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8th Grade Civics: Regime Change

by Dave Mathwin

Greetings all,

Before Christmas break we wrapped up our unit on the Cold War, and right at the end of that era we initiated a military operation to remove a leader from a Latin America country. In 1989 we invaded Panama to depose the de facto leader, Manuel Noriega. He eventually surrendered and was convicted at his trial in the United States. Purely from the perspective of a history teacher, our actions in Venezuela occurred at just the right time. We discussed in class some similarities and differences bewteen the two events, and brought in Machiavelli’s perspective to aid our discussion.

We struck at Noriega for a variety of reasons that can likely be condensed to

  • Drugs
  • Safeguarding the democratic process in Panama
  • Protecting the viability of the Panama Canal

Operation Just Cause was controversial then and now, with questions abounding about its legality according to international law and the constitutional powers of the presidency. Depending on which source one uses, casualties ranged from 500 to 1000 people, But in terms of results, most everyone agrees that the United States achieved its political goals in the operation. In time Panama became a stable, democratic state friendly to US interests. At the time, the people of Panama overwhelmingly supported the operation, and Panama’s subsequent political history bears this out.

Time will tell regarding the ultimate success of our extraction of President Maduro. Will he be convicted? Will Venezuela transform politcally? Will the US garner support in the region or not? Such questions will need a few years before we have the answer. But we can look to history and its observers to aid our speculation amidst our confusing political moment.

In class we looked at two chapters of Machiavelli’s The Prince to inform our discussion.

Machiavelli examines how one ruler can take effective control of another land and govern it either personally or via proxy. As usual, Machiavelli avoids the moral question of whether or not one should or should not do so, and concentrates on the conditions for success should one wish to undertake the action.

He identifies two paths to success:

  • Control the territory through occupation. This requires patience and a lot of money. But if one has the resources (both financial and in terms of political and military will) this will usually give one success.
  • Destroy the territory and scatter its inhabitants. This is simpler and much more effecient than the above option. However, many will consider these actions cruel and your reputation as a ruler will be sullied for posterity.

Machiavelli frankly admits that because of this, few rulers should consider seeking to control other lands. Most lack the stomach for it. Most, he argues, unable to “rip off the band-aid” will attempt to be “nice,” or take short-cuts, and their efforts will ultimately fail. It would have been much better if they never attempted anything in the first place.

Various political scientists have tried to tease out the principles behind Machiavelli’s to apply them to modern actions. For example, if one wants to occupy an entire geographic region one must indeed scatter the inhabitants of the entire region. But what if the “territory” you wish to occupy is merely the seat of power itself? In that case, when one “scatters the inhabitants” you can confine yourself to those with political power rather than the whole of the population. Here is one clue as to why Panama might have worked, for we entirely dismantled Panama’s governing elite and rendered it’s military ineffective. In Afghanistan, we certainly did not sufficiently “scatter” or destroy the Taliban, and they were able to return to power.

Time will reveal whether or not our actions in Venezeula will turn out for good or ill. Machiavelli would likely argue that taking out only Maduro would qualify as a half-measure that will likely make things more difficult for us in the long run. We shall see.

Perhaps Machiavelli’s most infamous section of The Prince comes in chapter 17, where he writes,

Coming now to the other qualities mentioned above, I say that every prince ought to desire to be considered clement and not cruel. Nevertheless he ought to take care not to misuse this clemency. Cesare Borgia was considered cruel; notwithstanding, his cruelty reconciled the Romagna, unified it, and restored it to peace and loyalty. And if this be rightly considered, he will be seen to have been much more merciful than the Florentine people, who, to avoid a reputation for cruelty, permitted Pistoia to be destroyed. Therefore a prince, so long as he keeps his subjects united and loyal, ought not to mind the reproach of cruelty; because with a few examples he will be more merciful than those who, through too much mercy, allow disorders to arise, from which follow murders or robberies; for these are wont to injure the whole people, whilst those executions which originate with a prince offend the individual only.

Nevertheless he ought to be slow to believe and to act, nor should he himself show fear, but proceed in a temperate manner with prudence and humanity, so that too much confidence may not make him incautious and too much distrust render him intolerable.

A question arises out of this, namely: Is it better to be loved than feared or better to be feared than loved? Well, one would like to be both; but it’s difficult for one person to be both feared and loved, and when a choice has to be made it is safer to be feared. The reason for this is a fact about men in general: they are ungrateful, fickle, deceptive, cowardly and greedy. As long as you are doing them good, they are entirely yours: they’ll offer you their blood, their property, their lives, and their children—as long as there is no immediate prospect of their having to make good on these offerings; but when that changes, they’ll turn against you. And a prince who relies on their promises and doesn’t take other precautions is ruined.

What is Machiavelli advocating?

First, we can note that when Machiavelli uses the word “love” he does not have the Christian definition of the word in mind. From the context, it seems that he means something akin to infatuation. We have seen how certain people rise to prominence only to experience a fall a few months later (Elon Musk comes to mind as a recent example), and given the context, I think this is what he means. Having people be infatuated with those in power does give leaders a brief moment when they could hypothetically receive a lot of support and accomplish a great deal. But like the wind, such infatuation comes and goes.

Fear also does not last forever, but it does last longer than “love” as Machiavelli defines it. By “fear” Machiavelli means (I think) the obedience and stability inspired via wanting to avoid punishment. It is stability, I think, that is Machiavelli’s key concern. For example, Machiavelli understands that leaders can be immoral, but if their immorality affects the lives of the public, such as raising taxes and pocketing the money yourself, you will not last in power long. The people will not take kindly to the disruption you brought into their lives. On the other hand, if a ruler had a mistress and destroyed his marriage, that wouldn’t be a good thing, but it would not directly impact the lives of the people. In such cases, the public will usually either forgive or look past your misdeeds.

Here is a positive spin on Machavelli’s trade-off:

Many parents, for example, do not want to be seen as the “bad guy.” In addition, the amount of decisions parents make in a day can be wearisome, and it is hard to always know what is right. Thus, some parents will often hedge about certain decisions. “Dad, can I do ‘x’?” The dad has doubts about ‘x,’ but also (like any parent), likes to say “yes” to his son. He is ultimately not sure about ‘x’ and wants to think about it.

So, dad hedges, and says, “Maybe you can do ‘x,’ under certain parameters for a certain length of time. Let me think about it.” The dad hopes that he shows that the child that he is reasonable and open. But often these kinds of actions produced confusion and unhappiness in the child.

The dad who simply says, “No,” and adds, “and you know better than to even ask,” seems cruel at first glance. The child may be momentarily upset, but will get over it soon. Above all, the child knows where he stands, and experiences no confusion. In the end, this child is probably happier in the long run.

Alas, I (and perhaps others who read this as well) have often tried the hedge described above and found experience to be a hard, but fair, teacher.

8th Grade Literature: Medea at a Crossroads

by Dave Mathwin

As we move into Book Three of the Argonautica we get introduced to Medea, which sets up the central dramatic problem of the epic.

Greek literature followed Greek religion and delved into the nature of human choice, Fate, and the gods. Actions between men and the gods are often countered and then countermanned again. The gods push and pull against each other and mankind mirrors their actions. The line between what humans can control and what they must submit to from the gods is always blurry, and so it is in our story.

Jason was set on a quest by his uncle to retrieve the Golden Fleece, an ancient gift representing kingly power. Jason claims the throne belongs to him, so it is somewhat natural that he should need some emblem of royal dignity to accompany him. He was set on this quest to fail, however, as his uncle intended. The owner of the fleece, Aeetes, will never relinquish it. Jason has so far shown he lacks the brawn to overpower anyone. He has shown cunning and diplomacy in spurts, but that will not be enough to defeat Aetes in his own backyard.

At this point, Hera, backed by Athena, enters the story. She is a fan of Jason, as Jason one time did Hera a good turn when she was disguised as an old woman. More to the point, she hates Jason’s uncle Peleus, who regularly ignored her altars. She wants Jason to have the fleece, and decides to use Aeetes’ daughter Medea to help him get it. Medea is shot by Eros/Cupid, and falls irrevocably in love with Jason. This is tragic largely because Medea will be torn between her “love” for Jason and for her duty to her family and city. For her, helping Jason would be akin to treason. If she gains Jason, she will lose everything else.

Her choice of Medea is not random. Medea is a priestess of Hecate, and Hecate was the goddess of witchcraft, liminal borders, and magic.

Hecate was also the goddess of crossroads, which is reflected in the three directional statue of Hecate above. And this is appropriate as well, for Medea’s decision whether or not to help Jason will put her life on an irrevocable path. She will risk everything for Jason, but Jason may not be worth that risk.

The Argonautica is more slippery than previous Greek epics. The Iliad is rife with tragedy but has a tragic granduer. The Odyssey gives us a flawed hero but also justice and catharsis at its conclusion. The Odyssey also gives us a wise and virtuous heroine in Penelope.

Here in the Argonautica we have neither a bold hero or a virtuous heroine. Medea is sympathetic, but she is no Penelope. In many ways the story wants to see her action as selfish, though today many would not view it so. We are much more individualistic than the ancient Greeks. Medea’s actions cut her off from everyone and everything–except Jason. If Jason cannot successfully integrate her into his world, she will have no world at all. The Greeks thought that acting virtuously required a social context. For Aristotle, to be without a defined community made it impossible to realize one’s full humanity. Medea’s choices put her in danger of essentially becoming a non-person.

The postscript for Jason and Medea is a bitter one. Medea flees with Jason, and Jason agrees to marry her out of sympathy, gratitude, and in part, to keep her safe. But from the start their relationship was off balance. Medea was much more drawn to Jason than Jason to Medea, and Medea had to give up a great deal more than Jason.

Still, Jason had to give up something as well. He was the son of a king, and to marry a king’s daughter would certainly not be beneath him. But, he married Medea without her family’s consent (her father wanted Jason dead) and so his marriage would likely bring conflict to his own land even if he made it back safely. To marry without the family blessing of either side put their relationship at risk from the word ‘go.’

There is an interesting vignette in Medea’s story not in The Argonautica but in other versions of the story. On their way home, Medea has an encounter with Queen Arete, who can be compared to Penelope in terms of virtue and the best of feminine wisdom. Medea asks Arete for advice, and Arete tells her to leave her history of magic, spells, and sorcery behind, especially when it comes to her relationship with Jason. In the end, Medea will not follow this advice. In a classic instance of particularly Greek irony, her use of magic to keep Jason attached to her only ends up driving her away. Jason and Medea eventually have children (the number varies according to the source), but in the end, Jason divorces Medea. To make sure that Jason will have no heirs and no legacy, Medea murders his new bride and her own children as well.

The original readers knew all of this lore, and all of adds extra weight to Medea’s choice to help Jason and his crew escape. Medea chose wrongly, but the tragedy of Greek literature is that choosing rightly still would have meant the deaths of Jason and his crew at the hands of Aetes, and the failure of his quest. If the quest failed, well, we have no story. Hera and Jason sacrifice Medea for their own ends, and Medea destroys her family (and even later murders her brother) to achieve her own ends as well.

Earlier this week we had fun discussing what elements a good relationship needs, such as family support, mutual attraction, similar backgrounds, and so forth. The class did not always agree about where to rank these elements in their order of importance, but it became obvious that Jason and Medea had very little to build on and much working against them. In their favor, we can note their mutual attraction for one another, and the fact that both came from royal families. Against them, we can list:

  • Neither had the blessing of their families
  • Their “relationship” was formed very quickly in a very intense situation
  • Jason owed far more to Medea than Medea owed to Jason.
  • Conversely, after her betrayal Medea depended entirely on Jason for her protection and status. She uses this at times to guilt Jason into marrying her.
  • They had very different experiences growing up
  • Medea’s service to Hecate made Jason suspicious of her, while at the same time, her powers were needed at crucial moments to save Jason and the crew.
  • They forced enormous stress from the very start of their attraction for one another.

It is easy to see that Jason and Medea had little chance for a successful future together.

In the end, everyone may or may not be playing everyone else, and this quest does not give us the catharsis that we hope for. This is what makes The Argonautica a late-civilization epic, and why we can compare Jason’s character to the context of Machiavelli’s The Prince, which we are also reading this year.

Dave

8th Grade Literature: The Dog Days

by Dave Mathwin

One of the advantages of reading ancient texts is that they expose us to an unfamiliar world with an unfamiliar way of thinking. But for us to appreciate this we sometimes need to look behind some of the archaic or strange phrases we encounter to help the story make sense. After we get a sense of the story’s meaning, we can then consider its application for us today.

At a few different points in the story the narrator compares Jason’s attractiveness to the star Sirius. This star appeared close to the sun betweeen July 3-August 11, the so called “dog days” of summer. The Sirius star is the brightest sun in the constellation Canis Major (hence the term “dog days”). Some surmise that the ancients believed that the closeness of this bright star added to the heat of the sun, intensifying all things about what summer brings.

We can perhaps easily understand why human beauty would be linked with that of a star. The brightness of Sirius stands out above all other stars in the sky, just as when we notice that special someone across the room, all others fade from view. But in comparing Jason to Sirius in particular, Apollonius gave a foreshadowing hint that his audience in AD 300 would have understood immediately in a way we do not.

The ancient Greeks valued temperance and finding a mean between extremes. Cold and heat both bring good things, but the extremes of both are destructive. Excessive heat brings destruction to crops and to the soul. We know that on hot days, for example, crime increases. Our tendency towards anger and lethargy increases with extreme heat.

Romantic feelings are also associated with heat, but it is Spring, not Summer, that we associate with romance. Summer brings excess, and this foreshadows the destructive relationship Jason will end up having with Medea. The brightness of Sirius is a foreboding brightness. Too much light can harm just as much, or perhaps even more, as too much darkness.

But there is a flip side to the dog associations Apollonius foists upon Jason, and this subtlety helps makes The Argonautica literature worthy of our attention

Dogs had a dual place in ancient and traditional socieities (something we have touched on regarding Roland in this post). To recap briefly, dogs are, on the one hand,

  • Linked with false prophets and unrestrained appetite

but on the other,

  • Associated with obedience, humility and protection.

As noted previously, Jason does not exercise typical heroic leadership. He is not an unstoppable warrior like Achilles. He does not lead from the front like Roland, or possess the single-minded brilliance of Captain Nemo. Jason does show great concern for his men. He is a guardian, of sorts, for his crew, and this fits with how dogs were viewed in the Roman empire. We see here two Lares on a coin, and you can see the dog form:

Here is a later image, where they take a more distinctly human form:

So this connects positively to Jason’s leadership, and Apollonius includes this imagery to let you know of Jason’s strengths.

But dogs in the ancient world were never quite fully domestic creatures as we are used to today. They guarded borders, but would not have been brought inside the home. But Jason is the son of a king, and he should be king himself, were it not for his usurping uncle. Throughout the story, however, Jason rarely seems comfortable as a leader. He hangs back, he worries, he has insecurities. Initially his crew thought Hercules should lead. In one instance, he decides to leave an island at night because of a fair wind, but everyone knows that we have bad associations with night because of the confusion it can bring. Sure enough, Jason ends up leaving Hercules behind by mistake, and turning a ship around in the ancient world to row against the wind is basically impossible. In another instance, friendly hosts mistake Jason and his crew for invaders (again, this happens at night), and Jason accidentally kills the host king. When it comes time to box the brutish Amycus to allow them to leave his island peacefully, it is not Jason that steps forward, but another crew member.

Those who know the full story of Jason (which we will discuss at the conclusion of the Argonautica) understand that Jason will continually feel trapped and pressed by circumstances, and not able to transcend them. He never attains the greatness associated with other Greek heroes.

All this is wrapped up in Apollonius’ references to him as Sirius, the dog star, which many in the ancient world feared to see.

8th Grade Civics: Value Propositions

by Dave Mathwin

This week we looked at a debate about immigration to highlight a crucial skill Aristotle wishes to teach us, a skill democracies are prone to lack. As we saw last week, advocates of different political ideologies or platforms tend to absolutize the values their position highlights, while forgetting that their position inevitably fails to cover every conceivable value. We are finite creatures, and our values are finite, in the sense that every gain/advance will come at a cost. We have to leave something behind.

This is experientially true. If you want to get married and have a family, you have to sacrifice the fun of dating and meeting other people. If you have children, you have to leave behind the life of doing what you like and disposable income. You can certainly argue that married life with a family is a better choice than a life of perpetual dating. But worst of all would be the person who tried to have both at once. The married person who also wanted to date other people would wreak a great deal of havoc. The perpetual dater might simply provoke raised eyebrows.

Theologically this rings true as well, i.e., “Except a seed fall to the ground and die, it remains only a single seed; but if it dies, it produces much fruit” (John 12:24). If we are to have life, either spiritually or physically, we must have death, whether that be physical death (the food we eat) or the death of a way of life (giving up a life of dating for marriage).

When faced with a controversial and thorny political issue such as immigration, I wanted the students to use Aristotle’s template to do the following:

  • See the strengths of each side of the argument
  • Understand the costs/what you have to sacrifice to achieve your aim
  • Discern that the debate was not about good values vs. bad values, but involved deciding which kinds of values to prioritize over other values.

The debate we viewed can be seen here:

Both speakers made good arguments, but I wanted the students to see the key underlying assumptions each side brought to the debate. How we view those key assumptions will likely determine what side we favor.

Not everyone loves argument by analogies, but I think analogies have a lot of power to distill key principles of an argument.

The “Pro” side of the debate (Prof. Kaplan) argues that people should be able to travel freely to seek out the best life for themselves they possibly can. He uses the analogy of a house and guest in the following manner:

  • Kaplan declares that he is not arguing that whomever wishes should be able to come to his house if he does not want them in his house.
  • If he wants someone to come in his house, and that someone wants to come, he should be allowed to come to Kaplan’s house. True, his neighbor might disapprove, but what business is it of theirs anyway?
  • He asserts that the “Con” side of the debate essentially argues that people should not have the freedom to extend invitations to people to come over to their house, and that those invited should not have the freedom to accept. This is absurd.

The “Con” side of the debate (Prof. Wellman) also uses the illustration of a house, but with a different emphasis from Kaplan:

  • He asks us to imagine that he leaves his house and goes to a conference for a week. When he returns, he asks his wife what she did while he was gone. She replied that she played cards with friends, got her hair done, and volunteered. Wellman implies that it would be absurd for him to object to such activities.
  • But, his wife then adds, I also decided to adopt a child from a foreign country. Here he is–meet your new son! Wellman declares that he would have every right to object to this action. His wife’s “freedom of association” has dramatically impacted his own freedom of association without his consent.

There are some deeper foundations to the arguments from both sides.

Kaplan, a libertarian, seems to believe in two key principles. The first is that the individual is the primary unit of society, and so our laws should be oriented around maximizing individual freedom. Secondly, libertarians tend to believe that maximizing economic freedom (which includes the free movement of labor) is a primary way to boost freedom overall. Economic growth is a moral issue, for greater economic growth means a better life for more people, especially those on the border between the lower and middle classes. So, in his analogy of the house, the homeowner is an employer and the guest is a potential worker.

I am not sure of the philosophical background of Wellman, but he argues that the group (though perhaps not necessarily the family, a la Aristotle) is the primary political decision making unit. Decisions that involve altering the makeup of a household/political community should be made by the community as a whole (or their representatives). In his “house” analogy he envisions a family rather than an employer.

Both analogies are persuasive, and both have their limits. Kaplan’s analogy doesn’t work as well when the guest wants to blast heavy metal music out of his window, which would obviously adversely affect the community. Wellman’s analogy makes perfect sense when comparing adoption to citizenship. But what if his wife just invited a friend over for coffee (maybe similar to a temporary work visa)? Hypothetically Wellman might still object to associating with his wife’s friend, but in that case our sympathies go to his wife. We would expect Wellman to bear up with the “incovenience” of the temporary association.

Deciding between these two positions boils down to the key divide between seeing the group/family or the individual as the primary political unit of society. Kaplan is suspicious of governments exercising authority over the individual, and Wellman much less so.

Hopefully, the students will see how their beliefs about these key “fork in the road” questions influence their position on immigration, whatever that might be.

Have a great weekend,

Dave

8th Grade Civics: Aristotle and the Problem of the Good

by Dave Mathwin

This week we continued to look at Aristotle thoughts on how societies actually function and the downstream effects of how we make decisions.

Democracies foster freedom, which we appreciate. This freedom inevitably produces disagreements, but we expect this and factor it into our society and politics. But Aristotle wants to see what it is we disagree about, why we disagree, and whether or not we are aware of what this means.

In Book III of his Politics Aristotle writes,

Who shall govern when different groups within a state seek power? Suppose, for example, that we want only the “good” to govern—that is, those who live best and possess the best abilities– no matter their number [that is–if they are the majority or a small minority]. It is always best for the good to govern, but if within a state, there exists no common method of determining who is “good” [i.e., no common moral or religious criteria to decide] then such a method is not open to the populace. 

Criteria are necessary. If oligarchies wish to make the “good” those with a sufficient amount of wealth, or proper birth, then such a claim can be understood by all. But not all will agree with the criteria. 

How can even expediency agree with such a view? If we say that birth or wealth confer the right to rule, what about those with better birth, or more wealth? In only a short time, then, will such a system descend into the rule of one man.

But those who favor the rule of the many [democracy] have similar problems. Should the many rule simply because they are more numerous? We have seen, however, that the “good” are in short supply. If we give rule to the many because they are stronger than the few, or simply more numerous, we are logically driven to conclude that where one man or one group is stronger than another, they should have more power than others. But neither would we want what is best to be determined by mere counting.

All of this shows that neither birth, nor wealth, nor mere numbers, are the proper principle from which to govern a state.

Aristotle begins by making the obvious assertion that every society should want those that are “good” in power making decisions for us. We would naturally want those who are wise, just, intelligent, and so forth to govern. The problem arises when we have no concrete, agreed upon method for determining what wisdom and justice mean. For example, does one gain wisdom through growing up poor in an isolated rural area, or by growing up wealthier in an urban area and traveling the world, attending great schools, and so forth? We could say that both paths could or could not produce wisdom. But this wouldn’t help us unless we know how to choose between the two kinds of wisdom when presented to us. Likely, most would disagree about that question.

In absence of any concrete criteria about the more important metaphysical questions, societies turn to something more measurable, such as birth, wealth, or in the case of democracies, numbers. This has the advantage of being obvious and measurable, i.e., “Everyone from one of these 10 families can govern, or everyone with ‘x’ amount of money can govern. In the case of democracies, those with the majority of votes can govern. This can eliminate disagreement about who gets to rule, but as Aristotle points, out this gets us nowhere towards discovering “the good.” Ultimately, societies that disagree about the nature of ultimate “goods” will eventually, most likely, either devolve into factional principalities, or require force to hold everything together via force and centralization of power.

As mentioned, democracies give a great deal of freedom to its people to form their own conclusions and give them rights that they may express their opinions freely. In fact, one can argue that democratic societies almost encourage disagreement. This solves and creates problems all at once.

We discussed in class that we have problems as a society not so much because one side is good and the other is bad, but because we fail to agree how to properly order different virtues. We used the following example:

Imagine that you have a group of 100 people living in the wilderness. Other groups of people live around you, some are hostile, some are friendly, some could go either way. You built walls around your enclosure to protect your group and to give them a defined place to call home.

One night Tom and Bill are charged with guarding the walls and the gate of entrance. At the gate a man knocks. You don’t know him, but he appears hurt and sick. Do you let him in?

Tom thinks not. You are not sure about this man. He could be a spy, he could be faking, he could be dangerous, he could even be an assassin. Your primary duty is to protect the people behind the walls. Tom’s heart strings are tugged, but he steels himself to his primary duty of protecting those behind him.

Bill wants to let him in. The man seems to be strong and skilled. If we help him, he could help us and strengthen our community. Besides, we have a duty to care for those in need that goes above our duty to defend the walls.

The question should not be, “Who is the bad one, Tom or Bill?” Both Tom and Bill have good values and want to do good things. The question instead should be, “Who wants what is best in this circumstance?”

If Tom and Bill (symbolic stand ins for the community at large) actually instead agreed either to let him in or not, you have a cohesive society with a clear hierarchy of values. If they disagree, well, let the games begin.

We can drill down further. This decision might be context dependent. Suppose that instead of one man at the gate, there were thirty. Here the risk/reward of letting them in increases dramatically, and one can reasonably think that the risk outweighs the reward. But if we change the scenario from thirty men to one small child asking for asylum, the risks disappear, and it seems obvious that Tom and Bill should let them in (though one student objected, stating that, “No way! She could be one of those specially trained child assassins! :).

But even as the decision becomes context dependent, one still needs an agreed upon hierarchy of values to ensure a stable society. Without this, Aristotle suggests, you will need to be guided by concrete criteria that will solve the surface level problem. But, while an individual or a society can bury the metaphysical issue for a time, it will return. When it does, such questions will demand an answer.

8th Grade Literature: Back to the Front

by Dave Mathwin

This week we started our next book, The Argonautica, sometimes called Jason and the Argonauts. The story involves a sea journey with a motley assorted band of travelers in search of the famous golden fleece. The story contains a variety of tropes common in all epic literature, but the author, Appolonius oF Rhodes, adds a unique twist to the story that sets this text apart from other Greek epics, one that dovetails nicely with some of the questions we explore in civics class.

All stories of epic heroes inevtiably look to interpret the past. The hero has already done his work and lived on in the minds of men. The author then celebrates the hero and his accomplishments. The hero may be a complicated figure, but his mission and his impact is not. Epics usually are about the founding of a city/civilization, (The Aeneid) or the re-founding, or transition between two epochs (like The Lord of the Rings, or perhaps The Iliad and The Odyssey).*

But The Argonautica, written around AD 300, is not like this. The author has a different agenda, which perhaps comes from his different political and historical context.

Right in the beginning of the story, we notice some odd things for a heroic epic:

  • The crowd that gathers to see the crew off on their adventure are not cheering, but crying and wailing for those they fear never to see again.
  • The men of the ship do not pick Jason to lead them, but Hercules. Hercules defers to Jason, but the choice of Jason as the leader was made by him, not the crew.
  • Right after the ship leaves the harbor, we see Jason full of doubt, not confidence. His doubt is immediately contrasted with the swagger of a another crewmember.

Apolloinius wants us to wonder about the nature of Jason’s heroism, or perhaps even question it entirely, again, an odd way to begin an epic poem about a famous hero.

The first known written Greek epic poem was very likely the Iliad, which dates to somewhere around 800 BC. But the story of Jason chronologically predates Homer and the events of the Trojan War (in one scene we see the crew waving to the infant Achilles, for example). Homer wrote in the context of the end of the Bronze Age/Greek Dark Ages and the beginning of the city-state era. Thus, he could look back wistfully in part because he could look forward with hope.

But Apollonius writes in the midst of a free-fall decline of the civilization he inhabited. The third century AD saw Rome continuously involved in civil wars. The Roman Emperor at the time Apollonius wrote was Diocletian (reigned 284-305 AD). Diocletian at least understood the crisis, and did attempt to hold back the tide of Rome’s cultural collapse. Unfortunately, his most significant attempt to restore Rome involved an all-out persecution of Christians, which had the unintended effect of hastening Rome’s demise.

We have no idea what the story of Jason entailed originally. We can guess how Apollonius reinterprets the tale, as he has Jason faced with a serious of impossible choices. Unlike other epic heroes, Jason seems to have limited agency over events. His actions seem scripted for him. At his best, Jason finds a way to negotiate his way out of difficulty. This is certainly an important political skill, but it may not be “heroic.” Jason’s world mirrors that of Apollonius’ world in certain respects. The best one can hope for is to kick the can, and hope that maybe things will turn out ok in the end.

In this structure we see the tragic dimension of much of Greek literature. GK Chesterton may have said it best, when he wrote that,

It is said that Paganism is a religion of joy and Christianity of sorrow; it would be just as easy to prove that Paganism is pure sorrow and Christianity pure joy.

Such conflicts mean nothing and lead nowhere. Everything human must have in it both joy and sorrow; the only matter of interest is the manner in which the two things are balanced or divided.

And the really interesting thing is this, that the pagan was (in the main) happier and happier as he approached the earth, but sadder and sadder as he approached the heavens. The gaiety of the best Paganism, as in the playfulness of Catullus or Theocritus, is, indeed, an eternal gaiety never to be forgotten by a grateful humanity.

But it is all a gaiety about the facts of life, not about its origin. To the pagan the small things are as sweet as the small brooks breaking out of the mountain; but the broad things are as bitter as the sea. When the pagan looks at the very core of the cosmos he is struck cold. Behind the gods, who are merely despotic, sit the fates, who are deadly. Nay, the fates are worse than deadly; they are dead.

*Tolkien wrote his great work in the years right after World War II.

8th Grade Civics: Aristotle on justice and Justice

by Dave Mathwin

We tend to think of “Justice” almost exclusively in terms of the proper punishment of bad behavior. If someone robs a bank, we say that justice is done if he is caught and sent to prison. If someone is wrongfully accused, we declare that justice is done when the judge dismisses the case.

The ancient world, however, had a broader conception of the word “justice,” using it to describe all things being rightly ordered in one’s life and in the life of the body politic. A rightly ordered world might involve things that are directly moral, or sinful. So, for example, having one’s bed could be a portion of having a “just” house, but not making the bed would not necessarily be a sin. It would however, be a defect.

We see this use of justice in Old Testament frequently, such as in Psalm 54, which reads, “O God save me in thy name, and judge me in thy strength.” Here the psalmist is not asking God to punish him for his sins–far from it. Rather, God’s judgment and His salvation are one in the same. The psalmist is asking God to rightly order his being, to put him back together again appropriately, which would involve much more than overt sin.

Aristotle noted long ago that different forms of government have different forms of justice which both make sense and are incomplete all at once. He writes,

What are the oligarchic and democratic ideas of justice? Both sides have part of justice on their side, and both sides fail to express justice in its fullness. 

In democracies justice means equality, especially in the distribution of political power. That is, political power should be put in the hands of as wide a range of people as possible. A poor man, for example, holding power with no experience or education, is considered a triumph. This creates, in their view, a stable state where everyone feels included, and this is “justice.”

In oligarchies, inequality in the distribution of power is considered just. If people are not equal in wisdom, education, wealth, and the like, they should not have an equal share of political power. This helps the state have rulers that are best able to govern. In turn, a well governed, stable state will be “just.” 

The advocates of democracy and oligarchy both make erroneous judgments. Democrats hold that if men are equal in basic humanity, they should be equal in the distribution of power and property. Oligarchs hold that if men are not equal in talent, wisdom, and skill they should not be equal in most anything else.

True justice means that those who have contributed to the proper end [it’s reason for being] of the state, should have rights, property, and power in proportion to that contribution. For that reason, all must pay attention to the “goal” of the state in which one lives.

Aristotl’e ideas might seem confusing, but if we break the concepts down into something smaller and more in line with our experience, it might make more sense.

Imagine a family has three sons, Bob (18), Joe (12), and Sam (6). One evening the mom discovers that the she has three Oreo cookies left in the pantry. What would be just, and most likely to lead to a harmonious order within the family. Most would probably suggest that here the focus should be on pure equality, i.e., each son gets one cookie each.

But imagine now that the mom has three different sized pieces of steak, small, medium, and large. Most would likely not argue that justice requires them to cut up all the steaks and give each the same amount. Here most would lean towards something along the lines of the oldest getting the biggest steak, the youngest the smallest, and so on. To be sure, this is still “equality,” but it manifests itself differently here. If the family also had a 6 month old son, no one would suggest that justice demands he should get steak, as his stomach could not even digest it properly.

Parents usually treat their children differently when it comes to bedtimes, to the great annoyance of the younger siblings. Most, however, intuit that it would not be just to have all three go to bed at the same time. Here the context differs, and the meaning of justice would differ as well.

Ideally a state will have a degree of flexibility around their concept of justice, allowing for context to have its say. But as Aristotle suggests, what direction a society leans toward will depend on what that society values as its purpose or goal. For example, if you live in a society that believes that age should be respected above all else, you would defer decisions to the elderly, and you would give them the best seat at the table, and so forth. This is not equality, but it is justice according to one’s guiding principles.

An example more close to home comes from Elaine Calabro’s article in The Atlantic about Canada’s practice of MAiD, or “Medical Assistance in Dying.” The practice has grown from allowing euthanasia only in cases of advanced terminal illness, to those who simply want to avoid suffering. Calabro writes, “At the center of the world’s fastest growing euthanasia regime is the concept of patient autonomy. Honoring a patient’s wishes is of course a core value in medicine. But here it has become paramount.” Some physicians express moral or practical objections, but most who work in the industry find their work meaningful. As one physician noted regarding his work in assisted suicides, “We’re so happy [the patient] got what they wanted.” Given the basic values that created the practice, its expansion was “inevitable” according to the author.

Here we can note that a core value, i.e, people fulfill their purpose by achieving their desires, which drives much of economy, politics, etc. has simply morphed into the medical and ethical field. Hence, “Justice” in this case means giving people their autonomy, their say, in the most important life decisions. One can easily see how various other democratic practices and ideals come from this same source. This shows how one particular view of justice works in some areas (we should pick our political leaders, and pick what we want for desert)* might not work in other areas of life. We have already seen how parents use different views of justice depending on context in family life, and this is a good argument for its application to political life.

But which form of justice should be used when, and why? This is at the core of many of our current political disagreements. Aristotle also hints at the fact that these “justices” must somehow be connected to Justice in some final sense. Without agreement on Justice, we will struggles with our mini justices.

Dave

*I have a variety of friends who have traveled in Europe, and especially as one moves south and east (Italy, Greece, etc.) they notice that when going to a restaurant, often the proprietor will size you up and tell you what you will have. If you object and point to the menu, saying, “I was hoping for some lamb instead of the pork,” you will simply be told that “There is no lamb, only pork.” Eventually you agree to “submit” or leave the restaurant.This shows a different culture around food, but also a different culture around authority, tradition, the individual, and so on.

8th Grade Literature: Just the Facts

by Dave Mathwin

As the story continues and the characters spend more time in the Nautilus, students noted that many of the chapters contain boring lists of different plants and fish they see under the waves. This may surprise those who remember certain iconic moments in the story, such as the attack of the squid and the Nautilus’ attacks of other ships. But many chapters do contain lists of fish and other technical details of undersea life and life at sea.

These portions of the story do not resonate with me very much, and I have sympathy with the student’s reactions. But such portions of the story also give us an opportunity to gain insights into the mind of the author and the times in which he wrote.

We can first note that the story was originally published in installments in a bi-monthly periodical. It is possible that Verne includes such detail merely to lengthen his story and get paid more for publishing more. But the story was a smash hit when it debuted in 1870, and we should surmise that while financial gain may have played a part in this narrative choice, it cannot entirely explain it.

When we get incrongruity between our time and the past, this gives us an opportunity to notice how cultures change over time and what that reveals not just about them, but us as well.

Verne published his book at a time when people generally had

  • Faith that the future would be better than the past, and
  • Trust that science, and the increase of knowledge that science would bring, would be the main cause of that progress.

Captain Nemo is a bit of a superior type, and frequently in the story we see him correcting various views held by the enlightened and gentlemanly Prof. Arronax. Nemo’s travels and knowledge give him “the truth” about various historical and especially naval events. The reading public likely heavily bought into the common cutural narrative about the connections between knowledge, power, and progress. The facts obtained by the Professor about the nature of undersea life would likely have been viewed in 1870 not as random data points but priceless treasures that could help mankind advance.

The fact that these sections of the book fall on deaf ears in our day says much about us as well. The 20th century revealed that the power that comes with science has revealed itself as a double-edged sword. The knowledge that can heal us can just as easily be used to destroy us. The cataclysmic conflicts of WW I and WW II taught us this, as did Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

But we also no longer trust science as a discipline. Our trust in institutions in general has eroded, which has led to many over the last several years calling into question various things that science was supposed to have settled for us. On the other side of the 20th century, science has lost its charm and its persuasive hold on the culture at large.

One might say that Verne wrote at the “high noon” of the West’s trust in science. At the beginning, trust in science might have needed explained. At the end of an era, science would need defended. Here, in our story, the trust placed in science by all characters is implicit. They are fish who do not know they swim in water.

The embedding of the story in a sea of facts perhaps helps us focus more intently on the main character of the story, the mysterious Captain Nemo.

The other main characters are somewhat stock. They do not change and the character is easily defined.

  • The Professor wants to learn and discover new things
  • Conseil (the Professor’s servant) wants to obey his master and classify the Professor’s observations
  • Ned wants to hunt and eat. At different times in the story, he also wants his freedom.

Captain Nemo is more complex, but Verne also wrote his most famous character after a type, the “Byronic Hero,” named after Lord Byron. Byronic heroes have the following characteristics:

  • They are socially isolated by their own choice
  • They have suffered some great, unkown tragedy that has marked them for life
  • They are intelligent and arrogant
  • They are highly emotional, and given to violent outbursts of temper
  • He has significant personality flaws and knows it, making him a “tortured soul.”

The story makes no attempt to explain Captain Nemo’s origin. We can reasonably surmise it involves the death of his family, but otherwise we have only scattered hints. Verne did well to leave Nemo as a sketch instead of a finished portrait. It is the mystery of Nemo, and the questions we have about his actions, that make the story compelling. It says something of our age at least, and perhaps of humanity in general, that we prefer mystery to fact.

Have a great weekend,

Dave

A Culture of Victory, a Culture of Collapse

by Dave Mathwin

The evaluations of the historically minded often move like a pendulum.  I see this throughout my own life. Initially, like everyone, I thought Napoleon a great genius.  But then you think again . . . after all, he lost.  And what about what happened in Egypt, to say nothing of Russia?  And what of all those armies he beat from 1799-1809–nothing more than decrepit, out-dated Enlightenment entities destined for the trash-heap anyway.

After a while, however, I thought again and gave credit where due.  Sure, his armies were the perfect foil for the Austrians and Prussians, but he helped create the French army that formed that perfect foil.  Like any great leader he imprinted himself all over his army.  And we say that the armies he faced were bound for trash-heap only with the benefit of hindsight.  Napoleon put them there, after all.

But . . . he lost.

Writing about The Civil War comes with similar pitfalls.  As the states began to come together in the Progressive Era (ca. 1880-1920) we looked for unity and healing from our past, and we lionized Lee as a romantically doomed warrior, who nevertheless, performed heroic feats.  Lee’s generalship for that era stood second to none.  Beginning in the 1960’s historians swung the narrative.  They focused on Lee’s irascible temper, his huge losses, his weak opponents, his strategic failures at Antietam, Gettysburg, and so on.

Joseph Glatthar’s excellent General Lee’s Army brings balance back to this narrative.  He studies the army of Northern Virginia in depth and concludes51tuzkutcjl that of course, Lee was a great commander.  He helped forge a great army with a great record in the field.  He deserves much of the credit he receives.

But . . . he lost, and we do well to remember this. Lee’s ultimate defeat may well have had something to do with Lee, and the army he commanded.

Glathaar shows us how the strengths and weaknesses of Lee and his army come from the same place by looking at culture, demographics, the life of the common solider, and those directly under Lee’s command.

We do have to take into account Lee’s frequent opponent, the Union’s Army of the Potomac.  From a pure match-up standpoint, it would have been interesting to have Lee, Longstreet, and Jackson oppose Grant, Sherman, and Thomas for the duration of the conflict.  As it happened Lee only faced Grant towards the end of the war, and then Grant had to work with the Army of the Potomac, where he inherited a completely different, and vastly inferior, operational and command culture than what he worked with out west.

In  A Savage War, the authors point out that the Army of the Potomac inherited a disproportionate number of soldiers recently graduated from West Point.  A West Point education tended at that time to over-emphasize math, engineering, and organization (something that U.S. Grant lamented in his memoirs).  Such skills have their place, but should not have pride of place in officer training.  Those that drank from the firehose of this approach would inevitably give way to excessive caution. Meticulous organization takes a lot of time.  In addition, once you have built something so “pure” and pretty, one might not wish to do anything that might get it dirty. This helps explain why McClellan (tops in his class at West Point) could think himself a great general even though he couldn’t actually win a battle.  He was excellent in doing what his education, at least in the narrow sense, trained him to do.

The plodding, rigidly organized Army of the Potomac gave Lee and his men a perfect target given their particular strengths.

Glaathar points out that the men in Lee’s army fully believed in their cause and came with the strongest of motivations.  Ante-bellum southern society had the duel influences of the aristocratic planter and the Appalachian border-settlers.  Both of these cultures emphasized honor and courage.  Both of these cultures preached a vision of manliness that gave way to no one.  Letters home from top officers on down the ranks show a constant desire for combat and to prove themselves.

Lee both understood and embodied this himself.  Many other accounts of his generalship focus on his ability to psychologically assess his opposite number on the Union side and devise the proper approach accordingly.  Glaathar adds to this, showing how Lee knew how to use his men expertly.  They proved superlative in the counter-attack, and could march quickly and fight hard back-to-back.  We see this at Bull Run, in Jackson’s Shenandoah campaign, and at Chancellorsville, as at other times.

But both the aristocratic planter and border settler culture had its weaknesses, and these too had a significant impact on the war.

Organization:

Appalachian border culture emphasized freedom of initiative and eschewed “systems” like tight and itchy collars.  Lack of formal structure gives one great freedom.  But an army of tens of thousands needs tight organization to act as a unit.  Without this organization, large scale offensives could never be undertaken.

Discipline:

Many in the south seceded because they did not want to be told what to do by anyone they did not like or respect.  They tended to run hot and cold alternatively.  Sure enough, Lee had a hard time enforcing discipline.  We hear a lot about Union armies looting in the South, but Lee’s army at times looted the Virginia countryside for supplies, stole from the bodies of dead Union soldiers,** and had a hard time maintaining equipment.  Many went AWOL unexpectedly not necessarily out of cowardice but because “they felt like it.”

Honor and Ego:

The aristocratic nature of the army came through in the upper echelon of the officers.  The bickered for position and rank.  At times they disobeyed directly if they felt insulted.   Some at times seemed to prefer maintaining their honor to winning a battle.

All of these weaknesses would make coordinated action over a large distance difficult.  Perhaps this is why Lee spread out his armies in his invasion of the north in 1863.  It gave each commander more independence. But . . . when the time came for coordinated action, invariably Lee’s forces could not pull it off.

Shelby Foote wrote that, “Gettysburg was the price the South paid for having Lee command their army.”  I’m guessing that he meant at least that no one is perfect.  But I surmise that he meant more.  The weaknesses of Lee’s army, and of much of southern culture, outed themselves at that battle.   There the Confederacy fought a weaker opponent, but in ways that favored Union’s strengths.  The good ground and interior lines of the Union forces at Gettysburg played right into the laps of the North’s slower, plodding, yet more bull-headed nature.^

Lee’s 1863 invasion may have been a mistake, but he intuited correctly that the South could not win a long and protracted war.  He emphasized the Confederacy’s logistical shortcomings, but the army had cultural shortcomings as well.  Perhaps Lee had read and recalled Tocqueville’s thoughts on aristocratic and democratic societies at war.  Tocqueville comments that,

In aristocracies the military profession, being a privileged career, is held in honor even in time of peace. Men of great talents, great attainments, and great ambition embrace it; the army is in all respects on a level with the nation, and frequently above it.

We have seen, on the contrary, that among a democratic people the choicer minds of the nation are gradually drawn away from the military profession, to seek by other paths distinction, power, and especially wealth. After a long peace, and in democratic times the periods of peace are long, the army is always inferior to the country itself. In this state it is called into active service, and until war has altered it, there is danger for the country as well as for the army.

It may be remarked with surprise that in a democratic army after a long peace all the soldiers are mere boys, and all the superior officers in declining years, so that the former are wanting in experience, the latter in vigor. This is a leading cause of defeat, for the first condition of successful generalship is youth. I should not have ventured to say so if the greatest captain of modern times had not made the observation.

A long war produces upon a democratic army the same effects that a revolution produces upon a people; it breaks through regulations and allows extraordinary men to rise above the common level. Those officers whose bodies and minds have grown old in peace are removed or superannuated, or they die. In their stead a host of young men is pressing on, whose frames are already hardened, whose desires are extended and inflamed by active service. They are bent on advancement at all hazards, and perpetual advancement; they are followed by others with the same passions and desires, and after these are others, yet unlimited by aught but the size of the army. The principle of equality opens the door of ambition to all, and death provides chances for ambition. Death is constantly thinning the ranks, making vacancies, closing and opening the career of arms.

. . . An aristocratic nation that in a contest with a democratic people does not succeed in ruining the latter at the outset of the war always runs a great risk of being conquered by it.

Dave

*Interesting parallels exist between Lee and Napoleon’s armies.  Both faced stiff, rigidly organized opponents.  Both emphasized movement, speed, and capitalized on the energy and spirit of their men.  Both had great success early, but both also suffered significant setbacks as their respective wars dragged on. Each faced manpower issues, but also, their opponents got better over time and neither Napoleon or Lee made the necessary adjustments based on the improvement in their opponents.

In fairness to the Army of the Potomac, the soldiers displayed extreme courage at Fredericksburg, and were stalwart in the defense at Gettysburg.

**Many southerners decry the actions of Sherman.  Glaathar demonstrates that Lee’s army did many of the same things, albeit on a smaller, less organized scale, as Sherman’s army.  And . . . they did this not just in Pennsylvania but in Virginia as well.

^Fredericksburg might serve as a good example of these qualities, with a negative outcome.

8th Grade Literature: Mobilis in Mobili

by Dave Mathwin

We continued with 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea this week and got our first introduction to Captain Nemo.

I hope that the students in the class will not only understand the events of the stories we read, but also understand the meaning of events within the story. That is, the students will hopefully learn to see how literature can entertain them but also challenge them to potentially think and see the world differently. This means learning how to read, in the sense of learning how to discern authorial intent within the text.

So, for example, the characters of Professor Arronax, Ned Land, anmd Conseil assert that the crew of the Nautilus are “pirates” multiple times after entering the vessel. Clearly, Verne means to ask the question as to whether or not Nemo should be considered among likes of Blackbeard. The story may reject this notion, but Verne introduces it to us for a reason. He wants us to entertain the possibility.

No one questions that Captain Nemo is the most important and enigmatic character of the story. The fact that Nemo has lived on in our cultural parlance, and that his character has been adopted into other stories, shows that Verne hit the mark with his creation. Before the characters formally meet Nemo, they are introduced to his motto, another clue to its importance in unlocking the meaning of the story. Around the ship the characters see the letter “N” surrounded by the words

Mobilis in Mobili

The phrase can be translated literally as “Moving in a Moving Thing,” but is better captured more colloquially as “moving within motion,” or some also suggest, “changing within change.”

Verne could be described as a writer of popular fiction, but there is a lot to unpack in this phrase as it relates to the story.

Not coincidentally, the phrase is associated with a submarine and a crew that never touches land. They are always within water, which is continuously fluid and changing its shape. So, from a metaphysical point of view, the Nautilus and her crew must always “change within change,” but this continuous flux becomes in itself a new stasis. Land represents stability, and without land, they will need to continuously adapt. This continuous adaptation still produces recognizable patterns.

This lends insight into Nemo’s later assertion that he is bound by no law other than his own. Without the stability of land, there can be no fixed law of conduct. Yet, this continuos change does produce something resembling stability within Nemo’s personality. His law resembles that of civilization, but it still stands slightly askew, and hopefully the students will see this.

The fact that Nemo’s super submarine is called the Nautilus also reveals much. The word choice has several levels of meaning:

  • In Greek, the word nautilus means simply, “sailor.”
  • The nautilus is a sea creature within a shell. It is the sole living creature whose bony structure is in fact a shell. The submarine becomes the skin of the crew, an extension of themselves.
  • Metaphorically, the grooves of the shell spiral downward continuously, a foreshadowing of the end of the book, as well as a metaphor for Nemo’s life. Under the sea, enclosed in the sub, there would be no natural way to measure the passage of time. Without the ability to mark time, one will be in danger of not being able to discern meaning from experience.

The Nautilus offers a kind of luxury and temporary interest for the scholar, Professor Arronax. But for the more normal Ned Land, the sub is nothing more than a prison. Here again Verne wants us to consider not only if meaning requires time, but also if meaning requires stability. Is the world Nemo built enough to sustain him psychologically and morally, or will it leave Nemo only to the whims of his moods?

We will continue to explore these questions as we get into the meat of the story in the following weeks.

Dave

8th Grade Literature: Jiro Dreams of Sushi

by Dave Mathwin

Greetings all,

This week we mostly took a break from 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea as students finished their rough drafts of their Song of Roland essays. In the syllabus I handed out at Orientation, I mentioned that we would be seeing two movies this year that fit with the themes of our particular unit. Both Old Man and the Sea and The Song of Roland have similar characters and ask some of the same questions. Both Roland and Santiago

  • See their life almost wholly through their job/vocation (knight and fisherman)
  • Dedicate themselves to their task with great courage, risking their life for their “calling.”
  • Avoid “thinking too much”–analysis leads to paralysis for both men. For both men, the truth of their lives comes in their actions.
  • Achieve greatness, but they could also both be accused of having too narrow a focus. They have to sacrifice a great deal to become who they are.

Our movie for this unit is Jiro Dreams of Sushi, a documentary about the man many believe to be the greatest sushi chef in the world. His restaurant is small, nestled in the midst of a metro train stop. But foreign dignataries have come to dine at his establishment, and there is a now such a long wait list for diners that one must call long in advance to get a seat.

The movie has a great to reccomend it. It immerses one into the world of sushi and the personality of Jiro. While obviously no documentary can explore every area of anyone’s life, one gets the sense that the film captures the essence of Jiro the man. One can admire a great deal about Jiro:

  • He has worked with sushi since he was a little boy. He has no real formal training and everything he knows he gleaned from his own experience.
  • He could have easily grown rich through various means involving franchising, promotionals, etc. but he keeps a low profile. Sure, he is reasonably well off as an individual, but one immediately senses that it is not money, but the craft that drives him.
  • He has a wholehearted dedication to perfection in his craft. Only a small percentage of what he and his staff make actually gets served.
  • Critics say the key to his success is the simplicity and purity of his dedication. He serves sushi, and only sushi. There is no music, fancy lights, or even conversation in his restaurant. Nothing is there to distract from the food.

Jiro is probably more evocative of Santiago instead of Roland, but as you can see, he shares similarities with both of them. Both Hemingway and the author of The Song of Roland have a great fondness for their main characters. But their admiration for Santiago and Roland, respectively, is not uncritical. Great literature knows how to ask questions of itself. Jiro Dreams of Sushi also has great admiration for its subject. But it would not be such an influential documentary film if the movie only involved hero worship.

A closer viewing of the film reveals the costs of Jiro’s life and achievements. Like Santiago, he seems a bit of a loner. The movie shows him visiting with friends and family, but this seems added on merely as an attempt to show him as “well rounded.” Jiro does not get that gleam in his eye from visiting family. Like Roland, his dedication to his own sense of calling leaves little room for other voices. As one restaurant critic says, no truly great chef is interested in collaboration. One senses that perhaps he should have retired some time ago and let his son take over, but this seems an impossibility for him.

My hope is that the students will notice some of these shadows around Jiro’s bright sun, and that this might help him understand what we have read so far this year.

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

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

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:

  1. 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.
  2. 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 Literature: The Dog of God

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 Literature: Medieval Epic Poetry

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