37 20 5655 https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/b480a8bba360db1eaf7d7205e1b5ce6e.pdf 0f08ca7af1f7e3c998c323e62df0eb43 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 Collegian Description An account of the resource The Collegian began as a student newspaper; became a college community literary publication in 1952 and continued until 1969; became a student newspaper again in 1969; discontinued publication from 1980 until 1989 when it again became a student literary publication.<br /><br />Click on <a title="The Collegian" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=26">Items in The Collegian Collection</a> to view and sort all items in the collection. 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. Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 37 pages Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Vol.15 no.9 June 1903 Title A name given to the resource The St. John's Collegian, June 15, 1903 Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1903-06-15 Description An account of the resource Vol. XV, No. 9 of The St. John's Collegian. Published on June 15, 1903. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Cummins, Charles A. (Editor) Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource text Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this publication. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Student publication https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/8e594e9c443e6516b5598d7965b9d8ec.pdf 7fbb6b1c30dde432379c36abd74aaf0a PDF Text Text XxX/XxxxxV ��RICHARD DANIEL WEIGLE President Many people have expressed the wish that this yearbook include the years between the last yearbook and the present bne . The reply has always been the same: "Sorry, but it's out of the question." The reasons for this remark are numerous. The two main ones, perhaps, are (1) not enough money, and (2) not enough time . Because of the budget alloted this publication, it must be limited to a certain amount of pages. Because of the limited amount of pages, it would be impossible to do even a mediocre job of including the four years between the last yearbook and this one . JACOB KLEIN Dean The yearbook , as it now appears, is a product of many months of hard work by one or two individuals . There is much room for improvement-this is clear. Some of the articles that appear throughout the book are bad, while others are excellent. I can only express the hope that those of you who recognize the weak points of this yearbook w ill be willing to help produce better yearbooks in the future. HuGH CuRTLER, JR. YEARBOOK STAFF WILLIAM KYLE SMITH Assistant D ean HuGH CuRTLER, JR . Editor JoHN MALONEY Business Manager MARSHALL LASKY' ALAN MARSHALL Photographers NANCY EAGLE Typist CLARENCE KRAMER Faculty Advisor BARBARA HoPKINs L E ON ARD A ssistant D ean �FoRD KEELER BRowN Tutor HuGH P. McGRATH Tutor SIMON KAPLAN Tutor WILEY CRAWFORD Tutor JoHN SPANGLER KIEFFER Tutor CuRTis A. WILSON Tutor LuKE HARVEY PoE, JR . Tutor DouGLASS ALLENBROOK Tutor JOSEPH WINFREE SMITH VICTOR ZucKERKANDL Tutor Tutor CHARLES G . BELL Tutor JoHN ALoYsms BREMER Tutor �HENRY VINCENT GRATTAN RICHARD ScoFIELD Tutor Tutor WILLIAM FRANCIS GLEASON ARLAND F . CHRIST-] ANER Intern Treasurer MICHAEL OssoRGIN loLA R. ScoFIELD Tutor Tutor WILLIAM F . WYNN Intern jAMES M. ToLBERT Director of Admissions SETH G . BEN ARDETE CLARENCE J. KRAMER Intern Tutor ALAN MARSHALL THOMAS KING SIMPSON Tutor Assistant to the President �DALE BROOKS CuMMINGs WILLIAM MoNEY AsTON Director of Athletics Laboratory Advisor ~18AtJwn .... RoBERT S . BART Tutor A. LEONARD Tutor SLAFKOSKY WILLIAM A . DARKEY, JR . RAYMOND NEIKIRK wILBURN Tutor (Sabbatical leave 1956-57) Tutor ( On L eave) \ Time brings not death, it brings but changes. DouGLAS MALLOCH �Next it was necessary to devise teaching formalities. The chronological order of reading recommended itself for the reason that human thought, in its history, grappled first with fundamental and elementary questions , and then worked out the consequences of the various answers proposed. The rna j or turning points in thought occurred when one set of consequences or another sent men back to reconsider the fundamental questions. Toynbee's requirement of an "intelligible field " for a study of history holds even for a brief essay on the last twenty years of the two-hundred-sixty-year history ~f King William's School- St. John's College . Dogmatically asserted, our intelligible field must be " educated man . '. By 1937 the conviction was shared by many people that there were no educated men any more and that furthermore the institutions of society for developing the breed had become so corrupt that they were producing the very opposite of what they intended to produce, that a race of barbarians with college degrees sat in the seats vacated by the wise men of old . In 1937 two men with this conviction, Stringfellow Barr and Scott Buchanan, felt themselv~s ready to act in the crisis so as to lead the exiled men _ wisdom in an attempt to ~ecapture thetr of thrones from the barbarians. In 1937 one throne, whtch had never completely capttulat_d to t_ e he barbarians, St. John's College, extended a call for help to. t~~se z:nen and became a rallywg powt for all friends of liberty of the arts·. The march back to Civihzatwn began . A revolution is something other than a war. B~rr and Bucha~an led St . John's against no single, well disciplined enemy, but rather into ~h~ ffii~st of a bab~hng ra~ble. Am~ng the confused shouts and outcries of the melee could be distwgutshed from time to w~e t~e v:o1ces of th?se calling futilely for the preservation of this or that piece of wreckag_e _ f past wstitutwns; clashwg o with them were the cries of the utopians who were bent on_reahzwg a new heaven and _ ?ew a earth . Underlying all the uproar was the seismic rumble ofsctenceand technology , th~preClpttat­ ing cause of the crisis . The world was i? revolution; _w-hether St. John's was a revolu~wnary force or counter revolutionary could not easlly be determi_ned. That ~e were called fascists by som_ e and communists by others, atheists by some and medieval Cathohcs by others, was perhaps testimony to the soundness of our stand . There were three planks in our pro gram: the recovery of the Liberal Arts; t~e disc? very of the meaning of science; the Socratic method. The first of these followed f:o.m a diagnosis of our ills as a breakdown of communication; the second ensued from a recogmtion th_at the modern world was in upheaval because technology, whic~ from _immemorial time had gUlded the ~ands of the artisan, at last had pushed its way to the braw and infiltrated the reason, to becom_ science. e Thirdly, the Socratic method furnished a flexible way to teach rea~on ~o take.stoc~ of itself, un-. hampered by stereotyped beliefs, but guided by a fundamental fauh 1n man s :ational po_ ers. w Another way of putting it is to say that St. John's planned to restore th~ do~aw _ f the Ltberal o Arts over all manifestations of the human spirit through the use of Socratic dialectic. The first practical step was to found a curriculum on the record o~ the human spirit's _struggle for consciousness of its powers and its limits. Everyone knew that this recor~ was f?und 1ll books that have become classic. So the first task was to select the books that contawed thts record most fully and intensively . Then, making these books the tea~hers, to fort? the habit amon_ the g faculty of making a continuing critical review of the selectwns for the hst. It was an ace1dent, happily seized on by the publicity-minded that the books nuz:nbe~~d close to one hundred . s.~ this part of the program was reduced to a slogan, for good or 111: The Hundred Great Books. ., , Reading and discussion presupposed the arts of language and so the language and mathematical tutorials were set up to inculcate thes'e arts . The four years of laboratory followed from the special problem of science: It was in one aspect a tutorial in the language of science, that is dbservation and measurement; in another sense, a seminar in the classic record of science, a record which must be assimilated by experiment , an analogue to Socratic dialectic. Mathematics forms a link between the laboratory as a tutorial and the seminar in so far as it furnishes an ideal language in which the book of nature may be read by the reason . Finally the originators of the program took seriously the title, ·'Queen of the Sciences,'' given of old to Theology, and sought to provide through theological readings a focus in which to explore the grounds of unity within the sciences and between science and the other manifestations of the human spirit . The history of the last twenty years of St . John's is the story of the faculty's attempt to follow this program and the students' attempts to get an education from it . The greatest problem and the greatest challenge has been the fact that education requires both freedom and discipline . Learning takes place .spontaneously and unpredictably and yet not without order. How to provide an order for classes without constructing a deadening routine has been continually before us . Complicating the problem is the necessity of certifying to the outside world what has been learned and how it is relevant to the demands society makes upon us. (Don rags, enabling examinations, theses and senior orals become the institutional forms which mirror the goal, ·'the educated man" .) . The history of the program shows remarkable adherence both to the original goal and the original plan . The administrative changes of these years are too intimately a concern of the writer to be touched on, and in the long view are unimportant . Changes within the curriculum have been in the nature of the relaxing procedures that turned out to be too ambitious, such as reducing the number of books to be read; or they have consisted in tightening up where too much was taken for granted in the students, for example, the constant revision of the language tutorial in the direction of closer study and more writing; the introduction of algebra and analytic geometry into the mathematics tutorial, or the rearrangement of the laboratory to conform more to the traditional division of physics, chemistry, and biology, or lastly, the attempt to specify the nature of music in its ordinary understanding . St . John's approaches the canonical maturity of twenty-one years with unchanging purpose, but in a society that has changed beyond recognition from the world of 1937 . If in 1937 we could recall men from despair by proclaiming that the truths of the human spirit stood firm amidst the decay of the old order, in 1957 we offer a reminder that these same truths rebuke easy hopes springing from Fortune's quick reversal to prosperity. JOHN S. KIEFFER �Motion is inevitable. No matter how comfortable traditions may be, there is always change. Yet, call it what you will, there is always some point in terms of which this motion is meaningful. Without such a reference point there is chaos . At St. John's, that point is the Program; this is the unity which imparts the motion. Throughout the College there have been many changes during the last four years. The surface of the Program, itself, has changed. The seminar list has been revised and re-arranged. The sophomore language tutorial now attempts a more direct approach to the Trivium-an approach which is, perhaps, not altogether a happy one. Laboratory, which has never rested comfortably within the sphere of the Program, has been revised and amplified more than once. And, happiest of all, the fine arts are slowly coming to rest within the curricu~~m through music. It is hoped, or rather it is felt, that all these changes have been made in one sp1nt, the spirit or experimentation. No one can be sure how the liberal arts are best applied to the problems confronted in the world of ideas. Perhaps this kind of certainty can never be attained . T~e Program, therefore, can not remain static. There is need for motion, so long as the mouon 1s limited by the principles which define the ?rogram. Physically the College has changed a great deal through the past four years. The construction of a woman's dormitory constitutes the major change, although there has been extensive redec~ra­ tion in almost every building on campus . This, of course, is not to mention the transformatwn which has been effected through the artistry of landscaping . It is with no little fondness that some of us remember Koogle Hall, and the door in the basement of Campbell which now bears that name is cold comfort to our memories . Likewise, the nursery which now covers the land once occupied by the famous Paca-Carroll Wings can do nothing to assuage our sorrow if we recall the bohemian comfort of those cells . Even now the College is in the process of building . And altholl:gh the immediacy of the prospect of a new laboratory is somewhat frightening, there can be nothmg but universal agreement that some improvement was needed. Saddest of all is the realization that when it is finished, the new building will take the College out of the Great Hall on Friday evenings . But, as Messers. Chase and Philli'ps admonish us, "Time is the physician ." Some of these changes are disquieting, and student opinion has varied in every case . More often than not, when changes have been made with respect to the Program, there has been at least a serious attempt to give thought to their meaning. The worst that can be said of judgments made with regard to other changes is that they have, perhaps, been founded more in fear and trembling, than in serious consideration . Everything at St . John's must, like lines drawn from all points on a circle to its cente~, ~ave but one point of convergence-the Program. If there is any reason for being at St . John's, lt 1s .to be under the discipline of the Program. Ideally, then, our course of action should always be .dlctated by the answer to this question: What effect will this have to the Program? As we conunll:e to seek fresh answers to this question, we would all do well to judge their adequacy by th1s maxim: At St . John 's it is the liberal arts which lend meaning to the activities of life, not the activities of life which lend meaning to the liberal arts. WALTER D. WEIR The love of learning, the sequestered nooks, and all the sweet serenity of books. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW �"So here I am, zn the middle way, having had twenty yearsTwenty years largely wasted, the years of l'entre deux guerresTrying to learn to use words, and every attempt Is a wholly new start, and a different kind of .l .. f azure . ... ELIOT: East Coker What is being discussed in this quotation? Communication and the difficulties of communication. Why is communication considered difficult? Because we can not communicate on the conceptual level, but must use words or symbols. Thus our matter of co.mmu~ica~ion is once removed from what we might .hke 1t to be: this results in the twice-removedness of the idea which the person to whom we are communicating ends up with. Communication is difficult- witness the preceding sentet:J.ce. Learning to communicate clearly a~d lucidly; to ·get across' an intended meamng to the person to whom we are conversing-this is what takes place in the Tutorials he~e ~t St. John's. We study language because with It we communicate. It is not a very good means for communication, due to ambiguities, doubleentendres, and human ignorance; but we try to make the best we can of it. Mathematics is a language which involves no ambiguities, so we study it to apply to language whatever we might learn from it. One evidence of the meeting of these two is in symbolic logic. ~hat t~e symbolic logician attempts to do Is to nd language of its vagueness and unclearness. He sees that language by itself, and the rules governing it (trivial arts) are not enough to make language a good vehicle; so h~ informs language with the form of mathemaucal order and hopes to have a good vehicle. ~owev~r, if the order of the informed order Is not Invulnerable-if it has a leak-where are we? Mr. Curtis Wilson's lecture on symbolic logic showed that there is a leak in the order. As a result all we can do is work with what we have,' · · .. '. shabby equipment, always deteriorating. In a general mess of impre.cision of feeling .... " This is what we do m the language and mathematics tutorials. By reading the books and analyzing them as best we can, we get closer and closer to the order that we must think is there. Does this group of words communicate anything to you? Maybe so, and maybe not. "I gotta use words when I talk to you, .but if r:ou don't understand, or if you do, that s nothmg to me and nothing to you.·· ELIOT: Fragment of an Agon Article written by: John Maloney 8emina/Js The seminar is the focal point of the studies at St . John's. The group of approximat~ly nineteen to twenty-five students together wlt? two or more tutors which makes up the seminar meets twice a week for two hours or longer. It is a study group which discusses. an assigned reading, bringin.g out and ~evelopmg the problems treated of m the readmg . Concerning the subject at hand, a student may p~t forth a theory which may be and usually IS challenged by the other students. Each stude~t must be ready to defend his statements . In this way fallaciou~ reasoning .can be brought to t~e surface idenufied and discarded. Then vahd reasoni~g can take place and enrich the thought of the students. I said that the seminar is the focal point of study, because it is in the setninar tha~ all problems can be discu~sed. The~e are readmgs which bring out certam theoreucal as ~ell as practical difficulties which co~e up I~ the mathematics and language tutonals and IJ?- the laboratory practice and discussi~n penod.s . The laws which influence and gmde men In society are discussed; that is , all of the laws which influence life- laws of nature, laws of physics, laws of men or government,. divi~e law and moral law. These are seen In their separate peculiarities and in relation to one another. Man is studied in all his a~pects through history, politics, psychology, science,. poetry, and philosophy. The probl~ms which continue to pursue man as he hves through all ages become clear and therefore become capable of solution. The seminar coheres by virtue o~ a c~:mtinu­ ous examination of the puzzle which 1s rna~ . The puzzle, so diffic':llt becaus.e of the very diversities of man, Is a proJeCt . 'Yorked on through four years by students stn:vmg to help themselves and one another to gam an understanding. But the end of the four ;:-ears does not end the project. The students wlll alw~ys have the ability to tackle an~ to ~e~l with problems that arise whether .I~ pohucs, the study of law, ~inistrf, medicme, et~. The habit of thinking thmgs through IS . wellestablished by the seminar and stays with us after graduation from St. John's. CoRNELIA HoFFMAN KLINE �Sometimes the lecture and the question period are the most exciting parts of the week . The study of a year or more becomes a living tool, parts of it emerging and being regrouped to appraise an entirely new idea and probe to the far reaches of its consequences. While the lecturer is presenting his thesis , the audience is muted-hushed. We are already seeking the answers to the questions and objections which will present themselves fully formed in the discussion later. Then the lecturer has gone, too soon, and with the dialectic of the question period comes new insights and new questions in their turn. These remain to be answered . But of course, there are the other times, and too many of them, when the only excitement is caused by the beat of the leoturer's deter·mined course between the water pitcher and the lectern with a murmur of bored comments . Why a man who has nothing to say should be invited here to drone away an evening is a mystery . More amazing is the ingenuous attitude that a famous name on the weekly calendar means that a man capable of delivering a lecture will appear on Friday . The illustrious incompetents still come. An audience of students and faculty at St . 'John's wi.ll sit far beyond the time when the speaker begins to eye his watch in order to hear a stimulating lecture . They will talk until early morning to understand it . They should not be subjected to the intellectual meanderings of the semiserious and the insensitive, no matter what the higher reasons for their being here . The formal lecture was instituted and is still represented as the culmination, the natural climax, of the week . It is a time of testing, both understanding and dialectical skills . When there is nothing to be understood the skill is wasted. Chess, anyone? MARY GALLAGHER 1 ,· For better or for worse the Student Polity has undergone a fundamental change in its nature, and hence in its manner of functioning . The present Constitution calls for a democratic form of government, that is, one in which decisions are made directly by the student body . In actual practice the Polity is republican, not democratic . The decisions of the Polity are made by the Executive Committee, the representatives of the students . The executive Committee has come to take all the action it can within the limits of the Constitution because of a general lack of concern on the part of the student body. A case in point was the unsuccessful attempt on two occasions to convene the Polity in order to decide who should be held responsible for damage in commonrooms during vacations. The lack of cohcern on the part of many students iq the activities of the Polity raises the question of the value of the Polity in any form. The end of the college community is learning. It is the job of the administration to provide the conditions that will make the actualization of this end possible. The administration by necessity makes many decisions which affect the every day life of the students: there must be rules of residence, screens on windows, satisfactory food in the dining hall, money appropriated for extra-curricular activities, rodent control, discipline of socially hazardous persons. The opinion of the student body on these matters greatly facilitates the operation of the administration. Although it is assumed that the student is not yet capable of deciding how his intellectual powers shall be developed, he is able to tell when the food in the dining hall is bad. In order to provide better conditions for learning, the administration has in fact delegated some of its power to the students. Ideally all the students should be aware of the responsibility they have to the college community; in practice this is not the case. The Polity, then, is faced with two sensible alternatives : either it must instill a greater sense of responsibility in many students, which seems unlikely; or it must change the Constitution so that the republican form of government can work more effectively. HARVEY WYNN ��tion decid~d th.at th~y had been a party, in a sense, to vwlaung dnnking-age statutes in the past, when the Cotillion Board held "beer busts" on its budget funds provided by the College . It was decided that no Coliege funds cou~d be used in the future to purchase alcohohc beverages. So, "beer-busts" were replaced by Boat House "B .Y .O ." parties . ~nly si.xty per cent of last year 's membership surv1ved the St . John's fatality rate- so we scouted the Freshman Class , and recruited several at gun point. On the twe~tieth of October, we presented the Homecommg Dance . The decor featured a spotlight revolving overhead flashing on four huge leaves hung around it ; and a bandstand b~ckdrop of crepe in fall colors, lit from be~md so a~ to silhouette the band . The revolvmg spotlight picked up speed as the evening passed and had to be turned off when several people complained that it was producing unpleasant gastric complications. On the twelfth of January, we presented the Student-Faculty Party in the Great Hall . Beer was served. It turned out to be the first and last, "beer bust" of the year . The Administra- The " Balpere avant Noel " was presented on December fifteenth in Iglehart Hall. It featured all white decorations, a large silver star behind the. band, which was flanked by a pair of Chnstmas Trees . The band was a jazz combo gathered by Jim Chrestenson for the occasion . As a final touch, we splurged $25 .00 on hors d 'oeurves . The " Cafe sans Jean" was held in the Boat House on March 16th. To make it more than m er~l y a Boat House " set-up" party, we orgamzed a '·gala floor show ' ' consisting of a d~m rag lampo~n , Chris Griffin playing Adeste F1deles (a la Ktrkpatric), and dance music by Messers Wray, Adler, and Tilles . The costume party was presented in the Boat Ho~se on the eighteenth of May. A pair of free uckets to the June Ball was the prize for the most original costume. The activities during June Week, i .e. The June Ball , and a party after the Variety Show, are a finale to the Cotillion Board's enterprises of the year . jiM DEYOUNG I / �The St. John's College Boat Club was founded in 1931. There is no record of the early activities of the club, but in 1938 some Dyer Dinghys were pqrchased, and racing was conducted on an intra-mural basis, and informally with the United States Naval Academy. This continued until 1942, when the dinghys were sold and five sixteen foot sailboats were built. These turned out to be unsuitable for racing, and in 1948 it was decided by the Club Members to build a fleet of sailing dinghys, and to restore racing as a sport . At present we have five tempest dinghys, and an assortment of other craft which all total a fleet of ten able vessels. The club is now thinking about obtaining a larger boat, as well as one that could be used for extended cruises. The purchase of such a boat would complete the facilities of the Boat Club., for we could have both racing and cruising facilities. STEVE LERNER There is perceptible activity in the field of the fine arts at St. John's. Several persons are known to use the art studio on occasions, and in the past we have seen student artists of considerable talents . Even this year, there has been a successful exhibition of student oils, watercolors, and drawings; and another (complete with price tags) is being planned at this writing for the Playhouse Theater. Models have been supplied twice a week, and numerous ill-attended but heated discussions have grown up a.round Saturday morning drawing classes. A Baltimore artist and art instructor spoke on dynamics in art and nature and was sharply cross-examined at one of these sessions, and general criticism of everyone else's work identifies most of us as artists in spirit if not in technique. But the group is not representative of the student body. The unhappy fact is, the fine arts are currently not modish here in the college. Many students, on examination, will admit complete disinterest in painting, sculpture, ar~hi­ tecture, and all the other fine arts; excepung, of course, music, which is claimed by some members of the liberal arts camp, and is at least an authorized object of contemplation. Its implications are philosophical, it is rumored, and so it becomes significant to us philosophizers . The other arts are, it would seem, small and unmeaningful as seen from our disturbing vantage point on the philosophic height . Perhaps the fine arts have been swamped in the backwash of the educational trauma of our first reading in Plato, the Ion,· the St. John's mind is surely capable of overcoming any blinding attachment to its first dialogue, however, and so we present the idea as no more than a curiosity . Rather our suggestion is that since the already telescoped Program admittedly offers no niche for any artistic artifacts, except a rare hour or two on Friday evenings, St. Johnny's exhibit the indifference of ignorance, not genuine insensibility. Poetry, indeed, is a frequent topic of discussion, both formally and informally; and through this chink in the liberal armor, perhaps there filters an occasional glimmer of the fine arts. This might certainly be expected, since poetry and the fine arts treat the same subject matter, whatever that may be, in the same way, whatever that may be? It is precisely this identification of poetry and the fine arts that we believe to be the strayed connection between those arts and the local liberal imaginations . If it can be retrieved and restored, student interest might justify a few more fine arts lectures, or even promote a small discussion group. One of our tutors has recently said that poetry is the characteristic of the Great Books that will mark them as Great when their fortunes are otherwise at lowest tide in departments of philosophy and history and sociology. If this same element is to be found in painting and sculpture and architecture, then they are not to be tossed aside as fodder for ruminating dilettantes. Their poetry is as significant as the poetry of the books . If you find in poetry insights essentially inexpressible in prosa-ic terms, you will find the same in art; if you find poetry appealing to the intellect, you will find art the same. DAviD JoNES �Iglehart Hall, the den of diversion, again provided during the year 1956-57, the plan for good health and friendly excitement . Under the direction of Dale Cummings, the intra-mural athletic program, as well as the tourneys and individual sports, offered the refreshment and relaxation necessary during a St. John's work-week filled with arduous and diligent application . The season began with intra-mural contests in football. This rough and tumble sport for brisk weather lasted until late January, when basketball became the athletic intra-mural challenge. The remainder of the winter and the early spring found the basketball champions tenacious and consistent in their team-work and application to the skills of this most difficult and demanding sport-and the finals really found champion against champion. There is no joy in beautiful wisdom, unless one have holy health. SEXTUS EMPIRICUS Along with the growth in enrollment this year has been a decided rise in participation in athletics. A basketball team was formed that chalJenged local teams quite successfully. The fenc11:~g t~am took a number of first places in the d1stnct meets and sent representatives to the North Atlantic Sectional Championships. Students competed on a seminar team or individual basis for awards in badminton tennis fencing, basketball, football, softball, 'squash: and field and track. Activities offered not on an aw~rd basis were weight lifting, ping pong, wrest!lng, and ?and~al~ , with weight lifting showmg a definite ga1n 1n popularity . JoHN McDEviTT The spring term, and a new diamond on back campus, brought intra-mural excitement out into the sunshine with the softball tourney. The freshmen's proficient fielding, and the sophomores' determination made the competition keen between the two lower class teams, and the tension mixed with the fresh air offered afternoons of fun for the participants and the on-lookers. The track and field meet was the final inter-class competition, and that Saturday morning by the creek found the entrants in peak condition for the trials . The community gathering at the horseshoe cheered and encouraged the athletes throughout that grand entertainment, for the balance of the day. The games-between-the-classes proved again this year to be a favorite diversion for the St. Johnnys. The athletic program met part of the social needs of the community, and, at the same time, helped to instill in the participants the virtues of sportsmanship and teamwork. The class of 1957 looks ahead to future years to bring more successful programs of good health and good spirit. WILLIAM TILLES �Lyric Suite A LBAN B ERG Allegretto Giovaile : Seven College Students participated in the Annapolis YMCA Basketball League. Beginning without high aspirations, the first few games were played in the mood of the first movement. Andante A moroso: After several games, the players became a team. Although they lost the first few, they were improving. It was at this point that their interest shifted to the theme of the second movement. Allegro Misterioso-Trio Estatico : How could Don Cummings continue to average 25-30 points a game? Almy's energy ? Curtler's "special" shot-with his eyes closed? Trownsell's dribbling through his own team, as well as the opponent's? "Old Man" Dale Cummings running . .. and running? W ynn's free throws? The tempo of the third movement was established by such questions. Adagio Appassionato: The team began to move from the bottom of the league upward by upset victories. The new theme was evidenced by the fact that the players stopped smoking during the games. Once or twice there were even six players available for the games. Presto Delirando : St. John's qualified for the play-off games for the league championships. Losing team members to Spring Vacation, the players nevertheless w0n the semi-final game by 2 points. • • 1957 Largo Desolato: The final game, and championship, was lost by 3 points. T h is game being played by five players, one of which had only played with the team once before. In spite of this loss, the team was awarded a "run ner-up" plaque, which will be kept in the gymnasium. A. F. CHRIS T-JANER The rung of a ladder was never meant to rest upon, but only to hold a man's foot long enough to enable him to put the other somewhat higher. THOMAS MEMBERS OF THE TEAM Captain: HuGH CuRTLER Players DoN CuMMINGS DALE CuMMINGS HARVEY WYNN STEVE ALMY CHucK WoLBURG MIKE T ROWNSELL HuxLEY �STEVEN ARNOLD LERNER JoAN ELIZABETH CoLE RosABELLE GouLD HARRIS GERALD GEDIMAN jAMES wALTER LINSNER FAYE CouNCELL PoLILLO �JoHN jAMES RonowsKY jOSEPHINE jAQUELINE jASTER jAMES BuRT SIEMENS CHARLES AuGUSTINE NoRRIS HARVEY WILLIAM WYNN CoRNELIA HoFFMAN KLINE �Education is the instruction of the intellect in the laws of nature, under which name I include not merely things and their forces, but men and their ways; and the fashioning of the affections and of the will into an earnest desire to move in harmony with these laws. THOMAS HuxLEY .- �� 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 Yearbooks Description An account of the resource This collection contains yearbooks from St. John's College in Annapolis, MD. Yearbooks are sometimes referred to as the "Rat Tat", "Cicerone", or "Canvas". This collection includes all published yearbooks since 1896.  Please note that yearbooks were not published every year.<br /><br />Holdings: <br />1896 v. 1<br />1898 v. 2 - 1899 v. 3<br />1901 v. 4 – 1912 v. 15<br />1914 v. 17 – 1918 v. 21<br />1920 v. 22 – 1945/1946<br />1947 – 1951/1953<br />1957<br />1982<br />1986 – 1990/1991<br />1992 – 2001/2002<br />2015/2016 – 2017/2018<br />2021/2022 - 2024/2025<br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Yearbooks" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=21">Items in the Yearbooks Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection. Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context yearbooks 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. 32 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 1957 yearbook, St .John's College Description An account of the resource St. John's College Yearbook for the year 1957. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Curtler, Jr., Hugh (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 1957 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 1957 https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/ae55783195137cc81d2e060971924d1f.jpg d5e8e2bd8463f6c8af7a91a62b593947 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 Image Collection—Annapolis Description An account of the resource <p>The Greenfield Library Image Collection houses over 5,000 photographs, postcards, drawings, and other graphic materials.  The images in the collection document the history, academic, and community life of St. John’s College. </p> To learn more about the Greenfield Library's archives use policy or to obtain high-resolution images, please see the <strong><a title="Image Collection Use Policy" href="http://www.sjc.edu/academic-programs/libraries/greenfield-library/policies/#photographicarchivepolicy" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">Library’s Image Collection Use Policy</a></strong>.<br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Photographic Archives" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=7">Items in the Image Collection—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context imagecollectionannapolis Still Image A static visual representation. Examples include paintings, drawings, graphic designs, plans and maps. Recommended best practice is to assign the type Text to images of textual materials. Physical Dimensions The actual physical size of the original image 17.5 x 13 cm. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Photograph Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context SJC-P-2265 Title A name given to the resource The United States Naval Academy and St. John's Croquet Teams with Supporters on the Steps of Woodward Hall, St. John's College, Annapolis, Maryland Description An account of the resource 1 photographic print : b&w Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1983-05 Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource D. R. Sack Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Type The nature or genre of the resource Still Image Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource jpeg Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this photograph. Croquet https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/276fcab53ac6bda03f8f9c082241f562.pdf a90817733c79ae5b32787ac08bc9d5f6 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 St. John's College Lecture Transcripts—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 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 at the Santa Fe, NM campus. 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. 17 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 Three love poems by Robert Frost Description An account of the resource Transcript of a lecture given on September 02, 1994 by William Darkey. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Darkey, William A. 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 1994-9-02 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Meem Library has been given permission to add this item to its collections. Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Subject The topic of the resource Frost, Robert, 1874-1963. Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 24000297 Friday night lecture https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/3ba36aaaad35823e4f1f69ab2ac9343a.pdf 128b64c6262e25b5dc4aff999f464a58 PDF Text Text A WALK THROUGH ANDREW MARVELL'S GARDEN A Lecture by William Darkey lit O- S/(p St. John's CollegQ - Meem Library- �A WALK THROUGH ANDREW MARVELL'S GARDEN I was introduced to Mr Andrew Marvell and taken to visit his Garden for the first time many years ago by one of my tutors who became my good friend. He was William Gorman. I was a freshman at St John's, very green and quite intoxicated by English poetry, which I was just discovering. Mr Gorman taught me that there were ways to go about understanding what I already knew I loved. I should like here and now to acknowledge my great and longstanding debt of gratitude to him for this. Once in a conversation with Mr Gorman about, I suppose, some tentatively offered enthusiasm of my own — Matthew Arnold, perhaps, or Robert Browning — he asked me if I knew Andrew Marvell. I said I heard of him. He said, didn't. The fact was "You should." So I I'd never went home and read — or tried to read — some of Marvell's poems. I didn't understand them. By a normal mutation, I expressed this to myself as, "I don't like these." Later, when Mr Gorman asked me what I though of the poems, I tried a more diplomatic formulation and said, don't really get them." generously, He said, "I think you will, "I "Hmm." Then he added, if you stay with them." Since then, I have returned regularly in times of certain kinds of need to Mr Marvell's poems. And very often have I visited his Garden. This evening I should like to take you there with me to meet Mr Marvell and to walk through his Garden . A sort of guided tour. Not that I think I understand everything that went into the planning and planting of it. But I have no intention of "explaining" The Garden. That isn't, after all, what one does with gardens (or with poems either, for that matter.) I have, however, paid many visits there over the years, and I have seen some things that you might not notice for yourselves right off on your first visit unless somebody V points them out to you. �Of course, you may hate guided tours and people chattering at you. I do myself. But they ^ often save time. Besides, you can always come back later by yourself. Indeed, you should. For that is the whole point of gardens. (And of poetry, I might add.) I should also tell you before we start that The Garden is much more extensive than it may seem at first glance. I myself have never managed to see all there is to it. GARDENS Before we go into The Garden I must prepare you a little in advance. We ought to think together about What a garden is at all? as the Irish would put it; and about what sort of garden Mr Marvell had in mind when he made his. For there are many kinds of gardens. We have flower gardens and kitchen gardens, truck gardens, botanical gardens, zoological gardens and even kindergartens. But Mr Marvell was thinking of the kind of garden that in his world — which is to say England in the 17th century — was made to perfect a palace or a great country house. Francis Bacon in his essay. Of Gardens writes this: God Almighty first planted a Garden. And it is the purest of human pleasures. It is the greatest refreshment to the spirits of man; without which buildings and palaces are but gross handyworks; and a man shall ever see that when ages grow to civility and ele gancy, men come to build stately sooner than to garden finely; as if gardening were the greater perfection. I shall come back to Bacon, but let me draw my point. The art of gardening — of horticulture — differs from farming — agriculture -- as roses differ from turnips; as flowers differ from vegetables; as labor differs from leisure, as practice differs from contemplation; as work differs from pleasure. Now it is true that if there is to be a garden, work must be performed constantly; but such work is �performed for the sake of leisure. As Michelangelo labored mightily to paint the Sistine ceiling, even though his paintings are perfectly useless. They are good for nothing but to be looked at. Contemplated. And so with gardens, though a garden differs from a painting in that to contemplate it you literally walk into it. But the garden, like the painting, has no use at all, except to be contemplated. I would add another observation about gardens that may not be ordinarily thought of. We can classify the Fine Arts in two groups: (1) those which are realized in Space, as Painting, Sculpture and Architecture; and (2)those which are realized in. Time, as Poetry, Drama, and Music. Now Gardening, which is usually taken to be an adjunct and a part of Architecture, cannot really be so. Gardening is essentially one of the arts of Time. For a garden is composed of living plants which, whether they be trees or shrubs or herbs or the flowers of a day, exist, like ourselves, in Time. Each plant or tree or flower lives in a garden. Each is, so to speak, an actor who comes on stage to perform his solo part in the right season and in consort with lifetime other and his actors l i k e himself. Each has his season. Bacon puts i t this way: I do hold that in the royal ordering of palaces there ought to be gardens for all the months in the year; in which severally things of beauty may be then in season. I quote a little further to let you see what he has in mind: For December and January, and the latter part of November, you must take such things as are green all winter; Holly; juniper; ...rosemary; ivy; bays; lavender.. I have abridged this passage — reluctantly — for i t has its own poetry, as all catalogues have that are composed �with the love of each item that is named. All good gardeners make their own lists for their own climates. The great seed houses mail out to us now in the dark time of the year their own catalogues, lavishly illustrated, to tempt us with visions of spring. Order now! But my point here, which I do not want to lose, is that the fine art of gardening is one of the arts of Time; and that its time, unlike that of, say Music or Poetry, is the Time of the year itself, the Time of the Sun and the Seasons. It is the same Time which counts off the time of our lives. This is why the time in gardens is measured by sundials, which portray Time itself as "the moving shadow of Eternity." And, as Andrew Marvell will say, as "a fragrant Zodiack." EDEN GARDEN One more thing I must mention before I come to Mr Marvell's Garden. I mean, of course, the t i t l e . The t i t l e is, so to speak, the gate, the entrance-way. Titles of books and poems in general are meant somehow to get us into the work. They do this in various ways — by naming the hero, as Tom Jones or Don Quixote or The Brothers Karamazov; the great central event or situation or problem, as The Book of Genesis, Time; or the Iliad or War and Peace or In Search of Lost and so on. I have mentioned here great big poems — or maybe I mean big great poems. But the same thing is true of little great poems: Upon Westminster Bridge, Ode on a Grecian Urn, The Windhover. Frequently the title alludes, either explicitly or obscurely, to one of our great myths. All of the works I have named explore or meditate some central mystery, because that is the nature of many a poetry itself. "Great myths answer mystery." And so with Marvell's Garden. Anyone who has been raised even vaguely in Western culture, upon hearing the title. The Garden, without further context, surely thinks, "0, you mean that garden?" THE Garden, taken generally, is surely Eden Garden. Paradise. �I remind you of Bacon's first sentence, "God Almighty first planted a Garden." It is the place which God made for Adam (which is to say, Man) and which Man was made for. Likewise, it is the place that Adam lost for himself and for us all. Since that loss, we have been permanent exiles. So goes the myth, speaking to the universal feeling of "homesickness for Eden would be, ...another and different world." if there were such a place, sacred place of any on Earth. I the most mean by a sacred place, a place on earth in which an encounter has taken place between God and Man. Many places are thought to be sacred, but Eden as the first shining place, would be the most sacred of all. And even if there is no such geographical place, that place nevertheless dwells in the memory of everyone living. It is a kind of innate memory in our imagination. It is the land of our heart's desire. This universal memory almost assures us of its real existence by a kind of implication that is something like Anselm's ontological argument. And, although this argument may be more dependent upon the Memory and the Imagination and the Heart than upon the Intellect, we may find it the more persuasive for that very reason. Every garden is made in the image of Eden arid every garden remembers Eden. It is, thus, a most powerful image, and the invocation of i t produces a host of associations. is the place where we were innocent, free of toil, with — not at odds with — Nature. A kind of life It at one that we can scarcely imagine except by such negatives as I have just used. According to the myth, when we lost Eden, we had to live by the sweat of our brow. have leisure. And, Yet sometimes we labor in order to strangely, we toil in our gardens to enjoy the image of Eden, to realize that memory. One more thing I would say about gardens. They are places of solitude. Places for solitude. Solitude is not in good repute these days, but i t is a deep human requirement. being alone, but i t is not loneliness. Loneliness is an It is �intense craving for the society of others. Solitude is being alone for thought, or prayer or as Bacon put it, for refreshment of the human spirit. TOPOGRAPHY Suppose we begin with the ground plan of The Garden. You can see on your sheets that i t is laid out with formal elegance, in nine eight-line stanzas which are end-rhymed in couplets. The meter throughout is iambic tetrameter, a hard meter to handle, but don't worry — Mr Marvell handles it as well as any English poet ever did. As I read the poem, it has three principal parts. These are not indicated on your sheets. This is a greater matter than the stanzas, and Mr Marvell has left it up to the reader to discover them for himself. As a tour-guide, however, I must try to say something helpful, so I propose that the first four stanzas comprise the opening movement, the next three the middle movement; final and the last two the movement. By speaking of "movements" I have slipped into a musical analogy here, first of all because the distinctions are heard in the music of the words; second, because the development of the poem seems to me to be quite like that of a concerto — finally, say of certain Mozart piano concertos; and because, as I have already said, I gardening itself, like music, kind of events in think that is an art of disposing its own time. The First Movement seems to me to be a fast, brilliant, witty and complex sonata-allegro with two subjects and ending in a return to its beginning. It is evidently in major. I The Second Movement is the slow movement, an Andante, think, and also in major. It is constructed linearly in three parts. The Third Movement has two sections, beginning in minor and changing to the parallel major. The tempos are moderate. SCENARIO The tripartite structure suggests that the action of the �poem will have a beginning, middle and end. I shall try to show how the action of the poem works itself out in these three movements. I say action because like most good lyrics poems, this one is a drama in small. A scenario of the poem would go something like this: The Poet, work-weary and world-weary, his forces scattered, makes a retreat into a great garden to escape from Society and to refresh his spirits in solitude. As he reflects upon the world he has left and responds to the one he has entered, he undergoes a mystical experience in which he transcends this garden and seems to find himself alone in that other garden that is out of Time and Place and to experience that first state that Adam knew. Then, the vision fading, he finds himself back once more in the garden in England in the 17th century. We are given no account of either translation. I suspect that the Poet himself could not give an account. I think it could not have been through any effort of his own or of any other human agency. Perhaps the Garden did it. The movements then are: Garden; (1) Out of the world and into the (2) Out of the Garden and into THE GARDEN; (3) Back into the Garden and, by implication, back into the world. "The Garden" Let me now read The Garden. Gorman's dictum that, In doing so, I am heeding Mr "a poem exists only in the sounding." For Poetry is one of the arts of Time, and its very nature is to be realized, if at all, only in the passing of time. To be understood, it must come to us by way of the voice and the ear. Properly speaking. Poetry does not exist onfsheet of paper as a drawing does. So let me, as well as I can, try to find a voice and a music for The Garden. �^ The Garden How vainly men themselves amaze To win the Palm, the Oke,or Bayes; And their uncessant Labours see Crown'd from somesingle Herb or Tret. Mean while the Mind, from pleasure less. Withdraws into its happiness: The Mind, that Oceanwhere eachkind Does streight its own resemblance find; Whose short and narrow verged Shade Yet it creates, transcending these. Does prudently their Toyles upbraid; Far other Worlds, and other Seas; While all Flow'rs and all Trees do close Annihilating allthat's made To weavethe Garlands of repose. To a green Thought ina green Shade. Fairquiet, have I found thee here. And Innocence thy Sister dear! Here at the Fountainsslidingfoot. Mistaken long,I sought you then In busie Companies of Men. Your sacred Plants, if here below. Onlyamong the Plants will grow. Society isall but rude, To this delicious Solitude. No white nor red was ever seen So am'rous asthislovelygreen. Fond Lovers, cruel as their Flame, Cut in these Trees their Mistress name. Little, Alas, they know, or heed, How far these Beauties Hers exceed! FairTrees! wheres'eeryour barkes I wound. No Name shall but your own befound. Or at some Fruit-trees mossy root, Casting theBodies Vest aside. My soul into the boughs does glide: There like a Bird it sits,and sings. Then whets, and combs its silver Wings; And, tillprepar'd for longer flight. Waves in its Plumes the various Light. Suchwasthat happy Garden-state, While Man there walk'd without a Mate: After a Place so pure, andsweet. What other Helpcould yet bemeet! But'twas beyond a Mortal's share To wander solitarythere: Two Paradises 'twere in one To live in Paradise alone. When we have run our Passions heat, Love hither makes his best retreat. How well the skilful Gardner drew Of flow'rs and herbes this Dial new; Where from above the milder Sun The Gods, that mortal Beauty chase, Does through a fragrant Zodiack run; Still in a Tree did end their race. And, as it works, th' industrious Bee Apollo hunted Daphne so. Computes itstime as well as we. Only that ShemightLaurel grow. And Fan did after Syrinxspeed, Not as a Nymph, but for a Reed. How could such sweet and wholsome Hours Be reckon'd but with herbs and flow'rs! What wond'rous Life in this I lead! Ripe Apples drop about my head; The Luscious Clusters of the Vine Upon my Mouth do crush their Wine; The Nectaren, and curious Peach, Into my hands themselvesdo reach; Stumbling on Melons, asI pass, Insnar'd with Flow'rs, I fall on Grass. �FIRST MOVEMENT I have already said that in terms of the "scenario" the First Movement is an entry into the garden, although we don't discover that until the second stanza with the words, Fair Quiet, have I At that moment we realize that found thee here the Poet has entered the garden and has been looking around at everything, sinking into the quiet and letting it sink into him. Throughout the movement, he is looking backward, viewing the "busie companies of Men" that he has just fled, and breathing deep sighs of relief. Neither he nor we know how he came to find himself in the garden. This movement develops two themes, the vanity of worldly pursuits and the frustration of romantic pursuits. A word about the style. It is brilliantly witty. Now wit in Mr Marvell's sense is out of fashion with our age which prefers a sequence of "one-liners" followed by guffaws. So a word about wit. It is "a tough reasonableness under a slight, lyric grace", to quote T.S Eliot. It requires thought. It works with imagination and turns on surprise and delight at the unexpected. Marvell, like Mozart, never goes where we expect him to go, but always surprises and delights us with something infinitely better than we could have thought of for ourselves. This leaves me in an awkward spot. thankless enough — Explaining a joke is no one ever laughs when you do. Pointing out the witty is probably even more useless. I shall do my best and try to be brief. For someone should point out these things -- i t ' s what tour guides are for. �stanza 1 How vainly men themselves amaze To win the Palm, the Oke, or Bayes; And their uncessant Labours see Crown'd from some single Herb or Tree. Whose short and narrow verged Shade Does prudently their Toyles upbraid; While all Flow'rs and all Trees do close To weave the Garlands of repose. After reading the first stanza a few times it dawns on us that there is something odd about the diction. All the words are quite ordinary words that we all use, and all seem to be used with precision.(The tidy four-foot lines and the neat rhymes of the couplets lend to the effect of precision.) Yet we find ourselves wondering how to take some of the words. Consider. How vainly men themselves amaze Take "vainly." Does Marvell intend "to what little real purpose"? Or does he mean "with what absurd conceit"? Or again take "amaze". It can mean "to astonish", as it does for us; but in the 17th century it also meant "to perplex" of "to bewilder" or "to lead astray", as in a labyrinth or maze. And finally, what about "themselves", the most ordinary word of the doubtful three. As you think about it in its context, you wonder. Is it a reflexive or a reciprocal pronoun? Do men amaze one another in their pursuit of fame — as Achilles amazed Alexander and Alexander, Caesar? Or do they amaze themselves — as in the case of the famous harpsichordist who, after hearing the tape of her most recent recording, exclaimed, "It is incredible how well I play!" Now to write a line in which three out of the five first words are equivocal must mean either that the poet has no ear for language or else that he knows exactly what he is doing and intended everything — that he is using the �10 equivocations brilliantly. We know intuitively that the latter is the case. Twenty-seven differing meanings follow upon the possible combinations of these equivocations. And all are compatible. The Poet means a l l of them. yourselves at leisure — You can work i t out for i t would be tedious to do here. But you don't really need to because you know intuitively that the line works. illustrate I can make an awkward paraphrase to thus: With what futility, or with what conceit, or with how much of both, men astonish, both astonish and or both or bewilder, bewilder themselves themselves and one or or one another another...etc. If you did not see all of this intuitively, Marvell's line would have failed. But it does not f a i l . It succeeds brilliantly, effortlessly. Clearly, then, we hare a masterful and witty poet to work with, a man of virtuosity and imagination. A poet who wants you to think, to be aware, and, as you can, to match his own wit and intelligence. Of course the rest of the poem must be worthy of this beginning. This line is only an opening chord. Stanza 1 The first stanza as a whole, like any good opening,is a statement in b r i e f of the whole work. I t moves from the busyness of the great world, the world of athletic, civic and poetic accomplishments, signified by crowns of Palm, Oke, or Bay leaves, to the crowns braided of all Trees and Flow'rs, which he calls "the Garlands of repose." The motion is from busyness and toil to peace and Quiet. This is a serious piece of wisdom, but one which stated flatly would hardly attract your serious attention. However, without departing from the underlying wisdom, Marvell attracts us and delights us with his invention; which is that Men by toiling unceasingly, discover that their crownin reward is a stingy little wreath of leaves that doesn't even �11 give much shade — which is exactly what anyone in the full glare of fame most desperately needs. If the hero's taste were more catholic, goes the argument, he could have cultivated for himself a more generous crown of all trees and flowers, and could be enjoying peace and quiet. In line six there's a lovely pun. He rhymes ...narrow-verged shade" with ...prudently upbraid. Upbraid, of course, means to reproach and criticize severely, but Marvell pretends — and we delightedly go along with him — that it also means to braid up into a crown. Thus the crown itself tells the hero while he's wearing it, that he has wasted his life's time on such nonsense. There's also a learned joke, that I dare allude to, since you have all have read Herodotus. When Demaratus tells Xerxes that in the Greek games the prize is an crown of leaves, he cannot believe it. "Nothing more than that?", he says and wonders at the strange Greeks who are content with the honor of winning the contest and do not care about golden trophies. Marvell takes Xerxes' part in disparaging the frugal crown, but he gives it another turn by proposing that nicer leaves and flowers would be a far better reward. Observe that Marvell has managed to say all of this in exactly 64 syllables, while I have plodded clumsily through more words than I care to count. Quickness and a flashing insight are the very nature of wit. (His, not mine.) I promise now to move more rapidly — this is, after all an allegro we're talking about — through the rest of the movement, now that you've seen what sort of a Poet we're dealing with. �12 Stanza 2 Fair Quiet, have I found thee here. And Innocence thy Sister dear! Mistaken long, I sought you then In busie Companies of Men. Your sacred Plants, i f here below. Only among the Plants will grow. Society is all but rude. To t h i s delicious Solitude. This stanza picks up on the note of repose, the last word of the preceding stanza. The Poet confesses — to himself, and to Quiet and Innocence whom he apostrophizes — his hitherto inveterate error of seeking for the good life in worthy works among his fellow men. Now he professes to recognize that Quiet and Innocence dwell only in the precincts of the Garden, far from from human company. The final couplet is again a splendid — double and courteous -- entendre. Society is all but rude To this delicious Solitude. At first, he seems to mean that Society is barely courteous to those who would desert her for solitude. (You recall Aristotle's remark in the Politics that one who lives to himself is either a beast or a god. And in practice society does feel uneasy with those who go apart. Such withdrawal seems a condemnation.) I think that the lines mean "All Society is merely rude/(compared) To this delicious Solitude." Social condemnation of solitude i s universal, condemnation of solitude i s universal. And notice now the quality of the last line. To this delicious Solitude. It is impossible to articulate this line at all without almost tasting the words in the mouth. It is a taste of what is to come. For the real subject of the poem is Solitude. Stanza 2 raises the question. Can that Innocence which �13 was lost in a garden, be regained? The answer is, If so, only in a garden. Stanza 3 Stanza 3 shifts from the pursuit of fame to the of romantic love. If we flee Society, should we not, pursuit so to speak, consider sharing our Solitude with one other, with a beloved? This thought has, after all, occurred to others. "Come live with me.and be my love/ And we will all the pleasures prove..." Alceste, who is not a true solitary,no matter what he thinks, offers to marry Celimene, if only she will go off with him alone and apart from the "busie companies of Men." But this Poet has already decided against that. And for the astonishing reason that green of the trees is far more amorously engaging than rosy lips and cheeks. No white nor red was ever seen So am'rous as this lovely green. What a surprise again is the first couplet! We have always known that white and red are love's colors. Red lips; rosy cheeks;"white-armed Andromache";"her neck is like the swan." 0 the red rose breathes of passion And the white rose breathes of love. But Marvell sings. No white nor red was ever seen So am'rous as this lovely green. He has already confessed to a love of gardens. Like most other people he loves Trees. But amorously? as he professes? The trees, he says, are more beautiful than any mistress. His wit verges towards extravagance. We think of Orlando solitary, moaning and mooning about the Forest of Arden, carving Rosalind on the beech trees and hollies. And I suppose that Marvell would have us think in fun, of the love-sick Andrew mooning about the garden carving "Beech" and "Holly" in their barks. Of course �14 Orlando will pay no attention to him as Andrew urges that Holly is far more beautiful than Rosalind. Green is a very good color, to be sure, and this is one of the greenest poems in English. For green is the color of Life, of living Nature. Here in "The Garden", under the greenwood tree, we've been dimly imagining green all along. Still, it's not a very good color for a girl. In Twelfth Night Viola tells the lovesick Duke of her pretended sister, She never told her love. But let concealment, like a worm in the bud Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought. And with a green and yellow melancholy. She sat like Patience on a monument, Smiling at grief. You see, green both is and is not amorous. It's a very good color for a tree or an herb, but not so good for a mistress — unless Stanza she be lovesick. 4 Develo^img the theme of the pursuit of love. Stanza 4 concludes the First Movement with a bravura passage, by suggesting that when we have run our passion's race — and presumably — have lost it, the weary and chastened lover should make a retreat into the solitude of the Garden. He reminds us that the gods themselves did so, and cites two parallel examples from Ovid's Metamorphoses to make his point, namely the famous cases of Daphne and Apollo and of Syrinx and Pan. Since we no longer read Ovid in the course of our program, i t is possible that you don't know these stories. I shall condense them for you. Each god had fallen in love with a mortal girl. Both girls were prudently reluctant to yield to the importunacy of their divine lovers. But occasions arose when each god, encountered his beloved alone in the forest. Each pursued her as hard as he could in a running race. And each god both lost and won his race. For as each was on the point of �15 overtaking the girl, she prayed the local water-nymphs to save her. The nymphs responded in the only way they could and metamorphosed the girls beyond even the gods' powers. Daphne was transformed into a laurel tree just as the pursuing Apollo touched her shoulder. Syrinx, her flight impeded by a river, was changed into a clump of reeds growing on the bank. Both gods, having run their "Passion'heat made the best of the situation. Apollo, god of Poetry, vowed that henceforth the Laurel would be sacred to his arts, and that supreme Poets would be crowned with Laurel, that is. Bay leaves. Pan, god of all Nature, is also necessarily a musician; Pan, so that when Syrinx was metamorphosed into reeds. to solace himself, make a panpipe — cut a bunch of them and sat down to still called a syrinx -- on which he mourns his lost love with those melancholy little tunes that you can hear, if you listen carefully, in any upland meadow where the wild goats graze. This is a bravura ending to the First Movement. Notice those the two themes — love — crown that of the pursuits of fame and of have been brought together at the end. The Laurel has not only returned here, but has been explained by an origin myth. The pursuits of the divine passion began indeed amorously, but have in the end been univeralized in those leafy crowns which reward poetic or public virtue. Best of all, those nymphs with their flashing white limbs, their rosy lips and cheeks, have ceased to flee, and have turned a lovely "am'rous" green. And yet. And yet... The Gods, Still Listen carefully. that mortal Beauty chase. in a Tree did end their race. Can you hear in that couplet an echo of Eden in solemn counterpoint to the playfulness joke about Apollo and Pan? ^dam and Eve, like the gods of the Greeks, were immortal Vntil they chose to eat �16 . . . t h e Fruit Of that Forbidd'n Tree, whose mortal tast Brought Death into the World, and all our woe. With loss of Eden... thus ending their race in that Tree. SECOND MOVEMENT Stanza 5 We know at once from the music of the Second Movement that we have entered into a quite different world from that of the First Movement. This world hardly remembers that other one from which we have been so suddenly translated. All that seems to carry over is the continuing rhyme of the preceding couplet, "speed/reed", "lead/head." The Poet here speaks simply, directly, and in the first person. These stanzas are no longer clever. To be sure, we are — again, or perhaps still — in a garden; but this is a very different garden, overflowing with the ripest and most varied fruits. After a moment, we recognize i t as Paradise. What wond'rous Ripe l i f e is this I lead! Apples drop about my head; The Luscious Clusters of the Vine Upon my Mouth do crush their Wine; The Nectaren and curious Peach, Into my hands themselves do reach; Stumbling on Melons as I Insnar'd by Flow'rs, I pass, fall on Grass. The quality of verse that we tasted earlier in Stanza 2, To this delicious Solitude is here sustained almost to the point of cloying. We seem to taste the Fruits as we voice the words. But they do not cloy, because their effect is not achieved for its own sake; and i t has besides its own tang of wit. The Poet sees himself to suffer willingly the urgings of pleasure. all, After i t is the vines and the fruits that thrust themselves ��18 I don't think Marvell made up the color. I am reasonably confident that he simply saw it that way. For him Thought was green. And maybe our thought experiment lends some confirmation to the conceit. But let's return now to the beginning of the stanza. Mean while, the Mind, from pleasure less. Withdraws into its happiness: I think we feel that the Mind, somewhat fastidiously, withdraws for the time being, from any further association with the Body lying there on the grass in such a deplorable condition. The Body's pleasure seriously diminishes the Mind's; and in any case, the Body is not now in any shape to support serious thinking. Probably the Mind is glad to be rid of the Body for a while. But where does the Mind withdraw If into itself, this would mean that the Mind is capable of existence separated from the Body and from the Soul. Its existential status would then seem to be different from that of either the Body ^ or the Soul. The Body, after all, is simply lying there on the ground "at the Fruit-trees mossy root", while the Soul, "like a Bird" ascends into the tree. But where does the Mind go? It seems significant that Marvell says "the Mind" rather than calls Mind." Marvell himself, reflecting on the Mind, it ...that Ocean where each kind Does streight its own resemblance find. To me this suggests an ocean in which the forms of things dwell, and whenever we reach out with the understanding to grasp something in the world, that thing finds its own form in the Mind; and so we know it. For the thing known and its form in the Mind by which it is grasped are formally identical. At least in the Aristotelian teaching i t is so. I remark in passing that the Ocean is often green when we look at its surface, and that, when we see from below the surface, it is a is a cool, green, translucent shade. And of �19 course i t is filled with all sorts of resemblant things, as sea lions, and seahorses, and starfishes. But for Marvell, the Mind has a further faculty. I suspect that i t is Imagination, both sensible and Intellectual, whereby it can (and does) invent other worlds that are quite different from the one created by God and given by Nature. t h a t ' s made and In so doing the Mind may annihilate all construct other worlds of its own imaginings. Such worlds bear a doubtful relationship to the real world. Indeed, they may become confused with real world and under certain circumstances, even be preferred to it. It seems to me that Marvell was here thinking of Decartes' teachings. And I feel a strong contrast between the French Philosopher sitting in his warm Dutch room, shut off from the outer world, wondering about the nature of things, wondering, even, if those things that he can see out of his window passing in the street below are indeed men like himself, or automata made to resemble men in order to deceive him. And then there is Marvell, meditating in his undoubted English garden and seeing somehow in a vision the constituent parts of his own being in terms of the manifest garden. Stanza 7 Here at the Fountains sliding foot. Or at some Fruit-trees mossy root. Casting the Bodies Vest aside. My soul into the boughs does glide: Here all the motion is upward. The Body has stumbled and fallen down. The Mind has withdrawn. But,"Casting the Body's Vest aside,/My Soul into the boughs does glide." The motion of the Soul is swift, graceful and upward. tree, which I Into the take to be the Tree of Life. There like a Bird it sits, and sings. Then whets, and combs its silver Wings; And, t i l l prepar'd for longer flight. Waves in its Plumes the various Light. �20 ^0^ Released from the Body, the Soul takes the form of a winged creature and ascends into the tree, where i t sits and sings. Its singing is the first — and the only — sound in the poem. For Marvell, singing is the proper activity of the Soul. But before we think about what the singing might signify, let us think about activity of the Soul. For Aristotle, the highest activity of the Soul is thinking. I have in mind the wonderful and mysterious passages that most of you know from Metaphysics XII, in which he says that divine thought thinks on thinking. Or again of Descartes, for whom Man is by definition a thinking being. I am not entirely sure what either philosopher means, though I do not think they meant quite the same thing, And I do not believe that Marvell saw i t their way. It may be that this is what the Mind, withdrawn into its happiness, is doing — thinkng on thinking, I mean — but it is not what Marvell sees the Soul to be doing. For the Soul sings. Or i t sings first of all. Marvell has in mind the image of a bird singing and obviously pouring its whole being into the act of song. Birds singing look like that. And so do human singers. Art does not deliberate. It simply does. A singer fully engaged in song is not thinking, but singing. She has become the music while the music lasts.(I think, for instance, of Elly Ameling.) The Bird here is the figure of Soul simply being what it is. Or doing what i t is. I think that, like the Bird, the Soul sings without words, for words are the product of the Mind and serve as go-betweens between ourselves and the world. But the Bird here is not thinking, i t is only aware, and aware not of itself and the world as two things, but aware of the being of everything. Of the world and of itself, not separately, but a l l at once. In such a state one i s not lost in the self, isolated and withdrawn, but the self is discovered along with all of the other beings in the world. And all are �21 felt to be a universe, a one-in-many. It is not same and other/ but everything together in a whole. I think the reason Marvell felt the Mind had to withdraw is because Mind cannot get up into that tree. Nor does it sing. It does not get you all the way to being. The Bird does other things too besides singing.. It dresses its plumes/ and reflects and refracts in its wings the different colored lights. For a moment, the color of the poem is no longer green, but iridescent. The Bird, no longer wholly beneath the Green shade (under the greenwood tree), has gpne up into fuller light where it plays with the colors of the rainbow. All seven colors. A pleasure of seeing. Of vision. The Bird is silver. And i t is preparing for longer flight. To a place, I take it, beyond the earthly paradise. THIRD MOVEMENT Stanza 8 Now, in another abrupt transition, we find ourselves back in the English garden where we began, and we don't know how we got there. But in terms of the myth, we know what has happened. Paradise has been lost again, as Paradise always is, and we are left in the world with memories of Eden. To follow once more our musical analogy, this third movement is in two parts, the first in the minor, and the second in the parallel major. I believe, though I am not absolutely sure, that the minor is rather slow, another andante, followed by an easy allegro. Their subjects are, first, a reflexion on the middle movement, and then a turning to the English garden and a resolution of the melancholy in a reflection on Time again and on works. �22 Such was that happy Garden-state, While Man there walked without a Mate: After a Place so pure and sweet, What other Help could yet be meet! But 'twas beyond a Mortal's share To wander solitary there; Two Paradises 'twere in one To live in Paradise alone. It is often assumed that this stanza is an easy essay at wit, this time the tired conventional jibe by a man at Eve and at women in general. Marvell allows you to think that, if you want to miss the point. But it isn't really likely that a poet of Marvell's gift would fail so easily. The error arises from another equivocation, but this time we are required to reject one meaning of the equivocal word. Mate, namely, a spouse, and to take its other meaning, a fellow-worker, a companion, an assistant. Marvell's plaint in the second couplet is not at all that Eve was a woman, but that she was another. AN OTHER. All of the distresses and perturbations of life in Society arise from other people, by no means only from other people of an opposite sex. and No, the issue here is between Society Solitude. Solitude was restored temporarily to our Poet in his ecstasy and now has been lost again. For he will have to leave the garden. Residence in any garden is at best but temporary, for always the curse of work lies upon us. Our only solace is that we can sometimes retreat from Society, put the world behind us for a while, and recover a kind of wholeness. It is quite true that the world would have you believe that there is something perverse about such behaviour. It is called anti-social, so-called leisure This stanza, I and this is why our must be crammed with distractions. think, does not need further commentary. �23 Stanza 9 Another abrupt change/ but here we see quickly that the Poet has simply turned from the memory of the other Garden to the present/ and is looking around him. He eyes fall on a sundial which/ as he considers it/ becomes allegorical. How well the skilful Gardner drew Of flow'rs and herbes this Dial new: Where from above the milder Sun Does through a fragrant Zodiack run; And/ as i t works/ th'industrious Bee Computes its time as well as we. How could such sweet and wholsome Hours Be reckon'd but with herbs and flow'rs! But a word about the Dial is needed. A correctly mounted sundial tells the time of day by casting the shadow of a small gnomon upon the numbers of the hours marked around its circumference. In Marvell's garden the Gardner has made a circular flowerbed centered on the column that supports the dial/ and has divided the circle into pie-shaped sectors. He has planted these with flowers of different hues and scents/ so that as the Sun moves the shadow of the column moves too from bed to bed and tells the time of day. Thus/ in Marvell's witty perception/ the Sun runs through a fragrant Zodiack. Instead of Ram/ Bull/ Twins/ we might have carnations, lavender and sweet Williams. We could tell the time of day by smelling the flowers, and the season of the Year as well by the scents of the blossoms. At first it seems strange — perhaps even irrelevant — to conclude this poem with this stanza about "th'industrious Bee who works by the hour around the flow'ry Zodiack. But, puzzling on not, the stanza feels right — or perhaps I mean sounds right in its music and its images. And it is right. Who is the Bee? He is, of course, a personification of industry. Marvell has told us that much. And his work, his proper act, if I may put it so, is to make honey. Unlike human toilers, he works not by mechanical and clock time. �24 but by the hours and the seasons of the year. Which is to say that he computes his time, not only as well as we do, but far better. Furthermore, the Bee is the most social of animals. In his own society, which seems not to be onerous to him, his labour work is to gather nectar from the flowers, elaborate i t into quintessential sweetness, and store i t for the use of himself and his fellows. His work is sweet to him, whereas ours by Adam's curse has been made bitter and often vain as well. We cannot live alone nor can we avoid the curse of labour, but we can, perhaps, temper these limitatations in some measure by rejecting vainglorious pursuits and by acknowledging only the legitimate claims of society. Or to put it more simply, we should retreat often into a garden, which "is the purest — note well — the purest of human pleasures ...and the greatest refreshment to the spirits of man." And I think a real garden is meant, no figurative one, By the end of the poem I think Andrew Marvell is ready to accept his exile from Eden and to go back to work in the world. Where, by the way, — worked, first, and I haven't said this — he in the civil service and then for the last twenty years of his life was a member of Parliament. He was a man of impeccable honesty for all that. He did not write his poetry for publication, and it was not published until after his death. Very probably he would not have wished this. If there is any more to be said about The Garden -- and of course there is, as I cautioned you at the beginning — much more —let us see what we find to ask and say about it in the Question Period. � 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 Transcripts—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 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 at the Santa Fe, NM campus. 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. 24 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 A walk through Andrew Marvell's garden Description An account of the resource Transcript of a lecture given in 1997 by William Darkey. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Darkey, William A. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1997 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Meem Library has been given permission to add this item to its collections. Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Subject The topic of the resource Marvell, Andrew,1621-1678 -- Criticism and interpretation. Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 24000316 Friday night lecture https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/ec85bdc7b9d94de0b94e3b276b46d4a9.pdf b176bca3c0e75e831c733124f6274bd1 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 St. John's College Lecture Transcripts—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 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 at the Santa Fe, NM campus. 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. 24 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 Translation as a liberal art : notes toward a definition Description An account of the resource Transcript of a lecture given on November 14, 1975 by William Darkey. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Darkey, William A. 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 1975-11-14 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Meem Library has been given permission to add this item to its collections. Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Subject The topic of the resource Translating and interpreting. Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 24000385 https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/1efb31e2b66a38236bd33d4de7779091.pdf 9542edd8f8bd370577818ee2590bf1b5 PDF Text Text FALL, 1989 �[ ENERGEIA: The activity in which anything is fully itself. 11 •.. vou Evtpytia ~ro11 ... (Aristotle's Metaphysics, 1072b) Cover: "B. GOODE" Photographed by John Silver '89 Staff: Jennifer Accardo Carolyn Barndt Eugenia Bergeron Akiba Covitz George Dolan Bryan Frost Brian Levy Laurae Melbin Ray Rivera Laura Webner Printed by the St. John's College Press St. John's College Annapolis, Maryland Editors: Rhonda Datcher Ken Paradis Faculty Advisor: Henry Higuera With special thanks to: Ray Gifford Geor ge Tu rner Ty Yancey Chris Colby Energeia is a non-profit, student magazine which is published two times a year and distributed among the students, faculty, alumni and staff of St. John's College, Annapolis and Santa Fe. The Energeia staff welcomes submissions from all members of the community--essays, poems, stories, original math proofs, lab projects, drawings, and the like. + �l CONTENTS THOUGHTS ON MACHIAVELLI AND TACITUS: THE PROBLEMS OF ETHICS AND POLITICS (Honorable Mention, Sophomore Essay) 5 GRAND L UNA L OVE Ned Dobner 12 "GRACE COMES SOMEWHAT VIOLENT ... THROUGH THE WRECK AND THE BLOODSHED" (Prize-Winning Freshman Essay) Michelle Nicoll 13 CLASS DAY ADDRESS John Verdi 20 Part One of: TRAGEDY, PHILOSOPHY, COMEDY: A VISION OF TRANSCENDENCE IN EURIPIDES, KANT, AND HEGEL (Honorable Mention, Senior Essay) Michael McShane 22 ARISTOTLE'S WHEEL Cherie Craig 33 THE BEGINNING OF TIME Eugenia Bergeron 35 THE CAVE Seung Ahn 37 BEHOLD THE LAMB OF GOD: CHRIST AND MEN IN THE GOSPEL OF JOHN Kev in Graham 38 UNTITLED POEM Laurae Melbin 47 COMING TO IN THE FATHERLAND (Prize-Winning Original Poem) • Alexander Lo Jessica Lamb 48 �•. Thoughts on Machiavelli and Tacitus: The Probletns of Ethics and Politics Alexander Lo ('90) Preliminary Discussion The antithesis between Machiavelli and Tacitus cannot be more apparent than in their works, both in terms of their views of history and their methods of inquiry. In many striking passages, they explicitly spell out their intentions and motives. For Tacitus, the historian's highest task is essentially a moral task. He does not "relate at length every motion, but only those such as were conspicuous for excellence or notorious for infamy." History's highest function is to let "no worthy action be uncommemorated, and to hold out the reprobation of posterity as a terror to evil words and deeds." Thus history, or rather historical reconstruction by the historian, is essentially a series of moral lessons: the historian is a moral critic of the actions of individuals and the events of particular historical periods. In the writings of Machiavelli, political history or analysis becomes a part of politics and is not apart from politics. He too is critical. He analyzes politics as it is practised, but not how it ought to be practised. It is customary to view Machiavelli's writings as 'value-free', as free from ethical consideration. But this is clearly not the case, as even a casual reading of Machiavelli will show. He is full of praise and blame for the political and the historical actor. Clearly, his ethical criterion is that of the good and the bad, as opposed to the good and the evil. But this is only the 'surface' antithesis between the two authors. At a deeper level, there is a common denominator which is shared by all historical and political writers. (I shall use history, politics and political history interchangably.) Regardless of their moral and ideological persuasions, they all aspire to objectivity, historical knowledge, and authentic historical reconstruction. Of course, both Tacitus and Machiavelli, and all of us, are aware of propagandistic writings. Very frequently writers conceal such events as would reflect disgrace upon their century, whilst magnify and amplify those that lend lustre to it. The majority of authors obey the fortune of conquerors to that degree that, by way of rendering their victories more glorious, they exaggerate not only the valiant deeds of the victor, but also of the vanquished. (The Discourses, New York: the Modern Library, 1950, p. 271) The history of Tiberius, Caius, Claudius and Nero, while they were in power, were falsified through terror, and after their death were written under the irritation of a recent hatred. Hence my purpose here is to relate a few facts about Tiberius ...without either bitterness or partiality, from any mo tives to which I am far removed. (The Annals, New York: the Modern Library, 1942, p. 3) Nevertheless, all historical writers assume the intelligibility of history. History is both a reality and an object of knowledge, is simultaneously that which is experienced and that which can be known. Thus, we have reduced the apparent antithesis betwen Machiavelli and Tacitus to the common assumption of historical intelligibility. In 5 • �order to praise Germanicus and to denounce Tiberius, in order to praise the grandeur of Rome and to denounce the corruption of the Italian pr inces and republics, it must be assumed that the policies of governments and the actions of individuals are historically intelligible. One assumption, two ethical views on history: it is at this level of history as a formal study that the problem of ethics and politics becomes interesting. The two ethical views, which we have discussed briefly at the beginning, lead to two different approaches to historical reconstruction -- in other words, two different ways of making history intelligible. We shall discuss t he limitations and the ad vanta ges of the two approaches and those of the two ethics within the context of historical intelligibility. By limitation, I mean practical intelligibility, the limited extent to which the intelligibility of a historical event is revealed. By advantage, I mean the extent to which the intelligibility of a historical event can be revealed. Machiavelli's Ethics and Method In discussing the two forms qf ethics, it is tempting simply to use the formula of ends and means. While the one emphasizes intentions, actions, and the means by which goals are achieved, the other emphasizes results in tended and consequences resulted. The latter seeks to determine not whether the means a re desi rabl e but whethe r the results produced are desirable. Commenting on Romulus' murder of his brother, Machiavelli expresses the latter ethics elegantly: "It is well that when the act accuses him, the result should excuse him" -- the murder being n ecessar y to the fo u nd ing of Rome (p. 139). Christian ethics is a particular manifestation of the first type of ethics. Significantly, Machiavelli does not condemn "our religion", namely Christian ethics, which " places th e supreme happiness in humility, lowliness, and a contempt for worldly objects." He simply realizes that these [Christian] principles have made men feeble, and caused them to become an easy prey to evil-minded men, who control them securely, seeing that the great body of men, for the sake of gaining Paradise, are more di~posed to endure injuries than to avenge them. (p. 285) Without the qualities of the lion and the fox, "our institutions" do not "teach us to love and honor our country", or to expand our domain of influence. On the other hand, "the other religion", namely the Romans', renders men formidable by emphasizing "grandeur of soul and strength of body" and by attaching the highest esteem to honors and possessions. The latter is the ruthless pursuit of power, whether for oneself (the prince) or for one's community (the republic). The two ethics are incompatible and Machiavelli knows which one he perfers. Nevertheless, Machiavelli does not exclude the possibility of political greatness for the Christian state. It is Machiavelli's realization of such a possibility that prompts Max Weber to comment thus: further than, Mach iavelli. Not sur prisingly, even clergymen in Machiavelli's time had said it, in internal documents of course: When the existence of the Church is threatened, she is released from the commandments of morality. With unity as the end, the use of every means is sanctified, even cunning, treachery, violence, simony, prison, death. For all order is for the sake of the community and the individual msut be sacrificed to the common good. (Dietrich Von Nieheim, Bishop of Verden: De Schismate Libri III, A.D. 1411) Nieheim's passage is almost an exact duplicate of Machiavelli's: Machiavelli, in a beautiful passage of the History of Florence, has one of his heros praise those citizens who deemed the greatness of their native city higher than the salvation of their souls. For where the very safety of the country depends upon the resolution to be taken, no considerations of justice or injustice, humanity or cruelty, nor of glory or of shame, should be allowed to prevail. But putting all other cosiderations aside, the only question should be, What course will save the life and liberty of (_The Discourses, p. 528) the country. (Politics as a Vocation, New York: Oxford Univer- · sity Press, 1946, p. 126) It requires exceptional lucidity and humility to Literate and cultured men have been, and still are, prevented from fallowing the "new route" because of their reading of Socrates' decisive arguments against Callicles in the Gorgias and Thrasymachus in the Republic, because of their faith in Christianity, and because of their being shielded from the reading of internal documents. On the basis of the formal ethics of responsibility, to borrow Weber's phrase, Machiavelli is in an unique postition to analyze power as it is practised, as it should be practised if goals are to be realized successfully, but not how it ought to be practised so as to conform to the ethical norm. This is apparent throughout The Prince and The Discourses. He is less interested in individual characters than in the decisions that they have to make, in the actions that they have to carry out, and in their assessment of existing situations. This is partic ularly so in the case of the Prince. U nli ke Tacitus, rarely does he give minute portraits of his characters' thoughts and motives, beyond such general categories as courage, cowardice, and magnanimity. He analyzes in detail material causes as opposed to individual motives. For example, he analyzes the usefulness, or rather the uselessness, of money and fortresses in warfare, and the Roman emphasis on infantry as opposed to cavalry. He is more interested in large social and political movements than in individuals, except to the extent that a knowledge of individuals is necessary towards an understanding of these movements. Book One of formalize the two positions in no uncertain terms, to choose one while recognizing the legitimacy of the other. This by itself is an admirable quality. Max Weber, who formulates the two ethics in contemporary language,_ says, "one cannot prescribe to anyone whether he should follow an ethics of absolute ends (Christian ethics) or an ethics of responsibility (Machiavellian ethics) or when the one and when the other." (ibid.) . This ethics is prerequisite to the particular type of analytical method of history and political analysis on which Machiavelli's fame rests. In the introduction to the first book of the Discourses, Machia vell i sa ys what h e has done here may prove for the common benefit of all; I have resolved to open a new route, which has not yet been followed by anyone, and may prove difficult and troublesome ... I shall have shown the way to others, who will carry my views with greater ability, eloquence, and judgement. (p. 103) His "new route" is "difficult and troublesome" not because of the intr insi c intellectual depth of this type of political analysis. Rather, the new formal ethics, incompatible with the Christian ethics into which political writers and cultured men are trapped, has yet to take hold of our moral and intellectual constitution. This ethics is nothing new; it probably has been practised from time immemorial. Platonic characters Callicles and Thrasymachus have voiced it. The Indian classic Kautaliya Arthasastra has gone as far as, if not The Discourses is concerned with Roman internal politics, while Book Two deals with the expansion of the empi re. Thus, he gives detailed analyses of Roman institutions such as the tribunate (which represents the people), the senate (which consists of the nobles) and the consulate. A brief comparison between Machiavelli's account of the Roman agrarian law and Plutarch's account of the conflict between Pompey and Caesar will illustrate the differences, both in method and style, between Machiavelli and morally motivated historians such as Tacitus and Plutarch. Plutarch tells us next to nothing about the larger historical and political context out of which the conflict between Caesar and Pompey arose. For him, the conflict was simply the personal rivalry between the two greatest Roman politicians of the day: Caesar had lond ago resolved upon the overthrow of Pompey, as had Pompey, for that matter, upon him ... (I)f the one of them wished to make himself the greatest man in Rome, he had only to overthrow the other; and ifhe again wished to prevent his own fall, he had nothing for it but to be beforehand with him whom he feared. (Plutarch's Lives, "Life of Caesar," Chicago: the University of Chicago, 1952, p. 588) From Plutarch's account, we learn that the people were generally behind Caesar while the aristocratic Pompey was greatly respected by the noblemen. But this state of affairs had its origin in the passing of the agrarian law, which, according to Machiavelli, caused the fall of Rome. As decreed by the law, "no citizen could possess more than a certain number of acres of land," and that "all lands taken from their enemies should be divided amongst the Roman people." The law worked to the disadvan tages of the nobles. First, "those who had more land than the law allowed (which was the case with the greater part of the nobles) had to be deprived of it; and by dividing amongst the people the lands taken from the enemy, it took from the nobles the chance of enriching themselves." (Discourses, p. 209) The law caused constant conflicts between the people and the nobles, first in the civil war between Marius, whom the people favored, and Sylla, whom the nobles favored. Later, Caesar joined the party of Marius, while Pompey u pheld the pa r ty of Sylla. It is typical of Machiavelli that he should pay more attention to the agrarian law, while Plutarch simply related the personal rivalry between Caesar and Pompey. 7 6 • �Characteristic of his method, Machiavelli "demonstrate(s) by ancient and modern examples, rather than attempt(s) to do so by arguments, which will not do as well." (Discourses, p. 375) He chooses particular historical situations as examples, and on those bases he abstracts general rules. What he says of the common people, so he thinks similarly of the historical writer: ''Men are apt to deceive themselves in general matters, yet they rarely do so in particulars ... The knowledge of things particular had removed from their minds that delusion into which they had fallen by looking at things in general." (Discourses, p. 233, 236) For example, it is well to argue about equality and the just distribution of power. When it comes to particular actions, such as the election of common citizens to the Roman Consulate, the citizens know that not one of them is suitable. Similarly, it is well to advance Socrates' argument according to which suffering evil is better than practising evil. We all know where this ethical viewpoint will lead to in real life power-politics. Good does not necessarily result in good, and evil does not necessarily lead to evil. How can we know that the initial good deed will reslult in morally desirable consequences, and that those consequences will result in further desirable consequences? As Isaiah Berlin says, in matters such as these, humility is called for. Those who insist that evil must be resisted at all cost, such as Socrates, and those who say arrogantly that if they have to choose between the lesser of two evils, they will choose neither, such as the Austrian writer Karl Draus, have no calling in politics and should stay out of it altogether. Machiavellism is at once an ethics and an analytical approach. It is the vulgar understanding of Machiavelli's works that leads us to equate Machiavellism with the ruthless pursuit of power. In reality, it implies vigor of thought and a profound knowledge of history. It implies moderation and humility which realize the inconclusiveness of political actions and the necessarily limited knowledge of past and present. Machiavelli himself says that it is "a fact that we never know the whole truth about the past." Machia vellism is a mirror of politics as "the art of the possible". It does not hesitate with the use of violence and other morally dubious means. However, it fully realizes the allpervading unpredictability which we encounter in the political realm: "Before deciding upon any course, therefore men should well consider the objections and dangers which it presents; and if its perils exceed its advantages, they should avoid it." (Discourses, p. 245) Since it does not demand perfection, does not claim scientific understanding of historical processes, and does not profess moral purity (Machiavelli is fully aware of the antiChristian, or the evil, character of his teachings), it is the opposite of fanaticism and idealism. Machiavelli says in the introduction of The Discourses that "I shall at least have shown the way to others, who will carry out my views with greater ability, eloquence, and judgment," a subject to which we will return. We shall now turn to Tacitus. which he ascribes to his characters fit in so nicely with the consistence of his protraits, that we wonder whether we are reading dramatic writings or authentic historical reconstructions. In Tacitus's eye, Germanicus could do no wrong. In his own words, Germanicus "was a young man of unaspiring temper, and of wonderful kindliness, contrasting strongly with the proud and mysterious Tiberius." "The nearer Germanicus was to the highest hope, the more laboriously did he exert himself for Tiberius, and he made the neighbouring Sequani and all the Belgic states swear obedience to him." (p. 24) Tiberius, on the other hand, even if he acted expediently on several occasions, as any competent politicain would have done, is nevertheless criticized on those occasions. On the occasion of Augustus's death, when all the religious rituals had been performed, when the nobles urged Tiberius to succeed Augustus, Tiberius delivered a "routine" speech which expediently expressed obviously false modesty as to the greatness of the task, his own inadequacy in the presence of so many capable men. Nevertheless, Tacitus has to comment thus: Tacitus' Ethics and Method I have quoted Tacitus as saying, in the beginning of The Annals, that his purpose is "to relate a few facts" about the Roman emperors, without bitterness or partiality, or any motives . other than for the sake of genuine history (as distinct from romance). But few historians have consciously revealed more about themselves, their moral sentiment, and their preferences and prejudices than Tacitus. He is quite bitter and is far from being impartial, as he himself tells us later: by My labours are circumscribed and inglorious; peace wholly unbroken or but slightly disturbed, dismal misery in the capital, an emperor careless about the enlargement of the empire, such is my theme ... I have to present in succession the merciless biddings of a tyrant, incessant prosecutions, faithless friend ship, the ruin of innocence ... and I am everywhere confronted as wearisome monotony in my subject matter. Tiberius' language even in matters which he did not care to conceal, either from habit or nature, was always hesitating and obscure, and now that he was struggling to hide his feelings completely, it was all the more involved in uncertainty and doubt. (The Annals, p. 11) The animosity that Tiberius had for Germanicus is understandable enough. On the other hand, one wonders whether the latter's unfailing loyalty to Tiberius is as simple as Tacitus thinks. What Machiavelli says of Scipio, the same can be said of Germanicus: (The Annals, p. 162-163) Nevertheless, it is the historian's moral task, or history's highest function, "to hold out the reprobation of posterity as a terror to evil words and deeds." Thus, "there must be good in carefully noting and recording this period, for it is but few who have the foresight to distinguish right from wrong or what is sound from what is hurtful, while most men learn wisdom from the fortunes of others." (p. 163) With such a didactic view of history as Tacitus's, it is not surprising that he should be more interested in characrter-analysis, in the thoughts and the motives of his protaganists, and the struggles between individuals, than in social and political movements, ins ti tu tional changes, and other objective or material conditions which make possible individual rivalries among political players. This quality is apparent in his protraits of Germanicus and Tiberius. His characterizations are so consistent, the feelings, motives and thoughts Scipio had conquered, from the great reputation which his victory after so long and perilous a war had given him, from the rapidity of his actions and the popular favor which his youth, his prudence, and other remarkable virtues had won for him. All these were so great that everybody in Rome, even the magistrates, feared his influence and authority, which offended the intelligent men of Rome as an unheard of thing. (The Discourses, p. 191) Tacitus's didactic view of history leads him to paint a Manichaean (good and evil) picture of the conflict between Tiberius and Germanicus. But Tiberius's distrust was manifest even in the golden age of Rome, with the rise of Scipio. And it would be man if est in any age, however corrupt or glorious. Writing about the recent corrupt past, 8 Tacitus cannot conceal his nostalgia for the glorious days of the Roman empire: "How few were left who had seen the republic!" (p. 5) In the words of Marcellus, "I do not forget the times in which I have been born, or the form of government which our fathers and grandfathers established. I may regard with admiration an earlier period." (The History, p. 598) One cannot be in disagreement with Tacitus in one respect: the intelligibility of a historical event cannot be revealed without taking into consideration the thoughts and the motives of individual actors. The problem for the historian is to find out in what way it is possible to know the actor's thoughts and motives. Tacitus assigns speeches to his protagonists which they could not have deliv ered, motives and thoughts of which Tacitus could not have known except through conjecture. For example, according to Tacitus, Tiberius had "a mind which brooded over its resentments even though the first impulse of his displeasure had subsided." (p. 156) He explains Tiberius's final leap into cruelty and tyranny as the resu lt of the influence of Aelius Sejanus, whom he describes in the following terms: Sejanus careless and freespoken ... It was not through his craft, for it was by this very weapon that he was overthrown; it was rather from heaven's wrath against Rome, to whose welfare his elevation and his fall were alike disastrous ... He was as cringing as he was imperious; before the world he affected humility; in his heart he lusted after supremacy, for the sake of which he was sometimes lavish and luxurious, but oftener energetic and watchful, qualities quite as mischievous when hypercritically assumed for the attainment of sovereignty. (p. 144) It is reassuring that Tacitus the historian knows about heaven's wrath which naturally explains Sejanus's rise and fall. We have to conclude that his delineation of Roman personalities, his analysis of their thoughts and motives, possess far greater literary and dramatic merits than historical authenticity. Historical Method and Historical Intelligibility The problem of historical intelligibility is a large question and it goes beyond the scope of this essay. Therefore, I shall not treat the problem independently but only within the context of our discussion, namely Machiavelli's and Tacitus' respective ethics and methods. 9 + �Specifically, there are two problems which I would like to discuss. The first is what I shall call the problem of Tacitean analysis. In line with Machiavelli's maxim, according to which general matters often prove to be confusing, we shall begin with a specific example: Why did Caesar cross the river Rubicon? The very act itself, in this case Caesar's decision to cross the river, possesses a plurality of meanings which is inexhaustible (Raymond Aron, History, Truth, Liberty, "Three Forms of Historical Intelligibility" Chicago: the University of Chicago Press, I 98 5). A historical explanation of the act might conceivably take into consideration what we have called Tacitean analysis, namely the thoughts and the motives behind Caesar's decision, the subjective meanings which Caesar himself experienced and which led to his decision. But the subjectivity of another mind of a different historical epoch and of a foreign culture is complex and probably impossible to discern. How can the historian discover the subjective meanings experienced by the historical actor as distinct form true historical meanings of which the actor himself is probably unaware? One would have to consider the psychological makeup of the actor, his knowledge of the situation, his decision and actio·n within the system of values -- ethical, religious and symbolic · · of the society on culture of which he is a member. This leads us back to the formula of ends and means: within a particular historical and cultural context, what means are morally acceptable? what ends are morally desirable? This implies the application of sociological concepts to history. As such it is beyond history proper. But the application of sociology to history, sociological history, implies that we do not see the individual actor as an independent actor, but as an expression of his time: his action and decision can only be discerned within the larger political, historical and cultural context. The historian must respect facts, which means that he can only explain a historical act on the basis of what is known and what can be known. The Machiavellian historian would be justified in tracing the conflict between Caesar and Pompey back to the passing of the agrarian law, since this is what he knows. On the other hand, we argue that in principle, Tacitean analysis is impossible, since it implies a knowledge of the subjectivity of the historical actor, to whom we have no access (Perhaps psychoanalysis will give us the necessary tool, as Erik Erikson had done in Young Man Luther. I shall say no more on the subject). On the question of Tacitean analysis, it seems that the historian can only give a negative answer: one should not transfer one's motives, thoughts and moral preferences -- one's system of values -- to one's historical subject. To give a crude analogy, a writer should always aspire to tell his readers more about the subject in question than about himself. This leads us to our second problem, which has to do with value judgement. As Leo Strauss says in Natural Right and History, history, or any social science without value judgment, or as a value-free science, would be not only dull but meaningless. Here, I want to argue that value-freedom and value judgment are not the same thing, the confusion of which lead many "scientific students of society" as Strauss complains, "to be unwilling or unable to . make value-judgements." (Thoughts on Machiavelli, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, I958, p. I I) As he says of Max Weber, "Weber, like every other man who ever discussed social matters in a relevant manner, could not av oid speaking of avarice, greed, unscrupulousness, vanity, devotion, sense of proportion, and similar things, i.e., making value judgments." This is true. But to bring out more explicitly the issue at stake, let us pose this question to both Strauss and Weber: in what way should value judgements be made in the fields of social science and history? Certainly, they should not be made in the sense of Tacitean analysis -transference of one's moral feelings to one's historical subject. Weber, and all of us, know that valuefreedom is an ideal and is impossible to be realized fully. Essentially, a value-free system does not prohibit value judgments. Rather, it provides a certain rigor to value judgment and the analysis of the historian or of the social scientist. In short, there is nothing to prevent the value-free historian from condemning or praising Tiberius or Germanicus -- in Strauss's words, to speak in the language of praise and blame. To give a contemporary example, instead of adhering to the battered notions of totalitarianism and democracy, French writer Rayond Aron coined the terms monopolistic and constitutional-pluralistic, tw o terms which are like a breath of fresh air to the student of modern history. The. new terms at once minimize the possibilities of disagreement by eliminating controversial and disputable vocabulary in contempory political language. This does not prevent Aron from favoring Western democracies over the Soviet state. Value-freedom is actually implicit in, and an extension of, what I have called Machiavellism as an analytical approach. I say this in the sense of the rigor which Machiavelli displays in his analysis of politics. Often, Machiavelli uses valuewords, such as humility, cruelty and cunning, as if they are value-free words. For example, in Book 3, ch. 19-21, Machiavelli considers whether it is better to rule the multitude with humanity or with severity. He arrives at the conclusion that in the case of republics, it is better to rule with humanity towards one's own citizens. In the case of monarchies, it is more appropriate to rule with severity. He is not deterred by the usual moral preference for humanity over severity, nor does he automatically choose severity as the better of the two. It is only through a lucid analysis of the two words within the context of military affaris and government that he settles the matter. Another example can be found in Book 1, ch. 5, in which he asks the following question: "As every republic is composed of nobles and people, the question arose as to whose hands it was best to confide the protection of liberty." As always, he gives historical examples, analyzes circumstances under which it is better to confide to the people. Examples of this kind abound throughout his works. Machiavelli is always lucid, reasonable, never dogmatic. If his examples are often extreme, it is because he maintains that political essences are revealed most precisely in such cases. If it is misleading to think of Machiavelli as a scientist, as someone who is free from ethical judgement, it is equally misleading to think of him as a teacher of ev ii. It is true that his writings ab oun d with value judgements, and he praises those who practised what we may call evil. However, and I think this is all -important, he does not praise the practice of evil as such, but only within the context of prudence and ability. So it is true that he teaches us to kill Brutus, Brutus' sons, and their sons until the line is exhausted. He also teaches us not to kill Brutus if we are not read y to kill his sons. Decisions must be made, actions must be carried out, all of which require prudence, ability, and courage. It is prudence, ability and courage which he praises, the practices of which may turn out to be evil. But action and thought, and their intentional and consequential good and evil, are all constituent elements of reality; they are inherent in the realm IO of politics, namely the realm of power, violence, and crime. As such, it does not help us to understand Machiavelli by calling him a teacher of evil. Those issues that are raised by Machiavelli will inevitably confront every intellectual or thinking person who participates in politics. The two ethics which we discussed are not necessarily incompatible in all situations. But they tend to be so in extreme cases -- life and death, peace and war. In such cases, we are compelled to choose: either success over moral convictions, or moral con victions over success. I have, in this essay, praised Machiavelli at the expense of Tacitus. Strauss may well be right, that we cannot see the true colour of Machiavelli's teachings because we live in the age of Machiavellism, and we are all heirs to his teachings whether we choose it or not. Nevertheless, as the unfortunate sons of Machiavelli, we should not be deterred from appreciating the morality and nobility of Tacitus, as Machiavelli himself regards Tactitus as a supreme authority. To have discovered one's calling in politics and history, to interpret this calling as a moral endeavor against evil, and to consider as its highest function the remembrance of past excellence and nobility, these by themselves constitute nobility and moral excellence. 11 • �"Grace Cotnes Somehow Violent ... Through the Wreck and the Bloodshed'' Grand Luna Love Michelle Nicoll ('91) Ned Dobner ('91) In Platonic theory, dialectical inquiry arises out of duality and is conducted by reversal. Being is attained when the false hypotheses employed in the search are destroyed to give way to a true beginning, an end to the cycle of reversal and destruction. Aeschylus' Oresteia trilogy shall be viewed in terms of the dialectical search. The protagonists utilize a form of hypothesis, the decision to act. Their drive to act is rooted in a duality inherent not simply in the things they perceive but within themselves. These conflicts are between: what an individual demands of others and how he acts himself; perception of disorder and the true state of affairs; the desire for permanence and inescapability of mortality; individual and universal order; and self and others. This paper will illustrate the role of the hypotheses created for the sake of justice and self-interest and the nature of the reversals that occur within the trilogy. I will discuss the murders in order to explore the correlation between judgement and destruction and the consequences of using violence as a means to achieve justice. Specifically, the behavior of Clytaemestra and Orestes will be contrasted to explicate the synapse between suffering and wisdom, or the generation of hypotheses and the dialectical process of casting off the falseness. This comparison will support the redefinition of freedom, pride, and authentic selfhood in terms of the dialectic. Grandmother was today a blooming beauty, breathtakingly alive with the promise of new dawning and ever so alluring in her knowing mystery of unaging timelessness. Her mantle, spread in glimmering wavelets, was tossed in a tassled, fanciful, flitting expanse -- playful and at ease with such soothing sensual languor. Like a pearlescent bouncing ball, she called her tune with a voice serene and melodious, a lulling note, laden with still blooming fragrance of gardenia and first blush of morning. She whispered your name to the cloudless twilight that spread your sound to the farther seagulls soaring near the shore. And they laughed and danced in your grace, blessing the day. Blessed with a luminous shining love. The pervasive theme of the Oresteia trilogy is the rise and fall of man as not only inevitable but necessary for the eventual establishment of equilibrium. Inviolable constants govern this world: man needs to show proper respect to the gods by accepting the will of the gods, or the yoke of necessity, in a manner that is yielding and not high vaunting, and man falls when he commits an action of high daring. At some point the characters decide to strike down the proud and enact these imperatives. They judge othe rs and, in an attempt to stabilize their own world, destroy that which they see as a threat to their order. In lifting a hand to strike those who dare, the one striking dares; but the one striking has perhaps first crossed the line of daring in making a judgement. By satiating their desire for destruction the judges may seem to correct the household temporarily, but they only harm themselves. As they judge, so are they judged; as they destroy, so are they destroyed. The theme of the necessity of destruction of the proud is evident from the beginning of the trilogy. By marrying Helen, Paris disrupted not only the order within the Argive kindgom but also a greater order, the order of moral imperatives, or the "things inviolable". He fractured the established pattern of the guest-host relationship -- a theme common among other killings, for example, Atreus's killing of Thysestes' children. His great daring insured his destruction. 13 12 • �In the end the Black Spirits of Vengeance bring to obscurity him who hath prospered in unrighteousness and wear down his fortunes by reverse; and once he hath passed among them that are brought to naught, there is no more help for him. Glory in excess is fraught with peril; 'tis the lofty peak that is smitten by heaven's thunderbolt. Agamemnon functions as the thunderbolt of the gods when he seeks to destroy not only the man Paris but also the entire Trojan city for their "pride of wealth". By judging the Trojans and seeking to destroy them, he is placed in the position of pride and strength that is not equated with moral virtue but egotism and earthly power. He becomes like that which he tries to destroy. Blackmailed by the gods, he undertakes the "daring" of immolating Iphigenia so that his forces will remain strong. Ironically, it is this sacrifice, endured for the sake of his kingdom and demanded by the gods, that produces disorder within his own household and is thus one of the stimuli for his own death (or even sacrifice) at Clytaemestra's hands. However, it is not the intrinsic value of yielding to the god's dictates that is the daring element of the action; it is the manner in which he performed the action. But when he had donned the yoke of necessity, with veering of spirit, impious, unholy, unsanctified ... For mankind is embold ened by wretched delusion, counsellor of ill, primal source of woe. In this sense, it can be said that he wove his own nets of destruction. Clytaemestra perceives Agamemnon to be the creator of turbulence within the household and her life. She implies that her own internal balance was injured by his actions, saying that his long absence was not on ly a sou r ce of worr y t hat prevented her from sleeping, but also "evil and a thing of terror." He has violated her definition of the conjugal relationship and her desire for permanency by placing warfare above fami ly lif e. By sacrificing Iphigenia, Agamemnon sacrificed that which was a part of Clytaemestra and an extension of her identity. By br inging home the concubine Cassandra, he has introduced a further element of discord, a threat to the ex cl usi veness of the marriage relationship. Thus, he has reduced parts of the identities ':lytaemestra attempts to portray in front of oth ers , h er rol es as mot her an d wife. As a consequence, he damaged her sense of self hood by curbing her strength and capacity fo r control, an injury that makes her desire to lash out in passion to reestablish identity and order. Clytaemestra's passionate actions are provoked both by h er hypocritical condemnation of Agamemn on for faults that are within herself and by he r blame of him fo r actions that she herself has imitated. Clytaemestra plays out the role of faithful wife when greeting her husband upon his return from the war, yet she criticizes him for not appearing as he is. Ref erring to his "hateful [disguise] in seeming tenderness," she more accurately comments on herself than on him. She perhaps carries out the acting of her role to excess, yet feels a need to destroy the excess of Agamemnon's proud warrior pose. Angered that he has brought Cassandra h ome, she has alre ady brought Aegisthus into the household. Although criticizing Agamemnon for his treatment of their daughter, she later sends their son into exile. Clytaemestra th us does not live by the patterns she demands of others, but places herself outside the sphere of moral imperatives by which she judges others. Seeing herself above the order she would have others uphold, Clytaemestra raises her estimation of herself to that of a god. Indeed, she claims to serve as an agent of a god by taking it upon herself to "set aright what fate ordained," that "he who long time ago was great, throbbing with gigantic strength, shall be as if never were, unspoken." She plays many roles both before and after the slayings: dutiful mother, faithful wife, hostess, mu rd eress, judge, prosecutor. In this way, she creates and continually recreates selves and identities, thereby approaching the function of a god. Through the actions undertaken during the fulfill ment of these r oles, she repeatedly reasserts the importa nce of herself as a standard by which to measure others as though she were an absolute value. She is able neither to discern the difference between herself and an absolute standard of justice nor to temper passionate reac tions with objective delibe ration. Clytaemestra does not see; she imagines. She works from a fixed premise, from a need to view things acco r ding to a preconceived notion. The Agamemnon she sees in the chariot must be made to concord with her image of him, for it is necessary that she justify her actions based on her judgement, such as her relationship with Aegisthus. In laying down the carpet, Clytaemestra furnishes the means by which Agamemnon can visibly uphold his image as the proud warrior who must be shaken down. She sees that as he tramples down the carpets, so has he trampled down wid er moral imper atives because·he is so proud. (Later, she refers to the "rage and strength" of Cassand r a as r eason fo r her elimination.) She creates a situa tjon in order to evoke a specific response from him, allowing him no opportunity to act differently than her plans for him. He even protests walking on the carpets, yet she persuades him because it is her will that he do so. He has become a vehicle for the enactment of her imagination, an object to be subordinated. This is a way for her to reduce things around her to terms to which she can relate from a position of superiority and control, thus achieving part of her stru ggl e to actuali ze h er vision. To an extent, Clytaemestra depends on Agamemnon's pride to secure the reality of her imagination. She needs to say "No" to him, to refute what she would like to view as false. This scream of renunciation directed toward Agamemnon was farmed prior to her actual encounter with him. Judgement has preceded perception, a break from a logical order in which pe rception precedes judgement. She thus grants undue importance to her subjective view of her husband, placing it above considerations of fairness or rationality. Agamemnon is not granted an identity outside of Clytaemestra's private world, for she cannot separate her p rejudices about him from his reality. She views Agamemnon not as he is but as she wants him to be, encountering him as an image of her own cr eation a nd no t as a person. Her judgement does not fluctuate but has become a thing that must be upheld . In this way, she does not adapt her vision to the situation but allows her vision to shape the situation. Her perception and judgement have acqui red an undue importance; they are not simply means to ends but hav e become ends in themselves. Distortion of perception regarding the world around h er entai ls the creation of a world of her own. By inventing a situation for Agamemnon to confirm her perception of him, she shares in the formulation of his action. In this way, Clytaemestra has created her own sphere of existence, her own realm within which she provides the standards for justice and enacts her own judgements. She thus chooses isolation, the distancing of herself from the reality of others to immersion within herself and separation fr om others. T his is done not out of strength but out of fear and weakness. Her frantic need to maintain selfhood and to achieve identity and purpose by dehuman- 14 izing others arises out of a weak sense of identity. The demand for order from others is founded upon imbalances or weaknesses within herself. Her own vulnerability allowed Agamemnon undue influence in infringing upon her sense of order, and she must therefore lash back to reestablish her self hood and superiority above him through violent action. This is not actually the independence or superiority of postition that she strives for but rather dependence on others as standards to be superior to, as objects to renounce and to subject. She derives selfrighteousness and pride not from a well-founded belief in herself or in an absolute but from her need to view others as wrong. Although her pride is a building up of self, it is also a self-destruction. "Standing above the corpse, obscene as some carrion crow she sings the crippled song and is proud." Even her speech is "a clamor of pride." In committing an action of daring and thus becoming a "towering mountain," she provides for her own destruction, because the judge shall be judged and the destroyer shall be destroyed. In fact, as Orestes says when killing her, "It will be you who kills yourself. It will not be I." Furthermore, because she shares in the creation and enactment of the image for which she punishes Agamemnon, she appears to be resisting the actualization of her vision when she destroys him. Therefore, her conflict is not only between her vision and reality but also between her desire for the endurance of her vision and her tendencies toward self-destruction, her vulnerability and scramble to project the illusion of strength. Despite these conflicts, Clytaemestra has dared to impose her plan for order by harming others. She pushes aside awareness of her even tu al fall by means of faulty reasoning and a deluded sense of self-accomplishment. Confusing the immediate with the permanent, she triumphantly decl ares, " I swe pt f rom these halls th e mu r d er, the sin, and the fury ." She who has a "lust for conflict" and a tyranny of fury within the brain actually presumes to impose her sense of order while in a state of disorder herself. She has created false hypotheses: that killing Agamemnon and Cassandra will balance the order within the house and that violence is an appropriate means to protest violence. As Cassandra prophesizes, "Rescue is far a way," for Clytaemestra's act of evil will only breed similar acts of evil. By shedding the blood of others, Clytaemestra does not set the course of the house straight but bends it to further destruc- 15 • �tion. She has set a pattern of judgement a nd destruction in which bloodshed is piled upon bloodshed. Oddly, she achieves a t ype of permanence, although it is not the perma nence that she envisions. Such inaccuracy of vision and lack of realism about her actions is further evident when she sends an envoy to pour libations on the grave of Agamemnon. Ostensibly, this movement is toward repentance or sincere grief. In truth, she designs this token gesture out of self-interest, "to ward off ill...", indicating some concern regarding appeasement of the gods and a measure of respect, eve n f ear, fo r th eir power. However, be ca use she does not sorrow sincerely and openly, she merely effects a ''graceless grace" and not "the blessing of tears worked soberly from a true heart." Hindered by the burden of her pride and her immersion in her own private system, she cannot see the ramif ications of what she has done to perceive her true distance from the realm of the divine. Her offering is "too small for the act done" because she cannot show remorse. Instead of proving her deference to the gods, she commits an action of daring. The chorus comments, "Pour out all your possessions to atone one act of blood, you waste your work, it is all useless, reason says." This illustrates how irrevocably distant from reality and rational objectivity she has become. Caught in a web of her own manufacture, she has become so enmeshed within her system that she cannot see beyond it, as her portrayal as a shadow in Eumenides shows. Despite the suffering she has undergone and her construction of hypotheses, she has not achieved wisdom because she cannot see beyond herself to cast off the falseness and reach a true beginning. Electra and Orestes react to the duality and excessive elements exhibited by their mother in a manner similar to that in which Clytaemestra deplored th e disru ptive eff ect of Agamemn on's actions on the household. Both children and mother sense the need for destruction in an attempt to balance the order of the house, concerning themselves largely with the violation of their personal positions. Electra, for example, asks, How shall we be lords in our house? We have been sold, and go as wanderers ... Now I am what a slave is ... while [Clytaemestra and Aegisthus] go proud and live in the high style and luxury of what [Agamemnon] worked for. Electra wants Orestes to "win [their]father's house again," seeming to have less conce r n for the i nfractio n of morality than for the immediate effects of their mother's actions. Like her mother, Elec tra is willing to sha re in a mu r der but does not wish to di e fo r it; she also feels immune to recipr ocal judgement. Orestes' motivations are not restricted to the type of blind personal reaction that may be seen in Electra and Clytaemestra. He says, "The loss of my estates wea rs ha r d on me; the thought that these my citizens, most high renowned of men ... must go subject to this brace of women." His anger toward his mother is not so much due to her violation of his identity but because of her infraction of moral imperatives; his vision transcends perception of the violation of the household order to see that civil law has been disobeyed. He kills Aegisthus for this end. His concern lies with the good of the state which has been usurped by the "twin tyrannies" that have overthrown the normal course of right. He seeks to correct his mother's "daring" saying: "You killed, and it was wrong. Now suffer wrong." Orestes seeks to correct the breach of Justice that has occurred, taking it upon himself to enact the god's dictate that those who dare to assume power for themselves, the mountains of strength, must be checked. Orestes thus acts for the sake of earthly justice as well as a higher standard of justice. He was "in the guidance sent by the god." "His hand was steered by the very daughter of Zeus; Right we call her." One senses that he is playing out the role of savior-by -violence because he "must strike and prove [his] destiny." One does not know, however, if the murders are an action he wittingly condoned, because he speaks of "spells that charmed me to such daring." The chorus' repeated mention of an O r estes "harnessed to the chariot of suffering" adds to this effect. The central image is Orestes' burden of carrying out the roles of savior and avenger: "[Clytaemestra] wrough t so, in h is bu r ial, to make his death a burden beyond your strength to carry." Orestes' role playing is minimal, however, because he has a greater range of vision concerning his action. His attitude closely resembles repentance. Immediately after he murders, he cries, "I grieve for the thing done, the death, and all our race. I have won; but my victory is soiled; it has no pride." Orestes' attitude contrasts Clytaemestra's pride and delusion about the capacity for violent action to balance disorder. Rather than cling to his need for position and identity, he transcends immersion in himself and is able to view himself and his relation to the a bsolutes with accurate vision. This is shown when he kneels a t the temple of Athena. He realistically accepts his humanity and capacity fo r erro r. Humili ty, knowledge of the consequences of his action, and sincere sorrow for the falseness he has created exempt him from the thunderbolts of Zeus. There is no need for him to be destroyed; he is merely removed from the action near the end of Eumenides. In passing from his posture of pride and judgement to that of suppliance, Orestes has enacted for himself the reversal of position necessary after an act of judgement and destruction. He does not falsely conclude that violence will end violence, but knows that in assuming a role of judgement over others he will face reciprocal judgement. He acccepts the reversal of his role from judge to that of the one being judged. Yielding to fate rather than blindly overstating his importance, he goes outside of himself fo r a standard by which to measure his actions. He says to Athena, "This is my case. Decide if it be right or wrong. I am in your hands, Where my fate falls, I shall accept." The judges that Orestes first faces are the Furies, the final storm of potential bloodshed in the house. As a matricide, Orestes supposedly has committed an act of high daring, thus violating the order of justice and incurring the Furies' wrath. Their instantaneous judgement is similar to the type of blind reaction demonstrated by Clytaemestra and Electra, although the Furies concern themselves with an order larger than that of a household -- the sphere of justice and absolutes. The Furies assume the role of those who strike down the proud and relentlessly pursue those who "assume outrage of own hand in violence." Like Clytaemestra, they demand of others standards that they do not uphold. They say, "The man who does right, free -willed, without constraint shall not lose happiness nor be wiped out with all his generation." However, they do not promote this ideal because their method encourages men to become just out off ear, not out of a love for what is just. Athena justly accuses them; "You wish to be called righteous rather then act right." Their anger has its source in their distorted perception, their hypocritical attribution to Orestes for faults in which they sha re. Their blame of Orestes is not precise; Orestes is not proud of what he has done nor is he godless, because he has acted with the approval of Apollo. By gu id ing Or estes, Apollo supposedly infringes upo n the Furies' orde red world. The Furies feel that he has sullied the temple of Athena in sheltering the matricide Orestes. They say, "He made man's way cross the place of the ways of god and blighted age-old distributions of power." (It is interesting that they are also said to disturb the sanctity of the temple.) Apollo's disruption of the temple is also see n as a personal attack. The Furies remark to Apollo, "A young god, you have ridden down the powers gr ay with age." and accuse him of "destroy[ing] the order of an elder time." Thus, the conflict between Apollo and the Furies, representatives of the young and the old generatio n, is heightened by the old order's resistance to the natural progression of the new order. In their method and in their persistent concern for the continuance of their own position, the Furies resemble the killers in the house of Atreus. They choose destruction as a means to achieve balance and maintain order as they see fit, while not actually being in order themselves. They are an "unlyric threnody" that attempts to create harmony while in a state of disharmony. Although they preach to others that it is unfavorable to have a tyranny within oneself, they are victims of their desire for revenge and bloodshed. The hypocrisy continues: they would overthrow the houses of others yet not have their own house, the House of Justice, overthrown. Like the other killers, the Furies aim to strike down the proud but in doing so become proud themselves. Their reiterations about "my old rights" and their indignation and refusal to accept the natural progression from the old order into the new merely highlight the fact that they have become that which they wish to destroy -- the proud and the disturbers of order. The outcome of the trial of Orestes determines which order shall be validated. When the verdict is given , the Fu r ies a ga i n reac t in the mien of Clytaemestra and Electra; for their concern is voiced in terms of "me" -- my order, my rights, my Although they would appear to be position. indomitable destroyers, they display a vulnerability to overthrow: "I, the mind of the past, to be driven under ground, out cast, like dirt! They have wiped me out and the hard hands of the gods and their treacheries have taken my old rights away." The Fu r ies would do well to listen to their own words: "The all is bigger than you." It seems that they must realize the necessity of adapting to the changing nature of things, rather than attempting 17 16 • �to derive function and permanence by continuing the house of Atreus's cycle of judgement and destruction through violence, ruin heaped upon ruin. By clinging to their identity and personal system (or "hypotheses"), the Furies show that they are one in the series of false hypotheses that must be "cast out" or "be stilled to sleep, be done with." The silencing of the Furies is only a silencing of their hatred and not their utter destruction: they are allowed to decide their transformation for themselves. Ostensibly realizing that destruction is not the means to grace, they say: "Let there blow no wind that wrecks the trees. I pronounce the words of grace... let no barren deadly sickness creep and kill." "Civil war fattening on men's ruin shall not thunder in our city ... Let them render grace for grace. Let love be their common will. Let them hate with a single heart." They let go of their concepts of violent vindiction for violent crimes in favor of notions of grace and peaceful justice. It is unclear whether their conversion has been made out of fear of Zeus's thunderbolts or a true vision of themselves and their false hypotheses. It is fitting, howevr, and part of the pattern of reversals throughout the trilogy, that the ones who have spurned others to justice by instilling fear are themselves brought to justice by this method. As they have treated others, so are they treated. By presenting the Furies with an alternative to hateful wrath and an opportunity to take a place in the new order, Athena harmoniously assimilates their old order into the new order of Athenian justice. She accomplishes this without either the violence or the bloodshed that requires more blood to be spilt. Before the trial she says: The matter is too big for any mortal man who thinks he can judge it. Even I have not the right to analyse cases of murder where wrath's edge is sharp ... Since the burden of the case is here, and rests on me, I shall select judges of manslaughter, and swear them in, and establish a court into all time to come. Thus I advise my citizens to govern and grace, and not to cast fear utterly from your city. Be ca use she defers to reason and is able both to yield and to assert her authority, Athena shows that she has acheived freedom. She projects an identity that lacks pride and does not depend on the violent subjugation of others. She is not immersed in her role and does not need to remain in a position of superiority separate from others. Athena can say to the Furies, "Put to sleep the bitter strength in the 18 black wave and live with me and share my pride of worship." The new system that Athena establishes puts an end both to the hasty reactions to the actions of another and to the hypocrisy which characterized the judgements of the Atreiadae killers. Enactment of justice becomes more than a personal attack on someone who is seen as having violated the world of another or the order of the household. The "me" voice of pride is dissipated; rationality has replaced the subjective reactions of soul in conflict. Because the judges are a plurality rather than a singularity, the element of personal vendetta and attacks ad hominem will be subdued. Prosecution will be based on evidence that is not generated by the ones judging. Emphasis in the new court will be placed upon objective analysis and deliberation combined with the subjective judgement of the jury. This harmonious incorporation of the old with the new and the elimination of the majority of the false elements allows for permanency, a tribunal established "into all time to come." Justice has become more than an exchange of wrong for wrong; it is also an exchange of good for good. "For good things given, your hearts' desire be for good to return." A state of grace has been brought about through the wreck and the bloodshed of the house of Atreus. This is said to be brought about by Zeus, "all through Zeus, Zeus, first cause, prime mover. For what thing without Zeus is done among mortals? What is here without god's blessing?" Like the dialectical process outlined in the Republic, equilibrium is gained after a cycle of generation of hypotheses and destruction of the false hypotheses. The false elements in the household have been cleansed and purified through deliberation and reason, not passionate destruction. Thus, "With well-measured cast, caution [has heaved] over boa r d a po r tion of th e gathered wealth, the whole house, with woe overladen, doth not founder nor doth it engulf the hull." It is an earthly sort of grace, not to be confused with the absolute state of wisdom and grace that is attained by the most complete dialectical search, one which necessitates separation from the corporeal world. In dialectical terms, the leap between suffering and wisdom, or disorder and the attainment of equilibrium, is the casting off of the false hypotheses. The characters' progression from the formulation of hypotheses to wisdom is impeded by their resistance to what necessity has dictated. In a sense, they resis t limitations inherent in thei r human condition, seeking to overcome mortali ty by resisting the inevitability of their fall. Their struggle to establish identity depends upon their subjugation of others under the guise of exacting justice according to inmperatives which they violate themselves. Thus they necessitate their own destruction by confusing their ends, the enactment of the god's will, with the means they use to attain that end, the immersion in selfhood and personal vision. This pride can be viewed as a clinging or enslavement to the false hypotheses. What, then, is freedom in terms of the dialectic? Freedom entails self-knowledge, knowledge of one's placement with respect to the gods, accurate assessments of reality, and the realization that, as a human, what one does is necessarily imprecise and does not reflect the absolute. Freedom means holding onto one's own as much as it leads one to the good. It also entails yielding or letting go of selfhood and the actions, or hypotheses, one has created. One cannot decide fate but one can decide the manner in which one encounters it. All of this necessitates acceptance of one's humanity and of one's limited capacity to achieve permanence. It also involves a form of knowledge of self that necessitates viewing what one has done and the false hypotheses one has made, and accepting that one has chosen to act in a certain way that one may regret for its falseness. Regret cannot consist only of a "me" voice -- "I have suffered, I have accepted the yoke of necessity, I cannot bear what I have done, I have borne what cannot be borne." One must progress form this state of regret and shame to place oneself in a larger context; one must look beyond oneself to one's relationship with a higher power. This involves supplication, a voluntary reversal of the position of pride that one has put oneself in. Thus the synapse between suffering and wisdom is bridged through repentance. Repentance is a form of rendering an account of what one has done; it is a transcendence of the limitations inherent in the human condition because it is a realization of those limitations. Through humility and acknowledgement of one's position with respect to the gods, true identity is reached instead of the separation from oneness that occurs due to pride and concern fo r eart hly identity. Thus the self is truly elevated through kneeling, an action that is a posture of lowering. Fullest actualization of identity is found by an apparent abandoning of that identity. Afterword The idea for this essay began when the violence in the Clouds reminded me of the violence of the dialectic (for example, the destruction of the false hypotheses in the Republic, the renunciation of the body in the Phaedo, the sting-ray quality of the Socratic method.) Other themes from the tragedies seemed to support a discussion of tragedy in the terms of philosophy, such as: the relationship between violence and false reasoning; cycles of judgement, violence, hypocrisy, pride, and selfabnegation; fate, will, responsibility, and punishment; the boundary between ambition and tryin g to reach the good and arrogance; the separation of mortals from the realm of the divine; the attempt to escape mortal conditions and the rejection of Necessity. I saw a way to understand the tragedies in terms of the dialectic, choosing the Oresteia as the most complete vehicle for the discussion of this correlation. It was then my intention to understand the Platonic dialogues as tragedies and Socrates in the terms of a tragic character who judges and destroys others (the Sophists, the poets) although being somewhat similar to them himself, then renounces necessity (rejection of the body in Phaedo, when both soul and body pass under the throne of Necessity in the Republic), and thus necessitates his own destruction, becoming like that which he tries to destroy, just as the characters in Oresteia. It would be interesting to discuss the Sacra tic method in terms of a false hypothesis that must be destroyed because of its emphasis on discursive reasoning at the cost of poetry, and then introduce to Christianity as the hypothesis which supplants it. Such was my intention. The constraint of time and the magnitude of the task prevented me from completing this project. One final note. The human characteristics I have discussed as protrayed in the Oresteia are by no means exclusive to the nightmarish world of Aeschylean tragedy; I believe there is a trace of Clytaemestra in all of us. •All citations are from the Richmond Lattimore translation, with a few from Smyth's. The passages ref erred to from the Re public are: 5 lOb, 511 b, 524d525a. 19 �importance of intellect to ourselves and those around us. Though admiration and love are frequently found together, they are, and must remain, independent of one another. Maybe a friendship suffered because you expected your friend to be a better person than he or she was. And this is certainly understandable. But not everything has to be made of gold -- silver, too, has its value. Or was it that you expected too little from your friends? You were content simply to be "sociable," to rub against one another in order to create the illusion of intimacy and contact, as if this was all one could hope for from others. But like any improper use of your spiritual energy, such activity often left you merely exhausted, and no richer than before. By "socializing" you hoped to mask your aloneness, rather than stare it in the eye. And so it is your constant companion. Maybe a friendship failed despite the attention and generosity you showed your friend. You were always around to help, to go out of your way, to give to him or her, but you watched confused as the friendship seemed to slip away. Maybe your generosity was meant to exact a debt, and thereby to bind the other to you. But even if this was not the case, it is still more important and more difficult to be able to receive a gift generously than it is t o make a hundred sacrifices. More is done to help a friendship by receiving a gift in a way that graciously returns it to the giver than by any amount of giving we might do ourselves. I know this may at first sound paradoxical, but hasn't it been your own experience that in living, healthy friendships, each friend is always finding new ways to all ow the other to give? And then there have been those potential friendships, where you knew the seeds were present, and all you had to do was scratch the soil a little, and you didn't, because busyness and distracti~ns had made you r h ea r t rou gh and ra gged. Even today many of you, I'm sure, can think of people you regret not havin'g gotten to know here at the College. Of course, you can't cultivate friendships with very many people, but you can be wary of dissipating your energies fruitlessly. I have myself failed others in all these ways. And what is worse I have often allowed myself to forget my former friends, making the excuse that it's difficult enough to attend to those who are a part of my life today without having to attend to memories of those who shared by life yesterday. And by forgetting, I fail them again. Class Day Address, May 21, 1988 John Verdi I was very moved to be asked to talk to you today. Many of you have been students in my classes, and I've worked closely with some of you on essays and other odds and ends over the three years since I came here from Santa Fe. I've grown fond of this class and will miss you come Monday. When I realized I'd be speaking to you in the Great Hall, I thought back to the last time I stood here, about a year ago, when I was married. The words I spoke then were a public declaration of the most important friendship in my life, and of my hope for and commitment to its future. Today, however, before you all leave St. John's, I want to talk to you about how friendships die, not exactly a subject filled with humor and optimism. Maybe I chose this topic because of the way I've been feeling lately, knowing that our life together will soon be finished. It's also the case that a few days ago marked the third anniversary of the death of someone who had been my friend for over twenty years. Our friendship had very rough times, and it was only during the last year, after we knew he was to die of a particularly painful and insidious disease, that we drew inseparably close. Thinking of him invariably forces me to confront the numerous ways in which my friendships have failed , and to accept the bitter irony of my relationship with him, which was rescued only by the imminence of death. I also want to urge on you that we must do everything we can to keep friendships alive, but that, even after we have exerted the greatest efforts, if we find we have failed, we must discover ways to mourn the death of a friendship just as we would the death of a friend. During your years at St. John's you've lived and worked in a community with people your own age, who have shared many of your interests and enthusiasms. In such surroundings friendships flourish, for friendships are founded on and nourished by common activity, even more so than by common ideas and sentiments. But even in this most fertile of environments, you have witnessed the death of friendships. Sometimes you were yourself involved, and other times you watched from a distance. In either case what happened was upsetting to see, for it laid bare the fragility of human relationships. I want to tell you what I think just a few of the causes are for such failures, and you can then get some idea of how you might try to prevent them. And I know that by speaking in this way, I am revealing to you more about myself than a bout friendship. Perhaps you didn't cultivate that kind of humility which ought to come from the awareness that other people care about you. Instead you wished to be admired as well as loved by your friends. And when you were not, you were disappointed and hardened your heart to them. But we must always seek to allow ourselves to be loved without being admired, which for many of us at St. John's is extremely difficult, aware as we are of the 20 I have known many of you who are sitting here. Some of you I have known for two or three years, and some longer. I know too that you are about to leave people who have been dear to you for a long time. Perhaps you've promised to write one another letters, and that is a very good thing. But we write letters as much to ourselves as to our friends. The written word does not foster friendship. At best it sustains it until that time when friends can see each other again face to face. After you leave St. John's, try to be physically present to your friends as much as possible. Exert yourself to see them and to talk with them. And though no human being is a permanent source of happiness to another, still the love of our friends and families is the most divine gift we can be given. It alone, if anything, gives meaning to our lives. And above all, as St. Theresa of Avila says, "Never grow weary of receiving". I want to leave you with a Neapolitan proverb my mother taught me. It goes like this: "Piu lundana du cammina, a cha d'aspetta." That means, "No matter how far you walk, I'll wait for you here." 11 21 • �seems to me that everyone can clearly recognize the human suffering depicted there. If a dialogue can be established between the tragedian and the philosopher, then perhaps it can be seen that they are talking about the same questions in different ways. The body of the essay will come in three sections, on Euripides, Kant, and Hegel, and in that order. Besides the obvious historical considerations, there is another reason for proceeding in this order. Perhaps it is not giving away too much of the argument if I announce here that this progression is one of gradually increasing optimism about the possibility of human tran scendence. Euripides' vision is almost unrelentingly dark; Kant's is guardedly optimistic; and Hegel's is almost grotesquely cheerful. Yet, as will be seen, these three transcendent writers sha re much in their visions of the nature and possibility of human transcendence. Tragedy, Philosphy, Co111edy: a vision of transcendence in Euripides, Kant, and Hegel Michael McShane ('88) Nothing, however, can continue to give us pleasure always, because our natures are not simple, but contain a second element (which is what makes us perishable beings), and consequently, whenever one of those two natures is active its activity runs counter to the nature of the other, while when the two are balanced, their activity feels neither painful nor pleasant. Since if any man had a simple nature, the same activity would afford him the greatest pleasure always. Hence god enjoys single simple pleasure perpetually. For there is not only an activity of motion, there is an activity of immobility, and there is essentially a truer pleasure in rest than in motion. But change in all things is sweet as the poet [Euripides, Orestes] says owing to some badness in us; since just as a changeable man is bad, so also is a nature that needs change; for it is not simple nor good. Nonescapist Nonfiction: Tragedy and Transcendence in Euripides' Hippolytus Nicomachean Ethics Then if this most perfect mastership and most perfect knowledge are in the god's world, the gods' mastership can never be exercised over us, nor their knowledge know us or anything in our world. Just as we do not rule over them by virtue of rule as it exists in our world and we know nothing that is divining by our knowledge, so they, on the same principle, being gods, are not our masters nor do they know anything of human concerns. Nor ought we to obey those who enjoin that a man should have a man's thoughts and a mortal the thought of mortality, but we ought, so far as possible to achieve immortality, and do all that a man may to live in accordance with the highest thing in him; for though this be small in bulk, in power and value it far surpasses all the rest. But surely, said Socrates, to deprive the gods of knowledge would be monstrous. Parmenides l 34d-e Nicomachean Ethics Introduction This paper will discuss arid criticize the treatment of the theme of human transcendence as it appears in certain works by Euripides, Kant and Hegel. Specifically, it will focus upon the problem of the human suffering of "external" conditions, and the possibility of transcending those conditions. Now "transcendence" is a big word and its sense is not immediately obvious. The term is loaded with heavy connotations, both metaphysical and theological. Yet, I will argue that in the form of such things as forgiveness, learning, and maturation, a limited form of transcendence is certainly present in the everyday world. Since, then, the meaning of "transcendence" is itself at stake in this paper, I hope I can be forgiven for not giving a precise definition of it here. If the essay is successful, the significance of the concept will emerge more clearly as the paper progresses. In more than one tragedy, Euripides has his choruses deliver speeches such as this one from the Hippolytus: One thing should be discussed in advance, however; even though this paper will pay much attention to the writings of Kant and Hegel, it is not about "philosophy" in any narrow sense. This essay will constantly run the risk of losing itself in the intricacies of highly abstract philosophical arguments, but its subject matter actually concerns questions of concrete human suffering -- matters close to everyone's real life in the real world. If this essay succeeds, then, it will be because discussions of the "transcendental unity of apperception" or of "Absolute Spirit" will have revealed something recognizable about the problematic nature of human identity. In fact, one subsidia ry goal of this paper is to try to show how I understand philosophy itself as being a part of the real human world. It is partially for this reason that I have chosen to write about the tragedy of Hippolytus. For it 0 to escape and lurk high under Steep crags, At the touch of a god to rise, A wing'd bird among flying flocks! To soar over the swell of the Adrian coast, Above the waters of Eridanos Where, in lament for Phaethon, His sisters drop their piteous tears Which glow like amber in teh dark stream; And then to reach that shore planted with Apple-trees Where the daughters of evening sing, Where the sea lord of the dark shallows Permits to sailors no further passage Establishing the solemn frontier of heaven Which Atlas guards; Where divine fountains flow beside Zeus' marriage bed, Where holy earth offers her choice fruits to enrich the blissful gods. 22 Typically, such speeches express the chorus's desire to escape altogether from the horrible scene of tragic action unfolding around it. Such speeches attract attention in a variety of ways. First, they are often among the longest sustained passages of writing in Euripides' plays. Their length affords the tragedian the op portunity to freeely display his transcendent poetic talent. Consequently, speeches of this kind often prove to be among the most beautiful in his plays. Yet, because of their length, and because of their subject matter (which is frankly escapist), such escape passages present readers with problems. I have heard it suggested, for example, that such long passages amount to little more than beautiful ornaments -- speeches that are somewhat digressive and ultimately irrelevant to the unfolding of the tragic plot. Such escape speeches can seem like selfenclosed poems, somehow adventitiously lodged in Euripides' dramas. In at least one Euripidean play, however, the question of escape and its possibility emerges as a central motivating theme. This first section of the essay will try to show how escape comes to mean transcendence in the Hippolytus. The section will examine generally the presence and significance of the human yearning for transcendence expresseed in the tragedy. Now, each of the play's major characters seeks escape from their circumstances, but Hippolytus presents this desire most clearly and selfconsciously. Thus the paper will first discuss how the theme of transcendence relates to the Nurse, Phaedra, and Theseus before focusing more closely upon Hippolytus's strivings. Finally, this section will examine the most general vision of transcendence in the Hippolytus: that of the chorus, as expressed in the passage quoted above. Now it is perhaps obvious that, wittingly or not, what all of the characters of the Hippolytus desire to flee is Fate itself. Euripides sets up the problem of fatedness in a particularly brutal way: he has Aphrodite walk on stage at the outset and simply announce (nearly) everything that will happen throughout the tragedy. The play itself then seems to be little more than a horrible repetition of the scenes she describes so coldly at its outset. The chorus summarizes the inevitable end: "The wheel has turned, disaster follows upon disaster. Fate is irresistible and there is no escape." (125 2) But to say that Fate is what all the characters desire so desperately to escape sounds a little 23 • �unsatisfying. The claim is certainly true but a little vague. Bare fate is an abstraction modern readers have difficulty with. The play does offer some help to us by providing mo re concrete ways of thinking about fate and what it would mean to try to escape it. We shall try to see more clearly how fate is expressed in the play. The escape theme first arises explicitly early in the drama. The nurse is confronted by Phaedra's mysterious suffering, and she commiserates. The nurse mourns, The whole of our life is full of pain, And sorrow finds no relief. And after this life, is there a happier world? That is concealed from us, wrapped in clouds and darkness. The truth stands plain: that we blindly love, Such as it is, our little gleam of day. For we know nothing of any other life; The world below is a mystery; And we are carried along by foolish tales. happy unless one's living friends and descendents are also content. Thus, in a tragic turn, it seems as if the only way for her to escape the trap is to entrap innocent others. Phaedra thus makes her fin al escape only by binding Theseus and Hippolytus together in a horrible maze which can only result in destruction. If it has been established that Phaedra desires to escape something, we must then ask what it is that she so desperately seeks to flee and what a successful flight would mean for her. Most immediately, Phaedra desires to escape a fate that expresses itself in her passion for Hippolytus. That passion exists inside her but it is an alien thing: she did not desire it, did not encourage it, and indeed sought to repress it. In every sense Phaedra's fateful love for her son was a passion which she suffered and before which she was nearly powerless. She desired to escape it and could not. Another expression of fate as an external controlling force for Phaedra concerns her family his tory. Interrogated by her nurse as to the root of her problems, Phaedra mentions her mother, who had a "craving for the bull." (322) Then she in vo kes her siste r "whom Dionysus loved." The nurse asks, "Why raise these evil memories of your family?" Phaedra responds, "I am the third, the curse that struck them now kills me." And she conc ludes, "My wretched fate began with them; it is not new." Thus we see that Phaedra desires to esca pe the history of her own family. Like her passio n, her family is something which is both inside her and outside her, both her and not her. It represents something which confronts her from the outsid e; she can have no control over the things wh ich happened in her family's past. Yet her family histor y somehow fo r ms and predestines her inner nature. Finally, it is because of her family's future in the shape of her sons that Phaedra cannot simply 'escape to oblivion,' but must entrap Hippolytus. Phaed ra's understanding of family history or fa tedn ess is also conveyed by her discussion of wha t will happen to her own sons if she die s dis honored: the nurse's escape vision, Phaedra's desire for escape is expressed not in terms of some future time or otherworldly place, but instead in terms of a nostalgia for pleasant places and activities that Phaedra has known. If Phaedra's and the Nurse's escape fantasies differ in terms of past and future orientation, however, they are united by a common yearning for absent times and places. Also, it should be noted that Phaedra's three nostalgic dr eams (of the wild place by the fountains, the sport of hunting and horse racing) share an element off ertile purity. All three are unstained by human social intrigue. But for Phaedra the op portun ity to dream of escape from an unbearable present through nostalgia for past places and pleasures soon proves to be an unsustainable luxury. As soon as her nurse, unbidden, reveals Phaedra's obsession to Hippolytus, Phaedra's dreams of escape turn again to a terrible future: (187) 'Chorus: This passage treats a specific kind of escape from the pain of the world -- that is, an escape to a happier world after death. The nurse is characteristically pessimistic here. She seems to entertain the idea of a happy afterlife and to long for it, but only briefly; then she dismisses the possibility of such an escape as being merely "foolish tales." The interest in an escape to an afterworld here is not accidental, for the nurse is addressing the deathly sick Phaedra who has strong inclinations toward such an escape route. Phaedra herself expresses her desire to escape her present -- although unidentified -suffering in a series of fantastic speeches immediately following the nurse's meditation upon suffering and the afterlife. Phaedra here gives three short speeches: the first one expresses a desire "to k neel by a fo untain in the fre sh dew and drink a cupful of clear water!" (218-231) The second takes the form of a rhetorical command to her followers to "take me out to the hills!" where she "longs" to hunt deer. This "command" is merely the expression of a longing, not a real order, for it is obvious to all concerned that the sick Phaedra is in no shape to go anywhere. Phaedra's third speech expresses an equally unrealistic desire to ride race horses on a race-track. Although both Phaedra and her nurse conclude that these escapist speeches expose Phaedra's madness, they do have significant content. Unlike Phaedra: What then?: Do you see any way out? What will you do? I know only one thing, that death must End this torture as soon as possible. There's no other remedy. (599) It is significan t tha t once Phaedra's conf ession-by-proxy has occurred, and her incestuous appeal to H ippolytus rejected, ther e is no longer any ques tion of escaping to something. Phaedra no longer dreams of better places or times to which she might flee. Moreover, in desiring death, Phaedra does not speak of an afterlife such as the one her nu rse speculated about before. Instead death re presents to her only a n escape from an intolerable r eality, an escape into oblivion. By now, mortal escape itself has become merely the least bleak possibility for her. Moreover, matters become even worse f or Phaedra. She recognizes that even her death will not release her and hers form the labyrinthine ramifications of her situation. Once Hippolytus has announced that he does not consider himself bound by the oath of silence "sworn only by his tongue," Phaedra is in deep trouble. For she then realizes that not even her death can salvage her reputation and the reputations of her sons. In order for her to obtain their excape too, she must implicate Hippolytus himself. Phaedra sees the terrible wisdom of the claim that Aristotle makes in the Ethics that even after death one cannot be I want my two sons to go back and live in glorious Athens, hold their heads high there and speak their mind like free men, honored for their mother's name. One thing can make the most bold spirited man a slave : to know the secret of a parent's shameful act. ( 421) 24 Here again we see the aspect of fate ensla ving people by means of pregiven conditi ons over which they have no control. Phaedra's dreadf ul fam ily history in some way leads to her own destru ction, which in turn will enslave her sons. Is there any reaso n to hope fo r an end to the se fa ted fa milial chains of destructi on? One of the most horri fying aspects of this tragedy is the potentially infi ni te reach of its horror. We shall see thi s theme of infinite horr or recur later in the play. A final conditi on which Phaedra desires to escape is her femininity. In one speech Phaedra says, "I was a woman -- a thing hated by ever yone." (95) In an other place she exclaims, "How cruel a curse it is to be born a woman. Wh o wou ld not pity us? What shift, what resource ha ve we, what words, once we have stumbled, to und o a knot a word has tied?" (667 ) Phaedra recognizes her femininit y as another pregiven condition which someh ow re nd ers her powerless. Again, we see that Fate is somet hi ng which confronts the sufferer as on the one hand someth ing which is external a nd unchosen, bu t on the other hand is something wh ich cond itions her inner nature. In the play Phaedra cannot esca pe the feminine aspect of her fate an y more t han she can flee her passion or her fami ly histor y. But the nurse and Phaedra are not the only charcaters of the Hippolytus wh o dre am of flight. Theseus, too, is moti vated by a desi re to escape his conditions. Now Theseus ha s had a ver y checkered career. On the one ha nd, he has been a grea t hero, killing mo nsters, ba nd its, etc. On the other , he has been a noto riously faithless man , given to deceit, ra pe, murd er. Theseus's ma r riage to Phaedra is founde d upon such cri minality; he married her only afte r marooning his savio r, her siste r, Ariadne. During the pla y, an d throughou t his life, one of Theseus's ma jor charac teristics is his absence from home. It seems reasonable to inf er that Theseus leaves his home so often because he is ashamed of what it rep resents to him -- that is, his past, with its hauntin g viciousness. In fac t, Theseus's very presen ce in tra gic T roe ze n came about as part of a plan to a tone fo r his past criminal bloodletting. (Aton ement is a ki nd of esca pe. ) In general, T heseus desi res to escape the ongoing ramifications " f rom sin commi tted in time lon g past." (8 31) After reading Pha edra 's letter cha rging his son with raping her, he cries, "I am crushed; wh ere can I esca pe?" (87 4) 25 • I I I �As in the case of Phaedra, Theseus's attempt to escape the conditions he suffers leads him into trapping others. Theseus wants to escape from the contaminated presence of his son, who he believes has defiled his wife and home. Yet, because Theseus is king, he believes he can make good his escape without actually having to flee himself. Theseus believes he has power so he attempts to secure his own escape not by leaving his surroundings but by making them leave him. Hence, he banishes and curses Hippolytus, thus ensuring the horrible death of his own son. At the moment Theseus banishes Hippolytus, this significant exchange takes place: Hippolytus: Theseus: If you were my son, I your father, I would not Have corrected you with exile, I'd Have seen you dead if you'd thought fit To lay a finger on my wife. Your words are worthy of you! You shall not die that way-According to a law you've laid down For yourself. Many an outcast would Be glad of a quick death. No, you shall Wander exiled from your native land And drain on alien soil the bitter lees of life. (1074) As father and king, Theseus is in the position to condition others. Here Theseus asserts the dependence or conditioned nature of his son vis a vis him. In attempting to preserve his own power and freedom while actively escaping his surroundings, Theseus necessarily must deny freedom to his son. The key sentence in the exchange is: "You shall not die that way -- according to a law you've laid down for yourself." Here we find Theseus denying his son's autonomy. And, as we shall see, autonomy here is defined almost exactly as Kant and Hegel will define it centuries later: as obeying laws laid down by oneself for oneself. To be autonomous is to be unconditioned by alien powers. We have thus far examined the escape dreams of the Nurse, Phaedra and Theseus. Let us collect their common elements and try to reach a conclusion about fatedness, escape and transcendence before turning to see how these issues are involved in Hippolytus' story. First, it should be noted that while abstract Fate is a concept difficult for readers to grasp today, the play certainly provides a more concrete way to understand fatedness. For surely the idea of someone being radically conditioned -- or fated -- by their gender, political environment, passions, acter is his longing to escape the necessity of honoring "a god worshipped at night" (108) -Aphrodite. Jealously, the goddess describes how Hippolytus "abhors the bed of love; marriage he renounces." (13) It is clear that in attempting to reject these things -- which he regards as impure - Hippolytus is attempting to flee his own sexuality. Surely Hippolytus suffers from a hatred of something in himself -- or at least one of his selves. Yet, in Hippolytus's case, his disdain for his own sexuality issues in a hatred for something seemingly external to him -- women. Outrageously, Hippolytus rails at Zeus for having "established in the sunlit world this counterf cit coin, woman, to curse the human race." ( 617) "Women," he concludes, "it seems are always evil." (695) They are the ones responsible for his lack of freedom. Hippolytus expresses a desperate desire to escape half the human race and enter into a fantastic scenario in which men buy their children instead of requiring women for conception. Again, one wonders whether the feminine is as contingent and external t o Hippolytus's soul as he might believe. A third conditioning factor that Hippolytus desires to flee is the political realm. He says to his father and king, Theseus, personal past or family history, does not sound foreign to modern ears. Each of these conditioning factors seems to come with its own set of laws and determinations. These laws themselves deny the autonomy of the characters, and together they dictate the inescapable Fate of each character in the Hippolytus. If it is established that the characters of the Hippolytus desire to escape such fateful conditions, it then becomes appropriate to examine the relationship between escape and transcendence, the theme of this essay. Certainly not all escapes are examples of transcendence. For instance, if a rock is about to fall on your head and you step ou t of the way and thus escape the rock, it is not appropriate to say that you have thereby "transcended" it. This is because the rock represents a force entirely external to its prospective victim. In the case of the characters of the Hippolytus, however, things are different. They all desire to escape conditions which are in one sense external -- otherwise they would not be perceived as escapable conditions. But in another sense these conditions are internal to the identities of the people who wish to escape them. (To varying degrees, such conditions as gender, passions, personal and family history, political environment, etc., all work to inform the inner nature of the characters who suffer them.) An escape from conditions such as these -- with their ambivalent interior / exterior status -- represents transcendence. From these considerations two related things follow which shall remain important throughout the whole of this essay. The first is that to speak of transcendence implies the overcoming of something internal to the identity of the person who transcends. Another way to put this is to say that often freedom for self becomes freedom from sel f. This consideration leads to the second critical conclusion: Assuming that one's identity in some way remains constant, the transcending self has been internally split. For one aspect of the self transcends; the other is transcended. The identity of these two selves, and their possible relati onship, will become a thematic question for this essay as a whole. Let us now turn to the central character of Euripides' drama, Hippolytus himself. Like the other characters, Hippolytus desires to escape -- or transcend -- a variety of conditions. The most immediately obvious aspect of Hippolytus's char- Do you think a throne carries attraction For a balanced mind? None; since to feel delight in kingship is to be Corrupted by it. No, my wish is to come first In Greek games, in politics to take second place, Secure in happiness, with the noblest of my friends. (1013) By contrast to Phaedra's desperate death wish into oblivion, we see in each instance of Hippolytus's escapism the dual aspect of an escape from something he fears to something he loves. He wishes to flee from Aphrodite to Artemis and the activities she sanctions, such as hunting and riding. (Like Phaedra, Hippolytus seems to be motivated here by a desire for a kind of pureness or innocence he believes to characterize the wild natural world.) He wishes to flee from politics and Athens to Greek games, his noblest friends, and Troezen; he wishes to flee from the presence of women to a fictional world in which the feminine never existed. In each case, Hippolytus dreams of retreating from a realm that is characteristically human; and as the play's ending reveals, in each case his bid to gain freedom from these human realms fails. We will return later to the question concerning the general nature of the realm Hippolytus desires to fly to. Hippolytus's wish to transcend his political and sexual nature can plausibly be traced to his ambivalent attitude toward his nearly-alwaysabsent father, Theseus. As mentioned above, Theseus's history of dealing with women and with his own sexuality is not exactly savory. He is said to have raped Helen when she was thirteen, for example. Hippolytus himself was generated as a result of an illicit affair between Theseus and the Queen of the Amazons, whom he also raped. On the other hand, Theseus is justly famous for his heroic deeds. He is widely recognized as Hercules' successor. Also, he is a great and powerful political figure. [For a fascinating and illuminating account of Theseus's past, see Plutarch's Life of Theseus.] Against the overwhelming background of his father's history, it is Hippolytus's problem to try to establish his own identity. For all sons, paternity itself represents a kind of determining condition. Again, the inside / outside problem arises: Fathers externally pre-exist sons. They first cause their sons and then literally rule them for many formative years. Genetically and psychologically speaking, fathers pass on much of their own identities to their offspring. Thus, like other conditions mentioned previously, all fathers both internally and externally ground the identities of their sons. For Hippolytus, however, this problem is particularly acute, for his father is a much more intruding figure than most. Hence, Hippolytus's rejection of sexuality and politics can be seen as an attempt to transcend the conditioning of his father's past and thereby to establish his own autonomous identity. The stakes are high for Hippolytus (as for all sons) in this connection; if he cannot ground his own identity in himself, then it could regress from him infinitely. In this case, Theseus cannot provide solid ground in either a moral or a theoretical sense. For Theseus, although father, is also himself the son of a father who was a son, etc. Thus, if Hippolytus tries to discover his identity in the identity of Theseus, his quest will be thrown back by an ineluctable logic -- through all of genealogical time. [N.b.: The problem of the infinitely regressing identity is not unique to Hippolytus; it is common to all sons, children and finite entities in general. This problem will emerge thematically in the Hegel section of this paper.] The fin al and most general kind of condition that Hippolytus desires to escape concerns his 27 26 .. �mortal law-boundedness. This is shown at the beginning of the play, when his servant is trying to persuade Hippolytus to recognize Aphrodite. He asks Hippol ytus if he knows "an old law laid down for mortal men." Hippolytus responds, "I don't ..." (91) The argument concludes with Hippolytus claiming that "since gods may choose whom they will honor, so may men." (88) With the question of mortal law and fate versus an escape to autonomy, we can see the most general form of Hippolytus's desire for transcendence. Hippolytus wants to govern himself as he sees fit. He desires to escape the laws imposed upon him (as he sees it) from outside which condition his mortal nature. Now these "laws laid down for mortal men" include the determinations inherent in all the previously mentioned conditions that Hippolytus wants to transcend, but they go mu ch fu rt h er. F or Hippolytus is nothing if not an ambi t io us f ell ow. In order to get a sense of how radical Hippolytus's desire for transcendence is, let us examine what he says about how he believes he will (has) tran scend( ed) these "laws laid down for mortal men." In his second speech of the play, Hippolytus addresses Artemis directly and announces: Goddess, for you I have twined this crown of flowers, gathered Fresh from a virgin meadow, where no shepherd dares To graze his flock, nor ever yet the scythe swept, But bees thread the spring air over the maiden meadow. There with clear stream-water Chastity tends the flowers; And those whose untaught nature holiness claims entire May Gather garlands there; and the impure may ~ot. Dear mistress, take this circlet for your golden hair, Offered with reverent hand. I alone among mortals Enjoy this honor, I am your companion, speak with you And hear your voice, only your face I do not see. And as my life's course has begun, so may it end. (78) This is a very important speech and it contains many important aspects of Hippolytus's dream of transcendence. First is his most striking claim that he is the companion of Artemis, a deity. This apparently is not idle bragging, because Artemis later confirms that the two a re "friends." Now Aristotle argues that in order to be someone's friend -- or to relate to another on any level -- one must in some way stand on the same ground as that person. This would indicate that in some way Hippolytus has at least a limited aspect of the divine present within him. (As we shall see, the text bears out this indication.) "Limited" because he is not able to en joy her full friendship -- ."on ly [her ] fac~ [~e] cannot see." It is t hrough this resort to the divine -- both ins ide himself and externall y in the form of A rtem is -- that Hip polytus believes he can t ran scend the conditi ons of h is mor tality. This a r gument abou t t h e internal presence of the divine helps answer a question posed above. F or we recall that transcendence imp lies a d ual self -- one that is free to transcend and the o~ he r that is con d itioned and , one h opes, tran scended .. I n the case of H ippolytus, at least, it becomes clear that th e free and tran scendent internal self co r responds to some d ivine as pect in the huma n soul. And, in fact , the presence of two selves, one divine an d t he other empirical and conditioned, w ill become th ematic in each account of transcen d ence discussed in this essay as a whole. Let us return to Hippolytus's transcendence speech. The second question it ra.ises concern.s ~he zone in which Hippolytus's relat10n to t he divine tak es place. The "virgin meado w" is a place that is u ntouched by impure mortal s. T h is pla ce that is no human place is ch a racte r ized by an abundance of innocent n a t u ra l th in gs: bees, flowers , clear stream-wate r. For Hippolytus the move to transcendence in volves a reso r t to th e sub-human -- the natu ral -- and the super h u man -- th e divine. He wan ts to be either com plete ly fr ee, in the case of the divine or so en ti re ly conditioned that he no longer kno'ws i t or ca res, as in the case of the animalistic. It is th e mortally human lying between these two r ealms tha t h e ca nnot abide. Both extreme realms are somehow united in the figure of Artemis, the nature goddess. They are also united in the fig ure of Hippolytus himself, who possesses both an animal and a divine self. If Hippoly t us d esi res to flee human space, he also desires to flee human time. In fact, he claims to have alre a dy partially succeeded at this. One might say that the noti on of ''a lrea dy" is central here. For H ippolytus claims that thi s zone is only for those "whose untaught nat:ire .holine:s claims entir e." The thing about teachmg 1s that 1t takes time, and sufferi ng. (I n fact, Socrates argues that learning is itself a transcendence of ignorance.) Hippolytus's claim to be "untaught" then means that he has always known what he knows and thus been what he is -- partially divine. The passage ends with Hippolytus's praying that he. can always remain outside of time: "And as my hfe~s course has begun, so may it end." Of course, this prayer is emphatically not granted, at least in the ·, sense Hippolytus had in mind. Thus several important things have emerged from Hippolytus's transcendence speech. First, Hippolytus's attempt to transcend his conditioned and finite self is contingent upon a resort to atemporal and aspatial divinity, both internal and external. Second, that the "laws laid down for mortal men" which Hippolytus desires to transcend go far beyond the laws of the various external / internal conditions already mentioned, such as family history, etc. In fact, the laws Hippolytus is concerned with pertain to the most basic conditions defining him as a mortal man -- those of human spatio-temporaltiy. To desire, as Hippolytus does, to be independent of those laws is to desire the autonomy of divinity. The desire for divinity, then, is at the heart of the exchange between Hippolytus and servant that starts with Hippolytus wondering, rhetorically, "If we mortals use the same laws as the gods" and ends with him concluding that "Since gods may choose whom they will honour, so may men." The ending of tragedy suggests that, despite what he believes and prays, Hippolytus has a lot to learn and a lot to suffe r. For like all the characters of the play, his dreams of full transcendence are dashed. In light of the play's ending they appear to be exactly as the nurse diagnosed them -- mere "foolish tales." Let us then turn to the play's tragic conclusion. As it turns out, the Hippolytus has two endings. One is narrowly concerned with the destiny of Hippolytus himself and the people around him. The second ending is not an ending and could involve anyone or everyone in the world. First, what happens to Hippolytus: his death reveals a central problem inherent in Hippolytus's attempt to transcend the things that fatally condition him. His very dying itself indicates that he failed to transcend the laws of mortal human space and time. In the death scene , Euripides systematically shows the failure of Hippolytus's attempts to transcend his paternity, his political nature, "his" femininity, his sexuality. For his death was caused by his father's curse, his political exile, his (female) mother's and nurse's conspiracy, his sexual passion [as symbolized by the bull from the water and the past]. Worse, Hippolytus' death was caused by the very elements he desired to escape to -- the divine and the natural. For his death came about through the divine plotting of Aphrodite and the tacit consent of his "companion" Artemis; Hippolytus is killed by means of the natural horses he had used to escape from human society. It is ironic that the very things Hippolytus tries to escape from and to ultimately conspire to kill him. But perhaps this irony should come as no great surprise. For, as we have seen, Hippolytus tried to transcend the various conditions of his mortality by means of flatly rejecting them. But this is problematic: for Hippolytus's revolt against his conditions means a revolt against himself. Thus, in attempting to secure an identity by means of simply negating his conditions, Hippolytus in effect negated his identity; his very attempt to find himself led Hippolytus to kill himself. All of this is closely related to the central problems of transcendence: the interiority /exteriority of conditions, and the dualism of selfhood. The ending of Hippolytus is tragic; however, it is not as grim as it could be. For one possible transcendence does occur there. This transcendence involves the only major event of the play not initially predicted by Aphrodite -- Hippolytus's forgiveness of his father in the moving final scene. The dialogue goes: Theseus: Hippolytus: Theseus: Hippolytus: Theseus: Hippolytus: Theseus: Dear son, what are you doing to me? Will you break my heart? I see before me now the gates of the dead world. And will you leave me guilty, with unholy hands? No, you are free. I here absolve you of my death. I am free? You discharge me of bloodguiltiness? I swear it by the conquering bow of Artemis. 0 dearest son, how noble a heart you show your father! (1454) Now forgiveness is a form of transcendence. It indicates a kind of freedom from the human laws of cause and effect involved in endlessly tragic cycles of violence and counterviolence, transgression and re venge. Forgiveness does mean a kind of negation of history, as Hegel suggests. The fact that this forgiveness is n ot preannounced by Aphrodite at the beginning of the play indicates that it is a kind of break from fatedness. For a variety of reasons, the transcendence involved in Hippolytus's last minute forgiving of his father is hard to interpret. First, it only occurs after much horror, including the suicide of Phaedra. The final forgiving might seem a merely minor bright spot against an overwhelmingly dark background. Yet it does represent a significant accomplishment. Second, it is hard to tell what his forgiveness means to Hippolytus in terms of his transcen- 29 28 - �de nce quest. If it is true that "to fo r give is d i vine," it is also true that to fo r giv e is human. For Hippolytus to recogn ize hi s fa ther 's guilt and still accept h im an yway indicates that he has suffered himself to lea rn. It means Hippolytus has adopted a new attitude towards mortal humanity and thus t owards himself. Previously Hippolytus's whole attitude t owards his father and the rest of the mortal wor ld has been one of rejection and denial. He had re garded himself as beyond the whole finite world, w h ich he accordingly despised. Thus Hippolytus's forgiving Theseus indicates a kind of acceptance of the mortal world, with its viciousness and external cond itioning. Now, forgiveness is good, so, on the one hand, this new acceptance is good. On the other hand, it represents Hippolytus's abandonment of his perhaps unrealistic dreams of radical transcendence. So, th e first ending of the Hippolytus, with its hor rible death and with its transcendent forgiveness, is hard to understand. There is some good the re but the ove rall picture remains tragic. The second and more general "ending" of Hippolyt us will be discussed below. But, before leaving the fi rst ending, and with it Hippolytus and his famil y, per haps it is worth making one remark on how to rea d the character of Hippolytus, the "tragic hero." It is a naive and hubristic mistake, I believe, to understand him as simply a naive and hubri stic you ng man. It is also a mistake to search for his "tragic flaw," as if it were some trait idiosyncra tic to him that we could identify as the contingent cause of his downfall. To do this is to change the Hippolytus from a human tragedy into a mere morality pla y about the downfall of a flawed man. The moti va tion behi nd this way of reading the "tragic h ero" is the h uma n desi re to esca pe tragedy -- i.e. to keep i t safely external to us. We want to say "it couldn't happen to me;" or (as Racine's H ippolyte puts it when speaking of himself), we wa n t " to watch a ship wreck as if we were safely on shor e." To hubristically read a tra ged y in this fashi on is to try to change it into a comedy for us. As both Hi ppolyte and Hippolytus discovered, to deny tragedy is not only foolish, but dangerous. Iro nically, then, the naive reader's very attempt to escape tragedy's "laws laid down for mortal men" only mor e emphatically re-inscribes him into th e r ole of "tr agic hero." Para do xi cally, one way for readers to perhaps tran scend the role of the "tragic hero" is to recognize th emselves in his identity. That is, to 30 recognize that his problems and concerns are theirs, only perhaps on a larger scale. In the case of Hippolytus this means recognizing that he is not merely a fantastic fictional monster. Instead, despite his particularities, Hippolytus was a man who was profoundly concerned with the great potentialities and flaws of human nature. He risked everything to actualize the human potentialities and transcend the human flaws present in himself. From Euripides' point of view, Hippolytus's failure to achieve his end means something, not only for a fictional character, but for all those governed by the "laws laid down for mortal men." T o fail to recognize oneself in that category means to attempt an escape from tragedy; such attempts ofte n have tragic consequences. The possibility of a reader's denying his involvement in tragedy is the subject matter of the "second ending" of the Hippolytus. This second "ending" actually precedes the first. It is even darker than the first ending and literally infinite in the scope of its horror. The second ending comes right before another chilling moment in the play's fin al scene. That is, when Artemis denies her involvement in the tragedy and aband ons her "friend" Hippolytus, saying "I may not look upon the dead, nor strain my sight with the anguish of departing breath." (1465) Two thing s seem to follow from this. First, gods cannot be relied upon to aid humans in their quest for transcendence. Second, it would seem as if Euripides' gods, at last, can escape human tragedy. The "second ending," however, will call into question even the gods' ability to remain external to the laws of tragedy. The tragedy's most general "ending" comes earlier in the same horrifying speech; its moment is when Artemis blithely announces to Hippolytus that, Though you lie in the dark of earth, that Wrong which Aphrodite's angry purpose wreaked on you Shall be repaid, to vindicate your piety And noble spirit. I will requite her, striking down Myself, with this unfailing bow, whatever man Her heart holds dearest in the world. (1446) It is hard to comprehend the brutal significance of these words. At the very least they mean that there is yet another tragedy in store; this tragedy will be an identical repetititon of the Hippolytus, but with Artemis and Aphrodite reversing roles. One imagines this play beginning with Artemis speaking the fateful words spoken· by Aphrodite in the beginning of the present tragedy "To those who reverence my power I show favor, and throw t o the earth those I find arrogant and ~roud." (5) This new tragedy will continue, being httle more than a horrible repetition of the first just. as the Hippolytus itself was little more than ~ horrible repetition of Aphrodite's first speech. · But this promised second tragedy is not all that Artemis's fateful words portend. I think we know enough about the horrible logic of revenge in tragedies to see that Aphrodite will respond to Artemis's vengeful gesture in kind, thus mechanically generating yet another horrible Hippolytus, etc. (If this is true, then even the gods themselves can become locked into the infinite tragic regression.) What is more, there is no reason to think that our Hippolytus is the original link in the chain. Perhaps, like the sin Theseus desires to escape, the "original" act of the series occurred "in a distant age" infinitely long ago. Thus we face the prospect of the Hippolytus being a mere moment in an infinite series of tragedies, extending backwards and forwards forever. Like the bull from the past that killed Hippolytus, the play itself has suddenly crashed through its bounds and roams freely through history. It could re-emerge from the waters of time at any moment. Thus, no longer can we guarantee ~hat the Hippolytus is not written about us today JUSt as much as it is about its ancient Greek characters. Thus, the second "ending" is not an ending. As sons are also fathers, this "ending" is also a beginning and middle. Thus it calls into question those comfortable Aristotelian Poetic categories: beginning, middle, and end; inside and outside; player and spectator. The second ending thereby implicates us in the tale. After the second ending, transcendence is no longer the pressing c?ncern only of Hippolytus and his tragic family; smce we readers are possibly in the play, it is now our concern too. Like Hipp olytus, Phaedra and Theseus, we readers ourselves are challenged by Euripides to transcend the "mortal laws" of our own violent histories; failure to recognize this challenge means running the risk that our personal endings turn out as tragically as Hippolytus's. [My recognition of my own implication in the Hippolytus inspired this essay. M.M.] From the tragedy's double ending we have seen the urgency of the question of transcendence in the Hippolytus, (not only for its characters but for its readers as well). Thus, perhaps we should return to Euripides' most compelling vision of the problem of transcendence, that vision arises in the choral words quoted at the beginning of this paper: 0 to escape and lurk high under Steep crags, At the touch of a god to rise, A wing'd bird among flying flocks! To soar over the swell of the Adrian coast Where, in lament for Phaetohon, ' His sisters drop their piteous tears Which glow like amber in the dark stream; And then to reach that shore planted with Apple-trees Where the daughters of evening sing Where the sea lord of the dark shallows Permits to sailors no further passage Establishing the solemn frontier of heaven Which Atlas guards; Where divine fountains flow beside Zeus' marriage bed, Where holy earth offers her choice fruits To enrich the blissful gods. (731) The first feeling this poetry suggests is one of a longing for great freedom. Flying as a bird, one escapes gravity and earth-boundedness. One has escaped one's conditions, sailing above and beyond the particular places, laws, and tears of one's fated existence. Certainly, for all the characters in the Hippolytus escape means a kind of freedom. When Phaedra announces h~r escape plan to kill herself she says, "[I plan] to die, but how I'll order it is mine to choose." (724) As we have seen, freedom here means both the negative freedom of simply evading the conditions that predetermine or fate one and also the more positive freedom of autonomy. The character of the transcendence depicted in the chorus's escape speech means more than soaring freedom, however. For this freedom comes as a result of a total transformation from human to bird -- a kind of animal -- by means of the interceding "touch of a god." The plight of the characters in the Hippolytus is so desperate that the transcendence they desire must be completely radical. There seems to be no way to escape the horrible conditions of humanity and still remain a recognizable human being. The conditions and complexities of being mortal seem so horrible to the chorus that, like Phaedra and Hippolytus, it envies the wild simplicity and freedom of the sub-human 31 �animal. The fact tha t-a god is required to perform this substantial transformation indicates even more fully that the chorus believes there is no possibility of independent human transcendence. Yet, as the play's first ending shows, gods cannot be relied upon in the mortal human world. What's more, it is not clear that even they are sufficiently beyond it to escape tragedy anyway. We have seen the theme of a longing for escape through animality and divinity already in the Hippolytus. Phaedra's escapist dreams of wild places, hunting, and horse-racing indicate a certain abhorrence of things human. Hippolytus also attempts to escape through hunting and riding animals. He believes he can achieve this through his ill-fated friendship with Artemis. The second stanza of this escape poetry reveals that even the freedom of soaring animality does not suffice for a full escape of mor tal conditions. To fully escape the conditions of human mortality the chorus yearns to pass into a radical Beyond -- a place where sailors are permitted no further passage past the Atlas-guarded frontiers of heaven. Again, as with Hippolytus's vision, this is a place characterized by an unearthly mixture of the subhuman natural and the superhuman supernatural, or divine: "Where holy earth offers her choice fruits to enrich its blissful gods." In the second stanza the bird's eye view is dropped and the chorus seems to long to be present with blissful gods in almost a divine fashion. Here then, we find complete transcendence of all things miserably mortal. All verbs in the passage are either infinitives or in the blank . present tense. There is a sense of timelessness in this condition Beyond -- beyond human being, beyond human determinations, beyond human places, beyond human times, beyond human suffering, beyond human mortality. This poetry of longing seems to me beautiful and I think one reason for this is the sense of yearning, nostalgia, sadness that pervades it. The passage is beautiful for the same reason the play itself is successful -- we recognize the human desire, suffering, and failure it depicts. The chorus delivers the poem at a moment of great horror in the play -- just after Phaedra announces her plan to kill herself and destroy Hippolytus too. This escape passage seems to serve as a moment of sublime relief in the plot. It focuses our a tten ti on on some safe, peaceful, and fanciful Beyond just as matters grow nearly intolerable on stage. Yet, the 32 manifest futility of this escape dream, combined with the contrast its content provides to the action onstage, only serves to heighten the horror of the tragedy as it unfolds. Even the escape to the poetic sublime provides no escape, no transcendence. The dream of timeless immortality only renders more painful the drama's depiction of finite human suffering. The beautiful dream of escape and transcendence expressed in this passage is radically impossible for mortal humans, just as all the other escape dreams presented in the Hippolytus are impossible. That very impossibility of transcendence is what renders tragic the tragedy of Hip- Aristotle's Wheel Cherie Craig ('89) polytus. 1Editor's note: Due to space limitations, only the first two parts -- the introduction and the Euripedes section of Mr. McShane's prize winning essay -- are included here. The complete work is available on file in the College Library. The problem involved in the paradox of "Aristotle's wheel" is one of geometrical correspondence. However, in order to understand what actually is occurring geometrically, one must understand the motions involved. It is clear that the two concentric circles of figure 1, travel an equal horizontal distance. (For now, let those two distances be represented as Ll=L2. ) Also, the smaller circle, being carried by the larger, must rotate at the same angular rate as the larger, (Rl =R2). We also know that if the larger circle makes one complete rota ti on, the distance it travels will be equal to its circumference, (Ll =Cl ). Since RI equals R2, the circumference of the smaller circle also makes one complete rotation; but since Cl does not equal C2, then LI should not equal L2 and C2 should equal L2. We seem to be left with a circle rolling through a distance equal to its circumference, yet moving farther than the length of its circumference. Fig. 1 B D c However, the smaller circle is, in fact, not rolling. When we say that the larger circle rolls, we must recognize the two distinct motions involved: its rotation and its horizontal movement. The hori zontal movement of the larger is acquired solely by virtue of its rotational movement, because it cannot rotate while resting on a surface without moving forward. Therefore, if it rotates through a distance equal to its circumference, then Cl equals LI. The horizontal motion of the smaller of the two circles is not due to its rotation, but due to the horizontal motion of the larger circle, and therefore C2 does not equal L2. Thus the smaller circle's rotational movement is not acquired from its horizontal motion, but from the rota ti on of the larger circle. The larger circle imparts exactly as much motion to the smaller circle as it itself possesses. The smaller circle, then, is being moved horizontally while being rotated, rather than itself actually rolling. Rolling seems to occur when there is a special correspondence, that is, equality, between the length travelled and the length rotated. The problem still remains, though, to account for how it is that the smaller circle rotates through a smaller distance than it travels while its circumference is actually in contact with the line traversed. A point on the circumference of the larger circle travels the same distance on that circumference in a given time as the center of the circle moves horizontally in that same time. Therefore, they move with the same velocity. On 33 �the circumference of the smaller circle, a point travels a shorter distance than the center in that same amount of time and conseque ntl y moves with lesser linear velocity. (The angular velocity is the same as that of the point on the larger circle, but the linear velocity is not the same.) In reference to figure 1, it becomes clear that as every point on arc AB has a corresponding point on arc EF, geometrically as well as in time, and as AB=AC=ED, then every point of ED must correspond to a point on arc EF (even though they are of unequal lengths). This same "type" of correspondence is illustrated [figures 2 and 3] by two points moving along two unequal straight lines, or a curve and its chord, in a given time. -----<--- B E c A Fig. 2 Ref erring to Figure 2, we may move line BC such that point C will coincide with point A, while BC remains perpendicular to AC. In Figure 3 we may meet the requirement by moving both the line and the curve with two given velocities in a given time. However, the curve, being longer, must be moved at a faster rate in order for the motion to be completed in the same time. The semicircle AOB rotates counterclockwise 18 0 degrees such that point B of the curve passes through point 0 and rests at point A. The segment AB slides to the left such that point B of the segment passes through point E and rests at point A. Figure 1 also requires two motions with differing, yet uniform, linear velocities. In a given time, we may slide the segment ED to the left such that D will coincide with E, at the same time moving Eat a slower rate a long the arc EF such that it corresponds with F [figure 4]. In this latter example we may obtain the same effect, or relative motion, using motions which are equal but opposite to those mentioned. 34 Instead of moving segment ED to the left, we can move the circle to the right, and instead of moving E counter-clockwise along arc EF, we can rotate the circle clockwise through arc EF. We thereby obtain the two motions of the smaller circle and their seemingly paradoxical effect. We expect there to be the same relationship between the two motions (namely, liner and angular) in the smaller circle as between those of the larger circle, simply because they are both circles. As a result, we fail to see that, although one of the motions of the larger circle is dependent on the other, the two motions of the smaller circle are independent of each other. Once we recognize this , the behavior of the smaller circle should no longer surprise us, and it is found to be no more problematic then the correspondence without equality as we saw with Figures 2 and 3. Out of this, it must be said that in order to understand what is occurring geometrically when geometrical figures are set in motion, we need to take the natures of the motions involved into account. Geometry cannot be separated from mechanics; rather, mechanics is inherent in geometr y. D ~-------~ E I \ / Fig.3 G The Beginning of Titne Eugenia Bergeron ('92) Eo-A ustralopitheca leather scraped fish dried herbs brewed her man away on a hunting trip suddenly leisured sits on sand before sparkling sunlit water (notices playful progress of three dolphins moving east to west halfway between her feet and the horizon) Eo-Australopitheca my sister my double perfectly acquainted with the Shaman's view on eternity transmitted through measureless eons that then and now are one never having questioned the wisdom of ageless antiquity at this hour in this place permits herself to listen to her senses F D' D E Fig. 4 35 �Eo-A ustralopitheca having observed the evenings and the mornings of many days remembering the playful progress of three dolphins (moving east to west halfway between her feet and the horizon) here then there now she sees as if afresh unhurried unstopping unhastening diagonally advancing waves implying sequence implying time Eo-A ustralopitheca (as all the waters under the firmament wave by curling white-embroidered wave approach her feet each covering one tiny fraction more of sand) chooses the evidence of her eyes over the testimony of tradition ·knowing that soon water will cover the island of sand left by last night's low tide glimpsing a small pale conical shell pierced near the point filled with sand she speculates that held aloft the shell will empty before the water touches her toes 36 37 �request as a gift, and asks him about its source, saying, "How is it that thou askest drink of me," i.e., "What enables you to ask a favor of me?" Behold The Latnb of God: Christ and Men in the Gospel ofJohn Kevin Graham ('90) I. Introduction Halfway through the first chapter of John's Gospel, Jesus enters the narrative in the wilderness beyond the Jordan River, where John is preaching. 1:29 The next day John seeth Jesus corning unto him, and saith, Behold the Lamb of God which taketh away the sin of the world. 30 This is he of whom I said, After me cometh a man which is preferred before me: for he was before me. 31 And I knew him not: but that he should be manifest to Israel, therefore I am come baptizing with water. John comes to baptise us with water and to say to us, "Behold the Lamb of God," in order that the chosen people of God may see Christ manifest. Whoever Jesus is, he is identified by a relation to us, as the Lamb who, sanctified, will take our sin away. And whatever John's annunciation may mean, John announces him to us for our sake. Thus the Evangelist claims that we should want to know who the Lamb of God is. And if we want to know ourselves, we must consider what it means to have sin which this Lamb must take away. In this essay, I hope to discover just these things: Who is Christ, and what are we that we need such a Sa vi or? To this end, I will read a few of the stories in John's Gospel closely, hoping to hear our need articulated in the words of Mary Magdalene, Simon Peter and others, and to hear Christ's fulfillment of that need spoken in his words to them. I am not asking whether we need Christ, but why, according to John, we need him. This essay 38 can only prepare us to answer that larger, more fundamental question. II. Christ and the Samaritan Woman at the Well 4:5 Then cometh he to a city of Samaria, which is called Sychar, near to the parcel of ground thatJacob gave to his son Joseph. 6 Now Jacob's well was there. Jesus, therefore, being wearied with his journey, sat thus on the well: and it was about the sixth hour. 7 There cometh a woman of Samaria to draw water: Jesus saith unto her, Give me to drink. 8 (For his disciples were gone away unto the city to buy meat.) 9 Then saith the woman of Samaria unto him, How is it that thou, being a Jew, askest drink of me, which am a woman of Samaria? for the Jews have no dealings with the Samaritans. The scholars off er many explanations for the Samaritan woman's surprise at Jesus' speaking to her: religious and political feuding between the Jews and the Samaritans, the social unacceptability of a Jewish man speaking to a woman in public, the ritual impurity of all Samaritan women. 1 Jesus' words immediately break down these walls of defensiveness and hostility, which normally prevent words exchanged between members of enemy races from becoming conversations. He accomplishes this by an act of humility, forsaking the high social rank a Jewish man would normally assume in this situation in order to allow the Samaritan woman to become his benefactor. I think she wonders not so much at his simply speaking to her, but more at the charity which allows him to ask a favor of her. She recognizes his 4: 10 Jesus answered and said unto her, If thou knewest the gift of God, and who it is that saith to thee, Give me to drink; thou wouldest have asked of him, and he would have given thee living water. 11 The woman saith unto him, Sir, thou hast nothing to draw with, and the well is deep: from whence hast thou that living water? 12 Art thou greater than our father Jacob, which gave us the well, and drank thereof himself, and his children, and his cattle? Jesus confirms her recognition of his gift, and promises her that she does not know the whole of it: his charity, which makes their conversation possible, is of God. Moreover, he who speaks to her is more extraordinary than she could know from his simple words. Had she seen him for who he is she would have known that he is the source of wha~ she needs most, Ii ving water. Though Jesus offers no explanation of what this mysterious living water is, the woman asks not what it is, but whence he would get it. He cannot draw it from the ground, for he has nothing with which to draw even ordinary water from the well. He must speak of a water not drawn from the ground at all -- a water not of the body, but of the spirit. Jesus seems to claim to be able to provide more than the water and fer tile land she and her people inherited from Jacob. The woman relies on such blessings of God for preservation and prosperity. Now she asks Jesus whether he offers her a greater gift of God. 4: 13 Jesus answered and said unto her, Whosoever drinketh of this water shall thirst again; 14 But whosoever drinketh of the water I give him shall never thirst; but the water I give him shall be in him a well of water springing up into everlasting life . In asking Jesus about the source of the living water, the woman implicitly asks him about its character. Likewise, in speaking about the character of the living water, Jesus speaks implicitly a bout its source. Jes us says that the quenching power of living water is different in kind from that of ordinary water. While ordinary water leaves the body temporarily satisfied but dependent on a well dug in to the ground for replenishment, living water becomes a perpetually sustaining spring in the spirit. Bodily thirst cannot be quenched thus, nor can the life of the body be sustained everlastingly: this must be a water of the spirit, springing forth from the Spirit of God. The woman's hope is confirmed: Jesus speaks of a new blessing from God for His people, which will truly sustain them in spirit, and not just in body. She need no longer rely on the well dug by Jacob for Jesus offers her a new source of life, or perhaps a new kind of life altogether. 4:15 The woman saith unto him, Sir, give me this water, that I thirst not, neither come hither to draw. 16 Jesus saith unto her, Go, call thy husband, and come hit her. 17 The woman answered and said, I have no husband. Jesus said unto her, Thou hast said well, I have no husband: 18 For thou hast had five husbands; and he whome thou now hast is not thy husband: in that thou saidst truly. 19 The woman saith unto him, Sir, I perceive thou art a prophet. The woman asks for the water which Jesus offered and claimed she needed. Jesus seems to have succeeded in showing her who he is and why she needs him. Yet he withholds her fulfillment telling her to go fetch her husband. The woma~ neither lies to cover up her shameful string of living arrangements nor leaves in shame as though to call her husband, sulking in the misery of her unworthiness of Christ's gift. 2 Rather, she makes the least embarrassing statement she can of her situation, "I have no husband." Jesus praises her for speaking as well as a person can under the circumstances and says that he knows all about her past husbands and her present lover. The woman's first surprise is at Jesus' diviner's knowledge of her life; she cannot doubt that he is a seer as well as the bearer of the new gift of God. But perhaps her second surprise is the greater: though this prophet knows her life intimately, he does not condemn her for her sin. To discover that God knows us perfectly is terrifying, for we know we bear the mark of our sin. But to discover that God knows us intimately and yet loves us is joyous, for such a God would almost be a friend. The woman is beginning to think that she has discovered just such a God in Jes us' words; now she asks about this friendship with God. 4: 19 The woman saith unto him, I perceive that thou art a prophet. 20 Our fathers worshipped in this mountain; and ye say, that in Jerusalem is the place where men ought to worship the Father. 21 Jesus saith unto her, Woman, believe me, the hour cometh, and now is, when neither in this mountain, noryet in Jerusalem, shall ye worship the Father. 22 Ye worshipye know not what: we know what we worship: for salvation is of the Jews. 23 But the hour cometh, and now is, when the true worshippers 39 �shall worship the Father in spirit and in truth: for the Father seeketh such to worship him. 24 God is a Spirit: and they that worship him must worship him in spirit and in truth. By stating what she and Jesus both know about the religious division between the Jews and the Samaritans, the woman hints at a question that springs from a hope so great and so dear that she dares not give her question a voice: "May even we, the outcasts of Israel, rejoin the family of God?" Much of her life must have been shaped by being outcast, as a Samaritan, as a woman, and as an adulterer. The charity of Jesus' words has kindled hope in her. To no one else could she voice her desire to rejoin the family of the chosen. Jes us speaks about the true worship of God as he spoke about living water: as he compared ordinary water, which sustains the body temporarily, to living water, which sustains the spi rit everlastingly, so he compares the worship of the Father in many places to the worship of the Father outside of place, in spirit and in truth. Spirit and truth will unite true worshippers with one another and with the Father across all barriers, and will lift them to a higher worship which is impossible in the bodily world. And Jesus specifically says, "The hour cometh when ye shall worship the Father thus: "the community of God shall indeed include you, the outcast and despised. Jesus' words fulfill the woman's desire and reward her hope. What began as a casual conversation has revealed the Kingdom of God to her. She stands in awe before the man who has released her from. e.xile an? welcomed her into the community of sp1nt. The JOY of her soul tells her that he is God · again, she dares not voice a hope so dear in ~ question, but masks it in a declaration. 4:25 The woman saith unto him, I know that Messiah cometh which is call~d Christ: when he is come , he will tell us all things'. 26 Jesus saith unto her, I that speak unto thee am he. 27 And upon this came his disciples, and marvelled that he talked with the woman: yet no man said, Whatseekest thou? or, Why talkest thou with her? 28 The woman left herwaterpot, and went her way into the city and saith to the men, ' 29 Come, see a man, which told me all things that I ever did: is this not the Christ? The evidence the woman offers that Jesus is the Christ is that he knows everything she ever did. Knowing her enables Jesus to minister to her deepest need, the nee'd for communion. She needs a M~s~iah who knows her and yet loves her by forg1vmg her. Jesus fulfills her need by promising 40 her the gift of the Spirit, which will sustain her everlastingly and enable her to join the community of spirit in God. III. Christ and the Man Born Blind In the beginning of the Gospel's seventh chapter, Jesus sends his disciples to the Feast of the Booths in Jerusalem, saying that he will remain in Galilee; but he follows them to the feast in secret and comes to the Temple to teach openly. The Feast of Booths, or of Tabernacles, is a memorial of Israel's wandering in the wilderness, when Abraham's children were purged of their wickedness.3 Appropriately, Jesus speaks of the Jews' need for his redemption beyond what the Covenant of Abraham and the Law of Moses give them; the p~ople take up stones to kill Jesus for putting himself above Abraham, but he passes out of their midst and into the streets. 9: 1 And as Jesus passed by, he saw a man who was blind from his birth. 2 And his disciples asked him, saying, Master, who did sin, this man, or his parents, that he was born blind? 3 Jesus answered, Neither hath this man sinned, nor his parents: but that the works of God should be made manifest in him. 4 I must work the works of him that sent me, while it is day : the night cometh when no man can work. 5 As long as I am in the world, I am the light of the world. 6 When he had thus spoken, he spat on the ground, and made clay of the spittle, and anointed the eyes of the blind man with the clay. 7 ~d said u~to him, Go, wash in the pool of Siloam, (which is, by mterpretatton, Sent.) He went his way therefore, and washed, and came seeing. Jesus answers the disciples' question about the cause of suffering not by explaining the necessity of punishment for sin, but by healing the man outright. The man, Jesus says, was born blind so that the work of God might be made manifest in his healing; something of God is revealed in the healing of the man's impairment which could not have been seen were he not impaired. But to whom is the work of God revealed, to those watching or to the man who is healed? And what is seen in the work of God? 9:8 The neighbors therefore, and they which before had seen him that he was blind, said, Is not this he that sat and begged? 9 Some said, This is he: others said, He is like him: but he said, I am he. 10 Therefore they said unto him, How were thine eyes opened? 11 He answered and said, A man that is called Jesus made clay, a?d anointed mine eyes, and said unto me, Go to the pool of Siloam, and wash: and I went and washed, and I received sight. 12 Then they said unto him, Where is he? He said, I knovi not. 13 They brought to the Pharisees him that was afore time blind. The man's neighbors do not wonder that he sees, but that he has been healed. To see is not uncommon; but to restore the sigh t of the blind is unheard of. Such a wonder seems inexplicable so the man's neighbors forego asking, "How co~ld Jesus do that?" Instead, they ask where Jesus is. Perhaps they are merely curious about a worker of wonders. But might they not want to seek Jesus out .themselves, hoping that he might heal their spuits?. Such a longing to be made whole in spirit ':ould imply a deep feeling of incompletion and sickness, so close to the core of our souls as to be almost unspeakable. When the man fails to direct them to Jes us his neighbors bring him to the leaders of th~ church. Surely they do not desire to convict him of being healed by an unknown, unauthorized prophet. It seems more likely that they seek the Pharisees' opinion about whether the one who opened the eyes of their blind friend might be able to heal them too. ro: 9: 13 They brought to the Pharisees him that was aforetime blind . 14 And it was the sabbath day, when Jesus made the clay and opened his eyes. 1~ 1'.1en again t~e Pharisees also asked him how he had received his sight. He said unto them, He put clay upon mine eyes, and I washed, and do see. 16 Therefore said some of the Pharisees, This man is not of God, because he.kee~th not the sabbath day. Others said, How can a man that Is a smner do such works? And there was a division among them. 17 They say unto the blind man again, What sayest thou of him, that he hath opened thine eyes? He said, He is a prophet. A student of the Law might respond to the man's story by saying that a man with power such as Jesus' must be divine, or by noting with surprise that Jesus worked the miracle on the Sabbath. But Jesus' app~rent divinity should overshadow any legal quest10ns about the conditions of his work and it is troubling that the Pharisees see th~ situation in reverse. The skeptical Pharisees accuse Je~us of a. literal violation of the Law; the sympathizers voice their wonder only in the context of the legal question. The man born blind perceives God's work more clearly; his simple statement "He is a prophet," reflects an unshakeable visi~n of the great wonder of Jesus' healing. 9: 18 B~t the J~ws did not believe concerning him, that he had been blmd, until they called the parents of him that had received his sight. 19 And .they asked them, saying, Is this your son, who ye say was born blmd? how then doth he now see? 20 His parents answered them and said, We know that this is our son, and that he was born blind: 21 But b~ what means he now see th, we know not; or who hath opened his .eyes, we know not: he is of age; ask him: he shall speak for himself. 22 These words spake his parents, because they feared the Jews: for the Jews had agreed already, that if any man did confess that he was Christ, he should be put out of the synagogue. 23 Therefore said his parents, He is of age; ask him. I~ order to corroborate the man's testimony, Phansees seek testimony of the healing, from parents who know well that the Pharisees seek evidence about Jesus' work not in order to believe but to condemn, and to threaten their opponents with expulsion from the synagogue. Now, the man's parents know their son, and that he sees; and surely they do not doubt that he speaks honestly a?out t~e healing. Why, then, do they not support his testimony? As parents, they should rejoice that Jesus has opened the eyes of the son they bore into darkness. As human beings, they should rejoice in the hope that Jesus can make them whole in spirit as he made their son whole in body. Their reticence may signify that they do not yet feel this second joy because they fail to see how Jes us' power to heal the bo~y might also be a power to heal the spirit. For wh1l.e fear ?1ight quell their joy over bodily healing, the JOY of seeing Jesus' power to redeem overwhelms all fears, as their son's boldness shows. t~e hi~ 9:24 Then again called they the man that was blind, and said unto him, Give God the praise: we know thatthis man is a sinner. 25 He answered and said, Whether he is a sinner or no I know not: one thing I know, that, whereas I was blind, now see. 26 Then they said to him again, What did he to thee? how opened he thine eyes? 27 He answered them, I have told you already, and ye did not hear: wherefore would ye hear it again? will ye also be his disciples? i Facing conclusive evidence of the man's healing, the Pharisees advise him to attribute his healing to God and not to Jesus. In doing this they probably seek both to control Jesus' popularity, and to teach the man the truth about the agency of his he~ling. The ~an responds that he knows only one thmg, that he is healed. By this he seems to mean that whatever may make sense and whatever he may not understand about healing, he knows that he has been made whole. The knowledge that a prophet of God has made him whole and that this 41 �healing implies the promise of spiritual restoration must be so great and so brilliant that all other knowledge looks dim and shabby by compa r ison. Jesus proposed himself to be the light of the blind man's world by doing this healing work of his Father. When the man sees such a light, he sees that in order to know anything he must see it in this light. Just as the light of the world is the first principle for the man born blind, so is the Law of Moses the first principle for the Pharisees. The man born blind has told them a new thing, but they hear only an apparent violation of the Law. They offer th e man th eir best counsel a bout his healing in li ght of the Law, and he discards it. Again they ask for evidence with which they may convict Jesus under the Law, and thus serve the Law. The man refuses, saying that he has already told them his story, which is far more important to them as potential believers than it could ever be as lawyers; they will not hear it in any important way if they listen so as to con vi ct rather than so as to be restored. 9:28 Then they reviled him, and said, Thou art his disciple: but we are Moses' disciples. 29 We know that God spake unto Moses: as for this fellow, we know not from whence he is. 30 The man answered and said unto them, Why herein is a marvellous thing, that ye know not whence he is, and yet he hath opened mine eyes. 31 Now we know that God heareth not sinners: but if a man be a worshipper of God, and doeth his will, him he heareth. 32 Since the world began it was not heard that any man opened the eyes of one that was born blind. 33 If this man were not of God, he could do nothing. 34 They answered and said I unto him, Thou wast altogether born in sins, and dost thou teach us? And they cast him out. The Pharisees love the Law because through their study of it, God converts their souls and enlightens their eyes by revealing His will to them in its perfect purity and righteousness [Psalm 19:711]. But thei r love of the Law has grown out of proportion: they have taken it not for a guide toward the light of the world, but for that light itself and are therefore unable to see the true light which is come into the world. When God works a new thing by restoring sight to the blind, they see it not as something surpassing the Law, but only as something outside the Law. When the man born blind challenges them to see God's new work of healing, they cast him out. They fail to see the main lesson of the Law: that all have sinned and fallen short of God's glory, and cannot share in that glory without the healing Christ offers. Their vision of God, to which they steadfastly cling, is partial. 42 IV. Christ and Mary Magdalene at the Tomb · 9:35 Jesus heard that they had cast him out; and when he had found him, he said unto him, Dost thou believe on the Son of God? 36 He answered and said, Who is he, Lord, that I might believe on him? 37 And Jesus said unto him, Thou hast both seen him, and it is he that talketh with thee. 38 And he said, Lord, I believe. And he worshipped him. Jes us does not ask the man, "Do you believe that I am the Son of God?" but more generally, "Do you believe that there is a Son of God, a Redeemer of men?" The man asks Jesus to identify the Redeemer. For if Jesus is not the Redeemer, then he must wait for the Redeemer to come to fulfill the promise contained in his healing. The man has, however, been enlightened, he knows that his bodily restoration signifies the spiritual restoration to come. Jesus fulfills this hope, he says that the man has both seen the light of the world in his own healing by Jes us, and now hears the Son of God identify himself with that light. Somehow we all need both to see the Light and to hear the Word. When Jesus restores us to our natural wholeness, and in his healing of us we see the Light, we are ready for Jesus to talk with us. Jesus offers to speak to all of us, even those who did not walk with him as contemporaries. This is the work of the Spirit of Truth, whom Jesus sends us in order to tell us all things. 9:39 And Jesus said, For judgment.I am come into this world, that they which see not might see; and that they which see might be made blind. 40 And some of the Pharisees which were with him heard these words, and said unto him, Are we blind also? 41 Jesus said unto them, Hye were blind, ye should have no sin: but now ye say, We see; therefore, your sin remaineth. By "the blind," Jesus probably means those whom he heals by removi ng their si n, thus revealing to them the Light. But by "the sighted," Jesus cannot mean people altogether unimpaired by sin; perhaps they have a partial vision of God, such as the Pharisees gain from their study of the Law. It is their claim to complete vision which prevents them from admitting their need for Christ's healing. The Pharisses fail by not tempering their delight in the Law with a feeling of imperfection and of need for a healing which the Law cannot provide. The disciples scatter into the night when Jesus is betrayed and arrested. Only Peter and another, most likely John, follow Jesus to the palace of the high priest, where Peter denies Christ]. Only John is present at the crucifixion; he stands before the cross with three other followers: Mary, mother of Jesus, Mary, wife of Cleophas, and Mary Magdalene. This is John's first mention of Mary Magdalene; Luke says that Jesus cast seven deamons out of her and that she and some other women Jesus healed supported him and the disciples by their own means. She is also presumably one of the women who help bury Jesus' body. 4 20:1 The first day of the week cometh Mary Magdalene early, when it was yet dark, unto the sepulchre, and seeth the stone taken away from the sepulchre. 2 Then she runneth and cometh to Simon Peter, and to the other disciple, whom Jesus loved, and saith unto them, They have taken the Lordoutof the sepulchre, and we know not where they have laid him. The joy of the Resurrection begins in bewilderment and despair. After the wild joy of the triumphal entry into Jerusalem has fallen into the darkness and despair of the betrayal, the trial, and the crucifixion, Mary comes to the tomb, immediately after the Sabbath, presumably to anoint Jesus' body and finish her ministry to his worldly needs.5 She comes out of love, and out of devotion, not knowing what else to do. Yet even her last service to Christ is denied her, for she finds an open tomb. In her despair, she can only conceive of one explanation, that grave robbers have taken the corpse of Jesus. Now the darkness of Mary's world is complete, the last ember of its light having been extinguished. She must tell someone, find support somewhere, she runs to tell the disciples. 20:3 Peter therefore went forth, and that other disciple, and came to the sepulchre. 4 So they ran both together: and the other disciple did outrun Peter, and came first to the sepulchre. 5 And stooping down, and looking in, saw the linen clothes; yet he went not in. 6 Then cometh Simon Peter following him, and went into the sepulchre, and seeth the linen clothes lie, 7 And the napkin, that was about his head, not lying with the linen clothes, but wrapped together in a place by itself. 8 Then went in also that other disciple, which came first to the sepulchre, and he saw, and believed. 9 For as yet they knew not the scripture, that he must rise again from the dead. 10 Then the disciples went away again into their own home. Peter and John's reac tion to the news of the open tomb is not despai ring, as is Ma r y's, but hopeful. Either the hope that Jes us has escaped the tomb or the fear that his body has been stolen could bring them running to the tomb, but only hope could carry Peter into the tomb itself to examine the burial garments. Fear would ask no more than to see the empty linens from the door. Once Peter has entered the tomb out of hope and steadfast love for Jesus, John can follow. In the dim light of the early morning, John sees exactly what Peter saw. By the guess of most scholars, the reason Peter and John conclude that the corpse has not been stolen is because grave robbers, not wanting to carry a naked corpse around, would not have bothered to unwrap the body. 6 Most of us, like Peter, would now be able to hope that the body had not been stolen. But without seeing the living Jesus, we could hardly believe that a man has overcome death, would not this imply that men are no longe r mortal? Yet John puts faith in Jes us' resurrection. John has been chosen to possess both great vision and great belief: the Evangelist calls him both "the disciple whom Jesus loved" and the disciple "which also leaned on his breast at supper, and said, Lord, which is he that betrayeth thee?" Yet remarkable as his faith here is, one thing is denied him -- to see Jesus risen. And only this vision brings understanding of the resur rection and its place in God's plan as shown in the Scriptures. 20: 11 But Mary stood without at the sepulchre weeping: and as she wept, she stooped down, and looked into the sepulchre, 12 And see th two angels in white sitting, the one at the head, and the other at the feet, where the body of Christ had lain. 13 And they say unto her, Woman, whyweepest thou? She saith unto them, Because they have taken away my Lord, and I know not where they have laid him. 14 And when she had thus said, she turned herself back, and saw Jesus standing, and knew not that it was Jesus. When Mary summons her strength to look within the tomb, she sees two angels, who ask her why she weeps. Their question prepares her to see Christ resurrected by prompting her to voice her need to find Jesus. But they cannot console her. So overwhelming is her emptiness that messengers from Heaven seem but a shadow of what she has lost. She turns from them, failing even to wonder at their presence: could Heaven fail to notice the extinguishing of the light of the world? Now Mary feels the deepest sorrow and the deepest need that 43 �any human being has ever felt, and perhaps possibly ever could feel. She is prepared to see the risen Christ. them, I ascend to my Father, and your Father; and to my God, and your God. 18 Mary Magdalene came and told the disciples that she had seen the Lord, and that he had spoken these things unto her. 20: 14 And when she had thus said, she turned herself back, and saw Jesus standing, and knew not that it was Jesus. 15 Jesus saith unto her, Woman, why weepest thou? Whom seekest thou? She, supposing him to be the gardener, saith unto him, Sir, if thou have borne him h ence, tell me where thou h ast laid him, and I will take him away. 16 Jesus saith unto her, Mary. She turned herself, and saith unto him, Rabboni.: which is to say, Master. Now the work of Christ on earth is almost complete: having been raised up and having drawn us up to him to become sons of the Father, it only remains for him to breathe forth the Spirit into us and send us forth into the world. When we have seen the r isen Christ with Mary Magdalene, our work as disciples, or learners, is complete, and we are ready to become apostles, or, those sent forth. Mary is at first unable to see Jesus, who, seemingly, has been transfigured. In her despair, an y unfamiliar man would look like someone wh o mi ght have taken Jesus' body. 7 Jesus begins to re ach out to her in order to reveal himself to her, asking, "Why do you weep? Whom do you seek?" Mary's answer, "Where have you taken him?" shows that she can't imagine anyone failing to know wh ose tomb is empty and that what she seeks is not Jesus' body, but Jesus himself. Then Jesus says, "Mary." She hears him, and turn s her soul to see him. He speaks her name with the breath of divine charity. He is nowhere in what he says. Where before he revealed himself by saying "I am he," now the first person in n o way enters his words. Thus he gives himself over to her com pletely, to be her healer and comforter. He ope ns himself completely to show forth his glory as div ine love. Her deepest need is filled by the revelation of Christ to the ears and the eyes of her sou l. Mary sees the risen Christ and says, "Rabbi," which must be understood to mean "Teacher." A teacher cannot simply reveal things to his student. He must know her and reach out to fill her need with a word spoken in char ity; for onl y such a word can truly fill the need of an animal with speech. Mary is prepared to hear the word because she knows that Jesus is the source of her life and because she feels the sorrow appropriate to the loss of that sou rce. Hearing that word enables her to turn to see the glorified Christ as our Teacher, and to see something of the Father in him. T o teach is to speak the word of love and thus reveal something of the Father to the hearer,: it is the mos t perfect of Christ's works. To learn is to prepare ourselves to receive his word , so that he can make us whole and reveal the Father to us. 20:17 Jesus saith unto her, Touch me not; for I am not yet ascended to my Father: but go to my brethren and say unto 44 V. Christ and Simon Peter at the Sea of Tib erias After appearing to Mary Magdalene before the empty tomb, Jesus appears twice to his discip les, once during the evening of that same day and again eight days later. John concludes his Gospel after recording these events in the twentieth chapter, but goes on to write the following epilogue. 21:1 After these things .Jesus showe d himself again to the disciples at the sea of Tiberias; and o n this wise shewe d he himself. 2 There were together Simon Peter, and Thomas calle d Di dymus, and Nathanael of Cana in Galilee, and the sons of Zebedee , and two other of the disciples. 3 Simon Peter saith unto them, I go a fishing. They say unto him, We also go with th ee. They went forth, and entered into a ship immediate ly; and that ni ght they caught nothing. 4 But when the morning was now come, Jesus stood on the shore: but the disciples knew not that it was Jesus. 5 ThenJesussaith unto them, Children, have ye any meat? They answere d him, No. 6 Then Jesus said unto them, Cast the net on the right side of the ship, and ye shall find. They cast the net therefore, and now they were not able to draw it in for the multitude of fishes. 7 Therefore, that disciple whom Jesus loved saith unto Peter, It is the Lord. Nowwhen Simon Peter heard that it was the Lord, he girt his fisher's coat unto him, (for he was naked,) and did cast himself into the sea. The image of food first appears in John's Gospel after Jesus speaks to the Samaritan woman at the well. When the disciples return from the city with food and urge Jesus to eat, he replies, "I have meat to eat that ye know not of... My meat is to do the will of him that sent me, and to finish his work." Bringing the Samaritan woman into the Kingdom of God nourishes Jesus' spirit: acts of love sustain the spirit's new life which living water begets. Jes us tells the disciples to look upon the fields of the world, ripe for the harvest of the food men need most, "the fruit unto life eternal." Later, following the feeding of the multitude, Je sus speaks of himself as the bread of life, meaning that the belief in the redeeming power of his crucifixion sustains our spirit into eternity. Now the Son of Man has been raised up, and has ~rawn us up to him; the disciples, having eaten of his flesh and drunk of his blood fallow Peter into the field of the world to reap ~hat God has so~n, and onto the sea of life t o draw up the meat which dwells therein. They toil fruitles sly all night until Jesus ap pears on the shore at dawn.8 At his urging, they persevere to cast once more· when their net fills to overflowing, John percei ;es that the one who made possible and then rewarded their final eff ort must be the Lord. John tells Peter what he sees, and Peter leaps into the sea to swim to Jesus: so strong is his love for the sower whose harvest he reaps. 21:8 And the other disciples came in a little ship; (for they were not far from land, but as it were two hundred cubits dragging the net with fishes.) ' 9 As soon as they were come to land, they saw a fire of coals there, and fish laid thereon, and bread. 10 Jesus saith unto them, Bring of the fish which ye have now caught. 1.1 Simon Peter went up, and drew the net to land full of great fishes, an hundred and fifty and three: and for all there were so many, yet was not the net broken. 12 Jesus saith unto them, Come and dine . And none of the disciples durst ask him, Who art thou? knowing that it was the Lord. 1_3 ~en ~esus cometh, and taketh bread, and giveth them, and fish hkewise. 1~ 1:llis is now the third time that Jesus shewed himself unto the d1sc1ples, after that he was risen from the dead. Jes us invites the disciples to add some of their_ abundant harvest to what he is already cook mg, and to share with him the feast of life of whi~h ~e told them beside Jacob's well [4:36]. The y eat m silent wonder at the t oil of the night, at the bou?ty of the morning, and at the transfigured Chnst who made their labor and their harvest possible. I wonder what it was like to eat of the feast of the Kingdom of God, on the shore of the world into ~hich they were about to set out, sharing that feast with a Son of God unfamiliar to them in looks, but unforgettable to them in acts of love and gifts of grace. 21: 15 So when they had dined, Jesus saith to Simon Peter, Simon,. son of Jonas, lovest thou me more than these? He saith unto him, Yea, Lord; thou knowest that I love thee. He saith unto him, Feed my Iambs. 16 He saith unto him again the second time, Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me? He saith unto him, Yea, Lord; thou knowest that I love th~e. He sa~th unto him, Feed my sheep. 17 Hesa1th untoh1m the third time, Simon, son of Jonas, Iovest ~?ou me? Peter was grieved because he said unto him the third time, Lovest thou me? And he saith unto him Lord thou knowest all things; thou knowest that I love th~e. J~sus saith unto him, Feed my sheep. . J.esus singles out Simon Peter from among the disciples and asks him for an aff irma ti on that his love is greater than that of his fellows. Throughout the Gospel, Peter is the disciple of steadfast love and the leader of the faithful as the beginning of this story illustrates. When' Jesus' followers dwindle, after his discourse on the bread of lif7, and Jesus asks the disciples whether they too will leave him, it is Peter who says, "Lord, to ':horn shall we go? Thou hast the words of eternal hf e." Jesus' question points out Peter's need to love Jes us before all others and more than all others if he is to found the church in the world. Jesus' question changes when he repeats it. Rather than reminding Peter of his special duty to the commandment of love, Jesus seems to be doub~ing Peter's devotion to him altogether. Peter's react10n changes from puzzlement to pain as Jesus prods. him with his guilt and weakness, asking his question once for each of Peter's denials: The prospect of setting out to fish for men seems much less promising to him now; he remembers well how hope c_an fail during night's toil. How can he hope that his love for Jesus will sustain his spirit once Jesus has departed? 2!: 18 Verily, verily, I say unto thee, When thou wast young, thou girded thyself, and walked whither thou wouldest: but when thous~alt be old, thou shalt stretch forth thy hands, and another shall gird thee, and carry thee whither thou wouldest not. 19 This spake he, signifying bywhat death he should glorifyGol And when he had spoken this, he saith unto him, Follow me. By his strange, vague statement about Peter's destiny, John, and I suppose Peter as well understands Jesus to propesy that Peter will suff e; martyrdom, perhaps by arrest and crucifix ion. The sea's darkness grows deeper in Peter's mind. He must steel himself against the possibility that his night's toil will end not only in fruitlessness but also in pe rsecution and a painful death. The darkest specters man knows, spiritual barrenness and bodily suffering, never loomed more ominous than they do before Peter now. 9 Then Jesus says to Peter, "Follow me." He ~peaks not of a lonely journey, but of a guided Journey, and this makes all the difference. Even the first disciple cannot toil through the night alone and hope to succeed. But the image of the 45 �apostles setting forth, leaving Jesus behind on the shore, or absent altogether, is wrong, for Christ's role in it is insufficient. Where Peter expected to seek his own way, Jesus promises to lead him. Darkness may sometime come upon us as we labor, because of failing love or fear of death, but the Light of the world goes always before us, that we may work in his eternal day. VI. Conclusion These four stories do not speak of what Christ offers each of four different kinds of people, those who are like the Samaritan woman, those who are like Simon Peter, etc. The need for redemption which we all share is far greater than what sets us apart from one another. This is why each of us can join the one fold which the Good Shepherd guides and protects. Though most of us do not share the political and religious exile of the Samaritan woman, exile from the family of God is common to all people because all have sinned. Jesus welcomes us into the community of spirit by saying to us that he knows us and our sin, but for gives us and loves us as brethren and friends. To receive the Spirit and enter the Kingdom of God is to drink of the living water which becomes a well springing up within us to sustain us everlastingly. We share the blindness of the man whose sight Jesus restored, if not in body, then in spirit, by virtue of our sin. But Jes us says that we are blind in order that we may see the God's healing work manifest in us. Once we se.e this work in Christ's being raised up and taking our sins upon himself, we, like the man born blind, know only one thing: whereas we were blind, now we see. When we know this, we are ready to receive the Spirit, so that Christ may talk with us as well as be seen by us. When we share with Mary Magdalene both the knowledge that Christ is our very life and the sorrow appropriate to the loss of that life, we feel the deepest sorrow and the deepest need that a person could ever feel. Then we are ready to hear Christ speak the word of love and to see him as our Teacher. In order to begin the work of Christ in the world, we must, along with Peter, know the weakness of our love and see the dark specter of the trials we must face. Then we are ready to hear Jesus' command, "Follow me," the promise that he will light our way and make our toil fruitful. 46 \ Christ is the Redeemer who forgives our sins and restores our sight, welcoming us into the Kingdom of God; moreover, he is the Teacher who lifts us out of our deepest despair to hear his word of love, to see him revealed in glory, and to reap the harvest of the field he has sown. We are the exiles with whom Christ reunites, and the sick whom he makes well; moreover, we are the disciples who need to hear Christ's word of love and to see him revealed, and the apostles who do his work in the world. Untitled Laurae Melbin ('92) 1:12 But as many as received him, to them he gave the power to become the sons of God ... she argued everything he said refused to agree or even listen to him but he loved her anyway. 1Raymond Brown, The Anchor Bib le: The Gospel According to John, I-XII, vol. 29, Gardern City, NY: Doubleday & Cop., Inc., 1966, note to 4:9, p. 170. 2Jews, and presumably their Samaritan relatives, were only permitted three marriages; thus, her past two marriages and her present co-habitation would all be considered adultery, a capital offence. [Brown, op.cit., note to 4:18, p. 171. Leviticus 20:10.] 3Deuteronomy 16:13-15 and 31:9-13; Leviticus 23:39-43. she slapped him in public because of her irritation numbly he stood back and waited for her to stop screaming and slapped her back and she held him while he cried he became proof to himself that people he had scorned women who remained with abusive men henpecked husbands were helpless and he was guilty of hypocrisy 419:38-42; Matthew 27:57-61; Mark 15:42-47; Luke 23:50-56. SMark 16:1, 2; Luke 24:1. 6Brown, The Anchor Bible: The Gospel According to John, XIII-XX!, vol. 29A, Garden City, NY: Doubleday & Co pl, Inc., 1970, notes to 20:5, 7, pp. 985-987. ?The simplest explanation of the slowness of Mary and, later, of the disciples to recognize Jesus after the resurrection if that he just looks different. This argument is supported by this passage, John's story of the appearance at Tiberias, and by Luke's story of the appearance on the road to Emmaus. 8Darkness falls only three times during the Gospel: when the disciples set out across the Sea of Tiberias without Jesus, when Judas leaves the supper to betray Jesus, and in this scene .. 9Brown, op. cit., note to 21:18, pp. 1106-1108 Bibliography Brown, Raymond, The Anchor Bible: The Gospel According to John, vol. 29 (I-XII) and 29A (XIl-XXI), Garden City, NY: Doubleday & Co., Inc., 1966 and 1970. The Holy Bible, Oxford: University Press. he loved her he wanted her to have their children and she would kiss his face gently and repeat that it would make her fat so much more fun this way sometimes he didn't know how he could stand it he suprised her with dinner he loved to cook she laughed and called him a wimp you're not a real man she said he despised her he became a symbol of chains and she was the only way out but she wouldn't let him near her she curled a way from him in bed sometimes put pillows between them he knew her indifference fascinated him and held him and despised himself for he believed that he was weak she would block her ears humming loudly to discourage his attempts to communicate finally when he gave up she found the house empty sat in a chair humming loudly with her hands over her ears. �of the predatory birds. But the dead he says frowning slightly, avoiding my eyes, never let you stop loving. Corning To in the Fatherland Jessica Lamb He has been away what seems like a lifetime, in Africa stalking rhinos with arrows, like a native, and thanks to his native stealth, he returns wealthy, though weathered and past his prime. "Just missed a tusk in my gut last safari," he tells us . "I took that as a sign. Not fear sent me home, but recognition of time's flight." A dangerous business for a man getting on in years. We are sitting on the front proch watching the rain move over the mountains, flashing; he is recalling the violent deaths of wild animals. A difficult recognizance begun carefully with anecdotes. An antelope fled headlong through his window, once, and bled to death on the living room floor. The stripped green of his gaze sharpens with humor. It happens, he says, to this unprotected flesh. And holds towards me, embarrassed, his hand to be quickly clasped. "'Nature is a bloodthirsty mother," he explains, and goes on to tell of tiger attacks on elephant herds , of the constant stench of carrion, I am wearing ivory earrings made from his last kil1. For his son he brought a leopard skin. Peace offerings. How his little on es have grown. We notice the acuteness of his elbows, the starved babble of his fingers , and imagine him in Africa carving arrowheads from tusks, claiming tusks with arrows. We were babies when he left and have imagined him in more unlik ely places: on the moon , under the sea, next door, silently scoping us from behind his devious disguises . He wonders how long we mou med him after his supposed death. I show him the garden I staked out and planted when I was old enough to know my loss. He would return, I believed, by the time the sweet peas grew to my bare I y four foot height. They shot above my head and blossomed, and the lettuce stretched in stalks as tall as I and went to seed; tomatoes , cucumbers and carrots were harvested and canned year after year , "to eat if we're ever stranded here," my mother said in jest. At thirteen I added herbs: savory, oregano, sage; and then asparagus which ripened slowly and would give him time. When it first bore I was f u II y grown. On the hill to the south I planted fruit trees and berries. For five years we've eaten amply from them. 49 �Now as I stoop to cut a spa ra gus for his homecoming feast (that vegetable's seventh season I remark -- all that time in anticipation, not in mourning), he wants to know why mother up and died a f cw years back. "It happened in her sleep. Au topsy said a clot of blood in her brain." After a pause he says unsteadily, "Think of her death as a dcv ia tion . To stay on course is no easy feat. It is hardly human ... " "Yes," I reply. "You arc lucky to find us, at least, still here where you left us, when we could all so easily be worlds apart." We sit down to eat, hands clean, linen in our laps, and the long awaited return has grown already ordinary. I had wanted to greet him fully grown in the garden, or under the apple tree, my lap full of fruit. But it was a father not a king came home. Who knows were he has been. He thinks he has come full circle, finally, back to his point of departure. But this territory cannot be reclaimed. For there were times when I too cou Id have disappeared. Podding peas now while the men build the barbecue, I watch the piece of road pressed into the wilderness off the front porch, as familiar as the press of my own lips against each other, and I remember winters when a long, frostbitten stillness seemed to stretch as far as foreign countries out my window; the day my brother, barely eight, and I, nine, set out over the ridge towards town on skis and emerged terrified at dusk too exhausted to breathe relief, in a valley ten miles fom home. Childhood perils, not worth boasting about, perhaps. But grown inevitably into the strange places and postures of pubescence, I found the greater risks of love to shy from. I have hoped to live perfectly, without storm or shipwreck. Yet I am ashamed that Father found us, waiting, brother and sister, ma rr icd to the same land he left, ma rrooncd there. 50 51 � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource <em>Energeia</em> Description An account of the resource <em>Energeia</em> is a non-profit, student magazine, which is published once a year and distributed among students, faculty, alumni, and staff of St. John's College, Annapolis.  Staff welcome submissions from all members of the community -- essays, poems, stories, original math proofs, lab projects, drawings, and the like. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context energeia Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper (bound book) Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 51 pages Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Energeia, Fall 1989 Description An account of the resource Issue of the Energeia, published in Fall 1989. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Datcher, Rhonda (Editor) Paradi, Ken (Editor) Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1989 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this publication. Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Energeia Fall 1989 Student publication https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/a5d59cbe4a7de9262c75966a79a3bcf8.mp3 caf5e54979526e147f947ee331b210b4 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. 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Visit <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a> or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context formallectureseriesannapolis Sound A resource primarily intended to be heard. Examples include a music playback file format, an audio compact disc, and recorded speech or sounds. Duration Length of time involved (seconds, minutes, hours, days, class periods, etc.) 00:42:18 Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data wav Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Bib # 83464 Title A name given to the resource Prefacing the Absolute in Hegel's <em>Phenomenology</em> Description An account of the resource Audio recording of a lecture delivered on October 2, 2015, by Andrew Alexander Davis as part of the Formal Lecture Series. Davis describes his lecture: "Hegel claims that truth must be presented in a system. He also claims that there can be no preface to a system of philosophy. I explore the purpose of Hegel's preface to the Phenomenology of Spirit in light of these two claims." Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Davis, Andrew Alexander 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 2015-10-02 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 in the St. John's College Greenfield Library. Make an audio recording of my lecture available online. Make a typescript copy of my lecture available for circulation and archival preservation in the St. John's College Greenfield Library. Make a copy of my typescript available online." Type The nature or genre of the resource sound Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource mp3 Friday night lecture https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/7d455ee4c91b830bf9112df223e4e2f7.mp3 8d290a13adc37d62aadb11ea730b24b6 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 m4a Duration Length of time involved (seconds, minutes, hours, days, class periods, etc.) 00:50:25 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 Hegel's Rhythm: Speculative Thinking and the Relationship between Philosophy and Poetry Description An account of the resource Audio recording of a lecture given by Andy Davis on September 6, 2024 as part of the Dean's Lecture & Concert Series. The Dean's Office has provided this description of the event: "What can poetry teach us about the demands of writing and reading philosophy? In this talk I explore this question through the lens of a few paragraphs at the end of Hegel’s preface to the Phenomenology of Spirit, with some passing references to his account of poetry in the Aesthetics lectures. Hegel’s puzzling account of 'der spekulative Satz' [the speculative sentence/proposition] employs a comparison to poetic rhythm in paragraph sixty-one. Just as poetry plays formal meters off of natural accents, speculative expressions of philosophical content rely on a productive conflict between the form of the proposition (subject is predicate) and the unity of the Concept in which such differentiations between subjects, objects and qualities disappear. Poetry provides a model of unity in conflict that produces a 'floating center' of meaning. What might it mean for philosophical thinking to likewise embrace a 'floating center'?" Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Davis, Andrew Alexander 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 2024-09-06 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Meem Library has been given permission to make this item available online. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource sound Subject The topic of the resource Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich, 1770-1831 Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context SF_DavisA_Hegel's_Rhythm_2024-09-06 Friday night lecture https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/7674b113f1cc3c70ab0d4d495e314b1c.pdf 46c0db3b85d72874a00ce3a68eff3df6 PDF Text Text Helen’s Eidolon: Learning and Suffering in Euripides’ Electra A work of tragic poetry is organized by its teleology of suffering, by the sense it gives of why humans suffer. The chorus of Argive Elders in Aeschylus’ Agamemnon tells the audience that “Zeus, who brought men to think...has laid it down that learning comes alone through suffering.” (Ag. 177-8) and also “justice so inclines that those only learn who suffer” (Ag. 2501). We suffer for the sake of learning, and moreover, there is no other way to learn. The Oresteia as a whole seems to bear this out. We follow the house of Atreus through intense suffering: adultery, child murder, cannibalism, the sacrifice of Iphigeneia, a decade of war, the murder of Agamemnon, the murders of Clytemnestra and Aegisthus and finally, the guilt of matricide. Yet in the end justice is not only done, it is established on earth for the first time in an institution, the Areopagus. Law is born from violence. The furies are transformed to Eumenides. We have learned. We have become more civilized. Euripides’ plays do not support this teleology of suffering. In fact, Euripides inverts the Aeschylean formula in his Electra. Orestes says to his sister, Electra, before she recognizes him, that “there is no pity in ignorance, but [pity is present] in the wise among men. But too wise knowledge in the wise is not harmless.” (El. 294-6) While suffering can bring learning according to Aeschylus’ chorus, learning brings new suffering born of pity for Euripides’ Orestes. In other words, we do not transcend suffering through learning, we simply acquire more of it. For Euripides, there is no threshold beyond suffering, no end to redeem it. As we will see, suffering does not educate Electra or Orestes, it harms and deludes them. I. When we meet Electra, our titular character, she bears a heavy water pot on her head and laments dramatically, “O night, black night whose breast nurses the golden stars/ I wander through your darkness,” (54-55) We know at this point that she has been cast out of the royal house and is married to a farmer. Now she seems to be reduced to menial labor and we begin to feel pity. But this pity is undermined immediately: as she says, “I am not forced, I chose this slavery myself” (57) She is soon spotted by her new husband, the farmer and he asks her why she insists on doing heavy labor. The orders do not come from him. Electra does not have to bear the heavy water jar but chooses to: the action of the play opens with a self-pitying stunt. As she says herself, she wants to make Aegisthus’ arrogance visible by making her situation look worse than it actually is. Strange logic. Electra refuses to attend the festival of Hera on account of her clothes and even refuses the chorus’ offer of loaned garments to enforce her image of suffering (167-174). Later, Electra insists on showing herself as a slave to her mother, Clytemnestra, by offering to help her out of her carriage when her own Trojan slaves are suddenly absent (1004). Electra compares herself to the Trojan women brought back as slaves. Yet her situation is actually much different. She is still on Mycaenean soil, still able to live and die there and to worship the gods of her people. She is poor, but she is as free as she was before. She freely chooses to engage in conspicuous labors. Throughout, Electra willfully refuses to see anything in her situation but misery. She takes actions to make her situation look worse, to make things appear to others as they appear to her. By contrast, Sophocles’ Electra is portrayed as a victim with great inner strength. Her hate may terrify us, but it is understandable: she is trapped in a house with her father’s killers and subject to daily abuses. Euripides’ Electra may feel exiled and trapped in her poverty but �ultimately, her complaints appear shallow and materialistic. She is removed from any ongoing abuse and allowed a simple, honest life, the sort that Socrates’ Odysseus chooses for himself in the Myth of Er. The fact that she is constantly trying to make her rustic situation look like slavery is the surest proof that it could be borne more easily. Electra’s desire for revenge springs from two places, both delusions: her sense that the loss of her royal wealth harms her and her idealized love for the father she hardly knew, Agamemnon. These two causes are similar insofar as both are what we, after Marx, might call fetishes. When Electra mentions Aegisthus, the man who deposed her father, she says “[I] cry my pain to father in the great bright air” (59) She will mention Agamemnon again and again, idealizing him and stoking her rage for Clytemnestra and Aegisthus. But always her rage strikes a hollow note. Euripides systematically withholds a good reason for her point of view. She has been forced out of her house and married to a farmer, a great indignity that seems to have no precedent in the other tellings of this story. Yet what seems like a brutal blow that might presage her inevitable revenge is in fact an oddly good turn of fortune. Her farmer husband, despite his poverty, is a thoughtful, upright man who will not touch her and cares for her like a father. In fact, he cares for her better than the father she lost and now idealizes, Agamemnon. She notes how the farmer is “equal to the gods in kindness” (67) but when alone she laments her situation in high tragic tone. This introduces us to a dissonance that runs throughout the play between the way Electra and Orestes view the situation and the circumstances themselves. Euripides steadily erodes any clear moral imperative to revenge that the two children might have. While Aeschylus presents us an Orestes who is reluctant because he understands how serious his task is, Euripides presents Orestes as confused and lacking resolve. Aeschylus’ Orestes finally acts out of a deep piety, an understanding that the will of the gods, presented in the oracle, cannot be evaded. Hard as it is, he recognizes a greater plan at work. By contrast, Euripides’ Orestes acts when he is hounded into it by his deluded sister. He doubts the oracle, insisting that no god could ask him to kill his mother (970, 981).Electra insists the oracle must be true, but not out of any piety, for we have seen none in her, but because it serves her end. Orestes is driven to act when Electra accuses him of cowardice and forces him, out of petulance, to disprove her. No line better indicates Orestes’ combination of cowardice and blind trust in Electra than when he says, “what is our action now toward our mother? Do we kill?” (967) Even when he strikes, Orestes cannot face his mother, so he covers his eyes with his cloak (1221). He demands someone else deal with the corpse, wrapping it in the same cloak he used to cover his eyes from the deed (1227). Electra then wraps the corpse. All this underlines that he is ultimately presented as a tool of Electra’s hatred which, as we have seen, is hardly justified by the events and people of the play. Whatever obvious status the matricidal revenge had within the mythic canon has been wholly dispelled: Aegisthus and Clytemnestra are presented as flawed but reasonable, the murders as unmotivated. To drive this home, Euripides has both murders appear exceedingly cruel and impious.1 Aegisthus is killed while attending to a sacrificed bull. As he leans over and sorts through the organs, Orestes smashes his spine with a sword blow from behind. Clytemnestra is lured through a false rumor that Electra is giving birth. She shows genuine maternal interest in Electra and the 1 Froma Zeitlin, explores Euripides’ inversion of religious rites throughout the play: ”Celebration has proved an illusion and ritual sacrifice has become murder.” [Zeitlin, F. “The Argive Festival of Hera and Euripides’ Electra.” In: Transactions and Proceedings of the American Philological Association. Vol. 101, (1970) p. 659.] Most readings of this strange play (Conacher, Denniston, Pohlenz, Spira, Barlow, Thury) struggle to fit it into standard ideas of tragedy and so ignore some aspect of the unforgiving portrayal Euripides offers us. �baby. She begs for her life. Both victims are vulnerable and have tried to explain themselves and their actions in reasonable terms. We do not have the intense, gloating Clytemnestra or tyrannical Aegisthus of Aeschylus’ Agamemnon. We know that, according to the story, they must be killed. Where both Aeschylus and Sophocles build the case for the murder slowly and build the tension so that the act becomes inevitable, Euripides slackens the dramatic tension so that the murders appear not as revenge but as horror. Several signs indicate that the murders might have been avoided, perhaps not ultimately, but at least on these terms and by these means. Had Electra recognized that her situation was not as bad as she desired it to be or had Orestes the coward not been stung by the accusation of cowardice to abandon his justified doubt in the oracle, the murders would not have happened or would have waited on better motivations and perhaps been achieved by less brutal means. Castor and Pollux, gods and Orestes’ and Electra’s uncles, appear at the end of the play to resolve the action and remark, provocatively, that Apollo “knows the truth but his oracles were lies.” (1246) and that “Justice has claimed [Clytemnestra] but you have not worked in justice.” (1244).” Euripides presents the murders more as a result of Electra’s self-deception than any greater justice. The events of the play hinge on Electra’s greedy self-pity. Here, Zeus and Apollo weave their fate through such strange means that divine necessity appears like a bizarre mistake issuing from one person’s damaged psyche. II. Euripides’ treatment of the subject confuses the effect of the tragedy considerably. August Wilhelm Schlegel called Euripides’ Electra “a singular monument of poetical, or rather unpoetical, perversity.”2 Consider how Euripides handles the Aeschylean trope of Electra recognizing Orestes from his footprint’s similarity to hers. An old man tries to convince her that Orestes has returned but she stubbornly refuses to believe it: “You make me angry. How could rocky ground receive/ the imprint of a foot? and if it could be traced,/ it would not be the same for a brother and for sister, a man’s foot and a girl’s- of course it would be bigger.” (534-537) Euripides invites us to think about the unrealistic nature of the Aeschylean trope and even to laugh at it.3 An uncomfortable comic self-awareness bursts through the tragic artifice. This and moments like it are surely the target of Schlegel’s critique. And he is right, the Electra is a perverse play and barely resembles classic tragedy. But this does not mean it fails to achieve its intended effect. Because the character portrayals erode any self-understood moral high ground which might generate clear feelings of pity and fear, it must fail to satisfy the idea of tragedy as catharsis. The play is unfulfilling when judged as catharsis. But Aristotle, in his Poetics does not rest on the idea of cleansing or purification but builds, dialectically, toward “ekplexis” astonishment by knocking away what we think we know. Euripides’ Electra does this admirably, in that we steadily watch our ideas about the story and the tragic theater crumble away. We are 2 Lectures on Dramatic Art, Lecture IX. Schlegel also notes that in the Electra Euripides initiated the decline of “not only this or that genre, but [of the Greek’s] entire existence, in all arts, in constitution and laws, in private and public customs and actions.” 3 Electra recognizes Orestes by a scar instead, a nod, perhaps, to Eurykleia’s recognition of Odysseus in the Odyssey. Homer’s world is broad enough to embrace the serious and the comic, the fated and the incidental. If Euripides rejects Aeschylus, perhaps he does not reject Homer. Perhaps he means to pick up another, neglected thread in the Mythoi. �brought to question the characters and their motives and to wonder if there was any greater reason, plan, justice or purpose driving the action at all. It is, then, no accident that at the end of the play, Castor and Pollux, Helen’s brothers, remind us: “[Helen] never went to Troy. Zeus fashioned and dispatched a Helen-image there/ to Ilium so men might die in hate and blood.” (1281-3) Beginning at least with Stesichorus, some ancient Greek authors, including Herodotus, tell the story of the Trojan War with an important variation: Helen never really went to Ilium. 4 An Eidolon, a likeness of her, went instead while she was kept in Egypt for the duration of the war. Euripides seems to be the only tragedian to take this narrative variation up. In fact, he returns to it again and again. It is a leitmotif for him. It plays center stage in his Helen but also surfaces in the Electra. Why mention Helen’s Eidolon toward the end of the Electra? It seems to me that it serves to underscore the hollowness of human action. If the whole Trojan war was undertaken for a phantom, what of the miseries that come to the royal house of Atreus? Could they also be based on a misunderstanding? All this suffering is for an image, it has no real purpose, no achievable aim. Revenge, like war, is undertaken for a shadow.5 Seen this way, the Electra is not so much tragedy as black comedy.6 In the end, we have a sinking feeling that the whole thing could have been avoided, a feeling that is completely out of place in the tragic theater. Castor and Pollux tell Orestes and Electra: “Justice has claimed her but you have not worked in justice.” (1244) In the end, justice has been done, but we cannot enjoy it. This is a cardinal sin for a playwright, to refuse us our enjoyment, and Euripides’ Electra is roundly hated by critics for it. The Dioscuri reveal what Electra and Orestes have in store for them but there is no sense of future triumph in the court decision that will liberate Orestes from the furies. It is telling that the transformation of furies to Eumenides is not mentioned at all. This transformation is the crowning moment of the Oresteia and the proof that suffering leads to a better life. Euripides just lets the furies pass without fanfare: in killing Clytemnestra there was no victory to celebrate and there is no future victory to come. There is no Helen to retrieve. The dramatic work, instead of giving us a convincing, self-enclosed world, leaves us unsure and unsatisfied. It does this, in part, by failing to be a good tragedy. The work does not 4 Plato, Phaedrus 243a-b. Herodotus argues that Homer knew this variation as well, evidenced by his mention of Paris’ detour to Egypt in Book V of the Iliad. Homer chose not to use the Phantom Helen variation, according to Herodotus, because it did not fit as well with an epic poem. Herodotus, Histories II.116. More, to Herodotus the variation seems to be as old as the event of the Trojan War itself and to have been preserved in this variant form by the Egyptians. Herodotus’ reasons for accepting the Phantom Helen story told by the Egyptian priests cluster around the fact that it would have been “insane” for the Trojans to refuse to give her back to Menelaus. Thus they must not have had her. See Histories II.120. 5 What Euripides highlights, how the particular delusions connected to a situation of violence undermine any justice or moral clarity it might have, offers an elenchus, a refutation, of Aeschylus’ Oresteia. As with the socratic elenchus the point is not to come to new knowledge but to expose ignorance. And as Socrates’ interlocuters learn, the emotions that attend being refuted are unpleasant. 6 Schlegel notes what is obvious to most readers, that the Electra seems strangely close to comedy: “I could wish that the wedding of Pylades had been celebrated on the stage, and that a good round sum of money had been paid to the peasant on the spot; then everything would have ended to the satisfaction of the spectators as in an ordinary comedy.” (Lecture IX) The blurring of comedy and tragedy was probably deliberate. Euripides undertakes it in other plays as well. �magically transmute its suffering into pleasure, its furies pass away but are not transformed. The Electra performs for the theatergoer what Euripides’ other plays indicate: there is no redeeming purpose to our suffering. This is a hard lesson for liberal education to incorporate. If Euripides is right, education will not make our lives better. It will not make us happier or more self-actualized. It will find its own way to contribute to our suffering. Suffering will not teach us or improve us but will only warp our perception of the world. We could say, looking at the concluding moments of Euripides’ Hippolytus and Bacchae that suffering, though it has no redeeming cosmic purpose, teaches us compassion for one another. When characters at the close of those plays recognize they have all suffered immensely at the hands of inscrutable gods, they forgive one another. A human community of compassion springs up in response to the absurdity of divine power. Yet here in the Electra, we do not have such a reconciliation. Apollo is blamed, the brother and sister will be pardoned. But they have not learned anything, not even how to suffer well. We are not graced with the benediction of the Eumenides. Orestes runs off, pursued by the furies and the Dioscuri fly away to Sicily to “rescue the salt smashed prows of the fleet” (1348), a reference, perhaps, to the disastrous Sicilian Expedition which Thucydides called “a destruction so complete [the report] was not thought credible.”7 This gives a reminder to the Athenian audience of contemporary suffering and the fruitlessness of war. 8 After such a dark reminder, the hollow, programmatic words pronounced by the chorus to close the play seem more like gallows humor than good advice: “Farewell. The mortal who can fare well not broken by the trouble met on the road, leads a most blessed life.” Andy Davis Belmont University 7 Thucydides, History of the Peloponnesian War 8.1. See Richmond Lattimore’s note on the chronology of Euripides’ plays in Euripides V. 8 Aeschylus, while exploring and probing the Trojan war, gives us a trilogy that ultimately justifies war. Euripides’ Electra, on the other hand, does not. � 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 is Liberal Education For?" 2014 Conference Papers 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 2014-10 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Meem Library has been given permission to make these items available online. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Language A language of the resource English 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. 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 Helen's eidolon : learning and suffering in Euripides' Electra Description An account of the resource Paper presented on October 17, 2014 by Andy Davis at What is Liberal Education For? : a conference at St. John's College on the 50th Anniversary of the Santa Fe campus. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Davis, Andy 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 2014-10-17 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 Subject The topic of the resource Euripides. Electra Education, Humanistic Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 24004525 https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/878390a9a8f683cb4951c2b93b7fa3bf.mp4 381be463e37e70dac1c5e6a6c84fb751 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts.<br /><br />For more information, and a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <strong><a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a></strong>.  <br /><br />Click on <strong><a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5&amp;sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&amp;sort_dir=d">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a></strong> to view and sort all items in the collection.<br /><br />A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a> or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context formallectureseriesannapolis Moving Image A series of visual representations imparting an impression of motion when shown in succession. Examples include animations, movies, television programs, videos, zoetropes, or visual output from a simulation. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data mp4 Duration Length of time involved (seconds, minutes, hours, days, class periods, etc.) 01:00:05 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 Know Thyself in Dialogue with Others: A Case for Cross-Cultural Philosophy Description An account of the resource Video recording of a lecture delivered on November 1, 2024, by Bret Davis as part of the Formal Lecture Series.  <br /><br />Bret W. Davis is Professor and Higgins Chair in Philosophy at Loyola University Maryland, where he teaches courses in Asian, Western, and cross-cultural philosophy, with previous research and teaching stops in Germany and Japan. Professor Davis has published articles on numerous philosophical topics, and is the author of <em>Heidegger and the Will: On the Way to Gelassenheit</em> (2007) and <em>Zen Pathways: An Introduction to the Philosophy and Practice of Zen Buddhism</em> (2022).  <br /><br />Professor Davis offers this introduction to his lecture: “Know thyself” is a motto of philosophical inquiry not only in the West but in many traditions. What does it mean to know oneself? There are different types of self-knowledge, revealing different aspects of the self. One important aspect of the self is how our thoughts, feelings, and values are shaped by the culture and tradition in which we were raised. Another important aspect of the self is how we are capable of critically reflecting on and creatively developing our culture and tradition in dialogue with others. Our selves are both shaped by and shape our cultures and traditions. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Davis, Bret W. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2024-11-01 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource In copyright. Type The nature or genre of the resource moving image Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource mp4 Subject The topic of the resource Self-knowledge, Theory of Cross-cultural communication Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context LEC_Davis_Bret_2024-11-01_ac Friday night lecture https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/8e06ebf284549b6ab3399ba2c88e2c47.pdf cf14ba3643dce801a93127b201b6ac88 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 Collegian Description An account of the resource The Collegian began as a student newspaper; became a college community literary publication in 1952 and continued until 1969; became a student newspaper again in 1969; discontinued publication from 1980 until 1989 when it again became a student literary publication.<br /><br />Click on <a title="The Collegian" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=26">Items in The Collegian Collection</a> to view and sort all items in the collection. 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. Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 4 pages Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Collegian Nov 11 1932 Title A name given to the resource St. John's Collegian, November 11, 1932 Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1932-11-14 Description An account of the resource Vol. XLIII, No. 20 of the St. John's Collegian. Published on November 11, 1932. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Davis, Edwin P. (Editor-in-Chief) Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource text Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this publication. Subject The topic of the resource pdf Student publication https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/e775539f1558394598279f1ea8082bea.pdf 8052f5ff6b7222d9b611860b9b2a0854 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 Collegian Description An account of the resource The Collegian began as a student newspaper; became a college community literary publication in 1952 and continued until 1969; became a student newspaper again in 1969; discontinued publication from 1980 until 1989 when it again became a student literary publication.<br /><br />Click on <a title="The Collegian" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=26">Items in The Collegian Collection</a> to view and sort all items in the collection. 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. Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 4 pages Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Collegian Nov 18 1932 Title A name given to the resource St. John's Collegian, November 18, 1932 Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1932-11-18 Description An account of the resource Vol. XLIII, No. 21 of the St. John's Collegian. Published on November 18, 1932. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Davis, Edwin P. (Editor-in-Chief) Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource text Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this publication. Subject The topic of the resource pdf Student publication https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/73f53062a105af7a8f5a3f33a1131f92.pdf 34d64f9708d3237e96409edf4a346f0e 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 Collegian Description An account of the resource The Collegian began as a student newspaper; became a college community literary publication in 1952 and continued until 1969; became a student newspaper again in 1969; discontinued publication from 1980 until 1989 when it again became a student literary publication.<br /><br />Click on <a title="The Collegian" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=26">Items in The Collegian Collection</a> to view and sort all items in the collection. 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. Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 4 pages Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Collegian Dec 2 1932 Title A name given to the resource St. John's Collegian, December 2, 1932 Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1932-12-02 Description An account of the resource Vol. XLIII, No. 22 of the St. John's Collegian. Published on December 2, 1932. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Davis, Edwin P. (Editor-in-Chief) Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource text Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this publication. Subject The topic of the resource pdf Student publication https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/dd91ac407800bbd24782d48e2144c5a1.pdf 3a32f86b88b36cdc877b37525409108e 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 Collegian Description An account of the resource The Collegian began as a student newspaper; became a college community literary publication in 1952 and continued until 1969; became a student newspaper again in 1969; discontinued publication from 1980 until 1989 when it again became a student literary publication.<br /><br />Click on <a title="The Collegian" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=26">Items in The Collegian Collection</a> to view and sort all items in the collection. 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. Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 4 pages Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Collegian Dec 9 1932 Title A name given to the resource St. John's Collegian, December 9, 1932 Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1932-12-09 Description An account of the resource Vol. XLIII, No. 23 of the St. John's Collegian. Published on December 9, 1932. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Davis, Edwin P. (Editor-in-Chief) Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource text Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this publication. Subject The topic of the resource pdf Student publication https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/21b6774d7c3f8666f19951cf0f5158d2.pdf 58862972895eeac3282ad5f27f95d98e 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 Collegian Description An account of the resource The Collegian began as a student newspaper; became a college community literary publication in 1952 and continued until 1969; became a student newspaper again in 1969; discontinued publication from 1980 until 1989 when it again became a student literary publication.<br /><br />Click on <a title="The Collegian" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=26">Items in The Collegian Collection</a> to view and sort all items in the collection. 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. Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 4 pages Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Collegian Dec 16 1932 Title A name given to the resource St. John's Collegian, December 16, 1932 Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1932-12-16 Description An account of the resource Vol. XLIII, No. 24 of the St. John's Collegian. Published on December 16, 1932. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Davis, Edwin P. (Editor-in-Chief) Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource text Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this publication. Subject The topic of the resource pdf Student publication https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/e41b4c1f05550fa24a29af2e80e271dc.pdf 83c4958dcf7671e1cc48d9b5d572de59 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 Collegian Description An account of the resource The Collegian began as a student newspaper; became a college community literary publication in 1952 and continued until 1969; became a student newspaper again in 1969; discontinued publication from 1980 until 1989 when it again became a student literary publication.<br /><br />Click on <a title="The Collegian" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=26">Items in The Collegian Collection</a> to view and sort all items in the collection. 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. Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 4 pages Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Collegian_01_13_1933 Title A name given to the resource St. John's Collegian, January 13, 1933 Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1933-01-13 Description An account of the resource Vol. XLIII, No. 25 of the St. John's Collegian. Published on January 13, 1933. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Davis, Edwin P., (Editor-in-Chief) Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource text Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this publication. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Student publication https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/23b738d70de04ea25fd095c160962347.pdf ccfa83e1b39a2ae98068d0d2ab422d30 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 Collegian Description An account of the resource The Collegian began as a student newspaper; became a college community literary publication in 1952 and continued until 1969; became a student newspaper again in 1969; discontinued publication from 1980 until 1989 when it again became a student literary publication.<br /><br />Click on <a title="The Collegian" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=26">Items in The Collegian Collection</a> to view and sort all items in the collection. 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. Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 4 pages Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Collegian_02_03_1933 Title A name given to the resource St. John's Collegian, February 3, 1933 Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1933-02-03 Description An account of the resource Vol. XLIV, No. 1 of the St. John's Collegian. Published on February 3, 1933. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Davis, Edwin P., (Editor-in-Chief) Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource text Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this publication. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Student publication https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/920185f8e9cca9d0e621241245fa8170.pdf 41729344f2a047d564f41647d6cfd170 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 Collegian Description An account of the resource The Collegian began as a student newspaper; became a college community literary publication in 1952 and continued until 1969; became a student newspaper again in 1969; discontinued publication from 1980 until 1989 when it again became a student literary publication.<br /><br />Click on <a title="The Collegian" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=26">Items in The Collegian Collection</a> to view and sort all items in the collection. 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. Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 4 pages Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Collegian_02_10_1933 Title A name given to the resource St. John's Collegian, February 10, 1933 Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1933-02-10 Description An account of the resource Vol. XLIV, No. 2 of the St. John's Collegian. Published on February 10, 1933. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Davis, Edwin P., (Editor-in-Chief) Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource text Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this publication. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Student publication https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/0b16830e1751d5ad1e1a2aed62c002a7.pdf 99cdd5e56521161eeea2e79755c1b1ab 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 Collegian Description An account of the resource The Collegian began as a student newspaper; became a college community literary publication in 1952 and continued until 1969; became a student newspaper again in 1969; discontinued publication from 1980 until 1989 when it again became a student literary publication.<br /><br />Click on <a title="The Collegian" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=26">Items in The Collegian Collection</a> to view and sort all items in the collection. 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. Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 4 pages Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Collegian_02_17_1933 Title A name given to the resource St. John's Collegian, February 17, 1933 Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1933-02-17 Description An account of the resource Vol. XLIV, No. 3 of the St. John's Collegian. Published on February 17, 1933. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Davis, Edwin P., (Editor-in-Chief) Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource text Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this publication. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Student publication