Li Bai �implores us: "Listen to me please." And if we listen, we can learn to look indiscriminately, and when at last we See, we will be ready to drink in the terrific beauty of pure sight, and that is the ultimate celebration of life. For Li Bai, a moment of true sight is the moment "when hopes are won.” All our human longings are fulfilled when we become naturally reunited to a world where evil is the brother of good, night the source of day, and death the giver of life. In a moment of clarity our human joys can spread their wings without the threat of the unknown throwing its shadow across our path. For if it must be that "the waters of the Yellow river streaming from the sky . . . rush tumbling to the sea and never return," if life tells us that someone’s hair will be "in the morning like black silk" and "at evening turned to snow,” if we leave behind the world of illusion where anything could be other than as it is, what is left but the certain joy of each individual moment? We are no longer concerned with tomorrow, since tomorrow can never be anything more than an excuse for today. We have found ourselves here in the now. We have left our "high towers" to see the world as it is. All our possessions, all that we have horded in vain will finally become useful insofar as they can be sold or traded so that we may drink in this moment longer and deeper. "Time may restore” all these things. "Gongs and drums, costly dishes, little I prize them; I only want the long dream of wine and never to wake.” To drink wine is to be thankful. It is the imbibing of an essence distilled from its particularities. It is a ritual that celebrates the life we are given through death. It is a forgetting of the "sorrows of all the ages.” Once we have drunk from this ancient well we will be born again, but if we return in fear to our now decrepit dwellings and think that we can forget, we will be haunted until we return to the hunt. There are those who would build precarious palaces out of the disjointed fragments of memory rather than return to the springs of sight. The habituated artist, however, is someone who is obedient to what they feel to be true. Maybe it is predetermined how we will respond. I know that there are moments when I cannot ignore the call. When I walk now, I carry less with me. I leave my home to watch the sun set beyond Albuquerque and I bring only this reminder: Today is the only day there is to See. This moment is all I will ever know. And with this I lose myself. The gravity of the temporary is all that remains to inform me and I surrender, letting its pull take me out of myself. The beauty is absolutely terrifying. I have been invited to wine. 58 �Primary Text Li Bai. Meditation on Wine. In 300 Tang Poems, translated by Innes Herdan. Taipei: Far East Book Co., 2000. 59 �The Rights of a Citizen and the Rights of a Man: Constitutionality and Natural Law in the Dred Scott Decision and Lincoln's Springfield Speech of 1857 Kanishka G.B. Marasinghe The opinion of the Supreme Court regarding the case of Dred Scott v. Sandford delivered by Chief Justice Taney seems to have found for itself an infamous place in the history of American constitutional law. On June 26, 1857, less than four months after the decision was handed down, Lincoln addressed it directly in his famous Springfield Speech of 1857, calling it "erroneous” and stating that "we shall do what we can to have it to overrule [this decision]" [728J. Less than 40 years later. Justice Harlan, the sole dissenter in the Plessy v. Ferguson decision, writes that in time, the judgment rendered in Plessy "will prove to be quite as pernicious as the decision made by this tribunal in the Dred Scott case" (Harlan, 7J. If we view the history of these cases through a lens shaped by an appreciation for the civil rights movement, it is tempting to see these decisions as either certain milestones or detours on the path towards a fuller expression of our equality as citizens before the law. In this light, the Dred Scott decision does indeed seem particularly pernicious because it is in this judgment that the status of 'citizen’ is expressly denied by the Supreme Court to all members of "the enslaved African race" (721). One could make an argument that the Dred Scott decision, by denying Dred Scott the status of‘citizen’ and thereby the right to sue in the courts of the United States, is especially damaging to his natural rights as a man as posited in the Declaration of Independence. It would be a much harder case to make, however, that his legal status as a citizen under the Constitution of the United States has been illegitimately denied. In this paper, I will examine the opinion handed down by Chief Justice Taney on Dred Scott’s claim to citizenship in light of Lincoln’s challenges concerning both historical accuracy and Taney’s interpretation of the Declaration of Independence. I will argue that despite Lincoln’s challenges, the opinion handed down by Chief Justice Taney still adheres to sound constitutional principles, but that Taney’s treatment of the Declaration of Independence inherently changes the character of the debate surrounding Dred Scott The Dred Scott case concerns two issues: first, whether Dred Scott is a citizen of Missouri "within the meaning of the Constitution of the United States" and, second, whether Congress was authorized to pass the Missouri Compromise of 1820 "under any of the powers granted to it by the Constitution" (723). The first issue pertains to Dred Scott’s right to sue in a circuit court and the second issue pertains to his claim to 60 �freedom. Lincoln restates and emphasizes the importance of the Dred Scott decision in his Springfield Speech of 1857; he asserts, "The decision declares two propositions — first, that a Negro cannot sue in the United States courts, and, secondly, that Congress cannot prohibit slavery in the territories" (727). In this restatement, Lincoln emphasizes the effects that the Dred Scott decision will have at the federal level — he turns it into a national issue. In doing so, however, he fundamentally misrepresents Chief Justice Taney’s position concerning the question of citizenship. The opinion of the Supreme Court never directly states that "a Negro cannot sue in the United States courts." Instead, the opinion asserts that Dred Scott cannot sue in the circuit courts because he is not a legal citizen of Missouri under the Constitution of the United States. In formulating the opinion in these words. Chief Justice Taney makes the question of citizenship into a state’s rights issue. The implication is not that all Negroes cannot sue in U.S. courts but that one must be a U.S. citizen to sue in its courts and that citizenship is granted on a state by state basis. One could, perhaps, read Lincoln’s restatement of the first part of the Dred Scott decision as simply asserting that "Dred Scott (a Negro) cannot sue in the United States courts." Lincoln’s formulation, however, seems to imply a more general application. Lincoln’s first challenge to Chief Justice Taney has to do with the accuracy of the historical facts used to support his decision. Among the conditions that Lincoln lists as necessary for accepting this decision as precedent is the condition that the decision "had been in no part based on assumed historical facts which are not really true” (728). Taney, in fact, appeals to the "legislation and histories of the times" in order to settle the question of "who were the citizens of the several states when the Constitution was adopted” (720). Lincoln addresses this directly: "Chief Justice Taney, in delivering the opinion of the majority of the court, insists at great length that Negroes were no part of the people who made, or for whom was made, the Declaration of Independence or the Constitution of the United States" (729). Lincoln goes on to cite Judge Curtis’s dissenting opinion where he states that in five of the original thirteen states, "free Negroes were voters and in proportion to their numbers had the same part in making the Constitution that the white people had" (729). Lincoln has a point when he asserts that free Negroes did make up a portion of the people of the United States who adopted the Constitution. His point, however, is largely tangential because it disregards the basic principles upon which both the U.S. Constitution was established and Chief Justice Taney makes his argument. Article VII of the Constitution of the United States maintains that ratification by nine of the thirteen original states for which it was intended "shall be sufficient for the Establishment of this Constitution 61 �between the States so ratifying the Same."i Ratification by the conventions of nine states is sufficient to establish the Constitution but in order for the Constitution to have any authority over any particular state, the convention of that state must have also ratified it. If only nine states ratify the constitution, then it is only established among those nine states. In his decision. Chief Justice Taney asserts that the principle upon which the government thereby rests is the 'union of states' and that any power not expressly given to the federal government is relegated to the authority of the state governments. He expounds on this principle, writing. The principle upon which our governments rest, and upon which alone they continue to exist, is the union of states, sovereign and independent within their own limits in their internal and domestic concerns, and bound together as one people by a general government, possessing certain enumerated and restricted powers, delegated to it by the people of the several states, and exercising supreme authority within the scope of the powers granted to it, throughout the dominion of the United States. (724J Concerning citizenship as stated in the Constitution, Taney writes. It speaks in general terms of the people of the United States, and of citizens of the several states, when it is providing for the exercise of the powers granted or the privileges secured to the citizen. It does not define what description of persons are intended to be included under these terms, or who shall be regarded as a citizen and one of the people. (722] By not defining the description of persons intended to be included as citizens under the federal government, the Constitution relegates the question of citizenship to the authority of the state governments. This was, in principle, accommodating to both slave and free states at the time that the Constitution was being established. One of the main goals of the Constitutional Convention was to draft a document establishing a federal government that would be acceptable to all thirteen states. It is highly unlikely that any of the states that supported slavery would join the union if, in doing so, they also conferred the rights of citizenship under the federal Constitution onto the slaves living within their state limits. Lincoln and Judge Curtis argue that in five out of the thirteen original states, free Negroes were part of the voting public that ratified the Constitution. Chief Justice Taney could argue in turn that in eight out of 62 �the thirteen states they were not and that to be a citizen of the union, one must first be a citizen of a state. Lincoln's second argument against the Taney decision concerns the Declaration of Independence, its interpretation, and the question of for whom it was made. Chief Justice Taney mentions the language used in the Declaration of Independence early on in his opinion in order to determine who were citizens of the states when the Constitution was adopted. Taney writes. In the opinion of the Court the legislation and the histories of the times, and the language used in the Declaration of Independence, show that neither the class of persons who had been imported as slaves nor their descendants, whether they had become free or not, were then acknowledged as a part of the people nor intended to be included in the general words used in that memorable instrument. (721) Here Chief Justice Taney is flat out wrong and Lincoln is right to challenge him* on his interpretation of the Declaration. The Declaration of Independence is a document of natural law and as such applies to all men. This is stated directly in the two excerpts of the Declaration that Chief Justice Taney quotes in the Court's decision: When in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth the separate and equal station to which the laws of nature and nature's God entitle them, a decent respect for the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation. (721) We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights; that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness; that to secure these rights, governments are instituted, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed. (721) The language of the Declaration is too general and conclusive to be amenable to any other interpretation but that it must apply equally to all men. It grounds its precepts in "the law of nature and nature's God” asserting that "all men are created equal" and "that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights." By appealing to nature and 63 �the Creator, the Declaration raises itself to a position above human law and appeals to that in human beings, which loves the just and yearns for the universal irrespective of its particular application; it appeals to that sublimated moral sense within us with which we affirm, question, and judge the adequacy of human law. Lincoln’s parody of judge Douglas’ version of the Declaration^ is particularly astute because he realizes that the moment we appeal to a universal sense of justice on anything less than universal terms, the appeal loses its rhetorical effect and becomes ridiculous (732). A "decent respect for the opinions of mankind" requires that the framers of the Declaration proceed (and proceed seriously) on general terms. Both Chief Justice Taney and Judge Douglas posit the argument that to interpret the Declaration as an affirmation of the rights of all men would be to essentially vilify those men who framed and signed it. Judge Douglas, in this regard, asserts, "No man can vindicate the character, motives, and conduct of the signers of the Declaration of Independence except upon the hypothesis that they referred to the white race alone, and not to the African, when they declared all men to be created equal” (731). This argument relies on the conflation of human law and natural law and misconstrues the Declaration as a document of human law. If it were the case that the framers intended the Declaration to be a legal document, then the character, motives, and conduct of the framers should be drawn into question because, as many of them were slave holders, they would be positing a law only in order to break it. The Declaration, however, was never intended as a legally binding document but was set up as what Lincoln calls "a standard maxim for free society which should be familiar to all and revered by all; constantly looked to, constantly labored for, and even though never perfectly attained, constantly approximated” (731). Human law addresses the practical concerns and everyday attitudes of a society and, therefore, often does not ascend to the lofty standards of justice as embodied in natural law. If the natural rights of all men were simply written into the Declaration as legislation, it would be divisive and of little practical use in the rebellion against the British. This, however, was never the intention of the framers to begin with: the rebellion had already begun and the framers declared a standard around which to unite against a common foe and against which to justify their endeavor both to themselves and to men the world over. Chief Justice Taney’s interpretation of the Declaration of Independence is strange on at least two counts. First, although he mentions that "[the] language of the Declaration of Independence is equally conclusive” as to the fact that "the enslaved African race were not intended to be included and formed no part of the people who framed and adopted this declaration” (721-722), Taney immediately softens his 64 �point himself by going outside the language of the Declaration in order to make his case. Second, there is no need to even mention the Declaration to begin with, except to assert that the document has no legal relevance to the authority of the federal government under the Constitution. Chief Justice Taney’s statement of the principle of the union of the states was mentioned above. If one were to adhere to this principle strictly, then the Declaration would have no legal bearing on the function or authority of the federal government because it was never ratified by any of the states that established it. In the course of judicial review, any appeal to the Declaration concerning the question of Dred Scott's citizenship could be thrown out as outside the scope of the Constitution of the United States. Whatever his reasons for even bringing up the Declaration, by doing so. Chief Justice Taney throws open the doors to Lincoln’s criticism of his interpretation of it: by making it into an issue, he brings it into politics. Near the beginning of his treatment of the Dred Scott decision in his Springfield Speech of 1857, Lincoln mentions that he will refrain from discussing the "merits” of the Dred Scott decision and, instead, proceeds to assert his right to question its "correctness” (727J. We should make mention of the fact that Lincoln never directly challenges the constitutionality of the Dred Scott decision but limits himself to questioning the correctness of the historical facts and the interpretation of the Declaration that are used to justify it. As mentioned above, Lincoln, does assert that he believes the decision to be "erroneous” and that they should do what they can to "have it to overrule this,” but this statement is made after his statement of fact that the Court has overruled its own decisions in the past and the question is not fully settled. Lincoln could have addressed Taney more directly by questioning him on the principle of the union of the states or on his interpretation of the Constitution but he does not. We can begin to understand this when we consider that by mentioning the Declaration, Chief Justice Taney essentially moves the question of Dred Scott’s citizenship and the status of slavery in general from the realm of judicial review into the realm of the political and fundamentally changes the character of the debate. By bringing in the Declaration of Independence, Chief Justice Taney brings in natural law and what was once a question of the rights of slaves and property owners under the Constitution of the United States in Taney’s hands turns into a question of the justness of slavery in Lincoln’s. When we look back at the opinion of the Supreme Court concerning Dred Scott’s citizenship, we can perhaps^ say that it is both constitutionally valid and pernicious. It is constitutionally valid because it proceeded according to a sound interpretation of the meaning of ‘citizenship’ as it was understood according to the principle of the union of states upon which the Constitution was founded. It is pernicious because by fallaciously 65 �interpreting the Declaration of Independence as a document of human law, it allowed others to disregard its writers' intentions in the political realm. Endnotes 1. The Constitution of the United States, Article VII. 2. Lincoln writes: "We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all British subjects who where on this continent eighty-one years ago were created equal to all British subjects born and then residing in Britain.” 3. Another possibility, albeit a distant outlier, is that Chief Justice Taney brought in the Declaration of Independence in order to push the issue into the political realm in order to get resolved there. This, however, is not a claim that the author can fully stand behind. Primary Text Staff, Social Sciences I The College of the University of Chicago. The People Shall Judge. Volume I. Part II. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1949. �Wisdom and Wizardry: Vimalakirti's Inconceivable Technique for Reinvigorating the Dharma Brian Connolly We have it on Buddha's authority that everything is impermanent. As related in the discourses of the Pali canon, he arrived at this realization in the course of an extended meditation which took him from the state of samadhi through the higher jhanas of non-thinking and non-perception, culminating in his attainment of nirvana, the abandonment of all attachment to notions of a permanent self, and the cessation of suffering. Whether, and how, such knowledge could be transmitted was an immediate source of concern for Buddha, who doubted the possibility of leading others on the Eightfold Path and was only compelled to teach the Dharma at the behest of Brahma Sampati. The issue of transmission has also been a matter of debate for Buddha's followers in the millennia since his enlightenment, as different interpretations of the original teachings developed and different schools of thought took shape. The Mahayana, or "great vehicle” school, posits a broader vision of the Dharma than, and distinguishes itself from, the Hinayana or "small vehicle" school, a vision that emphasizes the role of enlightened bodhisattvas in liberating those living beings who are still suffering, while placing less emphasis on the Sravaka, or "hearers,” tradition of Dharma transmission from teacher to disciple. Among the texts considered central to Mahayana Buddhism is The Holy Teaching of Vimalakirti, the strange and wonderful title character of which challenges the complacency of Buddha's disciples and restores the Dharma's radical power to effect liberation by getting back to the heart of Buddha's message: recognizing the fundamental emptiness and impermanence of everything as a means of escaping suffering. Reading The Holy Teaching of Vimalakirti for the first time, in the context of Buddhist doctrine shaped by a series of discourses from the Pali canon [representing the core of the Dharma), to the Lotus Sutra [offering its Mahayana message of enlightenment for everyone, not just the sravakas — direct hearers — or monks), and Nagarjuna's Mulamadhayamakakarika [breaking down tendencies toward complacency or egoism with the relentless logic of his tetralemma), my reaction was to dismiss this text's fantastic episodes as mere special effects intended to keep readers or listeners entertained, thereby engaging their attention in the teaching itself, the fundamental impermanence of things. On the surface, Vimalakirti's teaching struck me as a clear rebuke to the sravakas and the Hinayana approach to the Dharma, characterized by 67 �strict adherence to the Pali discourses. What better way to widen the perspective of narrow-minded orthodoxy than by taking the doctrine to mind-bending extremes? VimalakTrti's embodiment of the characteristic qualities of a Buddha while simultaneously engaging in the everyday world, and the magical effects he employs in subverting the selfsatisfaction of Buddha's disciples, would seem to confirm his role as a larger-than-life counterpart to the Buddha. Thus, the initial questions I planned to investigate in this essay were, "Who is this Vimalakirti? Was he real, or simply made-up as a foil to Buddha, an expedient means for re­ animating his stodgy disciples? And how do his teachings bolster or undermine the Dharma as taught by Buddha?" As I approached the text again, paying closer attention to detail, it became harder to sustain any opposition between a "real" Buddha and a "make-believe" Vimalakirti. It became increasingly clear that the "inconceivable" technique employed by Vimalakirti was more than just rhetorical sleight of hand. The miraculous abilities attributed to Vimalakirti were not simply magical anecdotes included for dramatic effect. Rather, they were in fact performative demonstrations of his teaching that everything is magic, that the character of ultimate reality is like that of something conjured up by a magician — and that, no matter how deeply we penetrate into the nature of things, we will never find such a magician at work nor learn the trick. The question, "Who is Vimalakirti?" took on a deeper significance, pointing to other, larger questions (e.g. "What does VimalakTrti's teaching regarding the magical nature of ultimate reality say about the truth or reality of Buddha's enlightenment and the 'original Dharma' as described in the Pali Canon?") and, perhaps, to the biggest question of all: "Is anything real?" Rather than tackling that one head-on, though, it might be wiser to begin by investigating the meaning of magic in this mysterious text, starting with Buddha's conversion of the bodhisattva's umbrellas into a billion-fold canopy of jewels. As soon as all these precious parasols had been laid down, suddenly, by the miraculous power of the Lord, they were transformed into a single precious canopy so great that it formed a covering for this entire billion-world galaxy. The surface of the entire billion-world galaxy was reflected in the interior of the great precious canopy, where the total content of this galaxy could be seen: limitless mansions of suns, moons and stellar bodies; the realm of the devas, nagas, yaksas ... all the great oceans, rivers, bays, torrents, streams, brooks, and springs; finally all the villages, suburbs, cities, capitals, provinces, and 68 �wildernesses. All this could be clearly seen by everyone. And the voices of all the Buddhas of the ten directions could be heard proclaiming their teachings of the Dharma in all the worlds, the sounds reverberating in the space beneath the great precious canopy. (12) As if this were not already an indication of the supernatural character of the text that will follow, the hymn with which "the young Licchavi Ratnakara" responds to the parasol marvel characterizes Buddha in a particularly revealing way, hailing his "inconceivable miraculous power": Pure is your thought, having transcendence of all trances ... discovered the supreme Although the Lord speaks with but one voice. Those present perceive that same voice differently. And each understands in his own language according to his own need. This is a special quality of the Buddha ... You nullify all signs in all things everywhere. You are not subject to any wish for anything at all. The miraculous power of the Buddhas is inconceivable. 1 bow to you, who stand nowhere, like infinite space. (13-15) The introductory phase of the text concludes with Buddha's explication of the meaning of buddha-fields — that individuals do not attain enlightenment in a vacuum, as it were, but in interdependent relation to all the other beings in their sphere at that moment. He then performs a marvel rivaling, if not exceeding, the illumination of the parasols, tapping the universe with his big toe in order to illustrate a point about the power of perspective: Thereupon the Lord touched the ground of this billionworld-galactic universe with his big toe, and suddenly it was transformed into a huge mass of precious jewels, a magnificent array of many hundreds of thousands of clusters of precious gems, until it resembled the universe of the Tathagata Ratnavyuha, called Anantagunaratnavyuha. Everyone in the entire assembly was filled with wonder, each perceiving himself on a throne of jeweled lotuses. 69 �. . . The Buddha said, "Sariputra, this buddha-field is always thus pure, but the Tathagata makes it appear to be spoiled by many faults, in order to bring about the maturity of inferior living beings. (19] Among the myriad onlookers who experience advancement toward enlightenment upon witnessing this manifestation of Buddha's magnificence are "eighty-four thousand living beings who were devoted to the grandeur of the buddha-field” [19]. Furthermore, it is they who, "having understood that all things are by nature but magical creations, all conceived in their own minds the spirit of unexcelled, totally perfect enlightenment" (19]. The spontaneous liberation of these eighty-four thousand living beings foreshadows the "inconceivable liberative" teaching of Vimalakirti and his magical approach to enlightenment, which takes up the remainder of the text. The hyperbolic description of Vimalakirti given in the second chapter holds several clues as to his peculiar character and to his role as a teacher of the Dharma. Vimalakirti is portrayed as the embodiment of a host of seemingly impossible-to-reconcile contradictions. He epitomizes all the qualities of arahantship without having taken on the renunciative, meditative life of Buddha's disciples, and he shares Buddha's "special quality” of being understood by different people according to their needs. To paraphrase Shakespeare, he "out-Buddha's Buddha.”i Far from withdrawing from the world of samsara, he is described as being fully engaged in the everyday world of temptation and sin — though only in order to practice his liberating technique and guide other beings to the Dharma: He made his appearance at the fields of sports and in the casinos, but his aim was always to mature those people who were attached to games and gambling ... He engaged in all sorts of businesses, yet had no interest in profit or possessions. To train living beings, he would appear at crossroads and on street corners, and to protect them he participated in government. To turn people away from the Hinayana and to engage them in the Mahayana, he appeared among listeners and teachers of the Dharma .. . To demonstrate the evils of desire, he even entered the brothels. To establish drunkards in correct mindfulness, he entered all the cabarets. (21] Note the reference to turning people away from the Hinayana and toward the Mahayana; this places the text itself in the category of a manifestation 70 �of Vimalakirti's liberative technique, since it documents a series of his appearances "among listeners and teachers of the Dharma." The central conceit of the text is Vimalakirti's feigned illness. He states that he has undertaken to manifest this illness in order to solicit the concern of other living beings in the buddha-field, so that he might then liberate them by means of his "inconceivable” technique. When word spreads that he is not well, people flock from the nearby villages and surrounding countryside to offer their sympathy. He instructs them on the difference between the physical body ("so impermanent, fragile, unworthy of confidence, and feeble") and the "Tathagata body” ("born of gnosis . . . truth . . . reality . . . conscious awareness . . . ”), urging them to aspire toward the latter and to "conceive the spirit of unexcelled, perfect enlightenment” in order to "eliminate the sicknesses of the passions of all living beings” (23). Vimalakirti will later expand on this basic teaching to the community in his discourse on how to minister to a sick bodhisattva. However, it will be some time before any bodhisattvas or disciples check in to see what condition his condition is in. Although Buddha intuits Vimalakirti's condition telepathically, and calls on his disciples to attend to him in his convalescence, all of them refuse except the crown prince Manjusri, each citing as the justification for his reluctance an episode in which he has been shown up by the enlightened layman. In each case, Vimalakirti's intervention destabilizes the secure position of the disciple, exhorting him to practice wholeheartedly in full engagement in the present, rather than limiting his practice or his teaching to dogmatic emulation of Buddha, dissuading him from believing himself to be enlightened and somehow excused from further participation in life. Each of the boddhisattvas is mistaken to the extent that he is quantifying the state of enlightenment that he considers himself to have attained, or reifying the Dharma in a way that compromises its ineffable nature, obscuring the "voidness” or impermanence of everything, the realization of which is the catalyst of liberation. Vimalakirti deconstructs their mistakes, playing the role of Buddha in destroying the last major obstacle to their liberation: their attachment to their roles as disciples and to their dualistic conception of enlightenment. Vimalakirti's exchange with the venerable Subhuti, whom he teases with a barrage of impossible-to-uphold precepts as the latter attempts to carry out his daily alms-round, indicates the text's position regarding the role of language both as a medium for interpreting reality — to be taken with a grain of salt — and as a means of liberation — to be understood as its ultimate meaning: 71 �"Reverend Subhuti, do not fear these words, and pick up your bowl. What do you think, reverend Subhuti? If it were an incarnation created by the Tathagata who spoke thus to you, would you be afraid?" I answered, "No indeed, noble sir!" He then said, "Reverend Subhuti, the nature of all things is like an illusion, like a magical incarnation. So you should not fear them. Why? All words also have that nature, and thus the wise are not attached to words, nor do they fear them. Why? All language does not ultimately exist, except as liberation. The nature of all things is liberation." (28) The disciple Ananda's encounter with Vimalakirti, in which the former has been sent to obtain some milk for an indisposed Buddha, ends in much the same fashion, albeit with a punchline delivered by a disembodied voice from the sky: "Go and get the milk!” (37). Another disciple, the venerable Upali, is chided when Vimalakirti overhears him disciplining two bhiksus. Vimalakirti points out that their transgression and shame are expressions of their mistaken, dualistic understanding of the situation, so addressing the issue in terms of an offender being punished would only further aggravate their suffering. In Vimalakirti's account, since they are not autonomous selves acting in reference to a fixed standard of behavior, there is neither agent nor misdeed. With both of these belonging to the categories of dualistic thought, not the thinking of ultimate reality, a different solution must be sought, reflecting the true nature of ultimate reality: "Reverend Upali, the mind is neither within nor without, nor is it to be apprehended between the two. Sin is just the same as the mind, and all things are just the same as sin. They do not escape this same reality. "Reverend Upali, this nature of the mind, by virtue of which your mind, reverend, is liberated — does it ever become afflicted?" "Never,” [Upali] replied. "Reverend Upali, the minds of all living beings have that very nature. Reverend Upali, passions consist of conceptualizations. The ultimate nonexistence of these conceptualizations and imaginary fabrications — that is the purity that is the intrinsic nature of the mind. Misapprehensions are passions. The ultimate absence of misapprehensions is the intrinsic nature of the mind. The 72 �presumption of self is passion. The absence of self is the intrinsic nature of the mind. Reverend Upali, all things are without production, destruction, and duration, like magical illusions, clouds, and lightning; all things are evanescent, not remaining even for an instant; all things are like dreams, hallucinations, and unreal visions; all things are like the reflection of the moon in water and like a mirror-image; they are born of mental construction. Those who know this are called the true upholders of the discipline, and those disciplined in that way are indeed well disciplined." (30-31] This radical formulation of the philosophy of impermanence speaks for itself; while letting it sink in, and before moving on, it is worth noting the way in which Vimalakirti plays on Upali's belief in his own enlightenment in order to draw him toward the broader view of the mind's intrinsic nature. This is another example of Vimalakirti 's Buddha-like ability to connect with interlocutors in just the right way. Vimalakirti further clarifies the Dharma regarding enlightenment, and the role of bodhisattvas in liberating living beings, in his exchange with Maitreya, one of the major Buddhas in the Mahayana tradition. He encounters the latter discussing "the stage of nonregression of the great bodhisattvas” with "the gods of the Tusita heaven, the god Samtusita and his retinue," and steps in to set the record straight; Maitreya, do not fool and delude these deities! No one abides in, or regresses from, enlightenment. Maitreya, you should introduce these deities to the repudiation of all discriminative constructions concerning enlightenment. (34-5] He goes on to offer the most explicit account yet of what enlightenment actually means: . . . Enlightenment is free of presumptions concerning all objects. Enlightenment is free of the functioning of all intentional thoughts. Enlightenment is the annihilation of all convictions. Enlightenment is free from all discriminative constructions. Enlightenment is free from all vacillation, mentation, and agitation. Enlightenment is not involved in any commitments. Enlightenment is the arrival at detachment, through freedom from all habitual attitudes. The ground of enlightenment is the ultimate realm. Enlightenment is the realization of reality. (35] 73 �In case Maitreya might still have the idea that attaining enlightenment isn't so hard, after all, Vimalakirti wraps up his account with this mind-arresting aporia: Enlightenment is without subjectivity and completely without object. Enlightenment, which penetrates the equality of all things, is undifferentiated. Enlightenment, which is not shown by any example, is incomparable. Enlightenment is subtle, since it is extremely difficult to realize. Enlightenment is all-pervasive, as it has the nature of infinite space. Enlightenment cannot be realized, either physically or mentally. Why? The body is like grass, trees, walls, paths, and hallucinations. And the mind is immaterial, invisible, baseless, and unconscious. (35) In the face of such inscrutable insight, who can blame the disciples and bodhisattvas for feeling intimidated by Vimalakirti? As the text moves into its main narrative phase, crown prince Manjusri agrees to visit the ailing Vimalakirti. In the course of their conversation, Vimalakirti explains how one ought to minister to a sick bodhisattva — recalling the ostensible premise of the narrative and stressing once again the doctrine of impermanence and emptiness: What is the elimination of this sickness? It is the elimination of egoism and possessiveness. What is the elimination of egoism and possessiveness? It is the freedom from dualism. What is the freedom from dualism? It is the absence of involvement with either the external or the internal. What is the absence of involvement with either the external or the internal? It is nondeviation, nonfluctuation, and nondistraction from equanimity. What is equanimity? It is the equality of everything from self to liberation. Why? Because both self and liberation are void. How can they be void? As verbal designations, they both are void, and neither is established in reality. Therefore, one who sees such equality makes no difference between sickness and voidness; his sickness is itself voidness, and that sickness as voidness is itself void. (45) Void, indeed — especially given the blow Vimalakirti has struck against language's ability to express truth or accurately encompass reality. In a discourse full of incisive insights into the Dharma, this is Vimalakirti at his most radical: he has feigned illness in order to draw an 74 �audience to hear his teaching that all illness is "feigned," that reality itself is ultimately empty. He then uses the metaphor of sickness to lay out the bodhisattva's mission, in striking simplicity: Although both pleasure and pain are abandoned when the buddha-qualities are fully accomplished, there is then no sacrifice of the great compassion for all living beings in the bad migrations. Thus, recognizing in his own suffering the infinite sufferings of these living beings, the bodhisattva correctly contemplates these living beings and resolves to cure all sicknesses. As for these living beings, there is nothing to be appiied, and there is nothing to be removed; one has oniy to teach them the Dharma, for them to realize the basis from which sicknesses arise. What is this basis? It is object-perception . . . (45-6, my itaiics) Having brought the discussion back around to "object-perception" — referred to elsewhere in the text in terms of dualism and egoism — as a crucial factor in the fabrication of our delusions about reality, Vimalakirti proceeds to outline "the domain of the bodhisattva" in terms that evoke Buddha's Middle Path: "Not the domain of the ordinary individual and not the domain of the saint, such is the domain of the bodhisattva" (47). One of the funniest moments in the text^ follows the arrival of Buddha, his disciples, and assorted bodhisattvas at Vimalakirti's house, the disciples' erstwhile reluctance having been overcome by their sense of "safety in numbers" once Manjusri ventures to visit the intimidating instructor of the Dharma. Before the guests arrive, Vimalakirti casts a spell on the furniture, making it invisible and setting the scene for the following exchange: Thereupon, the venerable Sariputra had this thought: "There is not even a single chair in this house. Where are these disciples and bodhisattvas going to sit?" The Licchavi Vimalakirti read the thought of the venerable Sariputra and said, "Reverend Sariputra, did you come here for the sake of the Dharma? Or did you come here for the sake of a chair?" Sariputra replied, "I came for the sake of the Dharma, not for the sake of a chair." (51) Aside from the obvious humor here, and the injunction not to miss the point of the teaching by getting distracted by concerns of protocol or 75 �personal comfort, this scene also invokes Vimalaklrti's critique of the sravaka's sedentary approach to Dharma, predicated for the most part on prolonged seated meditation. Soon, there is more magical manipulation of furniture as Vimalakirti conjures up thirty-two hundred thousand thrones, elaborately jeweled and impossibly (forty-two thousand leagues?!) tall, from the Merudhvaja universe. These thrones "arranged themselves without crowding" as the house "seemed to enlarge itself accordingly;” although, the text notes, "Everything else appeared just as it did before" (51-2). Those bodhisattvas "who had attained the superknowledges” then magnify themselves and sit down. When the "beginner bodhisattvas" complain that they cannot reach such lofty seats, Vimalakirti gives them a lesson that enables them "to attain the five superknowledges” and take their seats, leaving only the hapless disciples of Buddha to remain, unable to mount their thrones. Vimalakirti instructs them to bow to the Tathagata Merupradiparaja (who sent the thrones at Vimalaklrti's telepathic request), which does the trick, so to speak: the disciples find themselves instantly grown to the appropriate size and seated among the others. This initially struck me as more puzzling than the spell of invisibility Vimalakirti cast on his household furniture; however, it makes sense in the context of Vimalaklrti's motive for applying — and teaching — his inconceivable liberative technique, namely to show the Dharma to those who have not been able to see it, and to clarify it for those who have mistaken it for something more, or less, than what it is. Just as Buddha's tapping of his big toe to illuminate the billion-world-galactic universe provided a momentary reminder that everything is always perfect, if only we would see it as such, so Vimalaklrti's manipulation of the thrones suggests that all the disciples who feel unworthy (or left out) need to do to participate in the magic is to acknowledge its reality. Enlightenment only happens right now, each moment, and if one is hesitant or less than wholeheartedly present, then this is not that moment. As long as one treats enlightenment, Buddha, or the Dharma as if they were unreachable or magical, and this (world, body, mind, self) as if it were real — and thus incapable of "magical” transformation — so long will one keep oneself from "attaining” enlightenment, or understanding Buddha, or realizing the Dharma in the present, here and now. Vimalaklrti's performative use of magic suggests that the failure to achieve liberation, represented here by doubt and feelings of unworthiness, is not as big a problem as one might think; It is not a "real” problem, at all. Rather, it is a failure on the part of the imagination or consciousness to let go of dualistic thinking - thinking that posits enlightenment or the Dharma as anything other than full realization of 76 �the present moment in the present moment — which could never be conceived of "as such," in words or ideas. This is, of course, another demonstration of the aptness of the name of Vimalakirti 's technique: "inconceivable.” Enlightenment is inconceivable because of the unthinkable, unspeakable complexity of the interdependent conditions converging in the singular moment of liberation, which is always right now. This inconceivability makes any discussion of past experiences, let alone past lives, rather beside the point for any but the most qualified bodhisattvas. The same applies to speculation about the future, especially the terms and time-table of one's attainment of nirvana. This is not to devalue the role of meditative practice or study of the Dharma as recorded in the Pali canon. For these are among the means that can help one reduce one's attachments to the point where one realizes the inconceivability of ultimate reality. Neither practice nor study, however, can definitively account for the experience of enlightenment; it is beyond all... (fill in the blank). The question that most troubles me when I consider the simultaneous enormity and ineffability of all this — namely, how one is supposed to feel compassion toward others in the wake of such an inconceivable experience — is taken up in the chapter entitled, "The Goddess": Manjusri then asked further, "Noble sir, if a bodhisattva considers all living beings in such a way, how does he generate the great love [karuna] toward them?” Vimalakirti replied, "Manjusri, when a bodhisattva considers all living beings in this way, he thinks: Just as I have realized the Dharma, so should 1 teach it to living beings.” Thereby, he generates the love that is truly a refuge for all living beings; the love that is peaceful because free of grasping; the love that is not feverish, because free of passion; the love that accords with reality because it is equanimous in all three times; the love that is without conflict because free of the violence of the passions; the love that is nondual because it is involved neither with the external nor the internal; the love that is imperturbable because totally ultimate.” (57] This kind of compassion toward others bears little resemblance to conventional, dualistic formulae of concern — "I love you” or "I care about your suffering” — which reveal even in their syntax the opposition between subject and object that is reconciled in Vimalakirti's teaching. 77 �What he describes is compassion that arises out of a deep understanding of our interdependence, and out of the awareness that suffering — because it is not real — is unnecessary. It is not a subject's self-interested seeking of validation from other empowered egos, nor the quid pro quo logic of a social economy of discrete souls negotiating the daily transactions of their alienated existences. Soon after Vimalakirti's explication of this inconceivable compassion, the "goddess" of the chapter's title engages in an exchange with Sariputra, delivering another iteration of the teaching about ultimate reality (and making a striking point about gender and equanimity, at the same time]. First, she offers this analogy: Goddess: Although I have sought my "female state" for these twelve years, I have not yet found it. Reverend Sariputra, if a magician were to incarnate a woman by magic, would you ask her, "what prevents you from transforming yourself out of your female state?" Sariputra: No! Such a woman would not really exist, so what would there be to transform? Goddess: Just so. Reverend Sariputra, all things do not really exist. (61) Then, after magically trading bodies with Sariputra and then trading back, the goddess pushes him to make the connection to the broader question of liberation, not so subtly critiquing his self-assurance regarding nirvana in one of the text's finest (and funniest] episodes of dialectic: Goddess: Reverend Sariputra, what have you done with your female form? Sariputra: I neither made it nor did I change it. Goddess: Just so, all things are neither made nor changed, and that they are not made and not changed, that is the teaching of the Buddha. Sariputra: Goddess, where will you be born when you transmigrate after death? Goddess: I will be born where all the magic incarnations of the Tathagata are born. Sariputra: But the emanated incarnations of the Tathagata do not transmigrate nor are they born. 78 �Goddess: All things and living beings are just the same; they do not transmigrate nor are they born! Sariputra: Goddess, how soon will you attain the perfect enlightenment of Buddhahood? Goddess: At such time as you, elder, become endowed once more with the qualities of an ordinary individual, then will I attain the perfect enlightenment of Buddhahood. Sariputra: Goddess, it is impossible that I should become endowed once more with the qualities of an ordinary individual. Goddess: Just so, reverend Sariputra, it is impossible that I should attain the perfect enlightenment of Buddhahood! Why? Because perfect enlightenment stands upon the impossible. Because it is impossible, no one attains the perfect enlightenment of Buddhahood. (62] This humorous "harassment” of one bodhisattva by another highlights the danger of conceiving of oneself as extraordinary, and underscores once more the radical ineffability of the Dharma. The text reaches its climax with Vimalakirti's minification of the universe in which he attained nirvana — a sort of magic show-and-tell for the disciples and bodhisattvas. By this point, it is hard to imagine any attentive reader still registering surprise at the supernatural extent of his technique. That this demonstration is another performative expression of the "inconceivable liberation” is shown by the way the episode concludes: While Vimalakirti, with his miraculous power, showed them thus the universe Abhirati and the Tathagata Aksobhya, one hundred and forty thousand living beings among the men and gods of the Saha universe conceived the spirit of unexcelled, perfect enlightenment, and all of them formed a prayer to be reborn in the universe Abhirati. And the Buddha prophesied that in the future all would be reborn in the universe Abhirati. And the Licchavi Vimalakirti, having thus developed all the living beings who could thereby be developed, returned the universe Abhirati exactly to its former place. (66] The response of Sariputra, one of Buddha's closest disciples (and the target of many of the text's slights of the Hinayana school], hails Vimalakirti's prowess as a liberator and suggests a Mahayana 79 �interpretation of Buddha's legacy ("whether the Tathagata himself still actually exists ...together with a suggestion (though there is "no need to mention” it) of how this teaching might be applied: We have gained great benefit from having seen a holy man such as he. We have gained a great benefit from having heard such teaching of the Dharma, whether the Tathagata himself still actually exists or whether he has already attained ultimate liberation. Hence, there is no need to mention the great benefit for those who, having heard it, believe it, rely on it, embrace it, remember it, read it, and penetrate to its depth; and having found faith in it, teach, recite, and show it to others and apply themselves to the yoga of meditation upon its teaching. (95) It might be tempting to contrast the giddy sensationalism of the Vimalaklrti text with the scientific approach found in some of the Pali canon discourses. In the former, universes become playthings and furniture is magically manipulated; in the latter, Buddha methodically analyses the 12-linked chain of dependent arising and catalogs series upon series of wholesome and unwholesome conditions and aggregates. At the heart of both teachings, however, is the recognition of the fundamental impermanence of everything. While he was living and teaching the Dharma, Buddha is described as having been able to tell any student or interlocutor just what they needed to hear to realize the Way. Vimalaklrti demonstrates this same skill in his application of the Dharma, exposing the rut into which the disciples' practice has fallen — a rut that threatens any such complacent or selfish practice. Vimalaklrti teaches that realizing the Dharma can never be reduced to a strictly renunciative or monastic approach, for the very reduction implies a dualistic attachment to a self that distinguishes that particular approach as privileged or exclusive, when the truth is infinitely more complicated — inconceivably so, in fact. Dogmatism, even when well-intentioned or employed in the service of a method as thorough­ going as Buddha's, is merely the replacement of one set of illusions with another. Subscribing to a particular view and excluding other perspectives establishes new, more intractable obstacles on one's path to liberation, rather than facilitating the inconceivable insight that leads one to see all obstacles as constructs formed by the interaction of "internal" consciousness and "external" reality. Abandoning the dualism of a "real" subject trying to find its way in a "real" world, one is free to become a participant in the reality of what is happening right now. 80 �Was Vimalakirti a real historical person, like Siddhartha Gautama, or simply a fictional character created to revitalize the Dharma and reclaim the radical message of the latter's teachings? I certainly do not know, but as people often say about a pivotal figure in history, if he did not exist, someone would have had to invent him. Somehow, perhaps through the inevitable sedimentation and erosion that affects any tradition in the course of time, in the wake of Buddha's death the Dharma as he taught it was reduced to a shadow, if not a caricature, of itself as it was codified and passed on from one generation of seekers to the next, thus, cementing certain formal aspects of Buddhist practice and investing authority in hierarchical institutions that exercised dogmatic supervision. Whereas the living Buddha could teach the Dharma effectively to any audience, be they bhiksus, bodhisattvas, or laypeople, after his death that unlimited flexibility was lost as the method became enshrined, fixed in the minds of monastic followers as limited strictly to the original Dharma lessons. Distinctions which Buddha may have employed merely "for the sake of discourse" — literally, as expedient means to facilitate the liberation of other living beings — came to be taken as strict divisions between the different ways in which one could undertake to learn the Dharma, as if only one special school of magicians could ever learn the trick, or only one decoder ring could crack the code. Vimalakirti demonstrates that in a world of make-believe, we are all participants in the magic, and the open secret is that we only suffer and inflict suffering on others when we forget that fundamental truth. Enlightenment — the realization this very moment that everything is impermanent and interdependent — can be thought of as the state of being "in on the secret.” Whether one learns a secret quickly or only finds it out after being "in the dark” for a long time, the dawning of awareness cannot really be said to happen by itself, because so many variables necessarily are involved. This is the implication of Buddha's doctrine of dependent arising. The process whereby one is liberated from one's attachments is always co-determined by a myriad of internal factors and external circumstances, so it does not really happen spontaneously or "out of the blue.” One can surely say, however, that it happens "as if by magic,” because it can never be explained in rational terms. By revealing the magical nature of ultimate reality, Vimalakirti does not undermine Buddha's original Dharma, but deconstructs it and restores its original power to liberate beings from suffering through the abandonment of views and the breaking of attachments. His upbraiding of Buddha's disciples, illuminating the gulf between their sedentary, intellectualized practice and the engaged compassion of a true bodhisattva, is a reminder to all seekers of enlightenment not to take 81 �themselves, or their inherently limited conceptual notions of the Dharma, too seriously. Concepts and language can never encompass, penetrate or explain ultimate reality. Thus, they must be used provisionally without insistence upon some essential connection between ideas or words, on the one hand, and reality, on the other. Such an insistent, dogmatic approach to Dharma, philosophy or the routines and habits of daily life — the belief that reality can be definitively known and that application of such definitive knowledge can be applied to achieve concrete results — is doomed from the moment an autonomous subject is posited. This belief necessitates the post facto construction of processes and causal relationships to attempt to account for an inconceivably profound reality that is far more integral, more intricately interconnected, than we can ever imagine. Vimalakirti's insight into the tenuous relationship between thought, language and reality, foreshadows the post-modern "hermeneutical turn" epitomized by the writings of Husserl, Heidegger, Derrida and Deleuze, among other "Western" thinkers, and reminds us that in the face of the ineffability of the things themselves — the magical inconceivability of it all — it is wiser to proceed with a sense of wonder (or, at least, respect) than with a set of solipsistic prejudices, be they psychological or metaphysical. In the text's final chapter, "The Dharma-Door of Non-Duality," after the bodhisattvas have expounded on a myriad of seeming oppositions that are overcome when seen from a non-dual perspective, crown prince Manjusri is asked to give his version of the teaching; he gently chides the bodhisattvas for missing the point — again — then offers his own succinct definition of nonduality before deferring to Vimalakirti for further elucidation: Manjusri replied, "Good sirs, you have all spoken well. Nevertheless, all your explanations are themselves dualistic. To know no one teaching, to express nothing, to say nothing, to explain nothing, to announce nothing, to indicate nothing, and to designate nothing — that is the entrance into nonduality." Then the crown prince Manjusri said to the Licchavi Vimalakirti: "We have all given our own teachings, noble sir. Now, may you elucidate the teaching of the entrance into the principle of nonduality!" Thereupon, the Licchavi Vimalakirti kept his silence, saying nothing at all. 82 �The crown prince Manjusri applauded the Liccavi VimalakTrti: "Excellent! Excellent, noble sir! This is indeed the entrance into the nonduality of the bodhisattvas. Here there is no use for syllables, sounds, and ideas.” (77] Taking my cue from Vimalakirti's silence and from the five thousand bodhisattvas who, having witnessed it, "entered the door of the Dharma of nonduality and attained tolerance of the birthlessness of things,” I will conclude the essay here, leaving the Dharma-door open, as it were, to further interpretation, assenting to VimalakTrti's inconceivable logic by not saying anything more. Endnotes 1. "It out-Herod's Herod. Pray you, avoid it." -Hamlet (III,ii,14-15). William Shakespeare, Hamlet, in The Arden Shakespeare Complete Works, (Thomson Learning: 2007), 311. 2. Cited in seminar by Mr. Franks. Primary Text Thurman, Robert A. F., trans. The Holy Teaching of VimalakTrti (Vimalakirti Sutra]. Pennsylvania University Press: 1976. �The Problem of Pederasty in Plato's Phaedrus John Hungerford In Plato’s Phaedrus Socrates gives two speeches, each providing an account of erotic love. These two speeches appear to be opposites, and in fact Socrates presents the second (Palinode] as a correction of the first. It is tempting to interpret the first speech simply as a rhetorical demonstration by Socrates which requires repair by the second speech. However, a close look at the first speech reveals that it is in fact a necessary complement to the second speech. This paper will examine in detail the second half of this first speech, in which Socrates lays out the reasons why a boy should not gratify a lover. In doing so, this paper will attempt to gain some insight into the concerns of the lover and the beloved regarding erotic relationships. Socrates begins the second part of his speech with the suggestion that since the definition of love has been stated, we should now look at the benefit and harm produced by gratifying the lover or non-lover. It is worth noting that the earlier criteria for an appropriate definition of love were "what kind of thing it is” and "what powers it has" (237d]. Socrates has met at least the first of these criteria by defining love as a certain kind of desire, but it is not clear exactly what its powers are. In fact, it seems that by enumerating the benefits and harms produced by gratification, we will gain some sense of its power, but then why does Socrates claim that the definition is already adequately set down? One possible answer to this question is that in defining Eros as a desire which "masters opinion striving toward what's correct,” Socrates meant us to regard this as its power. It is worth noting that Socrates does not say that it overcomes opinion aiming at the "best” as he had phrased it in his account of moderation, but instead uses the Greek word to opdov, suggesting a more conventional concern. Perhaps love's power (or at least, the power it might have that would be of interest to the philosopher] is its ability to "conquer” conventional opinion. It is also worth noting that Socrates identifies the desire for beautiful bodies as the source of this power, regardless of whether or not love is at bottom directed toward the beautiful as such. In applying this definition to the question of gratification, Socrates observes that "one ruled by desire and a slave to pleasure must... make preparations for the beloved to be as pleasant as possible” (238e]. This statement becomes the basis for his whole account of the lover’s actions in relation to his boyfriend. While this makes sense given love's definition, this characterization of the lover overlooks the earlier ambiguity regarding the object of love’s desire. We recall that there are at 84 �least two kinds of desire attributed to the lover: the desire for the pleasure of beauty, and the desire for beautiful bodies. It is not clear which of these will be his priority in dealing with the beloved, and depending on which the priority is, his behavior might be very different. In fact, from the definition, it seems that love is directed primarily toward beauty itself [or the pleasure of beauty). We recall that this definition ultimately amounted to "desire without reason which masters the opinion striving toward what’s correct and is led toward the pleasure of beauty, and which, in turn mightily gaining strength from desires that are akin to itself toward the beauty of bodies, conquers in its leading" (238b-c). As such, the lover in the strictest sense of the word would try to get as close as possible to beauty understood this way. The fact that love gains its "might" from the secondary desire for beautiful bodies suggests, however, that such desires would likely play some role in even the purest of lovers. As such, we should expect the inclinations of the lover to be somewhat mixed. While he might be more or less concerned with pleasures of the body, we should also wonder if he might have a deeper concern for beauty that would prevent him from simply seeking sexual pleasure from the beloved. Socrates' first claim in his account of the benefit and harm of Erotic love is that "to a sick person, everything that does not resist is pleasant, while what is stronger or equal is hateful." Socrates seems to appeal to the terms Phaedrus has set for Socrates' speech: "I shall grant you to set down the lover's being more sick than the nonlover" [236b). It is important to recognize however, that Socrates himself never endorses this opinion. Phaedrus’ concession was actually in response to a very different observation by Socrates: "who, do you suppose, saying that one must gratify the nonlover rather than the lover, would pass over lauding the one's prudence and blaming the other's folly?" [235e-236a). While Socrates is willing to demonstrate the lover’s folly, it is not clear that he means the lover is necessarily sick, as Phaedrus assumed. We should therefore wonder, regarding Socrates’ claim in his speech, whether there might not be a healthy sort of lover, and what he might be like. More specifically, we should wonder whether a lover might be willing to endure, or perhaps sometimes even prefer resistance. Taking into account these last two considerations [first, that the pleasure sought by the lover might be that of beauty itself and not necessarily sexual, and second, that the lover might not be sick and therefore might be willing to tolerate resistance), we end up having multiple possibilities to consider in the course of the argument. On the surface, it seems we are meant to assume a sick lover whose concern is for getting sexual gratification as easily as possible. Underneath this. 85 �however, we must consider the possibility of a healthy lover concerned with the beautiful as such, and what his relation to the beloved might be.i This possibility becomes immediately relevant to his argument. In enumerating the consequences of these premises, Socrates begins with the effect the lover will have on the boy's intellect. He lists a number of weaknesses which he argues will make the beloved easier to catch. The lover, he claims, will want his boy to be unlearned, cowardly, incapable of speaking, and slow of wit. While it is possible that all of these will help the lover catch the boy, we have to wonder whether some part of the boy’s attractiveness is sacrificed in this. The argument only makes sense for the lover if he is merely concerned with the pleasure of the boy's body. As we have seen, however, it is not clear that this is the lover’s only concern; in fact, it might not even be the essential concern of Eros. Socrates’ expansion of this to the cultivation of the beloved’s soul has a similar problem. Socrates claims that the lover will do everything to keep the beloved away from beneficial associations because he is "afraid of being despised” (239b]. The most beneficial of these he identifies as that which enables him to become a philosopher. This argument seems relevant only to those lovers who risk being despised by boys with intelligence. In other words, it is the lovers who do not deserve lovers that run this risk. This is very likely a concern for any lover with a realistic degree of insecurity. However, it also ignores an important possibility: namely, that some lovers might be concerned with deserving the affection of the boy. Such a concern might encourage the lover to improve himself, and might also cause him to be attracted to more intelligent boys whose affection would be more valuable to him. Despite this possibility, we must admit that regardless of the caliber of the lover, it remains a problem that as long as the lover is concerned with having the boy as his boyfriend, it is unlikely that he would want the boy to become better than himself if the boy would lose interest as a result. This seems to indicate a basic problem with love and friendship, and a limit to the possibility of goodwill.^ The resolution of this problem seems only possible if the lover is the best possible, or if the lover’s relationship with the boy is not his primary concern. The problem with the sick lover becomes more pronounced when Socrates considers his attitude toward the beloved’s body. Here Socrates observes that the lover, wanting his beloved to be as pleasant as possible, will seek a boy who is "soft and not solid, reared not in pure sunlight but under mixed shade, inexperienced in manly toils and hard sweat but experienced in a delicate and unmanly way of life, adorned with alien colors and ornaments for want of his own, practicing all the other things that follow from this” (239c]. As with the case of the intellectual virtues, 86 �we might wonder whether the lover might not want his beloved to have a physique which reflects strength or fitness of some kind. We might expect manlier qualities to be attractive to the lover. Socrates brings our attention to this possibility when he points out that a soft and feminine boy would wear "alien colors and ornaments for want of his own," suggesting that the cultivation of the body in manly pursuits might produce its own sort of decoration. This consideration, however, is complicated by the fact that the lover is drawn to younger boys, typically before the manlier features of their bodies become prominent (e.g. when a beard first begins to appear, but before it becomes dark and thick). It seems that Greek lovers were drawn to boys when they were softer and more feminine in appearance. However, if it were simply a "feminine” beauty that they were drawn to, why did they fall in love with boys and not girls — or why adolescent rather than pre­ adolescent boys? Perhaps pederasty itself speaks to a certain tension in one's understanding of the beautiful. Lovers of boys must have been attracted to the soft and delicate sort of beauty we might associate with the feminine, but they are nevertheless drawn toward a masculine embodiment of it. If this is the case, we must suppose that their interest in boys is not derived entirely from the body. By bringing our attention to these two different standards of the fitness of the body, we are lead to wonder whether the concern for beautiful bodies is as simple as we might have assumed: It seems that the beauty sought in pederasty must be more than concern for physical beauty, and that some concern for the soul of the beloved must be present. Socrates expands his discussion of the cultivation of the body with his final observation that the body preferred by the lover in question (and we must ask whether this speaks for all lovers) will be particularly unsuited to help the beloved’s city, friends, and lovers in war or other times of need. By reminding us of the utility of a manly sort of body in the polis, Socrates brings our attention to a conventional dimension of aesthetics. While Socrates raises this consideration as though it were secondary, we have to wonder whether at least part of the preference for tough, rugged, and otherwise manly appearances comes from the fact that it is necessary for the city's protection (and perhaps often for the private family’s protection) to have such men around. In other words, it seems that some aspect of the beautiful might come from a concern for utility, or for the good; what role such concerns play in our experience of the beautiful, however, is not entirely clear. After looking at the harm that will befall the beloved’s body under the supervision of the lover, Socrates turns the discussion toward the boy’s possessions. Socrates does not begin with the possessions as we 87 �might understand them; i.e., such as property and wealth. Instead, he insists that "the lover would pray above all that the beloved be bereft of the most friendly, best-disposed, and most divine possessions; for he would accept the beloved’s being deprived of father, mother, kin, and friends, considering them hinderers and censors of the most pleasant intercourse with him” (239e-240a3. Socrates’ next claim regarding the boy’s possessions is that the lover will desire that the boy be deprived of a wealthy estate, as it would not make him easy "to catch, nor, when caught, as easily manageable” (240a). Socrates does not explain, however, why being wealthy would make the boy more difficult to catch. The most obvious possibility is that the boy would have no need of the lover if he were already rich. This suggestion, however, only applies if the boy’s only interest in the lover is for gain. There are suggestions in both this speech and in Lysias’s that perhaps the boy is willing to gratify the lover simply for some kind of material benefit. In the Palinode, however, Socrates suggests that the boy’s attraction to the lover is finally an Erotic one, but simply of a different sort. We have to wonder, then, whether boy’s wealth is a necessary consideration for lover. The Palinode therefore opens up the question of whether there might be a pederastic relationship which is not simply the trading of sex for gain, and whether a boy might love the lover in return regardless of the lover’s ability to provide for him.^ If Socrates’ account in the Palinode is accurate, it might even be the case that most (or perhaps even all) pederastic relationships are like this to some extent. In this case we must wonder why the lover needs to be concerned with the possessions of the boy at all. In the Symposium, for instance, we hear an account of Alcibiades — a beautiful, wealthy, aristocrat — availing himself for Socrates, who has not a penny.^ Socrates finally points out that not only would the lover want the beloved to lose his parents, siblings, friends, and fortune, but he would also want him to remain unwed, childless and without a household of his own. In considering the possessions of the boy, it is interesting that Socrates focuses to such an extent on the household and the family. On the one hand, this entails a more sophisticated understanding of possessions, insofar as it correctly identifies human relationships as the most important possessions; however, it also makes us wonder about how the Erotic relationship might compare to these. In the Palinode, Socrates points out that the reason the boy becomes attracted to the lover is that he sees in the lover a devotion that surpasses that of any of his friends or relatives (255b). The first speech assumes that the "most friendly, best disposed, and most divine possessions” are one’s family and friends (239e-240a). The Palinode, on the other hand, raises the 88 �possibility that perhaps pulling the boy away from the family is not such a bad thing; that is, if the philosophic way of life is as good as Socrates' account suggests. Socrates’ own life suggests that this discussion of the beloved’s possessions does not reflect his own priorities; he was notoriously poor, uninterested in his own family, and despised for taking boys away from theirs.^ Furthermore, Socrates considers another factor regarding the benefits and harms of the lover. His treatment of the matter suggests that pederasty is not only a problem for the beloved, but perhaps also a political problem for the city. In Socrates’ account, the lover tears boys away from their families, prevents them from being useful to the city (namely discourages them from military virtue], and prevents them from starting families of their own. While this might happen to some extent with lovers themselves, there is evidence that, in practice, pederasty was able to coexist with the city’s political life, and perhaps even encourage civic and military virtue.® On the other hand, Socrates’ own relationship with boys seems representative of the political complications indicated in this passage. Philosophy, if anything, seems to draw men away from the concerns of the city. Philosophers were notorious for avoiding the important business of the city and were considered indolent. Alcibiades left Socrates because he was afraid of spending his life in idleness.^ We have to wonder if a philosophical relationship would not be more likely to produce the soft body which is scorned in this speech, or produce the kind of man who is useless in times of political need. Considered this way, perhaps this first speech reveals a side of philosophical Eros not considered in the Palinode; namely, that it may be in tension with the needs of the city.® Socrates continues to criticize pederasty on the grounds that "one of the same age delights another,” arguing that the difference in age will make for an unpleasant friendship (240c]. It is clear that older men and boys do not tend to become friends, and without some ulterior motivation, most people are not interested in spending time with those well outside their age range. We must wonder how lovers and beloveds tend to spend their time. What activities do they enjoy together? To what degree can. they sympathize with one another, or share common concerns? We must think that friendships among those of the same age can allow for a satisfaction that is difficult for those very different in age. Socrates, however, somewhat undermines this notion by explaining the reason behind the age difference. It is not age in itself, he points out, but rather the dissimilarity that goes along with age that is the problem for friendship. It is merely that equal time lived leads to "equal pleasures through similarity" (240c]. This does not rule out the possibility, however, of equal pleasures through similarity without equal time. It 89 �seems instead merely to explain why equal pleasures tend to occur with equal time. In the Palinode, for instance, Socrates indicates that the boy and the lover are able to enjoy philosophy together. In fact, Socrates’ argument might even provide an explanation for why an older man would need to look for young boys for friendship. If similarity is necessary for friendship (namely, similar desires for similar pleasures), a man who has uncommon desires might be lonely among men his own age. Such a man might have to find young men whom he can educate in such a way that they will share his preferences. This might characterize to some extent the situation in which a man like Socrates has found himself. Given that philosophy (as a way of life) was held in contempt by most and regarded with indifference by the rest, Socrates would have to look to the young to find companions in his quest for wisdom. Older men would have been too set in their ways to turn to philosophy. While this may be an appealing prospect to a philosopher, it is not clear that it is entirely satisfactory for an erotic lover. Pederasty seems to have an unavoidable asymmetry; namely, with regards to the pleasure derived from such a relationship. While the lover enjoys beholding his beloved and derives sexual gratification from him, it is unclear what satisfaction the beloved derives from his lover. We have seen evidence that the beloved was understood to benefit in more conventional ways by the lover. If this is the case, however, there seems to be an enormous gulf between their respective enjoyment. It then begs the question, whether the lover would be entirely satisfied with such a relationship; it is likely that the lover would prefer his beloved to return a love with the same depth of feeling. It is likely that the lover would want a beloved who derives satisfaction in the same way as he himself does. In his comparison of an erotic relationship and friendship, Socrates observes that even friendship among equals has its satiety. In this notion we see the excessive character of Eros; the lover is unable or unwilling to rest from his attentions to the beloved. This is an important consideration with the Palinode in mind; the Palinode includes satiety in its vision of the divine. Socrates' portrays the Gods moving in a continuing circle in the heavens, periodically feasting on the sight of the true beings, only to return home to rest and feed their horses (247c-e). This divine way of life (if it can be called life) for the Gods has a very different character than the life sought by an erotic type who dreams of a perfect motionless satisfaction. In contrast to Eros, the satiety of friendship is not so much a problem. As seen in the Palinode, one takes nourishment from friendly intercourse and then rests. Erotic love, however, is disappointed in gratification insofar as it destroys the hopes for a more complete contentment. 90 �After arguing for the inferiority of pederasty to friendship between equals, Socrates proceeds to criticize it on the grounds that "the lover in relation to the boy" is most of all characterized by compulsion, which "is said ... to be grievous to everyone" (240c-d). The lover, Socrates tells us, "is driven by necessity and frenzy" in his attentions to the boy. It is interesting to note that this argument seems to apply exclusively to the lover, who is presented as a slave to his passion, whereas compulsion is not mentioned at all with respect to the boy. While there has been evidence that the lover’s behavior is unpleasant to others, we might wonder whether being enslaved to his love might not be most grievous to himself. This consideration brings into light an aspect of this speech that has been somewhat tacit until this point: Socrates’ speech is as much directed toward the lover as it is to the boy. Socrates then asks, "But as for the beloved, by giving what exhortation or what pleasures can the frenzy cause him, associating with the lover for the same time, not to reach the utmost point of unpleasantness?" (240d). While we might imagine the attentions of the lover could be pleasant, assuming he is able to serve his beloved well, Socrates introduces a curious twist when he asks what "exhortation" might make the time pleasant for the beloved. After all, an exhortation is not the first thing that comes to mind when one imagines pleasant pastimes. By introducing this unexpected suggestion, Socrates perhaps means for us to ask whether it is simply the pleasure or the benefits of having a dedicated servant that might appeal to the beloved. We recall, for instance, that it was Socrates’ speeches that drew Alcibiades to Socrates. Alcibiades seemed to see something in Socrates that was both beautiful and good, and sensed he could benefit in some important way by associating with Socrates. This question presents something of a challenge to the lovers who are listening to Socrates’ speech. It suggest that perhaps exhortations are the way to the a boy’s heart.^ Socrates’ account of the unpleasantness of the lover reaches its climax with a subtle but compelling reference to the sex act: "he [the beloved] sees an older face, and not in the bloom of youth, with the other things that follow along with this, which are not delightful to even hear in speech, not to mention the ever-pressing necessity to manage them even in deed" (240d-e]. This is the first time the sexual act is brought to our attention, and it is addressed as from the perspective of the boy. This is a very important admission in the speech insofar as it reveals that Socrates’ speech cannot have the same goal as Lysias’s [as was initially claimed). Lysias’s speech was meant to convince the boy to gratify a nonlover; it never brings the boy’s attention to the unpleasant nature of sex. By addressing the unpleasant aspects of sex itself, Socrates extends his argument past the bounds of Lysias’s parameters: perhaps the boy should 91 �not gratify any man at all. This short passage also reinforces the problem of asymmetry. According to Socrates, friendship consists of equality of pleasures, and we have begun to wonder how satisfied either party (especially the lover, who likely has more invested in the relationship than the boy] could be with such vast differences in their enjoyments. The sex act seems to be the extreme example of this: it is in gratification that the lover is most pleased, and yet for the beloved it is unpleasant. Not only would bringing this up remind the beloved how undesirable erotic love is, but we have to imagine that it would also remind the lover how one-sided his sexual enjoyment is. Following this brief and veiled reminder of the sex act, Socrates brings our attention to the jealousy of the lover. While this jealousy is certainly unpleasant to the beloved, it also speaks to the insecurity of the lover. If the only tie unifying the boy with the lover is the benefit he stands to gain, it seems unlikely that he would remain loyal. Therefore, what assurance does such a lover ever have of his beloved’s faithfulness? This concern seems to be as much a problem for the lover as for the beloved. We also have to wonder, however, how this looks to the beloved. Socrates depicts the lover as keeping the boy "under guard with guards that spy out evil all the time” (240e]. This suggests that the lover will see evil when there is none, or at the very least: what the lover may recognize as evil will not appear as such to the beloved. However, it might also be that the beloved sees the lover as protecting him in some way. Furthermore, it may perhaps be by some such manipulation that the lover is able to "manage" his beloved. Socrates’ final observation on the matter of asymmetry is that the beloved is forced to account for the lover’s "untimely and excessive praises” in addition to "reproaches that are not bearable when the lover is sober, but when he has gotten into strong drink, shameful in addition” (240e]. As was indicated earlier in the speech, Socrates suggests that lovers tend to be bad flatterers. Rather than using praise effectively, they are often carried away, and thus embarrass the object of their love. In the "unbearable” reproaches the lover seems to suffer a certain internal tension. It is telling that Socrates only associates reproaches with the lover’s drunken state. Perhaps when the lover is feeling uncommonly honestio he is more inclined to complain than to praise. This would indicate dissatisfaction in the lover additionally; perhaps the boy is unable to satisfy him in some way. The remainder of the speech is an account of the problems that arise after the affair has ended. Like Lysias, Socrates highlights the inability and unwillingness of the lover to carry out all his promises. Socrates claims at this point that it was through "many promises with many oaths and bonds" that the lover "barely effectuated” the beloved’s toleration 92 �throughout their unpleasant time together (240e-241a). This admission casts the entire relationship in a very ugly light. It seems that it was an altogether mercenary arrangement — prostitution, even. It is worth noting, however, that the kinds of promises themselves are unstated. It is not clear, for instance, what value these promises had for the beloved. The promises themselves might have been appealing on the grounds that they were evidence of the lover's devotion. Understood this way, perhaps the breach of these promises is itself a danger to the beloved because it reveals the ‘devotion’ of the lover for what it really was: a passing fancy. Socrates concludes his account with the following passage: one should never gratify the lover who is of necessity mindless, but much rather the nonlover who has intelligence; if not, one must of necessity give oneself up to someone untrustworthy, disagreeable, jealous, unpleasant, and harmful as regards property, harmful as regards the body's condition, and by far the most harmful as regards the soul’s education. (241b-c] Socrates’ conclusion, however, is clearly overstated. While he has made a strong case for not gratifying the lover, it does not by any means follow that he should gratify the nonlover. It is somewhat comic that Socrates presents these alternatives as a "necessity.” This claim brings our attention once again to the question of the boy’s motivation. While the whole business of gratification seems at this point an entirely fruitless enterprise, Socrates’ continues as if it were obvious that the boy is going to have to gratify someone. We have to consider in addition that whatever the lover provides, there is no reason to expect the nonlover to do better. Assuming there was some reason the nonlover wanted gratification (a strange suggestion, considering he is not a lover) he would not be inclined to give much to get it. Even if he were, he would not be willing to make promises he was not in a position to keep; according to Socrates, however, such promises are necessary to get the beloved to put up with you. Finally, while the lover would perhaps not be interested in making the boy as good as possible (if this makes him inaccessible as a sex partner), the nonlover would not take any interest in the boy’s education; what reason would he have to? Socrates' final comment is that "the friendship of a lover does not come into being with goodwill, but in the manner of food, for the sake of repletion, as wolves cherish lambs, so do lovers love boys" (241c-d). While this final grim characterization of Eros is in stark contrast with the divine picture we get in the Palinode, it is worth pointing out that in neither speech is goodwill an essential part of Socrates’ presentation of Eros. In both speeches the lover is said to serve the beloved; in this 93 �speech it is suggested he does not do so very well, while in the Palinode he is thereby able to win the love of the boy. In both speeches, however, Eros does not direct the lover principally toward the benefit of the beloved. In this speech, love seems to aim primarily at gaining physical gratification from the beloved, whereas in the Palinode, it aims at the form of beauty itself and the philosophic way of life. The key difference, it seems, is that the latter are ends that are able to be shared by the two parties, whereas in the former, one party simply serves to nourish the other.ii Phaedrus is keenly aware of the inadequacy of Socrates' conclusion, saying to Socrates, "But 1 supposed it was in the middle, and would say equal things about the nonlover, how one ought rather to gratify him, telling in turn what good things he has” (241d). To this Socrates responds, "In one phrase, I say that whatever things we reviled in the one, the good things opposite to these belong to the other. And what need for a long speech? For what has been said about both is sufficient” (241e). This response is curious and important for a couple of reasons. Firstly, Socrates had earlier claimed when formulating the definition of love that "what is stated is altogether clearer than what is unstated” (238b]. In fact, when he finally stated the definition of love, it turned out to be very different than what we would have assumed given what had been laid out. Given this earlier admission, it is likely that Socrates means for us to question his claim that "what has been said about both is sufficient.” Secondly, it is not at all obvious how to formulate the "opposite” of what has been said about the lover. For instance, is the nonlover going to be beautiful and in the bloom of his youth, and a pleasure to look upon? Will the act of sex be any less unspeakable when it is with him? Perhaps more importantly, it is not clear how to invert Socrates' definition of the lover, namely because it has two parts: the excessive desire for the pleasure of beauty as well as the excessive desire for the beauty of bodies. If we get rid of just one of these, will he still be a lover, or would we have to reverse both? It is clear that we cannot get rid of both; if this were the case, the nonlover would have no interest in the youth. If the nonlover were only interested in the beauty of bodies, however (and if this were essentially a sexual desire], then Socrates would be in a very difficult position; his speech against gratifying the lover would put the boy off of sex all together! The only alternative that seems possible, is that Socrates' nonlover is not directed toward sex at all, but is more concerned with beauty itself. This alternative, however, is not really altogether an alternative to love; in fact, Socrates' definition of love suggested that the desire for beauty itself is what is essential to love, and that the physical component 94 �merely strengthened this. Given this consideration, Socrates’ "nonlover" might really be the "lover” in the most complete sense of the word, insofar as he directs himself toward the true end of Eros. In this light, we can look at the Palinode as a completion of the first speech rather than simply a correction of it: to gratify the nonlover in the first speech, is to gratify the lover in the second. In fact, if we look at the Palinode, we see it addresses many of the problems presented here. The Palinode offers the possibility of a love that can be reciprocated between the lover and beloved; the beloved is led to experience the same (if somewhat less intense) erotic encounter with beauty in the lover. Rather than seeking gratification from one another, the two live a life directed away from themselves (aiming toward true beauty) which they can share and presumably enjoy together. It is important to note that in this, Socrates has altered Eros in an important way. He uses the power of the erotic experience to build a kind of friendship. It is likely that Eros does not naturally lead to such a friendship, but rather leads to the problematic sexual relationship depicted by Socrates’ first speech and Lysias’s speech. Socrates’ solution requires a transformation of Eros, and an important aspect of this transformation seems to be the suppression of sexual activity. It is interesting to note that Lysias’s speech also offers a solution to the problems identified in both his own speech and in Socrates’ first speech. Lysias’s solution is almost a mirror image of Socrates’. That is, rather than suppressing the sexual side of the erotic relationship and creating a friendship out of the shared pursuit of the beautiful, Lysias suppresses the higher concerns of the Erotic drives and seeks to create a subdued sexual partnership. Lysias’s solution would no doubt appeal to those lovers who have suffered from some of the uglier consequences of Eros. Socrates’ Palinode, on the other hand, uses poetry to awaken the Erotic man’s concern for the "higher" side of the beautiful. His two speeches might also appeal to a frustrated lover. He asks the lover to remember that it is not just the body of the beloved that is calling to him, but something beyond it. It is this call, according to Socrates, that leads men to the life of philosophy. Endnotes 1. I ignore here two other possibilities: a healthy lover concerned with beautiful bodies, and a sick lover concerned with the beautiful as such. The former might describe the "nonlover" of Lysias's speech, who is able to moderately maintain a [presumably) sexual relationship with a boy. The latter might be described as an immoderate concern for the beautiful. For evidence that such a "high" concern might be immoderate, see 230a, in which Socrates claims to not have concluded yet whether he is "multiply twisted" like the monster Typhon, or is of a gentle and divine nature. 95 �2. See Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, trans. Joe Sachs (Newburyport: Focus, 2002), 1158b30-1159al5. 3. Even here we must be careful — in the Palinode the beloved's love in return is only made possible by the extreme devotion of the lover. We have to wonder if a lover lacking the means to provide for the needs and wants of the beloved would be in a position to demonstrate such a devotion. 4. Plato, Symposium, trans. Seth Benardete [Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2001), 218c-d, 219b-d. 5. Diogenes Laertius, The Life of Socrates; See also: Aristophanes, Clouds. 6. Plato, Symposium, 178c-179b, 182b-e. 7. Plato, Symposium, 178c-179b, 216a. 8. Gorgias, 284c-e. 9. Plato, Symposium, 178c-179b, 215d-216a; see also Plato, Lysis, trans. David Bolotin [Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1979), 205e-206d. 10. Plato, Symposium, 178c-179b, 218b-219d: Alcibiades is willing to tell his shameful attempt at Socrates to a party of fellow Athenians when drunk. 11. See Plato, Symposium, 178c-179b, 189c-193e: Aristophanes offers an interpretation of Eros which would allow for a goodwill which is absent here, in that the beloved is regarded as a part of tbe lover. Even in this case, however, we might ask whether the lover’s concern might not be for the well-being of the beloved himself, but is rather for the healing of his [or their) inherited wound. Primary Text Plato. Phaedrus. Translated by James H. Nichols Jr. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1998. 96 �The Unmentioned Standing Reserve Caitlin McShea Martin Heidegger expresses an alternative view of the human relationship to technology in his piece The Question Concerning Technology. In his essay Heidegger outlines how humanity’s perception of the world is characterized by the Enframing power behind technology. He explains that the modern understanding of technology (that is instrumentality) has lead to a profound preference for scientific knowledge of the world, and consequently, nature no longer reveals itself to humanity in an artistic way, but rather as a standing reserve, meant to be called upon for use. This essay will apply a feminist perspective to Heidegger’s standing reserve and Enframing power. Specifically, this essay will discuss how scientific domination, as a product of instrumental technology, paved the way for Capitalistic and Patriarchal domination of women and nature. In doing so, the exploitation of both nature and women could conceivably be explained by the presence of scientific domination, capitalism, and patriarchy as Enframing powers motivating men towards the preservation of said standing reserves. In The Question Concerning Technology, Heidegger explores the ways in which the conventional definition of technology has changed in the face of modernity. What we refer to as technology is more accurately defined as instrumentality, and furthermore this modern alteration of technology’s true definition has led to a gross misrepresentation of the world. Additionally, the modern interpretation of technology’s essence is responsible for the warped and strained nature of humanity’s relationship with technology. In his essay, Heidegger focuses on the origin of technology, outlines the process by which modern technology is understood today, and expresses a hope that humanity might revert back to a truer form of technology that would lead to a truer understanding of the world, and a healthier, "free relationship” with technology. To start, Heidegger states "the essence of technology is by no means anything technological" (4), and begins a historical account of the origins of the definition of technology. He asserts that our idea of instrumentality stems from an ancient philosophical question of causality, and so continues to explore the inherent problems of causal thought with the use of a silver chalice as his example. Here, he also begins to provide etymological evidence for his arguments as he will continue to do throughout this rest of this essay. He notes that though the four causes are frequently ascribed to Aristotle, the Greek word causa that Aristotle used more accurately means "that which brings it about that something falls out as a result in such and such a way . . . that to 97 �which something is indebted” (7), or that causa implies a responsibility, and did not mean then what we attribute cause to mean today. Therefore, our modern interpretations of cause, which have justified our methods of instrumentality, were made in error. That aside, Heidegger explains that the chalice is made from silver, by a silversmith, and created with the intent to be used. The chalice is a chalice and only a chalice, it is not a wine glass or a bowl, and it exhibits the essence of a chalice, i.e., its "chaliceness.” In this way, Heidegger makes the point that technology is founded on "revealing” because the silversmith works the silver in order to reveal the essence of the chalice. Here is where the distinction between cause and responsibility is made. Heidegger does not want to attribute the silver to the material cause or the silversmith to the efficient cause. Instead he demonstrates the ways in which the chalice is indebted to both the silver and the silversmith. The silver is responsible for the composition of the chalice, while the silversmith is responsible for the shape of the chalice. The silversmith fired, molded, and formed the chalice in order to reveal its true essence. The idea is that the chalice always existed within the silver, but the silversmith is responsible for bringing the chalice into existence by revealing it and allowing its presence. Heidegger mentions that our word "technology” stems from the Greek word technikon, or that "which belongs to techne . . . [which] mean[s] to be entirely at home in something, to understand and be expert in it. . . Such knowing provides an opening up . . . [i.e.,] a revealing” (13). So, our "technology” can be traced back to an early idea of technique, or expertise. When applied to the chalice example, Heidegger would say that the silversmith’s technique, his proficiency with silver, revealed the chalice within the silver. The technique employed is responsible for the finished Chalice. It is fitting then that techne was used in reference to both manufactured goods and art. That is, cobblers and painters both possessed a certain specific knowledge of their craft that, when used, was responsible for the revealing of a shoe or a portrait, respectively. More importantly, Heidegger makes clear the fact that the term "technology,” at least historically, referred to the revealing of both manufactured and artistic truths. Heidegger elaborates on this notion in his discussion of poeisis, where he distinguishes between physis, the bringing forth of things from themselves, and poeisis, the bringing forth of things from something else. To clarify, weavers bring forth tapestries and bards bring forth song through poeisis while a tree is brought forth from itself, as occurs in nature. And since "every bringing-forth is grounded in revealing" (12), and Heidegger regards revealing as the most important method by which a concealed truth "comes into unconcealment" (11), this focus on poeisis 98 �is central in Heidegger’s exploration into the relationship between humanity and technology. In his discussion of poeisis, Heidegger says that technology is not based in instrumentality, and that technology’s essence is not found in the production and manipulation of supplies, but rather it is found in revealing. However, the mode of revealing in modern day technology is no longer poeisis. Heidegger explains that modern technology is characterized by a challenging mode of revealing. That is, humanity’s modern orientation to the world does not rest in an artistic viewpoint but in a challenging one. It is fitting that Heidegger uses the word ‘challenging’ to describe the revealing process for modern technology, since in Heidegger’s eyes, humanity no longer seeks to reveal truths in nature; rather, humanity seeks to challenge the limits of nature. In his Rhine River example, Heidegger shows the major difference between a poetic revealing and a challenging revealing. Under poeisis, Holderlin, a German poet, details the landscape of the river in a poetic piece, revealing the calming and pacifying qualities of the river in which he eventually drowned. However, a challenging revealing of that same iconic river in Germany reduces that inspirational location to a water­ power resource when a hydroelectric dam is put into place. With this example, Heidegger introduces his idea of Bestand or the standing reserve. He explains that a modern instrumentalist orientation toward the world allows humanity to reduce everything to a standing reserve, i.e., nothing in the world is seen beyond its functional context. Trees are not trees but paper sources, and an airplane is not an airplane but a transportation device. It is as though the world reveals itself to humanity as material stock at the ready to be used and manipulated by humans for human convenience. Furthermore, Heidegger asserts that the standing reserve exists as a result of an Enframing power that is responsible for orienting humanity towards this strange reductionist relationship with nature. For whatever reason, humanity is attracted to order. Therefore, humanity has a tendency to try to compartmentalize everything in nature, collapsing the essences of nature completely, so as to store it in neat mental cubbies. The standing reserve allows humanity to order things based on their potential purpose, so trees could be stored in a "paper" box as well as a "lumber” box, a "shade" box or a "sap" box, but under this modern instrumental view of technology and nature, trees are no longer stored in tree boxes. Heidegger proposes that modern scientific inquiry might be at fault for this mindset. Contrary to popular belief, Heidegger proposes that scientific innovation and research is a product of technology, and not the other way around. In other words, the construction of a scientific framework, including physical laws, chemistry 99 �equations, and a general geometric perspective of the world are all products of technology, or as Heidegger would propose, those laws and equations act as larger boxes in which to store nature. So when Heidegger mentions that "the essence of technology is by no means technological" (4], he means to say that the truth of technology is lost in the mechanics of new machinery and the complexities of mathematical equations, and that the true essence of technology rests in the relationship between man and technology. The essence of technology in Heidegger’s eyes is the Enframing power that orients humanity towards the world, and during the time in which Heidegger wrote The Question Concerning Technology, he was obviously disappointed in humanity's current orientation towards scientific inquiry as the primary method for the acquisition of knowledge. But where does this thirst for precise, discrete, quantitative and categorized knowledge come from? What is behind this ever-present Enframing power? Heidegger himself doesn't know. In an effort to assess the question, Heidegger studies the main ideas behind philosophy in order to fully understand where the thirst for knowledge in general came from. He concludes that the things most often regarded as factual are those things that have withstood the test of time; i.e., things that "endure” (30). Modern causality, then, is not true because the causality that scientists apply to nature is not the same idea of responsibility as proposed by the Greeks. Nor can it be explained with what have been most commonly known as Aristotle’s four causes. Instead, modern physics applies new mathematical and scientific patterns to natural processes to express a scientific causality in nature. However, Heidegger argues, as with the creation of science from technology, modern physics has created those mathematical patterns in order to explain natural phenomena in a causal manner. Again, it becomes obvious that humanity cannot escape the convenience of a scientific orientation towards the world, and is therefore trapped. If man is unaware of his reductionist tendencies and continues to blindly box nature for later use as a standing reserve, how will man ever succeed in forming the "free relationship” with technology that Heidegger advocates? After having explained his alternative understanding of technology, Heidegger proposes that humanity revert back to its artistic view of the world, and allow poeisis to reveal the truth of technology instead of some unnamed Enframing power that directs humanity towards the creation and preservation of a standing reserve. When we think of technology as an instrument, as a means to an end, we miss the true essence of technology. Instead of focusing on the improvement of instrumentality, Heidegger expresses his hopes that humanity will seek the true essence 100 �of technology and understand that the revealing of nature is not causal, but "poetic.” If humanity successfully strays from a causal and instrumental revealing of nature, then perhaps humanity would recognize its own existence within nature, as a part of nature, and not as a species meant to use nature’s raw materials at will. Heidegger admits that a break from the current Enframing power would be difficult, if at all possible, but hopes that a return to an artistic orientation to the world will result in a healthy technological relationship. Heidegger writes. Because the essence of technology is nothing technological, essential reflection upon technology and decisive confrontation with it must happen in a realm that is, on the one hand, akin to the essence of technology, and on the other, fundamentally different from it. Such a realm is art. (35) Though Heidegger sees the development of modern science as a product of technology, to many others, technology seems to facilitate scientific practice. Heidegger writes his Question Concerning Technology in a time after Francis Bacon proposed a popular method for acquiring scientific knowledge and an advanced understanding of nature. In his Novum Organum, Bacon explains that times have, indeed, changed and men cannot learn about nature now in the same ways they had in the past. At first, man coexisted with nature, and being unaware of nature’s ways, man only learned about nature by participating as a function of nature, and not interfering with its processes. Man was to learn by observing, because "nature, to be commanded, must be obeyed” (50). However, Bacon makes clear the fact that this observant mode of inquiry never resulted in new information; therefore, in order to learn more about nature, and to truly understand nature, a more aggressive, probing method of inquiry will reveal the secrets that our observations could not. "The subtlety of nature is greater many times over than the subtlety of the senses and understanding” (50), therefore a far less subtle approach to nature is key to the pursuit of knowledge. For this reason. Bacon advocates scientific practices, such as systematic experimentation, to aid in the mastering of nature’s secrets. So in a Heideggerian sense. Bacon thought that scientific domination was the most practical technique to reveal nature’s true essence, and to unveil nature’s secrets since "science is but an image of truth” (45). Ever since this period in history, conventional thought has been that nature can be understood only by reduction, that is, only by reducing her to numbers does she become clear. With time scientific inquiry became more accessible to the public through education and the creation of sophisticated technological innovations. So new technology exists in order to ease researchers’ 101 �inquiries of nature, and allows for more mathematical, precise, and accurate measurements and observations. But remember that science itself is a product of technology. These new instruments are around only to help scientists do exactly what Heidegger warns them against; i.e., to put nature into boxes. By putting things into boxes via mathematical observation and Baconian scientific reduction, modern science has allowed humanity to more efficiently rely on the standing reserve of nature. This kind of efficiency has lead to extreme exploitation of natural resources. Currently the world faces an oil crisis, entire forests face the risk of clear-cutting, and animals are worked to exhaustion simply because humanity has become accustomed to viewing nature in a very specific way. What is nature if not a stock pile of potential fuel, paper, meat and leather? An instrumental and technological orientation to the world, facilitated by modern science, has lead to the complete and total domination of nature, as if domination is the only method by which humanity could exist within nature. Science now determines nature as an object, which is underwritten by human subjectivity, and hence human beings feel free to dominate and use nature in technology. Heidegger makes evident in his book the direct dangers to nature associated with the standing reserve. A Heideggerian application of technology to environmental destruction is an obvious one since he speaks explicitly of dammed rivers and the lumber and paper industries throughout his essay. A less obvious, though equally poignant and provocative application of Heidegger's The Question Concerning Technology would be to the domination of women via that standing reserve. Perhaps women are controlled and exploited by men for the very reason that nature is. Specifically, women are not viewed in an artistic and poetic sense, but rather as providers of a resource that can be stockpiled and called upon by men when needed. It seems to me that in addition to our instrumental orientation to the world which Enframes nature into reserves, so too do oppressive institutions like patriarchy and capitalism orient us towards the creation and preservation of standing reserves. Perhaps a discussion of the ways in which modern science has facilitated the capitalistic process would clarify the relationship between the exploitation of nature and women. Western science, since its inception, and arguably still is today, a masculine discipline. The studies of nature, physics, medicine, mathematics, etc., were all reserved for men, and since those practices have led to an irreparable destruction of the earth, one might be able to recognize a masculine underpinning to the ecological crisis. During the Scientific Revolution of the Modern Era, a mechanical and reductionist paradigm emerged as the primary way of revealing nature’s secrets. And 102 �while this new methodology for revealing nature's secrets seemed to be a liberating force for all of humanity, the aggressive and invasive process that has now become convention is merely a projection of the patriarchal ideals entailing the subjugation of both nature and women. Consider the formerly natural event of childbirth. Once belonging only to the mother and her child, childbearing has been absorbed into the realm of medicine and machinery. Women were valued for their reproductive gifts and no connection was stronger than the connection between a mother and her child. What was once artistic and poetic, that is, the organic unity of the mother and baby, is now revealed through the technologic instrumentality of medical professionals. Women's wombs have been reduced to containers. A woman's direct bond with the fetus is replaced by knowledge mediated by men and machine. Now the gift of human life is a product of medical practice and not the product of a natural feminine process. The "medicalization” of childbirth, due to scientific innovation and an instrumental viewpoint, has reduced the female body to a baby-holder. The female body is no longer celebrated as a creator of life because the child is no longer seen as produced by natural miracle within the woman, but rather removed from the container through medical expertise, and in this way the physician rather than the mother could be seen as having produced the baby. Therefore, masculine medical professionals with sophisticated machinery on their side as justification, have taken childbirth, a singularly female process, away from women. However, childbirth will never be completely taken from women, since women are biologically set up for conception, gestation, birth, and breast-feeding. This means that even though doctors remove babies from wombs and are the praised producers of babies, doctors do not have the misfortune of being placed in a standing reserve for the production of babies in the way women are. In order for capitalism to thrive, raw materials must be converted into commodities by laborers and sold for a profit. This means that human laborers convert natural raw materials such as trees into the production of commodities such as paper to be sold for profit, and therefore nature suffers at the hands of a capitalist economy. However, how would capitalism continue without the steady influx of able-bodied laborers? In capitalist terms, the commodities must be made from raw materials and sold for a profit. By way of this process, capitalism has only led to the commodification of childbirth, since women (the laborers] convert sperm, eggs, and nutrients (the raw materials] into a zygote that will eventually develop into a child, who will grow up to work in the capitalist economy and sell his or her skills for a profit (a salary]. Women invest their bodies and their energy to create a child, and then invest several years of their life to raise it. When more babies are produced, 103 �more laborers will be available in the following generations to continue commodity production; thus, more natural resources will be exhausted so that more profits may be made. Note that the original laborer (the mother) producing commodities (the children) does not at any point receive a profit. So while wage laborers in a capitalistic system enjoy a paycheck, and while the general public enjoys the benefits of commodity consumption, women remain unrewarded for their work, and therefore, lack the sufficient funds for commodity consumption. Women’s bodies are drained from childbearing, and nature’s resources are drained by commodity production in this cruel cycle. The exploitation of female reproductive power has led to an excess of births, to overpopulation, just as the exploitation of resources has led to their destruction in an excess of production. To sum up, the main victims of a capitalist system are women and nature. Women’s bodies as well as the body of nature have been reduced to Heideggerian standing reserves. Their parts have been separated from the whole and are seen only in the context of functionality. Women are not valued as complex and intelligent beings fully capable of coexisting in a man’s world; women are not valued at all. Women are attractive but vacant shells, prized only for their possession of eggs, a uterus, mammary glands, and any other biological resource directly utilized in child production. Capitalism as an Enframing power has allowed man to view both women and nature as stockpiled raw materials on supply for the continuous production of goods and stimulation of profit. But technology and capitalism are not the only motivating forces for the enduring exploitation of women and nature; patriarchal tradition, fueled by science, also Enframes women and nature into standing reserves. Once the Darwinian conception of Evolution was accepted as an explanation for the origin of life. Social Darwinism swept the Western hemisphere. Suddenly social theorists and scientific researchers alike were interested in the evolutionary relationships between various groups of people. The conclusions gathered from social evolutionary studies widened the boundaries between the sexes, as "scientific evidence” suggested a biological superiority of men over women. It was thought that woman’s place was in the home, that the male brain was larger than that of a woman, and so men justified a domination of human society. Essentially, an incorrect application of evolutionary principles was used to legitimize a social hierarchy, resulting in an invalid attribution of various biological misfortunes to women. Furthermore, social theorists, who concluded that women are less evolved than men, (without having verifiable evidence to support their results) explained that the only way for women to overcome their biological misfortune would be to literally enslave themselves to a masculine, and more highly evolved, lover. 104 �Conventional thought at this time was as follows: Women are less biologically suited to survive in the wilderness like men are; therefore, they should remain within the confines of a safe domesticity. Similarly, women (who are unable to understand the complexities of business and politics) should not seek employment beyond the house walls. Nor should they seek education to understand those complicated subjects (because the female brain is far smaller than the man's brain, and is therefore incapable of retaining such information). As a result, it was further maintained that it was in a woman’s best interest to use her looks to attract potential male mates. Also, she ought to use her sexuality to compete against other women for said mate. And because, physiologically, the increased pelvic inclination is a clear indicator of the fact that women are more closely related to apes than men, women should allow themselves to be dominated by men just as animals are, especially considering their [inevitably] declining beauty. This step-bystep guide to survival for women is an artifact of scientific studies encouraged by patriarchy’s dependency on men as dominant social figures. It is additionally a clear example of Darwin’s fear for social applications of his theory of Natural Selection. And while some of the above statements may be extreme examples of antiquated thought, the fact still remains that women were socially understood to be subordinate and reliant on men. It can be said, then, that patriarchy is a result of humanity’s unfortunate preoccupation with order. As Heidegger notes in his essay, humanity is compelled to put everything into boxes. In this instance patriarchal values allowed men to put women into boxes. Pretty, passive and pleasing women were prized because evolution had demonstrated that pretty, passive and pleasing women were more suited to survive. In addition, since this information was gathered under "scientific” circumstances, it was considered reliable. Thus, Social Darwinism confirmed patriarchal values, and such patriarchal values placed women into a standing reserve. It was deemed a biological predisposition that men were traditionally superior hunters. Thus, men, being "evolutionarily favored,” they did not have to rely on women for survival. Furthermore, it was maintained that because women were blessed with beauty and more suited to the delicacies of domesticity, they were incapable of hunting. Since women could not hunt for themselves and had to secure a mate, they had to rely on men for survival. Based on these premises alone, women were reduced to mere functions and only called upon by men when needed for mating. The most attractive or most pleasing women were wed, and would reproduce with the men they married. Through marriage, patriarchal values of domesticity are only reinforced further because with age a woman could lose her looks and possibly her 105 �reproductive abilities, thereby losing her function in society. Therefore, in order to keep her marriage afloat and avoid being outcompeted by a younger, more attractive, and more sexually capable woman, these older women placed themselves into a standing reserve for the purpose to be called upon by their husbands for warm meals and general care. It becomes clear now that through patriarchy, women have been reduced to sexual mates and have reduced themselves to caretakers. Again, these female standing reserves are the products of scientific inquiry, since science has allowed humanity to contextualize women in biological terms, thus creating a justification for the subordination and reduction of women. Heidegger wrote The Question Concerning Technology with the hope that his readers might become aware of their own relationship with technology, and in so doing would reorient themselves to the world, enjoying a free relationship with technology. He explains that for the most part, humanity’s understanding of technology more closely resembles an understanding of instrumentality. Heidegger explains that an instrumental orientation towards technology is a dangerous one because it very easily leads to the creation of standing reserves. When technology is understood only as a means to an end, humanity loses sight of its true relationship with technology and is instead motivated by an instrumental Enframing power to reduce everything to a standing reserve. Once the standing reserve is in place, everything can only be seen for its functionality: trees for paper, rivers for water-power, women for reproduction and caretaking. The Enframing power blinds humanity, tunneling human vision towards instrumental conversions of raw materials into manufactured things; and, even though he hopes that his text will help readers regain a poetic orientation towards the world and create a free relationship with technology, Heidegger does not himself know that such a reorientation is possible. Heidegger writes: It is precisely in Enframing, which threatens to sweep man away into ordering as the supposed single way of revealing, and so thrusts man into the danger of the surrender of his free essence — it is precisely in this extreme danger that the innermost indestructible belongingness of man within granting may come to light, provided that we, for our part, begin to pay heed to the coming to presence of technology. (32) Even if we are made aware of the Enframing power and standing reserves, Heidegger fears that an instrumental relationship with technology might be permanent. However, he continues to encourage his readers to push past the convenience of an instrumental ordering and 106 �remain aware of other, healthier, and freer orientations towards technology: "Everything, then, depends upon this: that we ponder this arising, and that, recollecting, we watch over it... so long as we represent technology as an instrument we remain held fast in the will to master it” (32). With a Heideggerian understanding of the patriarchal and capitalistic orientation toward women and nature, one might wonder whether there is hope for an elimination of women and nature as standing reserves. Do women and nature have a chance to avoid further domination and exploitation when these oppressive institutions are nearly impossible to evade? I certainly cannot answer that question. Instead 1 can only suggest that men have for centuries dominated women and nature because an Enframing power has motivated them to unwittingly do so. If humanity finally comes to understand that technology cannot be used as an instrument to get from point A to point B, then maybe the free relationship with technology that Heidegger suggests may not be so far out of reach. If humanity were to question scientific domination as the method by which to understand nature, then perhaps humanity would return to a "poetic” interpretation of technology. When numbers and laws no longer work to compartmentalize every component of nature, we might once again see nature for what it truly is. Furthermore, an artistic revealing of nature would mean an end to Heideggerian standing reserves. The standing reserves constructed under oppressive Enframing institutions would completely dissolve if such a free relationship with technology were reached. Therefore, with a free relationship between humanity and technology comes a free relationship with nature and with women. Capitalism falls apart without the reliability of raw materials and laborers and patriarchy crumbles if men and women are recognized as equal and as independent of their historical pseudo-biological, social function. So when the standing reserve is eliminated, so too are the Enframing powers motivating them, leaving women and nature as they should be left: respected, untouched, and unchanged. Primary Texts Martin Heidegger. The Question Concerning Technology. Translated by William Lovitt. New York: Harper & Row, 1977. Bacon, Sir Francis. Novum Organum. Paul Carus ed. Paul Carus Student Catalog. 3, Peter Urbach. Peru, Illinois: Open Court publishing company, 1994. 107 �Reason in Crisis: A Reflection on Edmund Husserl's The Crisis of European Sciences Nick Urban The Crisis of the European Sciences begins with a description of a fundamental cultural and philosophical failure on the part of European civilization. This failure is characterized by the inability to provide a rational account of the most important questions, for instance "of the meaning or meaninglessness of the whole of this human experience” (6). "Do not these questions,” Husserl asks, "universal and necessary for all men, demand universal reflections and answers based on rational insight?” (6]. "Of course,” we might like to say. But with regards to the meaning of human life, western modernity seems only capable of subjective accounts; "subjective" in this case signifying mere opinion. The only universally valid and apodictically certain truths are those of the objective sciences, which themselves offer no help in this matter. "In our vital need — so we are told — this science has nothing to say to us. It excludes in principle precisely the questions which man, given over in our unhappy times to the most portentous upheavals, finds the most burning” (6]. This crisis is not merely a problem for philosophers. It extends into the heart of western civilization. A blatant effect of the crisis has been that it has drawn the attention of the educated masses away from fundamental questions and into an uncritical concern for petty issues. Husserl describes this as follows: The exclusiveness with which the total world-view of modern man, in the second half of the nineteenth century, let itself be determined by the positive sciences and be blinded by the "prosperity” they produced, meant an indifferent turning-away from the questions which are decisive for a genuine humanity. Merely fact-minded sciences make merely fact-minded people. [6] Individuals who were concerned with more than mere facts were largely excluded from the mainstream culture, for they had no framework from which to address these questions in a universal way. Although the crisis manifests in all of western civilization, its root is philosophical, and so must be its remedy. "The genuine spiritual struggles of European humanity as such take the form of struggles between the philosophies, that is between the skeptical philosophies — or nonphilosophies, which retain the word but not the task — and the actual 108 �and still vital philosophies” (15). A struggle is taking place over whether philosophy — the practice of accounting for oneself with the greatest clarity — will survive at all, or whether it will be reduced to a futile relativism equivalent to the abandonment of its task. In the balance lies the question of "whether the telos, then, is merely a factual, historical delusion, the accidental acquisition of merely one among many other civilizations and histories, or whether Greek humanity was not rather the first breakthrough to what is essential to humanity as such, its entelechy” (15). Husserl champions the idea that rationality is unifying, not divisive. He concludes by saying that "to be human at all is essentially to be a human being in a socially and generatively united civilization" (15). Husserl's ideal is not one that individuals may achieve alone. Humanity in the fullest sense can flourish only in an established common world. The overwhelming diversity of opinions that appears in modernity threatens to shatter this common world into a myriad of subcultures. This fragmentation can be countered only by the production of standards universally convincing to all who enquire. The Loss of Meaning In order to understand the present predicament, Husserl looks at the development of philosophy not merely as an "historical” question, but in order to discern the "hidden telos” that has been at work throughout it. He finds that science once spoke to our deeper concerns: "The specifically human questions were not always banned from the realm of science” (7). Husserl finds that the time that most celebrated the ideal of a universal science was the Renaissance. At that time, science was more than the pursuit of abstract knowledge or the handmaiden of technology. It demanded "not only that man should be changed ethically [but that] the whole human surrounding world, the political and social existence of mankind, must be fashioned anew through free reason, through the insights of a universal philosophy" (8). At that point, philosophy still retained "the formal meaning of the one all-encompassing science, the science of the totality of what is” (8). This one body of knowledge, subdivided for convenience, but unified in reality, was to grow "from generation to generation and forever, this one edifice of definitive, theoretically interrelated truths was to solve all conceivable problems — problems of fact and of reason, problems of temporality and eternity" (9). From our contemporary vantage, it seems that project has failed. How was it that science lost the ability to address "specifically human questions”? How were such grand ambitions discarded so quickly? The questions formerly known as the "ultimate and highest,” namely, the questions of metaphysics, have become excluded as 109 �speculative or even unreal. Old arguments about the universe as a meaningful order were debunked, and new ones were not forthcoming. Science limited itself to speaking about facts, and rendered itself unable to address the meaning of human life. The branch of philosophy most directed toward addressing such meaning was metaphysics. Husserl describes the special importance of metaphysical questions as follows: "These 'metaphysical' questions, taken broadly . . . surpass the world understood as the universe of mere facts. They surpass it precisely as being questions with the idea of reason in mind” (9). During the Renaissance, "reason" indicated more than a faculty of the mind; it was a watchword for all that is most excellently human, "a title for 'absolute,' 'eternal,' 'supertemporal,' 'unconditionally' valid ideas and ideals" (9). "Reason” was truth and universality itself, not merely as applied to the objective world, but as applied to everything. It was precisely this understanding — that reason spoke to all aspects of existence — that has been lost in modernity. In place of universal science, we have positive science, which speaks only of facts. Such a science makes no attempt to justify values or provide a teleology for human life. It is in this way that "Positivism ... decapitates philosophy” (9). But why was metaphysics lost, and how did science continue without its "head”? The reason seems to concern the impressive progress of science and the apparently unsolvable quandaries of metaphysics. The positive sciences, such as physics and chemistry, showed themselves to be "unimpeachable within the legitimacy of their methodic accomplishments” (5]. They appeared to be leading mankind to a greater and more universal knowledge of the natural world. In contrast, those concerned with specifically philosophical problems produced "systemphilosophies, which were impressive but unfortunately were not unified, indeed were mutually exclusive” (10). Philosophy began to seem like a fruitless enterprise. We have begun to see reasons why science lost its ability to address human questions. Yet its implications for the positive sciences may still be unclear. The common view of the absolute practical success of modern science is oblivious to the fact that the sciences — originally conceived as branches of philosophy under the rule of metaphysics — had lost their place in the order of things, and with it, the coherence of their meaning. Formerly, metaphysics "decided on the ultimate meaning of all knowledge supplied by the other sciences” (9). Once metaphysics had been declared void, the positive sciences, though productive, were left without any obvious ends. The crisis, Husserl wrote, "does not encroach upon the theoretical and practical success of the special sciences; yet it shakes to the foundations the whole meaning of their truth” (12). 110 �A Science of Subjectivity Science, we might say, is an attempt to account for experience in terms of underlying principles. However, the positive sciences do not account for the way in which the world they study — the objective world and the world of objects — is itself grounded in the subjectivity of the life-world. Positive science is unscientific with regard to its own existence. All questions, ends and truths originate in the life-world. Objective investigations, such as positive science, are constituted and take place only within the bounds of subjectivity. Modern scientists, however, frequently do not recognize this. Husserl claims that the life-world, until the commencement of his own work, had never been made into a proper topic of investigation. He proposes a science of the life-world, which would not only be illuminating in its own right, but would allow science to ground itself through self-knowledge, and hence to be truly scientific. One reason that scientists are wary of dwelling on the subjective aspect of objectivity — that objectivity is but one part of our subjective experience — is that subjectivity has made a bad name for itself. The "subjective" has been taken to signify relativism and opinion, not truth. Husserl points out that although each subject is indeed different in some ways, the form of subjectivity is shared by all humanity. The study of subjectivity thus has its "own objectivity," meaning, and a "validity appropriated purely methodically" (133). Husserl’s "method" is not a proof but a tour. He wishes to lead us down paths of thought and experience that he has already taken. Through such a journey, we may come to a genuine understanding of his philosophy. Phenomenological proof is not like the deductions of geometry or the inductions of natural science. These are only valid of the objective world, not the subjective one that is its basis. On the contrary, as we progress in our phenomenological investigations, we encounter a primal self-evidence which precedes the apodicticity of such objective methods. Introduction to Transcendental Phenomenology Husserl professes to have discovered a method for studying subjectivity — the ground of all experience. He calls this method "transcendental phenomenology." The basic method of transcendental phenomenology is the transcendental epoche, which consists of a "withholding of natural, naive validities and in general of validities already in effect" (135) and a "reduction to the absolute ego as the ultimately unique center of function in all constitution" (186). This ego, as pure subject, provides the basis for the world of appearances. The transcendental ego is all that is left when one withholds the validities of the world. It is then on the basis of that which the world ("our world") is possible at all. "I, the ego carrying out 111 �the epoche, am not included in its realm of objects but... am excluded in principle” (77). This absolute ego is called the "transcendental ego," because it transcends the "internal" world of subjectivity and the "external" world of objects. It is impersonal because the soul, in so far as it is more than the world-constituting absolute ego, is a part of the world: the "inner” part. In the transcendental epoche, the soul's validities are suspended along with those of the objective world, and hence the bare "bones” of the transcendental ego are all that remain. The Paradox One of the great philosophical difficulties that transcendental phenomenology addresses is the paradox that "man, and in communalization mankind, is subjectivity for the world and at the same time is supposed to be in it in an objective and worldly manner” (262). How can man, while constituting the world in his subjectivity, exist as an object inside that very world? The natural sciences simply ignore this problem. They deny the primary reality of the subjective world, examining everything, even the soul, from the "outside.” From the perspective of natural science, any inner experience that may exist is merely a byproduct of material processes. The material world is determinable according to the laws of physics, and more generally, mathematics. The life-world, which is originally encountered in a way that is manifold, particular, and heterogeneous, is reinterpreted in the eyes of science as a natural-world consisting of continuous, idealized space, filled with matter that behaves according to the universal and uniform laws. This method of objectifying nature has produced much useful knowledge and many powerful inventions. Yet as applied to the soul in the form of naturalistic psychology, Husserl tells us it is doomed to failure. He writes that "objectivity after the fashion of natural science is downright absurd when applied to the soul” (377). The soul does not behave in the manner of worldly things. Worldly objects appear in space and time. Spatiotemporality is "the universal form of the real world" (216). Similarly, the physical world is a "self-enclosed natural causality in which every occurrence is determined unequivocally and in advance” (60). Bodies are spatiotemporal and take place in causal chains. But neither of these is true for the soul. The soul is "embodied” and "takes part” only indirectly in the space-time of bodies. It is not itself spatial, nor is it causal: the psychic, considered purely in terms of its own essence, has no [physical] nature, has no conceivable in-itself in the natural sense, no spatiotemporally causal, no idealizable 112 �and mathematizable in-itself, no laws after the fashion of natural laws. [222) It would make little sense to expect a science that models the worldly to have any application to that which is beyond the world and which does not share in its fundamental properties. This explains why natural science has so little to say about the properties of subjectivity: it is beyond its methods. Yet this objection still has not reached its most essential formulation. The problem, in the most general sense, is that one cannot use principles and methods derived from the analysis of worldly objects to understand how there is a world at all. This question is "out of the jurisdiction” of natural science. The inability of the prevailing natural science to address subjectivity [and thus to speak to the meaning of human life) results in the crisis discussed in the first part of this paper. Husserl’s response is a return to the primordiality of subjective experience in the form of transcendental phenomenology. When one assumes the "transcendental attitude" of the epoche, "the life-world transforms itself ... it proves to be a mere 'component,' so to speak, within concrete transcendental subjectivity” [174). The transcendental attitude reveals that the methodologically appropriated apodictic truths of natural science are themselves merely one among many varieties of experience that take place in the ego according to the "laws of subjectivity.” Transcendental phenomenology is a new science, a primordial science that investigates the structures of subjectivity and the difficult question of how the world is always there, "pre-given” to us from the start. When transcendental phenomenology has been established as the foundational knowledge of how there is a world, only then can natural science [knowledge of the objects of the world) get underway in a rigorous manner. In order to regain both rigor and meaning, science must recognize its derivative position. Transcendental phenomenology becomes the new "Queen of the Sciences.” Now that we understand the role which Husserl wants phenomenology to play, let us take a closer look at its methods and implications. Intersubjectivity When 1 close my eyes, does the world cease to be? For Husserl, the answer is emphatically, "No.” How is it that the world is already there with established standards that 1 myself do not create? The answer lies in the intersubjective character of "inner experience.” In order for the world to be for us in advance, we must appeal to the existence of souls other than our own. For Husserl, subjectivity is "an ego functioning 113 �constitutively . . . within intersubjectivity" (172]. It is not plausible that we each invent our own values, concepts and activities out of whole cloth, because that contradicts our experience. We inherit most of these things from an already existing intersubjective world. Yet how this is so, is far from obvious. Husserl makes the point that "the epoche creates a unique sort of philosophical solitude" (184]. This means, at the most basic level, we have only our own ego as self-evident. But if this is the case, how do we become aware that others are the same as ourselves? Husserl says that this is something we learn in the epoche, but only by performing a "constitutive accomplishment": This is what philosophical self-exposition in the epoche actually teaches us. It can show how the always singular "I," in the original constituting life proceeding within it, constitutes a first sphere of objects, the "primordial" sphere; how it then, starting from this in a motivated fashion, performs a constitutive accomplishment through which an intentional modification of itself and its primordiality achieves ontic validity under the title of "alien-perception," perception of others, of another "I" who is for himself an "I" as I am. (185] This is, unfortunately, one of the less clearly explained concepts in The Crisis of the European Sciences. Because of its importance, we will now have a careful look at the text. In the paragraph quoted above, Husserl calls the change that the ego performs an "intentional modification of itself and its primordiality." "Intentionality" in the crisis refers to the directedness of subjects towards objects. Therefore, all that the "intentional modification" seems to signify so far is that the attitude of the ego performing the epoche towards an objective human being is changed in some way, but how that directedness is changed has not been specified. Husserl gives us a hint when he says that the recognition of the other as an ego is analogous to the identification in recollection of one's past-self with one's present-self. He writes: Self-temporalization through depresentation, so to speak, (through recollection], has its analogue in my self­ alienation (empathy as a depresentation of a higher level — depresentation of my primal presence]. Thus in me, "another I" achieves ontic validity as copresent with his own ways of being self-evidently verified, which are obviously quite different from those of a "sense"perception. (185] 114 �The self-alienation in this case seems to signify the removal of the "special" way in which one regards the immediately present "I” (the ego cogito) as the singularly valid consciousness. One recognizes that oneself is a consciousness rather than the consciousness. The recognition of others as egos is called "empathy.” Husserl describes this empathy as a "depresentation of a higher level” of the primal presence of the "1.” Depresentation as applied to self-temporalization means removing one's "temporal bias” towards the presently manifesting ego in exchange for understanding oneself as a unity through time. "Depresentation of a higher level” likewise refers to the removal of one's "bias” towards one's own transcendental ego as the one that one personally experiences, allowing one to recognize the way in which each "other” is also a transcendental ego. This later account of empathy sheds more light on this: "[EJmpathies” [are] perceptions of others that appear among my original intentions. Through the reduction [others] are transformed from human beings existing for me into alter egos existing for me, having the ontic meaning of implicata of my original intentional life. [258] The other achieves ontic validity as an "I” by being the implicata of original intentional life — that is, one's directedness towards objects implicates (or implies] the other as an "1.” The other human beings which we originally have with the self-evidence of objects in the life-world are transformed, in the transcendental epoche, into "alter egos.” That is to say that when 1 reduce myself from personal soul into bare transcendental ego, 1 perform the same operation on my "having” of others. This is so "originally,” meaning that one cannot be directed towards objects in a way that does not imply the existence of other egos like oneself. These concepts of "depresentation” and "implication” offer a solution to the question of how we know others to be egos like ourselves, and yet, as modes of inference of the subjectivity of others, these concepts cannot explain how the world exists for us in advance. Nor do these concepts address the fact that, just as others are implied by my intentionality, so am 1 implied by theirs. "I, with my whole original life, am implied in them; and they are all likewise implied in one another” (258). To better understand these questions, we must turn to Husserl's account of communalization. Communalization In our previous investigation, we established that intentionality, as our directedness towards objects, implies the existence of other egos. Such 115 �reasoning can be used to convince oneself of the necessity that others exist as egos, but it says nothing of how we have these others, nor how we together constitute the world. When Husserl describes the character of naturalistic psychology, one of the things he mentions is that souls are seen as "mutually external," isolated from each other by the separation of their bodies. Thus natural psychology is possible only as individual psychology. But in transcendental philosophy, which is, at the same time, a transcendental psychology, the "spiritual world" appears as just as much of a unity as the natural one. Husserl writes: [JJust as there is a sole universal nature as a self-enclosed framework of unity, so there is a sole psychic framework, a total framework of all souls, which are united not externally but internally, namely through the intentional interpenetration which is the communalization of their lives. (255) It is this world, as it is constituted by the intentional network of intersubjectivity, that is the proper subject of transcendental psychology, which as a "pure psychology" is concerned only with how we have the world — with subjectivity and intersubjectivity as such. But even as Husserl marks off this subject matter, what lies within its boundary remains fuzzy. He says that the "internality" of souls, what we usually think of as the most isolated — is actually something shared by all. The world for each of us is the world for all of us, necessarily. The spiritual atomism supposed by Descartes’ meditations, or by modern science, is merely an abstraction — something imagined. We can never experience the world in that way. The idea of an isolated soul is the product of thought experiments such as Descartes describes. It is not primary in our experience. Rather, "what is a mutual externality from the point of view of naive positivity or objectivity is, when seen from the inside, an intentional mutual internality" (257). As a result of this, "the world exists not only for isolated men but for the community of men; and this is due to the fact that even what is straightforwardly perceptual is communalized" (163). Husserl says that even simple perception cannot take place except on the ground of the world-for-all — perhaps because perception must be the perception of particular things, which are only recognizable because they have been predetermined as having the identify of "this" and "that" through their involvement in our intentional networks. 116 �The Mystery of Intentionality Husserl’s concept of intentionality is a key factor linking the paradox of the simultaneous subjectivity and objectivity of man with the similarly intimidating (and overlapping] problem of intersubjectivity. Intentionality, as we said before, is the directedness of a subject towards objects. To be intentionally related to objects is to be "consciously affected by these things, actively attending to them or in general perceiving them, actively remembering them, thinking about them, planning and acting in respect to them” (235]. Intentionality is also defined as "the title which stands for the only actual and genuine way of explaining [and] making intelligible" (168]. Insofar as we have a world, it is a world that we are related to intentionally. Insofar as it precedes us and exceeds us, it is a world that we have through the mutual intentionality of others: Within the vitally flowing intentionality in which the life of an ego-subject consists, every other ego is already intentionally implied in advance by way of empathy and the empathy-horizon. (255] The life of an ego-subject is itself a vitally flowing intentionality. In so far as we are, we are intentional. We make our existence intelligible and meaningful through our comportment toward the objects of the world and toward each other as subjects. We cannot be directed toward the former without being directed toward the latter. Every intention implies the existence of the other egos inside of our empathy-horizon. The fact that empathy functions as a horizon indicates that while, at any time, we are aware of only so many others, at the same time we know in advance that with every movement (physical or spiritual], our horizons shift, and new egos, which we were already prepared to receive as potentially present, appear to us as actually present and influence our comportment toward the things of the world and toward each other. If one doubts that the existence of objects implies the existence of others, one ought to consider whether any of the ways he relates to the world would make sense without others. Our relation to others not only determines the goals of our interactions with the objective world, but also makes possible the recognition of the meaning and identity of the objects that we seemingly encounter alone. Even something as apparently solitary as eating requires both types of relations toward others. What we eat and how we eat it is determined by the pre-given meanings of foods, utensils, tables, etc. And at the same time, even the purpose of our eating, as self-preservation, can have meaning in the full sense only when one's 117 �continued existence is an existence that contains relationships with other human beings. Investigations in Experience As we carry out our phenomenological investigations, the old problems and the old language blink in and out of focus. The question of whether the objective world or the subjective world is prior, as the contest between naturalism and idealism, takes on a strange appearance as a question that only makes sense on the basis of a profound misunderstanding. Consciousness cannot produce the world, because consciousness is intentionality, which is directedness toward the world. The world cannot produce consciousness because "the world” is a name for "a mere 'component' . . . within concrete transcendental subjectivity” (174). From the perspective of the individual, self-consciousness and the world are two aspects of experience "inside” of oneself-the-subject. But the intentionality that constitutes one's consciousness is also predicated on the existence of other egos and vice versa. Perhaps this is why Husserl speaks of a "universal apperception” which is "constitutive of all particular apperceptions, giving them the ontic sense of 'psychic experiences of this and that human being'” (209). This suggests that all experiences, both internal and external, are manifestations of something that is beyond both "interiority” and "exteriority.” If this seems strange or extreme, we must not forget that Husserl says that there is something uniquely profound about transcendental phenomenology — that it is radical in the most serious sense, destined to effect, for the one who performs it, a personal transformation "comparable in the beginning to a religious conversion” (137). In order to really understand the philosophy that Husserl propounds, we must get ourselves, "off of the page.” We must perform the epoche along with him and search for our own self-evidences. If we would know the self­ evidences Husserl claims for the function of empathy or the primordiality of the subject, we must test them in lived practice, not merely examine them as concepts. Reason and the Telos of Mankind This essay began with an attempt to understand the nature of the "crisis." At that point, it appeared to be the failure of western modernity to give an account for the meaning of human life. We found that the methods of positive science and modern mathematics were the only ones recognized as providing the self-evidence required for universal claims, yet they excluded in principle the issues that are of the greatest concern. 118 �Throughout our investigation, we have seen the ways in which transcendental phenomenology provides an all-encompassing framework for understanding experience, in both the psychic and apparent spheres. We have seen that the "objective" world is constituted and necessarily implied by subjectivity in the form of intersubjectivity. We will conclude, however, with the significantly more passionate concern Husserl manifests towards the end of his work. We might call this his existential turn. Parallel to the fact that the world is subjectively constituted, Husserl finds that man-as-an-individual is a personally self-constituting and thus self-responsible being: A new meaning is . . . given to human existence; [man's] existence in the spatiotemporally pregiven world as the self-objectification of transcendental subjectivity and its being, its constituting life; what follows this is the ultimate self-understanding of man as being responsible for his own human being: his self-understanding as being in being called to a life of apodicticity. (340) In so far as the subject constitutes the world, it constitutes itself, objectifies itself into a man in the world, a particular man, for whom it is responsible. This being understands itself, is responsible for itself, not in any way, but as called to "the life of apodicticity" — the life of reason. Reason is the specific characteristic of man, as a being living in personal activities and habitualities. This life, as personal life, is a constant becoming through a constant intentionality of development. What becomes, in this life, is the person himself. (338) Reason is what makes man himself, both personally and as a species. Man is who he is, as an individual, as a result of his activities and habitualities. The life of a man is ever changing through his actions and his intentional relations with the world, and his ultimate product is none other than himself. Husserl does not say why reason is the definitive characteristic of man, but we can infer it from what has gone before. A succinct statement of this is that man is "called to a life of apodicticity." He has self­ understanding as a being called to such a life — which is not to say that he actually thinks of his understanding as such. To put it another way, what are we looking for in seeking proof that we are called to a life of apodicticity, if not an argument which itself manifests apodicticity? We might call this a tautology of the second order. That the life of apodicticity, as philosophy, is uncommon — no one doubts. But who 119 �could doubt that every man acts on the basis of what he finds convincing? That some are further on the path of apodictic transparency than others, that there are frequent setbacks and disruptions, does not contradict the idea that man is, in this way, called to reason. On the contrary, the "total phenomenological attitude . . . bears within itself the significance of the greatest existential transformation which is assigned as a task to mankind as such" (137). By steps and stages, individually and together, we are shaping ourselves into greater self-awareness and self­ responsibility. Human personal life proceeds in stages of self-reflection and self-responsibility from isolated occasional acts of this form to the stage of universal self-reflection and self­ responsibility ... [Man] strives to realize his innate reason ... to be true to himself... (338) As individuals, we each have our own particular projects and concerns. To be "true to ourselves” differs for each "self." Yet if 1 may be permitted to speculate, 1 would say that when we engage in the apodictic life, regardless of its unique manifestation, we are each refined by it in like manner. As our self-understanding develops, we become truer to our purposes. We embrace a principle of parsimony and move to justify each aspect of our lives according to fewer and fewer principles. Finally, each choice, as a fundamental choice, becomes perfectly expressed in rational self-development. We overcome the awkwardness of the novice and gain the grace and economy of movement of the master craftsman. Yet above and beyond these individual projects, there is one purpose, the apodictic telos, which all men share. This consists of reason not merely as an instrument but as a goal. To follow reason, to follow our best judgment which acts in accordance with our limited understanding, to endlessly revise our positions and our person in self-reflection, to be true to ourselves not as individuals but as that-which-lives-apodictically — this is a practice that culminates in "universally, apodictically grounded and grounding science ... as the necessarily highest function of mankind" (338). This function is the expression of mankind’s universal telos. Being human is teleological being and an ought-to-be . . . this teleology holds sway in each and every activity and project of an ego ... through self-understanding in all this it can know the apodictic telos. (341) Just as mankind is inevitably directed towards apodicticity, towards that which is ultimately convincing, so are we drawn towards valuations, to say this-ought-to-be, and that-ought-not. Of all possible goals, there is one 120 �thing that is a universal telos for mankind, an "apodictic telos," which is available to the self-understanding of man as such. That purpose is none other than reason itself. Man’s ought-to-be is an ought-to-be-reasonable. His will is the will to refine himself as reasonable, and according to reason. This exercise of reason is a recursive, adaptive process that never reaches a final point. As Husserl says, "rationality is an idea residing in the infinite" (339). We are always already in the world, with various practical concerns, understandings, and misunderstandings. Reason begins as a recognition of apodicticity in the form of a basic self-evidence. From this, through generations, apodicticity itself is recognized as the goal, and this marks the beginning of philosophy. Apodicticity pursues itself, through all its faults and corrections. At a certain point, historically, in the invention of transcendental phenomenology, apodicticity recognizes itself not merely as "truth" or "logic," but as the endless process of self-improvement that in itself constitutes the telos of mankind. Mankind understanding itself as rational, understanding that it is rational in seeking to be rational; that this signifies an infinity of living and striving toward reason; that reason is precisely that which man qua man, in his innermost being, is aiming for, that which alone can satisfy him, make him "blessed." (340-341) The meaning of life reveals itself as this infinite seeking and striving towards reason, towards self-understanding and development. By finding meaning through this understanding of ourselves as seeking the "apodictic life," the life of philosophy, we restore once again to our practical activities the notion, lost since the loss of metaphysics, that our toils are in service of something greater. Our destination remains unknown, but now — and perhaps forever — we are on the way. Primary Text Edmund Husserl. The Crisis of European Sciences and Transcendental Phenomenology. Translated by David Carr. Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 1970. 121 �9654032R0007 Made in the USA Charleston, SC 30 September 2011 �r � 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 Early Writings: An Academic Journal Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Meem Library Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. 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Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Creighton, Mary (Editor) Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Santa Fe, NM Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2011 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this publication. Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Connolly, Brian (Editor) Allen, Jeffrey (Editor) Wycliff, Grant (Editor) Hungerford, John (Editor) McShea, Caitlin (Editor) Coscia, Max (Editor) Kun, Alex (Editor) Brogan, Charles (Editor) Kilani, Anastasia (Cover Design) McGee, Bethany LePluart-Kamm, Celine Lopez, Reina Condra, Clint Plowman, Natalie Cartmell, Nathan Resor, Turner Marasinghe, Kanishka G. B. Urban, Nick Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context SF_Early_Writings_2011 Academic journal Early Writings Student publication https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/4c34cdabed4601b65fd058a61871762a.pdf cfdd83e059ea4542f09723a43cf6dd5b PDF Text Text Falstaff Riseth Up Louis Petrich We should probably prepare ourselves. In this lecture, I shall go as far as I can to present Falstaff, body and soul, as the center of meaning and liveliness in Henry IV, Part One. 1 No doubt some will think I go too far in my enthusiasms, not respecting boundaries, moralities, legalities, and even the words of God and His saints. The trimming of my excesses I expect-later. For now, with the blessing of the Dean, and your prankish attention, the hour belongs to Falstaff. “Now, Hal, what time of day is it, lad?” 2 With these words, an old fat man invokes his first presence on stage, accompanied by his “lad,” named Hal, who happens to be Prince of Wales, heir to the crown. Only to this man, not even to his father, is he affectionately known, almost always, as “Hal,” his “boy,” his “lad.” The power to name, given by God to Adam for his recognition of the essences of creatures, is the power to summon them into presence for play or rule. As expected from first words, this question opens up the characters and plot. Hal immediately replies, “What a devil hast thou to do with the time of the day?” 3 After all, his selfsummoning time is simply “now”—whether it’s napping at noon or carousing to the chimes of midnight hardly matters--but never is it the now of paying back a debt, or keeping a promise made to expiring nobility; never the now of chivalric contests and courtesies defunct; and never the nows that creep coldly into oblivion to make room for the next bloodsucking 1 This essay, written for delivery to the community of St. John’s College, April 12, 2019, with discussion afterwards, retains the style of the lively spoken word as intrinsic to the meaning of the whole. 2 I. ii. 1 3 I. ii. 6 1 �generation of warm bodies. The old fat man does, notwithstanding, inquire about the future: “Sweet wag, shall there be gallows standing in England when thou art king?” 4 But his purpose here is to know when “the now” will operate in the kingdom as it does in him, as a time of freedom from reckoning of debts, laws, punishments, and sins. He exits this scene of unspecified time and location to return to the Boar’s Head Tavern of Eastcheap, his garden of pleasures, to the cry of Hal’s, “Farewell, the latter spring! Farewell, all-hallown summer!” 5 His long-lived presence to youth does not prohibit, on occasion, a current of melancholy, born of the solicitations of autumnal reason, with its farewell looks and pinches towards other times and places. But must life succumb to this pinching reason, and be panted out in short, laborious breaths of acquisition, regret, and anticipation? Falstaff, for of course that’s the name of Hal’s unending summer friend, “recreates” himself with riches acquired without back-bending work or mental anguish. 6 Stealing, in other words, avoids the labors that man incurs outside the garden under sentence of death. The fatness of this thief is utterly shameless: because his globular shape betokens the promised land--pregnant with wet and sweet--to spectators stealing time from their hard labors to fill themselves up at the tavern and (Globe) theatre; just as Joseph, that shameless dreamer, able--like this man--to brook all things, preserves the suffering house of Abraham by storing up of grain in the fleshpots of Egypt, the laws thereof at his commandment. Thus does Falstaff, upon introduction 4 I. ii. 61 I. ii. 161 6 I. ii. 158 5 2 �as the fat “re-creator,” intent on stealing for sake of youth,7 manifest his entire meaning: deathless play in the garden of the tavern with his friend, Hal, and others who make the night as good as the day in the yielding up of pleasures, as intended for man by God before law multiplied sin and the knowing world became corrupt and political. Whoever’s not attracted to the character of Falstaff—youthfully old, prophetically fat, and instinctively thieving—has no taste for paradise. We may now draw out the implications of Falstaff’s question, “Now, Hal, what time of day is it, lad?” What kind of lad or lass are you, whose days and hours are numbered? Are you a named maker of self who feeds on the times? Or are you made by the times, “food for powder.”8 Are you open, free of promises and their guilty burdens? Or are you hidden, trying painfully to keep promises made by some other? Are you a counter-down of the disappointing days until your release? Or are you a riser up to ever more of the days and nights’ delights? These are the questions of the play for us tonight. The name, Falstaff, derives from his double essence. He’s staffed upright (on two legs), and he’s extended laterally by a big belly, signifying that the usual separation of rising and reclining, labor and rest, day and night, youth and age, fertility and barrenness, subdivided tediously into hours, minutes, and seconds until nothing is left, apply not at all to his person. That is why the scenes in which he appears always last longer than 7 8 “Young men must live,” shouts Falstaff while robbing the pilgrims at Gad’s Hill. II. ii. 90 IV. Ii. 66 3 �historical dramaturgy warrants. The tavern scene of Act II-- the second longest in all of Shakespeare--gives us the feeling that were it not for doors registering the knockings of sheriffs, merchants, and politicians seeking to prosecute, trade, and enlist, the plays and pleasures of the tavern would not have to stop. The fat of Falstaff orients him towards the horizon, where his breadth of character contrasts favorably with the vertical orientation of leanminded, ambitious men who populate Shakespeare’s history plays. His fatness they incessantly ridicule, which merely arouses his potency, like caresses, and they know it. Words that issue from the top end of his bowels, the mouth, come from deep grounding within the concocting kitchen of his guts, and that is how the Promethean fire catches and spreads as the great and awful comedy of human life, in opposition to the death-lovers. Warriors, in the heat of battle, are also present in “the now.” Any reckoning of interest outside the present focus opens a gap for death to enter and steal away young life. This happens to Hotspur, at the instigation of Falstaff, who turns our heads away from the climactic sword fight between the two Harrys, by occupying--alive and dead--their field of glory. Falstaff is the reason that Hal is able to rob Hotspur of his youth and honor, which Hal shares with him after his rising from the dead and claiming the body as his own prize. These four actions--Falstaff’s entrance to the fight, his falling down “as if” dead, his rising up from the ground, and his bearing off the body of dead Hotspur on his back—manifest the mysteries and meanings of the play, as I intend now to show you. Let’s hasten to the battle of the Harrys at Shrewsbury, where these four actions occur. In the rhythm of the first four scenes of Act V, a 4 �proposition is under contest: The breath of life does not have to be drawn short and thin. We feel the beats of that rhythm in the entrances and exits of Hotspur and Falstaff, whose motions are the moving joints of a demonstration of that proposition’s truth. Scene one opens with 117 lines of last-minute negotiation between King Henry IV and the rebels. I’m about to recite the king’s attempt to conclude the scene with a general exit. That’s what royalty like to do, make everyone come and go according to their naming and timing. King. Hence, therefore, every leader to his charge; For, on their answer, will we set on them, And God befriend us as our cause is just! Exeunt. Remain Prince and Falstaff. Not once in three plays does Bolingbroke (Henry IV) utter a moving battle speech, though he’s always at war. Listen to Falstaff take over from this king who lacks inspiration, on that cue of divine friendship, which he brings down to earth, to “set [Hal] on” to the work of human friendship, with no invocations of justice: Falstaff. Hal, if thou see me down in the battle and bestride me, so! ‘Tis a point of friendship. Prince. Nothing but a colossus can do thee that friendship. Say thy prayers, and farewell. 5 �Falstaff. I would ‘twere bedtime, Hal, and all well. Prince. Why, thou owest God a death. Falstaff. ‘Tis not due yet: I would be loath to pay him before his [Exit.] day. What need I be so forward with him that calls not on me? Well, ‘tis no matter; honor pricks me on. Yea, but how if honor prick me off when I come on? How then? Can honor set to a leg? No. Or an arm? No. Or take away the grief of a wound? No. Honor hath no skill in surgery then? No. What is honor? A word. What is in that word honor? What is that honor? Air—a trim reckoning. Who hath it? He that died a Wednesday. Doth he feel it? No. Doth he hear it? No. ‘Tis insensible then? Yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living? No. Why? Detraction will not suffer it. Therefore I’ll none of it. Honor is a mere scutcheon— and so ends my catechism. Exit.9 This speech is a rhetorical masterpiece. Note how Falstaff keeps plucking from himself in audience the word “no,” a pricking word of obliteration. The disgrace of the no’s I leave for others to overcome in the yeas of their virtue. But let me affirm that the speech is true to the action of history that we have been witnessing since Richard II threw his warder down marking the end of chivalry. Even the Chief Justice, Falstaff’s enemy, will 9 V. i. 118-141 6 �do Falstaff honor because of the report that he fought Hotspur at Shrewsbury. (And Falstaff’s honor is of necessity Hotspur’s dishonor.) Remember also this: the sources of feeling in a speech of negation, if unchecked, may lead to the nothingness of tragic despair (as in King Lear). For what is left to human dignity when honor is naught, friendship declines to serve, God goes unheard, and the new science of politics puts you in the company of men like Worcester and Westmoreland: traitors, time-servers, lackeys, all? There is one other thing left: the tavern and its answer “anon, anon” to the call of desire, all the humors of time present to entertain and edify. Falstaff’s devastating speech of negation, stolen from the arsenal of tragedy, serves the purpose of comedy, to affirm the goodness of life even in a base modern world, in which surgery saves rotten bodies and slander plus gunpowder equate all persons. Now in scene two, it’s Hotspur’s turn to make clear to the audience what he will have none of: “mincing poetry.” 10 He stands by the courtesies of chivalry, to which he commends his soldiers briefly, not possessing, as he says, “the gift of tongue,/ Can lift your blood up with persuasion.” 11 At this precise moment of verbal and visceral self-denial, a messenger enters to deliver Hotspur a letter. He drives off the messenger and delivers his warrior’s creed: Hotspur. I cannot read them now. O gentlemen, the time of life is short! To spend that shortness basely were too long 10 11 “‘Tis like the forced gait of a shuffling nag,” (III. i. 133-134). V. ii. 77-78 7 �If life did ride upon a dial’s point, Still ending at the arrival of an hour. And if we live, we live to tread on kings; If die, brave death, when princes die with us! …………………… Now, Esperance! Percy! And set on. Sound all the lofty instruments of war, And by that music let us all embrace; For, heaven to earth, some of us never shall A second time do such a courtesy. 12 The author and content of the dismissed letter remain unknown, like what might have been. We do know, however, that at this moment of extreme peril, Hotspur is deceived by his uncle, Worcester, who belies the King’s offer of peace, and by his own first principles, now under contest with Falstaff: that life must be short, since basely led, and therefore best ended in battle with kings. The unopened letter presents a last-minute challenge to Hotspur’s code, but he has not learned leisure to give letters a sound hearing. Most important is this dramaturgical fact: we’re more impressed by Falstaff’s catechism to bury honor, because it’s a better and truer speech than Hotspur’s. Honor is going to stay buried until Henry V makes use of “the gift of tongue” to inspire his soldiers at Agincourt to seek a fellowship 12 V. ii. 79-86, 96-100 8 �in blood that will story time until “the ending of the world.” 13 He learned the rhetorical tricks of raising up the blood to do miraculous things from letters, and the fat man who makes letters dance from his tongue like light. In scene three, the battle begins. Falstaff is summoned to military presence twice by Hotspur’s words, as (dramaturgically) they continue to contest the proposition concerning life. He first appears when the rebels are winning; Douglas is killing the counterfeit kings one by one. He and Hotspur exit in confidence to Hotspur’s words: “Up and away!/ Our soldiers stand full fairly for the day.” 14 On this cue Falstaff enters to “stand full fairly” in Hotspur’s vacated place and to point demonstratively, like someone at the blackboard, to the dead Sir Walter Blunt: “There’s honor for you! Here’s no vanity!” 15 If you find this disrespectful of the brave dead, he is quick to point out that modern war uses lead, shot from pistols and canons, saying: “I need no more weight than mine own bowels,” as if he were a defender of heroic chivalry. 16 A desperate Prince objects to his idleness, but not to his critique of modern killing: Enter the Prince. Prince. What, stands thou idle here? Lend me thy sword. 17 13 Henry V, IV. iii. 58 V. iii. 28-29 15 V. iii. 33 16 V. iii. 35 17 V. iii. 39 14 9 �Three times the Prince demands Falstaff’s sword. He offers him his pistol in its case, the sword being reserved, he claims, for Hotspur, on whose dead body he will indeed use it. Hal accepts the case , but finds inside not a pistol, but a bottle of sack, a joke, to those who get it, on what war has become. But Hal becomes angry and shouts a version of the play’s opening question: Prince. What, is it a time to jest and dally now? He throws the bottle at him. Exit.18 He does not stay for Falstaff’s answer: Falstaff. I like not such grinning honor as Sir Walter hath. Give me life; which if I can save, so; if not, honor comes unlooked [Exit.]19 for, and there’s an end. Falstaff’s “so,” one of his tricks of speech--we heard it before (“Hal, if thou see me down in the battle and bestride me, so!”20)--is like the action of a postulate. Of course life is to be saved—that’s a begged and given power, “so,” just as “there’s an end” is a given limit, if you don’t accept that life is to be saved. “Grinning honor,” which sounds like “winning honor,” is the iconic grin of death, out-jesting human dalliance with winning. Hal gets angry (only this once in the two Henry IV plays) because he does not like Falstaff dramatizing the best alternative to the powder and pistol time of 18 V. iii. 55 V. iii. 58-61 20 V. i. 121-122 19 10 �history: namely, drinking sack, for the free play of intellect in the tavern of delights. You must bear in mind that Falstaff never drinks in order to get wasted--that’s Sir Walter’s condition—but quite the opposite: to quicken and prolong his performances. Somewhere in scene four, the Prince finds his sword, which he uses to save his father from Douglas. This fight, a prelude to his showdown with Hotspur, comes first for reasons we need to understand. King Henry IV has many counterfeits dressed like him on the battlefield. The fierce Scotsman, Douglas, is expert in killing counterfeits. When he finally “fall’st on” Henry IV, he doubts the presence of royal character and articulates, by then, a familiar principle: Douglas. I fear thou art another counterfeit; And yet, in faith, though bearest thee like a king. But mine I am sure thou art, whoe’er thou be, And thus I win thee. They fight, the King being in danger, Enter Prince of Wales 21 We know that the exiled Bolingbroke came back to England to claim his patrimony; but he wins the crown because Richard II, though never losing the bearing of a king, does lose the power to keep himself his. That little word, “win,” is Henry IV’s virtu on the eve of battle with the rebels under 21 V. iv. 32, 34-37 11 �foul-looking skies: “Nothing can seem foul,” he says, true to himself, “to those that win.” 22 Thus in less than four lines given to Douglas, Shakespeare retells the progress of recent history under Bolingbroke. The king is struck down to the ground. This action cues the entrance of the Prince, who arrests Douglas as he stands over the prostrate king, about to strike him mortally. Prince. Hold up thy head, vile Scot, or thou art like Never to hold it up again. The spirits Of valiant Shirley, Stafford, Blunt are in my arms. It is the Prince of Wales that threatens thee, Who never promiseth but he means to pay. They fight: Douglas flieth.23 The Prince, by means of the spirits of the dead in him, turns Douglas’s head away from his prize by promising a worthily named fight. He thus takes the side of nobility to save his father and his ignoble principle that foulness (ugliness) does not apply, so long as you win. The Prince “redeems” his “lost opinion” right here, and his father pronounces that redemption right away. 24 So the Prince’s fight with Hotspur, sixteen lines later, is not about redeeming himself. That’s already been done. This is important to realize, along with the curious stage direction that Douglas (who’s no coward) 22 V. i. 8 V. iv. 38-42 24 V. iv. 47 23 12 �flees. 25 The fact is that Shakespeare needs Douglas, the counterfeit killer, to remain alive to fight Falstaff, the “lying counterfeit,” hence the real thing. Now, let’s put these two points together: the fight between the Prince and Hotspur proceeds on another plane, according to Falstaffian principles of redemption, timeliness, and life-saving, not Henry IV principles or chivalric principles--although the outcome of that fight does similarly depend on the influence of the dead, the turn of the head, and authority over names. So here’s how the fight starts. The Prince, about to exit the stage, is arrested by a voice relished for its exuberant, guileless urgency to cross danger for honor’s sake: Hotspur. If I mistake not, thou art Harry Monmouth. Prince. Thou speak’st as if I would deny my name. Hotspur. My name is Harry Percy. Prince. Why, then I see a very valiant rebel of the name. I am the Prince of Wales, and think not, Percy, To share with me in glory any more. Two stars keep not their motion in one sphere, Nor can one England brook a double reign Of Harry Percy and the Prince of Wales. 25 After all, he did not flee from Hotspur, though “discomfited” in three previous battles and taken prisoner once (III. ii. 114). 13 �Hotspur. Nor shall it, Harry, for the hour is come To end the one of us; and would to God Thy name in arms were now as great as mine! Prince. I’ll make it greater ere I part from thee, And all the budding honors on thy crest I’ll crop to make a garland for my head. Hotspur. I can no longer brook thy vanities. They fight.26 As they fight over their names and the rule of England, something extraordinary happens that breaks the expectations of heroic stage combat: Enter Falstaff. Falstaff. Well said, Hal! To it, Hal! Nay, you shall find No boy’s play here, I can tell you. 27 The fight that Shakespeare promotes through five acts, with mounting anticipation, is interrupted by the voluble entrance of the old fat jester, who keeps a bottle of sack in his case, makes money by impressing the classes who buy out their services, and leads the impoverished as “food for powder.”28 What is Shakespeare doing by admitting this very man to the climactic scene of martial glory? Again we notice that Falstaff is summoned 26 V. iv. 58-73 V. iv. 74-75 28 IV. ii. 66 27 14 �from absence to presence by Hotspur, this time with the words, “brook thy vanities,” and the blows that are supposed to put the end to vanity. “To brook” is to put up with something that one would prefer not to, and that is what we feel when Falstaff enters on that word. Do we have to put up with laughter during blood and tears? Do we have to hear cheerful prosaic words louder than the music of brave blows? Do we have to witness fat tripping unbecomingly over soldiers’ graves? Must we, really, now, when all we want is to see a good fight, put up with Falstaff? Yes, emphatically, now is the time to jest and dally at the things demanding life’s payment, honor and title. Thus our eyes turn from the solemnity of mortal combat to the maker of wit and fellowship. This turning of attention, which the Prince forced upon Douglass to save his father, matters a lot. Notice that the Prince is named “Hal” again; blows are made words again, as in the tavern (“Well said, Hal! To it, Hal!” “I can tell you.”); and Hal’s mortal danger (”no boy’s play here”) is reduced to commentary by an expert showman. The worst thing you can do to a man like Hotspur, wholly devoted to the beauty of honor, is to turn the heads of onlookers (that’s us) towards the opposite--the fat man to whom honor is nothing. Falstaff’s entrance thus begins to fulfill the Prince’s promise to “crop” Hotspur’s honors and wear them in costume. Theatrically speaking, Falstaff “steals the scene” from the warriors. He does this, not simply because he’s that kind of pig, but with full authorial warrant, beloved of the creator. In a moment, Hotspur will affirm the theft of his scene, when he feels the sword enter and leave his body: “Thou hast 15 �robbed me of my youth!” he accuses the Prince. 29 But the robbing could not have happened without Falstaff the head-turner, who makes robbing his “vocation” and sport for Princes. 30 But I’m getting ahead of things. So, patiently, look at what next happens to our attention: Enter Douglas. He fighteth with Falstaff, [who] falls down as if we were dead. [Exit Douglas.] The Prince killeth Percy. The great question of the play now arrives: Is Falstaff dead, or faking death when we see him fall down? He convinces the experienced Douglas and the Prince that he’s quite dead—“breathless and bleeding.” 31 We lookers-on simply do not know, unless the actor makes obvious that he’s faking, but that I think is wrong. Additional questions now steal our attention from the fight that continues. Shall we feel bad that the fat man is cut off, or hope that he’ll come back? Could we be witnessing a third outcome to the Lord and Bondsman encounter not imagined by Hegel?--that is, neither master nor slave, could Falstaff be a free player outside the determinations of logic and history? Does Falstaff’s fight with Douglas represent how every human encounter puzzles us with this question: how much of my own body and soul must I raise up or let fall to play with this person for a while at politics, war, or love? Is this or that person who faces me alive or dead?--and to what extent? These questions open up a gap in the prescribed flow of historical 29 V. iv. 76 I. ii. 107 31 V. iv. 133 30 16 �events. There is room in that gap for surprises. Our attention, stolen again from the combatants, goes toward the belly that now lies in profile on stage, a rotund symbol of “all the world.” Falstaff is down, looking dead, his belly still rises, as the fight goes on. Let us get some help at this point from the tavern scene (mentioned earlier) to determine that belly’s powers as guardian. Recall that Falstaff has run away from the disguised Prince and Poins at Gadshill. They try to trap him with reason, which keeps track of what’s fantastic and contradictory in his storytelling. When they think they’ve got him to confess that he ran from cowardice, he escapes the trap of reason by uttering this meta-theatrical profundity: “By the Lord, I knew ye as well as he that made ye.” 32 Hal’s maker (after God and Bolingbroke) is Shakespeare, via the chronicles. Falstaff is almost entirely Shakespeare’s invention, and as such, offers freedom from the compulsory history of the chronicles. His name is elaborated more times than any other name in Shakespeare by people who think they know him and how to peg him. But the questions of who he is and what will become of him are the ones most freely alive in the English history plays, and they put us in close touch with the maker, and with our own cause of freedom. Listen now to some of the attempted naming of Falstaff, with Hal impersonating his biological father, Henry IV, and Falstaff playing Hal: 32 II. iv. 267 17 �Prince [as Henry IV]. There is a devil haunts thee in the likeness of an old fat man….Why dost thou converse with that trunk of humors, that bolting-hutch of beastliness, that swoll’n parcel of dropsies, that huge bombard of sack, that stuffed cloakbag of guts, that roasted Manningtree ox with the pudding in his belly, that reverend vice, that gray iniquity, that father ruffian, that vanity in years? Wherein is he good, but to taste sack and drink it? Wherein neat and cleanly, but to carve a capon and eat it? Wherein cunning, but in craft? Wherein crafty, but in villainy? Wherein villainous, but in all things? Wherein worthy, but in nothing? Falstaff [as Hal]. I would your Grace would take me with you. Whom means your Grace? Prince. That villainous abominable misleader of youth, Falstaff, that old white-bearded Satan. Falstaff. My lord, the man I know. Prince. I know thou dost. Falstaff. But to say I know more harm in him than in myself were to say more than I know. That he is old, the more the pity, his white hairs do witness it….If sack and sugar be a fault, God help the wicked! If to be old and merry be a sin, then many an old host that I know is damned. If to be fat be to be hated, then 18 �Pharaoh’s lean kine are to be loved. No, my good lord: banish Peto, banish Bardolph, banish Poins; but for sweet Jack Falstaff, kind Jack Falstaff, true Jack Falstaff, valiant Jack Falstaff, and therefore more valiant being, as he is, old Jack Falstaff, banish not him thy Harry’s company, banish not him thy Harry’s company, banish plump Jack, and banish all the world! Prince. I do. I will. [A knocking heard.] 33 Falstaff urges his own company in the voice of youth, ruled by bigness of heart and capacity of enjoyment, knowing no harm in its urgings. Good for “nothing,” says the Prince; all the world, sweet and wet, says Falstaff. The Prince’s double banishment in double time and character (“I do. I will.”) provokes silent wonder at the cold commitment of politic man. And then the politic world comes knocking: the sheriff and his watch are looking for a “gross fat man.” 34 Is now the time for Hal to turn the fat man over to law? “Dost thou hear, Hal?”--Falstaff asks him to reckon the time that knocks. 35 In the privileged intimacy of friendship, he continues: “Never call a true piece of gold a counterfeit. Thou art essentially made without seeming so.” 36 Their shared essence, as players who know their own makings-up, persuades the Prince to send the sheriff away with a “good morrow” to the latter’s “good 33 II. iv. 446-481 II. iv. 512 35 II. iv. 491 36 II. iv. 491-492 34 19 �night” (it is 2 o’clock). 37 The time in the tavern is all one, as all come knocking, morning and night, wanting what’s in Falstaff’s belly of theirs. That belly, presiding over the battle of the Harrys, has much of Hal invested in it to be saved from arrest by whatever comes knocking. Death knocks for Hal at Shrewsbury. How does the belly that he saved, save him? Hal is down and out of breath, just as his father was before Douglas. But the head-turning comic presence of Falstaff operates as usual to turn things to their opposites: cowardice to meta-knowledge, reason to invention, traps to freedom, son saving real father to adopted father saving son, by this means (foreshadowed in a name-calling contest in the tavern): “this huge hill of flesh” turns into the “vile standing tuck” (an upright rapier) that will pierce Hotspur into “food for worms.” 38 How? Like this : Hotspur, impetuous, never pausing for letters, untaught in comedy (where desire stands up though the man be down)—this very Hotspur rushes the fallen Prince, who raises his rapier from the ground, exampled by the nearby “hill of flesh,” 39 and on the instant of death’s knocking impales Hotspur on his own momentum; he falls, and the rapier is withdrawn as we hear surprised accusation in Hotspur’s first words of unbecoming: “O Harry, thou hast robbed me of my youth!” 40 That is how the “madcap” lad of sweets defeats the “mark and glass” knight of honor in a fashion that actually makes sense by taking account of the decisive comic presence of Falstaff.41 37 II. iv. 524-525 II. iv. 243, 247; V. iv. 85 39 As the embattled Israelites were advantaged by the upheld staff of Moses on a hill. Exodus, 17:9 40 V. iv. 76 41 I. ii. 146, IV. i. 94; Part Two, II. iii. 31 38 20 �Hotspur gasps for breath: “O, I could prophesy,/ But that the earthy and cold hand of death/ Lies on my tongue.” 42 I think Hotspur intends to say that the line of Bolingbroke will not continue long to occupy the throne of England. And he would be right. Hotspur’s image of the “hand” of death lying on the “tongue,” stopping access to a cut-off future, reminds me of a disturbing image that opens the play. The Welshwomen, serving as the “rude hands” of Owen Glendower, performed a “beastly shameless transformation” upon the thousand “butchered” soldiers of Mortimer, “as may not be/ Without much shame retold or spoken of.” 43 It is clear from Shakespeare’s source and the tone and reactions to this speech that the dead soldiers were castrated and their genitals put inside their mouths, on their silent tongues, by the women. Think about that. What does it mean? The tongue cannot, by speaking, provide for its own continuity in life; words alone are not potent of life. The tongue must not be cut off from the body’s business of generating life, nor should the lower body be cut off from the tongue’s business of transforming low to high. Henry IV acts as if a man could issue seed from his mouth, for he thinks that he can become the legitimate king and father of kings in an act of speech, without the help of blood. He is wrong. Henry V will think that the French and English, two different tongues, can be united as one through an act of blood, with no common speech. He is wrong. Henry VI, last of the line to reign, lacks powers both of speech and blood, and so he loses France 42 43 V. iv. 82-84 I. i. 45-46 21 �and the throne of England. By contrast, as we’re about to witness, Falstaff, after being cut off, “riseth up,” in blood and speech, the “true and perfect image of life indeed.” 44 He stabs Hotspur in the thigh, gives rise to him on his back, impregnated with Hotspur’s honor in reports to come. This proves that honor, unlike life, is generated by the tongue of the “double man,” who mouths his own rising to posterity. 45 The oral genital imagery that opens the play, thus closes it as well. In between, while we are on the subject, remember how Kate, Hotspur’s adoring and spirited wife (would you prefer honor to a woman like that?), grabs his little finger and tries to break it off to make him return to her bed and share his manly business with her. He responds by calling for his horse: Hotspur. And when I am a-horseback, I will swear I love thee infinitely. 46 After the battle, we see Hotspur a-horseback the fat lover of life, who’s sworn infinitely, in every lie he utters, to give unbroken ride to body that steals him a hold on life’s pleasures. Hotspur articulates his passing as a stoppage of time in its survey of “all the world,” so little of which he got to see.47 Ironically, he uses Falstaff’s words “banish plump Jack, and banish all the world!”). So as we hear Hotspur speak these dying words, we turn our heads again to the great belly of desire, still seeming dead on stage, but from its prominence we feel 44 V. iv. 118 V. iv. 137 46 II. iii. 100-102 47 V. iv. 81 45 22 �less sad over Hotspur, as the Prince covers his “mangled face.” 48 Dying courtesy mingles thus strangely with the stronger will to comedy. Falstaff listens, as always, for his cue to return to presence: The Prince spieth Falstaff on the ground. Prince. What, old acquaintance? Could not all this flesh Keep in a little life? Poor Jack, farewell! I could have better spared a better man. O, I should have a heavy miss of thee If I were much in love with vanity. Death hath not struck so fat a deer today, Though many dearer, in this bloody fray. Emboweled will I see thee by-and-by; Till then in blood by noble Percy lie. Exit. Falstaff riseth up. Falstaff. Emboweled? If thou embowel me today, I’ll give you leave to powder me and eat me too tomorrow. ‘Sblood, ‘twas time to counterfeit….Counterfeit? I lie ; I am no counterfeit. To die is to be a counterfeit, for he is but the counterfeit of a man who hath not the life of a man; but to counterfeit dying when a man thereby liveth, is to be no counterfeit, but the true and perfect image of life indeed. The better part of valor is 48 V. iv. 95 23 �discretion, in the which better part I have saved my life. 49 Notice how hard it is for the Prince to keep his love for the old fat man down. Hal has the cold-heartedness to cut people off once their use has run out. But his love of the “fat deer” goes deeper than he knows, and we hear it struggle here with the political. Why disembowel Falstaff? To preserve him flattened in burial is to level the hills and mountains of human nature, in other words, to suppress the rebelliousness of comedy, of disrupting desire, for the sake of a smooth-running unified politics of Christian empire. The Prince will “brook” no “double reign” in England, as we heard him say to Hotspur, nor on the continent, as he will say later: “No king of England, if not King of France.” 50 So Hal’s victory at Shrewsbury and his plans to disembowel Falstaff, herald his dream as Henry V, to restore imperial Rome under a new English Caesar. (It cannot be a mere coincidence that Shakespeare’s next play after Henry V is Julius Caesar.) Falstaff’s rising maintains the hills and mountains that make life a wondrous surprise of opposites, a disunity of differences that keep it rich and strange. Sack instills the wit to know and express these riches with spontaneous acuity. Falstaff’s rising is thus a triumph over the “cold and settled,” “dull and cruddy” sameness of death and empire; 51 it is a triumph over making fine ladies the same as irascible men (Kate, bless her, refuses to learn Hotspur’s swearing lessons); it is a triumph over the spirited ambition that fits, shrunk by death, into a vile hole of earth. The honor-loving Hotspur, about to descend that hole, professes to “better brook the loss of brittle life/ 49 V. iv. 101-119 Henry V, II. ii. 193 51 Part Two, IV. iii. 101, 107 50 24 �Than those proud titles” lost in conquest.52 Again this word “brook” directs our attention to Falstaff, who was summoned by that word, and whose life, opposite brittle, brooks anything—including death, which he plays to perfection. The stage direction, Falstaff Riseth Up, perhaps the greatest in dramatic literature, is a paradox and pun with Biblical, sexual, and historical resonances. Its performance touches the still tingling splinters left in the soul from original creation out of the ground and into the garden. There is something counterfeit in a soul that does not feel risen with Falstaff to mate the savory stuff of earth with the articulate spirit of air. Thus of him may it truly be said: “he dost raise up himself whom he himself hath filled, and death he swallows up in the victory.” 53 We read eight of Shakespeare’s plays in sophomore seminar. Do we raise ourselves up to read them fluidly and merrily, or declining the body, dryly and soberly? Old photos of our dear college show that seminars used to be lubricated and smoky, like the tavern. Much has changed, as we become more politic, less seminal, but one Falstaffian practice has endured. Falstaff, like us, speaks prose all the time, even in the presence of his versespeaking superiors, whom he questions. There is no other major character in Shakespeare who does this so conspicuously, to his credit and ours. He does not respect the measured endings of lines, the debt-paying schedule of verse. Do not mistake what you read on the printed page. The arbitrary line breaks you see there are the falsifications of the bookish medium. Falstaff’s lines, 52 53 V. iv. 77-78 Cf. Augustine, Confessions, Book X, xxviii, xxx 25 �like his girth, intend “out of all compass,” off the page.54 The margins on the page, like knockers at the door, are stoppages of speech to be sent away. The word that is mediated by the print medium imprisons the tongue that consents to its silent setting down on the page. Falstaff makes the chains on the tongue drop. Henry V banishes Falstaff by mediating him at a ten mile distance, to be covered by messengers who report on his amendment in the respecting of margins. The Chief Justice in Part Two--the letter of the law, external to human feeling, the same monotonous text over and over again--is precisely the one to supervise Falstaff’s banishment. 55 Thus the fountain of living speech turns into reported text, safely distant from the source. This is the meaning for us of Falstaff’s banishment: breathless, bloodless, flattened, papered words, whose pockets are picked by sneaky textual accountants scorning the expenses and risks of full-bodied fluidity. Now you can understand why Falstaff’s death in Henry V is mediated by report of how he becomes “cold as any stone.” 56 Shakespeare does not dare to let Falstaff appear and speak in person at his death, for then he would steal the scene again and never consent to die. Richard II is like that, for he refuses to be turned into text when he declines to read over his sins and subscribe to them in public. The Prince knows this danger of the intact man, and thus intends to disembowel him, which means to reduce him to skinny, hunger-less script. Falstaff’s rising is the reincarnation of speech as situational, agonistic, and powerful to raise the blood and make life perform true to its embodied self. 54 III. iii. 22 It is my hunch that he fathers the invasion of France by teaching Henry to abide by the analysis of ancient genealogical and geographical texts in the keeping of churchmen favorably disposed to kings. 56 Henry V, II. iii. 25 55 26 �Here’s how he teaches us to read plays seminally, for purposes of life, not banishment. First, you must fall down as if dead, which means shut down on the surface and go silently inward to the sources of verbal and gestural creation. Throw everything historical and mediated into doubt and rediscover the first principle of believable performance: “I am no counterfeit, but the self-knowing thing itself—life--embodied here, now.” The activities of reading and writing require this temporary absence from the world, in imitation of death, in order to overhear its violent sounds and agonized confessions, unsure of the side of victory, but longing for it, sometimes even crying out for the maker to warm the feet back to the standing of life. To fall into likeness of death is merely to imitate the author: alert in ear, outwardly naught, “smiling upon his finger’s end,” touching the world, like God, point by point, making “green fields” appear on stage for bodies to act in love thereon with life.57 Although the politic world imposes tribulations of counterfeiting on every human soul, Falstaff, in good cheer, teaches how to overcome that world. 58 The poetic truth in the historical lie that Falstaff kills Hotspur, I hope now to have persuaded you to take seriously. To the wounding and the carrying off of the body, a brief closing look is in order. The resurrection speech continues: Falstaff. Zounds, I am afraid of this gunpowder Percy, though he be dead. How if he should counterfeit too, and rise? By 57 58 Henry V, II. iii. 9-24 Cf. John, 16:33 27 �my faith, I am afraid he would prove the better counterfeit. Therefore I’ll make him sure; yea, and I’ll swear I killed him. . . . Nothing confutes me but eyes, and nobody sees me. Therefore, sirrah [stabs him], with a new wound in your thigh, come you along with me. He takes up Hotspur on his back. 59 We witness here how myths and religions get going. Imagine for a moment that after Achilles kills Hector, he leaves the body for Thersites to desecrate, haul away on his back, and misreport as his own conquest. That is the kind of action Shakespeare gives us here. It’s offensive to witness this treatment if we still carry shining Homeric heroes in our heads. Apropos of that, after the Henriad, Shakespeare wrote the modern (that is to say, the true) version of the Trojan War. In it, Achilles is fat and out of breath, for that is what happens when you stop exercising and keep eating, and Thersites is the wit who persuades Achilles, with much malicious delight, that to fight for a cuckold like Menelaus, or the adulterer, Paris, is no honor. But to my point: “gunpowder Percy” properly belongs to Falstaff, on his back. The horses of chivalry are no more; the embracing of knights has yielded to the arguments of “vile politicians,” as Hotspur himself says.60 And besides, honor always rides the backs of the living, who lay the world full of rising lies to give standing and estimation to dust. What good news does Falstaff rise up from the dust to announce? I shall speak for him one last time, and there an end. Be confident to play the 59 60 V. iv. 120-128 I. iii. 239 28 �coward to save a life too goodly rare to spare. There are plenty of lives less good in their own estimation, counterfeit kings and queens, ready to make brave sacrifice for those who know themselves to be the real things. Let them do what makes them grin. Take the offer of sweet and wet; outstretch the margins in merriment. Let the reputation of corruption and villainy serve as a breeze to better your countenance and quicken your wit to weigh the value of things. Listen for the cue to raise the belly to its standing mouth, there to perform the miracle of transforming guts into speech. Hoist on your back--or front-- the beauties of a lost world and use them shamelessly to make modern life less ugly. If you’ve got it, flaunt it baby, flaunt it! Anon, anon come the props to serve all turns. The stage is set. The time to make answer—whom to love, whom to banish--is now. The matter worth listening to is not derived from the compulsions of reason that would pin you to the wall. Stand there amazed at the fatness of this unreasonable matter. Staff yourself on legs warmed foot to thigh by touch, with eyes burning like fire to do it again, after falling to bed or earth, rising up to flames of laughter. Halt not for halters. You will find that all this that I’ve been saying (and he could on all night), it takes some discretion. Paradise—is true, and don’t I know it, but it’s not for everyone— no, it’s not for everyone— as it is for him—elevated and big as the horizon— drinking it all up—life— oh, bother the mending— his face turns, but not to crack. Thank you. 29 �Falstaff. Gallants, lads, lasses, hearts of gold, all the titles of good fellowship come to you! What, shall we be merry? Shall we have a lecture intemperate? Prince. Content—and the argument shall be your rising up! cf. Henry IV, Part 1, II. iv. 277-280 ��Falstaff. Now, Hal, what time of day is it, lad? I. ii. 1 �Falstaff. Prince. Now, Hal, what time of day is it, lad? What a devil hast thou to do with the time of the day? I. ii. 1, 6 �We have heard the chimes of midnight. --Falstaff ��Falstaff. Sweet wag, shall there be gallows standing in England when thou art king? I. ii. 61 �Prince. Farewell, the latter spring! Farewell, all-hallown summer! I. ii. 161 ��While robbing the pilgrims at Gad’s Hill: Falstaff. Young men must live. II. ii. 90 �����������The Four Determinative Actions of Falstaff: •Entrance to the fight of the Harry’s •Falling down dead •Rising up •Bearing Hotspur on his back �A Proposition: The breath of life does not have to be drawn short and thin. �King. Hence, therefore, every leader to his charge; For, on their answer, will we set on them, And God befriend us as our cause is just! Exeunt. Remain Prince and Falstaff. Falstaff. Hal, if thou see me down in the battle and bestride me, so! ‘Tis a point of friendship. Prince. Nothing but a colossus can do thee that friendship. Say thy prayers, and farewell. V. i. 118-124 �Falstaff. I would ‘twere bedtime, Hal, and all well. Prince. Why, thou owest God a death. [Exit.] Falstaff. ‘Tis not due yet: I would be loath to pay him before his day. What need I be so forward with him that calls not on me? Well, ‘tis no matter; honor pricks me on. Yea, but how if honor prick me off when I come on? How then? Can honor set to a leg? No. Or an arm? No. Or take away the grief of a wound? No. Honor hath no skill in surgery then? No. V. i. 125-134 �Falstaff. What is honor? A word. What is in that word honor? What is that honor? Air—a trim reckoning. Who hath it? He that died a Wednesday. Doth he feel it? No. Doth he hear it? No. ‘Tis insensible then? Yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living? No. Why? Detraction will not suffer it. Therefore I’ll none of it. Honor is a mere scutcheon— and so ends my catechism. Exit. V. i. 135-141 ��Hotspur. (on poetry) ‘Tis like the forced gait of a shuffling nag. III. i. 133 (on speech-making) . . . I that have not the gift of tongue, Can lift your blood up with persuasion. V. ii. 77-78 �• Hotspur. I cannot read them now. O gentlemen, the time of life is short! To spend that shortness basely were too long If life did ride upon a dial’s point, Still ending at the arrival of an hour. And if we live, we live to tread on kings; If die, brave death, when princes die with us! …………………… Now, Esperance! Percy! And set on. Sound all the lofty instruments of war, And by that music let us all embrace; For, heaven to earth, some of us never shall A second time do such a courtesy. V. ii. 79-86, 96-100 ��Hotspur. Up and away! Our soldiers stand full fairly for the day. [Exeunt.] V. iii. 28-29 Falstaff. Soft. Who are you? Sir Walter Blunt. There’s honor for you! Here’s no vanity! . . God keep lead out of me. I need no more weight than mine own bowels. . . . V. iii. 32-35 �Prince. Prince. What, stands thou idle here? Lend me thy sword. V. iii. 39 What, is it a time to jest and dally now? He throws the bottle at him. Exit V. iii. 55 Falstaff. I like not such grinning honor as Sir Walter hath. Give me life; which if I can save, so; if not honor comes unlooked for, and there’s an end. [Exit] V. iii. 58-61 ����Douglas. I fear thou art another counterfeit; And yet, in faith, though bearest thee like a king. But mine I am sure thou art, whoe’er thou be, And thus I win thee. They fight, the King being in danger, Enter Prince of Wales V. iv. 34-37 �interpreting the foul-looking skies before battle: King. Nothing can seem foul to those that win. V. i. 8 �Prince. Hold up thy head, vile Scot, or thou art like Never to hold it up again. The spirits Of valiant Shirley, Stafford, Blunt are in my arms. It is the Prince of Wales that threatens thee, Who never promiseth but he means to pay. They fight: Douglas flieth. V. iv. 38-42 ��Hotspur. If I mistake not, thou art Harry Monmouth. Prince. Thou speak’st as if I would deny my name. Hotspur. My name is Harry Percy. Prince. Why, then I see a very valiant rebel of the name. I am the Prince of Wales, and think not, Percy, To share with me in glory any more. Two stars keep not their motion in one sphere, Nor can one England brook a double reign Of Harry Percy and the Prince of Wales. Hotspur. Nor shall it, Harry, for the hour is come To end the one of us; and would to God Thy name in arms were now as great as mine! V. iv. 58-70 �Prince. I’ll make it greater ere I part from thee, And all the budding honors on thy crest I’ll crop to make a garland for my head. Hotspur. I can no longer brook thy vanities. They fight. V. iv. 70-73 �Enter Falstaff. Falstaff. Well said, Hal! To it, Hal! Nay, you shall find no boy’s play here, I can tell you. V. iv. 74-75 �Hotspur. O Harry, thou hast robbed me of my youth! V. iv. 76 �Enter Douglas. He fighteth with Falstaff, [who] falls down as if we were dead. [Exit Douglas.] The Prince killeth Percy. ���Falstaff. By the Lord, I knew ye as well as he that made ye. II. iv. 267 �Prince [as Henry IV]. There is a devil haunts thee in the likeness of an old fat man….Why dost thou converse with that trunk of humors, that bolting-hutch of beastliness, that swoll’n parcel of dropsies, that huge bombard of sack, that stuffed cloakbag of guts, that roasted Manningtree ox with the pudding in his belly, that reverend vice, that gray iniquity, that father ruffian, that vanity in years? Wherein is he good, but to taste sack and drink it? Wherein neat and cleanly, but to carve a capon and eat it? Wherein cunning, but in craft? Wherein crafty, but in villainy? Wherein villainous, but in all things? Wherein worthy, but in nothing? II. Iv. 446-459 �Falstaff [as Hal]. I would your Grace would take me with you. Whom means your Grace? Prince [as Henry IV]. That villainous abominable misleader of youth, Falstaff, that old white-bearded Satan. II. Iv. 460-463 �Falstaff [as Hal]. Prince [as Henry IV]. My lord, the man I know. I know thou dost. Falstaff. But to say I know more harm in him than in myself were to say more than I know. That he is old, the more the pity, his white hairs do witness it….If sack and sugar be a fault, God help the wicked! If to be old and merry be a sin, then many an old host that I know is damned. If to be fat be to be hated, then Pharaoh’s lean kine are to be loved. II. Iv. 464-474 �Falstaff [as Hal]. No, my good lord: banish Peto, banish Bardolph, banish Poins; but for sweet Jack Falstaff, kind Jack Falstaff, true Jack Falstaff, valiant Jack Falstaff, and therefore more valiant being, as he is, old Jack Falstaff, banish not him thy Harry’s company, banish not him thy Harry’s company, banish plump Jack, and banish all the world! Prince . I do. I will. [A knocking heard.] II. iv. 474-481 �Falstaff. Dost thou hear, Hal? Never call a true piece of gold a counterfeit. Thou art essentially made without seeming so. II. iv. 491-492 �Prince. . . . This bed-presser, this horsebackbreaker, this huge hill of flesh— Falstaff. . . . You starveling . . . You bull’s pizzle . . . you vile standing tuck! II. iv. 241-245 (pizzle = penis) (standing tuck = upright rapier) �Hotspur. O Harry, thou hast robbed me of my youth! V. iv. 76 �Hotspur. O, I could prophesy, But that the earthy and cold hand of death Lies on my tongue. V. iv. 82-84 �Westmoreland. A thousand of his people butchered; Upon whose dead corpse there was such misuse, Such beastly shameless transformation By those Welshwomen done, as may not be Without much shame retold or spoken of. I. i. 42-46 ����Hotspur (to his wife, Kate). And when I am a-horseback, I will swear I love thee infinitely. II. iii. 100-101 ����The Prince spieth Falstaff on the ground. Prince. What, old acquaintance? Could not all this flesh Keep in a little life? Poor Jack, farewell! I could have better spared a better man. O, I should have a heavy miss of thee If I were much in love with vanity. Death hath not struck so fat a deer today, Though many dearer, in this bloody fray. Emboweled will I see thee by-and-by; Till then in blood by noble Percy lie. Exit. V. iv. 101-109 �Falstaff riseth up. Falstaff. Emboweled? If thou embowel me today, I’ll give you leave to powder me and eat me too tomorrow. ‘Sblood, ‘twas time to counterfeit…. Counterfeit? I lie; I am no counterfeit. To die is to be a counterfeit, for he is but the counterfeit of a man who hath not the life of a man; but to counterfeit dying when a man thereby liveth, is to be no counterfeit, but the true and perfect image of life indeed. The better part of valor is discretion, in the which better part I have saved my life. V. iv. 110-119 �Hotspur. I better brook the loss of brittle life Than those proud titles thou hast won of me. V. iv. 77-78 �Prince. Emboweled will I see thee by-and-by; ‘Till then in blood by noble Percy lie. Exit. Falstaff riseth up. Falstaff. Emboweled? V. iv. 108-110 �He dost raise up himself whom he himself hath filled, and death he swallows up in the victory. --Augustine, Confessions, X. xxviii. xxx ��If I tell you a lie, spit in my face, call me horse. �The first humane principle of orals: forswear thin potations and addict yourselves to sack. �What is honor? ��������In the world ye shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world. --John, 16:33 �Falstaff. Zounds, I am afraid of this gunpowder Percy, though he be dead. How if he should counterfeit too, and rise? By my faith, I am afraid he would prove the better counterfeit. Therefore I’ll make him sure; yea, and I’ll swear I killed him. . . . Nothing confutes me but eyes, and nobody sees me. Therefore, sirrah [stabs him], with a new wound in your thigh, come you along with me. He takes up Hotspur on his back. V. iv. 120-128 �����������������Do thou amend thy face, and I’ll amend my life. � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. 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Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Petrich, Louis Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2019-04-12 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource A signed permission form has been received stating, "I hereby grant St. John's College permission to make a copy of my typescript available online." 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Title A name given to the resource Eros and Dionysus in Aristophanes and Euripides Description An account of the resource Audio recording of a lecture given on May 3, 2019 by Frank Pagano as part of the Dean's Lecture and Concert Series. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Pagano, Frank N. 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 Santa Fe, NM Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2019-05-03 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Meem Library has been given permission to make this item available online. Type The nature or genre of the resource sound Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource mp3 Subject The topic of the resource Aristophanes. Thesmophoriazusae Euripides. Bacchae Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Pagano, 2019-05 Friday night lecture https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/eb46bd946dda54dec85c3c9375f4c0eb.pdf ff002e00789a96ac73c9d585e56f72b7 PDF Text Text Volume V Spring 2019 2017 Alumni Association Award-Winning Essay Joseph M. Keegin Conversation with Paul Ludwig Zachary N. Greene The Joy of Recognition Moral Intuition in War and Peace In Defense of the Literature Segment Emily Langston Joseph Hiles Patrick Burley Louis Petrich Five Poems Three Essays on Euclid Master’s Essay Précis Conversation with Jim Phillips A Journal of the Graduate Institute at St. John’s College �COLLOQUY St. John’s College, 60 College Avenue, Annapolis, Maryland Volume V: Spring 2019 Editorial Board Jordan Poyner, Editor-in-Chief Andrew Dorchester Zachary N. Greene Jaime Marquez Colloquy is a biannual publication of the Graduate Institute at St. John’s College in Annapolis, Maryland. Subscriptions are free. To subscribe or update your subscription, please send an e-mail to colloquy@sjc.edu with the subject line “Subscription.” Address correspondence to: Colloquy, The Graduate Institute at St. John’s College, 60 College Avenue, Annapolis, Maryland 21401. Students, tutors, and alumni of St. John’s College and the Graduate Institute are encouraged to submit manuscripts in PDF or Word format by email to colloquy@sjc.edu. Writers are encouraged to discuss proposals with an editor prior to submitting their work. The journal also accepts submissions of poetry, artwork, and photography. Please include your name, contact information, and the title of your work with your submission. Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in essays or interviews do not necessarily reflect those of St. John’s College or Colloquy. ©2019 Colloquy, St. John’s College. All rights reserved. Reproduction in whole or in part without permission is prohibited. �TABLE OF CONTENTS Letter from the Editors .................................................................................... 3 MATHEMATICS The Joy of Recognition Emily Langston, Tutor ............................................................................... 5 A Student’s Apology: Confronting Myself in the Study of Geometry Jaime Marquez ............................................................................................. 10 The Architecture of Reductio ad Absurdum Alejandro Ehrenberg .................................................................................. 17 Does Euclid Start with Axioms? Derek Foret .................................................................................................. 22 LITERATURE 2017 Alumni Association Award-Winning Essay: “Home” Joseph M. Keegin ........................................................................................ 45 In Defense of the Literature Segment Patrick Burley.............................................................................................. 71 Moral Intuitions in Tolstoy’s War and Peace Joseph Hiles ................................................................................................. 101 MASTER’S ESSAY PRÉCIS On Education: A Reading of Hegel’s Phenomenology of Spirit Sean Foley..................................................................................................... 75 Hope in Paradise Lost Samuel Peregrin ........................................................................................... 79 The Flaying of Marsyas Maxwell Anthony ........................................................................................ 81 �CONVERSATIONS Paul Ludwig, Tutor .............................................................................................. 30 Jim Phillips ........................................................................................................... 84 POETRY Louis Petrich, Tutor .............................................................................................. 59 Maxwell Anthony ................................................................................................. 83 Patricia Harden .................................................................................................... 112 Artwork by Andrew Dorchester, Patricia Harden, Adam Hurwitz, Jaime Marquez, and Brandon Wasicsko Jaime Marquez �Letter from the Editors Dear Readers, We are thrilled to present the fifth issue of Colloquy. In this issue we have attempted to represent a portion of the serious thinking and questioning that goes on in the Graduate Institute. As has been demonstrated in previous issues, there are many ways to make that attempt. It seems worth noting that while essays predominate in this issue, this may not follow in the long term. Colloquy is so new a publication as to admit of trial and experiment. The goal—ambiguous though it may be—is to continue the conversation. In that spirit, much of the writing in this issue relates to the conversation which is held every fall at the Graduate Institute in Annapolis. Our essays address the subjects of the courses offered for the fall semester: literature and mathematics. Our hope is that this issue might serve as a companion to conversations past and a catalyst for conversation in the future. For our next issue we are soliciting writing from students, tutors, and alumni that make use of the Great Books to investigate questions of political, philosophical, and theological import. Conversations change of course—yet the form of education one participates in at St. John’s suggests that the greatest conversations are peculiarly perennial. –The Colloquy Editorial Board 3 �Jaime Marquez 4 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 The Joy of Recognition Emily Langston Emily Langston is Associate Dean of Graduate Programs at St. John’s College in Annapolis, Maryland. The following is excerpted from her welcoming speech to the new class of Graduate Institute students starting in spring of 2019. It’s been my practice to write these addresses based upon something that I’ve read with Graduate Institute students over the past semester. And so, this afternoon, I find myself giving a convocation address based on what we read together in the tutorial of the Mathematics & Natural Science segment of the Graduate Institute program. I’m happy to have a reason, even if self-imposed, to address this topic. First of all, this tutorial is one I love to lead, and it raises questions that I enjoy thinking about. Secondly and perhaps surprisingly, it often ends up being one of the favorite tutorials even of students who initially approached it with some trepidation. It’s this second point that is the starting point for my reflections today. I’ll start my investigation with the name, specifically with the word “mathematics.” Our English word “mathematics” comes from the Greek noun, ta mathemata, which in turn is related to the verb manthano, meaning “I learn, I perceive, I understand, I know.” Ta mathemata, then—or in English, “mathematics”—are the most characteristically knowable things. But, as I have already suggested, this is certainly not everyone’s experience of math. I often have conversations with students who tell me that they are “not math people,” that they “just don’t get math.” They are frustrated because they have encountered this subject that still today is seen as a model of the knowable, as unknowable and even alien. Still—thanks to the intellectual curiosity without which you wouldn’t be here—most of those who are initially hesitant give it a try. And, as we begin working our way through Book I of Euclid’s Elements, students almost invariably begin to 5 �Emily Langston / The Joy of Recognition find that somehow these things are “knowable” after all. As I suggested, seeing the joyful response of students to this realization is one of the reasons I love leading this tutorial. So can we say more about how this great thing comes to pass? The fact that mathematics claims to be about the “knowable,” and the fact that we (and I do mean all of us!) can experience it as knowable, begs one of the most profound questions that we confront in every segment of the Graduate Institute curriculum. What is it to know? What do we mean when we say something is “knowable?” The question is placed squarely in front of us by Plato’s dialogue Meno, the one text I know we all have in common; at the very heart of this dialogue we find a mathematical example functioning as a case study in what it is to learn and to know. The specific demonstration is hard to follow without my drawing lines in the sand for us to examine, though I assure you it repays every bit of attention you can give to it. In the absence of any sand, I will lay these details aside and move to what I take to be one of the important lessons Socrates would have us glean from the example; the myth he recounts claims—and the demonstration involving the slave boy is meant to illustrate—that learning is really recollection of something that was already within us. We see it in the dialogue as, at various points, Socrates asks the boy questions about the diagram he is drawing. And the boy, though he has never been taught geometry, is somehow able to look at the diagram Socrates sketches and then turn to something within himself to make a judgment about what has been proposed. The example makes the case that learning involves something like recollection and recognition. Let’s take this suggestion back to the material of the Mathematics tutorial, to our reading of Euclid’s Elements. Perhaps the place where Euclid most explicitly demands that we check something within ourselves and give our assent is in the postulates. The very word “postulate”—which comes from the Latin postulare, meaning to ask or pray—makes the case clear. The claims made in the postulates are not proven to us; we are simply asked to 6 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 accept them. Like the slave boy, who consults something within himself when questioned about various candidates for the side of the double square, we consult something within ourselves when confronted with Euclid’s fifth postulate. The postulate tells us that two straight lines angled so that they are sloping toward one another will eventually meet. Now it’s hard to say exactly what within ourselves we consult when we are asked to assent to the truth of this statement, or where it comes from. Whether it is there due to some previous experience or there inherently I will not here speculate. But surely it is not something that Euclid taught us; it was there already. I will venture a bit further and claim that it seems to be something in the structure of our visual imaginations; and that the act we perform when we ask ourselves whether this postulate is true is more an act of visualization than of reasoning. If I sweep my inner eye far enough along these straight lines that are angled toward one another, I seem to “see” that they must meet. Our recognition of the congruence between what Euclid proposes and what we see with the inner eye is very satisfying and feels like a type of knowledge. “But wait!”—those of you who have taken the tutorial may object. This emphasis on recollection and recognition may work well enough with the postulates, which are a special case. But what about the material with which we actually begin the Mathematics tutorial—not Euclid’s postulates, but his definitions. To take the first definition, it doesn’t seem true to say that we “already know” a point is that which has no part. Going on to definition two, I certainly can’t visualize a line that is “breadthless length.” Does it make sense to say that in seeking to understand these we refer to our spatial imaginations? Based on my own experience, and on conversations with students over many years, I’ll try to describe part of what happens in the encounter with Euclid in the math tutorial: somehow—as we examine the possibilities determined for us by the definitions, common notions, and postulates, and move proposition by proposition through book one of the Elements—a spatial world is described which seems to coincide with our 7 �Emily Langston / The Joy of Recognition own lived and intuited experience of space. By this I mean that the clumsy attempts at straight lines we draw on the chalkboard, and the only somewhat more precise ones that mark the edge of the board, behave (always within the limits of their gross imperfections) like Euclidean “breadthless lengths” would behave. The love affair that almost every student has with Euclid springs partly from the fact that Euclid takes our own sense of interior and exterior space and re-presents it to us for our delighted recognition. I’m making everything overly simple, of course. There are elements to understanding a Euclidean proposition that even analogously are not “seeing.” And even in Book I, Euclid presents me with truths that are confounding to my visual imagination; for example, in Proposition 36, we learn that the two longer sides of a parallelogram can approach each other indefinitely, yet never meet, as the shape is stretched between two parallels. In the end however, contemplating such unexpected truths does not violate our sense of space; rather, it adds an additional element of satisfaction to our reading of Euclid, as we realize that we can learn more about the structure of space than we would ever have seen ourselves by moving step by step through the propositions. Our intuitions about space, and our reason, can inform each other. I hope you all now have at least an inkling of what I’ve been trying to describe; these moments of recognition and increased understanding— when we “see” what Euclid means and agree that space we know really is like that—are moments of exhilaration. These things were in us all along, even in confirmed non-math people! It’s hard to know why we never realized this before. Perhaps it’s simply that no one asked us the right questions. But one of the defining characteristics of Great Books, in the Mathematics & Natural Science segment and in every part of the program, is that they do ask the right questions, and by doing so engage us on many levels. 8 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 As I draw this talk to a close, I’ll note that the coherence we sense between the space Euclid describes and the space we perceive within us, and within which we perceive, is not simply a source of joy—it is a source of wonder, wonder that this should be so. Many students confront this wonder most directly when, somewhat more than halfway through the tutorial, we leave behind the world of Euclid and enter the world of the Russian geometer Nicolai Lobachevski. In ways I won’t attempt to describe, he disrupts entirely the easy alliance I’ve sketched between our study of geometry and our intuitions about space. And yet, this doesn’t keep us from moving forward with Lobachevski, reasoning carefully from one step to another in a sort of space which feels like it is quite definitely not my own. The fact that we can do this opens the door to a host of new questions: about space; about the relationship between knowing and seeing; and about the nature of knowledge itself. I won’t begin to explore these questions here, but I look forward to exploring them throughout the program with many of you. Welcome to the conversation; Welcome to the Graduate Institute! Jaime Marquez 9 �A Student’s Apology: Confronting Myself in the Study of Geometry Jaime Marquez1 Listening to Ms. Langston’s convocation for the Spring 2019 term,2 I felt an unsettling nostalgia about my introduction to Euclid’s geometry. Ms. Langston noted that students “are frustrated because they have encountered a subject that, though still today is seen as a model of the knowable, seems unknowable and even alien.” She also notes that “one of the defining characteristics of Great Books, in the Mathematics and Natural Science segment and in every part of the program, is that they do ask the right questions, and by doing so engage us on many levels.” Furthermore, she asks “What is it to know? What do we mean when we say something is ‘knowable’?”3 Hearing that I realized that to ask what are the right questions is precisely the right question I need to ask: what have I learned from studying geometry at St. John’s? And what does Ms. Langston mean when she says that the Great Books engage us “on many levels”? I would have been more successful dealing with aliens than dealing with my insecurities. Indeed, prior to taking the Math & Natural Science Tutorial, I saw myself as having a solid training in mathematics (calculus, real analysis, statistics, matrix algebra). So I figured that a bunch of triangles would not pose a challenge to me. But in my initial dealings with Book I of Euclid’s Elements, I failed miserably to understand the life of Euclid’s propositions: if we’re just dealing in lines without equations, why is it so hard to get the point? To be sure, the steps, when considered individually, 1 This material is based on an essay that I prepared for Ms. Leah Lasell’s Math & Natural Science Tutorial, Summer 2018. 2 Ed. note: the relevant portion of Ms. Langston’s address precedes this essay. 3 Italics are my own. 10 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 are not difficult to understand or memorize. To me, the problem was that the proofs lacked a mathematical flow: why is the first step in the proof this one and not that one? I saw alternative first steps and I could not discern why they were deemed irrelevant. It felt as though Euclid had tried several starting points, found one that worked, and discarded the others without giving a sense of why. So my initial perception of the propositions in Book I was akin to opening a cookbook with recipes for increasingly elaborate dishes. Proving that I could “cook” such dishes involved memorizing the steps and the sequence. But asking why do I mix this ingredient with that one in this order seemed beside the point: follow this recipe and you will get the dish. All of this changed with Proposition 37 [Fig. 1] Proposition 37: Let ABC and DBC be triangles on the same base BC and in the same parallels AD and BC. I say that the triangle ABC equals the triangle DBC. That these two triangles are equal to each other is not obvious. I could visualize moving points A and D along line EF and not being sure about whether the proposition was correct. Furthermore, the proposition Fig. 1 rests on the assumption that the line EF is parallel to the line BC. So? Did we not prove that already in Propositions 27 and 29? I asked myself. But I chalked my confusion up to the lack of equations or something similar. As we continued proving the rest of the propositions, the fragility of the proof for the parallel postulate became part of our daily conversation: did Euclid actually prove this postulate? I would be lying if I were to say that Postulate 5 was suspect the first time I read it. To me, the postulate said that water is wet. 11 �Jaime Marquez / A Student’s Apology We were not the first to be exposed to this fragility. The Greek philosopher Proclus, who lived in the fifth century CE, noted that Euclid’s fifth postulate was “plausible but not necessary.”4 Indeed, Proclus’s second guessing of Postulate 5 was based on his being aware of the “relation of the hyperbole to its asymptote.”5 Furthermore, as Florence Lewis indicates, there are drafts of the Elements in which Postulate 5 appears as a proposition immediately before Proposition 29 and it is possible that Euclid decided to state it as Postulate 5 because “he could neither prove it nor proceed without it.”6 This observation is not about nitpicking or semantics: if Postulate 5 is incorrect, then much of the subsequent architecture of Book I becomes plausible but not necessary. One may ask: so what if this proposition is just plausible but not necessary? For a mathematician, that is the difference between being alive or not. Indeed, Lewis notes that: In the course of centuries the minds of those interested became clear on one point: they did not wish merely to know whether it was possible to substitute some other assumption for Euclid's, though this question has its interest; they wished to know primarily whether exactly his form of the postulate was logically deducible from his other postulates and established theorems. To change the postulate was merely to re-state the problem.7 Having read these views, I began to wonder why Euclid was included in the program: it must be a mistake. So with my arrogance in full swing, I began crafting mental emails to someone in charge with suggestions about changing the curriculum. And to bolster my case, I went through the Greenfield Library’s archives to check the arguments that were used in the design of the curriculum. And I found a transcript of the discussion at the 4 Florence Lewis, “History of the Parallel Postulate,” The American Mathematical Monthly 27, no. 1 (1920): 16-23. 5 Ibid., 16. 6 Ibid. 7 Ibid., 18. 12 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 curriculum meetings in 1965, a discussion that is fresh, enlightening, and humbling. Yes, there are arguments against the inclusion of Euclid but the counterarguments from Ms. Brann and Mr. Klein are compelling: Ms. Brann: Most of our students have some sort of vague notion of, to use a technical term, an "axiomatic system," when they come to us. When we begin to study Euclid, one of the interesting topics to discuss is whether this is what they had heard rumors of in high school, whether Euclid's "system" is intended to be an arbitrary axiomatic system in the sense they imagined. Well, three years intervene, and we finally come to the senior year when we begin to study modern axiomatics, and it turns out that in fact there exists a world of difference between an Euclidean axiom and an axiom of Hilbert. And though it is in fact the case that we don't do justice to the ramifications of modern axiomatics, I think that we do do justice to the difference between the approaches. And this does make many students feel that they want to go on with the modern side.8 Mr. Klein: I would like only to interject one thing. Euclid is not only a great mathematician. He is also a compiler. There are certain things in Euclid which are incredibly valuable for the student. For example, the simple thing that he hits upon at the very beginning: the fifth postulate. Why is it a postulate. Why is it not a definition? This is of incredible value. To make a student understand that this is not a definition, that on this is based nonEuclidean geometry, the possibility of non-Euclidean geometry, is a great thing.9 Notwithstanding these observations, I kept reading Lewis, who notes that: Gauss's meditations were leading him through tedious and painstaking labors to the conclusion that Euclid's fifth postulate was not deducible from 8 “Seminar Discussion on the Place and Extent of the Teaching of Mathematics in the Liberal Arts Curriculum,” Saint Mary’s College, March 25th–March 27th, 1965 (REF LD 4821.S277), 34-35. 9 Ibid., 41. 13 �Jaime Marquez / A Student’s Apology his other postulates. The minds of those not conversant with the intricacies of the problem might easily rush to the conclusion that Euclid's geometry was therefore untrue, and feel the whole structure of human learning crashing about their ears.10 I wanted to know more about this crashing. So I took Proposition 47 to be the Queen of Book I and worked my way backwards, identifying the chain of propositions that supported it and are connected to Postulate 5 [Fig. 2] My rendering of that chain is as follows (where P stands for postulate and I stands for Proposition):11 Whether Proposition 47 is merely plausible matters not just to mathematicians, but also to anyone who makes a living out of measuring distances on flat surfaces. Indeed, Proposition 47 is one of the most elegant proofs of Pythagoras’s theorem. So if Postulate 5 is unnecessary, then Euclid’s claim to relevance would vanish. This exercise allowed me to visualize a potential mathematical crash and gave me comfort: if it is tough for Gauss, then it is tough for everyone, especially me. Relief came finally when we moved on to Lobachevski’s work. I liked this portion of the curriculum the most because the proofs of his theorems rely on logic with a compelling and selfsustaining flow, instead of the memory that Euclid’s proofs require. Furthermore, Lobachevski’s work relies on conventional mathematics: operators 10 Fig. 2 Lewis 19. To be sure, Proposition 29 influences propositions not shown here and, as a result, they too become plausible instead of necessary; I ignored these other propositions to focus on Proposition 47. 11 14 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 (+ and =), negative numbers, and notation for angles—my kind of thing. But how does Lobachevski’s work relate to the life of Postulate 5? By allowing it to be “uncertain.” Specifically, his Theorem 16 shows that, in his new geometry, the definition of parallel lines does not demand the angle conditions of Proposition 29: lines that are “pinched” need not cut.12 And as Lewis indicates: The question, Is Euclid's fifth postulate logically deducible from his other postulates? is answered by showing that the denial of this postulate while all the others are retained leads to a geometry as consistent as Euclid's own. […]Thus was Euclid "vindicated" in an unexpected manner. Knowingly or not, the wise Greek had stated the case correctly, and only his followers had been at fault in their efforts for improvement.13 Not content with what Lewis says, I consulted Hardy. This is what he has to say about Greek mathematics: The Greeks first spoke a language which modern mathematicians can understand: as Littlewood said to me once, they are not clever schoolboys or ‘scholarship candidates’, but ‘Fellows of another college’. So Greek mathematics is ‘permanent’, more permanent even than Greek literature. Archimedes will be remembered when Aeschylus is forgotten, because languages die and mathematical ideas do not. ‘Immortality’ may be a silly word, but probably a mathematician has the best chance of whatever it may mean.14 Alright, I accepted that I had to suspend whatever arrogant image I had of myself and read Euclid’s propositions as though I was in front of him—all else absent. 12 Lobachevski, N., 1891, The Theory of Parallels, Proposition 16. Lewis, 19. 14 G. H. Hardy, A Mathematician’s Apology (Cambridge University Press, 1967), 81. 13 15 �Jaime Marquez / A Student’s Apology I try to apply this lesson to all the other courses I take at St. John’s, but, needless to say, I always fail. There are moments, however, in which the very act of trying brings unexpected moments of intense joy that are too brief. In a study group on the economist John Maynard Keynes, I came across the following observation from Keynes: The classical theorists resemble Euclidean geometers in a non-Euclidean world who, discovering that in experience straight lines apparently parallel often meet, rebuke the lines for not keeping straight—as the only remedy for the unfortunate collisions which are occurring. Yet, in truth, there is no remedy except to throw over the axiom of parallels and to work out a nonEuclidean geometry. Something similar is required to-day in economics.15 Keynes is as central to economics as Euclid is to geometry. And being the Keynesian that I am, my study of geometry at St. John’s gave me an appreciation for the depth of Keynes’ view that I never had and, via a curriculum discussion about the parallel postulate held more than fifty years ago, I joined a conversation that has lasted more than two thousand years. In the process, I was also given an inkling as to what Ms. Langston meant about by being engaged on many levels (I hope). Jaime Marquez is a Senior Lecturer at the John Hopkins School of Advanced International Studies and a student in the Graduate Institute at St. John’s College in Annapolis, Maryland (AGI’19). He was a Senior Economist on the Federal Reserve Board from 1983 to 2013. 15 John Maynard Keynes, The General Theory of Employment, Interest, and Money (1935), Book I, Chapter 2, Section IV. 16 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 The Architecture of Reductio ad Absurdum Alejandro Ehrenberg If we were to imagine Euclid’s mathematical system as a medieval cathedral, reductio ad absurdum proofs would primarily play the role of flying buttresses. They provide vital support to the whole edifice, and do so from the exterior, where the absurd gargoyles and chimeras live. Why does Euclid use this kind of reasoning instead of restricting himself to direct argumentation? What do reductio proofs contribute to the system developed in Book 1 of the Elements? In order to explore these questions it is pertinent to begin by observing how a specific reductio proof works. Proposition 6 is the first one to be demonstrated in this manner. It is the converse of the immediately preceding proposition. Proposition 5: In isosceles triangles the angles at the base equal one another, and, if the equal straight lines are produced further, then the angles under the base equal one another. Proposition 6: If in a triangle two angles equal one another, then the sides opposite the equal angles also equal one another. These can be expressed more schematically thus: Proposition 5: If a, then b. Proposition 6: If b, then a. It is tempting to assume that, once Euclid has demonstrated the truth of Proposition 5, Proposition 6 only exists for the sake of a complete exposition, but is really redundant. However, after some thought, we can 17 �Alejandro Ehrenberg / The Architecture of Reductio ad Absurdum see that the fact that a entails b does not automatically mean that b entails a. But it is important that it does entail it. Euclid is building an edifice where each level rests upon the previous one: if any given part is weak, the whole is liable to collapse. As an illustration of this, consider the following definition: a square is a four-sided equilateral figure. That this statement is true does not imply that its converse is also true. A definition like this would not do for Euclid’s system of truth, which cannot be built on definitions that read one way are true but read the other are false. Reversibility must be explicitly established. Thus, by way of reductio, Proposition 6 proves that if in a triangle two angles equal one another, then the sides opposite the equal angles also equal one another. The foundation is now firm; the mason can build on. The following question arises: could Euclid have achieved this end through direct argumentation? Put differently, must the reversibility of a proposition be proven by reductio? In this regard, looking at Book 1 as a whole is helpful. A pattern is discernible: almost all converse propositions are demonstrated by reductio. Nevertheless, there are notable exceptions— for some converses, like Proposition 48, are proven directly. If the pattern suggests the existence of some kind of necessity between converses and reductio, the exceptions point to the possibility that argumentation by reductio is, rather, a deliberate choice by Euclid. But surely there is another way to explore the question at hand. By turning our attention once again to Propositions 5 and 6, we will find support for the view that the use of reductio is in fact a carefully considered choice. Proposition 5: If a, then b. Proposition 5 Absurd: If not a, then b. Proposition 6: If b, then a. 18 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 Proposition 5 Absurd can only exist when its converse is proven by reductio; direct argumentation is incapable of bringing it out. By means of this intermediate step, Euclid shows that the negation of a does not entail b. This reaffirmation of Proposition 5 is important. If b were the consequence of a and also of not a, then the system as a whole would lose consistency and become weak. Therefore, proving converses through reductio achieves, economically, a double end: to establish reversibility and to ensure consistency. Euclid goes outside the structure he is building, into the region of absurdity, and creates a flying buttress—Proposition 5 Absurd—with which he reinforces the cathedral. Having examined how a particular reductio proof works and perceived the double-end it serves, we are now able to explore more generally the use of reductio throughout Book 1. But first, a word on the book’s structure is in order. There seem to be two parts to it. The first deals mostly with lines, angles, and the relations between them; the universe where this first half takes place is triangular. Then, quite suddenly, at Proposition 29, a change occurs. From here on, Euclid’s focus is directed at parallels and, specifically, parallelogrammic areas. It is worth noting that Proposition 29 is where Postulate 5 is first employed. This proposition is the peak of the first part of Book 1; the second peak, the whole book’s climax, is Proposition 47. Taking this separation into account, we can see that most reductio proofs in Book 1 appear before Proposition 29, which is itself a reductio. Out of a total of 11 such proofs, 9 belong to the book’s first half. Now, if it is true that the purpose of the first half is to be able to enunciate Proposition 29, and that Postulate 5 is required for this purpose, then the following speculation becomes plausible. Euclid knows that Postulate 5 is especially hard to accept: we have no way of knowing, for sure, that the two straight lines in question, when produced indefinitely, will really meet. It is a shaky supposition. He therefore invests a considerable amount of his energies 19 �Alejandro Ehrenberg / The Architecture of Reductio ad Absurdum reaffirming Postulate 5 before actually using it in Proposition 29, which in turn is used copiously in the second part of Book 1. It is worth remembering what Postulate 5 begs the reader to accept: That, if a straight line falling on two straight lines makes the interior angles on the same side less than two right angles, the two straight lines, if produced indefinitely, meet on that side on which are the angles less than the two right angles. In the first half of Book 1, there are 4 propositions that refer directly to Postulate 5: 17, 27, 28, and 29. With the help of Proposition 13 and Definition 23, we can reformulate and reduce them as follows: 17. If two straight lines cut by a third straight line meet, then the interior angles on the side on which the lines meet are less than two right angles. 27. If a straight line falling on two straight lines makes the interior angles equal to two right angles, then the lines will not meet when produced indefinitely. 28. If a straight line falling on two straight lines makes the interior angles equal to two right angles, then the lines will not meet when produced indefinitely. 29. If two straight lines cut by a third straight line do not meet, then the interior angles on the side on which the lines meet are equal to two right angles. The table below presents them in a schematized fashion; it also notes each proposition’s relation to Postulate 5, and whether it is a reductio proof: Postulate 5 Proposition 17 Proposition 27 (reductio) and Proposition 28 Proposition 29 (reductio) If a, then b If b, then a If not a, then not b If not b, then not a Converse Negation of the premise and conclusion that compose Post. 5 Negation of the premise and conclusion that compose the converse Proposition 27 in the process of being proven by reductio reads thus: if b, then not a, which is demonstrated as being absurd. This flying buttress 20 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 reaffirms Proposition 17: b entails a; b does not also entail not a. Not as clear is the statement conjured up by the reductio in Proposition 29: if a, then b, which, in effect, is Postulate 5. In the context of the demonstration, it is absurd because it contradicts the given. Why Proposition 29 goes back to Postulate 5 and not to a previous proposition is a question to be explored in a subsequent essay. For our present purposes it suffices to observe how Euclid has thoroughly reinforced Postulate 5. It has been firmly laid, and supported by a flying buttress. Hereupon the book’s mood changes markedly. Before Proposition 29, Euclid proceeds cautiously, laboriously, even tediously. Now the author seems much more at ease. In the second half of Book 1, Euclid is concerned with the upper part of the cathedral: he is dealing with stained glass and clerestories and spires. Sometimes it seems he is almost doing magic. He cuts up parallelograms into smaller figures and shifts them around to prove things amazing and counterintuitive. In Proposition 47, the two upper squares simply pour into the hypotenuse square; it can only happen thanks to line AL, parallel to BD or CE. And it Fig. 1. Illustration of the proof for can only be described as Proposition 47. beautiful. A native of Mexico City, Mr. Ehrenberg (AGI’19) will offer an oral defense of his Master’s Essay on Don Quijote in spring of 2019. 21 �Does Euclid Start with Axioms? An Attempt to Not Confuse Circles for Lines Derek Foret I can still vividly recall my favorite picture book as a child. It was a story of a little girl, Lily, who said one thing, and one thing only: why? To the frustration of her father, she never felt satisfied with any answer given, forcing him to always resort to saying some variation of “it just is.” One day, while they are at the park, a UFO lands, and aliens announce that their leader wants them to destroy the planet. Lily, of course, asks why. Eventually, the aliens can only say, “he just does.” They realize this is not a satisfactory answer and go back home to think things over. Lily saves the day. However, it is unclear if she even understood that she did. First of all, her dad has to put his hand over her mouth once the aliens announce they are letting the humans live. And at the end of the book, her dad tells her that he was proud of her at the park today. She says what she always says, and he replies, “I just was, Lily. I just was…”1 Euclid brings out the inner Lily in all of us. He compels us to ask why whenever he makes a claim, and we expect an answer from him based not on faith but on what has already been proven. By referring to previous statements, logical inquiry both assumes and guides us towards some sort of beginning. However, herein lies an inherent problem, as a beginning, by definition, has nothing previous to it. According to our modern conception of mathematics—by which I not only mean the technical conceptions of modern mathematicians, but also our popular conception of mathematics 1 22 Lindsay Camp, Why?, illustrated by Tony Ross (Anderson Press, 1998). �Colloquy / Spring 2019 today—we generally think of this beginning as the axioms given. We see these axioms as similar to the definitions, postulates, and common notations that we find at the beginning of Euclid’s Elements2 (what this essay will refer to as the “prelude” for shorthand). We do not want to “have to trust [Euclid’s] word” (10/25/18)3 that any of his steps are justifiable. But simply writing down the prelude does not justify the parts of the prelude, at least not in the same way as Euclid’s propositions are justified through proof. Some great mathematicians have attempted to address this issue. Famed logician and philosopher Bertrand Russell perceived it when he first encountered Euclid. He described encountering the Elements as “one of the great events of my life, as dazzling as first love,” yet, further clarifying, called that love “not unalloyed. I had been told that Euclid proved things, and was much disappointed that he started with axioms. At first I refused to accept them unless my brother could offer me some reason for doing so, but he said: ‘If you don’t accept them we cannot go on.’”4 This bothered Russell so much that it “determined the course of [his] subsequent [mathematical] work.”5 This work culminated in the Principia Mathematica, an attempt to at least reduce mathematics to assumptions made by logic itself (if not to de-axiomatize the field completely). Due to Kurt Gödel’s incompleteness theorems, published a quarter century after the Principia, the mathematical community today now considers Russell’s desire to be 2 All references to Euclid are from the following edition: Euclid, Elements, ed. Dana Densmore & trans. Thomas L. Heath (Green Lion Press with Sheridan Books, 2017). 3 These dated references refer to my personal class notes: Math & Natural Science Tutorial, Fall 2018, Emily Langston, tutor. 4 Bertrand Russell, The Autobiography of Bertrand Russell, vol. I (George Allen & Unwin, 1967), 67. 5 Christopher C. Leary & Lars Kristiansen, A Friendly Introduction to Mathematical Logic, 2nd ed. (Milne Library, 2015), 44. 23 �Derek Foret / Does Euclid Start with Axioms? tenable for smaller systems that make up parts of mathematics6 but not the whole of it. However, modern mathematicians appear to be at peace with this fact. My textbook defends axiomatic mathematics as a way to be “up front about our need to make assumptions […] [acknowledging] our axiom set in every deduction that we write.”7 This is a proper, respectable, and true concession, and it does appear to solve the issue for mathematicians. However, I do not see how this concession would solve the issue for Lily. If concessions satisfied her, her dad would not have had to cover her mouth when the aliens announced they were not going to destroy the planet. As Lily appears to be the personification of logical inquiry itself, this points to a fundamental problem: Gödel may have proved that Lily cannot be fully satisfied, but Gödel does not make Lily go away. Whether or not we are able to truly satisfy her remains a question. Euclid, for his part, gives off the impression that he possesses less of a care for rigorous axiomatization than modern mathematicians. The rest of this essay will explore the question of whether or not this impression is tied to a method for satisfying Lily that differs from (and so may satisfy her more fully than) the modern approach. The assumption that Euclid starts with axioms includes the assumption that mathematical logic is linear. By that, I mean that it travels from a beginning (the axioms) to an end (a final proposition). In this case, the postulates of Book I become different points on a unidirectional line. We tend to think of this structure as logical, which obscures the fact that it is also natural: its linear sequentiality is analogous to how we see the events of our own lives as a narrative throughout time. This is the assumption my 6 For the sake of intellectual honesty, a version of Euclidean geometry is one of these parts. For the mathematics, see: Marvin Jay Greenberg, “Old and New Results in the Foundations of Elementary Plane Euclidean and Non-Geometries,” The American Mathematical Monthly 117, no. 3 (March 2010): 198-219. 7 Leary, Introduction to Mathematical Logic, 44. 24 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 class made when we began our final discussion on Euclid, where we seemed to agree that “we have gone from a point that has no part [Definition 1]—or at least from describing an equilateral triangle [Proposition 1]—to the Pythagorean theorem [Proposition 47]” (10/25/18). If a set of axioms is a foundation of admitted assumptions to which all logical inquiry eventually leads back, then Proposition 1 is certainly not an axiom, as it is both proven and seems to rely on prior concepts (specifically Definition 15, Postulate 1, Postulate 3, and Common Notion 1). So our candidates for what Euclid’s real axioms are lay in what we commonly agree is his beginning: the parts of the prelude. The very fact that we were unsure if we started with Definition 1, the beginning of the prelude, or with Proposition 1 reveals that we were uncertain if the former is an axiomatic starting point. Part of this uncertainty stems from Densmore’s editorial preface, which provides a helpful, although limited, historical argument against treating the prelude as axiomatic: she casts doubt on the authenticity of the prelude due to inconsistencies between the early printed editions in both form and content. However, we do not even need to turn to scholasticism to see that “Euclid may not have been trying to cover the foundation exhaustively in these sections.”8 Putting aside the postulates for now, this is clear in various ways from the content of the definitions and common notions. First, the definitions do not seem to be intended to be a potential student’s first encounter with geometrical ideas. While we may be able to agree that we can understand what it means for a line to be “breadthless length” (Definition 1), it is nigh impossible to explain that understanding without referring to concepts we learned before Euclid. Similarly, the common notions (unlike the postulates) do not read like rules being agreed to but general knowledge being drawn upon. For example, the notion that a part cannot be greater than the whole feels stronger than the claim that if the 8 Dana Densmore, editor’s preface to: Euclid, Elements, xvi. 25 �Derek Foret / Does Euclid Start with Axioms? interior angles on one side of two lines cut by a transversal add up to less than two right angles, those two lines will meet on that side (Postulate 5). The fact that we find potential definitions and common notions in the propositions that are not listed in the prelude (i.e., “parallelogram” in Proposition 35 or the Common Notion 2 equivalent for greater things in Proposition 17) only makes this feel more likely. Most importantly, Euclid never explicitly cites the prelude. While he certainly refers to the concepts found in it, he never refers to them as if they had already been agreed upon. He never writes anything along the lines of “let us draw a circle according to Proposition 2,” or, at the very least, “let us draw a circle as stated in the postulates.” A modern reader naturally supplies this kind of thinking: if one does not remember why one is able to assert something, one can flip back to the relevant earlier proposition or part of the prelude. There is a difference, however, between modern readers justifying a logical step to themselves and said logical step being justifiable as such. Logical justification seems to speak to what Socrates says in the Meno, that “true opinions […] for so long as they stay put, are a noble thing and accomplish all [manner of] good things. Yet […] they aren’t worth much until someone ties them down by means of a calculation of cause.”9 However, true opinions are not made true because they have been adequately tied down; we know this because we are able to tie down false opinions as well. Euclid makes no indication that he thinks of the definitions and common notions as rules that we agreed cannot be broken. Perhaps this stems from a realization that this does not make them Lily-proof: one could easily ask why they cannot be broken. Euclid appears to take a different approach by making the question of why self-answering. For example, he implicitly uses the notion of a circle in Proposition 1 to argue that two radii are equal. If 9 26 Plato, Meno, trans. Robert C. Bartlett, 97e-98a. �Colloquy / Spring 2019 Lily were to ask why this were true, she would either be confused as to why they are both radii, which a good tutor could clear up, or she would be asking why are the radii of a circle equal? The question answers itself: because they are radii of a circle. Asking why again creates an infinite regress, an absurdity. Euclid explicitly uses another concept of absurdity in his arguments by reductio ad absurdum (as we refer to them). In Proposition 6, for example, he gets to a place where he seemingly violates Common Notion 5, as, due to his assumptions, his logic has lead him to say that a part (the triangle DBC) is equal to a whole (ACB) [Fig. 1]. He does not explicitly argue something like ‘this goes against Common Notion 5, which we agreed to, and so we have a contradiction’. Instead, he simply says: “the less [is equal] to the greater: which is absurd.”10 Now, whether or not Common Notion 5, as written, could be violated without absurdity is a question that would require an exploration of mathematics that deals with infinity.11 However, if one only looks at the notion as it is referenced in Proposition 6 specifically, a violation would always be absurd: “the less” (DBC) cannot be equal Fig. 1. Triangle BAC from to “the greater” (ACB) due to the nature Proposition 6. of the two triangles. Turning to what we previously put aside, our final candidates for axioms are the postulates. While I do not have the space to offer a full analysis of 10 Euclid, Elements, Book I, Proposition 6. One might be able to argue, for example, that there are “as many” even numbers as there are counting numbers, as (2, 4, 6…) can be listed next to (1, 2, 3…). So a part of the counting numbers is equal to its totality. But whether or not infinity can be a whole is unclear. 11 27 �Derek Foret / Does Euclid Start with Axioms? them, we can compare them with the definitions and common notions. Like the definitions and common notions, they are never explicitly referenced. Unlike them, however, they do not seem Lily-proof in the same way, as they do read more like rules being agreed to,12 and absurdity cannot be invoked. Lily could ask why, if the interior angles of two lines cut by a transversal add up to less than two right angles, those two lines must meet on the side of those angles—Lobachevski certainly did. Yet the way Euclid implicitly invokes the postulates may share a similar self-answering character as seen above. He states logical claims that rely on the first three postulates in the same way as he states claims that rely on previous QEFs:13 by using the Ancient Greek third person imperative, translated as let x be.14 This is a complicated notion as the third person imperative does not have a precise equivalent in English.15 Other than Euclid, God uses it in the Septuagint translation of the Bible (e.g., “let there be light”). The connection it offers is that “the mere act of speaking suffices to bring about the truth of what is being said.”16 This points to a notion of selfexplanation: that the why of the action is found in the action itself. If fully achievable, this would allow Lily to be completely satisfied by virtue of doing the proposition. Is there a similar notion underlying the last two postulates: Postulates 4 and 5? Euclid does not use the third person imperative when referring to their 12 Proclus defines a postulate as a “statement [that is] unknown and nevertheless [...] taken as true without the student’s conceding it.” Robert B. Williamson, translator’s introduction to Selections from Nikolai Lobachevski’s Theory of Parallels, published by the Graduate Institute at St. John’s College. 13 Euclid uses two different kinds of proofs: QEFs (i.e., quod erat faciendum) when something is being constructed and QEDs (i.e., quod erat demonstrandum) when something is not. 14 For example, Euclid invokes Postulate 2 by saying “let the circle BCD be described” in Proposition 1 and invokes Proposition 1 by saying “let the equilateral triangle DAB be constructed” in Proposition 2. 15 Cf. Alfred Mollin & Robert Williamson, An Introduction to Ancient Greek, 3rd ed. (University Press of America, 1997), 69. 16 Ibid. 28 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 concepts, but perhaps Postulates 4 and 5 somehow relate to the QEDs in a similar way to how Postulates 1–3 relate to the QEFs. But how do the QEDs differ from the QEFs? Last semester, it appeared that my class had our greatest moments of clarity when discussing QEDs. For example, after we went through Proposition 21, we not only felt like we knew how, logically, the proposition was true, but also why, in a way, it was true. We felt like we could see why an interior angle like BDC would be greater than an extreme angle like BAC [Fig. 2] for any triangle we considered. These moments are exciting and pleasurable: they feel similar to an encounter with something overwhelmingly beautiful. Fig. 2. Triangle BAC from Proposition 21. Turning back to the Meno, Socrates labels the process of tying down as “recollection,” which he previously identified as “searching and learning as a whole.”17 In these moments, logic seems to shift from a line to the commonly used metaphor of a circle.18 We remember something that we already knew: our searching, or asking why, becomes our learning, or our answering of why. It is here, then, that we can perhaps imagine Lily fully satisfied. It is as if she could ride a Euclidean carousel round and round again, eventually both asking and answering in the same place. Derek Foret (AGI’20) is a student in his second-semester at the Graduate Institute and a Senior Resident for Student Activities on campus. He is a Kenyon College alumnus interested in ancient political philosophy and its clash with science and mathematics. He can be reached at dforet@sjc.edu. 17 18 Plato, Meno, 98a & 81d. Cf. Aristotle, Physics, Book VIII, Ch. 9–10. 29 �A Conversation with Paul Ludwig Zachary N. Greene Zachary Greene: Where did you go to graduate school? You went to a couple different places, right? Paul Ludwig: I graduated from [The University of] Tennessee– Chattanooga in 1987, and then I went to Oxford, England, studied English and Italian literature. You could do both in a weird combo. In one way it was not graduate school, because it was a second bachelor’s, which at the time was not so unusual. Oxford was considered so much greater, on a different plane, that a lot of North Americans would go to do a second B.A. Partly it was a bit of an indulgence too. But it was considered a pretty good degree. Actually at the time—I’m not sure if they are still doing this, but their B.A. turned into a master’s if you waited for three to five years, or something like that. If you went through another ceremony, it automatically converted as if it were so great to begin with. The education was better than what I was used to, though some Ivy League students complained about it. It was a really good overview of English and Italian Literature. ZG: Complained in what sense? PL: Well, they hated the weather and called Britain “Fantasy Island,” a TV show at the time—Mr. Roarke and Hervé Villechaize. They thought what they were getting was not as sophisticated as at Harvard, although I think they got a lot more personal attention because it was pretty much one-onone with your tutor, usually two different tutors once per week each. Other than that, there wasn’t too much supervision, you just got two stacks of books and were told to write an essay on each stack, and that’s what you did each week for two years. 30 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 ZG: Was there less emphasis on dialogue at Oxford comparatively to St. John’s? PL: Yes, you didn’t tend to talk to your fellow students except outside of class. Now, there was good dialogue, but it was a bit more like the Higher Gossip [documentary film series] that you guys are pursuing now. It was not quite serious discussion. They used to joke that you shouldn’t talk shop. The joke was that you didn’t want to show you were making any effort at Oxford. Very aristocratic in that way, it was a holdover. I’m sure it has changed, I hope it has changed. The really smart people didn’t have to study at all, they got a first-class degree without any effort whatsoever. I suppose there really were some people like that, but most people who did well had to study fairly hard. My tutor told me this at the time—I don’t know if I really knew anybody that did this, so perhaps it was a holdover from a holdover, but what you would do is study late at night when no one knew. After the partying was done and you had already hit the bars, you would do your studying and you would do something to your face to look like you hadn’t been up all night, a hot pack or a cold pack or something on your head. Then you would surprise everybody at the end because there was just one exam at the end—no continuous assessment. So when you scored really high on that, everyone would be like, “Wow, he did no work at all,” and that would blow people’s mind and it would be the gold standard. — My conversations with tutors were wonderful and conversations with fellow students were very good. There was a lot of leisure, it was more leisurely than St. John’s or any American university. Although I didn’t do the party thing at a state school, despite going to a state school, so perhaps I wouldn’t know. Most people at Oxford were studying their pleasures, and pleasing themselves in rather sophisticated ways. I didn’t do everything everybody did, but there were odd things. The students would want to have a ball, and they would get money to have a ball, which is a dance as I 31 �A Conversation with Paul Ludwig thought of it. But as part of the ball, they would pay for a festival of rides to come into the quad of the college with roller coasters and such. Drinking was pretty intense, but they seemed to have been at it longer. At Tennessee–Chattanooga, people would get utterly smashed. At Oxford they would drink slowly, and get more and more smashed as the night went on, but this could go on for quite a while. You could ride these things for hours, so I don’t think they were doing so badly overall. It wouldn't be the lifestyle that I would choose for myself in perpetuity, but at the time it was great. — After Oxford, I did Social Thought at Chicago for the Ph.D. In between I got a master’s because I realized you can’t get a job in social thought. As my advisor put it, “You didn’t come here because it's the best social thought department in the U.S., you came here because there are no other social thought departments in the U.S.” I realized I wasn’t going to get a social thought job, and decided I would major in classics. I retroactively applied for a master’s in classics because I had taken a lot of classics classes with those professors. So I had a B.A., B.A., M.A., Ph.D., and that was finally it—it was enough. ZG: What was your focus when you were at the Committee on Social Thought? PL: Greek and a little bit of Latin was a focus. I had really gone there because I was very interested in Allan Bloom’s book The Closing of the American Mind, and I really wanted to study with him. That meant political philosophy, whatever that is. Not every political science department would even consider it a thing. I had those two foci, and neither one was a hot ticket to any professional life post-graduation. I got interviews at both political science departments and classics departments, so it wasn’t utterly self-destructive. From the pure learning point of view, both were fantastic. The classics department was very interesting indeed. Although I didn’t get 32 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 a whole lot out of political science as a department, there were Allan Bloom, Nathan Tarcov, and Ralph Lerner, who was my initially assigned advisor. And I never took proper advantage of all he had to offer, which was just idiocy on my part. There were wonderful visiting people like Clifford Orwin, who did Thucydides one year, which was the best course I really ever took. Then Leon Kass was there, and he taught the book of Genesis and the Nicomachean Ethics. These were two or three quarter-long courses, kind of line by line, wonderful philosophizing about those things. You, Mr. Interviewer, happen to be in my Nicomachean Ethics class right now, and a lot of what you are hearing is partially digested, regurgitated stuff I got from Leon Kass’s wonderful teaching. I probably can’t even express it properly, I’m probably feeling it more than you’re hearing it. ZG: Our Nicomachean Ethics class is probably the best class I’ve taken at St. John’s College. How in-depth we go into the text and how much we go to the Greek, which provides such a valuable context. This is actually one of the questions I wanted to ask you about. Why should a Graduate Institute student take Ancient Greek? Many of our [students] are out of school now. What is the point of taking an ancient language? It’s somewhat impractical to a certain extent. PL: Right, most aren’t going to grow up to be classicists. Well, a few of you are, people have been getting interested that way. ZG: There are some students in our class that are incredible at the language… and there are others that are not. But we see the value in going to the original language of a text, and considering it in that form, which provides something important to the conversation. PL: It feels strange for me to be an advocate plugging Greek [in the Graduate Institute] because I spent so many years as a tutor neglecting it. Not really knowing—well, I guess I knew on some level [that] the Graduate Institute did something like freshman language. It was odd: it was taught 33 �A Conversation with Paul Ludwig by tutors I didn’t know well, who were themselves part-time tutors that did not always teach in the undergraduate program and were not well known to their colleagues. There tended to be a little anti-Graduate Institute prejudice, that somehow it was a lite version of the Program, and we didn't always put the very best tutors in the Graduate Institute. There might have been real reasons for that, it started out as a way to offer accreditation to teachers in the Annapolis area. You guys who are from someplace else who move in here to do the [graduate program]—I think there were always some like that, but you guys have become a majority. In a way, you’re the students I’m most focused on at the moment. I think that prejudice against those kind of teachers was a little silly, and the classes were always very mixed. In Jon Tuck’s Higher Gossip interview, he mentions he got to the Graduate Institute somehow early in his tenure here, and he was teaching a poem by Matthew Arnold or some such poet, and one of the students was the Andrew Dorchester 34 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 leading expert in this poetry who had just wanted to come out of retirement to do St. John’s. That was pretty early in the history of the Institute, and so my sort of prejudice was just ridiculous. I hope all that is safely in the past. I got interested in teaching Greek [in the Graduate Institute] many years after I taught other [classes there], I had taught several. My best friend at the college, Mrs. Mera Flaumenhaft, was teaching it quite recently. She told me, “You've really got to think about this because these students really want to be there. They come an extra night each week.” Maybe you guys have put a number on it, can you quantify how much harder it is to do the Greek preceptorial? ZG: I started the program in the summer, which was fairly intensive. I did the Republic with Mr. Pastille, and I had to put in a lot of hard work. The Republic is not an easy text. Comparative to starting Greek in the fall and now finishing it in the spring, I’ve had to put in at least twice as much effort. The second class per week adds quite a bit, especially when you consider translations, exercises, and trying to do some more on top of that to try and cement things. How easy is it to cement Ancient Greek in a semester? Well, it’s not. It’s quite a bit of extra work. PL: To have students with that kind of dedication, as opposed to the undergraduates—all freshmen have to take ancient Greek—I’ve had wonderful undergraduate students of Greek, but to have the dedication of a small cohort of four or five great graduate students who really want to be there makes a very different sort of conversation. I think in some ways tutors don’t realize what’s out there. You guys all come with an undergraduate degree, and for a lot of you this is a stepping stone to something else. A blind tutor might think, “Oh they’re just stepping on us to get to something else.” But come on! That’s the kind of thing we want. That we are your springboard means there’s something really good here that you’re not going to get somewhere else. It shows in the quality of discussions, and the speediness in which you go through Mollin and Williamson. You do as much or more philosophizing about language as the 35 �A Conversation with Paul Ludwig freshmen do, but getting through it in a semester as opposed to a semesterand-a-half or even longer, or not getting through it... I’ve actually finished all twenty lessons in the two cycles I’ve taught it, which is very unusual. Even when Mrs. Flaumenhaft taught the Greek preceptorial, she never got past twelve or fourteen lessons. For us to be able to do twenty, and have the better part of a semester to just concentrate on one book—at last, we can actually see it in the original, not every passage, but the important ones. It makes a big difference. — I’m now teaching classics at the graduate level, in a sense, which I wasn't doing before, which makes me better from a professional point of view. In addition to just learning a heck of a lot more because you guys have more experience in the world. Very important in a work like the Ethics: young people can’t learn it. Aristotle himself would say you’re wasting this on the freshmen, that's just a necessary glitch of the Program. A difference in the Graduate Institute is that you study things topic by topic, so you remember Aristotle while you’re reading Hobbes. As opposed to the chronological way the undergraduates do it. In a way, they've forgotten more than you’ve ever known. What would be the right way to put it? There’s a balance there, both ways have their virtues, but each also has its vice. So for me, it has been wonderful, I can’t imagine a better way of spending two nights per week. ZG: Currently, we are in the second semester and we are reading the Nicomachean Ethics, as we’ve mentioned. You are currently working on a piece on civic friendship, which is towards the end of the book. We haven’t actually gotten there yet. Would you care to tell us about that? PL: It’s weird I got started on this almost sixteen years ago. I had done my dissertation, which became a book, on eros and political philosophy, and whether they had anything to do with one another—I claimed they did. It seemed like a natural move to go on to another type of love, from eros to 36 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 philia. It also seemed like a quick kind of thing—I know a lot about emotions already, this could be a quick rip-off. It became much more involved very quickly. I’ve gone through many phases of feeling I knew something, then realizing I was ignorant, then scratching my way back to thinking I knew something, and realizing “wow, talk about ignorance, glad I didn’t publish that!” Learning remains a dialectical process, even if you’re doing it by yourself with either dead or distant interlocutors. — The whole need in America for civic friendship, the terrible polarization in a way and really hostility that we are living through now—all that came later. I joke that if I had been smarter about this and got this out earlier, I could have prevented all that and we would be fine. So in a way, events have caught up with the book and made it more relevant than when I first started. I think political communities are forms of friendship. They don’t look like it because they pale in comparison to personal friendships, which have the sheer emotional affect you feel for your close friends. I think we feel something analogous to that with fellow citizens without realizing it. In a way it’s comparative or contrastive: think about how you feel about fellow citizens compared to how you feel about foreigners, even if they are living in our country. We aren’t quite as worried about what they are like. Various hatreds have arisen against immigrants, and that's unfortunate. In that regard, people are currently worried about what they are like. But, in general, we are much more worried about what our fellow citizens are like, we want them to be a certain way, we want them to have certain attitudes— pro-liberty, pro-equality—because these are assumptions of our regime. We share our regime, a shared cooperative scheme, and if people don't believe in equality, they don't fit into our regime as well—same if they don't believe in liberty, and I realize these are in tension in the current liberalconservative divide right now between valuing one more than the other. But if you don't value both, you make an odd fit in America. To that degree, 37 �A Conversation with Paul Ludwig worrying about immigrants who maybe don't share those regime assumptions is legitimate. — Mostly I think we are worried about each other though. We wouldn’t worry that way if we didn't favor each other. That’s the kind of worry you have about your brother, he’s not holding up his end. “Dad, he’s not doing his part! I’m doing the mowing every week!” That's a kind of favoritism—you aren’t worried about your neighbor, you’re worried about your brother. From that, I think there is room to build and see each other as sisters and brothers, which is what Aristotle said too. It’s natural, there’s something natural here, but there’s also something artificial, especially the modern state. Within the modern state, there are tons of things that are still natural. It’s very natural to feel concerned about your fellow citizens, what they believe, what they ought to believe, how they are faring, who is persecuting them. A test case of that would be the pathetic story of someone’s job that has been outsourced, you immediately feel outraged. “You did that to an American!” I think we all feel that. I think it’s time for theorists, especially, to admit that, not just to concentrate entirely on self-interest, which is great, it motivates us, it does a lot of things. I would never think that self-interest is not a great political motivator. Civic friendship is another, and they are in some forms of tension. When people pursue their self-interest utterly, to the detriment of their fellow citizens, a price is to be paid and they lose the political support of their fellow citizens. I think cosmopolitan elites have lost a little political support recently, that’s what we call populism. Really a lot of the passions that I see as being out there, and somewhat misguided or even debased today, are civic friendship that doesn't know its name. At an earlier stage, it dared not speak its name. — Liberalism wanted to get us away from civic friendship. Classical liberals— such as John Locke, Thomas Jefferson—they lived through an era of robust civic friendship, both in theory and practice. I think the wars of 38 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 religion had already showed them that it was very dangerous, civic passions can be fanatical, especially when connected to religion, but in other ways too. Geography, maybe? We have a little bit of fanaticism about our border right now, on both sides. Those passions needed to be defused, so liberal theorists stopped talking about civic friendship for very good reasons, but we might now be ready for another corrective, moving back in the other direction slightly. ZG: Can a city without civic friendship be just? PL: We seem to be trying that experiment, don't we? “Let’s forget about civic friendship and just try to focus on justice.” As conceived as equal freedom, equal opportunity, or equal result, that would be the basis for justice. But I think the answer is “no.” Maybe it can be just without recognizing that it’s a civic friendship and without talking about it. I think liberal societies have always been civic friendships without recognizing it, without knowing it, and without calling it by its name. I certainly believe justice has undergone a manifold improvement since the liberal revolution, since Locke, Montesquieu, and give Hobbes his credit, and especially Machiavelli. That justly decried name! Without that revolution, the kinds of justice we enjoy today wouldn't be possible. — I think all through that period, civic friendship was always there, but people just slowly forgot about it as a thing and began to redescribe it as morality—therefore fitting [it] into justice itself, or even as patriotism. It just got redescribed. We may have now hit a limit on what we can do with a civic friendship that no one knows about. It’s just there, in the air, where people are breathing it without thinking about it. Maybe to move on from where we are now, we would need a more self-aware civic friendship. It seems we are pretty unlikely to associate it with religion again. I think maybe we’ve made that distinction. I hope religion stays private. I’m religious myself, but my hope is that it will remain a private issue and not 39 �A Conversation with Paul Ludwig become a political issue. Civic friendship could be just political, and not have to have that fatal connection, which is why I think it faded in modern theory to begin with. But I’m not sure if I’ve given you a strict “yes” or “no.” ZG: I think that was rather sufficient. Congratulations on the book, do you have a release date? PL: Thank you, about a year from now. Hopefully it’s all blown over by then, and it will be dated before it comes out. But somehow I doubt it. ZG: I’d like to ask you a question that we’ve been asking other tutors. What makes a great book? PL: Oof! ZG: I know, that’s a big question. PL: I think we’re so spoiled here with not having to set curricula the way all academics in all other departments are constantly battling about what makes a book worth reading, battling against other competing visions. We tutors have a lot of agreement because we are quite conservative of the canon. Though you guys may not realize it, tutors do deliberate endlessly about the Program. We are worried there might be better stuff out there, that we aren’t using or reading, or some stuff might have lost its zing or not be appealing to people. Since we have so much that's great, we want to make sure the things we are reading makes that connection for students. I think a great book often has a surface that will grip you. There’s also a certain authority it carries. For whatever reason, you usually know that other people think it's a great book, and therefore it has a claim on your attention. But each tutor definitely thinks he knows some books are great that other tutors don’t realize are great. ZG: What would those be for you? 40 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 PL: My favorite books are the comedies of Aristophanes, of which some are on the Program—The Frogs and The Clouds. People just don't know about a play like The Acharnians, that even most of my colleagues haven’t read. Each one of these plays displays something about Athenian democracy. The Assembly of Women—more people know about it. The Acharnians are mentioned by Thucydides, they were a faction—pro-war, and opposed to peace because their land was destroyed first when the Spartans invaded. The Spartan King Archidamus would destroy some crops when the Athenians retreated within the walls, but leave others undestroyed purely to create factions. It’s all there in Thucydides but in a nutshell, and then you see it played out dramatically in Aristophanes. It’s just marvelous. All of his plays are like that. The Knights is an oligarchic revolution, the knights being a higher class than the heavy armed [soldiers] or rowers. The highest of the three orders. They of course need a demagogue. It’s very relevant to today’s populism, where elites make compromises by using the demagogue to get their own way. — Leo Strauss has a wonderful lesser-known book—but very long and involved—of studies called Socrates and Aristophanes. Ostensibly to find out more about Socrates by reading Aristophanes’ take in The Clouds: partly fictionalized, but probably some type of trick mirror that's supposed to exaggerate features that are truly there. In order to understand The Clouds that well, with his usual thoroughness, Strauss reads every extant play with his wonderful political eye. Just reading that book in tandem with the plays is a political education of the highest order that I’ve ever come across. You can’t really understand what’s in Aristotle if you don't have that kind of cultural background, that kind of give and take, the street speech that's present throughout Aristophanes. I think a great book has to speak to us at our most profound levels. It has to tell us about something we really want, or [that] we come to learn through the book itself that is something we were really wanting all this time without realizing it. It has got that odd 41 �A Conversation with Paul Ludwig surface-to-core dialectic where there’s something superficially attractive about it beyond any cultural authority that it might have. But as you get deeper into it, there are these amazing turnarounds that happen. You think you’re going down a path, and it’s like, “Oh my gosh! That was at the end of this path, and I feel like I’m back at the beginning.” ZG: Is there anything you would like to see added or subtracted from the curriculum? PL: I obviously think it’s very good. I feel like the Math & Natural Science segment is the weakest, and I would probably subtract the social science at the end of it—the Freud and Jung. My own feeling, and I’m not sure I share this with a lot of tutors, is that psychologists have moved beyond Freud. There were intentionally fraudulent aspects of his work. He wanted a moneymaker and he found one. Some of those case studies, though they have incredible intrinsic interest (he knew how to interest me)—I think they weren’t well documented. I think he made some stuff up. I don't think there’s any reason to think that social science is truly related to math and natural science. If you really want to have a math and natural science segment, then you have to leave social science out, because to the extent it’s mathematized, it’s no longer true of politics, and to the extent it’s social, it can’t be scientific. Nature does play a role in politics—I guess I, more than others, am saying that when I say civic friendship is natural. There’s a big difference because you can’t be empirical in the same way about social matters. It would be nice to have a separate segment, but then it just becomes our Politics & Society segment. I would add more math and natural science, and create the space for it by taking out Freud and whatever else we do at the end. ZG: Do you think we should introduce more American authors into the Program? That’s one thing I’ve noticed that's rather lacking. You don't see many American thinkers in the Program, it’s very German influenced. 42 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 PL: Yeah, I think that's fair. Graduate students—but especially undergraduates—do go through this very long American saga, which isn’t quite the right word for it. But to truly call these “great books”—a collection of Lincoln speeches or the Supreme Court cases—they aren’t great books. We read them because of who we are. It's a little bit more of the American identity. It's a concession, I think, to the kinds of things that departmental academia has made vast concessions to. They’re way beyond an American identity, they want to read about a smaller identity, conceding that students should read more black authors because they have been kept down all these years, or more female authors. So, in a way, the Program concedes we have an American identity, and today we have to try to interest more and more people from all of the world in it, since we are getting a much more international student body than ever. It's a concession and a tension—you have to think: to what extent are these great books or just our great books. — There have been recent ideas bandied about, like having a whole American segment of both literature and politics for the Graduate Institute. It would be like the History segment: an option not everyone took. I might be in favor of something like that if it stayed optional. Everyone has to take their own path. Like you and I, who grew up in middle America, an American path to greatness is a true path to greatness. If I can come through the Lincoln–Douglas debates to understand something about greatness of soul, I’ll recognize it better when I come to Aristotle. We can bypass the Germans entirely. It's a little bit weirder to ask a Korean student to move through that, or get interested in American Civil War issues. That Korean student might say, “I’ve never discriminated against anyone on the basis of race anyway. The Japanese discriminate against me, but I like them,” or something like that. “Why should I have to go through it? Let me read Hegel so I can go to the fuller stuff directly.” There is a tension here, I’m not sure if I have any great answers. I wouldn’t change the Program just to add a bunch of Americans, by switching out Kant or something. 43 �Adam Hurwitz, Cosmic Petri Dish #1, 2018, Black ink and 24k gold leaf on heavyweight cotton paper. Color inversion with Adobe Illustrator. 44 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 The Alumni Association of St. John’s College funds a prize for a distinguished graduate preceptorial paper to be awarded at spring commencement. A prize committee, composed of tutors, will consider papers submitted by tutors of preceptorials in the previous spring, summer, and fall terms for this award. Award-winning essays are kept in the Greenfield Library. “Home,” by Joseph M. Keegin (AGI’18), is the 2017 award-winning essay. Home Joseph M. Keegin At the beginning of Virgil’s Aeneid, we find the surviving remnants of Troy floating across the Mediterranean in a mere handful of vessels after suffering defeat at the hands of the allied Achaean army. Waves toss the Trojan ships like a petulant child having a temper tantrum. The goddess Juno, angry about a prophecy foretelling the destruction of her beloved city of Carthage at the hands of the Trojans, petitions Aeolus to loose violent winds upon the already-tattered fleet. He complies. Violent gusts batter the Trojan galleys, breaking several against rocks jutting up from the sea floor. The sea-god Neptune notices what is happening in his domain and rages at the other gods encroaching upon his sovereignty: he dispatches the winds back to their mountain home, rebuking Juno and Aeolus for their impetuousness. The winds calm, the seas still, and the Trojan exiles drift ashore near Carthage. They sprawl out in exhaustion on the beachhead, run an inventory of their remaining equipment and rations, and start fires for their first meal on land since being forced from their home. Aeneas goes on the hunt, killing seven huge bucks: one for each vessel destroyed in Aeolus’ storm. The Trojans—“a remnant left by Greeks, harassed by all 45 �Joseph M. Keegin / Home disasters known on land and sea, in need of everything”—sorrow at their condition.1 However, there is hope. Aeneas, sensing the dejection gnawing at his men, makes a rousing speech: “You have neared the rage of Scylla,” he reminds them, “and her caves’ resounding rocks; and you have known the Cyclops’ crags; call back your courage, send away your grieving fear.”2 Then he reveals a second prophecy concerning the future of the Trojan people: “Through many crises and calamities we make for Latium, where fates have promised a peaceful settlement. It is decreed that there the realm of Troy will rise again.”3 Though driven from their homeland, the Trojans are fated for a new home. A new home is a strange idea. For us modern, twenty-first-century Americans, “home” is often merely a euphemism for “where you happen to live”: it is not uncommon to see billboards along highways advertising “New Luxury Estate Homes,” “1 & 2 Bedroom Apartment Homes,” “New Homes For Sale.” But for most of human history, home has been something familiar, old, and beloved—it precedes us, produces us, and remains a permanent part of the background of our lives even if we leave it for somewhere new. “You can take a boy out of the country,” they say— you know the rest of the story. Like Ithaca for Odysseus, home awaits your return, because one belongs to one’s home as much as one’s home belongs to oneself. Which is to say, home is as much a place—a fixed, bounded geographical zone with specific, identifiable qualities and details—as the stories, feelings, things, and—perhaps most importantly—people associated with it. Home is the place where you exist as a midpoint between a succession of generations into the past and a procession of generations into the future. “There’s no place like home” may be a cliché, but the saying 1 Virgil, Aeneid, Book I, lines 841-843. All citations refer to Allen Mandelbaum’s translation, published 1961 by Bantam Classics. 2 I.279-282. 3 I.284-286. 46 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 is common for good reason: home is a place and no two places are identical. No two homes are alike—maybe not even for the people who share them. What happens, then, when one’s home disappears? Not mentally, mind you: not as if the place that was once considered “home” is no longer thought of in those terms. What happens when home is destroyed? Where do you go when homecoming is impossible? Unlike many peoples whose names have been wiped off of the map and out of the register of human memory for all time, the Trojans are not simply homeless: they have a great destiny, foretold in prophecy. The destruction of their city provides them an opportunity. They are bound for a new home—not for an alreadyestablished, foreign city into which they will assimilate, but for a new place entirely. They will make a new home: Rome, a city fated to blossom into an empire. Aeneas will “establish a way of life and walls for his own people,” Jupiter reveals to Venus. And as for the following generations of Romans, the father of the gods will “give them empire without end.”4 This essay will explore home: what it is, how one comes into being, and what happens when home and world become identical. Troy and Beyond Troy was one of the richest and most beautiful cities in the world. The beautiful face of Helen was not the only thing that brought the Greeks to Trojan shores: the possibilities of plunder to be won from Priam’s city and well-wrought armor to be stripped from the bodies of dead Trojan soldiers were not overlooked. Even before Helen’s name is mentioned in the Iliad, Apollo’s priest Chryses relays to Agamemnon and Menelaus that “the gods grant who have their homes on Olympos / Priam's city to be plundered and a fair homecoming thereafter”—treasure was always part of the deal.5 4 5 I.369, 390. Homer, Iliad, trans. Richmond Lattimore, I.18-19. 47 �Joseph M. Keegin / Home Aeneas and the Trojans, even, did their best to rescue as much wealth from their city as they can: after landing in Carthage they draw from this collection to thank Dido for her hospitality. All the more horrible, then, to see it burned and pillaged. But along with some of the city’s riches, the surviving Trojans also escape with the city’s “household gods.” The night after leading the infamous wooden horse inside the city walls, Aeneas is approached in a dream by Hector: the dead warrior reveals the treachery of the Greeks to our sleeping hero, urging him to wake and flee the flames of his burning home and entrusting to him Troy’s “holy things and household gods.” “Take them away as comrades of your fortunes,” he urges, “seek out for them the great walls that at last, once you have crossed the sea, you will establish.”6 Aeneas wakes, arms himself for battle, and charges into the streets to make vengeance. There he meets Panthus, son of Apollo’s priest, desperately leading his grandson to safety while “in his hand he carries the holy vessels and defeated gods.”7 But the existence of these peculiar deities is also mentioned in the first stanza of the poem: once he founds Rome, Aeneas will have “carried in his gods to Latium.”8 And after landing at Carthage, as if to clarify just what “carry” means in this context, Aeneas announces to his disguised mother Venus: [...] I am pious Aeneas, and I carry in my ships my household gods together with me, rescued from Argive enemies; my fame is known beyond the sky.9 6 Virgil, Aeneid, II.400-404. II.437-438. 8 I.10. 9 I.534-537. 7 48 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 Unfortunately, the poem does not provide any direct description of what these “household gods” are. We learn about them only by way of what happens to them—in their being held, carried, transported across the ocean in the galleys of ships. We learn that Juno is horrified by their fated arrival in Italy. While leaving Troy, Aeneas—hands soiled with Grecian blood— begs his father to carry them. And much later, after landing on Italian shores, we see Aeneas make a tribute to the household gods of his friend and ally Evander. Every home has its gods, it seems: homes are not just where you and your family live, but also where your gods reside. And unlike the gods of Olympus, the gods of one’s home are fragile, transportable, and require a great deal of care. It is unclear what kind of role they play in the lives of mortals: we do not see any children of household gods, they never take human form, they do not intervene in human affairs. Rather, they are quiet elements of city life that seem to grant a sense of the sacred to affairs both domestic (Panthus and Evander seem to have their own household gods) and political (Aeneas carries the gods of Troy). When home is the home of your family and your gods, it could never just be a house—which is why none of the places the Trojans stop on their way to Italy could have been their new home. Many of the places are selfevidently unfit for consideration as the location of a new Troy: Thrace is a poisoned place, the site of an ancient crime; Buthrotum is a sad and hollow replica of the once-great Troy, now shot through with sorrow and anguish. Others, however, are less clear. When the Trojans found the city of Pergamum on the island of Crete, it seems a fitting enough locale for longterm habitation—that is, until a plague befalls the island. Aeneas, sleeping in bed one evening, has a vision of his household gods standing over him: they speak to him, reminding him of the promise of Italy, Rome, and the eventual empire over which his descendants will rule.10 Clearly, the gods 10 This is the only occasion in the Aeneid in which the household gods are personified and take on an active role. 49 �Joseph M. Keegin / Home are not happy in Crete. Aeneas orders the ships loaded and the sails raised, though a small group of Trojans stay behind. By the time they arrive in the comparatively hospitable Actium, it seems they have internalized the lesson taught at Crete: the Trojans spend a year there without founding a city, experience no hardship beyond the coldness of winter, and raise their sails for Buthrotum. What ruled out Carthage, however, is initially much more opaque. Though initially met with resistance and suspicion, the Trojans are welcomed with open arms by Dido and the Tyrians. Their fame has been preserved in a series of murals—whether painted or etched is unclear—at a shrine to Juno in the heart of the city, depicting both the heroic deeds and the suffering of Trojan warriors in their battle against the Greek invaders. Carthage has built a monument to Trojan courage. And with the heroes themselves suddenly landed upon the shores of their domain, the Tyrians are happy to offer them a home. “[Should] you want to settle in this kingdom on equal terms with me,” Dido promises them, “then all the city I am building now is yours. Draw up your ships. I shall allow no difference between the Tyrian and the Trojan.”11 So why did this offer not last? The simplest answer is that the gods would not allow it. Indeed, when Hermes approaches Aeneas to remind him of the prophecy, “he sees Aeneas founding fortresses and fashioning new houses.”12 Assimilation seems to be underway. It is only once the god reminds Aeneas of the promise made to his son that the Trojan leader’s mind changes. To remain in Carthage would mean to rob Ascanius of the glory for which he is fated. Carthage would provide a happy home for Aeneas and his people—but it could never allow for the glorification of Aeneas’ true heir. 11 12 50 I.805-809. Emphasis mine. IV.347-348. �Colloquy / Spring 2019 People in a place with their gods and their families: this is the basic recipe for a home. But if a people cannot simply assimilate with another to have a home, how do they make a new one? A New Troy When Jupiter reveals the fate of Aeneas to his mother Venus, the first item in his list of events is that he “shall wage tremendous war in Italy and crush ferocious nations”—only after which he will “establish a way of life and walls for his own people.”13 Rome will happen, but not without conflict. Prophecy does not imply simplicity or ease. But what is the function of war in the founding of a new home? Is it the whim of the gods? Or might conflict be a necessary part of founding a new home? The Trojans do not simply invade Italy. When they land at Latium they are initially extended a warm welcome by King Latinus, who just recently received a prophecy that his daughter will be married off to foreigners. “For strangers come as sons-in-law,” the voice of his dead father tells him—and as if to assuage any doubt about who these strangers might be, he recites the fate of the Trojans: “their blood will raise our name above the stars; and their sons’ sons will see all things obedient at their feet, wherever the circling sun looks on both sides of Ocean.”14 Rome, then, will begin with a wedding—but the wedding is the first source of conflict. Princess Lavinia has been all but promised to Turnus, the handsome and young king of the Rutulians, but Latinus’ prophecy inspires him to break off the engagement. Juno, furious at the prospect of a Trojan marrying into the Latin royal family, sics the Fury Allecto on the Latins: Lavinia’s mother 13 I.363-369. VII.123-127. The ghost of Creüsa, Aeneas’ wife who died at Troy, had told him of this fate before he and the survivors had escaped the burning city: in Hesperia, “days of gladness lie in wait for you: a kingdom and a royal bride” (II.1056-1057). 14 51 �Joseph M. Keegin / Home Amata and Turnus are roiled into bloodlust. The Rutulian king begins to muster an army against the Trojans. Allecto also helps sow the second seed of conflict, by leading Ascanius’ hunting dogs to the beloved stag of Tyrrhus and Sylvia. Ignorant of the stag’s privileged place among the Latins, Ascanius sends an arrow into his gut, killing him. It is a grievous betrayal of custom, but a custom that the Trojans could never have assumed—and which the Latins, being “a race of Saturn, needing no laws and no restraint for righteousness,” would never have told them.15 Sylvia and Tyrrhus rouse the Latin farmers to battle: wielding whatever sharp implements they can find—“anger makes a weapon”—they march against the Trojan encampments.16 First blood is drawn: Almo, son of Tyrrhus, is struck by an arrow from an unknown bow. Latinus rebukes Turnus and the Latin mobs and refuses to open the city’s Gates of War—but Juno does it for him, making the war official. War, however, requires alliances—and while the Trojan encampments are under siege, Aeneas sails down the Italian coast making pacts with friendly kings. The most notable of these is Evander, king of the Arcadians, who entrusts his son Pallas to Aeneas’ tutelage. By the time Aeneas returns to assist the Trojan ramparts, he has assembled thirty ships with ten generals from different regions of Italy. It is a motley crew, including gods and mermen, all willing to put their lives on the line for a Trojan victory. Marriage, the breaking of custom, and alliances: these are the preconditions for the Trojan-Latin war. The marriage of Aeneas and Lavinia, if carried out, would result in the union of two peoples—but beneath the kingship of one: the Trojans. Aeneas and his people would inherit a city, a place to live while raising the walls of Rome, and the Latins will become collaborators in Rome’s greatness. And as Rome is destined to be an 15 16 52 VII.268-269. VII.670. �Colloquy / Spring 2019 empire of law—one that is destined to “teach the ways of peace to those [they] conquer, to spare defeated peoples, [and] tame the proud”—the flimsy, ambiguous rule of custom must be overcome.17 A civilized people must be able to articulate the rules, especially to guests—a tradition of inexpressible cultural habits is no way to teach the ways of peace to others. Furthermore, the alliances crafted in battle set the terms of who will possibly be victor and who the conquered: not only do the Trojans win if Aeneas leads his army to victory, but so too would (for example) the humble and rustic Arcadians. The winning party will determine the character of the peace that takes shape afterward. The conquered will be subject to the laws and customs of the conquerors. Or so it seems, but the arrangement arrived at by Jupiter and Juno complicates this outcome. “For the Ausonians [Italians] will keep their homeland’s words and ways,” Jupiter promises his wife: ‘[...]their name will stay; the body of the Teucrians will merge with the Latins, and their name will fall away. But I will add their rituals and customs to the Ausonians’, and make them all— and with one language—Latins. You will see a race arise from this that, mingled with the blood of the Ausonians, will be past men, even past gods, in piety; no other nation will pay you such honor.’18 Jupiter turns this expectation on its head: the conquerors will take the name and language of the conquered. In a set of circumstances unique to the Trojans and Latins—and brought about only through divine authorship— Trojan and Latin customs will exist peaceably alongside one another. 17 18 VI.1136-1137. XII.1107-1117. 53 �Joseph M. Keegin / Home Neither will dominate. But again, customs are not laws, and the Latins are a lawless people: one may assume that the laws established by Aeneas will be binding for this whole new race. Which is, of course, a curious and new term. From the union of these two peoples we will get one: no longer understood as members of family groups (Teucrians descended from Teucer, Dardaans descended from Dardanus, and so forth), the people will comprise a unity of plurality—a many that makes one. And this transformation of peoples into a race is a reflection of another transformation that Rome will effect: that of home into world. World Before meeting with the Latins after landing on the Italian peninsula, Aeneas visited the Sibyl. A deranged priestess of Apollo, the Sibyl was granted the ability to presage the future by writing the fates on a collection of leaves, which are then frequently scattered by the wind. But Aeneas is not here to hear the future from the Sibyl. Rather, he requires her assistance in descending to Hades to visit the soul of his dead father, who will tell him the whole story of Rome. The Sibyl agrees, but Aeneas must first complete a few tasks: so Aeneas picks the golden bough, performs the required sacrifice for Persephone, and the two climb into the bowels of hell. When they reach Anchises in the Fields of Gladness, he is positively glowing: he stands in the middle of a grassy meadow, telling the story of his bloodline to the souls of his descendants. Aeneas tries to embrace him, but his arms pass through his body like a beam of light through a window. They share tears. Anchises then takes Aeneas on a tour of the blessed part of the underworld, the place where great souls live out their afterlives in joy and gaiety while waiting for the moment of their resurrection—when, a thousand years after death, they will drink from the river of forgetting and return to a bodily form on earth. Then he reveals to him the destiny of Rome: the events that will shape its legacy, the greatness it will win, and the men who will lead it there. “Rome will make her boundaries as broad as 54 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 earth itself,” Anchises says, “will make her spirit the equal of Olympus, and enclose her seven hills within a single wall, rejoicing in her race of men.”19 Rome, it seems, will be founded as a great city by great men—but then will become something different. Rome will eventually become the whole world. If what was said earlier about home has any validity—that home is a place— then this poses a strange problem. Just as home is a place, world is a space. Rather than being defined by boundaries, specificity, and uniqueness, the world is that space which transcends all places and inside of which all place loses its place-ness. A place is defined explicitly in opposition to the world: in full knowledge of the vastness of everything and the infinite array of possibilities, I settle myself in a small corner of existence whose contours become as familiar as the backs of my hands. I always live in a place, though I may have knowledge of the world: I can study astronomy, oceanography, and the histories of distant empires without ever leaving my home. Somehow, however, Rome will collapse these category distinctions: it will be an empire that spans the whole world, while remaining the home of a people in the form of a race. How does a transformation of this kind take place? It seems to involve two factors: people and history. World-as-home-forrace carries with it a different set of categories than place-as-home-forpeople: as seen before, the category “race” transcends of particular family groupings to constitute a higher-order unification of people. The Trojans and Latins will retain their separate customs and rituals, but will become one inasmuch as they are members of the same race—only this arrangement of people is capable of inhabiting a world-sized home. No longer will separate peoples inhabit far-flung cities ruled by hereditary kings: the boundaries of Rome and those of the world will become 19 VI.1034-1038. 55 �Joseph M. Keegin / Home identical, uniting all people under one banner. The whole world will have an order, then—and he who rules Rome rules it all. It is no accident that Anchises’ prophecy takes place over the course of many generations. The founding of Rome will not be like the creation of the heavens and earth (or even, perhaps, like the transformation of the Trojan and Latin peoples into a single race): it will not go from being a city to encompassing the entire earth in a single instant. Rather, though its destiny is already written, the transformation must play out in time. Successive generations will make their contributions to this transformation: specific human beings—people like Tullus, Numa, Romulus, Mummius, and Caesar—will be the agents of the change. Fate does not preclude active human participation in its execution. Gods may author what will happen, but humans must effect the execution. And inasmuch as human beings are beings in time, their actions are events in time—and the memory, or story, of these events constitutes history. At the end of the Aeneid, however, we do not see the founding of Rome. The bleeding body of Turnus does not provide us with a vision of Roman greatness that we expect after reading numerous instances of prophecy: it is hard to see how the merciless, vengeful slaughter of the Rutulian king is a beginning-point for the eventual Roman mission of teaching peace to the conquered, sparing the defeated, and taming the proud. Perhaps the execution of prophecy often plays out like the opening of the poem, where a band of confused refugees float around the Mediterranean, unsure of where they may land. But though we all long for a home, perhaps only a few are called to inhabit their own—and even fewer to see theirs to greatness. 56 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 Adam Hurwitz, Moon Graph #3: Star Birds, 2018, Black ink and 24k golf leaf on heavyweight cotton paper. 57 �Adam Hurwitz, Cosmic Petri Dish #3, 2018, Black ink and 24k gold leaf on heavyweight cotton paper. Adam Hurwitz’s work combines nature with mathematics using a distinctive minimalistic and playful technique. “We are all at once large and small, connected through the depths of our skies and seas, hearts and spirits,” Hurwitz suggests. Using Micron Pigma black ink, vivid colors, and negative space, his work explores the miracles of nature, love, and music under the lens of an artist microscope. 58 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 Five Poems Louis Petrich Waking I get how Love makes choice, her friends to mate: she sees and hears and touches them— directly. The man on words dependent, senselessly kept distant, wiser though than these, dispenses himself vainly, present not to please. Teach him to care— (his letters archives fill, to glory hers) and not to care— to face her sideways, lean of appetite and shoreline straddling— uncommitted. From sea come sounds to measure his up-heaving. 59 �Louis Petrich / Poetry Let’s see . . . he’ll write his Dear infrequently, applaud more circumspectly, too, hereafter, to make himself Love’s equal, sporting free, and take close by her beauties, satisfied. Yet still he wonders much the fitting thing to do with all the waked words fine that passed so nearly true between them heretofore, for light, you know, it bends through human mediums, too. Who thinks that — buy them, someone would— like new?— Give everything she treasured once before? Are women—covetous so—of their dreams, as twenty-thousand times would men try proof? If only such another he could meet, rehearsèd mettle, richly hers, he’d keep. 60 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 Love Lesson #5 Unshaped the things your words once licked adorn. Now what impression must I pray be mine? Give arrows lips to drink me, salt afloat . . . . Tap wat’ry cheers, no! Nails and teeth, my shore! Your thirsty arms in rainbow stretch between the world I’m in and yours! Untangle shy spurred feet from stirrups, horse let fly on wet stones, cobbled vain-discrete for leg-gripped ride! Not wont were you to be obtuse so. What? Must, like a leaf-blower, I speak? To pile for binding pages torn by heart’s fell winds? Yes, it pains me witness cast of smiles from mine on faces tilting rapture, yours to win, as entered at the wrong cue for my scene, I ever after play the man upstaged. Straight I’d give and hazard all that I do dream for one good go with you, and summon rage if going faints, as Shylock fills with hate, yet greedy less for years than lusty spill. No, I must not think you worse than those before, to slide rings back and forth ‘twixt present mates, or tricked to swallow, urged by absent core. Goal— keep heart-strings taut to penetrate the storm— writ arrows marry minds, spite bodies torn. 61 �Louis Petrich / Poetry Love Lesson # 7 You laugh— as if it shouldn’t matter, touching friends like us, that homeward heart lets absent body make defection: “Odysseus, thigh-scarred, mends goddess beds— his love’s not home removed.” As I flip eggs in bacon grease (no doubt, for breakfast, bacon’s good), I think about the fact you would a vegetarian become, if bacon were not blameworthy. So taste of tongue does matter make of life, and earth disfigures, even stars, which though God promised counted could not be, in time we learned to spy them out, and later, how to trace the infinite diagonals, which painters ply as energy that flows through arms and legs to guide eyes pleasured home. So when you smile that others matter not to bold partakers sharing breast of deep Athena’s confidence, yet hear confess of tangent doings that deserve a place in stories 62 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 trying matters no and yes. I’ve fewer owls to feather lettered night. I drink, still thirsty, morns their skimmed-off milk. Sun-freckled skin, yours, I’d have honeyed spread, unwrinkled shores for golden clime to taste!— Instead, by hornèd moon, your hairs uncurl with cries throat-pulled from deep pale stores of time laid waste. Your waves, strong manly bent, head home towards me on what’s not matter— ethereal laws, which go by other names, when convenient, for none knows really what explains how pain or pleasure alters cause or fate removes. Dark light misshapes the matter in my brain. A shot is heard in distant space: a duel for love is fought. One man drops down, his tall proud rival stands his ground, though she won’t style him now, and probably would never have, while the dead one she’d already tak’n, though without love. So why’d it matter them, to kill? 63 �Louis Petrich / Poetry Whose rift? What difference does it make to one who hears the shot far off, for he cannot remember if the woman he adored once loved him dear— or to what purpose— married she was then— and moreover, she died before she could of life make mess— hers, his, and others, when. So many reasons things that matter, like love, should not— it’s Chekhov who’s my master here— you must recall his Sisters Three, who would’ve died to get to Moscow, home, but making love before the way, they found—too late—they had to stay. He’s always letting fire somewhere a shot, whose bullet carries passions deeply fraught toward breasts that feel the same. Oh, doctor-taught, let’s exercise in friendship all the difference it makes to keep the sunny side up smart. 64 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 No stabbing turnings, then. No breaking heart. No yoke of misery to tear apart. (How gods at us have laughed.) No . . . oh wait, please, how could I have forgot, from Chekhov, his negative craft: if cheer you take from matters not, then life, your only, lacks the means to make a plot— much tease, but no end— except the stop of memories. 65 �Louis Petrich / Poetry Looking Back So why’d you drag us, of all places, here? If Egypt was your hole, why plains gone dry? You like to sit at gate and catch the cries, afraid to enter, marking faces dear. You look for beauty worthy all the rest. And now you hasten family God knows where, and all you say is this, “Don’t look back there!” If you had only stayed for old man’s test, you might have gotten all the herds and slaves, and we’d be looking at each other kind. At least they kept to what they wanted blind. How wonderful feels fire that bad behaves— it takes by force the strangers newly lacked— what guts—to know! For that—one last look back . . . 66 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 He makes faces she answers He’s stuffed with faces, works his head with practiced hands— some wonder wrought inside must perplex out —it’s born! Cute secrets smile in smooth text voice . . . Look there: your said beloved— ‘s come under the man-babe’s morn. To satisfy the day’s new cravings, I spy on screens for words she leaves behind, of plot turns— fear and sorrow kind— Now really! Here now! His-my-love-is-yours! Present laughter take, and all else becalm. She words you—with here’s and now’s— she words you ply time’s surface balm. Night-mined words make rough return: confess me the force who crushes your heart that feeds your green eyes with pulse mine to yearn. Sharpened steal, your dreams! Facts, like gun-start, wake! 67 �Louis Petrich / Poetry We stand the faceless man, the nameless occupier whose deft hands knead and staff lifts higher the sky, that loneliness stead less inside our friend’s fair spirited mess. Yet faces, friended ours, who friend to bed, our thoughts imperil, eyes intern. Still, friends in common hold all things. What? So mated round, do heads each turn look up? So gripped between, will hearts not reprehend? Let’s make compare: in speaking, cooking sup, at doubles tennis, drinking, watching feats, the Holy One in worship, fighting free, these things partake most well in common, yes! so why not make love better— best!— by three? Try her, he can—the sweetness of life— since none can taste her long. Yet pause: no wife or children’s voice to smother in pretended kiss, there’s stuff to fear, in ear his song. The students slake him, all agree, 68 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 and lover does he claim his specialty, whose course of music much he plays in order (motion tossed) to find behind irreverent borders women ever to and fro across, obeying no ruled mind save dancing hearts come hither faces, parts moral, bowing— of course, in time. She asks me to reflect her distant light his way, belike the moon she reckons by— another picked god’s creature, spelled: her altar, phasing bright, inscribes before the fixèd mark of stars— amazing me thus far: to bastardize—as if I could—our sky! Biology— this only word she leaves behind, undeleted mine, this underlying risk of life, as brief as red, and masterful— but listen . . . logic, kindly towing: Don’t you know, dear friends, I place you top my list nearly of missed things? Oh, do not forget facts! If she’s the mind to sport for flings, 69 �Louis Petrich / Poetry and wants us kept in view’s collection, while court she pays to body’s pacts, remain you may, who feel not racked, so keep she far away from me— to make believe her days and nights turn like the moon’s in monthly circuit, that I may dream the features of her face— just like the moon’s— come round to shine in pace earth bound— one mind, to trace. In darkness lies far-sided face . . . Obsessive watching! Tell me why I waste. The skies bejewel emptiness apropos the piercing holds her wand’ring eyes patrol. Louis Petrich is a tutor at St. John’s College in Annapolis, Maryland. 70 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 In Defense of the Literature Segment Patrick Burley When St. John’s graduate students meet, there is a question that seems to be commonplace after the initial introductions are made: what segments are you going to take? St. John’s does, of course, encourage graduate students to take all five segments—and many students do—however, it is not uncommon that other students only take four. Although options each semester are limited, the Literature segment is presented as an option each fall. During my time in the Graduate Institute at St. John’s, I have heard mixed reviews regarding the Literature segment. Some students seem eager to pursue it, while others appear to be completely disconcerted by the prospect of reading Chaucer, a Shakespeare play, or English romantic poetry. Many students say that the Literature segment lacks the rigor that other segments provide and feel as if literature is mere child’s play compared to an intense text on metaphysics. Other students claim that they have read many of the materials before and are not sure what else they could gain from revisiting them, especially if their focus is philosophy or politics. I focus on the Literature Tutorial, for the Literature Seminar is looked upon with less aversion as the Greek tragedies and epics are foundational for any student of the liberal arts. I recall sitting in my undergraduate dorm room in late spring, determining if I wanted to begin my St. John’s education with the Literature segment or the Mathematics and Natural Science segment. I had just finished studying English literature so, with a strong bias, I chose the former. I had experienced many of the texts for the Tutorial before, however I had yet to experience them so intimately with other individuals who possessed such a passion for education, a dedication to the liberal arts, and a drive for 71 �Patrick Burley / In Defense of the Literature Segment truth. I was eager to take on literature within a St. John’s environment, yet I was also nervous, as I was so used to reading scholarly articles concerning literary theories and criticisms that shaped my thoughts more than I wished to admit. However, I entered McDowell with a fresh mind—a mind ready to examine the assigned literary texts for what they meant specifically to me, and not concerned with what they meant to scholars or critics. We laughed and wondered about Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, debated about King Lear’s passions, and then we moved into lyric poetry. There was one poem that, I felt, successfully relayed an idea that encapsulated the nature of studying and experiencing literature. That poem was “Ode on a Grecian Urn” by John Keats. The poem follows the thoughts of Keats as he examines an ancient Grecian urn. In the last two lines, Keats writes, “‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all / Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.’” These two lines boldly describe the truth that accompanies witnessing beauty and our innate drive to understand the feelings such beauty elicits. When we witness beauty, we are engulfed with a surge of feelings—whether it be passionate love, sublimity, or darkness. These indescribable passions are, simply, truth. For Keats, truth is what you feel and, in the Literature segment, there is a litany of beautiful works that provokes such truth from within ourselves or from the text itself. When you engage with a piece of literature, whether it be a play, a novel, or a poem, you are guided through the reality created by the writer and are called to discern the principles and truth of the characters and, subsequently, of one’s self. We find truth in what we feel and our experiences call us to examine why we felt a certain way, or why we now possess vastly different emotions than the ones we had in the midst of an experience. This engagement brings one closer to the reality of one’s own condition and emotions that hold truths, which cannot be described without the use of a narrative from a novelist or a profound metaphor from a poet. 72 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 The stories that are read in the Literature segment will arrest you and insist that you consider your own narrative and story. Doing so will allow you to examine how your narrative fits in the macrocosm of reality and how it is to be defined by yourself alone. For example, in reading the Canterbury Tales, one is called to examine the relationship between the tale and the teller of the tale. Doing so draws one to contemplate one’s own narrative and perception of self, and how this perception of self is effectively or ineffectively portrayed to the external world as we wish it to be. Such an exercise is integral for understanding how you present yourself to others, whether that be how you act, speak, or treat others. The urn that Keats is describing and the variety of characters and their narratives in the Canterbury Tales reflect this idea and relate to the reader the way art or poetry, which has been immortalized, can remind us of our own mortality. This creates a paradoxical dilemma—for art reflects our uniform, perennial passions and truths, while also reminding us of our finite nature and how we are to use such truths in an effective fashion. I have ventured to briskly examine Keats’s poem and this major theme from Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales in order to express the illuminating doors literature can open to folks in the program who are considering skipping the segment—for literature provides just as much perplexity and wisdom as the other segments. Politics, math, science, and history are all very noble and essential, but literature provides vehicles for connection to our most intimate passions and truths. These connections bring us closer to a deeper understanding of our experience as beings with a faculty for emotion. Therefore, we should engage with the beauty found in literature, for there is truth to be sought in the passions that accompany beauty. Mr. Burley (AGI'20) is a student in his second-semester at the Graduate Institute. He is a recent graduate of Warren Wilson College with a bachelor's degree in English. He currently works in the Greenfield Library and serves as Treasurer on the Graduate Council. 73 �Brandon Wasicsko 74 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 Students at the Graduate Institute who elect to write a Master’s Essay undergo an oral examination upon completion of their essay. Each examination begins with the student reading a précis of their work. Colloquy asked those students who underwent their examinations in the spring semester of 2019 to submit a copy of their précis, and received the following three pieces. On Education: A Reading of Hegel’s Phenomenology of Spirit Sean Foley As Johnnies, our common experience is enmeshed in an educational institution. If you are anything like me, most of your life has centered around institutions that claim membership to that same category, but you never inquired seriously after what an education is or ought to be. I, for one, relied on intuitions and normative influences. During my time in the Graduate Institute, I began to feel uneasy about my lack of reflection, especially in light of my career as a teacher. Therefore, in my Master’s Essay, I endeavored to form a clearer and more rigorous conception of what it was I had devoted my life to, and what it was I did at St. John’s for four glorious summers. In what follows, I will sketch the arc of my essay, which is on record in the Greenfield Library. I begin said essay by delineating two general models of education: the type offered by a research university, like the one I attended as an undergraduate, and the type Plato’s Socrates seems to advocate. The former I call acquisition, the latter calling-into-question. At research universities, you acquire a body of knowledge. Socrates, on the other hand, often calls into question what his interlocutor posits as the truth. Upon examining these two models of education, I identified three ways in which they are fundamentally opposed: First, acquisition is positive, while callinginto-question is negative; second, acquisition is for the sake of society, 75 �Three Précis while calling-into-question is for the sake of the individual; and third, for acquisition truth is in an alien object, while for calling-into-question truth belongs to the thinking subject. I then propose that Hegel’s Phenomenology of Spirit can show us how to reconcile these seemingly opposed models of education. Furthermore, I propose that this is not a one-way street, and reading the Phenomenology as a book that is at its deepest level about education can help us understand Hegel’s project. The Phenomenology presents us with a drama of education; it shows us what an education looks like. It also presents us with a theory of education; the theory functions as the organizing principle behind the drama—giving it a form—but it also comes to the foreground as Hegel explains what we see in the drama. Hegel’s theory is that education is neither acquisition nor calling-intoquestion, but formation. This formation happens through our lived experience, which challenges our conception of the truth and therefore fundamentally changes our way of knowing the world. When our way of knowing is proved inadequate, we gain perspective on ourselves through reflection. Formation therefore entails self-relation, and, specifically, selfalienation—experiencing oneself as an other. Education is complete when life no longer leads to our self-alienation. This means the telos of education is to recognize in the world the full expression of our innermost selves. One side of the problem is to understand what that innermost self is. By means of the drama and theory of education presented to us in the Phenomenology, Hegel intends to shed light on this side of the issue: he intends to lead us to know ourselves as what he calls Spirit. The Phenomenology is the description of the historical coming-to-be of Spirit, and is also intended to help effect the full actualization of Spirit by giving the reader theoretical insight into her own formative experience. The other side of the educational problem is that the world—which includes other 76 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 selves—must confirm our self-concept. Education therefore is a cultural activity, the completion of which requires a cultural reorientation. Standing in the way of this ultimate end of education is what Hegel calls edification. Edification makes us feel more at home in our current, spiritually destitute self-conception and spiritually defunct world, but is a mere palliative to the feeling of alienation that exhorts us to identify with Spirit and engage in the reorientation of culture. Education, by contrast, is truly therapeutic, but requires great cognitive labor so that we can hold onto the lessons of experience. Not only that, but it requires sacrifice. Identifying oneself as Spirit means that one must, like Christ, knowingly relinquish one’s current self so as to be reborn. Hegel makes this self-sacrifice more palatable by showing that one is not obliterated in the process, but purified. What is true in the lower self-concept is preserved in the higher. Any educational project that does not demonstrate this preservation will not prevail against edifiers. This is where history’s first self-conscious and culture-wide educational project, the Enlightenment, went astray. The showdown between faith and reason in the Enlightenment occurred because Enlightenment took umbrage with the mysterious and seemingly superstitious elements of religion. Enlightenment accounted for Faith in terms of its own profane paradigm, and in so doing was blind to what was true in Faith. Enlightenment did not seek to raise up or cultivate its pupils into maturity, but to destroy their faithfulness as if it were a disease. The success of Enlightenment’s hostilities leads to the spiritual destitution that leaves us prone to edifiers. But the legitimate fruit of the Enlightenment’s myopic and misguided educational project, Hegel tells us, is the Reign of Terror. Educators in the Enlightenment tradition might think of themselves as the purveyors of insight into the absolute truth, and set up a system of education that leads to the acquisition of that insight—which insight is, that truth is a matter of method rather than content. However, Enlightenment is really an unbridled calling-into-question that is hostile to life. It privileges the individual over the social situation in which she finds 77 �Three Précis herself, but simultaneously conceives of the individual in such an abstract way, that those who subscribe to its ideology become hostile to anything and everything actual and positive. This is why the revolution devoured its own children. Hegel’s characterization of Enlightenment advises both urgency and caution in our quest to reconcile acquisition and calling-into-question. The apparent reconciliation offered by Enlightenment—that is, calling-intoquestion elevated to the level of knowledge—is both unsatisfying and dangerous. And yet, this is the very substance of the knowledge tradition enshrined in departmental disciplines at research universities: the truth of research is ultimately grounded in its methodology. The heart of Hegelian education is, by contrast, its therapeutic effect—the subject’s complete reconciliation to the world. An education that leaves us unsatisfied is hardly consummate. I close the essay with reflections on what a non-Hegelian could learn about education from reading Hegel. In my understanding, this is especially pertinent because we cannot take part in the cultural project Hegel had in mind; even if we subscribe to the fundamentals of Hegel’s System, we, as non-Germans, cannot execute his educational plan. I therefore focus my energies on discussing the way in which careful and principled study of Great Books can effect a radical transformation of the reader’s way of knowing, thereby mirroring a fundamental feature of Hegelian education, and offering some pedagogical advantages of close reading and attention to particulars—which distinguishes the type of reading we do at St. John’s from the type of reading Hegel espouses—given our cultural and technological situation. I believe this examination helps clarify and justify a central activity we all take up at the College. Yet, I leave off there, and another pressing question about St. John’s remains untouched: what is the role of conversation in our education? I have some thoughts, but I will save them for a tête-à-tête. 78 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 Hope in Paradise Lost Samuel Peregrin In choosing my essay topic, I knew I wanted to try a text that I had no previous experience with and that I wanted something both poetic and of a certain scale, also I wanted the original to have been written in English. Suffice to say this led me to Paradise Lost. In my first reading of it, not knowing what I wanted to explore, I was struck by the comparison made between Eve and Pandora. And I was particularly taken by a part of the Pandora story that was left out by Milton, that hope was left stuck inside her jar of suffering. It is here that I must apologize to the committee for having thrust upon them the Hesiod reading,1 but it felt dishonest to exclude the seed of my thoughts. From this point on I began to wonder what opinion Paradise Lost had concerning the nature of hope. I never found it to be strictly or explicitly defined in the way other virtues or passions were, and began to doubt whether or not there was some concept working behind the many mentions of hope at all, or if it was nothing other than colloquial and semantic. I began to find that hope was as much defined by its opposites, auxiliary powers, and perversions as any of its own attributes, but perhaps this should not have been so surprising. From here I did find some ways of understanding hope as a virtue. Firstly, it became obvious that hope was connected to suffering wherever it was presented. That seems a part of how I would define it now: a comfort felt presently to alleviate a present pain, found by looking to the future. And yet, it has its restrictions. So secondly, it must abide by proper reason lest it fall into vanity. This then leads to its two big determinants, faith and love. For, in order to be a hope 1 Hesiod, Works and Days, lines 58-128. 79 �Three Précis more than secular, and then purportedly fulfilling to a person, it must seek confirmation with the will of God. Thirdly then, we become witness to the negations of hope referenced in the poem; ambition and despair, these perversions of hope, abound. This then can tell us hope is not impatient, unbounded attempts to grasp power, nor is it a complete reservation to fate. Rather it is but a piece, one of passive fortitude, in the harmony of virtues needed to achieve a life of righteous obedience. But the fact that hope appears most often in its diminished state makes me wonder whether there is a great danger hope may yet pose. That when divorced from its associates, love and faith, it is empty; to keep hope within these boundaries is no small challenge. So perhaps this is why there is no exposition of hope for us in the poem, because it is simply too easy to fall into vain expectations. Although, a life without any reparation to hope would be one incapable of surmounting the daily sufferings cast about us. I must thank Mr. Haflidson, my essay would not have come to fruition without his counsel and encouragement. Also, thank you to the committee members, and all those in attendance, for your time and interest in this difficult topic. I do hope we all gain from, or at least enjoy this discussion as it begins. 80 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 The Flaying of Marsyas Maxwell Anthony I would not like to have my précis published. Anyone who wants to know about my Master’s Essay is welcome to review the copy entrusted to the Greenfield Library’s care. However, I would like to use this opportunity to expand on a topic inadequately addressed in my essay—the contest of Marsyas and Apollo. In the Euthydemus, a passionate young man, Ctesippus, says that two sophist brothers, Dionysodorus and Euthydemus, are welcome to skin him, so long as they turn his hide into virtue, not a wineskin like Marsyas’ was made into. Marsyas, a satyr, challenged the god Apollo to a musical contest. Whoever won could do whatever he liked to the loser. Marsyas played the aulos and Apollo played the lyre. Stories differ as to how the contest proceeded and was judged, but the consensus is that Apollo won and flayed Marsyas. I have a general suspicion that something is important about the aulos, a double reed instrument, and the lyre, a harp with two arms united by a crossbar and chords, in respect of being images of duality. The music of the aulos differs from the music of the lyre in that the aulos is a wind instrument, so playing it prevents the player from speaking. Also, it can be tuned only insofar as it is well made, whereas each chord of the lyre might be tuned to precision. Playing the aulos leads to a certain wanton indulgence—the breathing associated with it recalls sexual panting. Something about the aulos is more passionate and something about the lyre is more rational. Calling the aulos the most “many stringed” (πολυχορδότατον) of instruments Socrates and Glaucon refuse it admission to their city.1 1 Plato, Republic, 3.399d. 81 �Three Précis A general suspicion I have been entertaining is that the aulos connotes the principle of otherness—the wild indeterminate principle of multiplicity. I associate this principle with imprecise multiplicity, the sort of slurred and passionate windy music of the aulos—whereas I tend to associate the lyre with precision and exact multiplicity—the sort of otherness when one thing is a clear image of another. Given the constraints of my essay I did not get to explore this topic but am comfortable voicing my suspicion that Plato associates the aulos with the principle of otherness and the lyre with being; one might call the former the indeterminate dyad and the latter the eidetic two. The aulos encourages dancing and passionate movements opposed to speaking; perhaps for this reason the flute players are sent away in the Symposium. Writing the essay, I was given to the view that such dancing and immoderation would be alien to the god Apollo. This god, I thought, would be possessed of such cold bright deliberation that he could flay a hubristic satyr like Marsyas with clinical charm. This opinion, and over reliance of well know artistic representations of the episode, tempted me to a static view of the flaying. Recently it occurred to me that the flaying itself would be a sort of dance. The point is not simply that Marsyas was punished but that the bound satyr would writhe and contort as the punishment was administered. Even the god Apollo would be unable to prevent himself from participating in this bloody spasm. To perform the punishment Apollo would have to embrace, if not, let’s say, enwind, Marsyas’ trashing body. Thinking about this “dance” in relation to the Euthydemus, I realized that the point of the story is not simply that a hubristic satyr was punished for challenging a god, but that even a god can be corrupted in the administration of justice. A shocking but unannounced dramatic detail of the Euthydemus is that Socrates is able to remember and relate what is said and happened although the narrated events occurred in an environment of public ridicule and indignation. Socrates, unlike his interlocutors, has amazing self-control that permits him to pay extreme attention to slight 82 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 and seemingly insignificant details and motives of almost all who surround him, while understanding nuances of argument and formulating prudent responses. Socrates’ moderation is more than godlike. In respect of the musical contest the brothers Euthydemus and Dionysodorus pose, Socrates supplants Apollo. The following poem and picture are intended to accompany Mr. Anthony’s thoughts above: The Bloody Aulos Quiver body bound taut skin folds; blood whets blade and bark. These bright hands that twist the tuning pegs pluck jumping flesh. "Writhe, pant, wail, Dance, satyr, As you are flayed!" Maxwell Anthony, The Bloody Aulos, 2018, digital art. 83 �A Conversation with Jim Phillips Kelly Custer Kelly Custer: Probably a question all students in the Graduate Institute end up being asked at one point or another—as it seems appropriate to say of the Graduate Institute itself that it is the speakeasy of academia—is: how did you come to find out about the program? And along with that, what piqued your interest in it and how did you finally say, "Yes, that's for me?" Jim Phillips: I graduated from the Naval Academy in 1975 with a Bachelor of Science in electrical engineering. The books we read at St. John's are the books they told me I did not need to read to make a living. So, I never read them. But also, I've been a student of the Bible [for] the past fifty years and a teacher of it for the last thirty. As a teacher, I've tried to learn from other teachers and I discovered it seems like the teachers that understand [the Bible] best were teachers that had a good grasp of the classics. So roll the clock [back] ten years ago. My wife and I move to Annapolis to found the C.S. Lewis Institute and a couple of guys from St. John's knock on my front door when they saw the sign on it that reads “Aslan House”—Aslan from the Chronicles of Narnia. And they said, "Does this have anything to do with C.S. Lewis?" And I said, "It does." 84 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 And they said, "Can we have a study group? We study all these great books down the street, but we would like to be with other followers of Jesus to talk about the teachings of the authors of our books in light of the teachings of Jesus.” I said, "That sounds great." Now I didn't have any knowledge of the classics, but I did have a lot of knowledge of scripture. So I said, "Okay. Maybe together we can do this. — So for the last ten years I have been hosting young men, and my wife and another young lady host the women at a different time. We have, on average, twenty to thirty young people a week participating in those discussions. And the last ten years I have been surrounded by these young men with a passion for understanding the classics and understanding the questions that every author of the classics is trying to address. The questions like: how did I get here? Why am I here? There seems to be something broken in the world. There seems to be something broken in me. I understand Descartes as saying [that] there is an imperfection within me. Plato says there seems to be an instrument in me that needs to be reset. They are all wrestling with the same idea. And these young men would come into my home and read these things to me, and I would point to a spot in scripture where it says we have a fallen, rebellious nature and there is this thing within us that causes to do things we don't want to do. So we would have great discussions, but I longed to know what they knew. I longed to read what they were reading. For eight years of the last ten, I hungered to understand these classics, but I was also a full-time employee working in the IT industry. — Two years ago I retired. The minute I retired I said to my wife, "I need to get a couple of things together that I would like to focus on because I'm not ready to fully retire.” She said, "Oh I know what it is." I said, "What?" 85 �A Conversation with Jim Phillips She said, "You need to go to St. John's." And I just lit up. I said, "Yes! For ten years I have been wanting to do this.” So, I just lit up and began two years ago. And the other night was so wonderful. I'm with these young men and one of them says, "Do you think Socrates deserved the persecution in Athens that he received from the culture, especially the leadership of the culture at that time?" I was able to engage in this discussion with text. And we started laughing. [Ten] years I've been with this group, now they come and go throughout the years, but I still have some young men helping me today that were in that group six, seven years ago, and we were just laughing that, finally, I was able to participate. That's what brought me to St. John's. KC: That's really wonderful and hearing your path to St. John's, and a little of your background, it often appears that Christianity and, perhaps more specifically, many strands of American contemporary Christianity appear to have a great deal of skepticism toward any secular texts, including the classics. And I find what you just said very interesting because, if I am hearing what you said correctly, it’s in fact a sense of understanding, an understanding of the classic works and authors of Western thought that becomes and perhaps enriches the dialogue around Christianity. And allows, to an extent, for a common language to be shared where two people, who might not have read the same texts, can interact with one another in a very meaningful way. JP: To your point, there is a passage in scripture that says, "Don't be taken captive by hollow and deceptive philosophy that depends on the principles of the world and traditions of men rather than the teachings of Jesus." And a lot of people read that and throw all philosophy out. It doesn't say throw all philosophy out. It says examine it to see if it also aligns to the teachings of Jesus, and there are so many things where we see, beginning with Greek philosophers, them weighing thoughts that if you look, you will see thoughts that also Jesus himself taught about. So there's this great synergy in the thinking. And here's where the learning comes to play. The passage of scripture doesn't say to throw it out. Rather you examine the thoughts. 86 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 And I've been able to talk to a number of parents whose sons or daughters were coming to St. John's, and they were concerned that their children were going to be exposed to all this philosophical thinking [and] that all philosophy is bad. And it's just the opposite. I would always say: this is a wonderful place for young people to come and get grounded in the teachings that have shaped our civilization and culture, and they will discover that a lot of the things they have said and a lot of the things they have proposed are very much in line with the things Jesus taught. So, it's a wonderful place to begin to examine these things. KC: As I hear you saying this, I am reminded of St. Paul in the first letter to the Corinthians saying: "If anyone among you thinks to be a wise man in this age, let him become foolish in order to become wise." I find that so interesting because most of the things we read at St. John's were very much considered folly in their own age, condemned as folly, or at least were not very popular. And certainly challenging of the going wisdom in their own time, which then really makes me think that St. Paul is not being dismissive of reason, but challenging [on behalf of] a perennial wisdom. We could probably agree that many of [the] philosophers we read greatly challenge the wisdom of the day, but do so, in many cases, by raising the same questions and posing similar thoughts to previous ages going back to early Greek philosophers, which in a way, seems to bind much of their thought to perennial questions that—when neglected—become the folly of an age. JP: Yes. St. Paul was brilliant and very effective when speaking to the Greeks. He clearly knew Greek literature and he understood the Greek pantheon of gods. And he went and he sat with them, he started there, with their understanding of things, to start with things that had begun in Greece and show how they compare to the teachings of Jesus. He did amazing work in Greece. 87 �A Conversation with Jim Phillips KC: I know that you were a graduate of the Naval Academy and of your work with the C.S. Lewis Institute. Could you speak a little more to your background professionally? JP: I was raised in Louisiana and Arkansas. I went to the Naval Academy right out of high school. I then went into the Marine Corps after graduating from the Academy and flew AV-8B Harriers. I was one of the first rookies to fly a Harrier. That means the first people they took directly from flight school to fly the Harrier. It was a brand-new airplane. It hovers. Instead of a conventional take-off and landing, it can hover like a helicopter. And the Marine Corps decided they needed to demonstrate that a rookie could fly the airplane or they didn't want it. So they took four of us right out of flight school into that program. It was a very dangerous time and I lost a number of friends in the four or five years I was flying Harriers, more than ten in that period of time, and this was peacetime. So, I lost a lot of friends. That also caused me to really take a look at the questions: who am I? And why am I here? And am I doing what I was created to do? So it really made me take a close look at my life. — I left the Marine Corps after six years. Went to IBM for twenty years and a smaller company, which was like IBM, and worked there for almost twenty years. All in information technology and hiring software engineers to maintain large computer systems that the likes of AOL or FedEx use. So that's what I did all that time. But in the middle of all that I was an avid reader of books that really tried to answer the hard questions in life. Books that really tried to answer the questions of origin, meaning, morality, and hope. I call that a worldview. Everybody has a worldview and how you answer those questions defines it pretty well. I love sitting with people and exploring their worldview. It's fascinating. So that got me interested in trying to understand the philosophy that shaped Western Civilization because that shapes peoples' worldviews. 88 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 KC: At what point did you discover C.S. Lewis? Has he always been an author whose works you engaged with, or is there a particular time or work that enkindled a passion for all his writings? JP: Other than Screwtape Letters, which I probably read in high school and couldn't appreciate at that time, it really wasn't until ten years ago, when I went to a one-week summer institute at Oxford. It was hosted by an organization that had a great partnership with the C.S. Lewis Institute, and it was there that I met the president of the C.S. Lewis Institute and discovered he lived in Washington D.C. We got to know each other. He said: let's have lunch when we get back. We did. He said there are a lot of people in Annapolis that would like to take advantage of some of the offerings of the Institute, but it's too far to commute to D.C.—would you start an Institute in Annapolis? And actually, it was one of the first cities besides D.C. to do this. Today there are about 14 to 15 cities that offer the C.S. Lewis programs. So over the last ten years I've tried to catch up with my readings of C.S. Lewis. And I've come to appreciate him greatly. KC: One of my professors in undergrad was very attached to the C.S. Lewis Institute and I had the pleasure of taking a course in which we simply read works by Lewis. It was a great course and I had, and still have, great admiration for that professor. JP: I see [that] you're reading The Abolition of Man. [Right] now I am in the Politics and Society Seminar, and we've spent a great deal of time talking about Aristotle and his questions and thoughts on ethics. And he talks about natural law—that there is an eternal law and natural law. Natural law—it doesn't need to be written down, we just all know these things, it's the ways in which we interact with things. Well, Lewis called that absolute morality: that we all have a sense of a right way to behave, we know a right way to behave, and if you were to look across cultures, all the cultures that have ever been, you will notice some commonalities like: no one appreciates a coward, no one thinks it's ever okay to abuse a child. And this 89 �A Conversation with Jim Phillips is one of my favorites: if you look at the different cultures throughout history, they might disagree as to whether you can have one wife, two wives, or more, but they all would say you can't have any woman you want. And what Lewis does: in the back of The Abolition of Man is an appendix and he lists things that he thinks are examples of absolute morality, and you could see Aristotle saying that's natural law. KC: That's really interesting that you've directed us [to] The Abolition of Man, which has been a very significant book in my life and, throughout the years, a text I continue to revisit and certainly one of the books I give out the most as a gift. I brought The Abolition of Man to read a short passage as a preface to a question I have for you with respect to the program at St. John's and your familiarity with Lewis. The passage I wanted to direct us to is very similar in spirit to what you just mentioned, and this is where Lewis introduces the Tao and the Tao as being—whether we call it natural law or first principles of morality—what one always appeals to whenever one makes a challenge or claim about morality. I always find this passage striking where Lewis writes: There never has been, and never will be, a radically new judgment of value in the history of the world. What purports to be new systems or (as they now call them) ‘ideologies,’ all consist of fragments from the Tao itself, arbitrarily wrenched from their context in the whole and then swollen to madness in their isolation, yet still owing to the Tao and to it alone such validity as they possess.1 That's just one of those passages that purely in style is profoundly and succinctly beautiful. In thinking about the passage and St. John's, I really have two questions for you. One, in many ways I do not think the texts we read purport to be new systems or ideologies in the way Lewis here describes: do you think they all in some way point to what Lewis has in mind with the Tao for their appeal? And two, has your experience in the 1 90 C.S. Lewis, The Abolition of Man (Macmillan Publishing Company, 1947), 56. �Colloquy / Spring 2019 program at all resonated with the texts you've read pointing to something like the Tao? And to add a little to that, would you say that perhaps the only way we can truly understand these texts and put them in conversation with ourselves, and one another, is to presuppose and accept such objectivity, regardless of our ability to define it or even agree upon its name? JP: Yes. Right now in the Politics and Society segment it's been all about what is the best form of commonwealth beginning with Plato's Republic. And right now I'm reading Hobbes’ Leviathan where he advocates for a strong sovereign as the best form of commonwealth, and he talks about religion and all the various forms there can be and he says something very similar to what Lewis says in that passage, that when you take away things you come down to a common set of things or principles that seem to survive in all the variations. So, religions may have started in the same place and branched out, and there may be varieties of religion, some less or more true than others. But at the end of the day, if you bring them down by reduction to the common roots of each one of them, you find a lot of similarities. I think that's exactly what Lewis is saying. KC: I find it so interesting that many of the texts within the St. John's curriculum presuppose something like the Tao from which to start, which seems paramount to even have traction in discourse. If you didn't, it would almost be as Aristotle discusses in Book IV of the Metaphysics, where if you can't agree at some point and are demanding a demonstration of something like the Tao, there's just no having a conversation. And I find that to be such a stark juxtaposition to our contemporary society. Particularly when you talk about ethics or morality, you tend to hear people wanting to say something like the truth is subjective, relative, and as long as what you do doesn't hurt anyone, it's okay. Or some other variation of a golden rule with the caveat that telling anyone else what they should or shouldn't do is at odds with the relativism lurking about. But yet, that always ends up in contradiction, as if there are no grounds for normative ethics, there are no 91 �A Conversation with Jim Phillips grounds to prescribe to anyone why they shouldn't harm other people. In the same vein, in what I would consider a secular society, there is a kind of crude scientism lingering with very positivistic tendencies that demands empirical demonstration of anything before discussing truth— JP: Just stop right there: demonstrate that last statement empirically. KC: Exactly. KC: That's all to say that I think St. John's, as an institution, ends up presupposing something like the Tao and that's part of the reason that all these marvelous conversations you are able to have with folks—even if you radically disagree—can take place. JP: I'm glad you brought that up because that is one of the most beautiful things about being at St. John's. We sit every Monday and Thursday evening together with twelve to fifteen peers. Around that table are different worldviews, different answers to the questions: how did I get here? Why am I here? What's wrong with the world? And how do I fix it? Many different worldviews. The beauty of St. John’s is civil discussion. We are able, because we are centered and agree to talk within a text, and we agree to stay within the text, we are able to discuss what the author might be saying about the questions going on in our minds. And it is lovely. — The world, our country, every talk show on TV every night, could learn from the civil discussion that's being exercised at St. John's College. I wish somebody could put lights over the campus and say, "Look. You want to return to civility—you hear that term often in our culture—come sit here and see how people so different from one another discuss these things." You just think about it. The next thing you know, after being in classes with people: you're sitting down having a beer with somebody you would never have the opportunity otherwise because of the disparity in 92 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 worldviews. And yet here you are sharing something beautiful and in common and you realize you arrived where you are because you are a rational creature and you have some rational presuppositions, and so have I. Though where we arrive may be different, we are rational creatures with rational presuppositions that are capable of arriving at some rational conclusions. Now we can have a discussion. Nobody needs to label anybody with anything derogatory. Let's have a rational discussion, because I want to understand the presuppositions you have to arrive where you are. That's where learning occurs. KC: I couldn't agree more. And it reminds me, as a first-semester student and having “Notes on Dialogue” freshly on the mind and being struck by the observations Stringfellow Barr is making: Wow! What would he think now of our contemporary climate watching the news—or whatever we might call the unceasing barrage of polarizing media that has become so increasingly hard to escape—in which people swing at one another in disagreement only to go back to their respective corners without hearing a single thing the other has said? It seems that one of the things Barr was suggesting is that the model of conversation we engage in at St. John's, while not rendering definitive answers that remove the presence of the questions we start with, raises a middle ground in conversation that allows people to understand the people they are conversing with and the texts upon which the conversation is grounded. — One question that I would really like to ask you is: have there been any texts you've read in the program that you had already read? And, if so, what was that experience like for you? JP: I read Augustine before as he is an early father of the Church. But, Descartes said, there is this imperfection in me. Why would God make me with this imperfection? He could have made me perfect? Now I go back 93 �A Conversation with Jim Phillips to Augustine—and this actually happened in the same evening during the Philosophy and Theology segment—an hour later we're reading in Augustine's Confessions, and Augustine says something like this: without imperfection in the world we would never know a virtue. What? How do you become a reformer unless there is something to reform? How can you be brave unless there is something to stand bravely against? How do you forgive unless there is something to be forgiven? And all the sudden a saying that I have heard many times came alive because of the enlightenment of new reading and that was: we certainly don't live in the most perfect world, very few people would disagree with that, but we might live in the most perfect world to prepare us for the most perfect world. And here I see Augustine and Descartes agreeing, though they are hundreds of years apart, and wrestling with the same issues and coming up with similar conclusions. KC: Yes. As someone currently in the Philosophy and Theology segment, and having just had the overlap of readings you brought up this past Thursday, those two readings together are fantastic, because in a very different way than Augustine, you see Descartes posing the question why should error be in him at all—and I think that's sometimes overlooked in the text. It is very important to Descartes’ conclusion. It is very similar to Augustine claiming he would not know virtue if it weren't for imperfection: I see Descartes saying he would not know himself, what he truly is without error. JP: Love it. KC: Are there any texts in the program that you had not read, and were perhaps skeptical or indifferent about, but after encountering the text it became something that really made an impact on you? JP: Most theists would have an aversion to reading Darwin and would discourage others from ever reading him. I read him for the first time at St. 94 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 John’s. I had previously read a lot of quotes by him, but I never read him. I loved his style. I fell in love with a man who was a great thinker. I fell in love with a man who really drew conclusions from the presuppositions and evidence he had in front of him that were rational. Darwin stated that if there was ever the discovery of an organism [and] you could not explain its existence by a number of incremental, successive, progressions; he would need to rethink his whole project. Since he said that we've seen some discoveries that challenge his conclusions. And I believe if he were still alive, he would be one of the most vocal advocates for modifying his conclusions because I found him winsome and intellectually honest. Even though I disagreed with some of his conclusions, I was in love with the man for his pursuit of truth. So to answer your question, that's the beauty of something like St. John's: you can disagree with someone's conclusions, but you come to discover that they are rational beings and really trying very hard to get answers to the same questions you have, and are providing you some insight along the way—whether you end up agreeing with their conclusions or not. KC: Is there any work or text that you did not encounter in the program that you wish you would have? JP: That's like asking me if I would like a flavor of ice cream I have never tried, it is hard to desire what you have no familiarity with. All I know is that three or four months into the program, about where you are now, I was walking to class and the thought hit me: I am going to graduate in a year and a half. And my next thought was: darn. And I thought [this is] the first time I can remember that I was pursuing a goal and not counting the days until I achieved it, but rather enjoying the days of the journey. It's just been that kind of experience. So if there are other texts that would have enriched this, I wouldn't know. I am just so grateful for the ones I have encountered. 95 �A Conversation with Jim Phillips KC: I think you really hit the nail on the head in that it's such a different experience. No one I have talked to in the program is looking toward its end—only lamenting that it should end at all. — I wanted to ask you a question given your background and your life. Given your commitments, I am very interested in your response. I'm currently reading Nietzsche's later works in preceptorial. We are reading The AntiChrist right now and throughout that work there is an overarching theme that Nietzsche takes Christianity to be dishonest. It's also very nuanced in that he seems to have a certain appreciation for Christ, but very much wants to take away anything miraculous and separate Christ the man from divinity. And I guess my question is—Nietzsche seems to see the attractiveness of Christianity to the many as rooted in the fear that this life is it. And that Christianity is driven by denying this life in hopes of another life. As someone with your worldview and background, what would your response be to that? JP: Nietzsche is another thinker that I find intellectually honest, let me just state that up front. In other words, honestly, the despair that one reads in Nietzsche is the despair one would expect if you truly believe that this life is all there is. So I find him intellectually honest. For that I respect him. But if I were sitting here with Nietzsche and he said to me: "You know, I think Christianity is something conjured up in order try to extend your life, [to] try to bring about immortality that doesn't exist"—I would ask him if it is possible that his atheism is something that he came up with in order to avoid or not face something that might exist. The question always needs to be asked both ways. Very similarly, I often get asked as a follower of Jesus, "Why, if God is a good God, is there so much pain and suffering in the world?" And after I spend some time on that, I turn the question around saying, "I'm not sure what your worldview is, but you need to answer the same question within your worldview." 96 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 Because one thing we can all agree to is that there is something broken here. Different people with different worldviews will call it different names: wrong desire, misplaced affection, brokenness. We all agree that something is wrong. Now we all need to answer the question: Why? And what hope do we have to remedy the brokenness we see? So, I really respect Nietzsche. He is true to his convictions and the demeanor of his writings demonstrates it. Quite frankly, my heart goes out to him and I would have loved to have spoken with him. KC: Similar, in many respects, in addressing the brokenness in the world and the task of answering it, living within it—another thinker, one of few that Nietzsche extends praise and withholds scorn from, is Dostoevsky. Dostoevsky's characters all confront and stand at the threshold of what he calls the "crucible of doubt." That has been so important in my own life and struck me in many of the conversations I have been a part of in the Philosophy and Theology segment. It really seems you can only doubt something you take seriously, a presence that confronts you as potentially real enough to doubt. In other words, doubt is not at play for me with respect to the existence of unicorns, but it is very much at play when I am confronted by the existence of God or the life of Jesus. For you, as someone who has lived very much convicted of a worldview, is there a way in which coming to St. John's, reading authors that lay open questions of doubt—have those experiences made you question in a deeper way the reality of your beliefs? JP: Yes, because all of the authors we read at St. John's ask really good questions and provide wonderful insights. You know doubt and faith are not exclusive. And faith is not, as many people think, believing something that may not be true. If that were so, then a strong faith would be believing something you are pretty sure is not true, while a perfect faith would be believing something you're absolutely sure is not true. Faith is not that. Faith is reason informed by evidence. You have evidence that something may be true, the distance between the evidence you have and the ultimate 97 �A Conversation with Jim Phillips truth you are trying to embrace is doubt. Reason examines the doubt and [the] evidence, and says: I think the evidence outweighs the doubt, and I am going to trust my reason and its conclusion to where the evidence points—that is faith. KC: At this juncture within civilization, faith gets used as an immediate contrary to reason, contrary to evidence. A thinker that very much discusses faith is Kierkegaard. The leap of faith found in some of his pseudonymous works has gained a degree of infamy as divorcing faith and reason. But reading Kierkegaard proves a far different experience. Faith and reason are not treated as dichotomies within the leap of faith, or in many instances the leap into sin, but very much as embracing the limits and finitude of being human, living at the threshold of the crucible, the tensions of doubt and reason. Once we make the leap, grace is on the other side. Grace is very hard for us to understand, to see, to allow ourselves to experience. But part of that leap of faith is not an abandonment of reason, not an abandonment of doubt, but is very much trust. This strikes me as so profound because it is very difficult to speak of trust independent of reason, independent of there being evidence that there is something or someone that is trustworthy. Such ruminations on faith have been indispensable in my own life. Does that accord at all with your experience of faith? JP: To me, faith is reason informed by evidence. And it is where that reason, informed by evidence, points. Every one of the authors we read exercises some measure of faith. None of them are absolutely certain of their conclusions. They all offer you the presuppositions and rationality of their conclusions. I am trying to think of who it was—Hume?—who appears so skeptical about everything and tears just about everything down, but then says something at the very end perhaps allowing room for something like divine revelation. What? Why didn’t he insert this at the beginning of the work? I would have read this in an entirely different light. But no, he put that at the end because he wanted me to experience all of 98 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 the skepticism before he left room for divine revelation—and I just loved it. All of our authors—and all of us—exercise faith regarding the questions of why we are here and who we are. We have reasoned the projection of evidence and exercise faith to where it points. KC: Yes. I couldn't agree more. Speaking of pointing toward things—as I know your time, lamentably, at St. John's is coming to an end and directing you to other things—I've caught wind that there might be something pointing you toward Oxford. Could you share what the next adventure in life is for you? JP: Well, a year ago I was enjoying this program so much and so stimulated by the authors we discuss, and I said to my wife, "I can't help but to think this is pointing to something." And she immediately said, "Oxford." And, of course, she knew that I had Oxford in my heart and almost attended there right out of the Naval Academy. And when I say Oxford, I mean an Oxford type of education, which by the way, I think St. John's is. And that's in part why I came here: thinking I have an Oxford in my backyard. But anyway, my wife was really the one to say, "You should go." So I've really spent a lot of time thinking about this and received a lot of affirmation from friends and tutors. So, as I sit here right now, I have been accepted to Oxford for post-graduate work in theology starting in the fall. — I will just tell you this. There is no way I would have had this type of opportunity in my life without St. John's bridging the gap between an engineer, and then a software engineer, and one who really wants to pursue theology. There's no way I could have bridged that gap without St. John's College. I'm truly grateful to St. John's for opening this door that I have always wanted to go through, and it looks like now I will have the opportunity. 99 �A Conversation with Jim Phillips KC: That's wonderful. In wrapping up, is there anything you feel compelled or would like to say about the Graduate Institute here at St. John's that you think people should know, whether they are prospective students or current students, or anyone else in the community? JP: I have to praise the tutors. And I would like to list them, but I am sure I would forget one and that would be tragic, because every tutor I have had in these four semesters has been lovely, winsome, gifted, concerned about the classes having meaningful discussions, and concerned about me as an individual receiving from this short period of time the most I could possibly receive. And through the personal interviews, through the seminars, feedback on papers, through conversations in the hall or after class, they have been just so encouraging. I cannot say enough about the tutors I have enjoyed. I will just say this: literature was my hardest subject in high school and as an undergraduate. I left both of those experiences with a total lack of appreciation for literature. But through the Literature segment at St. John's, I love literature. Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, the great classics, the plays: I have got a whole new love and appreciation for literature. And I owe that to the tutors. 100 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 Moral Intuitions in Tolstoy’s War and Peace Joseph Hiles Leo Tolstoy’s novel War and Peace combines an intimate portrait of Russian life during the French invasion of Russia with a strikingly original philosophical analysis of history. Through this wartime struggle, many of Tolstoy’s characters grow and learn how to live meaningful, moral lives. Yet how exactly one can live a moral life according to Tolstoy is never explicitly spelled out in the novel. Accordingly, this essay will be an attempt to better understand Tolstoy’s moral philosophy. The essay will use three vignettes from the novel as lenses through which a better understanding of Tolstoy’s moral philosophy can be seen. The scenes in question are: the moment when Nikolai Rostov strikes the French officer with his sword, Rastopchin’s order to kill Vereshchagin for the abandonment of Moscow, and the execution of the Russian prisoners by the French. Through analyzing these scenes, the essay will explore Tolstoy’s views about moral intuitions and their role in guiding moral actions. These intuitions, for Tolstoy, are heavily impacted by our proximity to the people our actions affect, and supersede the place of reason in evaluating the morality of an action. Strong Moral Intuitions In each of the three vignettes outlined above, the moral intuitions of the characters kick in either immediately as—or within seconds after—the action is committed, alerting them to the fact that they have violated some hard to define moral code. For example, despite years of wishing for glory in combat, at the very moment when Nikolai Rostov bravely chases down the French dragoon officer and strikes him with his sword, “all Rostov’s animation suddenly vanished...some unpleasant feeling wrung his heart. 101 �Joseph Hiles / Moral Intuitions in Tolsoy’s War and Peace Something unclear, confused, something he was unable to explain to himself, had been revealed to him” (653-654).1 What was this unpleasant, unclear feeling that was wringing Nikolai Rostov’s heart? It is likely that he feels guilty for striking the officer, despite the fact that this is the very kind of action he would have hoped for earlier in the novel. He finally gets the thing he wanted—glory—and yet it makes him feel unpleasant. Indeed, further indication of Rostov’s guilt comes after the moment of action, once he has had time to think it over. There Tolstoy writes that “Ostermann’s flattering words and the promise of a reward should therefore have been a joyful surprise for Rostov; yet the same unpleasant, unclear feeling nauseated him morally” (654). It is significant that Rostov’s feeling of guilt is just that, a feeling. From the first moment to the last, it is a feeling that wrings his heart, a feeling that he cannot understand, and a feeling of moral nausea. These feelings are not the result of a calculation or philosophical analysis of his actions, but instead spring from inside of him organically. The language of feeling and moral guilt is mirrored after Rastopchin heartlessly orders the Russian peasant mob to attack Vereshchagin, blaming him for the fall of Moscow. In the aftermath of this event, Tolstoy writes that “fresh as that memory was, Rastopchin felt that it was now deeply, bloodily engraved in his heart. He felt clearly now that the bloody trace of that memory would never heal, but that, on the contrary, the longer he lived, the more cruelly and tormentingly that terrible memory would live in his heart” (893). Like Rostov, Rastopchin feels as a result of his actions; Tolstoy uses this word twice in these two sentences. Although the word guilt is never used explicitly, the fact that the memory would live “cruelly and tormentingly” inside of him is a clear signal that he feels guilt for what he did. Much like Rostov, this guilt comes not from a calculation of precise moral reasoning, but rather from a feeling deep inside of him. 1 All parenthetical citations refer to page numbers in the following edition: Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace, trans. Richard Pevear & Larissa Volokhonsky (Vintage Books, 2011). 102 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 Lastly, in describing the execution scene where French soldiers are commanded to shoot Russian political prisoners, Tolstoy writes that Pierre looked upon the “pale, frightened faces of the Frenchmen, who again were doing something by the post, pushing each other with trembling hands” (966). The Frenchmen who were carrying out the execution, and not at all in harm's way, looked frightened, their hands trembling. What then was frightening them, causing their hands to tremble? This look of terror must be an unintentional response to what they are doing, a kind of involuntary disapprobation of their own actions. Further evidence of this comes when Pierre recognized that “on the faces of the French soldiers and officers, on all without exception, he read the same fear, horror, and struggle that were in his heart...‘They’re all suffering just as I am’” (966). The executioners appear to be suffering because they are being forced to carry out an order that feels unnatural and immoral to them. Finally, this feeling of moral failing is expressed most explicitly when Tolstoy writes that the executioners “all obviously knew without question that they were criminals, who had to quickly conceal the traces of their crime” (967). The perpetrators of the execution “knew without question” that they had done wrong. Where did this knowledge come from? There is no suggestion that they needed to think hard and reflect to come to this conclusion about their own moral failing. They knew their guilt from the moment of the crime, in a kind of intuitive and unambiguous way. In all three of these cases, feelings of guilt and shame arise mere moments after the actions they follow. No mental reflection occurs to bring these emotions about. The most plausible explanation for these feelings is that Tolstoy gives these characters strong moral intuitions that instinctively recognize immorality and flare up—in the form of feelings of guilt—when those intuitions have been transgressed. One final piece of evidence corroborates this assertion: Tolstoy references the heart as the place of anguish and struggle in each of these three anecdotes. For Rostov, “some unpleasant feeling wrung his heart”; for Rastopchin, his memory of the 103 �Joseph Hiles / Moral Intuitions in Tolsoy’s War and Peace event was “now deeply, bloodily engraved in his heart”; and for the executioners, Pierre “read the same fear, horror, and struggle that were in his heart” (653, 893, 966). In literature and in life, the heart is considered to be the realm of feeling, while the head is considered to be the place of thinking. Almost no thinking occurs in the minds of these characters during their respective actions. Yet they still know “obviously...without question” that what they have done is wrong. This knowledge comes from the heart and does not require logical reasoning. While the circumstances of these situations are quite different, the responses of the characters to their own transgressions and Tolstoy’s descriptions of their resulting feelings are remarkably similar. These analogous responses suggest to the reader that Tolstoy is making a claim here not just about the characters in the story, but about all people, about how all humans would respond to striking someone with a sword or being forced to shoot a prisoner in cold blood. Further evidence that Tolstoy is making a universal claim is that these three situations involve characters of dramatically different social classes and upbringings. These feelings of moral failure, for Tolstoy, are not dependant on an education in the Classics of Western philosophy. They appear to be present both in educated upper class officials like Rastopchin and privates in the military like the French executioners. Now that the presence of strong, heartfelt moral intuitions in these characters has been identified, further investigation is necessary to show how they operate and what qualities they have. Proximity In War and Peace, the moral intuitions of the characters appear to be deeply affected by proximity to the ethically questionable act. Something changes when they are up close and personal, and can see the faces of the people they are hurting. For instance, in the episode with Nikolai Rostov, Tolstoy writes that “Rostov sought his enemy with his eyes, to see whom he had 104 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 vanquished” (653). At this moment Rostov does not yet feel guilt; he only wants to see who he has overcome. But something significant happens when he looks upon the poor soldier, who is “glancing up at Rostov from below with an expression of terror. His face, pale and mud-spattered, fairhaired, young, with a dimple on the chin and light blue eyes, was not at all for the battlefield, not an enemy’s face, but a most simple, homelike face” (653-654). This line directly precedes the line about how an “unpleasant feeling wrung his heart”—consequently the reader can infer that observing these attributes of the officer is the proximate cause of Rostov’s guilt. Rostov feels guilt once he sees that this person he has harmed is more like an innocent child than the menacing enemy he likely imagined. The reader gets further confirmation of this through Rostov’s thoughts a few days later, when he thinks: “‘they’re even more afraid than we are!’ [...]‘And what harm had he done, with his dimple and his light blue eyes? But how frightened he was! He thought I’d kill him’” (655). While again expressing surprise at the innocence of the officer with his “dimple and light blue eyes,” Rostov further observes that his enemies are “even more afraid than we are!” In this moment Rostov realizes that this particular enemy and, by extension, the whole French army are equally or even more frightened than the Russian army is. This realization could be boiled down to a simple phrase: they are just like us. Whereas before he had evidently imagined the French to be terrifying and aggressive, unlike the young and disorganized Russian forces, the recognition that they were just as afraid as the Russians obliges Rostov to see all that they have in common with the enemy: their common humanity. It is in the observation of the enemy’s face and his fear that these conclusions are reached. It is noteworthy that, by this point in the narrative, Nikolai Rostov has been in the Russian military for years, and has presumably shot at enemies many times before this event. But given his surprise when he realizes that the French troops are just like the Russian ones, it is clear that this is a new revelation for him: this shows the role proximity plays in Rostov’s moral 105 �Joseph Hiles / Moral Intuitions in Tolsoy’s War and Peace intuitions. Before he could clearly see the faces of the people he was fighting it was easier to dehumanize them and think of them as monsters. But his nearness to the dragoon officer precluded his ability to frame the situation in this way. If he had killed this officer, he could see that he would be killing a young, scared Frenchman who likely had no interest in fighting in the first place. This is not to say that Tolstoy believes it is somehow more ethically justifiable to kill people from far away with a gun or a cannon than it is to kill them up close with a saber. Proximity does not change our moral obligations. Rather, it clarifies them, cutting through our proclivity to redirect our attention to something less appalling. As a test of the morality of an action it is not enough to ask: will you feel guilt at having done something? This test is insufficient because it fails to take into account that we can trick our moral intuitions by looking away, or being far enough away in the first place that we cannot see the damage we have done. The real test of the morality of an action that Tolstoy seems to be advocating for would be the following: will you feel guilt at having done something while you stare into the eyes of the person you are doing that thing to? Henceforth, this will be called the proximity test of morality. This test, or something that closely resembles it, actually occurs in the pages of War and Peace. Before the execution scene, Pierre is questioned by the French general Davout, “a man known for his cruelty” (963). Davout contends that Pierre is a Russian spy, an accusation that, if borne out, would almost certainly lead to Pierre’s execution. Yet while Pierre is frantically attempting to exculpate himself, something remarkable happens: Davout raised his eyes and looked fixedly at Pierre. For a few seconds they looked at each other, and that gaze saved Pierre. In that gaze, beyond all the conventions of war and courts, human relations were established between these two men. In that one moment, they both vaguely felt a countless number of things and realized that they were both children of the human race, that they were brothers (964). 106 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 In this touching moment of human contact, the proximity test of morality is inadvertently thrust upon Davout. In attempting to evaluate Pierre’s guilt, Davout is forced to look him in the eyes. He is forced to recognize who exactly he will be killing if he orders his execution: a brother, a child of the human race. This is something that they both “vaguely felt” rather than precisely reasoned. Without a doubt, Davout would have treated Pierre differently if they had not been in the same room, if a human connection had not been established. But now that Davout has stared into this man’s eyes, he understands that he will feel guilt if he sentences him to death. All of this is spelled out by Tolstoy in the next line, where he writes that: At first glance, for Davout, who had only just raised his head from his list, where human deeds and life were known by numbers, Pierre was only a circumstance, and Davout could have shot him without taking a bad act on his conscience; but now he had seen him as a human being (964). When Pierre was “only a circumstance” and existed only on the pages of Davout’s list, he was as removed from Davout as the enemy soldiers Rostov shot at earlier in the novel. But once Davout makes eye contact with Pierre, and Rostov looks at the young face of the dragoon officer, the certainty of a guilty conscience compels them to have compassion. Further, by pointing out that Davout is famous for his cruelty and then showing him soften once he is face to face with Pierre, Tolstoy is undoubtedly suggesting that this is the universal human reaction to the proximity test of morality and that these instincts are present in everyone, even the most brutal of generals. The means of clarifying the morality of an action which Tolstoy appears to advocate for—the proximity test—raises interesting questions about the efficacy of another test of morality that is more typically used to decide the ethical ramifications of an action. The next section of this essay will deal with the place of reason in Tolstoy’s moral framework. 107 �Joseph Hiles / Moral Intuitions in Tolsoy’s War and Peace Reason As was noted earlier in the essay, in each of the three chosen vignettes, the morality of an action was decided not by a calculation or the application of a philosophical system—rather, characters were overcome by a feeling of guilt after they acted wrongly. Nowhere in these scenes does Tolstoy show characters—at the point of action—thinking hard about their moral obligations, or attempting to weigh the pros and cons of various actions. In other words, the evidence from the story points to a view of morality that relies entirely on moral intuitions, discrediting the place of reason in morality. The reader can infer this assertion from Tolstoy’s depictions of these scenes. If only the executioners had followed their intuitions, they would not have killed the prisoners. If only Davout had been face to face with all the people his orders harmed, he might not have been famous for his cruelty. But the force of these inferences pales in comparison to the strength of the rebuke against reason that comes after Rastopchin commits his crime of ordering a peasant mob to vent their anger over the fall of Moscow by murdering a political prisoner. Tolstoy writes that in the hours after the crime, “Rastopchin calmed down physically and, as always happens, simultaneously with physical calm, his mind also devised causes for him to be morally calm” (891). Right off the bat the reader can tell by Tolstoy’s word choice that Rastopchin is doing something dubious and problematic here. The word devise implies that he is inventing reasons to feel better that are not actually true. What are these causes to be calm that he devises? The thought that calmed Rastopchin was not new. As long as the world has existed and people have been killing each other, no one man has ever committed a crime upon his own kind without calming himself with this same thought. This thought was le bien publique, the supposed good of other people (891). 108 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 Rastopchin convinces himself that his actions were justified because they were done for the “supposed good of other people.” In other words, he is using a rational consideration, something like a utilitarian calculation, to pacify himself and attenuate his guilt. By positioning himself as someone who is working for the public good, Rastopchin can absolve himself of responsibility by conceiving of his crime as an action where the ends justify the means. Continuing in this way of thinking, he even reflects: “‘I didn’t do it for myself, I had to act that way. La plèbe, le traître...le bien publique’” (893). He is instrumentalizing reason itself to feel better about what he did. Much like the list that Davout had, where “human deeds and life were known by numbers,” the application of reason in this way is a means of creating mental distance from the criminal action, to get around the proximity test of morality. Tolstoy undoubtedly views reason used in this way to be quite sinister. At this point, the reader might ask: clearly Tolstoy denounces the use of reason after a crime to justify it, but what about if reason is applied before the action has been carried out, as a way to evaluate the consequences of the act? Tolstoy responds to this question conclusively, putting the final nail in the coffin of morality by way of reason when he writes that: “for a man not gripped by passion, that good [the public good] is never known; but the man who commits the crime always knows for certain what that good consists in. And Rastopchin now knew it” (891). By saying that the public good is never known to man, except when he is in a fit of passion— in other words when he is not reasoning—Tolstoy is telling the reader that a truly rational system of morality is inaccessible. When man is abstractly reasoning he can never know what is in the interest of the public good. For Tolstoy, man does not have the capacity to arrive at moral truth through the medium of reason. 109 �Joseph Hiles / Moral Intuitions in Tolsoy’s War and Peace War The primary implication of Tolstoy’s far reaching moral analysis is that war, and especially modern war, is the worst of human evils because it takes away our only standard of discerning between right and wrong, and replaces it with the standard of obedience to authority. Almost by definition, every act of war goes against our moral intuitions. Regardless of how noble the cause we are fighting for, it will always be contrary to human nature to wound and kill our fellow man. At every turn, war systematically tricks and erodes these moral intuitions. For example, all of the long-range weapons that are used in modern combat eliminate the need to look the enemy in the eye as you attack them. The proximity test of morality never comes into play when the people you are shooting at are hundreds of feet away. At this distance, the strength of our moral intuitions is greatly reduced. At the same time, repeated contact with death and violence desensitizes combatants to the horrifying acts they are carrying out. One particular moment in the execution scene perfectly illustrates this point. While Pierre is gazing upon the frightened French executioners, all but one of them rejoins their companies. One soldier is too paralyzed with horror to carry on as normal: A young soldier with a deathly pale face, his shako pushed back, his musket lowered, went on standing across the pit in the place from which he had fired. He was reeling like a drunk man, taking a few steps forward, then back, to support his falling body. An old sergeant ran out from the ranks and, seizing the young soldier’s arm, pulled him into the company (968). “Reeling like a drunk man,” this young soldier has responded how any normal human being who is not accustomed to the violence of war would respond to being forced to execute people. The reader can infer by his 110 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 young age that this soldier is intended to represent a person uninitiated in the art of war. Yet while this young soldier is crippled by guilt and fear, the other soldiers attempt to rejoin their units as if nothing happened. The young Frenchman is saved from embarrassment and punishment by an old sergeant who runs out and pulls him back into the company. In this moment, instinctual human feelings like guilt and horror that arise out of our moral intuitions are either deliberately inhibited by the other soldiers so as to not appear weak, or they have been unwittingly attenuated over time through constant contact with violence. Either way, the process of being a soldier in war gradually degrades the effectiveness of our intuitions in clarifying and motivating ethical action. War perversely incentivizes soldiers to forget their intuitions and do as they are told. In the pages of War and Peace, Tolstoy weaves together a compelling and complex moral system that relies on the moral intuitions that he evidently sees in all human beings. These intuitions can be invaluable tools for clarifying how we ought to act. But unfortunately they can be deceived and eroded, and, as a result, precautions must be taken to preserve their effectiveness. To address this concern, Tolstoy implicitly suggests a standard of moral evaluation that hinges upon proximity to the person one’s actions will affect. In this proximity, where one must stare into the eyes of one’s adversary—and see firsthand what will be lost if lethal action is taken—right and wrong become clear through our feelings. All we must do then is act according to our heart. 111 �The Cliffs of Moher Patricia Harden What is it about the Cliffs of Moher? Where carboniferous ridges Of shale and flagstone rise A steep seven hundred feet Above the Atlantic roar Where the rhythmic flight of birds blends With the ebb and flow of the waves, As seagulls drift and dive, and shorebirds skirt The swirling sea foam bath Where century after century, Irish folk and foreigners Wander, watch, and wonder Awed by Time’s imposing sculpture Where musicians play and passersby Throw a pence to a fiddler’s case, For sad sweet tunes resonating feather light On the breeze of salt sea air It is but this, my friend: Where stone and sand and sea Command each soul’s repose— A moment to reflect on one’s immortality Safe within the harbor of eternity. 112 �Colloquy / Spring 2019 Patricia Harden Cliffs of Moher 113 �Jaime Marquez 114 �You can find more work by the artists featured in Colloquy at: Adam Hurwitz: spacewaves.me Jaime Marquez: jaimemarquez.com This issue of Colloquy is made possible by the generous support of: The St. John’s College Office of Advancement The St. John’s College Bookstore The Colloquy Editorial Board is sincerely grateful to Ms. Emily Langston, Mr. Paul Ludwig, Mr. Louis Petrich, and Mr. Brandon Wasicsko. If you would like to participate in the mission of Colloquy, consider donating. Checks may be mailed to the following address: ATTN: Colloquy The Graduate Institute St. John’s College 60 College Avenue Annapolis, MD 21401 �The Graduate Institute 60 College Avenue Annapolis, MD 21401 � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Colloquy Description An account of the resource A student-run journal for the Graduate Institute community of St. John's College in Annapolis, Maryland. The issues feature essays, art, poetry, interviews, and more. Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper (bound book) Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 114 pages Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Colloquy, Spring 2019 Description An account of the resource Volume V of the Colloquy, published in Spring 2019. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Dorchester, Andrew (editor) Greene, Zachary N. (editor) Marquez, Jaime (editor) Poyner, Jordan (editor) Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2019-05 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this publication. Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Colloquy Vol 5 Spring 2019 Graduate Institute https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/566d1ba873c8e78334b1406a8a071eb8.pdf dd24706da15f221591f376ed378622ae PDF Text Text Robert C. Abbott Jr. Commencement Address May 12, 2019 St. John’s College, Annapolis Graduating students of the College and the Graduate Institute; family and friends; faculty and guests: it is my honor to speak to you this morning. As some of you know, I am partial to concise works—among them, the fragmentary remains of Sappho’s poetry, Anselm’s minimalist proof for the existence of God, and of course the slightly lengthier six hundred pages of Herodotus’ Histories. This morning, I would like to mull over just one sentence from a Platonic dialogue, in which Socrates tells the young Theaetetus a story. I say “young” because from the outset of the dialogue that bears his name, we know this conversation takes place when he was just starting out in life. Perhaps Socrates had a weather eye on his young friend’s future when he told him this story. It is said that while gazing up at the stars, Thales—one of the Seven Wise Men of Greece— fell into a well; a witty Thracian serving woman, upon observing this, remarked, “How is it, Thales, that being so wise in the affairs of heaven, you should fail to see what was before your very feet?” So who is Thales? Herodotus tells us that he was one of the first to predict the time of a solar eclipse, so it is no surprise we should find him star-gazing. In the tradition, he is considered the first philosopher, and Aristotle specifies that he was the first seeker after the wisdom of nature. So in a way, he is the progenitor of our tribe, someone who, like Socrates, delved into the things under the earth and peered at those in the sky. Thales posited that, “All is water,” which might be a way of saying that beings change their form as water does, but their underlying material remains what it is. He had many accomplishments to his name, not least of which was an ingenious way to cross a river. Right now you might be in agreement with the Thracian serving woman that Thales was rather foolish to fall into his own first principle, so I will tell you this other story to establish his credentials as a genuine thinker.1 And I tell it because you too might be concerned with how to get from Here to There. 1 I owe this particular formulation of Thales’ fall to Joe Sachs. 1 �Robert C. Abbott Jr. Commencement Address May 12, 2019 St. John’s College, Annapolis The army of the Lydian king needed to cross the River Halys and Thales was given the task. Instead of moving the army over the river by conventional means—boat or bridge, Thales changed the ground it stood on. He realized that the river was already moving, and instead of transporting the army over the river, he diverted the river around the army, leaving it on an island between two new channels. Because the whole was divided, both channels could be crossed. That is a clever solution, and perhaps one which only someone who had spent some time thinking about the nature of water would devise. Now to return to our image from the Theaetetus. Thales is a natural philosopher investigating the mysterious motions of the stars, and cannot be blamed for tracing the paths of the gods even as he walks those more terrestrial ones. The Thracian serving woman on the other hand is down to earth. She has a practical occupation, useful to herself and others. Her witty question reveals theory to be both useless and dangerous. Stay grounded, she laughs. You too have noticed, perhaps, that too much time in the hot air balloon above the Socratic Thinkery can make you light-headed. But the more I think about Thales falling into the well, the less it seems to warn against the conflict between theory and practice, and the more it seems to describe an utterly typical event in a thoughtful life. One minute you have your head in the clouds, inventing likely hypotheses and following premises to their as-yet undiscovered conclusions, and the next, the ground has disappeared. What you perceived or understood or believed is no longer there for you as the immoveable ground it was moments before. What is it about a thoughtful life that with some regularity the ground you stand on will vanish and leave you spinning in mid-air? Let me give you an example of what I mean. You are demonstrating at the chalkboard a geometrical proposition from that infinitely patient book, Euclid’s Elements. You complete the diagram by drawing the long final line between points A and B. But as you carry out the proof, you realize something is wrong. Your ratios are jumbled, the triangles you remember are not the triangles on the board, and none of the assistance you receive from friendly classmates makes any sense. Your foot has come down on nothing. 2 �Robert C. Abbott Jr. Commencement Address May 12, 2019 St. John’s College, Annapolis You will no doubt recognize this condition—fluttering in your stomach, disorientation and embarrassment, confusion. This is the straightforward way to fall into a well—to make a mistake. Perhaps that line wasn’t supposed to go to B, but rather to C. Or maybe one of your given conditions was wrong. Or you didn’t understand compound ratio as well as you thought you did. Standing there at the board, exposed and off-balance, you can now recognize your kinship with that first thinker, Thales, patron saint of bewilderment. Because most of you are young and intellectually limber, losing your footing can still be agreeable. Like one of Darwin’s tumbler pigeons, you can perform a Backwards-TripleLutz-Somersault more gracefully than those of us who have been land animals for a longer time. The Graduate Institute students are by and large older and more experienced, and deserve special praise for choosing to have the ground pulled out from under them with some regularity—ground that often was hard won. It is a daunting thing to fall into a well when you are supposed to know better. Lest we ever think too highly of our acrobatics, there is the Thracian serving woman with her ready wit, waiting to point out how ridiculous we thinkers can be at any age. She is integral to this philosophical image because she reminds us of the perils of losing one’s intellectual footing in public. What are those perils? There are three. The first is embarrassment. When you lose your footing, your cheeks burn and you tiptoe away from what you’ve done. Your self-mocking laughter separates you from yourself. “I couldn’t have done that,” you think. If the mistake is serious enough and you deny it too angrily, you separate your present from your past; though as Freud would say, that denial also means you cannot get over what you’ve done. And just as shame can alienate you from yourself, it can also exclude from the conversation others who have made mistakes. But if you have experience at making a mistake in public, you will learn to own what you’ve done, and alienate neither your own past self nor other thinkers. The second peril is that you will be distracted from what you were trying to do. When you fall down a well, the world disappears. It is very difficult to maintain continuity with your past endeavors. You must reach back in memory and find the thread that led you to the 3 �Robert C. Abbott Jr. Commencement Address May 12, 2019 St. John’s College, Annapolis present, however circuitously. But if you have practice at weaving these strands together, you live a more intricate, coherent life, one in which the activity of your mind persists in spite of both failure and success, and time holds, an unbroken braid. The third peril is that you break faith with your fellows. As we all know, there are more unsettling ways for the ground to disappear than losing the thread of a Euclidean proposition. You may find yourself doubting what the right thing to do is, or if there is a right or wrong at all. You may find you’ve harmed a friend and couldn’t say why. Being confused about your place in the world can render you useless for its present needs. I will name this peril incivility, with the understanding that I do not mean mere impoliteness but the failure to fulfill the responsibility you have to your community because you did not have firm ground to stand on. But in this failing, you can learn to see what your community is and requires. You can learn to ask for forgiveness from it, and not allow your own failings to excuse you from your responsibility. Herodotus tells us that Thales was also a statesman of sorts. He recommended to a number of neighboring cities that they choose a single meeting place to hear disputes and decide matters in common, as if each polis were a district of a larger political whole. I wonder if Thales had this commitment to a common political life because he occasionally fell into a well and found himself fractured by embarrassment, distraction, and incivility. Thales’ meeting place is the solid ground on which to work at being undivided. It should remind you of our own classroom: one table, many voices. There are other ways the ground disappears that have nothing to do with making a mistake. How often have you talked your way somewhere in seminar and like Elizabeth Bennet found that you had “wandered about until you were beyond your own knowledge?” You reach for a familiar world and find it upended and whirling. Time varies with velocity, matter is energy by another name, God is love: after a particularly good conversation you might well, as Pentheus did, see two suns in the sky. Aristotle tells us wonder is the source of wisdom, and perhaps it is by having the ground fall away from beneath us that we are prepared to behold the world with new eyes. 4 �Robert C. Abbott Jr. Commencement Address May 12, 2019 St. John’s College, Annapolis Since you are heading out into the world, I feel bound to tell you something particularly true of it in this present age: most people are terrible at falling down wells. This is not surprising. They have little to no practice at making mistakes in public and they believe that the purpose of education is to learn how to become a certified non-mistake-maker, that is, an expert. At most, they acknowledge that failure is important, but only as a ditch one leaps out of, something to laugh at from a more comfortable vantage point. Many commencement speakers are probably telling graduates right now to accept failure as a necessary evil on their predestined path to success. I think Thales and the Thracian woman would have a few choice words for them. I hope it is clear by now that I am not giving you advice. I am praising you for what you have been doing here all along. You have not learned how to land on your feet every time you fall down a well. That would be sophistry—the skill to say something plausible no matter the circumstances. But you have learned to welcome a fall when it comes. Falls come in varying heights—from incorrectly drawing a geometrical diagram to realizing that your whole account for your place in the world didn’t make adequate sense. In the period of your course in these halls you have practiced disorientation: having your ground—perceptual, intellectual, moral—fall out from beneath you. You have learned to be more committed to the conversation than your own embarrassment, distraction, or incivility. You have learned to remain at the table. The sun is not yet at its zenith, but this is well past the midpoint of my address and I would like to tell you a story about my own encounter with a well. Many years ago my family visited the house where my grandmother was born, in Greene County, Virginia. It had long since been in other hands, but she wanted to see it again, and she wanted me to see it for the first time. My grandmother, parents, and I drove down one summer day, warmer than this one, and turned from the highway onto country roads, until we came to the old home place. The property was overgrown, and I was the only one who ventured into the abandoned house. Young trees grew through the floor of the living room and stood like motionless hosts. Only leaves breathed the quiet air of the house. When I returned to the car, I found my grandmother upset by the dilapidation of the present and this rough return to the past. But even in consternation she asked me, “Did you find the well?” 5 �Robert C. Abbott Jr. Commencement Address May 12, 2019 St. John’s College, Annapolis The well was an underlying figure in the landscape of her childhood. She was a rare and powerful storyteller; her memories of that childhood live on in those who heard her stories. I have a vivid image of her drawing water to cool that morning’s milk as if I had been there to hold the pail. When I take a drink after a long row here on the Severn I sometimes remember how she quenched her thirst at the well after a long walk home from school. And I did find this same well. She told me to watch out for it before I left the road and went into the woods. The well was deep, and its wooden cover was surely rotted away. But I discovered it in time, near the back porch stairs—a dark opening in the earth. This memory gives me cause to rethink my telling of the Thales story. I have praised what you undertook here at the College. But like Socrates in the Phaedrus, perhaps I have not yet done justice to the end of that enterprise. I have considered one aspect of the thoughtful life—when the ground disappears, but I have yet to address another—falling into a well. Allow me to begin my encomium again, giving due praise not to the fall, but Depth. You fall, yes, but into what? Thales fell into his own first principle—water, which he took to be the underlying material beneath everything else. In other words, he fell into the source of the world. The word for source in Greek is arche, a word that has many resonances with us here at the College. An arche is a beginning, a cause, a source for the way things are, a spring that pours forth much. The sources of the world are deep. You cannot always climb down but must trust the fall. I am reminded of what the German poet Hölderlin wrote, “Wo aber Gefahr ist, wächst / Das Rettende auch.” “Where danger is, there salvation also grows.” It is no accident that we find water in the deep places of the world. There is a secret bond between the high and the deep. When we set our gaze on the ageless dance of the stars we also find ourselves falling to the very heart of the world. But I want to describe more specifically what we fall into when the ground gives way. When I was in high school, trying to persuade my parents to let me attend the College, we were invited to an event for prospective students at an alumna’s house. My mother was not at all sure that this strange school would be worth the risk. I think my father was happy enough that I was interested in crew to sign off on the whole dubious project. Wouldn’t it 6 �Robert C. Abbott Jr. Commencement Address May 12, 2019 St. John’s College, Annapolis be better to go somewhere with more options, somewhere more conservative, more affordable, somewhere with a study abroad program? We met a tutor at the event, Nancy Buchenauer, and my mother asked her a challenging question: what is the worldview of St. John’s College? Ms. Buchenauer paused, but did not shy away from an answer. “We believe there are certain questions that must be asked.” My parents were convinced. The more I ask opening questions at the beginning of seminar, the more time I live with the great books that pose those certain questions with unyielding intensity, the more I believe that a question is not a statement disguised by uncertainty, nor is it an indication of, or an attempt to induce, confusion. A question is a well-spring sunk into the heart of the world. A question demands that you must answer it now, in the present, and for yourself; no one can do it for you. Who am I? What is nature? What ought I do here? What is fleeting, undying, beautiful? These wells do not run dry however much we draw from them. They are springs of living water, nourishing tree, city, and soul. Our time is at its end and you are about to return to a source. I know the College sometimes seems self-sufficient, but the great world to which you go is one of our sources, and we, its tributary. Plato has given you many ways to picture life in the world. The darkest is in the Republic. There it it is like living in a cave, chained by injustice, bound to see only images of the truth. But in the Theaetetus, he gave you another way of picturing that place underlying all others. Going back to the world is like falling into a well. Disorienting at first, but in it you may discover the source of what is. I believe the well of Thales was a place for reunion and betrothal, like a well in the book of Genesis; or like the pool of Bethesda, where an angel troubled the waters and the lame came to walk again. Thales falling into the well is an image of what happens to human beings after they have strained to see the undying beauty above them, but lost their footing and found themselves in fathomless depth. Perhaps instead of being forced down to earth as in the cave, they fall there, as Alyosha does, in praise and wonder. 7 � 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 Commencement Programs and Addresses Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Description An account of the resource Addresses given at commencement and programs of events related to, and including, the annual commencement ceremonies at St. John's College. Includes both the undergraduate and Graduate Institute commencements. <br /><br />The College Archives holds programs and/or addresses for the following years:<br /> <ul> <li>1796</li> <li>1835-1836</li> <li>1842</li> <li>1852</li> <li>1856-1857</li> <li>1870</li> <li>1878</li> <li>1880</li> <li>1890</li> <li>1893</li> <li>1895</li> <li>1897</li> <li>1907</li> <li>1910-1918</li> <li>1920-1924</li> <li>1928-1929</li> <li>1932</li> <li>1936-1937</li> <li>1939-1945</li> <li>1947-present  </li> </ul> Click on <strong><a title="Commencement Programs and Addresses" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=18&amp;sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&amp;sort_dir=d">Items in the Commencement Programs and Addresses Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context commencementprograms Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data pdf Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 7 pages Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Annapolis Commencement Address, Spring 2019 Description An account of the resource Typescript of the commencement address given on May 12, 2019 by Robert Charles Abbott, Jr. at the end of the Spring 2019 semester in Annapolis, MD. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Abbott, Robert Charles, Jr. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2019-05-12 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource A signed permission form has been received stating, "I hereby grant St. John's College permission to make a copy of my typescript available online." Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Abbott, Robert (2019 Commencement Address) Commencement https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/1f469fbb5764c06f4c8d499e450bf4c0.mp3 139816c6ed6b15bea59a2ccb68d240bf 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 Commencement Programs and Addresses Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Description An account of the resource Addresses given at commencement and programs of events related to, and including, the annual commencement ceremonies at St. John's College. Includes both the undergraduate and Graduate Institute commencements. <br /><br />The College Archives holds programs and/or addresses for the following years:<br /> <ul> <li>1796</li> <li>1835-1836</li> <li>1842</li> <li>1852</li> <li>1856-1857</li> <li>1870</li> <li>1878</li> <li>1880</li> <li>1890</li> <li>1893</li> <li>1895</li> <li>1897</li> <li>1907</li> <li>1910-1918</li> <li>1920-1924</li> <li>1928-1929</li> <li>1932</li> <li>1936-1937</li> <li>1939-1945</li> <li>1947-present  </li> </ul> Click on <strong><a title="Commencement Programs and Addresses" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=18&amp;sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&amp;sort_dir=d">Items in the Commencement Programs and Addresses Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context commencementprograms Sound A resource primarily intended to be heard. Examples include a music playback file format, an audio compact disc, and recorded speech or sounds. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data wav Duration Length of time involved (seconds, minutes, hours, days, class periods, etc.) 023:22 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 Commencement Address, Spring 2016 Description An account of the resource Audio recording of the commencement address given on May 16, 2016 by Thomas May at the end of the Spring 2016. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource May, Thomas Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2016-05-16 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource A signed permission form has been received stating, "I hereby grant St. John's College permission to make an audio recording of my lecture, and retain copies for circulation and archival preservation at the St. John's College Greenfield Library and to make an audio recording of my lecture available online." Type The nature or genre of the resource sound Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource mp3 Relation A related resource <a href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/show/925" title="Typescript">Typescript</a> Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Commencement Address, Spring 2016, May, Thomas 05-16-16 Commencement Tutors https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/7adf00f044b4062c642d91fb7662da57.mp3 29a43c2a17a9e6f80d25fd53ff7cd492 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 Speeches, presentations, and other lectures Description An account of the resource Speeches, presentations, and other lectures given at St. John's College. These include convocation addresses delivered in both Annapolis, MD and Santa Fe, NM.<br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Speeches, presentations, and other lectures" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=15">Items in the Speeches, presentations, and other lectures Collection</a></strong> to <span>view and sort all items in the collection.</span> 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 speechespresentationsotherlectures Sound A resource primarily intended to be heard. Examples include a music playback file format, an audio compact disc, and recorded speech or sounds. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data wav Duration Length of time involved (seconds, minutes, hours, days, class periods, etc.) 042:46 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 Age of Illusions: America after the Cold War Description An account of the resource Audio recording of a lecture delivered on Apr. 26, 2019 by Andrew Bacevich as part of the LCDR Erik S. Kristensen Lecture Series. The lecture is part of a joint lectures series between St. John's College and the U.S. Naval Academy to honor the memory of Lieutenant Commander Erik S. Kristensen. An alumnus of the United States Naval Academy and the St. John's College Graduate Institute, Kristensen, a Navy SEAL, was killed in the line of duty in Afghanistan in 2005. This lecture series aims to create even greater ties between the two schools, as well as to educate the public about civil-military relations and the place of the liberal arts in education of naval and military professions. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Bacevich, Andrew J. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2019-04-26 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource A signed permission form has been received stating, "I hereby grant St. John's College permission to make an audio recording of my lecture, and retain copies for circulation and archival preservation at the St. John's College Greenfield Library and to make an audio recording of my lecture available online." Type The nature or genre of the resource sound Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource mp3 Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Bacevich_Andrew_2019-04-26 Kristensen lecture series U.S. Naval Academy https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/bc64fc32f195eb9bd5e77790cad33994.pdf 3860529b60ba05c679d0af4812203891 PDF Text Text ����� 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&amp;sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&amp;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 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The Gadfly, Vol. XL, Issue 9 Description An account of the resource Volume XL, Issue 9 of the Gadfly. Published May 7, 2019. Special Issue: Badfly II. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Berreles-Luna, Athena (Editor-in-Chief) Pelham, Rose (Editor-in-Chief) Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2019-05-07 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this publication. Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Gadfly Vol XL Issue 09 Badfly