29 May, 2008
Just a Note
Well, it's summer. I'm home from college. I'm on vacation. My posting frequency should be increasing, not decreasing. Yet that's hardly been the case. Sorry to everyone who reads this blog for not posting for the last few weeks! My writing has been rather confined to writing essays for scholarships. It's a painful process due to the extreme inanity of almost all the topics. I hope it at least pays off!
27 April, 2008
"The Windhover"
By Gerard Manley Hopkins
To Christ our Lord
I CAUGHT this morning morning’s minion, king-
dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of; the mastery of the thing!
Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!
No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.
The first half of Gerard Manley Hopkins’ poem, “The Windhover,” is composed of a rich, lingering description of a falcon’s early morning flight. At the sight the poet is caught up in a moment of awe similar to the falcon’s own high “ecstasy” (5). Yet the moment moves beyond the purely sensual experience to relate the grandeur of the falcon to the glory of Christ and the beauty the poet’s soul can achieve in following its divine master.
The imagery of the first half emphasizes the power and the mastery of the bird, which, paradoxically, is most conclusively proved when the creature allows itself to be swept along by a powerful gust of wind. On first appearing, the falcon is introduced as “daylight’s dauphin” – heir to the kingdom of the day – who strides the “steady air” effortlessly (2, 3). Then his motion changes: from his hovering poise over the earth, he now swings and plunges smoothly along a stray gust of air. The reader does not even discover the “big wind” which precipitates the action until after the poet has already depicted the falcon’s masterful plunge into it, and the omission serves to strengthen the sense of the bird’s invincibility. Though it allows itself to be overcome by the wind, this “defeat” only adds to its power in flight. The sight and stirring of the poet’s “heart in hiding” are drawn together into a single long instant in this stanza, as the feeling of timeless awe and quality of intensely present action are strengthened by the reiteration of words ending with the suffix “-ing” (7).
The transition from this vision to the poet’s reflection about it is clearly marked by a switch to a repeating b-c rhyme scheme. Describing the scene as indicating “brute beauty and valour and act,” the poet seems to enjoin his own assumed “airs” and “pride” to “buckle” – “Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here / Buckle!” (9-10). The same injunction also serves as a continued description of the falcon’s victorious flight as the bird simultaneously “buckle[s]” down to grapple with the wind and conquers it by buckling under it. All the beauty of this single vision from nature draws the poet’s mind to Christ, as he joyfully proclaims that “the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion / Times told lovlier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!” (10-11). Like the falcon, Christ’s defeat of the power that assailed him – death – was completed only as he allowed himself to be momentarily defeated by it. In this act of submission, the true “dauphin” of light in the world revealed power and beauty beyond previous imagination (2).
Despite the brilliance of the falcon’s flight and the subsequent reverie, the poet observes that his conclusion is “no wonder” at all, really (12). By simply plodding along behind the plow of daily life, every soul can make the “plough down sillion / Shine” (12). Every person is called to sacrifice himself to the daily struggle of coming to life through dying to oneself. It is in imitating the falcon’s descent and Christ’s “fall” that any human can best imitate their mastery and intransient beauty, the poet concludes. Even the most apparently unprepossessing object, such as the “blue-bleak embers” which remain after the fire seems extinguished, gain infinite grandeur if they will “Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion” (14).
To Christ our Lord
I CAUGHT this morning morning’s minion, king-
dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of; the mastery of the thing!
Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!
No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.
The first half of Gerard Manley Hopkins’ poem, “The Windhover,” is composed of a rich, lingering description of a falcon’s early morning flight. At the sight the poet is caught up in a moment of awe similar to the falcon’s own high “ecstasy” (5). Yet the moment moves beyond the purely sensual experience to relate the grandeur of the falcon to the glory of Christ and the beauty the poet’s soul can achieve in following its divine master.
The imagery of the first half emphasizes the power and the mastery of the bird, which, paradoxically, is most conclusively proved when the creature allows itself to be swept along by a powerful gust of wind. On first appearing, the falcon is introduced as “daylight’s dauphin” – heir to the kingdom of the day – who strides the “steady air” effortlessly (2, 3). Then his motion changes: from his hovering poise over the earth, he now swings and plunges smoothly along a stray gust of air. The reader does not even discover the “big wind” which precipitates the action until after the poet has already depicted the falcon’s masterful plunge into it, and the omission serves to strengthen the sense of the bird’s invincibility. Though it allows itself to be overcome by the wind, this “defeat” only adds to its power in flight. The sight and stirring of the poet’s “heart in hiding” are drawn together into a single long instant in this stanza, as the feeling of timeless awe and quality of intensely present action are strengthened by the reiteration of words ending with the suffix “-ing” (7).
The transition from this vision to the poet’s reflection about it is clearly marked by a switch to a repeating b-c rhyme scheme. Describing the scene as indicating “brute beauty and valour and act,” the poet seems to enjoin his own assumed “airs” and “pride” to “buckle” – “Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here / Buckle!” (9-10). The same injunction also serves as a continued description of the falcon’s victorious flight as the bird simultaneously “buckle[s]” down to grapple with the wind and conquers it by buckling under it. All the beauty of this single vision from nature draws the poet’s mind to Christ, as he joyfully proclaims that “the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion / Times told lovlier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!” (10-11). Like the falcon, Christ’s defeat of the power that assailed him – death – was completed only as he allowed himself to be momentarily defeated by it. In this act of submission, the true “dauphin” of light in the world revealed power and beauty beyond previous imagination (2).
Despite the brilliance of the falcon’s flight and the subsequent reverie, the poet observes that his conclusion is “no wonder” at all, really (12). By simply plodding along behind the plow of daily life, every soul can make the “plough down sillion / Shine” (12). Every person is called to sacrifice himself to the daily struggle of coming to life through dying to oneself. It is in imitating the falcon’s descent and Christ’s “fall” that any human can best imitate their mastery and intransient beauty, the poet concludes. Even the most apparently unprepossessing object, such as the “blue-bleak embers” which remain after the fire seems extinguished, gain infinite grandeur if they will “Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion” (14).
12 April, 2008
Paradise Lost continued...
Well, I'm much further along in Paradise Lost by now. My general impressions of the book are still quite similar to those outlined in the last post. However, some of my likes and dislikes in the work are now rather more specific.
Probably my favourite scene in the epic is Satan's temptation of Eve. Really it's one of the few that I've genuinely enjoyed a lot. Satan still seems very much to be the most successful character, in my opinion, although I don't quite comprehend how he could be interpreted as the hero of the epic. It's precisely the intenseness of his evil that makes him such a convincing character, not, I think any sympathy on the part of Milton. The temptation itself is marvelously subtle; so subtle in fact, that it hardly even comes off as unreasonable at first glance.
It starts with flattery, which given the tendency to vanity which Milton has already revealed in Eve (in her account of her first few moments of life), isn't a surprise. However, it very quickly moves beyond such initial superficiality and becomes much more nuanced. The main temptation is that Eve, the most breathtakingly beautiful creature on the earth, should become "a Goddess among Gods, ador'd and serv'd / By Angels numberless" (9.547-48). The bait is made more convincing by Satan's disguise as a serpent. He, whom Eve knows should be unable to speak, nonetheless approaches her, speaks to her, praises her vast superiority to him, and then slyly mentions that he knows how she could become even more worthy of admiration. Then he claims that he has been raised above the rest of the beasts to become "interior man" by virtue of a certain fruit - the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil.
Eve's initial reluctance to eat the fruit which God has forbidden her is attenuated by the sight of a serpent whose (alleged) experience seems to hint that God has not been entirely open about the Tree. If a beast can be raised to manhood, why not a human to Godhead?
The argument is clever enough so far, but one last touch clinches the subtlety of its deceitfulness. Perhaps, the serpent suggests, the fruit is simply there as a test, not of your obedience, but of your courage. What if God has decreed death for those who eat of the tree only because He wished to see if you humans care more for life than for knowledge? If He is in earnest, on the other hand, what kind of God is it who forbids His creatures such a positive good? Surely not a just one. And "Not just, not God; not feard then, nor obeyd".
Considering the sinlessness of Adam and Eve before the fall, it's hard tp conceive of a temptation that might in fact be appealing. Not knowing and incapable of imagining how prelapsarian man would have thought, neither I nor Milton nor anyone would be able to say for certain whether an argument phrased similarly would at all have been convincing to the historical Adam and Eve. Nevertheless, in the context of the book, and the fact that here Milton must appeal to the imagination, it's a very successful depiction, in which the argument is presented in a way which we could at least imagine to be appealing to one who had no reason to wish to offend and no concupiscence to make offense particularly easy.
In an aside, I'm not sure exactly how much Milton even believed in concupiscence, and am unsure just how prelapsarian he considered Eve to be. But that's a subject for another post.
Probably my favourite scene in the epic is Satan's temptation of Eve. Really it's one of the few that I've genuinely enjoyed a lot. Satan still seems very much to be the most successful character, in my opinion, although I don't quite comprehend how he could be interpreted as the hero of the epic. It's precisely the intenseness of his evil that makes him such a convincing character, not, I think any sympathy on the part of Milton. The temptation itself is marvelously subtle; so subtle in fact, that it hardly even comes off as unreasonable at first glance.
It starts with flattery, which given the tendency to vanity which Milton has already revealed in Eve (in her account of her first few moments of life), isn't a surprise. However, it very quickly moves beyond such initial superficiality and becomes much more nuanced. The main temptation is that Eve, the most breathtakingly beautiful creature on the earth, should become "a Goddess among Gods, ador'd and serv'd / By Angels numberless" (9.547-48). The bait is made more convincing by Satan's disguise as a serpent. He, whom Eve knows should be unable to speak, nonetheless approaches her, speaks to her, praises her vast superiority to him, and then slyly mentions that he knows how she could become even more worthy of admiration. Then he claims that he has been raised above the rest of the beasts to become "interior man" by virtue of a certain fruit - the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil.
Eve's initial reluctance to eat the fruit which God has forbidden her is attenuated by the sight of a serpent whose (alleged) experience seems to hint that God has not been entirely open about the Tree. If a beast can be raised to manhood, why not a human to Godhead?
The argument is clever enough so far, but one last touch clinches the subtlety of its deceitfulness. Perhaps, the serpent suggests, the fruit is simply there as a test, not of your obedience, but of your courage. What if God has decreed death for those who eat of the tree only because He wished to see if you humans care more for life than for knowledge? If He is in earnest, on the other hand, what kind of God is it who forbids His creatures such a positive good? Surely not a just one. And "Not just, not God; not feard then, nor obeyd".
Considering the sinlessness of Adam and Eve before the fall, it's hard tp conceive of a temptation that might in fact be appealing. Not knowing and incapable of imagining how prelapsarian man would have thought, neither I nor Milton nor anyone would be able to say for certain whether an argument phrased similarly would at all have been convincing to the historical Adam and Eve. Nevertheless, in the context of the book, and the fact that here Milton must appeal to the imagination, it's a very successful depiction, in which the argument is presented in a way which we could at least imagine to be appealing to one who had no reason to wish to offend and no concupiscence to make offense particularly easy.
In an aside, I'm not sure exactly how much Milton even believed in concupiscence, and am unsure just how prelapsarian he considered Eve to be. But that's a subject for another post.
30 March, 2008
Miltonic musings
Well, we've finally moved on from Dante to Milton in my literature class. For me, the transition has been a rather sad one, since I love The Divine Comedy almost to excess; it's sad to stop delving into it every day for class (although we do all have to write a large research paper on the book, happily). Milton by contrast I find rather irritating. I'm trying my level best to enjoy the book, but I rather feel towards it as I do about Moby Dick - I can recognize its excellence as a work of literature, but it will never shape my life as the Comedy, Crime and Punishment, Till We Have Faces, or any of those other marvelous favourites of mine have.
Nonetheless, I'm pleased to find that I don't detest the epic. I did in high school, mostly due, I believe to a lack of maturity in my reading: I found it unnecessarily dense and didactic. I still think it's more didactic than would be ideal, but with the guidance of my amazingly brilliant literature professor, I'm beginning to discern the underlying cleverness of many scenes, and even occasional flashes of irony in the narrative and descriptions. As it happens, all these actually interesting parts are the ones with the devils or Adam and Eve. We get to see Satan lying to himself and his followers and to try to follow his twisted logic through all its convolutions. We also get some actually quite interesting points about the nature of rebellion from a being Who is totally good and very good poetic analysis of why any creature would want to do that.
Oddly enough, I believe that the best ideas about God Himself that appear in the poem are those you can discern by interpretation of the demonic accounts of their hatred of their Creator. Through them you see what is not true about God, and even - in some rare moments such as Satan's soliloquy at the beginning of book 4 - what is true beyond the denial of even the diabolical.
Milton's depiction of God as an actual character by contrast seems to be crippled by a certain pretentiousness and an overeagerness on God-the-character's part to justify Himself to the readers. My friends and I complain about this aspect of the book more than any other, I think - certainly over dramatizing the problem to an extent, but aware nonetheless that the problem is a tangible one. How can you make God into a character? If He is as ineffable as Milton believes, the attempt seems nearly hubristic. And really, it doesn't come off well at all in my opinion. Very often Milton interprets God's actions in such a manner: "God to render man inexcusable sends Raphael to admonish him of his obedience" (opening to Book 5). The poem constantly seems to put God into a defensive position which begs the question of whether Milton's God really is as just as He should be.
Nonetheless, I'm pleased to find that I don't detest the epic. I did in high school, mostly due, I believe to a lack of maturity in my reading: I found it unnecessarily dense and didactic. I still think it's more didactic than would be ideal, but with the guidance of my amazingly brilliant literature professor, I'm beginning to discern the underlying cleverness of many scenes, and even occasional flashes of irony in the narrative and descriptions. As it happens, all these actually interesting parts are the ones with the devils or Adam and Eve. We get to see Satan lying to himself and his followers and to try to follow his twisted logic through all its convolutions. We also get some actually quite interesting points about the nature of rebellion from a being Who is totally good and very good poetic analysis of why any creature would want to do that.
Oddly enough, I believe that the best ideas about God Himself that appear in the poem are those you can discern by interpretation of the demonic accounts of their hatred of their Creator. Through them you see what is not true about God, and even - in some rare moments such as Satan's soliloquy at the beginning of book 4 - what is true beyond the denial of even the diabolical.
Milton's depiction of God as an actual character by contrast seems to be crippled by a certain pretentiousness and an overeagerness on God-the-character's part to justify Himself to the readers. My friends and I complain about this aspect of the book more than any other, I think - certainly over dramatizing the problem to an extent, but aware nonetheless that the problem is a tangible one. How can you make God into a character? If He is as ineffable as Milton believes, the attempt seems nearly hubristic. And really, it doesn't come off well at all in my opinion. Very often Milton interprets God's actions in such a manner: "God to render man inexcusable sends Raphael to admonish him of his obedience" (opening to Book 5). The poem constantly seems to put God into a defensive position which begs the question of whether Milton's God really is as just as He should be.
29 March, 2008
Inclination vs. action
I was reading a Dorothy Sayers essay about Dante the other day in which she discussed the manner in which the souls in Inferno have become identified with their sin. She was quite emphatic in pointing out the fundamental distinction between Dante's and the readers' journey through hell and the status of the sinners within hell. Those who remain in hell have chosen sin through a deliberate action of the will: an action which could not be more dissimilar from that of Dante and the readers who only witness the punishments to see what accepting the temptations of sin will lead to.
This point rather leads her off onto a tangent. She tells of a letter she once received from a student with very definite ideas about psychology (a young man of that type so thoroughly convinced of his own modernity in accepting certain ideas that he'll hold onto them far past the threshold of illogicality). He tried, she writes, to persuade her that her writing of mystery stories revealed a suppressed impulse to actually commit a murder, basing his idea on the assumption that the unconscious is the sum of the mind and ignoring the function of rational choice in defining a person's state.
Sayers relates this odd correspondence to her belief that it is invalid to identify impulse and the human unconscious too exclusively with the activity of the mind. Ultimately, the tendency to say that the unconcious is all that genuinely exists in the mind leads one to reject both intellect and will (two fundamental concepts for Dante) - the rational and directive capacities of the mind. To reject these two is to reject precsely that aspect of the mind which makes us human (a very convenient rejection if you want to define man as no more than a particularly clever ape). If, as the student she writes of says, the impulse to write a murder story and the impulse to murder are one and the same, we would have to admit that simple thinking about something is morally equivalent to doing it.
But wait... perhaps you're not supposed to talk about morals nowadays... Nonetheless, even if you were to discount all language of morality, you must admit that such an idea promotes something of a logical fallacy: it identifies an impulse that is actualized as being identical to an impulse that is merely felt; it refuses to consider action and views consideration as all that counts. No assent of will can distinguish the actor from the mere contemplator. The view discounts the decision to either act on or reject an impulse and holds that only the impulse itself is of any account.
In more Dantean language, it denies sin by making temptation itself into the only thing that counts in the human mind. Sin is inflicted on people by circumstances which cause temptation to arise, rather than being - as Dante believed - a concious choise of the individual's will to act according to temptation and against what the intellect informs it is right.
This point rather leads her off onto a tangent. She tells of a letter she once received from a student with very definite ideas about psychology (a young man of that type so thoroughly convinced of his own modernity in accepting certain ideas that he'll hold onto them far past the threshold of illogicality). He tried, she writes, to persuade her that her writing of mystery stories revealed a suppressed impulse to actually commit a murder, basing his idea on the assumption that the unconscious is the sum of the mind and ignoring the function of rational choice in defining a person's state.
Sayers relates this odd correspondence to her belief that it is invalid to identify impulse and the human unconscious too exclusively with the activity of the mind. Ultimately, the tendency to say that the unconcious is all that genuinely exists in the mind leads one to reject both intellect and will (two fundamental concepts for Dante) - the rational and directive capacities of the mind. To reject these two is to reject precsely that aspect of the mind which makes us human (a very convenient rejection if you want to define man as no more than a particularly clever ape). If, as the student she writes of says, the impulse to write a murder story and the impulse to murder are one and the same, we would have to admit that simple thinking about something is morally equivalent to doing it.
But wait... perhaps you're not supposed to talk about morals nowadays... Nonetheless, even if you were to discount all language of morality, you must admit that such an idea promotes something of a logical fallacy: it identifies an impulse that is actualized as being identical to an impulse that is merely felt; it refuses to consider action and views consideration as all that counts. No assent of will can distinguish the actor from the mere contemplator. The view discounts the decision to either act on or reject an impulse and holds that only the impulse itself is of any account.
In more Dantean language, it denies sin by making temptation itself into the only thing that counts in the human mind. Sin is inflicted on people by circumstances which cause temptation to arise, rather than being - as Dante believed - a concious choise of the individual's will to act according to temptation and against what the intellect informs it is right.
19 March, 2008
Spring Break
So, our spring break at the University of Dallas this year coincides, conveniently enough, with Holy Week. It's great to have the entire week off, as I always used to at home. I'm staying with friends in St. Louis (because plane tickets to Maine at this time of year are perfectly outrageous), and it's jolly fun.
I've been to see most of the impressive sights of the city - the Arch most particularly. And of course, there are other places you don't hear about so often that my friend's family has taken me to see. There's "The Hill", where everyone is Italian and quite proud of it in a way that reminds me of Tipperary Hill's Irish-ness in Syracuse, NY. Fitz's is a neat restaurant which specializes in root beer floats and a sort of 50s-ish atmosphere. I also was able to see the city's "Old Cathedral", dedicated to St. Louis IX of France. It actually hadn't even occurred to me that he would be the patron, considering how rarely you see things dedicated to him, but it makes sense, of course.
I've been to see most of the impressive sights of the city - the Arch most particularly. And of course, there are other places you don't hear about so often that my friend's family has taken me to see. There's "The Hill", where everyone is Italian and quite proud of it in a way that reminds me of Tipperary Hill's Irish-ness in Syracuse, NY. Fitz's is a neat restaurant which specializes in root beer floats and a sort of 50s-ish atmosphere. I also was able to see the city's "Old Cathedral", dedicated to St. Louis IX of France. It actually hadn't even occurred to me that he would be the patron, considering how rarely you see things dedicated to him, but it makes sense, of course.
13 February, 2008
Mimesis - "Odysseus' Scar"
One of the "big books" here on campus - at least in the professors' circles - is Erich Auerbach's Mimesis , which discusses, as the subtitle says "the representation of reality in Western literature." I recently had to read chapter one, “Odysseus’ Scar”, for a theology class, and it's quite interesting. Here Auerbach contrasts the literary styles of the Homeric epic and Hebrew Scripture, demonstrating the vastly different means through which each work depicts reality.
Whereas the Homeric epic lays out a panorama of life, meticulously recreating events in detail, the Old Testament focuses on select aspects of events and characters that relate directly to a specific message. Comparing the scene when Odysseus’ nurse, Eurykleia, recognizes her master to the scene of Abraham’s journey up the mountain to sacrifice his son, Isaac, Auerbach points out that the Homeric poem “scrupulously externalize[s]” the minutest thoughts, actions, and feelings of the characters. The Homeric approach brings each facet of the legend - Eurykleia's reaction, Odysseus' gestures in silencing her, etc - to the foreground of the tale.In contrast, the Abraham narrative directly recounts only scattered details of the episode - God's command, Abraham's prompt response. The brand of actions highlighted in Abraham’s story all center around a single theme – his unswerving obedience to God’s will - and the paucity of detail makes the few, seemingly minor, details which are included, such as the fact that the journey took three days, take on a significance that would be lost in Homer.
Much of this has to do with the aim of each narrative. Homer wrote a legend, in which the present is paramount and details simply add to the spectacle of the story. It is a good story, but Hebraic Scripture purports (and to us, is) more than a mere story. The Old Testament's primary aim is to present a single truth about the nature of man’s relationship with God and its development through the ages. The immediacy of events in Homer, together with the relative consistency of personality in the characters stands in contrast to the Old Testament. There, everything is fraught with the background story of salvation history (as the authors then understood it) while anticipating the fulfillment of this history in future generations. The personal development of individuals' relationships with God is of primary importance as well, considering that such relationships are exactly what drive the story of God's dialogue with men. We hardly expect to see the Abraham who descends from the mountain with his son unchanged by the experience, and indeed, we see a profound development in Abraham's relation with God, reflected by a renewed covenant. "Because you have done this, and not withheld your son, your only son, I will indeed bless you...by your descendants shall all the nations of the earth bless themselves, because you have obeyed my voice" (Gen 22:16-19.
Because of its purpose, gestures and words in Genesis aren’t depicted randomly – things that are not pertinent to the message of the story are hushed. Every word is there for a purpose and deserves attention when interpreting the passage. Though Homer’s tale explores many questions man has about existence just by its quality as a story, Auerbach says, such is not its direct aim. The Biblical authors sought to reveal divine truth and to comprehend recognize how it is that God interacts with the human race.
Whereas the Homeric epic lays out a panorama of life, meticulously recreating events in detail, the Old Testament focuses on select aspects of events and characters that relate directly to a specific message. Comparing the scene when Odysseus’ nurse, Eurykleia, recognizes her master to the scene of Abraham’s journey up the mountain to sacrifice his son, Isaac, Auerbach points out that the Homeric poem “scrupulously externalize[s]” the minutest thoughts, actions, and feelings of the characters. The Homeric approach brings each facet of the legend - Eurykleia's reaction, Odysseus' gestures in silencing her, etc - to the foreground of the tale.In contrast, the Abraham narrative directly recounts only scattered details of the episode - God's command, Abraham's prompt response. The brand of actions highlighted in Abraham’s story all center around a single theme – his unswerving obedience to God’s will - and the paucity of detail makes the few, seemingly minor, details which are included, such as the fact that the journey took three days, take on a significance that would be lost in Homer.
Much of this has to do with the aim of each narrative. Homer wrote a legend, in which the present is paramount and details simply add to the spectacle of the story. It is a good story, but Hebraic Scripture purports (and to us, is) more than a mere story. The Old Testament's primary aim is to present a single truth about the nature of man’s relationship with God and its development through the ages. The immediacy of events in Homer, together with the relative consistency of personality in the characters stands in contrast to the Old Testament. There, everything is fraught with the background story of salvation history (as the authors then understood it) while anticipating the fulfillment of this history in future generations. The personal development of individuals' relationships with God is of primary importance as well, considering that such relationships are exactly what drive the story of God's dialogue with men. We hardly expect to see the Abraham who descends from the mountain with his son unchanged by the experience, and indeed, we see a profound development in Abraham's relation with God, reflected by a renewed covenant. "Because you have done this, and not withheld your son, your only son, I will indeed bless you...by your descendants shall all the nations of the earth bless themselves, because you have obeyed my voice" (Gen 22:16-19.
Because of its purpose, gestures and words in Genesis aren’t depicted randomly – things that are not pertinent to the message of the story are hushed. Every word is there for a purpose and deserves attention when interpreting the passage. Though Homer’s tale explores many questions man has about existence just by its quality as a story, Auerbach says, such is not its direct aim. The Biblical authors sought to reveal divine truth and to comprehend recognize how it is that God interacts with the human race.
02 February, 2008
"Abandon every hope, who enter here"
The quotation in the title is probably one of the most famous phrases of Dante's "Inferno". I had a specific point I was intending to make before writing that, but the simply act of recording it has made me perform something of a double-take. (Dante's intricate layering of meaning upon meaning - of metaphorical sense on top of theological sense on top of literal sense - makes reading the Divine Comedy, not to mention discussing it, a daunting venture, dontcha think?)
That single line, inscribed above the gates of hell serves so many fascinating purposes. The most obvious reference, of course, is to the sinners who enter choosing to abandon hope of ever fulfilling the role for which God created each of them; to reject the one route to true happiness that lies in that role. Ironically enough, however, "Dante the pilgrim", having strayed from the path - that is, the "Way" which will lead him to heaven, can only get back onto the right track by first descending through hell. Still lost, he sees a mountain crowned with the sun - he wants to move towards the light, but is prevented by three beasts, the sight of which " so weighted me with fearfulness that I abandoned hope."
I hardly think it a coincedence that Dante's phrasing here directly echoes (or rather, foreshadows) the inscription over hell. But why? How could one who has abandoned hope ever be able to regain it by entering into the one place where hope most utterly dead?
First, Dante-pilgrim has a guide - Virgil, the embodiment of reason. Moreover, his journey is sanctioned, even commanded, by heaven. Beatrice, explaining to Virgil why she does not fear hell, gives us some idea of how it is that Dante may be kept safe. "One ought to be afraid of nothing other than things possessed of power to do us harm...God, in His graciousness, has made me so that this, your misery, cannot touch me." God offers Dante an opportunity to pass through the worst dangers in safety, providing him with the guide of reason to guide Dante's own choices, and with divine protection when reason fails (as we see happen in moments when Virgil's vulnerability in certain circumstances becomes pronounced. All of this seems to be getting off my original point, but I'll try to tie it in, I promise.
The sentence that sheds the greatest light on all of this for me comes directly after the inscription. Explaining the words carved above the gates, Virgil tells Dante that those in hell are souls who have "lost the good of the intellect". And what is the good of the intellect? Reason, perfected by faith in God. (I'm presupposing pretty much the entire substance of Fides et Ratio here, I admit...) As Dante descends further and further into the Inferno, the sins he encounters are offenses against reason - beginning with the virtuous pagans whose only fault was their lack of faith which made their reason imperfect, and ending with those who used their intellects to break faith. Hell is essentially "the great divorce" (to plagiarize the title of CS Lewis' book) between reason and faith.
Dante could abandon reason, his guide, and be lost in hell forever. He could lose faith in God's will, as he nearly does, for example, at the gates of Dis (lower hell) when even Virgil is unable to defeat the demons without divine aid. Either way, he would then be among those who have "lost the good of the intellect". However, hell is "innocuous", as Beatrice describes it, to those who accept the protection God offers. In the dark forest of the first Canto, Dante has only himself to rely upon, having lost the way to God. His hope is crushed when he is so alone, and his intellect is weakened. But once he accepts God's offer of aid, Dante can hope even as he crawls down Satan's hairy body in deepest chasm of hell.
06 January, 2008
"Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening"
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there's some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
This is a Robert Frost poem, very well-known and a favorite of mine. The words, the activity, the timbre of the rhyme are so peaceful, so quiet. It "feels like snow", if that makes any sense at all. It so exquisitely expresses the feeling that comes when you leave the house, trugding slowly further away from the light streaming from the windows, across the snow-covered fields, towards the forest. The snow seems to absorb other noises - you can hear the soft settling of snowflakes onto tree branches, you hear the muffled crunch of your own boots on the ground, but birds, wind, creaking trees and other noises all seem stilled. It's a moment set out of time; a moment held up as though suspended in a clear pane of ice, ready to be marveled at.
And it so rarely is marveled at, as Frost points out. The horse, unable to apprehend why anyone would stop and stare while lingering in the cold reminds me very much of our culture today, thouroughly pragmatic as we often are in our views of nature. "Why would anyone want to drive in that stuff?" "It's freezing out here." "Bah humbug."
It takes something peculiarly human to recognize beauty. We have to hang on to that ability and foster it - it's something that defines us, and losing it is one of the greatest tragedies I can imagine. Even if there are "promises to keep" and "miles to go before sleep" - there still can be time to notice and to wonder at the beauty of Creation. We just need to be human enough to do so.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there's some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
This is a Robert Frost poem, very well-known and a favorite of mine. The words, the activity, the timbre of the rhyme are so peaceful, so quiet. It "feels like snow", if that makes any sense at all. It so exquisitely expresses the feeling that comes when you leave the house, trugding slowly further away from the light streaming from the windows, across the snow-covered fields, towards the forest. The snow seems to absorb other noises - you can hear the soft settling of snowflakes onto tree branches, you hear the muffled crunch of your own boots on the ground, but birds, wind, creaking trees and other noises all seem stilled. It's a moment set out of time; a moment held up as though suspended in a clear pane of ice, ready to be marveled at.
And it so rarely is marveled at, as Frost points out. The horse, unable to apprehend why anyone would stop and stare while lingering in the cold reminds me very much of our culture today, thouroughly pragmatic as we often are in our views of nature. "Why would anyone want to drive in that stuff?" "It's freezing out here." "Bah humbug."
It takes something peculiarly human to recognize beauty. We have to hang on to that ability and foster it - it's something that defines us, and losing it is one of the greatest tragedies I can imagine. Even if there are "promises to keep" and "miles to go before sleep" - there still can be time to notice and to wonder at the beauty of Creation. We just need to be human enough to do so.
26 December, 2007
Home For Christmas
So I'm just back from my first semester at college, and am amazingly pleased at how it all went. Classes were marvelous, and I really enjoyed my time there. Now I'm at home, and the two really terrible things I had to deal with at the University of Dallas - the cafeteria food, and the horrid Texas weather - are no longer about to bother me. I can sled down our road with my brothers. I can eat real food. I can waste time without feeling guilty. Life is very good.
Christmas day was wonderful at our house, as usual - we started off Christmas Eve with Mass, then went to an uncle's house for a pre-Christmas dinner. At midnight after Christmas Eve, my parents, my sister, and I had another meal - the Reveillon. Reveillon is a French Canadian custom, actually. The older members of the family stay awake for a small but rather fancy meal sometime after midnight. Usually it's eaten after midnight Mass, but we didn't go to that this year. We ate lots of marvelous cheese, fresh fruit, oyster soup, and of course tourtiere pie. It wouldn't be Christmas without tourtiere pie....
My dad and sister seemed quite exhausted, but I wasn't at all. I presume that has something to do with the fact that at college, I rarely got to sleep before 2:00am.
Anyway, I'm all in all feeling jolly euphoric right now. And I'll start posting for real instead of putting up random papers as soon as possible.
Christmas day was wonderful at our house, as usual - we started off Christmas Eve with Mass, then went to an uncle's house for a pre-Christmas dinner. At midnight after Christmas Eve, my parents, my sister, and I had another meal - the Reveillon. Reveillon is a French Canadian custom, actually. The older members of the family stay awake for a small but rather fancy meal sometime after midnight. Usually it's eaten after midnight Mass, but we didn't go to that this year. We ate lots of marvelous cheese, fresh fruit, oyster soup, and of course tourtiere pie. It wouldn't be Christmas without tourtiere pie....
My dad and sister seemed quite exhausted, but I wasn't at all. I presume that has something to do with the fact that at college, I rarely got to sleep before 2:00am.
Anyway, I'm all in all feeling jolly euphoric right now. And I'll start posting for real instead of putting up random papers as soon as possible.
07 December, 2007
Suffering a Hero in the Odyssey
The eternal question of why men suffer dominates The Odyssey from its commencement, as Zeus laments “For shame, how the mortals put the blame upon us/ gods [when] they … by their own recklessness win sorrow beyond what is given” (Odyssey, 1.32-34). Odysseus himself is the quintessential image of suffering man, enduring myriad trials while pursuing a goal which tirelessly eludes his grasp. In the depths of Hades, however, Odysseus encounters the image of Herakles, a hero whose misfortunes could have once rivaled Odysseus’ own log of troubles. Ironically, Herakles himself now dwells in Olympos, where “he himself among the immortal gods enjoys their festivals” (Odyssey, 11.602-03). Why does Homer include this startling appearance of an immortal hero’s image in the land of the dead? A close reading reveals that there are many similarities between the stories of Odysseus and Herakles. Herakles’ presence allows us to draw a parallel between his ordeals and those of Odysseus. Through this, we learn that much suffering is, as Zeus suggests, the fruit of men’s wrongdoing, but for the hero, it is not entirely lamentable. When met heroically, suffering has three main qualities: it expiates past misdeeds, it is transitory, and it leads directly to future rewards.
Although I will demonstrate a few of the abundant external similarities between the two heroes, I do not intend to focus my essay on these. Intriguing as these correlations are, they do not say much of substance about the theme of suffering. Rather, they provide the justification my comparison. After enumerating them, I will draw heavily on three slightly less obvious points of comparison. These three points, which deal with the purpose, limit, and effects of suffering, lead directly to my conclusions about its nature.
Powerful even as an image, Herakles first appears striding towards Odysseus “holding his bow bare with an arrow laid on the bowstring” (11.607). His demeanor recalls Odysseus’ skill with a bow – the same skill which will help Odysseus to annihilate the suitors, marking the beginning of his hardships’ end. Only lines later, Herakles asks, “are you too leading some wretched destiny/ such as I too pursued when I went still in the sunlight?”, drawing a direct comparison between his descent into the underworld and Odysseus’ similar journey (Odyssey, 11.618-19). The resemblance between the years of hardship each hero must endure is a particularly crucial point. In life, Herakles was burdened with Twelve Labours. Likewise, Odysseus’ wanderings feature twelve major trials. He encounters the Kikonians, the Lotus Eaters, the Cyclopes, Aiolos and the bag of winds, the Laistrygones, and Circe. He descends into Hades, defies the Sirens, as well as Skylla and Charybdis, lands on the island of Helios, and on Kalypso’s island, and finally destroys the suitors who are laying waste to his home. Moreover, just as Herakles received aid from both Hermes and Athene (cf. Odyssey, 11.626; Iliad, 8.362-65), Odysseus relies upon the benison of these two gods throughout his wanderings.
Akin in form, the toils of both Herakles and Odysseus are also similar in origin and purpose. Suffering is often necessary as a just repayment which satisfies the debt incurred by wrongdoing. In Grecian mythology, Herakles’ Labours atoned for his killing of his wife and children .The crime, though committed in a fit of madness sent by Hera, could only be blotted out through Herakles’ own suffering. Odysseus too must make restitution for a past misdeed. During the war, Odysseus and the other Achaians desecrate Troy. Troy is consistently the identified with family life throughout The Iliad, so in destroying this, the Greeks symbolically ruined their own homecomings. Many “men … were lost, and many left over” during the journeys home (Odyssey, 4.495). Odysseus’ wanderings, however, expiate this guilt.
Unlike so many Greeks for whom punishment was swift and hard, Odysseus is not permanently lost. Neither is his expiation some limitless punishment such as that which he witnesses Tantalos or Sisyphos undergoing in the depths of Hades. Herakles’ presence in Hades reiterates the transience of Odysseus’ trials. His image is “full of lamentation,” as it bemoans his earthly labours, but Herakles himself enjoys the immortality of the gods in Olympus (Odyssey, 11.616). The despondent specter which confronts Odysseus is not the real Herakles. Similarly, The Odyssey itself never goes far beyond the man we first see sitting on Kalypso’s island “breaking his heart in tears, lamentation, and sorrow” (Odyssey, 5.83). The very fact that the sorrowing Herakles is no more than an empty image is a reminder that Odysseus will not always be weeping. His sorrow and difficulties define the image of Odysseus which The Odyssey presents, but they are not ultimately the reality which defines the man himself.
The climax of each hero’s tale occurs when suffering ends and each finally achieves fulfillment of his deepest wish. For Herakles, this reward is immortality, a gift that all Greeks covet but that almost none receive. Odysseus by contrast seems to disdain immortality in comparison to a simple, temporal life with his wife and son. He has an opportunity to grasp infinite life when Kalypso invites him to “be the lord of this household/ and be an immortal” yet he rejects this (Odyssey, 5.208-09). As attractive as eternal feasting in a paradise with the gods may sound, Odysseus prizes above all others “this place distasteful to many,” craggy Ithaka , simply because it holds that which is most precious to him (Odyssey, 19.407). Life founded on love for his family is more precious and offers greater rewards to this Greek hero than all the immortality and joys of Olympos.
“Why do men suffer?” As Zeus says, mortals often bring suffering on themselves through “wild recklessness” (Odyssey, 1.34). However, juxtaposition of the troubles of Herakles and Odysseus shows that this suffering is not intrinsically evil. The colossal irony of Herakles’ at first baffling appearance refines our understanding of this overarching theme. As odd as it might seem to those who “put the blame upon [the] gods,” and resent or misunderstand hardships, sufferings renew hope by expiating guilt, by promising an end, and by leading to a reward that those who do not suffer as a hero will not receive (Odyssey, 1.32).
Although I will demonstrate a few of the abundant external similarities between the two heroes, I do not intend to focus my essay on these. Intriguing as these correlations are, they do not say much of substance about the theme of suffering. Rather, they provide the justification my comparison. After enumerating them, I will draw heavily on three slightly less obvious points of comparison. These three points, which deal with the purpose, limit, and effects of suffering, lead directly to my conclusions about its nature.
Powerful even as an image, Herakles first appears striding towards Odysseus “holding his bow bare with an arrow laid on the bowstring” (11.607). His demeanor recalls Odysseus’ skill with a bow – the same skill which will help Odysseus to annihilate the suitors, marking the beginning of his hardships’ end. Only lines later, Herakles asks, “are you too leading some wretched destiny/ such as I too pursued when I went still in the sunlight?”, drawing a direct comparison between his descent into the underworld and Odysseus’ similar journey (Odyssey, 11.618-19). The resemblance between the years of hardship each hero must endure is a particularly crucial point. In life, Herakles was burdened with Twelve Labours. Likewise, Odysseus’ wanderings feature twelve major trials. He encounters the Kikonians, the Lotus Eaters, the Cyclopes, Aiolos and the bag of winds, the Laistrygones, and Circe. He descends into Hades, defies the Sirens, as well as Skylla and Charybdis, lands on the island of Helios, and on Kalypso’s island, and finally destroys the suitors who are laying waste to his home. Moreover, just as Herakles received aid from both Hermes and Athene (cf. Odyssey, 11.626; Iliad, 8.362-65), Odysseus relies upon the benison of these two gods throughout his wanderings.
Akin in form, the toils of both Herakles and Odysseus are also similar in origin and purpose. Suffering is often necessary as a just repayment which satisfies the debt incurred by wrongdoing. In Grecian mythology, Herakles’ Labours atoned for his killing of his wife and children .The crime, though committed in a fit of madness sent by Hera, could only be blotted out through Herakles’ own suffering. Odysseus too must make restitution for a past misdeed. During the war, Odysseus and the other Achaians desecrate Troy. Troy is consistently the identified with family life throughout The Iliad, so in destroying this, the Greeks symbolically ruined their own homecomings. Many “men … were lost, and many left over” during the journeys home (Odyssey, 4.495). Odysseus’ wanderings, however, expiate this guilt.
Unlike so many Greeks for whom punishment was swift and hard, Odysseus is not permanently lost. Neither is his expiation some limitless punishment such as that which he witnesses Tantalos or Sisyphos undergoing in the depths of Hades. Herakles’ presence in Hades reiterates the transience of Odysseus’ trials. His image is “full of lamentation,” as it bemoans his earthly labours, but Herakles himself enjoys the immortality of the gods in Olympus (Odyssey, 11.616). The despondent specter which confronts Odysseus is not the real Herakles. Similarly, The Odyssey itself never goes far beyond the man we first see sitting on Kalypso’s island “breaking his heart in tears, lamentation, and sorrow” (Odyssey, 5.83). The very fact that the sorrowing Herakles is no more than an empty image is a reminder that Odysseus will not always be weeping. His sorrow and difficulties define the image of Odysseus which The Odyssey presents, but they are not ultimately the reality which defines the man himself.
The climax of each hero’s tale occurs when suffering ends and each finally achieves fulfillment of his deepest wish. For Herakles, this reward is immortality, a gift that all Greeks covet but that almost none receive. Odysseus by contrast seems to disdain immortality in comparison to a simple, temporal life with his wife and son. He has an opportunity to grasp infinite life when Kalypso invites him to “be the lord of this household/ and be an immortal” yet he rejects this (Odyssey, 5.208-09). As attractive as eternal feasting in a paradise with the gods may sound, Odysseus prizes above all others “this place distasteful to many,” craggy Ithaka , simply because it holds that which is most precious to him (Odyssey, 19.407). Life founded on love for his family is more precious and offers greater rewards to this Greek hero than all the immortality and joys of Olympos.
“Why do men suffer?” As Zeus says, mortals often bring suffering on themselves through “wild recklessness” (Odyssey, 1.34). However, juxtaposition of the troubles of Herakles and Odysseus shows that this suffering is not intrinsically evil. The colossal irony of Herakles’ at first baffling appearance refines our understanding of this overarching theme. As odd as it might seem to those who “put the blame upon [the] gods,” and resent or misunderstand hardships, sufferings renew hope by expiating guilt, by promising an end, and by leading to a reward that those who do not suffer as a hero will not receive (Odyssey, 1.32).
28 November, 2007
More Plato than Aristotle and Aquinas???
So, my philosophy class only just finished studying Plato and is finally beginning on Aristotle. It's a bit disappointing for me, since now we're going to have to rush through the Nicomachean Ethics in order to get to our readings in St. Thomas Aquinas and Kant by the end of the semester. I'm very fond of Aristotle and even more fond of St. Thomas, and moreover, Plato (or Socrates, at any rate)slightly annoys me. Perhaps it all worked out for the best though, because of the three, Plato's often the most difficult to really understand. That is, if you get past the more complicated language in Aristotle and St. Thomas, at least they say what they mean. Plato on the other hand, writes like the dramatist he was originally trained as. So not only do you have to deal with occasionally challenging concepts, but you also have to look at the entire thing as a literary work to see how that affects your interpretation of everything that goes on.
Anyway, that's my minor complaint of the week (although really, I almost become fond of Plato for making it complicated at times, I suppose). After finals, I might actually start writing here again. Nice to see that my sister has been picking up my slack however! (Way to go, Mary!!!)
Anyway, that's my minor complaint of the week (although really, I almost become fond of Plato for making it complicated at times, I suppose). After finals, I might actually start writing here again. Nice to see that my sister has been picking up my slack however! (Way to go, Mary!!!)
20 November, 2007
Chocolate
As I was sitting in Al Corey’s, waiting for my piano lesson, I thought that I might dash across the street to a dear little chocolate shop and pick up some chocolates for my brother and myself for dessert after the noon time meal. This I did. I purchased four of each of my favorite kind: dark chocolate filled with raspberry jelly, and “death by chocolate”.
Fully delighted with my purchase, I skipped back across the road (no really, I did skip) and returned to my normal chair in the music room, fully intending to keep the chocolate until after lunch. (Intents never work with chocolate for your information. Don’t ever try. You’ll fail. ) Looking hungrily at the white paper bag on my lap, and just imagining the rich, chocolaty goodness that was inside, I was finally overcome. I said to myself, “Well, just this one.” I shut my eyes and reached in. Out came a “death by chocolate.” “Marvelous,” I thought. I slowly removed the little paper wrapper which held the chocolate. “Ah, it makes the exact sort of sound that a chocolate wrapper should make!” I thought to myself, satisfied, as my mouth watered. I held the chocolate before me, and gently bit off an infinitesimal piece from the coating. I let it melt upon my tongue. Simply delicious. No stopping now. I stuck my tongue through the bottom of the chocolate and began to suck out the soft, smooth, chocolaty center of the truffle. (Absolutely the best way to eat them, don’t you know.)
As I swirled the chocolate around inside my mouth, a thought came to me: why chocolate? Why did little seeds that grow upon trees in Central America become one of the worlds most craved and sensational treats? All of a sudden, I found myself giving glory to God for…chocolate! Our heavenly Father had placed this wonderful thing upon the earth for the sole happiness of the human race! How great is our God, eh? I cannot aptly express the delight and joy I felt while thinking this, so I shall turn, as usual, to the words of a Saint. (They always put things best.) So, in the immortal words of Saint Teresa of Avila, “God is good, but God and chocolate are better.”
Fully delighted with my purchase, I skipped back across the road (no really, I did skip) and returned to my normal chair in the music room, fully intending to keep the chocolate until after lunch. (Intents never work with chocolate for your information. Don’t ever try. You’ll fail. ) Looking hungrily at the white paper bag on my lap, and just imagining the rich, chocolaty goodness that was inside, I was finally overcome. I said to myself, “Well, just this one.” I shut my eyes and reached in. Out came a “death by chocolate.” “Marvelous,” I thought. I slowly removed the little paper wrapper which held the chocolate. “Ah, it makes the exact sort of sound that a chocolate wrapper should make!” I thought to myself, satisfied, as my mouth watered. I held the chocolate before me, and gently bit off an infinitesimal piece from the coating. I let it melt upon my tongue. Simply delicious. No stopping now. I stuck my tongue through the bottom of the chocolate and began to suck out the soft, smooth, chocolaty center of the truffle. (Absolutely the best way to eat them, don’t you know.)
As I swirled the chocolate around inside my mouth, a thought came to me: why chocolate? Why did little seeds that grow upon trees in Central America become one of the worlds most craved and sensational treats? All of a sudden, I found myself giving glory to God for…chocolate! Our heavenly Father had placed this wonderful thing upon the earth for the sole happiness of the human race! How great is our God, eh? I cannot aptly express the delight and joy I felt while thinking this, so I shall turn, as usual, to the words of a Saint. (They always put things best.) So, in the immortal words of Saint Teresa of Avila, “God is good, but God and chocolate are better.”
11 November, 2007
Spiders
One rainy Friday, I was sitting in Al Corey’s waiting for my piano lesson. I had done all my bank transactions, picked up a cup of coffee, and then had sat down dutifully to do some school work. I had just settled myself comfortably in my chair and picked up my tooth-marked pencil when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw my little brother staring at me. His eyes were the size of Frisbees and his mouth was half ajar. I looked at him quizzically and said, “What’s the matter with you?” He slowly croaked, “Mary, don’t turn around. Whatever you do, don’t look at your shoulder.”
Of course, I did exactly what he told me not to do, and turned my head slowly. There was a huge, fat, disgustingly ugly, brown spider, perched comfortably like he owned the place. After a millisecond of complete paralyzation, I shut my eyes, jumped to my feet did something that looked like an ancient-tribal-Indian-warrior dance and screamed, “Oh my gosh! Get it off! Oh my gosh! Oooh my gosh!” Ignoring the shocked faces of the store employees staring at me, I continued brushing my hand over and over my shoulder and jumping up and down. I finally stopped and opened my eyes just to see the little beast scuttling away back under my chair. Then my little brother simply had to say, “No wonder Mary, it has a huge web right underneath your chair!”
Needless to say, I haven’t sat in that chair since. I don’t think that the Al Corey’s employees have looked at me the same way since that vile episode. Spiders are the devil.
Of course, I did exactly what he told me not to do, and turned my head slowly. There was a huge, fat, disgustingly ugly, brown spider, perched comfortably like he owned the place. After a millisecond of complete paralyzation, I shut my eyes, jumped to my feet did something that looked like an ancient-tribal-Indian-warrior dance and screamed, “Oh my gosh! Get it off! Oh my gosh! Oooh my gosh!” Ignoring the shocked faces of the store employees staring at me, I continued brushing my hand over and over my shoulder and jumping up and down. I finally stopped and opened my eyes just to see the little beast scuttling away back under my chair. Then my little brother simply had to say, “No wonder Mary, it has a huge web right underneath your chair!”
Needless to say, I haven’t sat in that chair since. I don’t think that the Al Corey’s employees have looked at me the same way since that vile episode. Spiders are the devil.
02 November, 2007
A Clever Boldness
Leaving the citadel of Troy in flaming ruins, “Odysseus of many designs,” cleverest of all Greek heroes, sets out on a voyage of colossal proportions to regain his own home, Ithaka. His attempts to reach home fail for nine years, as a plethora of adventures featuring man-eating monsters and ominous lands, devious enchantresses and earthly paradises delays him (1.83). Tenaciously determined to reach his homeland, Odysseus depends upon his famous cleverness and characteristic boldness to see him safely through these harrowing adventures. Restraint, an aspect of his cleverness which puts a check on excessive boldness, is one of the most crucial elements of Odysseus’ eventual success.
A sagacious wariness which augments Odysseus’ talents for clever maneuvering, restraint moderates the hero’s boldness by directing it and not letting it deteriorate into mere rashness. The Odyssey includes episodes in which Odysseus does not show restraint, but these result in the worst catastrophes of his voyage, underscoring by contrast the successes due to his forbearance. Because it slows him down and promotes moderate caution, restraint gives the hero a chance to perceive how to act shrewdly. Even so, it does not promote an overcautious hesitation, but directs the boldness with which a hero should face adventures and prevents this boldness from becoming rash.
Odysseus repeatedly fails to restrain his boldness during the scene on the Cyclopes’ island, and this failure turns the adventure into a debacle. Odysseus and his men enter Polyphemos’ abode and “help [them]selves to the cheeses,” rashly presuming upon the monster’s hospitality (9.231-32). Polyphemos responds barbarically, “feeding on human flesh,” and trapping the surviving crew in his cave (9.296-97). The one instance of restraint in this episode brings about the one positive event: Odysseus’ escape with his remaining men. Odysseus restrains his initial
inclination to kill the monster immediately – when a gigantic boulder still blocks the entrance – and thus makes it possible for his clever plan to blind Polyphemos to obtain its goal. He realizes that, tiny as they are in comparison to the gigantic Cyclops, he and his crew “could have never pushed [the boulder] from the lofty gate,” and the company would have been trapped in a cave with a dead Cyclops indefinitely (9.304-05).
Odysseus once more ignores the benefits of restraint as his fleet sails away from the island. With reckless boldness, he jeopardizes every man’s life when he shouts his identity to the Cyclops, vaunting over the blinded monster. Responding to this, Polyphemos bombards the fleet, attempting to sink it. When this does not succeed, he prays that Odysseus will return home “late, in bad case, with the loss of all his companions,/ in someone else’s ship, and find troubles in his household,” thus initiating the enormous difficulties of the journey (9.534-35). Odysseus is bold in approaching the Cyclops’ cave, bold in attacking Polyphemos, and bold in shouting back his identity. Only in the second incident, however, does he combine boldness with restraint; thus the action here is the only one resulting in success.
Boldness and restraint combine more smoothly on Circe’s island, and Odysseus is proportionately more successful. Unlike in the scene with Polyphemos, Odysseus does nothing impolitic here. Upon landing and seeing that the island is inhabited, he “ponder[s] deeply in [his] heart and in [his] spirit,/ whether … to investigate,” exhibiting a thoughtful caution previously absent (10.151-52). The contrast to his actions on the Cyclopes’ island is accentuated when Odysseus narrates how the crew at this point “remembered … the violence of the great-hearted cannibal Cyclops” (10.199-200). When he does decide to inspect the area, he divides his crew in half, sending a contingent out for reconnaissance while the rest remain safely by the ships. Circe promptly turns the investigating troop into a herd of swine – failing only to catch the group’s leader, Eurylochos. Eurylochos’ caution saves him, and he hurries back to Odysseus with news of the calamity. However, in an intriguing twist, Odysseus decides to rescue the enchanted men. This boldness alarms Eurylochos and the surviving crew, who become immediately restrained and cautious when faced with danger. Odysseus, however, sees in this an opportunity for his cleverness to serve him well. His restraint has shown him what to look out for, and he now can take bold action in a clever and wise manner.
Admittedly, Circe’s guiles would be too much for even Odyssean cleverness if Hermes were not to enter at this point bearing advice and aid. However, opportunity for the god to offer it would never have arisen had Odysseus not acted thus far with a combination of boldness and restraint. Moreover, in this epic successful craftiness sometimes does require the patronage of the gods, as we see when Athene directs Odysseus in the proper way to approach the Phaiakian royalty (cf. 7.50-52, 75-77). Once in Circe’s dwelling, the hero uses his clever rhetoric to achieve his crew’s release – “Oh, Circe, how could any man … ever endure to taste of the food and drink … until with his eyes he saw his companions set free?” (10.383-85). Restraint, boldness, and a god’s assistance combine here, and place Odysseus in a position to use his rhetoric to achieve his ends.
Restraint provides Odysseus with a crucial advantage over the course of his travels. He must be bold, and his virtuosity in rhetoric and craftiness encourage this boldness by giving him a good hope for success. However, as I have emphasized, restraint is the quality which makes this boldness effective, by providing opportunities for Odysseus to exercise his persuasive tongue and cunning mind. In brief, it directs the path by which Odysseus’ other talents can secure his object. As long as he restrains his boldness, his enterprises are successful, and he moves closer to achieving his primary object – Ithaka and home.
A sagacious wariness which augments Odysseus’ talents for clever maneuvering, restraint moderates the hero’s boldness by directing it and not letting it deteriorate into mere rashness. The Odyssey includes episodes in which Odysseus does not show restraint, but these result in the worst catastrophes of his voyage, underscoring by contrast the successes due to his forbearance. Because it slows him down and promotes moderate caution, restraint gives the hero a chance to perceive how to act shrewdly. Even so, it does not promote an overcautious hesitation, but directs the boldness with which a hero should face adventures and prevents this boldness from becoming rash.
Odysseus repeatedly fails to restrain his boldness during the scene on the Cyclopes’ island, and this failure turns the adventure into a debacle. Odysseus and his men enter Polyphemos’ abode and “help [them]selves to the cheeses,” rashly presuming upon the monster’s hospitality (9.231-32). Polyphemos responds barbarically, “feeding on human flesh,” and trapping the surviving crew in his cave (9.296-97). The one instance of restraint in this episode brings about the one positive event: Odysseus’ escape with his remaining men. Odysseus restrains his initial
inclination to kill the monster immediately – when a gigantic boulder still blocks the entrance – and thus makes it possible for his clever plan to blind Polyphemos to obtain its goal. He realizes that, tiny as they are in comparison to the gigantic Cyclops, he and his crew “could have never pushed [the boulder] from the lofty gate,” and the company would have been trapped in a cave with a dead Cyclops indefinitely (9.304-05).
Odysseus once more ignores the benefits of restraint as his fleet sails away from the island. With reckless boldness, he jeopardizes every man’s life when he shouts his identity to the Cyclops, vaunting over the blinded monster. Responding to this, Polyphemos bombards the fleet, attempting to sink it. When this does not succeed, he prays that Odysseus will return home “late, in bad case, with the loss of all his companions,/ in someone else’s ship, and find troubles in his household,” thus initiating the enormous difficulties of the journey (9.534-35). Odysseus is bold in approaching the Cyclops’ cave, bold in attacking Polyphemos, and bold in shouting back his identity. Only in the second incident, however, does he combine boldness with restraint; thus the action here is the only one resulting in success.
Boldness and restraint combine more smoothly on Circe’s island, and Odysseus is proportionately more successful. Unlike in the scene with Polyphemos, Odysseus does nothing impolitic here. Upon landing and seeing that the island is inhabited, he “ponder[s] deeply in [his] heart and in [his] spirit,/ whether … to investigate,” exhibiting a thoughtful caution previously absent (10.151-52). The contrast to his actions on the Cyclopes’ island is accentuated when Odysseus narrates how the crew at this point “remembered … the violence of the great-hearted cannibal Cyclops” (10.199-200). When he does decide to inspect the area, he divides his crew in half, sending a contingent out for reconnaissance while the rest remain safely by the ships. Circe promptly turns the investigating troop into a herd of swine – failing only to catch the group’s leader, Eurylochos. Eurylochos’ caution saves him, and he hurries back to Odysseus with news of the calamity. However, in an intriguing twist, Odysseus decides to rescue the enchanted men. This boldness alarms Eurylochos and the surviving crew, who become immediately restrained and cautious when faced with danger. Odysseus, however, sees in this an opportunity for his cleverness to serve him well. His restraint has shown him what to look out for, and he now can take bold action in a clever and wise manner.
Admittedly, Circe’s guiles would be too much for even Odyssean cleverness if Hermes were not to enter at this point bearing advice and aid. However, opportunity for the god to offer it would never have arisen had Odysseus not acted thus far with a combination of boldness and restraint. Moreover, in this epic successful craftiness sometimes does require the patronage of the gods, as we see when Athene directs Odysseus in the proper way to approach the Phaiakian royalty (cf. 7.50-52, 75-77). Once in Circe’s dwelling, the hero uses his clever rhetoric to achieve his crew’s release – “Oh, Circe, how could any man … ever endure to taste of the food and drink … until with his eyes he saw his companions set free?” (10.383-85). Restraint, boldness, and a god’s assistance combine here, and place Odysseus in a position to use his rhetoric to achieve his ends.
Restraint provides Odysseus with a crucial advantage over the course of his travels. He must be bold, and his virtuosity in rhetoric and craftiness encourage this boldness by giving him a good hope for success. However, as I have emphasized, restraint is the quality which makes this boldness effective, by providing opportunities for Odysseus to exercise his persuasive tongue and cunning mind. In brief, it directs the path by which Odysseus’ other talents can secure his object. As long as he restrains his boldness, his enterprises are successful, and he moves closer to achieving his primary object – Ithaka and home.
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