8th Grade Civics: Aristotle helps explain Vietnam

In Book V of his Politics Aristotle writes that

Constitutions are preserved when their destroyers are at a distance, and sometimes also because they are near, for the fear of them makes the government keep in hand the constitution.

Wherefore the ruler who has a care of the constitution should invent terrors, and bring distant dangers near, in order that the citizens may be on their guard, and, like sentinels in a night watch, never relax their attention. He should endeavor too by help of the laws to control the contentions and quarrels of the notables, and to prevent those who have not hitherto taken part in them from catching the spirit of contention.

Some of this may seem jarring to us, as Aristotle is usually so calm and reasonable! Still, we should try and understand him.

First, by “constitution” Aristotle means something much more than the laws or political processes of a particular state. He refers more broadly how a particular order is “constituted,” in all its parts, i.e., its decision making, laws, culture, economics. One can think of their own familes as a kind of “constitution.” Parents make some “laws” that are explicit (perhaps, “no phones at the dinner table”), and there are some things that your family just “does not do.” You have ways of making decisions as a family that might vary, but would vary in a predictable fashion.

Let us suppose that mom and dad have a family meeting and declare together that “We are going to the beach this summer for vacation. You accept this as final even if perhaps you preferred to go elsewhere. You can now prepare to enjoy the beach as best you can. But what if dad says “beach” but mom says, “cabin in the mountains.” Their division would spark division amongst the children. Everyone would see the possibilities, and everyone would have an opinion. The uncertainty breeds division.

But division over where to go on vacation is relatively harmless. Imagine a different scenario with more at stake. Someone new moves into the neighborhood. He does live next door, but he is on your street several houses down. Some say that the new neighbor is a nicy guy, even if he is quirky and a bit mysterious. No one seems exactly sure what he does for work, of if he has a family. But he seems a bit lonely, so its important to reach out. Others say that he is a bad guy, mysterious for all the wrong reasons. He is someone to be avoided. But no one can say anything definitively.

Now imagine if your parents lacked clarity on how they viewed him. Sometimes they see him as a potential threat, sometimes they see him as a someone they should reach out to. They send mixed messages. They cannot decide. The kids too would be confused, and likely divided themselves. All kinds of theories would emerge in favor of every kind of approach.

This is the problem Aristotle alludes to. A threat far away is no problem. We have clarity on the situtation, and can relax. A threat close by also unites us, and again, it is the clarity that unites. A possible threat maybe in gray zone, maybe not, will pose a problem for the constituted order, even if they never actually attack. Their mere presence in the miasma of the in-between will breed internal division and disunion. Most “constitutions,” after all, are eroded from within rather than without.

It is the lack of clarity that divides internally.

In our own nation’s history we can think of some recent examples. Before we entered WW II, for example, the nation was seriously divided over whether or not we should involve ourselves in wars so far away, whether in Africa or Asia. Yes, the Nazi’s were bad, but how much did their “badness” impact us? After Pearl Harbor, we no longer had any doubts about the threat they posed, and we enetered the war entirely united.

This principle played itself out in our own living memory. After 9/11 as a nation we had clarity about our invasion of Afghanistan. We were attacked, and our attackers were there. We had our “Pearl Harbor” moment regarding Islamic terrorism. We invaded Afghanistan under a banner of national unity.

A few years later, we invaded Iraq with much less national unity and much less clarity. Was Iraq a threat? Well, maybe. Perhaps they had weapons of mass destruction, and perhaps Saddam Hussein would actively try to help those who wanted to harm us, but maybe not. We had no national agreement, but invaded anyway. The war lasted longer than we thought, cost more than we thought, and likely contributed to the financial collapse of 2008. One can argue that politically and culturally, we have not recovered from the fallout of these events.

Should we have invaded either country? The question is certainly important, but we can understand Aristotle’s point even better if we eliminate what we “should have” done from the equation. After all, the invasion done under the banner of unity did not have ultimate success (the Taliban is back in power), and the one conducted under national strife seems to have had some positive lasting effects (the constitution we helped install in 2005 still holds in Iraq). The question Aristotle wants us to consider is which conflict proved worse for our own constituted order, and here we have an obvious answer.

When we look at the Vietnam War, we again have a conflict almost guaranteed to cause internal division and threaten our constitution. We can see the violence and massive cultural changes in terms of family breakdown, the sexual revolution, drug culture, etc. as a byproduct of our involvement in a war in which we lacked clarity on the nature of the threat.

One the one hand, protecting South Vietnam could be seen as vital to our interests for many reasons:

We had pledged to defend the country from communist agression. Whether or not we should have done this, once declared, we had to back up our words if we wanted our words honored in other places throughout the world.
We had an interest in stopping the spread of communism, which was/is an evil ideology that wrecks great harm wherever it goes.
South Vietnam’s coastal geographic position made it a key strategic point of all of Southeast Asia.

But the fall of South Vietnam could be seen as not a threat to us for equally valid reasons:

Chinese and Soviet communism did pose a threat to us. But Vietnamese communism was more nationalistic, and thus, no real threat to the United States
Furthermore, Vietnam had a history of conflict with China. It would be in our interest not to fight them but to court them as an ally against China.
The perceived moral imbalance of a wealthy industrialized power attacking a poor peasant nation would never hold politically in the US, a country that mythologizes the underdog.

At the risk of oversimplifying a complex period in our history, our lack of clarity over a threat in the grey area led us into a labryinth that could only lead to the altering of our constittuted order.

8th Grade Civics: Machiavelli on Having it Both Ways

Oct9 by Dave Mathwin

Alexander the Great’s conquest of Persia provides the backdrop for one of Machiavelli’s more insightful observations about how countries are composed and hold together.

Persia had a vast army and a vast amount of territory. Furthermore, the Persian empire was comprised of different ethnic and tribal groups, as well other assimilated civilizations such as Egypt and Babylon. Yet, with an army of between 40-50,000, within ten years Alexander had destroyed all resistance to his control over most of Asia. Alexander died without having the chance to consolidate any of his gains, and we might then expect that Persia would revolt against the Macedonians and reclaim their freedom. But this failed to materialize. In fact, the Macedonians fought amongst themselves for control of the region, and still Persia did nothing. How could this be?

Machiavelli writes:

Considering the difficulties which men have had to hold to a newly acquired state, some might wonder how, seeing that Alexander the Great became the master of Asia in a few years, and died whilst it was scarcely settled (whence it might appear reasonable that the whole empire would have rebelled), nevertheless his successors maintained themselves, and had to meet no other difficulty than that which arose among themselves from their own ambitions.

I answer that the principalities of which one has record are found to be governed in two different ways; either by a prince, with a body of servants, who assist him to govern the kingdom as ministers by hisfavour and permission; or by a prince and barons, who hold that dignity by antiquity of blood and not by the grace of the prince. Such barons have states and their own subjects, who recognize them as lords and hold them in natural affection. Those states that are governed by a prince and his servants hold their prince in more consideration, because in all the country there is no one who is recognized as superior to him, and if they yield obedience to another they do it as to a minister and official, and they do not bear him any particular affection.

The examples of these two governments in our time are the Turk and the King of France. The entire monarchy of the Turk is governed by one lord, the others are his servants; and, dividing his kingdom into sanjaks, he sends there different administrators, and shifts and changes them as he chooses. But the King of France is placed in the midst of an ancient body of lords, acknowledged by their own subjects, and beloved by them; they have their own prerogatives, nor can the king take these away except at his peril. Therefore, he who considers both of these states will recognize great difficulties in seizing the state of the Turk, but, once it is conquered, great ease in holding it. The causes of the difficulties in seizing the kingdom of the Turk are that the usurper cannot be called in by the princes of the kingdom, nor can he hope to be assisted in his designs by the revolt of those whom the lord has around him. This arises from the reasons given above; for his ministers, being all slaves and bondmen, can only be corrupted with great difficulty, and one can expect little advantage from them when they have been corrupted, as they cannot carry the people with them, for the reasons assigned. Hence, he who attacks the Turk must bear in mind that he will find him united, and he will have to rely more on his own strength than on the revolt of others; but, if once the Turk has been conquered, and routed in the field in such a way that he cannot replace his armies, there is nothing to fear but the family of this prince, and, this being exterminated, there remains no one to fear, the others having no credit with the people; and as the conqueror did not rely on them before his victory, so he ought not to fear them after it.

The contrary happens in kingdoms governed like that of France, because one can easily enter there by gaining over some baron of the kingdom, for one always finds malcontents and such as desire a change. Such men, for the reasons given, can open the way into the state and render the victory easy; but if you wish to hold it afterwards, you meet with infinite difficulties, both from those who have assisted you and from those you have crushed. Nor is it enough for you to have exterminated the family of the prince, because the lords that remain make themselves the heads of fresh movements against you, and as you are unable either to satisfy or exterminate them, that state is lost whenever time brings the opportunity.

Essentially Machiavelli points out that

Some countries are hard to conquer but easy to hold once defeated. They have greater unity from the top-down, but once that unity is shattered, it cannot make itself whole again. We might think of such countries akin to a brick wall. It is very hard to put one’s fist through a wall, but once you break the wall, it cannot reconstitute itself.
Some countries are easy to conquer but make it quite difficult to maintain the conquest. Their internal divisions open the door to the invader, but those same internal divisions will guarantee you will have problems in the future. Such countries resemble water. One can easily put one’s fist through water, but the most one can do is move or scatter it. Given the right conditions, that pool of water can easily return.

We can use Machiavelli’s framework to help explain historical events closer to our time.

During WW II, Germany and Japan functioned much like Persia or the Ottoman Empire of Machiavelli’s day (though it is important to remember that Machiavelli’s categories are not moral categories–one can be bad or good and have strong unity). After their military defeat, both Japan and West Germany rebuilt themselves with extraordinary speed. Neither Nazism or military dictatorship made even a pretense of returning to Germay or Japan, respectively. Their (extreme) unity, once shattered, disappeared into the ether, with an entirely new society emerging.

Our experience recently with Afghanistan highlights Machiavelli’s second category. With its many tribes and difficult geography, we were able to quickly defeat the Taliban and establish a new government. However, all we really accomplished was the scattering of water. In time, the Taliban reemerged and regained control. Our experience mirrored that of England in the 19th century, and Russia, both in the 19th and 20th centuries.

I wanted the students to consider whether America resembled more of ancient Persia, or if we are more like medieval France. The students had different arguments for both sides, which was great to see.

For centralized unity defining America, they argued that

While a few “weird” states exist (such as Florida and Alaska) for the most part most states function in the same way and have similar cultures.
We have unified executive control over the military from top to bottom.
We share common political and cultural events, such as elections, political debates, the Super Bowl, etc.
We share enough of a common vision of what it means to be an American, such as agreement over our rights as citizens.

For the “water” analogy fitting America, they argued that

There are a variety of states, scattered throughout the country, that may have similar poltical systems, but very different cultures (Texas, California, Lousiana, etc.).
We have a great deal of political disagreement. While we technically have one president, a strong minority of Americans will not support him.
While we agree on our rights, such as the right to vote and free speech, these rights are generally used to divide us and not unite us.

I enjoyed the students’ thoughts on this important question.

It is possible that a country can change its identity. The France Machiavelli mentioned went from the “water” model to the “brick wall” starting in the 17th century under King Louis XIV. By the time of the French Revolution in the late 18th century, what happened in Paris determined everything in France. America may have gone through periods in our history when we functioned in a more centralized or de-centralized manner, and we may change again.

One of Machiavelli’s talents involves letting us know that one can rarely if ever have it both ways. Strong unity, or strong disunity both have their advantages that are somewhat exclusive. We have to own our choices, and understand their consequences.

Enjoy the weekend,

Dave

8th Grade Civics: Aristotle and the Veiling of Authority

Oct3 by Dave Mathwin

This week we continued with Aristotle and examined the idea of how monarchies function and preserve their power. Aristotle was a good Greek, and so in the final analysis he did not view monarchy as the best form of government. However, he acknowledged that monarchies had strengths, and we looked at his advice (which Machiavelli likely would have agreed with) regarding how kings can maintain their power and authority.

He wrote that,

A king will best preserve his throne through moderation. The less he exercises authority, and in the fewest areas of civic life, the greater his power.

To start, kingship in certain religious contexts is best preserved through mystique, which is ruined by excessive action. The less areas of action, the less his subjects will envy him. The survival of Spartan kingship may be attributed partly to the original division of power between two kings, and partly to the moderation afterwards by Theopompous. He may have strengthened the kingship by divesting himself of some of its powers.

Despotic tyrannies may be preserved in two ways, one of which was proved by Periander of Corinth, who found men of spirit who might oppose him and had them executed. But additional measures are possible, the main being the forbidding of common meals, associations, clubs, and education, or in other words, making every citizen a stranger to his fellow man.

Another line of policy involves getting information about everyone through a network of spies. This entails a secret police, like the female spies employed at Syracuse, or the eavesdroppers sent by the tyrant Hiero to public gatherings.

We can consider both the legitimate and illegitimate use of moderation and “veiling” one’s power.

Aristotle alludes to the mystique of kingship that exists in part because of its overt connections to religion. In pre-modern Christian societies one assumed the throne “by the grace of God.” There was a conscious acknowledment that one did not “earn” the kingship through merit. Being the oldest son of the reigning monarch meant nothing in of itself. In other ancient societies, some kings reputedly had special connections to the gods, and in some places (such as Egypt), kings were demi-gods themselves.

Religion has power both through what it reveals and what it conceals. Recall the times in the gospel when Christ tells people not to tell about His healing miracles (ex: Mt. 16:20), or the fact that He spoke in parables (Mk. 4:12) to obscure meaning.

Veils are meant on one hand to obscure our view, but on they other, they reveal something else. Think, for example, of the robes and regalia of a king. In part such accoutrements are there for symbolic purposes. They also help the ordinary man disappear, and then subsequently reveal “the king.” In crucial moments (such as depicted in the video, when Charles II dissolved Parliament) words are best kept to a necessary minimum.

In a more down to earth manner, most parents know that they cannot comment about everything their kids do. They instinctively know that if they comment on everything they will soon lack the ability to speak about anything to their kids. Especially as your kids get older, you have to pick your spots. When my own kids were teenagers, I remember discovering that my attempts to rationally explain why they could not go “X” party only resulted in prolonged arguing and frustration. After I switched to simply stating “You cannot do ‘X,’ end of story, there was still anger, but less frustration, and it was much less prolonged. Such is the power that comes with veiling authority.

As your status elevates, you should speak less, but conversely, what you say carries greater weight. My paternal grandparents, for example, never told me what to do, except on two occasions, once when I was twelve, once when I was nineteen. In both instances, there was no question my mind about heeding their advice. Speaking to me so rarely meant their words carried great weight. Of course my parents dealt with in a more direct manner on a daily basis, and consequently had to say much to me than my grandparents. Naturally, sometimes I listened to my parents, and sometimes I did not.*

In monarchies no necessary “reason” existed as to why a particular family assumed the throne. No one needed a “reason.” Someone in medieval France or ancient Babylon did not need “convinced,” no defender of the king needed to syllogistically prove why “X” should reign. It was an accepted fact of their existence, akin to the rising and setting of the sun. In democracies, the very fact that we have choice means that person X might not have been president if only a, b, or c had happened. The opposition party immediately tries to minimize the reach of the current president, and begins planning to unseat him in the next election.

Aristotle mentions how monarchy can distort itself into a tyranny through the use of informants and a secret police. Such measures make sense for monarchies, in a way, for they parody the power that comes from the mystery of kingship. A well trained secret police can have great effectiveness because we both fear and revere secrets. Secrets have authority, whatever the end to which they are put.

Democracies value transparency and openness. We naturally distrust those who keep secrets, and voters need informed on the issues. Many see the rise of social media and Youtube as a great boon to our democratic political life. I grew up in an age of curated information. For political news to reach me, it had to pass down through various institutional filters in government and the media. Now we can get so much more information so much more quickly, and have no need of the institutional filters that existed for so long. Politicians can also speak more directly to people anytime they want on any issue.

But politicians, like parents, should not spout off indescriminately. They should in some measure hoard their ammunition and craft something of a mystique.** We can grant that democratic leaders need more visibility to the people they represent. But if everything is worthy of comment, quite soon nothing will matter to anyone. Those in power will find their arsenals either empty or full of duds.

Dave

*This dynamic may explain a common frustration of parents–they tell their kid to do ‘x,’ dozens of times and get no result. Someone adjacent to the family says the same thing and they immediately think it’s a great idea.

**Teachers should do the same. Don’t be the teacher that lets your students know a laundry list of your personal likes, dislikes, voting habits, etc. or students will not see you in the mantle of “teacher,” but just as another regular Joe on Instagram.

8th Grade Literature: Introduction to 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea

Oct3 by Dave Mathwin

Next week we will start our next book for the year, Jules Verne’s 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. Verne’s stories captivated the people of his time. Many of his books have been made into movies, which is one measure of cultural resonance. His stories had straightforward plots and generally stock characters, which aided their serialization into the popular magazines of the day. So on one level, I hope that the students enjoy the story as an adventure tale.

But like any great author, a particular worldview informs the work, and the story raises interesting questions for us to consider.

The Relationship Between Technology and Freedom

Verne wrote in the mid-late 19th century, a time of enormous technological change, perhaps a shift greater than what we have experienced the last twenty years or so. The Industrial Revolution not only remade the economy, it shifted how we worked and lived as a society. This period saw the spread of democratic ideals throughout Europe and America as well, and the casting off of traditional institutions and ideas. Elites across the western world lost a great deal of status, which culminated in World War I. So one the one hand, the growth of political freedom and technology went hand in hand.

Yet in our day, we see that the relationship between technology and freedom is not so straightforward. Our phones give us immediate access to information everywhere, but they also track us and have a way of fixating our attention. Computers allow us to be more creative and productive at work but this also means that work can follow us anywhere at anytime. Cars allow us to roam with more speed and flexibility than at any previous time in history but they break down frequently and require us to work long hours to maintain them.

This paradox is not confined to our day. For example, most saw the obvious benefits of the Industrial Revolution in the abundance of goods at cheaper prices for a great mass of people. In very real ways, the standard of living went up. To achieve this, millions of people had to work menial, robotically repetitive jobs in factories for 12-14 hours a day.

In Verne’s story, Captain Nemo consciously sought to free himself from the constraints of civilization’s laws and mores, and takes to the sea . . . where he spends his life confined in a metal shell. The Nautilus gives and takes away from Nemo and his crew in equal measure. We shall explore this relationship as we read.

The Relationship Between Man and Society

We often define freedom as the absence of constraints, i.e., no one tells me what to eat for lunch, or what movie to see, or who to vote for. In this respect Nemo and his crew are “free.” But as already noted, this form of freedom comes with a price. Philosophers and theologians outline another view of freedom, one where the constraints put upon us actually aid us in achieving our proper ends as men and women. For example, a train is certainly constrained by the tracks on which it moves. Yet those very constraints help the train be what it what it was created to be. Without tracks, a train cannot fulfill its proper “end,” or (to use Aristotle’s phrase) “telos.” A train sitting in the woods has no freedom to be a train.

So too, our families, communities, and our country certainly put constraints upon us. Children and adults alike resent them at times. We might rather play the video game than do our homework. We might rather finish our movie than clean the kitchen or change the diaper of a crying child. On a societal level, our politicians can annoy and disappoint us, and we may pine for other lands where the grass seems greener. Captain Nemo is the classic “tortured soul” that our culture has trained us to admire. We can certainly appreciate Nemo’s courage, intelligence, and devotion to his crew. But we need to see how Nemo’s separation from civilization has also warped his sensibilities. Our connections to those around us shape who we are, and without them, we are left with the freedom of the void.

Many business leaders, politicians, and the like, reflect that it is “lonely at the top.” I remember my pastor in college confiding to me that most all of his truly good friends were other pastors. They shared a common bond that others cannot quite relate to. So too, a ship’s captain will likely find the highest level of kinship with other captains. But because Nemo has severed ties with the world, he cut himself off from the possibility of that kinship. He has his ship, his books, and his studies, to comfort him.

8th Grade Literature: The Joy of Battle

Sep26 by Dave Mathwin

This week we continued with The Song of Roland and delved into the topic of the violence in the story.

Those familiar with this story will note partial similarities to Homer’s The Iliad, and perhaps these similarities were intended by the author. Both stories have extended battle scenes with vivid descriptions of the violence, with limbs cracked, armor pierced, heads split, and so on. Both stories have their authors and their characters exulting in the carnage. Here is just one example:

Gradonies was bold and brave, a strong intrepid fighter. Now he finds himself faced with Roland. And though he has never seen him before, he recognizes him by his proud face, noble body, his regard for bearing, and he is filled uncontrollable dread. He tries to escape but fails, for the Count strikes him with such force that the blow splits the helmet, nose piece and all, cleaves through his nose, and his mouth, and his teeth, and his whole body and the coat of linked chain mail encasing it, the gilded saddle, both sides of the silver saddle tree, and deep into the horse’s back. He kills them both. Nothing could have saved them.

And another, this one involving not just a ‘regular’ soldier, but a high ranking clergyman, the Archbishop Turpin:

Nothing can turn [the Archbishop] aside: he charges against Abisme and strikes him on the shield studded with amethysts and blazing rubies, which a devil in Val Metas had given to the Emir Galafres, who in turn presented it to Abisme. Turpin strikes him; he does not spare him; and after one blow I don’t think the shield was worth a farthing. He chops through the body from one side to the other and kicks the corpse onto the bare ground.

The French say: “That was a noble stroke! The cross will not suffer while the Archbishop is there to protect it.”

We might expect such similar language from Homer’s tale of pagan Greece, but The Song of Roland fashions itself squarely within a Christian worldview, and means to communicate a Christian message. We might understand as Christians the need for violence at times. But violence is necessary only when something is wrong in the world. Some might assume that if we must fight, we should conflicted about it and have a heavy heart about our task. Above all, we certainly should not revel in it.

Whatever you may think about this sentiment (and it is one shared by many moderns, Christian or otherwise), it certainly was not one shared by the author, and we should consider why.

I remember years ago my next door neighbor had her grandson living with her on the weekends for a few months. He was in training to be a police officer. When I asked where he hoped to be assigned, she replied, “He wants to be right in the thick of it in downtown Baltimore. He wants to be where the action is.” Naturally this attitude worried his grandmother, but she said most of his academy friends felt the same way.

Some of you may know that one of my sons recently graduated from his training to be a firefighter, and is now working regular shifts at a local station. His first week was slow. Sure, a few interesting things happened on some other shifts, but his shift had it easy. This meant some downtime at the station, and some light days. You might think that a job where not much happened might be appealing, but my son was frustrated. In his view, he didn’t become a firefighter to play cards. He wanted action.

One can have two perspectives on this:

These are the wrong attitudes to have. If one wants “action” as a police officer or firefighter, then one “wants” crime and property destruction to occur. The world would be better without crime or fires or medical emergencies. We do have to deal with them, but we should not be “excited” to deal with such things.
Since crime and fire do exist, we need to have people trained to deal with them. If we need to deal with them, wouldn’t it be better to enjoy the work? Is fighting crime or fire something one can do to the glory of God? If so, they should ideally find joy in the task. Probably, the cop who enjoyed the job is more likely to be better at it than someone who hated it.

One might think that Roland as a character belongs to the past, but not necessarily. He is a type, although one we don’t see much of anymore. In CS Lewis’ autobiography Surprised by Joy he recounts his experiences meeting different kinds of soldiers in the trenches of WW I. He writes,

Perhaps the best of all us was Wallie. Wallie was a farmer, a Roman Catholic, a passionate soldier (the only man I ever met who really longed for fighting) and gullible to the [highest degree]. The technique was to criticize the Yeomanry. Poor Wallie knew that it was the bravest, the most efficient, the hardest and cleanest corps that ever sat on horses. He knew all that inside, having learned it from an uncle in the Yeomanry when he was a child. But he could not get [his words] out. He stammered, and contradicted himself, and always came at last to his trump card: “I wish my Uncle Ben were here to talk to you. He’d tell you.” Mortals must not judge but I doubt whether any man who fought in France who was more likely to go straight to Heaven if he were killed. I would have been better employed cleaning his boots than laughing at him. I may add that I did not enjoy the short amount of time I spent in the company he commanded. Wallie had a genuine passion for killing Germans and a complete disregard of his own or anyone else’s safety. He was always striking out bright ideas at which the hair of us subalterns would stand on end. Luckily, he could be easily dissuaded by any plausible argument that occurred to us. Such was his valor and his innocence that he never suspected us of any but a military motive.

Charlemagne’s battle cry is “Mountjoy!” and his sword is named “Joy” (as translated from the French), so we know his approach. Some might assume that Charlemagne was a war-mongering sadist, but the story will not allow for this interpretation. Among other things, there are the last lines in the book, which read,

The King has gone to bed in his vaulted bedroom. God sends St. Gabriel to visit him, and he says, “Charles summon all of the hosts of your Empire and enter the land of Bire by force of arms, and rescue King Vivien, for the pagans have laid seige to him in the city of Imphe, and the Christians there are pleading and crying out for you.”

The Emperor does not wish to go.

“Oh God,” says the King, “my life is a burden!” And the tears run from his eyes and he rends his white beard.

We should not read this as Charles contradicting himself or his life’s work. Rather, a faithful reading of The Song of Roland causes us to examine our own life critically, just as Charlemagne had to do with his.

8th Grade Civics: Machiavelli and Janus

Sep26 by Dave Mathwin

This week we began our first reading of Machiavelli, one of the more controversial and intriguing political thinkers in history. I hope that the students will find him enjoyable and thought provoking.

Machiavelli comes with a reputation. To say that someone is “Machiavellian,” means that they are conniving, amoral, and without scruple. His most famous work, The Prince seems to famously advocate that “the ends justify the means,” another phrase from which many of us shrink.

Students are welcome to their opinion of Machiavelli, whatever that might be. But first we have to make sure we understand him first if we want to reject him.

First, we can tackle the troubling phrase, “the ends justify the means.” As a categorical absolute, this statement makes no sense. It makes as little sense as its opposite, “No ends justify the means.” This phrase usually means means that anything that one does to achieve a legitimate goal is justified. But even the most extreme devotee of this idea would not say that anything one does to achieve a goal be within bounds. When faced with an “end,” such as discovering buried treasure, we realize that some means would be justified to find it, and some would not. So context matters.

For example, if a single guy on sabbatical from his job with some money to burn wanted to take a few weeks to run around the globe in search of treasure, most would think that fine. If a family man on a tight budget did the same thing, we would raise an eyebrow and question the proportionality of the end and its means.

Machiavelli never directly said, “the ends justify the means,” but it is true that, while he recognized context and limits, he willingly expanded the boundaries of ends and means in ways not explored previously.*

Machiavelli did not invent poltical science as a discipline, but he did found its modern incarnation. Previous to Machiavelli, political thinkers started with an “absolute,” a particular idea of the good. They then sought to have the state in question molded to that absolute idea. For Plato, this meant the world of the Forms. For Aristotle, this was Nature. But other civilizations followed along this model. Medieval society, for example, had as its guiding star the phrase “on earth as it is in heaven,” and sought to model their political order around the heavenly order of seraphim, archangels, angels, and the like. Ancient Egypt looked back to a mythic past of harmony and balance, and Pharaoh’s ruled in attempt to recreate this balance, which they called Ma’at. Many other examples exist.

Machiavelli started from the other end. He wanted rulers to look at the situation they faced in real time first and not concern themselves with “ideals” not immediately relevant to their experience. But that is not to say that Machiavelli had no “end” in view. He wanted the Prince to stay in power, but not, I think, for the sake of power itself, but to bring about stability. Stability in itself was a worthy aim, because its lack would almost assuredly usher in violence on a broad scale.

In The Prince Machiavelli deals with various scenarios in which a ruler might strengthen or jeopardize his ability to stay in power.

Our first example involved what Machiavelli described as a “Mixed State.” Let us suppose you have a country (Redland) in which you have a Redland ruler with Redland people. Unfortunately their king is incompetent or destructive in his rule in some way. This leads to some in Redland to conspire with the king of Blueland to come in to Redland, and take over Redland for himself. Taking Redland would be relatively easy. After all, the fight is not fair, and it is not fair in your favor. Blueland’s army has to fight Redland’s army, but Blueland also has the assistance those within Redland who actively conspire to get you to take over, so your victory is quite likely.

But once Blueland takes over Redland, Blueland’s ruler will face many problems quickly, in fact, more problems than if they defeated them “straight up.”

For one, Blueland has to reward those in Redland who helped you to win. But how much should one trust such people? If you don’t reward them, they will turn against you just as they turned against their previous ruler. If you reward them too much, you will alienate your own army, as well as strengthen those who have already proved untrustworthy to their ruler.

If Redland has a different culture, customs, and language than Blueland, you will face additional problems (Machiavelli cites the example of Louis XII of France who quickly conquered, and then quickly lost, the city-state of Milan). Ideally, you can get away with changing as little as possible (mimicking the general policy of the Romans and Cyrus the Great of Persia). If you make the mistake of introducing new forms of taxation on the conquered people to pay for your conquest, you start the clock on your expiration date as the new king of Redland.

So far Machiavelli merely analyzes the problems. This aspect of Machiavelli is not what makes him controversial.

The controversy comes in what follows. A commentator from another era might have then said, “So, we see that Blueland should not conquer Redland even if invited in by a Redland faction.” Machiavelli essentially says, “If you find yourself in a position akin to the king of Blueland, how do you then maintain your power?” He does not concern himself with the morality of the conquest, but supposes the conquest as a thing that happened. The question then becomes, “What do I do now?” rather than “What should I have done?” Some argue he goes farther, and in effect tells rulers how to do the wrong thing and get away with it. Personally I don’t go this far in my reading of Machiavelli, but I understand how others might. Regardless of what we think of what Machiavelli is doing, he certainly puts the emphasis on the pragmatic over the ideal.

He lays out the options:

If you withdraw entirely from Redland and effectively say, “Whoops, my mistake,” there will be chaos not only in Redland but also among your own people in Blueland, as you will look like an idiot who puts his hand to the plow but doesn’t see it through. You might lose power in both places. Again, rulers might want to keep their power for selfish reasons, but amidst political chaos, violence increases and many suffer. So withdrawal from Redland would likely help no one.
What most attempt is some kind of half-measure, where you try to govern your new territory from Blueland and find yourself continually frustrated. This would be akin to trying to babysit toddlers via Zoom. It wouldn’t go so well.
Most are not willing to do one of the two things that at this point must be done. You can either 1) Occupy Redland, or 2) Destroy Redland and repopulate it with people from Blueland.

Both paths come with problems. Occupying Redland will be expensive, and requires a great deal of energy and determination. Do you have the money and patience for this? Most do not.**

The quickest and easiest solution is to burn the territory and scatter the populace. Then, you resettle the land with your own people. This saves you the cost of paying your army for years on end, and gets all the bad stuff out of the way right at the start. The Normal Conquest of 1066, for example, largely fits this pattern. This obviously involves a lot pain and suffering for people in the short term. But it actually creates long term stability. Better to rip off the band-aid in one go than to prolong uncertainty and instability for decades.

Is this “the ends justifies the means?” Yes, and no. He does not counsel that Blueland should have invaded in the first place. He does argue that once Blueland has gotten their hands on a “Mixed State,” they have only bad choices in front of them. The best of the bad choices is the “morally correct” one, the choice that 1) Preserves stability in the long run, and 2) Deals quickly and decisively with the problem.

Again, Machiavelli differs from previous political theorists in that, while those before Machiavelli directed their ideas toward a particular end or goal, be it Nature, Heaven, a Golden Age, Machiavelli has it both ways. Like the Roman god Janus, he has two faces, not just one.

I look forward to seeing how the students will react to Machiavelli’s approach as the year continues.

Dave

*Our squeamishness about “the ends justify the means” is exposed somewhat in our love of stories where a man has something horrible happen to his friends or family, and then goes on a rampage to get his daughter back, or avenge his partner’s death, or something like this. Most often these movie heroes cause a great deal more destruction than they themselves experienced, but we cheer them on anyway.

**The Romans grew their power in Italy largely through this method, which requires extraordinary patience and conviction of purpose, something Machiavelli does not mention, though perhaps he does elsewhere.

8th Grade Literature: The Dog of God

Sep19 by Dave Mathwin

Those who say that all great literature lends itself to multiple interpretations speak truly . . . up to a point. Great stories have a points of tension in them, both for the characters and the reader. But the variety of interpretations is not infinite. Among other things. our interpretations should be constrained by the text, and we should look for clues in the text–and the worldview from which the author wrote–to clue us in on how we should read the story. Part of being a good reader involves being a good person. You listen and seek to understand. You show willingness to take the author seriously and refrain from imposing one’s own agenda on the story.

Part of our problem in following this advice is that we live in a time in love with ambiguity. One need only look at the plethora of stories in which we are encouraged to take the side of those we formerly thought of as villains, who have been “tragically wronged and misunderstood” (such as the movies Cruella, or Wicked, or even Shrek) for example. Other controversial historians suggest that maybe Churchill was the “real” bad guy of World War II. Others indulge in Holocaust denial. The list could go on. In short, we don’t like our narratives neat and tidy anymore. This is very likely not a sign of sophistication, but of boredom. We don’t have the strength, as Chesterton noted, to see the sun come up every day and rejoice like a little child, and say “Do it again!”*

In earlier ages of any civilization, one usually sees more confidence, with stories that avoid inversion. The Song of Roland is one of these kinds of stories. That’s not to say that it never asks questions or paints its characters all one color. The trick is knowing how to read the story like a person of that time would read it, to see where we have solidity and where the narrative is open to interpretation.

For example, Shakespeare’s Hamlet has many points in the story around which the narrative turns. First and perhaps foremost is the ghostly appearance of Hamlet’s father. Most moderns take it as a given that Hamlet should act as the ghost commands, and it is his failure to act that condemns him. But if we give credence to the Christian context in which Shakespeare wrote, we see that

Hamlet’s father (if it is his father) insists that Hamlet commit murder to avenge him and give his spirit peace. Murder and vengeance to help someone in the afterlife does not sound like sound Christian doctrine to me.
The ghost’s appearance involves the upending of the natural order, turning night to day.
Hamlet’s friends are all either afraid or deeply skeptical of the ghost. They urge Hamlet not to listen. Hamlet ignores them.
The ghost is associated with sulphur and torment in the text. This is not a particularly subtle point about the origins of the ghost.
Hamlet ultimately following the ghost’s advice leads to the overthrow of the kingdom and the death of most everyone around him.

There are plenty of points open for debate about Hamlet, as it is one of the great plays of western civilization. But how we should view the ghost is not one of them. We have a place to begin.**

The basic narrative of The Song of Roland runs as follows:

Charlemagne has conquered much of Spain, but has one remaining stronghold to tackle. His army is weary, so perhaps he could make a deal rather than fight?
Marsiliun (the pagan holdout king) is also looking for a way to avoid all out war with Charlemagne, but he doesn’t want to lose his honor and merely surrender.
Ganelon, insulted (perhaps legitimately, perhaps not) by Roland, conceives of a plan. He goes to Marsiliun and offers to trick Charlemagne and get him to leave only a portion of his force in Spain while the rest of his army retreats.
Ganelon puts a cherry on top and also ensures that Roland and the cream of Charlemagne’s army will remain behind. Marsiliun can then attack and overwhelm Charlemagne’s vastly outnumbered rear guard, which will cripple Charlemagne’s army for good.

The story has moments when both Ganelon and Marsiliun are given praise for various traits, such as courage, nobility, and cleverness. Ah, we moderns might think, might Charlemagne, that vicious conqueror, be the true villain? Perhaps Ganelon really was wronged and got his just revenge on Roland?

There is a point in the story, however, when the author expresses his thoughts in a way quite possibly obscure to us, but absolutely clear to the medieval mind. This happens with the dream of Charlemagne in lines 725-36. In his vision, Charlemagne sees a boar and a leopard attack him. From within the castle comes a large hound, who begins fighting both the boar and the leopard.

For us, when we see an animal, we see its physical characteristics and classify it accordingly. We may ascribe some meaning to the animal, such as “dog’s are man’s best friend,” or that cat’s are enigmatic, but we tacitly assume that these meanings are not inherent to the animal, but imposed somewhat arbitrarily by culture, and hence not entirely “real.” The medievals had the opposite approach. They started with meaning first, and then went to physicial characteristics. When they saw an animal, they first saw what it signified in the spiritual life, and then saw its particular physical attributes.

In Charlemagne’s vision we have three animals:

The boar–the boar was of course a pig, and pigs in Scripture were unclean. Pigs were emblematic of those who wallow in filth (sin) and have no discernment about what they eat (i.e., they are driven wholly by appetite and have no moderation). But, no question, boars could be fierce and courageous beasts. Hunting a stag might mean an enjoyable afternoon. But hunting boar was a serious, dangerous business. Marsiliun is the boar, the dangerous pagan king. He is admired for his ferocity and courage, but he cannot change and cannot repent. He must be hunted and destroyed.
The leopard–the medievals saw the leopard as the result of “adultery” between the lion (leo) and the “pard” (perhaps the panther?). This might account for the mixed, spotted coat of the leopard. The leopard will therefore be cunning and treacherous. The leopard lives in “two worlds” but is at home in neither. Thus, Ganelon is the leopard, the traitor, the one who cannot be praised either as an honest, valiant pagan or a “clean” Christian knight. He is not “misunderstood.” He is the story’s greatest villain.
The dog, which requires a fuller treatment below.

The medievals caught both the spiritual ambiguity of the dog in Scripture and Jewish tradition, as well observing how dogs behaved. On the one hand, against dogs, you have

Dogs are often associated with corpses and refuse
False prophets are sometimes called “dogs”
Dogs eat blood (I Ki 21:19) and return to their own vomit.

But . . .

The Book of Tobit has a dog as a faithful companion and guardian, akin to the archangel Raphael.
In Jesus’ parable of Lazarus and the Rich Man, it is a dog who stays faithful to Lazarus, and “heals” him through the licking of his wounds.
In the story of Canaanite woman who agrees to be a “dog” and receive “scraps,” Jesus commends her faith and humility.

In short, dogs came to be viewed positively overall, even if they were a bit wild. Still, it was their tenacious loyalty and obedience that won over the medieval heart.

Roland is the dog in the vision. Here we have both “firmness” and ambiguity in the story. Roland is the good guy. But as the story states, he is a bit wild and uncouth. He is absolutely faithful and displays a true humility of service. It is also true that things might have gone better for everyone in the story if he was a little smarter, and if he could match Ganelon’s cunning. But then, if Roland had these qualities, he would not be a “dog.” He would not be the Roland we know.

Ambiguity in our stories can make them interesting and can test our particular way of seeing the world. But if we don’t know how to see a text as its original audience heard it, we will simply be left in the worst place of all–our own particular predilections and prejudices. We will be stuck in our time and place.

This post here further explores ancient and medieval dog symbolism, for those who wish a deeper dive.

Have a great weekend,

Dave

*The actual quote is, “The sun rises every morning. I do not rise every morning; but the variation is not due to my activity, but to my inaction. Now, to put the matter in a popular phrase, it might be true that the sun rises regularly because he never gets tired of rising. His routine might be due, not to a lifelessness, but to a rush of life. The thing I mean can be seen, for instance, in children, when they find some game or joke that they specially enjoy. A child kicks his legs rhythmically through excess, not absence, of life. Because children have abounding vitality, they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say “Do it again”, and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, “Do it again” to the sun; and every evening, “Do it again” to the moon.”

**I know that many will disagree with me about this, and I am not a Shakespeare expert. But one counter people put forward to the ghost’s possibly benign intentions is that Hamlet muses whether or not the ghost be from Heaven or Hell. This is no evidence at all. Hamlet is not a reliable narrator. He might actually be crazy. This might be the secret reason why he was not made king after his father’s death. This could be an interesting point of contention. Maybe Hamlet is a depressive nutcase from the very beginning! Again, I’m all about tension, interpretation, and ambiguity in great literature, but we need to look for clues as to where to find it.

8th Grade Civics: Aristotelian Fractals

Sep19 by Dave Mathwin

Greetings All,

In the first post of the year, we talked about the debate various theologians and political scientists have had about whether or not government is a byproduct of sin, or would have existed regardless of whether or not we live in a fallen world. Part of this debate involves what we think the proper function of government should be, and how we arrive at government in the first place.

Aristotle developed a philosophy that supports the idea that the state is “natural,” that is, the state arises from what it means to be human apart from the reality of sin. He writes,

Because it is the completion of associations that exist by nature, every city exists by nature, having itself the same quality from which it grew. It is the logical end to which natural associations move, and the nature of things exists in their “end,” or purpose. Now self-sufficiency of a state is its proper end, and so the best place for a city to aim.

He who is without a city [community] is either a poor sort of being, like one whom Homer wrote about when he said,

‘Clanless and lawless and heartless is he.’

The man who is by such nature unable to join a city at once plunges into a passion for conflict, war, and strife. He cannot bond with his fellows, and only seeks to chop down rather than to plant.

Aristotle saw the family as the natural result of the family. When we think of our identity, we might assume that we are “ourselves” in a completely isolated way. But if we pull back, we see that we are who we are because of a variety of factors completely outside our control. Biologically, we inherit our DNA from our parents. Culturally, we are influenced by our families, our neighborhoods, and things that happen to us. Whenever we use the word “I” we cannot escape the reality of “Thou.”

If we define the self by those around us, Aristotle found it perfectly reasonable to argue that we need connections to others to realize our humanity in general, and our individual identities specifically. The state arises from the need for families to come together not so much to decide matters of right and wrong, but to expand our identity. Those without connections to others will become bestial, and lose something crucial to themselves. Just as our identity comes from others as people, so too families need to find their place among a larger group of familes.

Aristotle’s ideas might be more than mere theory. This development of family, to clan, to state, might actually have taken place in the Greek and Roman world, among other places.

Part of understanding Aristotle’s concept involves grasping the nature of “fractals.” We can define a “fractal” as a pattern that repeats itself at different scales, with smaller fractals containing the essence of the carrier of the pattern.

We should ask ourselves if

The family is a fractal of the state

The state is a fractal of the family.

The difference is subtle, but has importance. If we prefer the former, the state gives legitmacy/support to the family. If the latter, the state derives its legitimacy/support from the family. But whichever side we might prefer, a relationship between the two remains. We all see, for example, political polarization, and a decline of our political culture. If we beleive in Aristotle’s connection between the state and family, this decline should not surprise us. The family has been in crisis for some time in our country. One is a fractal of the other.

Dave

8th Grade Civics: Name and Fact

Sep12 by Dave Mathwin

Greetings Everyone,

This year, before we delve into specifics about America towards the spring semester, we want to take time to examine the big questions about culture and governance that apply to all civilizations everywhere.

To that end, we spent time this week with Aristotle’s thoughts on what makes a state. We looked at an excerpt from his Politics which reads,

It must be the case that only a shared sense of goodness and justice amongst its citizens can make a state. Merely occupying the same territory together with other men cannot make a state, as can be shown through example. If the citizens of Megara and Corinth [bitter rivals, but very close geographically] were put under one government together, that would not make them one in fact.

Nor can a state be made merely through common association and interest. Suppose a group of people with different professions—a carpenter, a farmer, a merchant— all living together exchanging goods under a common system of law. Imagine their number to be in excess of 10,000 [a very big number for ancient Greeks]. Imagine these people had nothing in common other than the necessities of living and obedience to the law.

The members of this group all might come together in a common place to exchange goods and services, but if each person treated their own house and their own person as a state unto itself, how could they be a state, even if they happened to occupy the same geography?

It is clear, therefore, that a city is not only people occupying the same geography under the same law. Their true unity must come from their common purpose and common life together. True– no state can exist without a sufficient number of people living under the same law. But this in itself cannot make a state.

Aristotle wants us to distinguish between “name” and “fact.” We can all understand, for example, that if I held up a pencil and called it a pen, that would not in fact make it so. Even if I made this assertion for years, the pencil would not be any closer to a pen than when I started.

We can take this a bit deeper. Imagine someone made a robot that looked just like you. It talked like you, walked like you, and more or less mimicked you perfectly. We might even call this robot by your name. But the robot is not you. Among other things, it lacks what we cannot directly see or observe, such as a soul, a conscience, thoughts and beliefs, and so forth. Calling it “you” would not make it so. In other words, we properly name things not just by what they are made of, but by their purpose, their “telos” or end. What a thing is made from is not what a thing “is.”

If we apply this concept to country’s, we may find ourselves a bit uncomfortable. Aristotle pushes us to think of a state as more than a group of people following the same laws, within a defined border, exchanging goods and services. This, he argued, may be a country in name but not in fact. It may look like a country from the outside, but from the inside, nothing exists to bind the people together. The people have no shared purpose, no shared “telos,” no shared love.

I asked the students to think about whether or not Aristotle would call the United States today a country in fact, or in name only.

In favor of the “name only” position some argued that

We do not share a common religion
We do not share a common culture
We do not have a common point of attention with movies, music, or other media
We are deeply divided politically, with many not trusting our basic institutions
We have essentially become “states unto ourselves.” With online shopping, we don’t even need to interact with each other to buy and sell things

But others countered that

Sports provide us a way to come together across cultural, religious, and polticial divides
American ideals of freedom and self-determination still unite (almost) all Americans
When we have to, as in the case of natural disaster or war, we can still “rally round the flag.”
Sure, Americans fight with each other, but we always have. Think of our nation’s identity like a big, noisy family that argues with each other but still get together for Thanksgiving and Christmas. We find a way to “hug it out.”

As always, the students are encouraged to take whatever position they think correct and defend it as best they can.

Thanks so much for your support, and have a great weekend,

Dave

8th Grade Literature: Medieval Epic Poetry

Sep12 by Dave Mathwin

This week we started our next book, The Song of Roland. This work does not enjoy the fame of Beowulf, but I find it just as compelling. I believe W.S. Merwin’s translation in particular captures the stark energy the tale tries to express. The punches the story throws are quick, but dense, and intense as well.

Often literary critics tend to look down their noses at early artistic attempts of civilizations. Certainly, this holds true in some cases. American literature before Twain and Melville left much to be desired. Our country’s early literary efforts were clumsy as we sought for a voice. But sometimes the ‘unearned confidence’ of youth can lead to works of great confidence and vitality. Einstein, for example, never topped himself from when he came up with the theory of relativity at age 26. Lennon and McCartney may have done their best work in their mid-20’s with Rubber Soul and Revolver. Perhaps one might think of other examples (this post discusses this phenomena in regard to Egyptian and Roman art).

What The Song of Roland may lack in refinement it makes up for in energy. Yet, it still fits the criteria for an epic literary work (I use the word ‘epic’ here in a technical sense).

Epic literature celebrates the main values of the civilization from which it originates, yet also shows the limit of such values, or calls them into question. Courage, for example, ceases to be ‘courage’ when it morphs into stupidity. Loyalty is a great virtue, but not when it turns blind. In our case here, the medievals impress us with their courage and fealty, but the author (who is unknown) wants us to wonder how far things should be pressed. If your life consists of serving Charlemagne, should you continue to be courageous and loyal even if those actions might hurt the king in the long run? This is one example of The Song of Roland’s great literay merit–it has the maturity to question itself even as it celebrates its heroes.

Great epic heroes have a sense of tragedy about them, but they show their strength in living and choosing freely even when they feel that circumstances have conspired against them. I hope that the student’s will see this in the text. In an age where being a victim, feeling betrayed, etc. gives credence to a resigned and defeatist approach to life, the characters in The Song of Roland always feel that they have a choice to act freely, and always believe they can be victorious even if they lose.

Some believe that the story closely mirrors an actual historical event in Charlemagne’s reign, while others see signficant exaggeration and distortion of a minor incident. I don’t think this debate matters much. There is evidence in the text that the author did not not intend to record events per se, but to take his readers into the more important realm of exploring how both life and death can have meaning beyond what history might tell us.

I hope the students enjoy the story! Have a great weekend,

Dave

8th Grade Literature: Iceberg Theory and the Hemingway Paradox

Sep5 by Dave Mathwin

Greetings all,

WIth this blog I hope to keep you updated on some aspects of our class. I will not convey everything about our week, but hope to give you insight into some of the main points of focus and discussion. I hope you find this helpful.

Our summer reading was Hemingway’s Old Man and the Sea, his most famous and best beloved story. The plot is simple, perhaps almost aburdly simple. A poor, elderly fisherman named Santiago journeys out on his skiff. He hooks and fights a huge marlin for three days. He eventually lands the fish, but then has the problem of getting it back to shore intact. As he rows back to shore, sharks come and eat the fish, leaving him with nothing but its skeleton when he lands. But Santiago remains content. He is a fisherman and has done what a fisherman should do. He knows who he is.

Hemingway’s story has several important themes, such as man vs. nature, and the essence of human life, dignity, and identity. But at the heart of the story is a paradox, rooted both in Hemingway’s style of writing, and in his development (or lack thereof) of his main character, Santiago.

First, his style of writing . . .

Many credit Hemingway, along with Mark Twain, of pioneering a distinctively American style of writing. He uses simple sentences and simple words, at times writing in a somewhat offhand, stream of consciousness. He rarely if ever introduces large metaphysical or theological questions. What you see is what you get. In this way, Hemingway’s writing mimics the plain, open approach of the common man. Many famous commentators, such as Alexis de Tocqueville, see Americans as primarily doers, not thinkers. Hemingway doesn’t argue, but rather leans into this conception of American identity.

Hemingway may not have invented his particular style, but he pioneered a concept of writing called Iceberg Theory. His approach allows the reader only to see the surface of the characters–what one can observe in “real life.” Most authors give the reader insight into the character’s thoughts and inner life. Hemingway rarely grants this insight. For the most part, the reader gets to observe the characters but is limited to seeing their actions and words. In this way, Hemingway presents his readers with something more realistic. In real life when we observe others we would not have omniscent access to their thoughts and motivations. Hemingway writes in the same. Of course his characters have deep seated motivations just like any person, but they remain below the surface. We have to guess as to what lies beneath.

Herein lies the paradox of Heminway’s style, which is both transparent and opaque all at once.

On the one hand,

Hemingway’s writing reflects everyday reality that all experience all the time. His writing is “common” and “relatable” in this sense.
His plots and his characters are open books, making them, in a certain sense at least, easily understandable to anyone.

On the other hand,

While we can easily discern the plot of the story, without access to the character’s inner life we have no easy way to determine why anything happens. This is no coincidence, as Hemingway seemed much more interested in the “what” than the “why.” “Why” questions are burdensome and hinder one from living fully.
This in turn, means that an author lauded for his humble and transparent prose can write stories that confuse his readers. Many of the students, for example, perfectly understood the plot but had “no idea what happened.” With this comment, they meant that they had no idea what the story meant, or how they might apply it to their lives.

We can push further, and see how Hemingway mirrors the paradox of American individualism and society as a whole. Many foreign visitors to America are surprised by the frank openness of most Americans they encounter. Frew other countries are as immediately transparent with those outside of their community as are Americans. But Americans are also much less communal than people in most other countries. Our suburbs, technology, and habits isolate us from one another. Both of these observations can be true at once.

The character of Santiago perfectly melds with Hemingway’s style of writing. Santiago constantly reminds himself throughout the story to stop thinking, and focus on the moment in front of him. He is a beloved figure in his village. But at the same time, he lives alone, with no family and no direct connections to the village around him. He has one friend, but in keeping with the “Hemingway paradox,” this friend is a much younger boy. The boy loves Santiago, but of course, cannot really relate to him or connect with him.

This coming Monday, the students will discuss some aspects of this paradox in our first formal discussion.

Thanks so much and have a great weekend,

Dave

8th Grade Civics: The One and the Many

Sep5 by Dave Mathwin

Greetings Everyone,

Welcome to the first post of the year. I hope that students will find these updates helpful for review, and parents will enjoy getting a sneak peek into the classroom. Perhaps these updates can help you continue the conversations we have at school at home if you so wish.

One of the main goals of the year involves understanding our own system of government, how it functions, and what we value. To best do that we want to begin at the beginning, and that means not 1776 or 1620, but with the created order. When we understand the world God made and note the crucial emphases God gives us in Geneis, we can then see how to interpret our experience of creation and how to best live within it. As Romans 1 states, when we properly understand the created order, we can better know God, and the same is of course true in reverse.

With that in mind we looked at Genesis 1 and 2, making a few important observations::

Unity and Distinction–Creation has an inherent unity, as all comes from God, and everything arises from the formless waters. But from this unity, God then makes distinctions between night and day, sea and land, male and female, etc. This expression of the one and the many has its roots in the nature of God Himself, who is one God in Three Persons, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. The relationship between the one and the many has occupied the mind of many theologians and philosophers, but also has significant implications for how we think about political order.
Names–God creates through speaking and naming, and in giving various aspects of creation names, He gives them an identity apart from other things. This is how God makes order out of what was once “formless and void” (Gen. 1:2).
Mankind–There are many, many implications for mankind being made in God’s image that we cannot unpack here. For our purposes, however, we can say that having the image of God means that we are made like God (at least in some ways) and should pattern our actions after Him. Scholar Meredith Kline has suggested that the first three days of creation involve God “subduing” creation, with days four through six about “filling” creation. Mankind are given the same task. We are meant to mimic God. So Adam names the animals, and Adam and Eve are to “fill” the earth.

This has implications for how we view the purpose and role of governments in the world.

We can interpret Scripture in a linear fashion, from Genesis to Revelation, and this certainly has importance. But at least as important (if not more so), is viewing history and Scripture Christologically. In chapter one of his gospel, the Apostle John obviously references Genesis 1 (“In the beginning was the Word . . . ) and reframes our view of the world. In some ways, the Incarnation is the creation event, of which Adam and Genesis 1 and 2 are images, or reflections. We can thus read scripture and history forwards and backwards through Christ, for all things cohere in Him (Col. 1:16).

This has enormous implications far beyond my ability to comprehend, let alone apply fully to our class this year. However, for our purposes we can note a few implications for thinking about political order. For one, we see the primacy not of the world, or civilization, but of the human person (i.e., “the sabbath was made for man”). A human being is one person, mirroring the unity of God. But we are also composite creatures, (body and soul), which perhaps dimly reflects the distinction in the Godhead.

As I mentioned at Orientation, my goal for the class is not so much to change anyone’s opinion, but to help students unpack why they reach their conclusions. To that end, what one believes about proper powers and roles of government has its roots in how we see government in relation to the fall. Christians have disagreed about this question for many centuries, but we need to see the downstream implications of our view. On the one hand,

Augustine (and others) see government as a byproduct of sin, and would have no reason to exist without sin. Thus, government’s role should primarily involve dealing with the problems caused by sin. Some who believe in “limited government” look to Augustine for inspiration.
Thomas Aquinas (and others) see government existing before the fall, and part of our role as image bearers of God. Just as God governs the cosmos, so we, being like Him, bring order to our world. Thus, those of this school would not necessarily limit government’s functions to dealing with sin, but perhaps want to expand its functions into the promotion of harmony and the “good life.”

Both sides have good arguments, and we will continue to unpack them next week.

World War II, Japan’s Peloponnesian War

May23 by Dave Mathwin

Any student of classical history must admire the incredible flourishing of 5th century Periclean Athens. From the years 480-430 B.C. we see the birth/enormous growth of drama, architecture, sculpture, politics, etc., etc. Kenneth Clark called this period one of the four or five great eras in human history, and few would dispute this.

Historians also always point out how the unexpected victory of the Greeks in the Persian Wars between 490-479 B.C. propelled them into this golden age. The victory gave them an unexpected burst of confidence and a validation of their identity. I have not read anyone who has not made this connection, for it seems obvious. More than this, we can see that golden ages in other civilizations have origins in similar bouts of resistance against an apparently stronger foe. So, the Florentines resist the French in the early 15th century, and the English defeat Spain’s Armada in 1588 (not long after we get Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, etc.), and the Dutch defeat the Spanish in the early 17th century, after which we get Rembrandt.

The epilogue to this glory comes with the Peloponnesian War, where Athens flushes away this incredible storehouse of achievement in a messy and long conflict with its rival Sparta. Athens loses and the golden age ends, but . . . all good things must end, the wheel of fortune spins, and no one doubts the salutary effect of their victory in the Persian Wars.

Recently I have read a slight amount of Japanese history and I wondered about certain possible parallels. The Russo-Japanese War had all the makings of an equivalent to Greece’s triumph against Persia. With Japan, we see a ‘rising star’ defeat a much larger power in Russia that everyone expected to win. Like Greece, the Dutch, the English, etc. the Japanese also were a rising naval power. Like the Greeks, the Japanese experienced a surge of confidence which led them into a disastrous conflict between 1937-45. Yet I have yet to read anyone who makes this connection.

Add to this, certain historical conditions for the emergence of a golden age in Japan existed in addition to their underdog victory over Russia.

Their naval power gave them a chance to come in contact with other civilization to experience a cultural fusion, (like the Dutch and the English), and
A cultural fusion of sorts already existed in their country, with a revival of traditional Japanese culture combined with the western industrial influence.

In response to this at least partial connection, a few thoughts arise:

Though the classic conditions for a golden age in Japan existed, they did not experience a golden age for various possible reasons (most seem to think that Japan’s golden age existed in the Edo Era (1605-1868).
Maybe they did experience a golden age, or at least a silver age, of cultural achievement but we in the west don’t recognize it as easily.
Perhaps neither the Japanese or the Greeks experienced a golden age after their unexpected victories! Perhaps the appearance of a golden age in Greece in the 5th century B.C. is simply a sham propagated by generations of uncritical historians!
Perhaps unexpected military victories are in fact not the necessary spark that ignites a golden age. Perhaps instead they serve as impediments.

Numbers 1-2 both could be possible, but both lie beyond my abilities to discern. Alas, though I love the exhilarating death or glory dash of number 3, we must conclude that yes, at least Athens experienced a golden age in 5th century B.C. We shall have no slaying of dragons today.

Sigh.

But I am intrigued by #4.

Let us revisit the “Golden Ages” I listed above with a fresh eye.

After Dutch independence from Spain we did get Rembrandt and certain pleasant, if unremarkable architectural style. But the other byproducts of this victory appear more prosaic, such as the first corporation and the first stock exchange. Of course Shakespeare has few if any equals, but might we see a more sustained English cultural flowering from the late 18th-mid 19th century with Turner, Dickens, etc.?*

Furthermore, we see that some of the greatest and most profound cultural landmarks have come in the midst of defeat or decline. St. Augustine writes The City of God after the fall of Rome. Plato and Aristotle pen their penetrating insights after the Peloponnesian War. Homer’s tales come to us in the midst of the Greek Dark Ages. The Byzantines may have done their best art just decades before their fall to the Turks. The golden age of Russian literature came in the final years of the Romanov’s.**

We should also surmise, did civilizations experience a golden age without the assumed prerequisite of unexpected military victory?

Florence’s true golden age may have had nothing to do with the French in the 15th century and more to do with double-entry bookkeeping developed far earlier for medieval fairs. This skill put them in demand throughout Europe. The increased revenue and attention led to a burst of innovative construction way back in the 11th century. This lacks the pizazz of defeating the Persians, but may have been more effective.

Northern Europe experienced one of the great golden ages in history during the late 12th and early 13th centuries. Here we had a revival of individual scholarship but also the invention of Gothic architecture. One could argue that this had something to do with the Crusades, but not necessarily a direct military victory that impacted local communities. I agree with Kenneth Clark, who argues that this particular cultural boom had more to do with movement in general (even for double-entry bookkeeping) than the Crusades which took place so far away, and from which no news would be had for years at a time.

Maybe a military victory such as Athens and Japan experienced might serve as a dangerous stimulant. Both victories did not contribute to golden ages, but both contributed certainly to overconfidence and expansion. In the case of Athens they turned the Delian League and the Aegean Sea into an Empire, which certainly contributed to their demise as a result of the Peloponnesian War. As for Japan, their triumph over Russia may have spurred on efforts to turn much of Asia into their backyard.^ Historian Niall Ferguson I believe argues that Japanese expansion had more to do with the origins of W.W. II than Germany’s expansion.

The Russo-Japanese War may have been akin for Japan to the Persian Wars for Greece. But if so, perhaps World War II served as their own version of Greece’s disastrous Peloponnesian War.

Dave

*One could argue that this happened after England’s triumph in the Napoleonic Wars, however.

**A possible answer to this might be the civilizations do their best work amidst heady and confident days–things like great architectural works, whereas individuals have their most penetrating insights only in the midst of suffering.

^We think of W.W. II as a global war, but we can see Japan mainly trying to establish dominance over other Asians. The Greek city-states had a relatively common religious, ethnic, and cultural heritage (with certain distinct differences), just as perhaps did Japan, Korea, China, Manchuria, etc.

Democracies and their Aristocracies, pt. 2

Jan5 by Dave Mathwin

This is a post of multiple lives, written originally about 4-5 years ago, reposted based on class discussions . . .

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This serves as a companion piece to this post of some time ago . . .

Thanks to Martin Gurri, who makes an excellent point in his new book. The information revolution may very well serve mass democratic movements, and that may not be a good thing . . .

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Many events leading up to the Peloponnesian War helped increase tensions between Athens and Sparta. I never ascribe to theories that make certain events “inevitable,” but given the history between two of Greece’s pre-eminent powers, war was probably a better than 50-50 bet as tensions between them increased in the mid-5th century B.C. Athens’ decision to build walls around the interior of the city and its harbor clearly added to these tensions.

I had always interpreted Athens’ decision in almost entirely military terms. The Persians sacked their city in 480 B.C., and the Athenians recovered it only after a last stand naval battle in Salamis. The psychological and physical scars of that event would naturally lead to a desire for more defense.

Naturally such an action strained things between Athens and Sparta. Athens had a great navy, Sparta had its infantry. Each could hurt the other in its own way, a kind of ancient application of “M.A.D.” Now, Athens could hypothetically hurt Sparta or its allies without worrying too much about the consequences. As great as Sparta fought in open battle, they had limited abilities in siege warfare. Athens could remain safely behind the walls of Athens. You could see the walls of Athens as a first strike weapon, one that allowed them to sally forth with Sparta not able to retaliate in kind. So too, when President Reagan proposed his SDI “Star Wars” defense, many believed the invention would create a more dangerous world, not a safer one.

Peter J. Fleiss’ book Thucydides and the Politics of Bipolarity showed me a side of this issue I had not realized before. Athens’ walls would never have been built without a decisive shift towards democracy in mid-5th century Athens.

Like almost any other place in the ancient world, Athens’ identity came from its landowning farmers. However, around 600 B.C. the wealthier oligarchs gained an unstable amount of power via the Code of Draco. At this point, Athens chose a tyrant named Solon to take control of Athens for 20 years, beginning in 590 B.C. The choice revealed a lot about the Athenians. Solon had wealth, which earned him the trust of the aristocracy, but . . . he was not an aristocrat, which earned him the respect of the people at large.

Solon embarked on a program to bring social stability back to Athens. He had to walk a tightrope between competing factions and earned high praise from the ancient world for his reforms. For our purposes here, we note that

He refused to redivide land and let the wealthier aristocrats keep what they had acquired from the newly poor.
At the same time, he taxed the wealthy at a much higher rate
He helped grow a middle class by encouraging the growth of a merchant fleet

The growth of merchants provided a valve to let off social steam. In addition, many of the city’s poor got jobs rowing the ships. Solon attempted balance in his reforms, but hindsight shows us that the power of traditional elites was on the clock.

The economic story of Athens ca. 590-450 B.C. mirrors what happened to Rome when she started to shift to a more merchant oriented economy from 200-60 B.C. Rome’s shift helped to destroy the very elites who profited most from this shift. The power of elites rests on tradition. Tradition comes from continuity, and continuity comes from land. This has been the way of things from the days of yore. Once cash money, and not land, formed the primary currency, the land-owning elites lost much of their power.

As Athens naval might grew the population shifted to more urban areas. Of course poorer farmers resided outside the city walls, but we can be sure that the older, established families had most of their land outside the city limits. This land would be the first target of any invading army. Building the wall would allow for more protection, but any defensive structure sends a double message. The Germans, for example, could invade Poland with confidence in 1939 because the Maginot line signaled a purely defensive posture for France along the frontier. Building the walls around the city signaled that in the event of war Athens would willingly let the majority of its exterior farms fall into Spartan hands–until the war was won, of course.

Popular democracy would be the only plausible political vehicle to accomplish this. Land of the elites outside the walls would suffer before the merchant class within the city. In the event of a Spartan invasion, the navy, and the poor who rowed the ships, would rise even more in importance. Only the navy could then procure food for the city under siege. When the time came, Pericles proposed this exact strategy.* At the start of the Peloponnesian War Athens retreated inside its walls and let Sparta have the run of the countryside, while their navy shouldered the military load.

Athens’ walls signaled a cultural shift as well. Some of the established elites outside the walls were obviously more conservative, and might have had more in common with the average Spartan than the average Athenian inside the city. The walls repudiated the statesmanship of leaders like Cimon who sought rapprochement with Sparta.**

To me Pericles’ strategy could have the hallmarks of the “tyranny of the majority” problem discussed by so many political philosophers. Older, elite families lost land, but more importantly, they lost the possibility of gaining status in the war. In the Greek world, status gave power, not vice-versa. Pericles’ proposed strategy greatly limited the chances of the landed gentry gaining honor and status via battle, while greatly increasing the chances of the “demos” to gain in both departments.^

The failure of Pericles’ strategy, partly caused by the unforeseen plague that hit Athens, does not prove that democracies need elites. But their failure in the overall war effort might suggest it. Solon gained fame, honor, and success by pursuing a political agenda that both rewarded and burdened both the people and the elites. In the 100 years after Solon left power, Athens went from an also-ran to a major power in the Greek world. As democracy grew, so too did the people’s opportunities to strike back at their own elite. They should have resisted the temptation. As Tocqueville wrote, democracies usually win their wars, but that’s only when they unite against a common enemy. In Athens’ day the political infighting that began the war lasted only until their situation got desperate. We can’t measure the effect, but it surely hampered their efforts. We might wonder if things would have been different if Pericles pursued a military strategy that allowed for participation and honor for both the people and the gentry.

Our recent election saw much ink spilled on the question of “elites.” Some argued that Clinton is “elite” because of her connections and long political career. Others argue that Trump is elite because of his wealth. Whatever your definition, “elite” has become a dirty word. That’s a shame, because history tells us that healthy democracies need, and perhaps even embrace, their “elites.”

Dave

*Thucydides argues that such a strategy would have worked had the Athenians had the discipline to stick with it. This comment has always perplexed me for three main reasons: 1) At some point the Athenians would have had to deal with the Spartan infantry, and a policy of withdrawing behind walls would only embolden the Spartans, 2) The Athenians did have patience. They tried this strategy for about 4 years, with no real success. Initially the Spartans came, burned what they could, and left. But eventually they realized they could come and stay for much of the year with impunity, because the Athenians never challenged them, and 3) Thucydides shows some disdain for the popular democracy throughout his narrative, and this policy only strengthened the hold of the demos on affairs of state.

**The mood shifted decisively with Cimon’s ostracism. He father fought and won the Battle of Marathon. Cimon himself had many noteworthy victories against the Persians. Everything about “traditional values” pointed to a long and respected career for Cimon.

^This is one reason why I disagree with Thucydides’ assertion that Pericles’ time in power created an aristocratically leaning government with some democratic underpinnings. Here I agree with Donald Kagan that Periclean democracy was really fully democratic.

Invictus Diplomacy

Sep23 by Dave Mathwin

Historians are people too, and they need jobs just like everyone else. One way some seek to perpetuate their role in society is by coming up with new and different perspectives on the past. I am all for reexamining things and keeping them fresh, but . . . recently I have noticed a few attempts to redeem Rome’s most notorious Emperors, Nero and Caligula, and I wonder if this carries things a bit too far.* Still, despite my concerns that this represents something “weird for the sake of being weird,” we must contend, for example, with the fact that Nero had a great deal of popularity with the masses in general. We need not assume that Tacitus and Suetonius deliberately lied and distorted things to wonder if they failed to give us the full picture.

Aloys Winterling recently published a well-received biography of Caligula. Some reviews got my ire up with the word “rehabilitation,” but upon further examination, Winterling seeks to condemn Caligula in a different way, and not “rehabilitate” him. Winterling allows us to understand Rome and his reign in a different light. Traditionally most assume that Caligula’s actions had their roots in some type of madness, and this allows for us to excuse them in some ways, obscuring Caligula’s true motives.**

The Augustan synthesis fixed the bleeding in Rome after a century of intermittent civil war, but at a price of the straightforward approach Rome prided itself on. Augustus may have “pretended” not to want power and the Senate likely “pretended” to rule. But in the end, Augustus had the power and the senate didn’t. Augustus performed an intricate kibuki dance of sorts that allowed everyone to assume, if they wished, that Rome was still Rome, after all.

Caligula wanted to end this charade, Winterling argues, by carrying its logic as far it went. He deliberately sought to expose the hypocrisy involved amongst Roman elite. So, he made his horse a senator and consul as a deliberate insult, as a joke, not because he was “crazy.” Nero had a thing for the stage and part of me wonders if we might not see Caligula’s time in power as something akin to Andy Kauffman as Emperor, where all masks come off because all masks are on, and things are funny because they are . . . not really that funny. His goal seemed to be make people feel uncomfortable, something slightly akin to an act of social ‘violence,’^ which of course would presage the very real violence that characterized Caligula’s reign.

In attempting to strip off masks by putting on masks–such as “pretending” to be a god (though he might really have believed it? Anything is possible). Many other examples exist of this. When Caligula fell ill one Senator prayed for his recovery and, in an act of great ‘devotion,’ pledged his life for the health of the emperor. When he recovered, Caligula made him go through with his pledge and end his life. No more masks, no more empty words. Caligula sought to break everything down and rule by himself with no need for social niceties. One might think of Caligula’s reign as a 3 1/2 year stage act of a much more evil version of Andy Kauffman.

Diplomacy (and most aspects ofpolitics, I suppose) involves masks, and wearing such things must get tiresome. One has to say things indirectly, if at all. One says things with posture, and what one eats. The job grants one high status and honor, yet it often requires a self-effacing temperment that often will not mesh with such requirements. To say what one wants, to be an authentic man, such is the dream of every romantic. It is this same romantic who no doubt envisions that his bracing personality is just what the world has been waiting for.

Liuprand of Cremona came from northern Italy as an ambassador for Emperor Otto in the middle of the 10th century A.D. Otto sent him to Constantinople in hopes of arranging a royal marriage. Liuprand’s life as a churchman gave him an excellent education, and he had a reputation as a fine speaker. He seemed the best possible candidate to navigate the highly developed and occasionally strange world of Byzantium.

Liuprand wrote Otto an account of all of his exploits, and what makes his work so enjoyable is that he thinks he’s doing a great job. He’s “telling it like it is,” not giving the Byzantines an inch! He fights a valiant war of words on behalf of his emperor, of whom he seems to forget . . . wants a marriage into the Byzantine royal family.

One exchange, involving precedence and the tension between eastern and western churches, got a bit testy. The Byzantines speak first (Liuprand writes in the first person) . . .

“But he will do that,” said Basil, the head of the imperial bedchamber, “when he makes Rome and the Roman church obedient to his nod.”

Then I said, “A certain fellow, having suffered much harm from another, approached God and said, “Lord, avenge me of my enemy!” God answered him, “I will do it, on the day on which I will give each according to his deeds.”

But to this Basil relpied, “How late!” [this exchange weaves together quotes from Ps. 61:13, Lk 18:3].

Then they all left the disputation shaking with laughter . . .

Liuprand walks away angry, but doesn’t seem to recognize the light-hearted touch from the Byzantines throughout this conversation, obvious in their laughter over his theological “zinger.”

In another instance, Liuprand grows incensed at the “masks” of the Byzantines, as they honored the emperor’s father, with the traditional song, “God grant you many years,” often sung in Orthodox churches even today. We enter his narrative moments after he has been chastised by the emperor for finding their food too dainty and smelly.

[The Emperor] did not permit me a reply to his words, but instead ordered me back to the table. Then his father entered and sat down, a man, it seemed, born 150 years before. In their praises, or rather, their venting, the Greeks sang out, asking God to multiply his years.

From this we can discern just how ignorant and greedy the Greeks are, and how enamored they are of their own glory. They wish upon an old man, indeed–a walking corpse–what they certainly know nature will not allow, and the walking corpse wishes that which he knows will never happen, which he knows God will not do, and would not even be good for him if He did do it, but bad.

Liuprand is just the man to set them straight, if only they would listen! How greedy the Greeks are, indeed!

As one might surmise, Liuprand failed to secure a royal bride for Otto. He has no capability to see his role in this disaster, or perhaps thinks it just as well. How awful, he must have thought, to think of his leige Otto allying himself with these fish-eating onion lovers. Early during his visit he had been allowed to purchase some costly robes (though LIuprand seemed to despise all he saw and met, he did like their robes), but now the Emperor asked for them back.

When this was done, they took from me five very precious purple robes, judging that you [that is, Otto] and all the Italians, Saxons, Franks, Bavarians, Swabians, indeed all the nations, are unworthy to go about decked in cloth of that quality. But how unsuitable and how insulting it is that soft, effeminate, long-sleeved, tiara wearing, hooded, lying, unsexed, idle people strut about in purple, while heroes, that is, strong men, who know war, full of faith and charity, in submission to God, full of virtues, do not! What an insult, if that is not!” [he does add, we should note, that they reimbursed him for the price of the robes].

Thus ended his hilariously inept diplomatic career.

I know that many noble and worthy souls love the poem “Invictus,” by William Ernst Henley, but I have never liked a thing about it. The bald pagan statements in the poem always seemed to me a bit ridiculous and silly coming from the pen of a Victorian Brit. I won’t argue the point too strongly, but I think we can at least say this, that when diplomats and politicians in sticky situations attempt to be “captains of their souls” and give nothing to no man, they become at best failures, at worst, a horrible wreck of humanity. The final irony may be that such scrupulously confident people often end up the butt of jokes.

Dave

*Most academics, especially in the humanities, tend to lean left politically. I wonder then, if we should be encouraged or worried that a variety of them seem to be trying to redeem, or perhaps lean towards “explaining away,” autocratic emperors.

**We should not call Hitler, Stalin, Pol Pot, etc., “mad” unless we do wish to excuse them in some way.

^For any who might not know, Tony Clifton is Andy Kaufmann. I am one of those who (his Might Mouse routine aside), do not find him all that funny. In my defense, reading the entire Great Gatsby on stage as his ‘act’ might be audacious (he actually did this at least once), but is it funny? You might laugh at hearing about it, but would you pay to see it?

A Stick in the Mud

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World War II, Japan’s Peloponnesian War

Democracies and their Aristocracies, pt. 2

Invictus Diplomacy