More Than a Monster: The Symbolic Meaning of Grendel

“In off the moors, down through the mist-bands
God-cursed Grendel came greedily loping” (Beowulf Lines 710-11).

In this way the anonymous author of the epic Beowulf poem offers us a glimpse of the blood-chilling monster Grendel just before he attacks the mead-hall of Heorot. Leaving terror in his wake, Grendel ranges out from the wild swamps of Scandinavia with the express intention of seeking out men and doing them harm. But who is Grendel? On one level, Grendel is a Gothic forerunner of Frankenstein's Creature, worthy to take his place among the terrifying monsters who inhabit the world of fiction. Yet, like Frankenstein's Creature, Grendel is more than just an inhuman monster. He is a symbol of the jealousy and hate that seeks to destroy others' happiness and can ultimately cripple a civilization.

The physical description of Grendel is vague, an indication that his fictional existence in time and space is less important than the idea that he represents. The author of the poem has fleshed out Grendel just enough to show us that while misshapen and abhorrent, Grendel is not really alien to the race of men. The text indicates that he is essentially human in form. Huge and misshapen, but having “hands,” “arms” (Lines 833, 835), and a mother who is familiar enough with tools to use a dagger (L 1545-6). What places him solidly in the role of a human—albeit, disfigured—is his relation to Cain. It is this relationship to Cain that needs to be explored to fully understand Grendel.

Like Cain who killed his brother, Grendel is a “restless wanderer on the earth” alienated from the rest of mankind (Genesis 4:12). Unable to join the community of men, Grendel becomes envious and “nursed a hard grievance. It harrowed him/ to hear the din of the loud banquet/ everyday in the hall, the harp being struck/ and the clear song of a skilled poet” (L 88-90). Grendel's jealousy and hate finds outlet in destroying the good things he envies. In this way, Grendel personifies the destructive nature of jealousy.

The object of his envy is the mead-hall of Heorot. This is the center of the Danish community's civilization, and—giving the story universal application—this mead-hall is, “the greatest house in the world” (L 145-46). No civilization is free from the attacks of envy and strife which Grendel represents, since even “the greatest house in the world” is thrown into confusion. Clearly, Grendel is no backwater freak-show scaring some villagers, he is a cunning force that even the greatest civilizations must wrestle with. It is telling that Grendel only cares about terrorizing the main hall of Heorot, the center of civilization. To escape him, a man could leave the mead-hall, “shifting himself to a safer distance/ to bed in the bothies [outlying buildings]” (L 139-40). Since any building would be within the range of Grendel, it is clear that he represents a community problem more than just an individual problem. He purposefully strikes at the social and political heart of Danish civilization: the mead-hall.

This disruption at the heart of the community has serious implications. The feasting and fellowship that are synonymous with the traditional mead-hall are interrupted, crippling the harmony of society. It is a bad sign when men no longer feel safe in the place where traditionally safety and trust are paramount. And this breakdown of the community is long lasting. The text tells us that for “twelve winters” the mead-hall of king Hrothgar is terrorized by Grendel (L 147).

During this entire time, the coming of Grendel is unpredictable. He always attacks at night when the warriors are sleeping. Even on the night Beowulf hopes to encounter Grendel, “the hall guards were slack, asleep at their posts” (L 704). From the standpoint of realism it is unbelievable that a roomful of warriors—fearful of their lives and with a knowledge of Grendel's habits—would all fall asleep. When seen in the context of Grendel's personification of lurking envy in society, however, their sleep mirrors the vulnerability of society to those who hate what is good in it.

When the warriors do wake up to their danger they find that Grendel can not be hurt by traditional weapons of war, illustrating yet again that he is not just a physical enemy but a moral one as well that must be “wrestled” with. “There was something they could not have known at the time,/ that no blade on earth, no blacksmith's art/ could ever damage their demon opponent” (L 800-802). Swords cannot cut through the feelings of jealousy and hate that disturb the harmony of the mead-hall.

Grendel is not the only illustration of this. Reinforcing the point that this is an inner human problem, the text gives lengthy space to the envy of Unferth. Whereas all the other Danes welcome Beowulf, Unferth is left feeling, “sick with envy:/ he could not brook or abide the fact/ that anyone else alive under heaven/ might enjoy greater regard than he did” (L 502-505). Unferth is the fully human counterpart of Grendel in the text, mirroring in real life what Grendel represents symbolically. Unferth is envious of Beowulf''s glory in the mead-hall, just as Grendel is envious of the glory and happiness of all men in the mead-hall. Unferth is a murderer of his “own kith and kin” as Beowulf points out (L 587), just as Grendel is a bloody killer. Unferth seeks to humiliate Beowulf, just as Grendel seeks to humiliate all men. We are surprised to learn that Unferth is an unpunished killer, but this is precisely because he does on a small scale what Grendel does for a living: Grendel we are told—but it applies equally well on a personal level to Unferth—“knows he can trample down you Danes/ to his hearts content, humiliate and murder/ without fear of reprisal” (L 599-601). Happily, after Beowulf conquers the monster, Unferth is reconciled to Beowulf and they exchange presents, representing once again that when the monster of envy and hate is destroyed, peace and harmony are possible.

We end with the question we began with: Who is Grendel? Grendel is the rapacious envy of man given living shape. He cannot stand the happiness or glory of others in the mead-hall. If he cannot share it, he must destroy it. Grendel may or may not have lived in the forgotten past of Northern Europe but it doesn't matter. What matters is that Grendel still lives—lives and lurks outside our own mead-hall. But he may do more than lurk on the outside—on a personal level, we must beware of becoming Grendel. What God told Cain (the first ancestor of Grendel) before his envy caused him to kill his brother, is a good warning: “If you do what is right, will you not be accepted? But if you do not do what is right, sin is crouching at your door; it desires to have you, but you must master it” (Genesis 4:7).

Works Cited

Beowulf. Seamus Heaney, Trans. M.H. Abrams, Editor. The Norton Anthology of English Literature: the Major Authors Edition. 7^th ed. W.W. Norton and Co. 2001

The Spread of the Early Church

Like an unwatched fire creeping through the leaves before setting the forest on fire, the early Christian church, from unpretentious beginnings, began to threaten even the mighty Roman Empire. It began in a far-away insignificant corner of the Empire. The arsonist: a gentle man of whom it was said: “a bruised reed he would not break.” This man claimed he was God; an idea so ludicrous to the authorities of the time that they crucified him. They wrote off the lunatic without even considering the possibility that he might really be Lord. He said that his kingdom was not of this world, and by the way his first subjects acted, it would appear that he was right. His high ranking officials were fishermen and other unpretentious poor people of no account. His subjects spanned broad demographic lines, scattered across the known world. We will examine the rapid spread of Christianity in the first century A.D and some of the unsuccessful efforts by the Romans to stop the fire from spreading.

The impetus behind the spread of Christianity in the First Century was Jesus' command to his fellow Jewish followers to, “go make disciples of all nations.”1 Quickly spreading from the Middle-eastern Judea, Christianity was soon known in much of the Roman Empire. Jerusalem started out as the major center of Christianity. It was here that Jesus was crucified and here that his few disciples remained and began preaching the Gospel. The primary documents from the period show that in the days after the death of Jesus there were about a hundred and twenty Christians in Jerusalem.2 This number quickly grew till there were some five thousand Christians in Jerusalem soon after Jesus' death.3 The number continued to increase until the Jewish authorities in power became jealous of the rapidly increasing influence of this new religion.

Persecution against Christians began with the imprisonment of leading believers, called apostles. When, in rebellion to the temporal authorities, these men refused to give up their freedom of speech and instead continued to speak to others about their faith, the punishment grew more violent. Flogging and stoning along with imprisonment became common. A first century writer states that: “a great persecution broke out against the church at Jerusalem, and all except the apostles were scattered throughout Judea and Samaria.”4

The persecution in Jerusalem had this unforeseen and ironic effect: it caused fleeing Christians to rapidly disperse over a wide area, thereby disseminating their beliefs in areas not previously acquainted with Christianity. Because of the unique message of Christianity being a fulfillment of the Jewish law and prophesies, Jews in Israel were particularly receptive to it. As Christianity continued to spread it followed the footsteps of Jews sojourning in other parts of the Roman Empire. This large and scattered diaspora of Jews—by some estimates as many Jews lived abroad as lived in Palestine5--had established synagogues in the cities and towns where they had taken up residence. Such an arrangement made it easy for Jewish Christians fleeing the persecutions in Jerusalem and other areas of the Jewish province to resettle with members of their own culture in what were considered “Gentile” cities. Christians fleeing to other parts of the Roman Empire were, therefore, missionaries from necessity as well as conviction.

Using synagogues as pulpits in many cases and reasoning from Jewish scripture that the claims of Christianity were true was an effective way to spread Christianity. To the Jews, that is. Soon though, Christianity began reaching non-Jews also. As one of the earliest examples of this, a first century history explains: “Now those who had been scattered by the persecution in connection with Stephen traveled as far as Phoenicia, Cyprus and Antioch, telling the message only to Jews. Some of them, however, men from Cyprus and Antioch, went to Antioch and began to speak to Greeks also, telling them the good news about the Lord Jesus.”6 The missionary activity of Paul also had a great deal to do with the expansion of Christianity beyond Jews only.

Paul must figure large in any examination of the growth and spread of Christianity. A Roman citizen but also a Jew, he had a Greek education as well as a Hebrew training. He was an apt man to persuasively bring Christianity to the attention of Jews, Greeks, and Romans. He established churches across the Mediterranean region and had a lasting influence. Yet it is an error to think that he single-handedly took Christianity across the Roman Empire. Churches in many major cities, including Rome, were already established before Paul visited, showing just how quickly Christianity spread. Indeed, “by the end of Paul's life, outposts of the new faith were flourishing from the Holy Land north to Syria and across the northern rim of the Mediterranean through Asia minor and Greece and Rome.”7

The end of Paul's life brings to mind the new trouble facing Christians about three decades after the death and resurrection of Christ. Emperor Nero in 64 A.D began a bloody persecution of the Christians living in Rome that also extended to other parts of the Empire. According to tradition, Paul was beheaded by Nero in Rome. Before this time Christians had largely escaped the notice of the Roman government. The official cause of this persecution was the fire that destroyed much of Rome. Blaming Christians was a convenient way to get rid of what was thought to be a disruptive segment of society. Christians by this time had become a nuisance to the government for their refusal to worship the Emperor; for their condemnation of Roman vice; and for considering themselves citizens of heaven first and citizens of the Roman Empire second.8 Their religion made them outsiders and potential dissidents of the state. Christians were sometimes called atheists because, “for the Romans, religion was first and foremost a social activity that promoted unity and loyalty to the state--a religious attitude the Romans called pietas, or piety.”9 By rejecting the Roman paganism, Christians were thought to be disrupting the unity of society. So while Nero was a more likely arson suspect in the burning of Rome, Christians were the perfect scapegoat.

In the first century, Christians were still very much a minority despite their explosive growth. While estimates vary, historian Edward Gibbon suggests that before the conversion of Constantine in 312, only about one in twenty Roman subjects professed Christianity. Those living in Rome at the time of Nero's persecution “did not exceed seven thousand.”10 Nevertheless, “by the year 100, it is estimated that there were already upward of 300,000 believers throughout the empire—an eight fold increase in 30 years--and of these some 80,000 were concentrated in Asia Minor.”11 Dr. Everett Ferguson reveals that the main centers of Christianity were, not surprisingly, in the main cities of the Empire: Antioch, Ephesus, Corinth, and Rome. Further he says, “At the end of the first century Ephesus and the Roman province of Asia were the center of the numerical strength of the church.”12

The demographics of Christians in the first century covered a broad spectrum. Pliny the Younger reported to Emperor Trajan that Christians composed “persons of all ages and classes and of both sexes... The contagion of this superstition has spread not only in the cites but in the villages and rural districts as well.”13 Christianity was not just a religion of the poor and downtrodden, but proportionally there have always been a greater number of disadvantaged. Edward Gibbon points out that

the Christian religion,which addresses itself to the whole human race, must consequently collect a far greater number of proselytes from the lower than from the superior ranks of life. This innocent and natural circumstance has been improved [to falsely show]... that the new sect of Christians was almost entirely composed of the dregs of the populace.”14

What Gibbon and Pliny are trying to say is what Christian belief does say. “There is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.”15

Maybe it was ideas like these that gave Christianity part of its appeal. The unity and largeness of it transcended class and nationality. Everyone could become a Christian and feel they had a place. This unity was also perhaps what earned it the hatred of the established authorities. For Christians said that there was another king in another sphere, in which the Roman and Jewish rulers had no authority. No wonder it spread like wildfire and could not be contained by the Jews or Romans. When Nero set the Christians on fire to light his garden at night, he mockingly said: “now you are the light of the world,”16 not knowing that the fires he was lighting would be swallowed up in a greater spiritual fire that that would in turn swallow up the Roman Empire.

1. Matthew 28:19

2. Acts 1:15

3. Acts 4:4

4. Acts 8:1

5. Joseph L. Gardner, editor. Atlas of the Bible: An Illustrated Guide to the Holy Land. Reader's Digest Association, Inc. 1983, second edition. 205.

6. Acts 11:19-20

7. Joseph L. Gardner, editor. Atlas of the Bible: An Illustrated Guide to the Holy Land. Reader's Digest Association, Inc. 1983, second edition. 204.

8. Boise State University. “Disasters: An Ancient Persecution”. http://www.boisestate.edu/history/ncasner/hy210/nero.htm

9. Religion Facts. “Persecution in the Early Church.” http://www.religionfacts.com/christianity/history/persecution.htm

10. Edward Gibbon, The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. Edited and abridged by D. M. Low. Harcourt, Brace and Company, New York, 1960. pg.184, 187.

11. Joseph L. Gardner, editor. Atlas of the Bible: An Illustrated Guide to the Holy Land. Reader's Digest Association, Inc. 1983, second edition. 205.

12. Everett Ferguson. Early Christians Speak: Faith and Life in the First Three Centuries. A.C.U. Press, Abilene, Texas, 1999, third edition. 11.

13. Henry Bettenson, editor. Documents of the Christian Church. Oxford University Press, New York, 1960, eighth printing. 7.

14. Edward Gibbon. The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. Edited and abridged by D.M.Low. Harcourt, Brace and Company, New York, 1960. 187.

15. Galatians 3:28

16. Boise State University. “Disasters: An Ancient Persecution”. http://www.boisestate.edu/history/ncasner/hy210/nero.htm

Philosophy in the High Middle Ages

The philosophy of the High Middle Ages was a mix of Aristotle and Christianity. While the Early Middle Ages were dominated by platonic thought, Aristotle's philosophical system had a resurgence in the writings of such celebrated philosophers and university teachers from the High Middle Ages as Thomas Aquinas, John Duns Scotus, and William of Ockham. According to Paul Vincent Spade: “This 'recovery' of Aristotle in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries was a momentous event in the history of medieval philosophy.”1

To understand why a Greek philosopher who died some fifteen hundred years before should have such a great influence on the philosophy of the High Middle Ages it is necessary to understand the attitude of the period to the past. Previous philosophers and writers were looked upon with near reverence. Greek and Latin authors in particular were treasured by the philosophers of Western Europe.2 These previous writers were “authorities,” whether on history, literature, science or philosophy. Albert Ascoli explains the unchallenged influence the past had on medieval intellectuals: “In the Middle Ages an “author” (Latin auctor and autor; Italian autore) was not any old writer of literature, but was instead, and against the modern definition, a person who possessed auctoritas [authority], and who might also have produced texts that were known as auctoritates.”3 He explains further that they are almost exempt from challenge and believed to have a corner on the truth.4

Unfortunately, since they considered a wide range of authors to all be right they ran into a problem. C.S. Lewis explains: “they find it hard to believe that anything an old auctor has said is simply untrue. And they inherit a very heterogeneous collection of books; Judaic, pagan, Platonic, Aristotelian, Stoical, Primitive Christian, Patristic... Obviously their auctors will contradict one another.”5 Trying to remedy the blatant contradictions between the pagan philosophers and the Christian Patriarchs became the overarching goal of the philosophers in the High Middle Ages. This attempt came to be called scholasticism.

Scholasticism was not so much a philosophy itself as a framework in which to look at and compare different philosophies. The medieval mind loved to organize things so when the jumbled mass of Greek and Roman philosophy tumbled into the Christian edifice, the scholastics picked up the pieces and constructed a new building that recycled elements from both. On the one hand, points out Paul Vincent Spade, classical pagan philosophy—particularly Aristotle—was “crucial for the development of medieval philosophy.” On the other hand, Spade reveals that the early Christian philosopher Augustine from the fifth century who had such a crucial role in orthodox church doctrine was “an authority who simply had to be accommodated. He shaped medieval thought as no one else did.”6 The self-appointed task of the scholastics was to synthesize these two philosophical systems.

At this point it should be clear that philosophy during the middle ages cannot be separated from theology. The philosophers of that time were theologians and vise versa. St. Thomas Aquinas is indisputably the greatest of these philosopher churchmen. He called philosophy the handmaiden of theology. His book written in Latin called the Summa Theologiae was “the first completed attempt to establish Christian theology as a scientific discipline.”7 Aquinas's life and work was the high point of philosophy in the High Middle Ages. He embodied the thinking of the scholastics when he wrote: “it is impossible that those things which are of philosophy can be contrary to those things which are of faith.”8

Some other distinctive philosophical questions from the High Middle Ages include the problem of evil and the possibility of freewill. In addition, the High Middle Ages were famous for the development of logic that took place at this time. I. M. Bocheński, in his study on the history of logic classified this period as one of the three greatest periods in the development of logic throughout history.9

The philosophical contribution of the High Middle Ages should not be underestimated. It was one of the most sophisticated mental climates in history. Thomas Aquinas, the leading philosopher of the period, is considered one of the greatest philosophers of all time. Gorge Gracia asserts that, “In intensity, sophistication, and achievement, the philosophical flowering in the thirteenth century could be rightly said to rival the golden age of Greek philosophy in the fourth century B.C.”10

1. Paul Vincent Spade: The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy: “Medieval Philosophy.” http://plato.stanford.edu/entries/medieval-philosophy/

2. Jackson J. Spielvogel Western Civilization: A Brief History, 3^rd ed. (Thomson-Wadsworth, 2005). 164

3. Albert Russel Ascoli. Dante and the Making of a Modern Author. http://www.cambridge.org/catalogue/catalogue.asp?isbn=9780511380464&ss=exc

4. Ibid.

5. C. S. Lewis. The Discarded Image: An Introduction to Medieval and Renaissance Literature. (Canto Books, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1995). 11

6. Paul Vincent Spade: The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy: “Medieval Philosophy.” http://plato.stanford.edu/entries/medieval-philosophy/

7. Thomas Gilby, editor. Summa Theologiae, Volume 1: The Existence of God. (Image Books, Doubleday and Company, 1969). 12

8. As quoted in Jackson J. Spielvogel. Western Civilization: A Brief History, 3^rd ed. (Thomson-Wadsworth, 2005) 166

9. As cited in Paul Vincent Spade: The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy: “Medieval Philosophy.” http://plato.stanford.edu/entries/medieval-philosophy/).

10. Gorge Gracia and T.B. Noone. A Companion to Philosophy in the Middle Ages, London 2003 pg. 1

The Aura Around Marcus Aurelius

An emperor, a general, a philosopher; someone who has been described as “modest, unselfish, high-minded, and with the highest sense of duty.”1 Not many people fit this description. The Roman Emperor Marcus Aurelius may be the only one. Born in A.D. 121, Marcus Aurelius Antoninus was adopted by Emperor Antoninus so that he could succeed him as ruler of the Roman Empire. He was called one of “the good emperors.” The reason for this epithet can be seen in his philosophical memoir, Meditations.

Marcus Aurelius' Meditations were written, in a way, for himself. He addresses himself and gives himself encouragement and advice. The Meditations are “the private thoughts of a man communing with his own soul.”2 These private thoughts, however, are far from the sappy or sentimental ramblings of a diary. They are instead filled with calm reflections on man's place in the universe and how to live a virtuous, serene life. In consequence, the Meditations would appeal to any civic-minded Roman.

The document would also appeal to any Stoic. Marcus Aurelius is one of the most famous and oft quoted Stoic philosophers. The Meditations are a philosophical exploration of the principles of Stoicism. The topics covered are varied and are not really organized in any particular order. Some general categories covered are: living in harmony with nature, reason, duty, morality, and patience. For a Stoic, everything in nature is interconnected so it is important to live in harmony with it. Nature for Marcus Aurelius has a larger meaning than just physical things, it includes: “one universe made up of all things, one god who pervades all things, one substance, one law, one reason common to all intelligent beings, and one truth.”3

This interconnected order is the sum total of the universe for a Stoic. For them, and for Marcus Aurelius, the universe operates smoothly like a vast machine. All things go as planned. There are no accidents. “Everything which happens has been apportioned and spun out to you.”4 Because they believe reason is universal in humans and that there is “one law” and “one truth,” Stoics believe in certain norms of behavior from humans. While evil, too, has been fated to exist, the best way to live is according to “reason and Justice”5 Reason makes it clear what a person should, and should not, do.

The emphasis on moral laws was characteristic of Stoics in the Roman Empire. Marcus Aurelius places the foundation of a moral law on reason. This “natural law” is common to all people because—as Marcus Aurelius explains it--“If our intellectual part is common, the reason also, because of which we are rational beings, is common: if this is so, common also is the reason which commands us what to do, and what not to do; if this is so, there is a common law also.”6 This “common law” was important for a Roman because they had a high regard for law and order in society. People are social beings but when they live together they need some form of governance. If universal laws could be arrived at then all people in the world could live together in peace. Under a common law, “we are fellow-citizens; if this is so, we are members of some political community; if this is so, the world is in a manner a state. For of what other common political community will any one say that the whole human race are members?”7 The Roman Empire that spanned much of the known world in the time of Marcus Aurelius was the outgrowth of this philosophy put into practice.

Within Roman society--with its firm insistence on law and order--was the complementary emphasis on duty. Marcus Aurelius admonishes to, “every moment think steadily as a Roman and a man to do what you have in hand with perfect and simple dignity.”8 He goes on to say that “if you work at that which is before you, following right reason seriously, calmly, without allowing anything else to distract you... if you hold to this, expecting nothing, fearing nothing, but satisfied with your present activity according to nature, and with heroic truth in every word and sound which you utter, you will live happy. And there is no man who is able to prevent this.”9 In fact, this quote embodies the core of Stoicism; the idea that if a person does his or her duty, nothing should disturb or cause unhappiness.

Marcus Aurelius would have much to say about the hectic American lifestyle if he were alive today. Living a simple life of duty is his ideal. The easiest way to achieve tranquility is to keep a free schedule10 “For the greater part of what we say and do being unnecessary, if a man takes this away, he will have more leisure and less uneasiness. Accordingly, on every occasion a man should ask himself, is this one of the unnecessary things?”11

Although Marcus Aurelius was a hardened soldier inured to brutality and also known for persecuting Christians, this aspect of his life is not shown in the Meditations. For a pagan without divine revelation, he has a sharp perception of reality. From reading his Meditations alone it is very easy to see why he was called a “good emperor.” The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius are filled with commonsense advice. His commonsense came from exercising his reason. With a right reason, he believed, would come happiness and the ability to cope with anything life threw in his way. He gives this challenge: “have you reason? I have.--Why then not use it?12

Notes

1. Donald S. Gochberg. Classics of Western Thought: The Ancient World. (Harcourt, Brace, Jovanovich, Fourth ed. 1988) 511

2. Marcus Aurelius, Thoughts. Classics of Western Thought: The Ancient World. Ed Donald S. Gochberg. (Harcourt, Brace, Jovanovich, Fourth ed. 1988) 510

3. Ibid. 511

4. Ibid. 516

5. Ibid. 516

6. Ibid. 512

7. Ibid. 512

8. Ibid. 513

9. Ibid. 514

10. Ibid. 515

11. Ibid. 515

12. Ibid. 513

The Life of Lucretius and His Lawless Outlook

Lucretius was a philosopher and poet from the first century B.C. He died around 55 B.C. still in his 40's—some say through suicide. He was a writer who, contrary to the custom of the time, withdrew from public life in Roman society and instead devoted himself to a pastoral pursuit of philosophy. Lucretius modeled much of his own philosophy on the Epicurean philosophical system. Its founder, Epicurus, was a Greek philosopher from the third century B.C. who posited that pleasure and the absence of pain are the highest good.

Lucretius was in a minority of Romans who held this view. His writings had an uphill battle to convince people that a life away from public service and any other thing that could cause worry leading to pain was to be avoided. His book De Rerum Natura (On The Nature of Things), therefore, was an apology or defense of his views to a largely skeptical audience of first century B.C. Romans. Yet the quest for happiness, so important to the Greeks and Romans, was reason enough to propel Lucretius to write. He believed that Epicureanism had a corner on happiness and he wished to proclaim this to the world. In fact, “Lucretius gave himself with missionary fervor to proclaiming Epicurus' 'liberating' gospel.”1

The mode of writing that Lucretius used to present his materialist “gospel” in the De Rerum Natura, was a long poem. It seems a strange vehicle to discuss deep matters of philosophy, but the Romans liked poetry. Just as their liberal arts schooling demanded that young Romans learn rhetoric to speak with eloquence, so they expected writers to argue eloquently and persuasively. The way it was said was just as important as what was said. This long treatise poem set forth Lucretius's views on, among other things, the physical universe, the soul, and death.

Perhaps most interesting to many today are his views on the natural world. He believed that all things were made up of tiny particles called “atoms.” The size, order, and arrangement of these atoms determined the shape and properties of all visible things. Water for instance is formed:

Of tiny round motes, adaptable
Most easily for rolling. Honey, though,
Is more cohesive, less disposed to flow,
More sluggish, for its whole supply of matter
Is more condensed; its motes are not as smooth,
As round, as delicate.2

Empty spaces or “voids” between atoms account for differences in weight and texture. His views on the elemental properties of objects, although imprecise and simplistic, do resemble modern discoveries in Chemistry in some ways.

The insights into society raised by Lucretius are not unique to Roman society in the first century B.C. Religion was a big part of their culture as it has been in all cultures. Lucretius tries to use Dawkinesque examples of how, “religion mothers crime and wickedness”3 to prove that religion is bad. He also admits that all people, “seem to feel some burden on their souls, some heavy weariness.”4 The insights into Roman society are interesting because of the insights they give us into our own society and human society in general. It is man's preoccupation with God and immortality; his attempts through studying the visible universe to explain (or explain away) the invisible parts like the soul, or God. Lucretius tries to show that humanity's inner restlessness that leaves “each one ignorant of what he wants, except a change, some other place to lay his burden down...hat[ing] himself because he does not know the reason for his sickness,” is a foolish waste of time because the sickness is imaginary and the soul will not live on after death.5 An opposing view on humanity's restlessness presented 400 years later by Augustine is that the soul is an immortal creation of God seeking its meaning from that Creator. Augustine cries out: “you have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our heart is restless until it finds rest in you.”6

What makes Lucretius so relevant today is his early advocacy of Darwinian evolution 1900 years before Darwin. His position is essentially that of evolutionary atheists like Richard Dawkins or Christopher Hitchens. He imagines a world that came about purely by chance. If it is by chance then there is no need for an intelligent designer, who might go about by the name “God.” Without a god there could be no immortality of the soul, an idea that was fundamental to both previous Greco/Roman philosophy and most religions. With no immortality of the soul, upon death the particles of the body separated and that was indeed the end. This left Lucretius free of worry about what was “beyond.” There was nothing beyond. Therefore life on earth had no meaning and the best one could do was avoid pain and enjoy pleasure during the short time one was alive. One did not have to be constrained by a platonic doctrine of immortality whereby, “as men say, there is a change and migration of the soul from this world to another... [and] when the pilgrim arrives in the world below, he is delivered from our earthly professors of justice, and finds the true judges who are said to give judgment there.”7 Without the fear of judgment after death restraining his actions as it did in part for Plato, Lucretius could do away with the idea of morality. Virtue, instead of being a universal reality that transcended nature, as it was for Plato, became merely whatever brought pleasure and safety to the temporary swarm of atoms called Lucretius. In other words: “since the universe is ultimately material, Lucretius believed, pleasure and pain are the only real guides of conduct.”8

While in naiveté one could fail to see a problem with this, a closer inspection will show that the whole basis of law, an essential component of civil society, is compromised. Criminal law could no longer be universally applied. One's actions could always be defended on the principle that “it brought me pleasure:” “Stealing brought me pleasure;” or “murdering brought me pleasure.” Further, to abandon one's duty at the first hint of pain or danger, could not be reprimanded, because that too is perfectly natural and acceptable. In a civil society, however, it is necessary to think of others. One person's pleasure may be in the way of another person's; by Darwinian standards one will eliminate the other in a process of “survival of the fittest.” Without an objective law code outside of nature, such as Plato and other philosophers of the Western tradition have recognized, society will crumble into chaos and arbitrary force.

Endnotes

1. Donald S. Gochberg. Classics of Western Thought: The Ancient World. (Harcourt, Brace, Jovanovich, Fourth ed. 1988) 450

2. Lucretius. On the Nature of Things. Classics of Western Thought: The Ancient World. ed. Donald S. Gochberg (Harcourt, Brace, Jovanovich, Fourth ed. 1988) 463

3. Ibid. 452

4. Ibid. 465

5. Ibid 465-6

6. Augustine. The Confessions of St. Augustine. (Garden City, New York. Doubleday and Company, Image books, 1960) Book 1, ch. 1. pg. 43

7. Plato. Apology. Classics of Western Thought: The Ancient World. ed. Donald S. Gochberg (Harcourt, Brace, Jovanovich, Fourth ed. 1988) 312

8. Donald S. Gochberg. Classics of Western Thought: The Ancient World. (Harcourt, Brace, Jovanovich, Fourth ed. 1988) 451

The Selfishness of the Passions

My last post (from a very long time ago) was an egotistical complaint about not feeling qualified to write an essay about Jean-Jacques Rousseau, this post is an egotistical boast about what a good grade I got on my essay about Rousseau. As you will see from the transcribed essay below, I have condemned such egotism but have not yet learned to practice what I preach. Since I was so shocked to get a perfect score with lots of flattering comments from my Literature teacher I thought it would be a good idea to get a second opinion to bring me back to earth. So rip into it folks.

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A recurrent theme in life and literature is the conflict of control between our passions and our reason. On the one hand is the desire to gratify our wants and live in a constant state of satiety where every whim is instantly gratified. On the other is the sober analysis of the long term goal and the greatest ultimate happiness for life. There are obvious problems with the first mode of living: for one, it is not always possible to do what one feels like doing. In addition, the harmful effects of indulging every emotion can be catastrophic. While living according to a strict intellectual system also has its problems and has been criticized as a diminution of humanity, following the passions alone is a selfish, egotistical way to live. Jean Jacques Rousseau, as one of the great mouthpieces advocating for the passions, shows this in his autobiographical Confessions. We will investigate the inherent selfishness of Rousseau's embrace of the passions and its ultimate destructiveness by looking at the portrayal of this mode of living in Rousseau's Confessions and three stories from three different cultures.

To begin with, a definition of the terms passion and reason is in order. Passion is essentially the same as emotion. To be guided by passions is to allow feelings and hormones to direct what a person does. Reason, on the other hand, is the intellectual contemplation of a course of action: a weighing of the pros and cons; a cost/benefit analysis engaged in before making any move. The passionate person says: “I am hungry; give me a huge juicy cheeseburger.” The reasonable person says: “I am hungry, but I am already overweight so I will not eat this huge juicy cheeseburger today.”

Rousseau observes that the “common lot of humanity” is to feel before thinking (Rousseau 666). Truly, young children are known for not using reason. Their instinctive passions show just how selfish human beings are, even from birth. Augustine, in his own Confessions nearly 1500 years before Rousseau, recounts the selfishness and envy of a baby, “not yet able to talk, but it was pale and bitter in face as it looked at another child nursing at the same breast” (Augustine 49). In adults such envy and selfishness would be justly ridiculed because such angry passion directed at another's source of sustenance would be harmful if allowed to have its way. Everyone's passion operating against another--as would inevitably be the case in a world ruled exclusively by the passions and not by reason--would lead to terrible conflict. Passion against passion in a state of war. In the end, only the most passionate would survive and have their way.

Rousseau realized the danger of different passions coming into conflict. In order to avoid the inevitable confrontation of two people with opposing passions, Rousseau says: “I withdrew as far as it lay in my power, from situations which opposed my interests to those of others, and might, consequently, inspire me with a secret, though involuntary, desire of injuring them” (670). Maybe Rousseau had the selflessness to do this, and if so it is laudable, but the fact that he did is evidence that he thought something (peace, harmony, justice) of greater importance than indulging his own selfish passion.

The competing emphasis placed on passion or reason is not new to Rousseau's generation or our own. Even as far back as the Stoic and Epicurean schools of philosophy in ancient Greece they were wrestling with the same question. The Epicureans were the embodiment of the saying: “eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die.” This selfish enjoyment of whatever the body and emotions craved, they thought, was the way to happiness. The Stoics took a different line of thinking by asserting that the ultimate good—and therefore the ultimate happiness--was to be found in virtue. For them, the physical body with its passions was a hindrance to virtue and therefore, something to be subdued. The passions, far from setting them free as Rousseau claimed, actually chained them. As Epictetus, one of the Stoic philosophers said: "freedom is secured not by the fulfilling of men's desires, but by the removal of desire." (Epictetus 84).

This quote from a Greek philosopher is remarkably similar to Buddhist thought. For Buddhists too, Nirvana is found not by fulfilling desires but by removing desires. This is illustrated in the Chinese novel Monkey or Journey to the West by Wu Ch'Eng-en. The title character, Monkey, is a proud, impetuous creature who loses his temper easily and is always ready to rush off on a whim to gratify his own vanity and pride. The Dragon King of the Eastern Ocean says to Monkey: “you must learn to control yourself and submit to the will of others, if you are not to spoil all your chances” (Ch'Eng-en 22). Monkey's one desire is to follow his own passions. As he puts it, to “amuse myself as I pleas[e]” (Ch'Eng-en 27). The quest that Monkey and his master Tripitaka are on, however, is to find Buddhist scriptures in India, not amuse themselves as they please. The theme that figures large in the story is that there is a greater good (the “quest”) in pursuance of which, personal feelings (passions) must be ignored.

Rousseau in his Confessions, however, feels that the greatest good is to amuse himself as he pleases. It is in this unfettered “state of nature” that freedom and happiness are possible. Just like the early Monkey in Ch'Eng-en's story, Rousseau states: “I worship freedom; I abhor restraint, trouble, dependence” (Rousseau 669). Unlike Monkey, he does not learn that this attitude hinders his journey to enlightenment. Rousseau is a man who looks “upon plans, which need considerable time to carry out, as decoys for fools... the least trifling pleasure which is within my reach tempts me more than the joys of paradise” (Rousseau 672). In other words, he does not have the prudence to look ahead and pick the best longterm choices but instead does whatever his feelings dictate at that moment.

This aspect of the passions—that they are irresponsible—is a major theme of the Japanese short-story Bewitched. Written by author Ueda Akinari in the Eighteenth century, Bewitched (also called A Serpent's Lust), tells the story of a young man who falls in love with a devilish woman. A case of “love at first sight” only without the happy ending typical of such stories, the hapless hero Toyo-o is enticed into pledging his love to the she-devil. Giving in to his lustful and immature passion for a woman he knows nothing about rather than contemplating his action or seeking advise, Toyo-o brings horrifying consequences on himself and others. Ignoring the reality that he is, “still dependent on my parents. I have no property of my own except the hair on my head and the nails on my fingers. I have no power to earn my own living. How could I support you? I feel wretched in my present situation. But... how can I help but overlook my filial obligations and sacrifice myself for your sake?” (Akinari 636). Although reason tells him that he cannot support the strange woman and should learn a little more about her before making a rash promise, he does so anyway because of his passion rather than his reason. This selfishness on Toyo-o's part is destructive because it opens the door for himself and others to be harmed by the consequences of his passion.

Rousseau was aware of the harmful possibilities in his espoused philosophy. Rousseau says: “my passions have made me live, and my passions have killed me” (676). A tacit admission that, though in his view he has been able to experience human existence to its full, he also has been harmed in the process. Again he says that, “my soul was ever in a state of agitation; I was devoured alternately by desires and fears” (677). Who would wish to live constantly in this state of mind? The irresponsible nature of giving in totally to the passions is shown when Rousseau says: “while I am stirred by them nothing can equal my impetuosity; I forget all discretion, all feelings of respect, fear and decency; I am cynical, impudent, violent and fearless; no feeling of shame keeps me back, no danger frightens me; with the exception of the single object which occupies my thoughts, the universe is nothing to me” (Rousseau 669).

The emotionally devastating nature of selfishly followed passions is further illustrated in Anton Chekhov's short story: The Lady With the Dog. Adultery—one of the most selfish and stereotypical examples of passion--breaks Anna's spirit and leaves her “ever in a state of agitation.” Her passion overcomes her so that, “I could no longer control myself, nothing could hold me back” (1527). Rather than bringing her happiness, however, she comes to despise herself and lives constantly in remorse (1527). Remorse too is a passion but not one most people would like to live with. At the end of the story, when their relationship had brought them nothing but unhappiness, Anna silently asks herself: “was not their life a broken one?” (1534).

This is a good question to consider in a discussion of the passions. While some passions are harmless and some may even better the world, too often, as these three stories have shown, passions divorced from reason will bring pain and unhappiness into the world. We have seen that even Rousseau realized this to some degree, although he was not able--or willing perhaps--to mellow his passion with the exercise of reason. Of Rousseau we might ask: was not his life a broken one? Controlled by his passions like the characters in these stories, he brought harm to himself and--despite his naturally gentle disposition—who can doubt that others were hurt by his selfishness more than if he had considered the happiness of others rather than following his own passions.

Works Cited

Akinari, Ueda. Bewitched. The Norton Anthology of World Literature: 1650-1800: Volume D. Ed. Sarah Lawall and Maynard Mack. 2nd ed. W.W. Norton Company, 2002.

Augustine. The Confessions of St. Augustine. Trans. John K. Ryan. Image Books, Garden City, New York. 1960.

Chekhov, Anton. The Lady With the Dog. The Norton Anthology of World Literature: 1800-1900: Volume E. Ed. Sarah Lawall and Maynard Mack. 2nd ed. W.W. Norton Company, 2002.

Ch'Eng-en, Wu. Monkey. The Norton Anthology of World Literature: 1650-1800: Volume D. Ed. Sarah Lawall and Maynard Mack. 2nd ed. W.W. Norton Company, 2002.

Epictetus. Discourses: Books 3 and 4. Translated by Percy Ewing Matheson. Courier Dover Publications, 2004. http://books.google.com/books?id=1pDMSCUMNIgC&printsec=frontcover#PPA84,M1

Rousseau, Jean-Jacques. Confessions: The Norton Anthology of World Literature: 1800-1900: Volume E. Ed. Sarah Lawall and Maynard Mack. 2nd ed. W.W. Norton Company, 2002.

Mere Christianity I: The Moral Law

I've been reading with interest, lately, the arguments for the existence of right and wrong. Actually some of what I have read could not technically be called arguments. For instance, I was interested that Plato in his Gorgias assumes without question that right and wrong exist and that doing the good is the most important thing possible. Just because Plato and Socrates said it does not mean it is true; however, it casts serious doubt on the occasional letter-to-the-editor-writer and average skeptic who say everyone can just do what they want and make up their own morality myths. Usually these types are terribly inconsistent by throwing in a clause like: “so long as they don't hurt anybody else,” thus showing that, aaah-ha, there really is some general guideline to be followed. But while I get a good chuckle (really I shouldn't) out of this illogical position, there are also the scary few who actually appear to believe what they say.

C.S.Lewis also addresses this issue of right and wrong or “The Rule of Decent Behavior” in Mere Christianity. The book opens with the chapter heading: “Right and Wrong as a Clue to the Meaning of the Universe.” His general premise is that “the human idea of decent behavior [is] obvious to everyone” (5). And the funny thing is that what Lewis and all the ancient philosophers and your parents and grandparents all the way back to Adam have been saying is much more believable than a sprinkling of university professors in Europe and the United States who claim it is not so. I mean, come on, if I slapped them in the face would they really not consider that unjust? Lewis very cogently makes his conclusion about the human race: “they know the Law of Nature [Moral Law] ;they break it. These two facts are the foundation of all clear thinking about ourselves and the universe we live in” (8).

Lewis goes on and ruthlessly slays the further objections of some about multiple moralities and so on. A few quotes to sum up should finish this post very well but stay tuned for some more excerpts from Mere Christianity coming up.

“We are forced to believe in a real Right and Wrong. People may be sometimes mistaken about them, just as people sometimes get their sums wrong; but they are not a matter of taste and opinion any more than the multiplication table” (7).

“If no set of moral ideas were truer or better than any other, there would be no sense in preferring civilized morality to savage morality, or Christian morality to Nazi morality. In fact, of course, we all do believe that some moralities are better than others” (13).

“In the same way, if the Rule of Decent Behavior meant simply 'whatever each nation happens to approve,' there would be no sense in saying that any one nation had ever been more correct in its approval than any other” (14).

“We do not merely observe men, we are men. In this case we have, so to speak, inside information; we are in the know. And because of that, we know that men find themselves under a moral law, which they did not make, and cannot quite forget even when they try, and which they know they ought to obey” (23).

Lewis, C.S. Mere Christianity. HarperSanFrancisco, HarperCollins Publishers, 2001

If an Imagination Is so Great...

Having shown the prevalence and usefulness of imagination in the first half of his book The Educated Imagination, Northrop Frye uses the second half to briefly outline the order literature should be approached to best train the imagination. Frye says, interestingly enough, that:

“the Bible forms the lowest stratum in the teaching of literature. It should be taught so early and so thoroughly that it sinks straight to the bottom of the mind, where everything that comes along later can settle on it” (110).

I find it somewhat ironic that a secular scholar should say something like this at a time when even many Christians have almost forgotten about the Bible. Literature aside, shouldn't all Christians be taught what the Bible says, “so early and so thoroughly that it sinks straight to the bottom of the mind, where everything that comes along later may settle on it”?

Just like Victor Davis Hanson, Frye also advocates early training in Greek and Latin authors before exploring later modern writers. Biblical and classical knowledge is foundational to understanding both the allusions of later authors and basic literary forms, yet Frye states that there is “a deficiency in the earliest stages of literary teaching for both poet and reader” (113). A few hundred years ago authors were taught the Bible and the classics, today, “modern poets don't get the same kind of education, as a rule: they have to educate themselves” (113). In case you think this is a slightly too dismal accusation of our education system, consider the Ancient World Literature course at my community college. The catalogue reads: “a majority of the works will be selected from a non-Western literary tradition.” As if this were not bad enough, the course isn't even offered this semester so I am stuck with World Literature After 1500 (again, the majority of works in this are from a non-Western tradition). (Plus, they canceled the only American Literature course when I tried to register. Does anyone have a conspiracy theory I can subscribe to that will explain this or should I make one up?)

Fry, Northrop. The Educated Imagination. Indiana University Press, Bloomington, Indiana, 1964, (2006?).

What Good Is an Imagination?

The title caught my eye. A slender black volume with the The Educated Imagination inscribed in bold white letters across it. The back cover promised to explain “the value and uses of literature” and why it should still be read in “our scientific age.” Since the study of literature seems to be on the wane and does not appear to offer any practical help to modern man in the 21st century, I wondered how the author would convince me it is still important.

In the first chapter of his book, Northrop Frye classifies language into three categories. (1) The language of description, (2) the language of information, and (3) the language of the imagination. While the first two are practical and deal with the things that are, the language of the imagination projects not what is but what could be; or what ought to be. Obviously, each language uses the same words and in most cases two or more levels are used at the same time. I realize this is boring so to move on quickly, the point is this: we use imagination all the time. An architect uses it to draw up the plans for a house. A politician uses it to picture the changes in society if a certain law is passed. You use it every time you try to make those leftovers in the fridge seem a little more appetizing. Any time we want to tell others what we are envisioning we communicate on the level of the imagination. “Consequently,” says Frye, “we have only the choice between a badly trained imagination and a well trained one, whether we ever read a poem or not” (134-35).

Frye goes on to say: “the fundamental job of the imagination in ordinary life, then, is to produce, out of the society we have to live in, a vision of the society we want to live in” (140). Now since an evolving materialist world-view has no moral wisdom, a vision of what they “want” could be a horrible thing. For a Christian, however, what we want should be what God wants. Though we live in this society we should constantly envision the kingdom of God; the society we “want.” This means both explicit meditation on heaven and visions of “living the kingdom” to our very fullest potential in the future here.

I don't think it is a digression (well, maybe it is but what the heck) to consider some Christian stories that do create “a vision of the society we want to live in.” In regard to Christian artists making use of heaven, what immediately comes to my mind is C.S.Lewis's concluding Narnia story. In it the Narnian heroes reunite in the new Narnia with laughter and joy while climbing “further up and further in.” This is the best narrative I can think of that gives an imaginative glimpse at the joy of heaven. Other poets like Milton and Dante, most famously, have also tried to imagine heaven but, for me at least, their attempts don't stir me like Lewis's in The Last Battle. Of course this theme of Heaven does not need to be the main point of a story nor does it need to be explicit; allegory or one brief mention of joy is often enough to awaken longing. One scene in the Return of the King (if I may borrow from a movie just once) awakens this in me. During a battle Gandalf assures Pippin that this is not the end but only the beginning. Pippin asks what he will see after death and Gandalf replies: “white shores, and beyond that, a far green country under a swift sunrise.” One sentence about a beach and a field at dawn but somehow it does the trick; it “creates a vision of the society we want to live in.”

Apart from implicit and explicit visions of heaven such as these, Christian authors can “spur one another on toward love and good deeds” by example. These visions of a fully Christ honoring society, or individual within a society, can be done any number of ways, from a fantasy hero fighting the bad guys to Joe Average facing life in 21st century California; from a sci-fi planet untouched by sin to a community of believers striving to imitate Christ. Just one example, In His Steps by Charles Sheldon strikingly imagines a town in which citizens begin saying no to the world and instead ask: “what would Jesus do?” The stories are endless but the main idea is: what if? What if in our fallen society we strive to follow the faultless One and eagerly desire to be like him.

The imagination is also useful in defending us from the spirit of the age. Northrop Frye calls this spirit a culture's “mythology.” So America a hundred years ago had a “mythology” about “hard work, thrift and saving for a rainy day.” This has in large measure passed and a new “mythology” of materialism and pleasure has arisen. “Our imaginations,” according to Frye are what “protect us from falling into the illusions society threatens us with” (141). This again, for a Christian, is applicable. Even though not all of these “mythologies” are bad, many of them are and none of them are permanent. While there are other, more direct, defences against the temptation to embrace the world's illusions about what will make us happy—prayer, the study of scripture, etc—the imagination can look beyond what is in this fallen world to what can be when man's relationship to God is restored. Thus a Christian with a purified imagination will more easily see that “the world and its desires pass away, but the man who does the will of God lives forever” (1 John 2:17).

Fry, Northrop. The Educated Imagination. Indiana University Press, Bloomington, Indiana, 1964, (2006?).

Who Killed Homer?

"Until the fog of classicism has lifted, the greater classics are invisible.”--C.S.Lewis (28).

Occasionally (translate, once in a great while) I will read a book with a more substantive content than my usual fair of “fluff in fiction.” When this does happen I am often surprised both by the inscrutable, unfathomable content and by how much I enjoy it. The latest instance of this is Victor Davis Hanson and John Heath’s inquiry into Who Killed Homer. To be honest, I didn’t actually read it (that would be impressive!); I listened to it, so it may have gone in one ear and out the other.

If you haven’t heard of Victor Davis Hanson yet--you have now. A good way to meet him is through his blog, Works and Days, that right now is devoted to national politics. That he could be one of the best political commentators as well as one of the best Greek historians and educators is strong testimony to his intellect.

Who Killed Homer seeks to do three primary things: (1.) discover why the Iliad and Odyssey and other Greek and Latin classics are so little studied, (2.) Shame classics professors into actually teaching their students instead of seeking tenure and grants to spend on “esoteric” research projects, and (3.) Warn that Western culture will be lost if we forget “the Greek way of thinking.”

A number of factors have contributed to “the demise of classical education” (that happens to be part of the subtitle). A proliferation of degrees in fields such as “gender studies,” psychology, and so on, have sapped students and resources from classics departments. Students are too lazy to devote their time to learning Latin and Greek when easier courses are available (I don’t blame them, I’m unilingual too). These and other factors, Hanson and Heath argue, have made it so that today most colleges do not even have a classics department and those that do…. Well, this calls for a new paragraph on the second point listed above.

Classics professors often do not teach their students the foundations of Greek language, literature, and history. In their place classes that make the student feel good, or that do not require the teacher to prepare, or, just as bad, classes on esoteric topics are substituted. Hanson and Heath seem to take great relish in lampooning the titles of “esoteric” (seemingly one of Hanson’s favorite words) papers and theses written by less than admired colleagues. “Feminism in Greek Culture” takes precedence over actually teaching about Greek culture and “Homosexuality and Gender Issues in Such and Such an Author” trumps teaching what that author actually wrote. Hanson and Heath feel so strongly about poor teaching quality that they advocate abolishing the tenure system, cutting grants for research projects, and increasing teaching loads across the country.

So far I have been summarizing some pretty specialized topics in Who Killed Homer, those not interested in the decline of education standards over the past few decades and who have no power to change it anyway, may ask the not unimportant question: “what’s in it for me?” Hanson and Heath point out that Western culture is directly descended from the Greeks and Romans. All our most important institutions and ideals—Western culture itself—are from that ancient world. Individual freedom, constitutional government, free speech, you name it, were all patronized and defended by the Greeks. Hanson and Heath claim that never has a country been so influenced by the Greeks and yet (increasingly) so ignorant of them. They warn that if “the Greek way of thinking” is lost, Western culture, as we know it, will disappear. So there’s your answer, if you live in America or any country that still claims to be part of the ideological “West.”

The concluding half of Who Killed Homer’s subtitle is: The Recovery of Greek Wisdom. Hanson and Heath argue that “the Greek way of thinking” must be encouraged through teaching people the basics of Classical history and thought. More than just a few musty old professors and irritatingly brilliant students need to know about the principles of Greek culture to be able to recover its wisdom. Every citizen of the Polis should “think like a Greek.”

For a sample chapter modified into an essay by the authors click here.

C.S.Lewis, English Literature in the 16th Century, Oxford Univ. Press, 1954.

An Experiment in Criticism

The title may not sound very interesting, but C. S. Lewis’s Experiment in Criticism is more engaging than the title suggests. The experiment is to alter the traditional practice of pronouncing a book “good” or “bad” and instead examine if the reader is a “good” or “bad” reader. Basically Lewis contends that nearly all books have some value, it is the two ways different people respond to books that is most telling. He labels people in two categories: the literary and the unliterary.

By unliterary Lewis does not mean those who do not read books at all, although he says:

the most unliterary reader of all sticks to ‘the news.’ He reads daily with unwearied relish, how, in some place he has never seen, under circumstances which never quite become clear, someone he doesn’t know has married, rescued, robbed, rapped, or murdered someone else he doesn’t know (28).

Lewis clarifies by saying that only reading newspapers and so on “makes no essential difference between him and the class next above—those who read the lowest kinds of fiction” (29). He gives five points that identify the unliterary. They, among other things, are “unconscious of style,” “Demand swift moving narrative,” prefer description and dialogue cut to a minimum, and

they read exclusively by eye. The most horrible cacophonies and the most perfect specimens of rhythm and vocalic melody are to them exactly equal. It is by this that we discover some highly educated people to be unliterary (29).

For me, this last characteristic raises an almost unthought of element in good reading and writing. To the slight wounding of my pride I realize I am not as cognizant as I imagined.

But Lewis is quick to preface his work by saying that knowledge alone is not enough to make someone literary. For some professors and reviewers “reading often becomes mere work” (7). Appreciation is killed. The literary, however, “will read the same work 10, 20, or 30 times during the course of their life” (2). They are always looking for a quiet corner to read in. Afterward “what they have read is constantly and prominently present to [their] mind” (3).

Lewis was writing against a very elitist literary establishment that had “debunked” many, if not most, of the great classics of the previous centuries. It seems that his purpose was to save books from being condemned at the ever changing whim of the elites by saying something like: look, here are literary or “good” readers (not part of the establishment) who still think that (for instance) Elizabethan poetry or science-fiction is good. Are we to ignore them and believe it all bad without even listening to the reasons why they think it has merit?

Lewis is not against objectively valuing literature; in fact, his whole goal is to find a solid foundation by which to judge books.

For the accepted valuation of literary works varies with every change of fashion, but the distinction between attentive and inattentive, obedient and willful, disinterested and egotistic, modes of reading is permanent (106).

In a nutshell, to find a good book, first find a good reader and watch to see which books he or she reads over and over again, all the while relishing each sentence and word. According to Lewis: “Whatever has been found good by those who really and truly read probably is good” (112).

It is good to keep in mind that books alone are useless. Any value they have exists only if someone reads them. Lewis asserts that,

whatever the value of literature may be, it is actual only when and where good readers read. Books on a shelf are only potential literature. Literary taste is only a potentiality when we are not reading (104).

Lewis, C.S. An Experiment in Criticism. Cambridge U.K. Cambridge University Press, eleventh Canto edition. 2006

What Stories Can Do

Among many good quotes from C. S. Lewis's On Stories, a book of 20 essays on reading, writing and appreciating (you guessed it) stories, is this one that explains the ideal he strove for in the Chronicles of Narnia.

I thought how stories of this kind could steal past a certain inhibition which had paralyzed much of my own religion in childhood. Why did one find it so hard to feel as one was told one ought to feel about God or about the sufferings of Christ? I thought the chief reason was that one was told one ought to. An obligation to feel can freeze feelings. And reverence itself harm. The whole subject was associated with lowered voices; almost as if it were something medical. But supposing that by casting all these things into an imaginary world, stripping them of their stained-glass and Sunday school associations, one could make them appear for the first time in their real potency? Could one not thus steal past those watchful dragons? I thought one could.

"Sometimes Fairy Stories May Say Best What's to Be Said." in On Stories and Other Essays on Literature pg. 47. Harcourt, inc. 1982