He watched his terrible, terrible bourbon decrease. He followed its progress with that of the waning calendar. No new nectar could be afforded until December had left him to January's embrace. Another three ounces, another day. When he slowed down his indulgence time itself slowed down, a tortured dream, a Dantean foil.
It was really nothing short of pathetic, seeing that a bottle of god-forsaken OLD HEAVEN HILL only costs $9.99 (well, and your soul and your sense of taste).
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Opinion 126: My daughter the Muse
Watching my baby lately it's become clear to me that it is really quite difficult to pick up and place in your view the very thing on which you are sitting. This lesson has, I think, endless ramifications in the intellectual sphere.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Opinion 125: Nicholson's Burden
Seems I've been duped (by the wonderful man pictured above) into writing my senior paper on some aspect or another of Gregory Nazianzus' autobiographical poetry. I've picked up Father McGuckin's fine biography of Gregory once more, finding again this lovely poem (a poem, by the way, which is inexplicably double-spaced, in spite of my best efforts):"St Gregory Nazianzen"
Of all the ancients,
You I think I could live with,
(some of the time)
comfortable in you
like an old coat
sagged and fraying in the back,
(its pockets drooping with important nothings
like string, an manuscripts of poems)
perfect for watching you off your guard,
rambling round your country garden,
planting roses, not turnips,
contrary to the manual
for a sensible monk;
master of the maybe;
anxious they might take you up all wrong;
shaking your first at the Emperor,
(once he had turned the corner
out of sight);
every foray into speech
a costed regret.
Your heart was like a spider's silk
swingling wildly at the slighest breeze,
too tender for this tumbling world
of mountebanks, and quacks, and gobs,
but tuned to hear the distant voices
of the singing stars
and marvel at the mercy of it all
-John McGuckin
1996
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Opinion 124: mea culpa
Really a cruel post for Christmas (opinion 123). I apologize to all the good-natured spirits who rightfully took umbrage at my assualt. Truly, there are only two topics worthy of derision on the day of the Lord's birth: Satan and Herod. Yet they are not so easy as targets, being that they don't put on contemporary worship services come Christmas eve. Nor do they wear big beige sweaters.
Why do I get the sense in so many large American conservative church services that, given the right circumstances and some sort of get-out-of-jail-free card, the singing and hand-raising could very easily and quite quickly turn into an orgy?
But I digress...
Why do I get the sense in so many large American conservative church services that, given the right circumstances and some sort of get-out-of-jail-free card, the singing and hand-raising could very easily and quite quickly turn into an orgy?
But I digress...
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Opinion 123:Traditions
Christmas Eve services at the fam's e-free church: a yearly exercise in aesthetic humiliation.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Opinion 122
Ah, winter break! How like an angel of heaven you appear to me now, promising peace and rest where none were expected. Joy! Joy I say! In the highest and lowest places of the earth! A child has been born and this man has thereby laid his pen and ink down. Ah, hallowed cove of irresponsibility. Ah, splendid arena of money-making, gift-receiving and feasting! Ah, drinks now already imbibed and those waiting their imbibing! Sweet, hallowed tree in our corner. Am I numb in mind, am I snookered? Have you just spoken to me? Oh, nature's home-residing guest, what have you said? Speak oh fir, speak oh needles, richly ornamented and somehow coming alive, alive. Oh, nutcracker! What riches will you, having broken off hard and shallow shells, provide? Christmas! Christmas! Christmas! Dare I say that not since Bethlehem has a Christmas been so important, so life-saving. I do dare! And I say! Ah, foolish words from a man in love with his foolishness! Come now wrapped delights! Come now terrible, terrible songs, sweet only in abstraction. Hark! Hark! Ah, the bed - the warm and tender holiday rest. Oh feast of sleep! Oh feast of slumber! Sleep, now baby, do not stir! Take as your example that holy child who wept not (or so we are told in some inane tune or another). Follow his lead, child, follow! Thy father has a hard time now under sweet and heavy slumber, induced by the heavenly nectar of Kentucky! Hark! Make way! This pilgrim is drifting down, down, upon the floor! Hark! No room in the end? Heavens, no, he just couldn't find his room. The floor will do! This is a season of humility, of caves and caverns and festive taverns, flitting birds of snow and feather, warm sugar cookies, frigid weather, ancient tales hard to believe, deficits and receipts hard to conceive, car rides, far rides, build us a snow slide, heaven showers its gifts!
Opinion 121: a pessimistic historian
"Never surely did more terrible calamities of the Roman People, or evidence more conclusive, prove that the gods take no thought for our happiness, but only for our punishment."
-From Tacitus' Histories
-From Tacitus' Histories
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Opinion 120: Good Lord, its Tacitus
*I can't get the damn footnotes to work automatically. You'll have to scroll down, dear reader.
Great Reversions: A Closer Look at Tacitus’ Opening Remarks (Annales I)
Urbem Romam a principio reges habuere. Tacitus opens his Annales with something of a blunt reminder. In spite of the fact that the very word “king” remained a taboo in polite Roman society, the idea of Roman monarchy begins his annalistic project. For Rome had been ruled by kings “from the beginning” (a principio) (1.1)[1]. And now, with over a hundred years having passed since Augustus had returned Rome to the rule of one, Tacitus is making an unpleasant suggestion: a great reversion has happened. The Roman Republic, it seems, was merely an unexpected swerving from the norm. As Katherine Clarke has written, “…Tacitus saw monarchy as the basis of power; like Appian, he found it possible to compress the whole history of the Republic into a few sentences before returning to Rome in its natural monarchical state” (Clarke 85). Kingship, as far as Tacitus could tell, was at the heart of what it meant to rule in Rome, a city which had now come full circle. Yet history never repeats itself exactly. Rome knew a king again (though of course he was never named as such), yet times had changed. There were new challenges and new disasters. There were also difficulties unique for the historian. These too are specifically noted by Tacitus in his opening remarks. Here he speaks of a time not nearly as far removed, a time mere decades in the past in which wicked emperors had been foolish enough to cause the distortion of history, which was then “falsified on account of fear” (ob metum falsae) (1.10). Tacitus, beginning his own work, seeks to avoid a second reversion to this previous state of censorship. As we work our way through Tacitus’ introduction, we shall see these two reversions at play, both immediately and in later books, particularly in they key historiographical passages of Annales IV.
“From the beginning kings had ruled the city of Rome; Lucius Brutus put in place liberty and the consulship” (…libertatem et consulatum L Brutus institutit) (1.1-2). Tacitus follows his monarchical reminder with an immediate turn: liberty and the elected office of the consulship were set up, or instituted – they had not come naturally. His readers, no doubt, are quite aware that this libertas and the office of the consulatus are in their own age not what they had been under Brutus. For liberty, in Tacitus’ age, was under the cool moderation of the principate, and the consulate was an office of honor, not action. Tacitus’ next turn, moreover, adds a nuanced depth to his theses. We are told of the brevity of despotic rule in the Republican era. Dictatorships were held, when necessary, only “for a time” (ad tempus) (1.2), nor was the office of the decimvir “beyond two years” (ultra biennium), nor did the consular jurisdiction of military tribunals “have strength for long” (diu valuit) (1.2-3). Prior despotisms, like those of Cinna and Sulla, were “not extended” (non longa) (1.4). With these expressions of temporality Tacitus produces for his readers an image of fluidity. Here was a lively and active arena of change, change which nevertheless led to the strength of the Republic. This description is in great contrast to the stagnant state which Tacitus describes in Annales VI. There, after again reminding his readers of the motion and growth of the past, he writes of his own imperial topic, a work, “constrained and inglorious: a peace wholly unmoved or modestly provoked, the state of a sad city” (nobis in arto et inglorius labor: immota quippe aut modice lacessita pax, maestae urbis res) (IV.32.2.1-2). Tacitus is here, right from the beginning, implying that his task will not be one of describing the rapid movements of a lively State, but rather of wading through the sorrowful (and at times pathetic) details of a depressed regime. Rome, having come full circle, is loosing steam.
Yet Tacitus’ portrayal is nothing if not nuanced[2]. He briefly mentions Pompeius and Crassus, men whose names were enough to recall their stories into the minds of Tacitus’ readers. Then he moves on, explaining Augustus, “who, when all were worn out by civil strife, accepted power under the name of ‘princeps’” (qui cuncta discordiis civilibus fessa nomine principis sub imperium incepit) (1.5-6). Here Rome’s freedom has led to Rome’s exhaustion. This it not merely an observation that too much volatility leads to chaos; it is a hint at what Tacitus makes more explicit later in his work: Republics don’t last. Again returning to Tacitus’ supremely important digression in Annales IV, we find Tacitus musing on the nature of human government. He explains, “For the people or the elites or individual men rule all nations and cities” (nam cunctas nationes et urbes populus aut primores aut singuli regunt) (IV.33.1.1-2). An obvious statement, to be sure, but Tacitus does not leave it at that. He continues, “A form of state chosen and brought together from all three [types of rule] is easier praised than produced, and even if it is produced, by no means is it able to exist for long” (delecta ex iis et conflata rei publicae forma laudari facilius quam evenire, vel, si evenit, haud diutruna esse potest) (IV.33.1.2-3). This is a bold statement in light of the Republican ideals which had once made Rome so great, to which even in the time of the principate lip-service was given. Tacitus is a pessimist. A reversion to monarchy, he implies, was not only likely- it was inevitable.
At this point Tacitus begins to change his topic. He gives a nod to the historians of old, reminding his readers that the dramatic events of the past are well-recorded and easily accessible (and were at any rate already common knowledge). His is a new task. Yet even this admission is not without a veiled insinuation. Tacitus states that the prosperous and disastrous events of the past were those of the “old Roman people” (veteris populi Romani) (1.6). These old Roman people are spoken of in such a way as to mark a clear distinction between them and the “new” Roman people living now under the principate. A clear division has occurred; an age divides Rome from Rome. It is no surprise then, to find numerous examples throughout Tacitus’ Annales of the slow passing away of the remnant of good old Roman men. Tacitus will go on throughout the Annales to paint two sides of a chasm: on one stand most of the populus vetus Romani. But a few of their number stand on the other side, making their way through the difficult terrain of a new Rome and slowly going extinct. The chasm between them is nothing other than the principate.
With this grave reminder, Tacitus turns to his second great introductory theme. With it, he is no longer pointing out a Roman reversion to the distant and primordial past, but rather warning his readers to guard themselves against the temptations of reverting to a more recent practice, namely foolish censorship. He starts by admitting that even up to the times of Augustus, “graceful characters” (decora ingenia) were not lacking to describe his rule (1.8). Yet such talents did not last. He explains that eventually “hindered by a swelling servility” (gliscente adulatione deterrentur) (1.8-9), their craft lost its strength. Yet servility to Augustus was only the start of a long historiographical descent into darkness. Its great plummet was to come after Augustus’ death. Tacitus continues, “The affairs of Tiberius and Caius and Claudius and Nero, while these men themselves were flourishing, were falsified on account of fear, and after they had died, were controlled/sedated/feigned [3] by fresh hatreds” (Tiberii Gaique et Claudii ac Neronis res florentibus ipsis ob metum falsae, postquam occiderant recentibus odiis compositae sunt)(1.10). We know, of course, that Tacitus will not leave this claim unsubstantiated. Again in Annales IV we find Tacitus philosophizing first on the nature of his craft (dangers included) and then offering us the ill-fated historian Cremutius Cordus as evidence.
In what is disguised as an aside, an editorial musing, Tacitus makes his case. After positing that critics of ancient history are few and far between, he turns his attention to the contrasting present. “But the descendents remain of those who, while Tiberius was ruling, endured punishment or disgraces. And even if the families themselves should be now extinct, you will find those, who on account of their similar behavior, reckon that alien crimes are being imputed to them” (at multorum, qui Tiberio regente poenam vel infamias subiere, posteri manent; utque familiae ipsae iam extinctae sint, reperies qui ob similitudinem morum aliena malefacta sibi obiectari putent) (IV.33.4.1-5). Tacitus then increases the potency of this veiled reference to his contemporary readers (those who are at least potentially hostile to his efforts), by the story of Cremetius Cordus himself. The re-telling, of course, concludes with Tacitus’ own moralizing: those that try to stomp out the truth to hide their evil will only end up more evil in the eyes history. Censorship is a futile task.
We see then, that the ending of Tacitus’ opening passage in Annales I is the conclusion of an act of authorial apophasis. Tacitus has just hinted at the failure of prior historians, and in doing so he has given a tacit warning of his own intention to set the record straight, even – I would venture – if his task becomes a threatened one. But he immediately brushes this unpleasant topic aside, as if it were irrelevant. “Thus my plan is to share a little about Augustus and his final acts” he claims, “And then about the principate of Tiberius and other things” (inde consilium mihi pauca de Augusto et extrema tradere, mox Tiberii principatum et cetera). This will be done "without bitterness or party spirit (sine ira et studio) of which he himself is far from (procul) (1.12). It is easy to picture a Tacitus grinning sardonically as he summarizes what will be such a dirty and potentially dangerous work with such sterile and optimistic words.
Tacitus opens his Annales with a concern for reversions. He claims immediately that the city of Rome has reverted to its original state. Furthermore, he quietly yet firmly pushes against any attempts to revert to the censorship under which his historian predecessors suffered. It is true, of course, that we do not know for sure which princeps Tacitus himself was writing under. Nor do we know the precise conditions of censorship and control that either Nerva or Trajan held over literature. Yet throughout the Annales we can be sure of Tacitus’ view of his own task, the seeds of which lie in his opening remarks. These reversions, of course, are linked the ultimate reversion – the one most fascinating and fertile for Tacitus as an author. This is the reversion from nobility into savagery, from honesty into deceit, namely, the reversion from good to evil [4]. Tacitus’ brief introduction is pregnant with all these themes, each teased out as his long narrative continues.
1- All quotes are from Annales Liber I unless otherwise noted. All translations from the Latin are my own.
2-Too nuanced, really. Which reminds me offhand of my favorite little footnote, found in Lukac’s At the End of an Age: “Sheridan on Gibbon: ‘Luminous? I meant voluminous’”. But I digress.
3-I have chosen to provide three definitions of the adjective “compositus”, as all three seem capable of fitting well into Tacitus’ opinion concerning the untrustworthiness of his predecessor’s histories.
4-And indeed, we can justifiably call this an actual “reversion” and not just a “getting worse”, inasmuch as one can picture in classical education the human animal becoming the “rational animal”, and then, through vice, returning merely to an animalistic state.
Works Cited
Clarke, Katherine. “In arto et inglorius labor: Tacitus’ Anti-history”. Proceedings of the British Academy. 114. 83-103. Print.
Tacitus Annales Liber I, 1.1-12
Vrbem Romam a principio reges habuere; libertatem et consulatum L. Brutus instituit. dictaturae ad tempus sumebantur; neque decemviralis potestas ultra biennium, neque tribunorum militum consulare ius diu valuit. non Cinnae, non Sullae longa dominatio; et Pompei Crassique potentia cito in Caesarem, Lepidi atque Antonii arma in Augustum cessere, qui cuncta discordiis civilibus fessa nomine principis sub imperium accepit. sed veteris populi Romani prospera vel adversa claris scriptoribus memorata sunt; temporibusque Augusti dicendis non defuere decora ingenia, donec gliscente adulatione deterrerentur. Tiberii Gaique et Claudii ac Neronis res florentibus ipsis ob metum falsae, postquam occiderant recentibus odiis compositae sunt. inde consilium mihi pauca de Augusto et extrema tradere, mox Tiberii principatum et cetera, sine ira et studio, quorum causas procul habeo.
Great Reversions: A Closer Look at Tacitus’ Opening Remarks (Annales I)
Urbem Romam a principio reges habuere. Tacitus opens his Annales with something of a blunt reminder. In spite of the fact that the very word “king” remained a taboo in polite Roman society, the idea of Roman monarchy begins his annalistic project. For Rome had been ruled by kings “from the beginning” (a principio) (1.1)[1]. And now, with over a hundred years having passed since Augustus had returned Rome to the rule of one, Tacitus is making an unpleasant suggestion: a great reversion has happened. The Roman Republic, it seems, was merely an unexpected swerving from the norm. As Katherine Clarke has written, “…Tacitus saw monarchy as the basis of power; like Appian, he found it possible to compress the whole history of the Republic into a few sentences before returning to Rome in its natural monarchical state” (Clarke 85). Kingship, as far as Tacitus could tell, was at the heart of what it meant to rule in Rome, a city which had now come full circle. Yet history never repeats itself exactly. Rome knew a king again (though of course he was never named as such), yet times had changed. There were new challenges and new disasters. There were also difficulties unique for the historian. These too are specifically noted by Tacitus in his opening remarks. Here he speaks of a time not nearly as far removed, a time mere decades in the past in which wicked emperors had been foolish enough to cause the distortion of history, which was then “falsified on account of fear” (ob metum falsae) (1.10). Tacitus, beginning his own work, seeks to avoid a second reversion to this previous state of censorship. As we work our way through Tacitus’ introduction, we shall see these two reversions at play, both immediately and in later books, particularly in they key historiographical passages of Annales IV.
“From the beginning kings had ruled the city of Rome; Lucius Brutus put in place liberty and the consulship” (…libertatem et consulatum L Brutus institutit) (1.1-2). Tacitus follows his monarchical reminder with an immediate turn: liberty and the elected office of the consulship were set up, or instituted – they had not come naturally. His readers, no doubt, are quite aware that this libertas and the office of the consulatus are in their own age not what they had been under Brutus. For liberty, in Tacitus’ age, was under the cool moderation of the principate, and the consulate was an office of honor, not action. Tacitus’ next turn, moreover, adds a nuanced depth to his theses. We are told of the brevity of despotic rule in the Republican era. Dictatorships were held, when necessary, only “for a time” (ad tempus) (1.2), nor was the office of the decimvir “beyond two years” (ultra biennium), nor did the consular jurisdiction of military tribunals “have strength for long” (diu valuit) (1.2-3). Prior despotisms, like those of Cinna and Sulla, were “not extended” (non longa) (1.4). With these expressions of temporality Tacitus produces for his readers an image of fluidity. Here was a lively and active arena of change, change which nevertheless led to the strength of the Republic. This description is in great contrast to the stagnant state which Tacitus describes in Annales VI. There, after again reminding his readers of the motion and growth of the past, he writes of his own imperial topic, a work, “constrained and inglorious: a peace wholly unmoved or modestly provoked, the state of a sad city” (nobis in arto et inglorius labor: immota quippe aut modice lacessita pax, maestae urbis res) (IV.32.2.1-2). Tacitus is here, right from the beginning, implying that his task will not be one of describing the rapid movements of a lively State, but rather of wading through the sorrowful (and at times pathetic) details of a depressed regime. Rome, having come full circle, is loosing steam.
Yet Tacitus’ portrayal is nothing if not nuanced[2]. He briefly mentions Pompeius and Crassus, men whose names were enough to recall their stories into the minds of Tacitus’ readers. Then he moves on, explaining Augustus, “who, when all were worn out by civil strife, accepted power under the name of ‘princeps’” (qui cuncta discordiis civilibus fessa nomine principis sub imperium incepit) (1.5-6). Here Rome’s freedom has led to Rome’s exhaustion. This it not merely an observation that too much volatility leads to chaos; it is a hint at what Tacitus makes more explicit later in his work: Republics don’t last. Again returning to Tacitus’ supremely important digression in Annales IV, we find Tacitus musing on the nature of human government. He explains, “For the people or the elites or individual men rule all nations and cities” (nam cunctas nationes et urbes populus aut primores aut singuli regunt) (IV.33.1.1-2). An obvious statement, to be sure, but Tacitus does not leave it at that. He continues, “A form of state chosen and brought together from all three [types of rule] is easier praised than produced, and even if it is produced, by no means is it able to exist for long” (delecta ex iis et conflata rei publicae forma laudari facilius quam evenire, vel, si evenit, haud diutruna esse potest) (IV.33.1.2-3). This is a bold statement in light of the Republican ideals which had once made Rome so great, to which even in the time of the principate lip-service was given. Tacitus is a pessimist. A reversion to monarchy, he implies, was not only likely- it was inevitable.
At this point Tacitus begins to change his topic. He gives a nod to the historians of old, reminding his readers that the dramatic events of the past are well-recorded and easily accessible (and were at any rate already common knowledge). His is a new task. Yet even this admission is not without a veiled insinuation. Tacitus states that the prosperous and disastrous events of the past were those of the “old Roman people” (veteris populi Romani) (1.6). These old Roman people are spoken of in such a way as to mark a clear distinction between them and the “new” Roman people living now under the principate. A clear division has occurred; an age divides Rome from Rome. It is no surprise then, to find numerous examples throughout Tacitus’ Annales of the slow passing away of the remnant of good old Roman men. Tacitus will go on throughout the Annales to paint two sides of a chasm: on one stand most of the populus vetus Romani. But a few of their number stand on the other side, making their way through the difficult terrain of a new Rome and slowly going extinct. The chasm between them is nothing other than the principate.
With this grave reminder, Tacitus turns to his second great introductory theme. With it, he is no longer pointing out a Roman reversion to the distant and primordial past, but rather warning his readers to guard themselves against the temptations of reverting to a more recent practice, namely foolish censorship. He starts by admitting that even up to the times of Augustus, “graceful characters” (decora ingenia) were not lacking to describe his rule (1.8). Yet such talents did not last. He explains that eventually “hindered by a swelling servility” (gliscente adulatione deterrentur) (1.8-9), their craft lost its strength. Yet servility to Augustus was only the start of a long historiographical descent into darkness. Its great plummet was to come after Augustus’ death. Tacitus continues, “The affairs of Tiberius and Caius and Claudius and Nero, while these men themselves were flourishing, were falsified on account of fear, and after they had died, were controlled/sedated/feigned [3] by fresh hatreds” (Tiberii Gaique et Claudii ac Neronis res florentibus ipsis ob metum falsae, postquam occiderant recentibus odiis compositae sunt)(1.10). We know, of course, that Tacitus will not leave this claim unsubstantiated. Again in Annales IV we find Tacitus philosophizing first on the nature of his craft (dangers included) and then offering us the ill-fated historian Cremutius Cordus as evidence.
In what is disguised as an aside, an editorial musing, Tacitus makes his case. After positing that critics of ancient history are few and far between, he turns his attention to the contrasting present. “But the descendents remain of those who, while Tiberius was ruling, endured punishment or disgraces. And even if the families themselves should be now extinct, you will find those, who on account of their similar behavior, reckon that alien crimes are being imputed to them” (at multorum, qui Tiberio regente poenam vel infamias subiere, posteri manent; utque familiae ipsae iam extinctae sint, reperies qui ob similitudinem morum aliena malefacta sibi obiectari putent) (IV.33.4.1-5). Tacitus then increases the potency of this veiled reference to his contemporary readers (those who are at least potentially hostile to his efforts), by the story of Cremetius Cordus himself. The re-telling, of course, concludes with Tacitus’ own moralizing: those that try to stomp out the truth to hide their evil will only end up more evil in the eyes history. Censorship is a futile task.
We see then, that the ending of Tacitus’ opening passage in Annales I is the conclusion of an act of authorial apophasis. Tacitus has just hinted at the failure of prior historians, and in doing so he has given a tacit warning of his own intention to set the record straight, even – I would venture – if his task becomes a threatened one. But he immediately brushes this unpleasant topic aside, as if it were irrelevant. “Thus my plan is to share a little about Augustus and his final acts” he claims, “And then about the principate of Tiberius and other things” (inde consilium mihi pauca de Augusto et extrema tradere, mox Tiberii principatum et cetera). This will be done "without bitterness or party spirit (sine ira et studio) of which he himself is far from (procul) (1.12). It is easy to picture a Tacitus grinning sardonically as he summarizes what will be such a dirty and potentially dangerous work with such sterile and optimistic words.
Tacitus opens his Annales with a concern for reversions. He claims immediately that the city of Rome has reverted to its original state. Furthermore, he quietly yet firmly pushes against any attempts to revert to the censorship under which his historian predecessors suffered. It is true, of course, that we do not know for sure which princeps Tacitus himself was writing under. Nor do we know the precise conditions of censorship and control that either Nerva or Trajan held over literature. Yet throughout the Annales we can be sure of Tacitus’ view of his own task, the seeds of which lie in his opening remarks. These reversions, of course, are linked the ultimate reversion – the one most fascinating and fertile for Tacitus as an author. This is the reversion from nobility into savagery, from honesty into deceit, namely, the reversion from good to evil [4]. Tacitus’ brief introduction is pregnant with all these themes, each teased out as his long narrative continues.
1- All quotes are from Annales Liber I unless otherwise noted. All translations from the Latin are my own.
2-Too nuanced, really. Which reminds me offhand of my favorite little footnote, found in Lukac’s At the End of an Age: “Sheridan on Gibbon: ‘Luminous? I meant voluminous’”. But I digress.
3-I have chosen to provide three definitions of the adjective “compositus”, as all three seem capable of fitting well into Tacitus’ opinion concerning the untrustworthiness of his predecessor’s histories.
4-And indeed, we can justifiably call this an actual “reversion” and not just a “getting worse”, inasmuch as one can picture in classical education the human animal becoming the “rational animal”, and then, through vice, returning merely to an animalistic state.
Works Cited
Clarke, Katherine. “In arto et inglorius labor: Tacitus’ Anti-history”. Proceedings of the British Academy. 114. 83-103. Print.
Tacitus Annales Liber I, 1.1-12
Vrbem Romam a principio reges habuere; libertatem et consulatum L. Brutus instituit. dictaturae ad tempus sumebantur; neque decemviralis potestas ultra biennium, neque tribunorum militum consulare ius diu valuit. non Cinnae, non Sullae longa dominatio; et Pompei Crassique potentia cito in Caesarem, Lepidi atque Antonii arma in Augustum cessere, qui cuncta discordiis civilibus fessa nomine principis sub imperium accepit. sed veteris populi Romani prospera vel adversa claris scriptoribus memorata sunt; temporibusque Augusti dicendis non defuere decora ingenia, donec gliscente adulatione deterrerentur. Tiberii Gaique et Claudii ac Neronis res florentibus ipsis ob metum falsae, postquam occiderant recentibus odiis compositae sunt. inde consilium mihi pauca de Augusto et extrema tradere, mox Tiberii principatum et cetera, sine ira et studio, quorum causas procul habeo.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Opinion 119: the type of nonsense kids write in schools
Odyssean aspects in Fight Club
Chuck Palahniuk’s Fight Club chronicles the hope of homecoming in a fantastic world of violence and uncanny illusion. It is tale insane and unbelievable, which nevertheless has a concreteness and reality to it which captivates and convinces. It is here, in this absurd mix of the everyday and the bizarre, of phantasmal illusions and very real wounds, that one finds its universal themes. These aspects mark its kinship with Homer’s Odyssey. This comes, of course, as no surprise. For the Odyssey itself is for us the prototype of all adventure stories; it is moreover the story of identity par excellence. With an open imagination then, we will be able to find Homer’s story in Palahniuk’s. Here are tales of battle and masculinity. Here we find a fantastic journey home, filled with erotic temptations and divine frustrations.
Masculinity and Violence
The first vital link between the Odyssey and Fight Club is, paradoxically, the great divide which separates them. It is a divide of values and cultures; it is a divide between men and boys. It is this gap, this absence, which compels Fight Club’s characters. “We have no great war,” declares a disgusted Tyler Durden. He asks a blunt question, out of place for a decadent and technocratic time and age: “How much can you know about yourself if you’ve never been in a fight?” These are awkward questions of desperation. These are questions of a culture violently sundered from its heritage by an apathetic embrace of non-violence (or, more precisely, the “off-shoring” of violence – the late heritage of professional soldiery and digital fantasies). Homer’s age stands in distinct contrast. For Homer, a man’s reputation is not made by the mere acquisition of wealth and property (though indeed these were marks great men), but the battles waged by each man which justified his acquisitions. A man’s κλέος, his renown, was found in strength of shield and spear. Western man’s avoidance of this conflict produces the pathetic and self-mocking tone Fight Club’s unnamed Narrator takes while examining his life: Ikea catalogues, a decent wardrobe, a respectable job…and no real Life. The real quest of the film’s men, even in their ignorance, are the faraway fields of Ilion and the unexpected gift of Life found only in embrace of Death. Finding his concrete battlefield and the age-old heritage of violence reborn in a basement, the Narrator confesses: “You weren’t alive anywhere like you were there.”
A Strange Journey Home
Through the course of the film it becomes clear that our unnamed Narrator is engaged in a most bizarre and dangerous journey home. His home of course, is his identity. His journey is filled with fantastic images, the wily feminine, and much sorrow. For the unnamed Narrator too is a “Nobody”. This name (or lack thereof) links him with Odysseus’ crafty twist on his own name in the cave of the Cyclops. Both confess a lack of selfhood. Odysseus, his name so easily morphed both into “Nobody” (οὐδείς), and “To Sorrow” (ὀδύσσομαι), is a man losing his very self inasmuch as he has lost his home. His struggles to return are a purgatory of unbelievable challenges and mythical foes. The Narrator’s desire to die on one of his many meaningless airplane journeys reminds us of Odysseus’ confessions that it would have been better for him to have fallen on the fields of Troy than to be constantly batted about a world away from his true home. The Narrator’s “tour” of weeping reminds us of Odysseus’ many tears, always “eating out the heart” within him. Yet there is a deeper connection, a more ambiguous turn. For the Narrator, inasmuch he realizes that he is not himself and that he is not home, is also in some way greatly enlivened by and attracted to the strange world that he has found himself in. Tyler Durden is not the whole truth about him, yet he is some part of the truth about him. His “other” world is a world dangerous and strange, to be sure, but it is also a world of strength and eroticism, a world of vitality. In like manner Odysseus’ journey is one of the temptations of “the other”. For he is a glorious man in Circe’s bed and a man with the hope of divine life on Kalypso’s island. The latter, indeed, is Odysseus’ great challenge: should he stay and remain with the other, embracing even immortality? Or should he return home and remain a mere mortal? The choice between two lives and the lies and truths which both lives contain is one perpetually present to in both stories.
A Cast of Homeric Characters
In this existential journey home, the film’s Narrator is not alone. His companions play key roles in his decisions, each taking on a role (or roles) which remind us of the Odyssean nature of his travels. In many ways, Tyler himself is the craftiness and cunning of Odysseus. He brings out of our Narrator’s psyche the wiliness needed to survive and grow in a bizarre and dangerous world. Yet Tyler Durden is also an Athena figure, mentoring the Narrator much as the grey-eyed goddess did Telemachos. For Tyler teaches the Narrator what it takes to be man. Tyler teaches the Narrator how to become Odysseus, how to find his father, who is symbolically his true life and masculinity.
Marla, the only important female character throughout Fight Club, plays multiple roles as well. She is in some part the Narrator’s Poseidon. She is the wrathful foil, interrupting the Narrator’s attempts at wholeness and homecoming. Her presence in the Narrator’s self-help groups is one of spite. She is keeping the Narrator from returning home. Yet she is more than this. She represents, in light of our comparison, all the feminine dangers that Odysseus and our Narrator are forced to face. Here she is the ugly feminine: she is a vile and disgusting Harpie (portrayed multiple times in her own drug-riddled filth, we are reminded with Marla of the disgust with which Homer describes these foul flying creatures). She is a Siren too. Mara’s beauty and charm are irresistible, hiding at first glance the utter destructiveness which the feminine can bring. In this destructiveness she is the film’s Scylla and Charybdis: feminine monstrosities which, despite a hero’s best effort, cannot be avoided. In the end, however, Mara is the Narrator’s Penelope. She is his home and life and his hope for some sort of normalcy.
Themes which cannot die
Chuck Palahniuk’s film embraces and transforms themes key not just to Classical literature, but to all subsequent Western literature itself. His is the story of a hero who does not know who he is, but who through great challenges must find himself and discover again a home. His journeys are filled with the fantastic and the horrific. His struggles are as much about his own identity as they are about the world around him. Homer’s story of Odysseus’ homecoming is a story of self-identity, both for the wandering father Odysseus and the wary son, Telemachos. It is a story of the importance of combat, the necessity of comradery and the dangers and attractions of the feminine. These things are, so to speak, invincible and ever-present in all subsequent Western literature. Fight Club is no exception, re-telling these ancient stories and re-threading them, twisting and molding them to produce a thoroughly modern epic of identity.
Chuck Palahniuk’s Fight Club chronicles the hope of homecoming in a fantastic world of violence and uncanny illusion. It is tale insane and unbelievable, which nevertheless has a concreteness and reality to it which captivates and convinces. It is here, in this absurd mix of the everyday and the bizarre, of phantasmal illusions and very real wounds, that one finds its universal themes. These aspects mark its kinship with Homer’s Odyssey. This comes, of course, as no surprise. For the Odyssey itself is for us the prototype of all adventure stories; it is moreover the story of identity par excellence. With an open imagination then, we will be able to find Homer’s story in Palahniuk’s. Here are tales of battle and masculinity. Here we find a fantastic journey home, filled with erotic temptations and divine frustrations.
Masculinity and Violence
The first vital link between the Odyssey and Fight Club is, paradoxically, the great divide which separates them. It is a divide of values and cultures; it is a divide between men and boys. It is this gap, this absence, which compels Fight Club’s characters. “We have no great war,” declares a disgusted Tyler Durden. He asks a blunt question, out of place for a decadent and technocratic time and age: “How much can you know about yourself if you’ve never been in a fight?” These are awkward questions of desperation. These are questions of a culture violently sundered from its heritage by an apathetic embrace of non-violence (or, more precisely, the “off-shoring” of violence – the late heritage of professional soldiery and digital fantasies). Homer’s age stands in distinct contrast. For Homer, a man’s reputation is not made by the mere acquisition of wealth and property (though indeed these were marks great men), but the battles waged by each man which justified his acquisitions. A man’s κλέος, his renown, was found in strength of shield and spear. Western man’s avoidance of this conflict produces the pathetic and self-mocking tone Fight Club’s unnamed Narrator takes while examining his life: Ikea catalogues, a decent wardrobe, a respectable job…and no real Life. The real quest of the film’s men, even in their ignorance, are the faraway fields of Ilion and the unexpected gift of Life found only in embrace of Death. Finding his concrete battlefield and the age-old heritage of violence reborn in a basement, the Narrator confesses: “You weren’t alive anywhere like you were there.”
A Strange Journey Home
Through the course of the film it becomes clear that our unnamed Narrator is engaged in a most bizarre and dangerous journey home. His home of course, is his identity. His journey is filled with fantastic images, the wily feminine, and much sorrow. For the unnamed Narrator too is a “Nobody”. This name (or lack thereof) links him with Odysseus’ crafty twist on his own name in the cave of the Cyclops. Both confess a lack of selfhood. Odysseus, his name so easily morphed both into “Nobody” (οὐδείς), and “To Sorrow” (ὀδύσσομαι), is a man losing his very self inasmuch as he has lost his home. His struggles to return are a purgatory of unbelievable challenges and mythical foes. The Narrator’s desire to die on one of his many meaningless airplane journeys reminds us of Odysseus’ confessions that it would have been better for him to have fallen on the fields of Troy than to be constantly batted about a world away from his true home. The Narrator’s “tour” of weeping reminds us of Odysseus’ many tears, always “eating out the heart” within him. Yet there is a deeper connection, a more ambiguous turn. For the Narrator, inasmuch he realizes that he is not himself and that he is not home, is also in some way greatly enlivened by and attracted to the strange world that he has found himself in. Tyler Durden is not the whole truth about him, yet he is some part of the truth about him. His “other” world is a world dangerous and strange, to be sure, but it is also a world of strength and eroticism, a world of vitality. In like manner Odysseus’ journey is one of the temptations of “the other”. For he is a glorious man in Circe’s bed and a man with the hope of divine life on Kalypso’s island. The latter, indeed, is Odysseus’ great challenge: should he stay and remain with the other, embracing even immortality? Or should he return home and remain a mere mortal? The choice between two lives and the lies and truths which both lives contain is one perpetually present to in both stories.
A Cast of Homeric Characters
In this existential journey home, the film’s Narrator is not alone. His companions play key roles in his decisions, each taking on a role (or roles) which remind us of the Odyssean nature of his travels. In many ways, Tyler himself is the craftiness and cunning of Odysseus. He brings out of our Narrator’s psyche the wiliness needed to survive and grow in a bizarre and dangerous world. Yet Tyler Durden is also an Athena figure, mentoring the Narrator much as the grey-eyed goddess did Telemachos. For Tyler teaches the Narrator what it takes to be man. Tyler teaches the Narrator how to become Odysseus, how to find his father, who is symbolically his true life and masculinity.
Marla, the only important female character throughout Fight Club, plays multiple roles as well. She is in some part the Narrator’s Poseidon. She is the wrathful foil, interrupting the Narrator’s attempts at wholeness and homecoming. Her presence in the Narrator’s self-help groups is one of spite. She is keeping the Narrator from returning home. Yet she is more than this. She represents, in light of our comparison, all the feminine dangers that Odysseus and our Narrator are forced to face. Here she is the ugly feminine: she is a vile and disgusting Harpie (portrayed multiple times in her own drug-riddled filth, we are reminded with Marla of the disgust with which Homer describes these foul flying creatures). She is a Siren too. Mara’s beauty and charm are irresistible, hiding at first glance the utter destructiveness which the feminine can bring. In this destructiveness she is the film’s Scylla and Charybdis: feminine monstrosities which, despite a hero’s best effort, cannot be avoided. In the end, however, Mara is the Narrator’s Penelope. She is his home and life and his hope for some sort of normalcy.
Themes which cannot die
Chuck Palahniuk’s film embraces and transforms themes key not just to Classical literature, but to all subsequent Western literature itself. His is the story of a hero who does not know who he is, but who through great challenges must find himself and discover again a home. His journeys are filled with the fantastic and the horrific. His struggles are as much about his own identity as they are about the world around him. Homer’s story of Odysseus’ homecoming is a story of self-identity, both for the wandering father Odysseus and the wary son, Telemachos. It is a story of the importance of combat, the necessity of comradery and the dangers and attractions of the feminine. These things are, so to speak, invincible and ever-present in all subsequent Western literature. Fight Club is no exception, re-telling these ancient stories and re-threading them, twisting and molding them to produce a thoroughly modern epic of identity.
Opinion 118
Choosing one of the Republican candidates is akin to choosing which seven year old you want to baby-sit your house full of nine year olds. Or should we just leave the spoiled and lethargic fourteen year old in charge?
Opinion 117
This semester: too much booze, smokes and Tacitus. Not enough sleep.
Yet, I started to take a liking to Plato.
Yet, I started to take a liking to Plato.
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Opinion 116
Often while reading Being and Time, I think that Heidegger is spending his entire book just getting ready to say something.
Other times I think that Heidegger is simply stating the obvious in the most obtuse and unobvious fashion hitherto contrived.
Other times er sheint mir, ein Genie zu sein.
Other times I think that Heidegger is simply stating the obvious in the most obtuse and unobvious fashion hitherto contrived.
Other times er sheint mir, ein Genie zu sein.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
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