The rise of Japan during the last century is widely regarded as one of the marvels of the modern era. Certainly, no observer during the nineteenth century would have predicted that such a ‘backward’ and mostly rural country such as Japan would become one of the main economic powers of the world only a few generations later. Arguably, the most important catalyst for Japan’s economic rise was the influence of the government on shaping the process of modernization. Beginning during the Meiji Restoration and continuing through the imperial decades to the post-WWII recovery period, the government adopted many important policies which hastened the country’s modernization. A secondary, although somewhat lesser, influence on the nation’s development was the unintended consequence of several international events. Japan was favourably aided by several wars during the modern era, interestingly in most of which the country was not actually a participant. As a consequence, the country very rapidly rose to economic power in the twentieth century. Japan was in fact singular among Asian nations for its early and rapid development into a modern country.
One of the defining characteristics of modern Japan has been the strength and almost singular determination of its government. Indeed, a once commonly-held stereotype in the West was that Japan followed a centralized ‘plan’ with which it could realize its ascendancy. To a certain extent such a convention can in fact be substantiated, as the government did indeed lead Japan into the modern era. The strong, centralized nature of the administration had its origins in the dominance of the domain lords of the late-Tokugawa period, which was additionally when the cult of the emperor re-emerged. The Meiji administration which superceded the old regime adopted a policy of national modernization, which had in fact been commenced in the Chōshū and Satsuma domains prior to the Restoration. While such governmental intervention would be seen as highly detrimental in the West, Japanese leaders, educated in the paternalism of Confucian teachings, felt that it was their duty to mould Japan to ensure its future success. Indeed, under such strong leadership Japan’s transition from a feudalistic to a modern society was fairly rapid and non-violent. Following a reform of land distribution, the government initiated a system of taxation to fund industrialization. Japan’s initial foray into modern industrialism relied heavily on the West. The government was required to purchase machinery from Western countries to begin modernizing Japan. More importantly however, in order to become self-reliant in the future Japan hired experts from the West to teach industrial methods and technology to Japanese workers. Foreign currency gained through the export of textiles such as silk allowed the government to purchase such goods and services from the West without incurring a heavy debt. While the teachings of the West were certainly important in imparting a self-reliance to Japan, the wider sphere of public education cannot be ignored. An educational policy was instituted devoted to the indoctrination of the populace with the ideals of the Restoration, namely the modernization of Japan. Not only were the Japanese to be instructed in the basics of a modern education such as literacy and mathematics, they were also taught to be wholly subservient to the government and its ideals, with the emperor as its figurehead. Such an authoritarian system of education was not completely without precedent in Japanese culture, as Confucian teachings promote a reverence for the social hierarchy. The system did succeed in its ambitions, as it produced a workforce dedicated to Japan’s economic progress. Yet, by the twentieth century it was to become much more malignant as the main tool for the militarization of Japan under Imperial doctrine.
The government had come into the possession of the industries once held by the domain lords, yet to match the West it had to become much more technologically advanced. To this end, during the 1870s the government invested heavily in industrial technologies and factories. Such patronization was especially important for the expansion of mechanized production facilities and heavy industry such as steelworks, which required a greater financial investment than could be granted by private individuals or companies. Heavy manufacturing in turn stimulated the growth of other industries such as mining and fuel production. Of further benefit to Japan’s economy was the attention paid by the government to improving the country’s infrastructure, especially the creation of a national railway. The immediate effects of Japan’s increased productivity was the expansion of trade, to which Asia was the principle market, and a reduction in the dependence on imported goods from the West. Japan’s industrial and economic growth during the late nineteenth century did not proceed unimpeded however, as by the 1880s the government found itself in debt. The Government, led by its financial minister Matsukata began to further adopt a more western-style of economic policy. Almost all of the governmental holdings in industry were sold, although a close relationship was kept with the businessmen who subsequently took control. Perhaps the most important aspect of Matsukata’s reforms, however, was the institutionalization of a national system of banking. The establishment of the Bank of Japan and a sound currency allowed for investment capitalism, which greatly aided the growth of the private sectors of the economy. Furthermore, Japanese investments were not limited to the mother country, as by the early 1900s Japanese investors had turned their endeavours to the greater Asian market.
A similar centralization of reform policy occurred following the second World War. Under the guidance of SCAP during the Occupation, Japan proceeded to rebuild its economy to such an extent that it was to become an economic leader of the modern world. America wanted a healthy Japan as an ally against the Communist bloc, so a great deal of financial aid was given to the country to allow for re-industrialization and economic recovery. Certainly the war had not completely devastated Japan, for while much of its industrial base had indeed been annihilated, the country still had a large reserve of highly skilled and educated human resources available. The destruction of Japan’s industrial complex had a secondary consequence as well, as in rebuilding its industry the country adopted the most modern techniques and machinery of the period. Additionally, the land reforms initiated by SCAP decreased rural poverty, which in turn led to the modernization of agriculture as farmers began to use modern technologies and methods. A new system of education based on the American structure was introduced, which emphasized the liberal-capitalist ideology of the West. While the Occupation succeeded in demilitarizing Japan, greater economic advances were made after Japan once again became a free country. The Mutual Security Treaty allowed the nation to avoid high military expenditure and instead concentrate on developing the civilian economy. Again one can observe the close relationship between the government and the business elite as during the 1950s laws were passed allowing it to regulate investment to target development in specific industries, such as plastics and electronics technologies, which were believed to be important future enterprises; simultaneously, industries viewed as obsolete were not given any aid. Further aided by the domestic demand for consumer products, Japanese production and exports increased exponentially during the 1950s and 1960s. There can be little doubt that by this period Japan was fully modernized, and indeed by the 1970s the country led the world in the high-technology industries.
Although the modernization of Japan was in large part a consequence of governmental policy, during several crucial periods of development the country was the beneficiary of events outside of its influence. Of primary importance was the minimal amount of foreign intervention during the Meiji Restoration, which along with a relative stability domestically allowed the government to concentrate on internal policy. Japan was also greatly assisted by a number of wars of which it played no immediate part. During the first World War the Japanese economy greatly benefited from its position as a supplier of munitions for Britain and France. Additionally, Japan assumed trade in the commercial markets, especially in Asia, previously held by the Western nations who had become preoccupied with the war. The wartime boom was only temporary however, as by 1920 the western nations had reclaimed their trade monopolies. A more lasting benefit was gained during the Korean War however, when Japan became a base for United Nations operations. Soldiers stationed in Japan, especially Americans, purchased a great deal of commercial and military supplies, and thus gave the country vital foreign currency and promoted a second ‘wartime boom’.
Analysing the modernization of Japan allows the discernment of one key factor that influenced the country’s development. Led by a strong and intent government, the Japanese people became a unified and skilled workforce. Industry flourished with government investment, which in turn generated a development in other sectors of the economy. Development after the second World War was particularly rapid and successful as through specific governmental policy Japan became one of the world leaders in high technology. The nation was further assisted economically by international events such as the Korean War. Despite such fortuitous events, it is quite possible however to attribute Japan’s ascendancy into the elite of the modern world to a determined central policy of development begun during the Meiji Restoration.
Tuesday, December 01, 1998
Monday, November 30, 1998
The Fall of Billy Budd, Sailor
Many writers, both of fiction and of philosophy, have struggled with the relationship between human society and the fundamentals of human nature. Despite the righteous intentions underlying the laws of a community, they are occasionally in opposition with an individual’s beliefs of justice. Melville examines such a conflict between man and society in Billy Budd, Sailor, which situates that very dichotomy as the central theme of the novel. The title character is a wholly virtuous man whose execution for treason provides the reader with the most immediate sense of the tragic in the novel. Such a simplistic reading would limit the text, however. It is through Billy’s relationship with the other members of the crew, and notably with Captain Vere, that a better insight into Melville’s theme can be ascertained. There is no doubt that Billy is in fact guilty of killing Claggart; what is at question is whether Vere was morally right in following the law which executed him. The entire notion of human justice is questioned as Melville implicitly condemns the society which created it. The author frequently suggests that Billy Budd is himself a character too pure and innocent to exist in the society of the novel. Simultaneously however, Vere is forced to uphold the authority of the law despite his acknowledgment of Billy’s ultimate innocence. It is questionable, however, whether his narrative provides any solutions to the problems that it considers. Billy Budd, Sailor does not provide any conclusion for the moral difficulties it presents, but instead is a representation of the struggle faced by all intelligent people to determine their own morality.
From the outset of Billy Budd, Sailor, Melville presents the protagonist as the zenith of human morality. Indeed, the text seems an extended paean to the glorious constitution of his Handsome Sailor. An introduction to his character is given by the captain of the Rights-of-Man who calls Billy “my best man ... the jewel of ‘em”(p. 295) and “my peacemaker” (p. 296). Billy soon demonstrates that he is worthy of such praise by quickly ingratiating himself with the crew and despite his inexperience as a sailor he readily becomes acclimatised with the machinations of the Bellipotent. His physical beauty is likened alternately with Hercules and Apollo, and the narrator emphasizes that Billy’s “person and demeanor” had a “particularly favourable effect ... upon the more intelligent gentlemen of the quarterdeck” (p. 299). Yet it becomes apparent that Billy’s very nature separates him from the rest of the crew, and indeed from society as a whole. While he had gained the admiration of the crew, Billy is nevertheless mocked by them for his punctuality and meticulousness. More importantly however, his virtuous nature lends comparisons with the higher, divine sphere. Billy’s very job as foretopman gives him an ‘angelic’ view over his crewmates. After his death the crew, by taking pieces of the spar from which he was hung, treats him almost as a guardian angel or even as a Christ figure. Billy’s correspondence with Christ is overshadowed, however, by the narrator’s frequent equation of the protagonist with Adam before the fall. He is regarded by the narrator as an “upright barbarian” who lacks the faults imparted by civilization which as a whole has “a questionable smack as of a compounded wine” (pp. 301-2).
It is this comparison which suggests the protagonist’s ultimate innocence. Billy has no sense of the evil in the world. That he serves aboard a ship of war remains one of the central ironies of the text. It is the Dankster who first notices this aspect of Billy’s nature, seeing “something which in contrast with the warship’s environment looked oddly incongruous”
(p. 319). “[He] had none of that intuitive knowledge of the bad which in natures not good or incompletely so foreruns experience” (p. 336), and thus did not recognize the threat posed by Claggart. During the investigation into his accusation, Billy remains ignorant of Claggart’s purpose, believing that he was perhaps receiving a promotion and therefore unaware of the “forewarning intimations of subtler danger” (p. 348). Indeed, Claggart is the “urbane Serpent” (p. 301) who, in attempting to introduce the knowledge of evil to Billy, precipitates the protagonist’s downfall. Yet, unlike Adam, Billy’s Fall is not a fall from the Divine Grace of Eden, but instead from the false Eden of earthly society. He was not directly stung by the knowledge of evil imparted by the Satanic Claggart; alternately by violently lashing out and killing Claggart, Billy was demonstrating his rejection of the Forbidden Fruit. Billy did have to suffer the consequences for his impropriety within earthly society however, and his earthly Fall is a satirical reflection of Adam’s fall. “The immediate consequence of the Fall was death” (Nelson’s Illustrated Bible Dictionary, p. 374), which was certainly evidenced by Billy’s execution. However, the Handsome Sailor was not afraid in facing his trial or execution; he did not fear the law as Adam feared the Lord. Billy does not fear earthy justice because he knows he remains guiltless in the eyes of a higher authority: “I have eaten the King’s bread and I am true to the King” (p. 357). Indeed, as he gave Billy his last rights the ship’s chaplain was well aware of the protagonist’s ultimate innocence, and “felt that innocence was even a better thing than religion wherewith to go to Judgement” (p. 373). Certainly, Billy is accepted into the Divine Grace upon his death, as during his execution the symbols of his ascension are many.
It was into a strictly regimented and ordered society that the Handsome and angelic Sailor finds himself situated. By killing Claggart, Billy is indeed guilty of transgressing martial law, yet it is important to note that it was an imperfect and Fallen society which created the law. Therefore, while it was just that Captain Vere sentenced Billy to be hanged, the sailor’s death is viewed as unnatural by the crew, and indeed by Vere himself. The unintelligible murmurs of the crew upon hearing of Billy’s impeding execution and during his funeral attest to their sense that the act was a trespass against Divine Law. Vere must however conform to the martial law of which he is a part and the principle agent. He believes that the laws of a civilization are of paramount consequence in counteracting the chaos inherent in human nature: “With mankind ... forms, measured forms are everything; and this is the import couched in the story of Orpheus with his lyre spellbinding the wild denizens of the wood” (p. 380). It is therefore within this context that the chapters concerning the Nore Mutiny demonstrate their importance. Knowing the consequences of the Mutiny, Vere must remain true to the principles of the Mutiny Act, and thus hastily sentence and execute Billy. As Billy is indeed guilty of committing a crime against human laws, the tragedy of the novel revolves not around his fall of this noble sailor to being executed as a murderer. Alternately, the focus of the text surrounds Billy’s punishment as a symbol of the corrupt nature of a fallen society. The court and Captain Vere must treat him in an inhuman manner as it cannot operate otherwise. Vere himself recognizes this fault in the court, and that “a court less arbitrary and more merciful than a martial one” would likely acquit Billy of his charge for the extenuating circumstance that he “proposed neither mutiny nor homicide” (p. 363). The Captain cannot ignore his duties, however, despite his own beliefs.
In Billy Budd, Sailor Melville examines the difficulties faced by a character who cannot properly function or even exist within the confines of his society. Billy is characterised as following a higher and more pure law than that observed on the Bellipotent, yet Captain Vere cannot enforce any other system of justice than that which he does. The society of Vere and the law he represents is a Fallen one, and therefore it must ostracize an angelic figure such as Billy Budd. The tragic element lies not in Billy’s death, but in the rejection of the more pure and divine form that he represents. Melville stresses that men of intelligence will acknowledge such ideal forms when they present themselves, and certainly the intelligent characters of Billy Budd — Vere, Claggart, even the Dankster — demonstrate their awareness of Billy’s virtuous nature. Vere subsequently exhibits a profound sense of loss for Billy’s death. However, it remains dispiriting yet perhaps a truism that men created by a society derived from the Fall cannot distance themselves enough from its restrains to be free from envy and allow the existence of what they cannot be, that is, an ideal form.
Bibliography
Melville, Herman. Billy Budd and Other Stories. New York: Penguin Books, 1986.
Nelson’s Illustrated Bible Dictionary. Gen. Ed. Herbert Lockyer, Sr. New York: Thomas
Nelson Publishers, 1986.
From the outset of Billy Budd, Sailor, Melville presents the protagonist as the zenith of human morality. Indeed, the text seems an extended paean to the glorious constitution of his Handsome Sailor. An introduction to his character is given by the captain of the Rights-of-Man who calls Billy “my best man ... the jewel of ‘em”(p. 295) and “my peacemaker” (p. 296). Billy soon demonstrates that he is worthy of such praise by quickly ingratiating himself with the crew and despite his inexperience as a sailor he readily becomes acclimatised with the machinations of the Bellipotent. His physical beauty is likened alternately with Hercules and Apollo, and the narrator emphasizes that Billy’s “person and demeanor” had a “particularly favourable effect ... upon the more intelligent gentlemen of the quarterdeck” (p. 299). Yet it becomes apparent that Billy’s very nature separates him from the rest of the crew, and indeed from society as a whole. While he had gained the admiration of the crew, Billy is nevertheless mocked by them for his punctuality and meticulousness. More importantly however, his virtuous nature lends comparisons with the higher, divine sphere. Billy’s very job as foretopman gives him an ‘angelic’ view over his crewmates. After his death the crew, by taking pieces of the spar from which he was hung, treats him almost as a guardian angel or even as a Christ figure. Billy’s correspondence with Christ is overshadowed, however, by the narrator’s frequent equation of the protagonist with Adam before the fall. He is regarded by the narrator as an “upright barbarian” who lacks the faults imparted by civilization which as a whole has “a questionable smack as of a compounded wine” (pp. 301-2).
It is this comparison which suggests the protagonist’s ultimate innocence. Billy has no sense of the evil in the world. That he serves aboard a ship of war remains one of the central ironies of the text. It is the Dankster who first notices this aspect of Billy’s nature, seeing “something which in contrast with the warship’s environment looked oddly incongruous”
(p. 319). “[He] had none of that intuitive knowledge of the bad which in natures not good or incompletely so foreruns experience” (p. 336), and thus did not recognize the threat posed by Claggart. During the investigation into his accusation, Billy remains ignorant of Claggart’s purpose, believing that he was perhaps receiving a promotion and therefore unaware of the “forewarning intimations of subtler danger” (p. 348). Indeed, Claggart is the “urbane Serpent” (p. 301) who, in attempting to introduce the knowledge of evil to Billy, precipitates the protagonist’s downfall. Yet, unlike Adam, Billy’s Fall is not a fall from the Divine Grace of Eden, but instead from the false Eden of earthly society. He was not directly stung by the knowledge of evil imparted by the Satanic Claggart; alternately by violently lashing out and killing Claggart, Billy was demonstrating his rejection of the Forbidden Fruit. Billy did have to suffer the consequences for his impropriety within earthly society however, and his earthly Fall is a satirical reflection of Adam’s fall. “The immediate consequence of the Fall was death” (Nelson’s Illustrated Bible Dictionary, p. 374), which was certainly evidenced by Billy’s execution. However, the Handsome Sailor was not afraid in facing his trial or execution; he did not fear the law as Adam feared the Lord. Billy does not fear earthy justice because he knows he remains guiltless in the eyes of a higher authority: “I have eaten the King’s bread and I am true to the King” (p. 357). Indeed, as he gave Billy his last rights the ship’s chaplain was well aware of the protagonist’s ultimate innocence, and “felt that innocence was even a better thing than religion wherewith to go to Judgement” (p. 373). Certainly, Billy is accepted into the Divine Grace upon his death, as during his execution the symbols of his ascension are many.
It was into a strictly regimented and ordered society that the Handsome and angelic Sailor finds himself situated. By killing Claggart, Billy is indeed guilty of transgressing martial law, yet it is important to note that it was an imperfect and Fallen society which created the law. Therefore, while it was just that Captain Vere sentenced Billy to be hanged, the sailor’s death is viewed as unnatural by the crew, and indeed by Vere himself. The unintelligible murmurs of the crew upon hearing of Billy’s impeding execution and during his funeral attest to their sense that the act was a trespass against Divine Law. Vere must however conform to the martial law of which he is a part and the principle agent. He believes that the laws of a civilization are of paramount consequence in counteracting the chaos inherent in human nature: “With mankind ... forms, measured forms are everything; and this is the import couched in the story of Orpheus with his lyre spellbinding the wild denizens of the wood” (p. 380). It is therefore within this context that the chapters concerning the Nore Mutiny demonstrate their importance. Knowing the consequences of the Mutiny, Vere must remain true to the principles of the Mutiny Act, and thus hastily sentence and execute Billy. As Billy is indeed guilty of committing a crime against human laws, the tragedy of the novel revolves not around his fall of this noble sailor to being executed as a murderer. Alternately, the focus of the text surrounds Billy’s punishment as a symbol of the corrupt nature of a fallen society. The court and Captain Vere must treat him in an inhuman manner as it cannot operate otherwise. Vere himself recognizes this fault in the court, and that “a court less arbitrary and more merciful than a martial one” would likely acquit Billy of his charge for the extenuating circumstance that he “proposed neither mutiny nor homicide” (p. 363). The Captain cannot ignore his duties, however, despite his own beliefs.
In Billy Budd, Sailor Melville examines the difficulties faced by a character who cannot properly function or even exist within the confines of his society. Billy is characterised as following a higher and more pure law than that observed on the Bellipotent, yet Captain Vere cannot enforce any other system of justice than that which he does. The society of Vere and the law he represents is a Fallen one, and therefore it must ostracize an angelic figure such as Billy Budd. The tragic element lies not in Billy’s death, but in the rejection of the more pure and divine form that he represents. Melville stresses that men of intelligence will acknowledge such ideal forms when they present themselves, and certainly the intelligent characters of Billy Budd — Vere, Claggart, even the Dankster — demonstrate their awareness of Billy’s virtuous nature. Vere subsequently exhibits a profound sense of loss for Billy’s death. However, it remains dispiriting yet perhaps a truism that men created by a society derived from the Fall cannot distance themselves enough from its restrains to be free from envy and allow the existence of what they cannot be, that is, an ideal form.
Bibliography
Melville, Herman. Billy Budd and Other Stories. New York: Penguin Books, 1986.
Nelson’s Illustrated Bible Dictionary. Gen. Ed. Herbert Lockyer, Sr. New York: Thomas
Nelson Publishers, 1986.
Wednesday, November 18, 1998
A Critique of Antonia McLean's Humanism & The Rise of Science in Tudor England
There can be no denying that in many respects Tudor England was a time of great turmoil, as the country was experiencing considerable change, equally in politics, theology, and intellectual life. The shifting ideologies and methodologies in the latter are the subjects of Antonia McLean’s study, Humanism & the rise of Science in Tudor England. From the beginning of the text McLean emphasizes the importance of the printing press in spreading the ‘new learning’ of humanism and the sciences. Her argument is lucid and convincing, and is an opinion which is generally in congruence with other scholars. By the end of the text, however, a correlative yet apparently contradictory thesis is forwarded. Despite the accessibility of the new scholarship due to printing, during the initial period of the English Renaissance many of the older Medieval traditions and doctrines remained in existence, and even benefited from a wider circulation. The author focuses on the dissemination of the innovative views of humanism solely in education, the mathematical sciences, and medicine, and while this allows an extensive study of her selected fields, it is in this respect that her study is somewhat limited. Irrespective of such restraints however, McLean does provide an interesting and comprehensive analysis of the scientific advances within the aforementioned disciplines and their humanistic derivation. Consequently, McLean’s book remains an important and engrossing study of the origins of the scientific revolution.
Interestingly, McLean begins her study by quoting Bacon’s Aphorism 129 from his Novum Organum. At this early point her thesis becomes apparent, and one might in fact criticize her transparency. This quotation is however an interesting device in that it imparts a sense of inevitability to McLean’s ideology and a validity to her thesis. The remainder of the book does in fact substantiate Bacon’s claims on the importance of printing to “change the whole face and state of things throughout the world”. Scholars agree with McLean on the reasons for the rapid success of the printing presses in England, although it’s development lagged behind that in the continent. There was an increase in the demand for books due to an increasingly literate population, caused by both the increasing accessibility of education, as well as a change in the attitude toward literacy by the upper classes. The demand for books caused the printing industry to grow at an exponential rate, which in turn fuelled the increase in literacy, inducing what one scholar has dubbed a “virtuous circle”. McLean argues that this increase in book production directly led to the spread of humanism among the educated. Unlike a few scholars, she provides some important information concerning early humanism in England. McLean is in agreement with other scholars in her beliefs that humanism initially came to England when several scholars travelled to Italy to learn Greek. This early humanist foundation was important, as the work of such men as Grocyn, Linacre, and Colet allowed the Italian Renaissance to be introduced into England. The main influence of humanism on the scientists of the Tudor period was the introduction of Greek sources, especially the scientific and philosophical texts of the Hellenistic Age. Although the Aristotelian-Ptolemaic concept of the universe was followed and some Latin translations of Greek texts existed, it was not until the introduction of Greek texts England from the Arab world that the many scientific advances of the sixteenth century were realized. As these texts were printed, many scholars had access to them. McLean’s elucidation of the number of Greek texts contained in several personal and private libraries is adequate proof of their influence, yet the lists disrupt the flow of the text and should have been placed in the footnotes.
McLean provides a detailed analysis concerning the importance of Greek texts as catalysts for English scientific innovation during the Tudor period. Once again she is noteworthy for providing a background for the later advances, in particular pre-Tudor mathematics and medicine. Particularly consequential was the adoption of Platonism and the influence of Bacon’s Merton school of thought. Neither of these systems of scientific and mathematical inquiry were hampered by the Aristotelian-Ptolemaic canon of the middle-ages. The author proceeds to demonstrate the many achievements of the period and traces their development from humanism: Recorde’s Platonic dialogues on mathematics, written in English; Dee’s impact on scientific inquiry and observation; and Dr. Caius’s foundation of the College of Physicians. Similarly, she provides an adequate description of the influence of the mathematical advances on navigation and cartography. Beginning with a lengthy description of the pre-Tudor navigational sciences, McLean follows with an in-depth analysis of the relationship between seamanship and the practical sciences. In describing the optical experiments of Dee and Digges and the mathematical experiments of Harriot, McLean provides an interesting supposition on the relatively advanced directions that science could possibly have taken. During such asides, McLean’s delightful enthusiasm for her subjects is quite engaging. As they were printed, the books written by these authors were widely read and themselves instigated a great deal of scholarship. Although it is never explicitly stated, McLean implies that mass produced and error-free texts allowed for a consensus among scientists, which eventually led to the establishment of scholastic ‘guilds’ such as the College of Physicians. By providing so many elaborate illustrations of the consequences of humanistic thought in science, McLean strengthens her argument. The evidence is exhaustive, at least concerning the advances in mathematics and medicine, and it allows the reader to easily comprehend and agree with the author. Nearly all of the other scholars here cited agree with McLean (and additionally with Bacon) that printing caused a monumental shift in the ideologies of the Tudor age. Herein lies the importance of the author’s work. Her work is not wholly original; alternately, she collates studies from numerous fields, science and medicine, humanism, and print history. McLean does however create an important study that is frequently given only a superficial treatment, and is in fact sometimes completely overlooked, by scholars. Humanism & the rise of Science in Tudor England remains an intriguing study due to the extent to which McLean substantiates her thesis by relating it to the most notable aspects of the English Renaissance.
The Platonic system that derived from humanism and was espoused by many of the period’s foremost scientists was not without its faults however, as it “contained elements which proved unscientific”. It is at this point in her study that McLean asserts the second and somewhat lesser division of her thesis. Many aspects of the earlier late-medieval traditions remained extant during the early- to mid-sixteenth century despite the new and frequently opposing scholarship. During the early years of book production, printing allowed for a wide distribution of the early medieval texts, and consequently despite the new learning they became entrenched in the beliefs of many scholars. McLean provides as an example the influence of Hermeticism on many scholars of the Tudor period, most notably John Dee. She, along with other authors, argues that such ‘prejudices’ had the initial effect of arresting scientific advance, notably the acceptance of the Copernican universe. A similar trend occurred in the medical community, where the works of Galen were paramount for the entire sixteenth century despite the “rapid advance in anatomical knowledge and surgical techniques”. While these predispositions to orthodoxy gradually disappeared, they hindered a great deal of scientific progress for most of the sixteenth century. It is interesting that McLean provides this counter-argument to the impact of humanism on Tudor scientific achievements, as it in fact lends a credibility to her entire thesis. There are few instances of an instantaneous change in intellectual thought, and indeed one must question any author who proposes such an argument. Intellectual revolutions are indeed much more gradual than suggested by a cursory study; throughout the text McLean demonstrates her acknowledgment of this axiom. Indeed, in the concluding chapter of the book, McLean briefly articulates such an understanding: “The knowledge of new discoveries spread more widely and with greater rapidity through the printed book, but this is not the same thing as saying that they were accepted”.
If one is to find a failing in McLean’s study, it is in her somewhat limited analysis of the range of Tudor achievements. While focussing on mathematical and medical advancements allows her to more comprehensively examine the influence of humanism on the science, it does not convey the breadth of scientific study undertaken during the period. Unlike other authors, she does not refer to advances in architecture, engineering, or music (considered a part of mathematics), or even the ‘achievements’ in alchemy or astrology which had diverted John Dee as well as several other scientists, during the Tudor period. The analysis of John Dee’s mystical investigations does redeem the omission of the latter somewhat, and proves quite interesting of its own merits, especially when it outlines Dee’s connections between ‘natural magic’ and mathematics. Perhaps a more critical miscue was her avoidance of Aristotelian physics, which had a remarkable inter-disciplinary influence. Indeed, it has been argued that the rejection of Aristotelian physics led to the acceptance of the more advanced theories of the Tudor age. The sole reference to an important break with the Aristotelian-Ptolemaic universe made by McLean is to the work of Thomas Digges, which does not adequately examine the shift to a Copernican universe. A second and infinitely lesser fault of Humanism & the rise of Science is McLean’s aforementioned insistence on listing the contents of library lists in great detail and within the body of the text. This relatively minor structural infraction unnecessarily impedes the flow of the narrative and quickly induces a sense of tedium in the reader. Thankfully, McLean engrosses the reader by providing an interesting selection of extracts from sixteenth century sources that support her thesis. These excerpts are well chosen and more importantly well edited, as she does not include any superfluous data nor does she utilize more of a specific quotation than is necessary. Such editorial restraint, along with the obvious enthusiasm of the author towards her subject, imparts a readability to the text which is sometimes lost in scholarly works.
The importance of McLean’s investigation into the rise of science in the Tudor period which had its origins in humanism is not due to its originality. Yet, she combines the work of other scholars and subsequently builds upon their foundations to create an interesting, important, and readable text. McLean craftily argues that the invention of printing led to the rapid spread of humanistic ideas which in turn greatly influenced the scientific progress of the age. Simultaneously however, in examining the conservative publishing trends of the early sixteenth century, she elucidates the degree to which printing supported and entrenched the earlier ideologies, which is an important correlation to her main thesis. Despite the initial tendencies toward orthodoxy however, printing ultimately allowed for many innovations in the sciences. As McLean clearly elucidates, printing was to have a profound impact on the course of western civilization.
Bibliography
McLean, Antonia. Humanism & the rise of Science in Tudor England. New York: Neale Watson
Academic Publications, 1972.
Secondary
Burke, James. The Day the Universe Changed. Toronto: Little, Browne and Company, 1985.
Boas, Marie. The Scientific Renaissance 1450-1630. New York: Harper & Row, 1962
Dahl, Svend. History of the Book. Metuchen, USA: The Scarecrow Press, 1968.
Dowling, Maria. Humanism in the Age of Henry VIII. London: Croom Helm, 1986.
Elton, G.R. England under the Tudors. London: Methuen & Co., 1974.
Hay, Denys. “Fiat Lux”, Printing and the Mind of Man. Ed. John Carter & Percy H. Muir.
London: Cassell and Company, 1967. Pp. xv-xxxiv.
Nutton, Vivian.“Greek science in the sixteenth-century Renaissance”, Renaissance & Revolution. Ed. J.V. Field and Frank A.J.L. James. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993. Pp. 15-28.
Ridley, Jasper. The Tudor Age. London: Constable, 1988.
Voigts, Linda Ehrsam. “Scientific and medical books”, Book Production and Publishing in
Britain 1375-1475. Ed. Jeremy Griffiths and Derek Pearsall. Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1989. Pp. 345-402.
Westfall, Richard S. “Science and technology during the Scientific Revolution: and empirical
approach”, Renaissance & Revolution. Ed. J.V. Field and Frank A.J.L. James.
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993. Pp. 63-72.
Woodward, G.W.O. Reformation and Resurgence: England in the Sixteenth Century. New York:
Humanities Press, 1963.
Interestingly, McLean begins her study by quoting Bacon’s Aphorism 129 from his Novum Organum. At this early point her thesis becomes apparent, and one might in fact criticize her transparency. This quotation is however an interesting device in that it imparts a sense of inevitability to McLean’s ideology and a validity to her thesis. The remainder of the book does in fact substantiate Bacon’s claims on the importance of printing to “change the whole face and state of things throughout the world”. Scholars agree with McLean on the reasons for the rapid success of the printing presses in England, although it’s development lagged behind that in the continent. There was an increase in the demand for books due to an increasingly literate population, caused by both the increasing accessibility of education, as well as a change in the attitude toward literacy by the upper classes. The demand for books caused the printing industry to grow at an exponential rate, which in turn fuelled the increase in literacy, inducing what one scholar has dubbed a “virtuous circle”. McLean argues that this increase in book production directly led to the spread of humanism among the educated. Unlike a few scholars, she provides some important information concerning early humanism in England. McLean is in agreement with other scholars in her beliefs that humanism initially came to England when several scholars travelled to Italy to learn Greek. This early humanist foundation was important, as the work of such men as Grocyn, Linacre, and Colet allowed the Italian Renaissance to be introduced into England. The main influence of humanism on the scientists of the Tudor period was the introduction of Greek sources, especially the scientific and philosophical texts of the Hellenistic Age. Although the Aristotelian-Ptolemaic concept of the universe was followed and some Latin translations of Greek texts existed, it was not until the introduction of Greek texts England from the Arab world that the many scientific advances of the sixteenth century were realized. As these texts were printed, many scholars had access to them. McLean’s elucidation of the number of Greek texts contained in several personal and private libraries is adequate proof of their influence, yet the lists disrupt the flow of the text and should have been placed in the footnotes.
McLean provides a detailed analysis concerning the importance of Greek texts as catalysts for English scientific innovation during the Tudor period. Once again she is noteworthy for providing a background for the later advances, in particular pre-Tudor mathematics and medicine. Particularly consequential was the adoption of Platonism and the influence of Bacon’s Merton school of thought. Neither of these systems of scientific and mathematical inquiry were hampered by the Aristotelian-Ptolemaic canon of the middle-ages. The author proceeds to demonstrate the many achievements of the period and traces their development from humanism: Recorde’s Platonic dialogues on mathematics, written in English; Dee’s impact on scientific inquiry and observation; and Dr. Caius’s foundation of the College of Physicians. Similarly, she provides an adequate description of the influence of the mathematical advances on navigation and cartography. Beginning with a lengthy description of the pre-Tudor navigational sciences, McLean follows with an in-depth analysis of the relationship between seamanship and the practical sciences. In describing the optical experiments of Dee and Digges and the mathematical experiments of Harriot, McLean provides an interesting supposition on the relatively advanced directions that science could possibly have taken. During such asides, McLean’s delightful enthusiasm for her subjects is quite engaging. As they were printed, the books written by these authors were widely read and themselves instigated a great deal of scholarship. Although it is never explicitly stated, McLean implies that mass produced and error-free texts allowed for a consensus among scientists, which eventually led to the establishment of scholastic ‘guilds’ such as the College of Physicians. By providing so many elaborate illustrations of the consequences of humanistic thought in science, McLean strengthens her argument. The evidence is exhaustive, at least concerning the advances in mathematics and medicine, and it allows the reader to easily comprehend and agree with the author. Nearly all of the other scholars here cited agree with McLean (and additionally with Bacon) that printing caused a monumental shift in the ideologies of the Tudor age. Herein lies the importance of the author’s work. Her work is not wholly original; alternately, she collates studies from numerous fields, science and medicine, humanism, and print history. McLean does however create an important study that is frequently given only a superficial treatment, and is in fact sometimes completely overlooked, by scholars. Humanism & the rise of Science in Tudor England remains an intriguing study due to the extent to which McLean substantiates her thesis by relating it to the most notable aspects of the English Renaissance.
The Platonic system that derived from humanism and was espoused by many of the period’s foremost scientists was not without its faults however, as it “contained elements which proved unscientific”. It is at this point in her study that McLean asserts the second and somewhat lesser division of her thesis. Many aspects of the earlier late-medieval traditions remained extant during the early- to mid-sixteenth century despite the new and frequently opposing scholarship. During the early years of book production, printing allowed for a wide distribution of the early medieval texts, and consequently despite the new learning they became entrenched in the beliefs of many scholars. McLean provides as an example the influence of Hermeticism on many scholars of the Tudor period, most notably John Dee. She, along with other authors, argues that such ‘prejudices’ had the initial effect of arresting scientific advance, notably the acceptance of the Copernican universe. A similar trend occurred in the medical community, where the works of Galen were paramount for the entire sixteenth century despite the “rapid advance in anatomical knowledge and surgical techniques”. While these predispositions to orthodoxy gradually disappeared, they hindered a great deal of scientific progress for most of the sixteenth century. It is interesting that McLean provides this counter-argument to the impact of humanism on Tudor scientific achievements, as it in fact lends a credibility to her entire thesis. There are few instances of an instantaneous change in intellectual thought, and indeed one must question any author who proposes such an argument. Intellectual revolutions are indeed much more gradual than suggested by a cursory study; throughout the text McLean demonstrates her acknowledgment of this axiom. Indeed, in the concluding chapter of the book, McLean briefly articulates such an understanding: “The knowledge of new discoveries spread more widely and with greater rapidity through the printed book, but this is not the same thing as saying that they were accepted”.
If one is to find a failing in McLean’s study, it is in her somewhat limited analysis of the range of Tudor achievements. While focussing on mathematical and medical advancements allows her to more comprehensively examine the influence of humanism on the science, it does not convey the breadth of scientific study undertaken during the period. Unlike other authors, she does not refer to advances in architecture, engineering, or music (considered a part of mathematics), or even the ‘achievements’ in alchemy or astrology which had diverted John Dee as well as several other scientists, during the Tudor period. The analysis of John Dee’s mystical investigations does redeem the omission of the latter somewhat, and proves quite interesting of its own merits, especially when it outlines Dee’s connections between ‘natural magic’ and mathematics. Perhaps a more critical miscue was her avoidance of Aristotelian physics, which had a remarkable inter-disciplinary influence. Indeed, it has been argued that the rejection of Aristotelian physics led to the acceptance of the more advanced theories of the Tudor age. The sole reference to an important break with the Aristotelian-Ptolemaic universe made by McLean is to the work of Thomas Digges, which does not adequately examine the shift to a Copernican universe. A second and infinitely lesser fault of Humanism & the rise of Science is McLean’s aforementioned insistence on listing the contents of library lists in great detail and within the body of the text. This relatively minor structural infraction unnecessarily impedes the flow of the narrative and quickly induces a sense of tedium in the reader. Thankfully, McLean engrosses the reader by providing an interesting selection of extracts from sixteenth century sources that support her thesis. These excerpts are well chosen and more importantly well edited, as she does not include any superfluous data nor does she utilize more of a specific quotation than is necessary. Such editorial restraint, along with the obvious enthusiasm of the author towards her subject, imparts a readability to the text which is sometimes lost in scholarly works.
The importance of McLean’s investigation into the rise of science in the Tudor period which had its origins in humanism is not due to its originality. Yet, she combines the work of other scholars and subsequently builds upon their foundations to create an interesting, important, and readable text. McLean craftily argues that the invention of printing led to the rapid spread of humanistic ideas which in turn greatly influenced the scientific progress of the age. Simultaneously however, in examining the conservative publishing trends of the early sixteenth century, she elucidates the degree to which printing supported and entrenched the earlier ideologies, which is an important correlation to her main thesis. Despite the initial tendencies toward orthodoxy however, printing ultimately allowed for many innovations in the sciences. As McLean clearly elucidates, printing was to have a profound impact on the course of western civilization.
Bibliography
McLean, Antonia. Humanism & the rise of Science in Tudor England. New York: Neale Watson
Academic Publications, 1972.
Secondary
Burke, James. The Day the Universe Changed. Toronto: Little, Browne and Company, 1985.
Boas, Marie. The Scientific Renaissance 1450-1630. New York: Harper & Row, 1962
Dahl, Svend. History of the Book. Metuchen, USA: The Scarecrow Press, 1968.
Dowling, Maria. Humanism in the Age of Henry VIII. London: Croom Helm, 1986.
Elton, G.R. England under the Tudors. London: Methuen & Co., 1974.
Hay, Denys. “Fiat Lux”, Printing and the Mind of Man. Ed. John Carter & Percy H. Muir.
London: Cassell and Company, 1967. Pp. xv-xxxiv.
Nutton, Vivian.“Greek science in the sixteenth-century Renaissance”, Renaissance & Revolution. Ed. J.V. Field and Frank A.J.L. James. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993. Pp. 15-28.
Ridley, Jasper. The Tudor Age. London: Constable, 1988.
Voigts, Linda Ehrsam. “Scientific and medical books”, Book Production and Publishing in
Britain 1375-1475. Ed. Jeremy Griffiths and Derek Pearsall. Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1989. Pp. 345-402.
Westfall, Richard S. “Science and technology during the Scientific Revolution: and empirical
approach”, Renaissance & Revolution. Ed. J.V. Field and Frank A.J.L. James.
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993. Pp. 63-72.
Woodward, G.W.O. Reformation and Resurgence: England in the Sixteenth Century. New York:
Humanities Press, 1963.
Thursday, November 05, 1998
A Critical Interpretation of Peasants, Rebels, & Outcastes
Observed from an objective distance, the rise of Japanese economic power in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries is a testament to the logistical genius of its governmental officials. The program of modernization and industrialization, adopted during the Meiji Restoration and continuing for the following half-century, allowed Japan to evolve from the feudal, agrarian country of the Tokugawa period to one of the economic leaders of the modern world. Further study of the social costs of such rapid development undermines the value of such a successful maturation, however. Mikiso Hane, in Peasants, Rebels, & Outcastes: The Underside of Modern Japan (Pantheon Books, New York: 1982; 297 pp.), argues that the costs and consequences of modernization were most deeply and painfully endured by the lower classes of Japan. While the wealthy industrialists and city merchants enjoyed the benefits of a modern economy, the peasants, who accounted for the majority of the Japanese population, felt increasingly alienated, both economically and culturally, from the urban elites. This gulf between the rich and the poor only worsened as Japan continued to modernize. The sole outlet that the peasants believed available to them was the military, yet Hane argues that the army too was merely a tool for exploiting the lower classes. Hane’s arguments are thorough and convincing, although obviously written from a leftist point of view. His liberal convictions lend credence and potency to his dissertation, however, and despite a few minor flaws, such ideological determination remains the strongest aspect of the book.
One of the principal outcomes of the Meiji Restoration was the commencement of modernization in Japan. Government officials immediately embarked on a program to industrialize Japan and bring it to a more equal socio-economic and technological level with the western countries. Such a program is of obvious importance to the prosperity of a nation in the modern world, yet Hane explores the social consequences of such rapid development. His most noticeable fault is that sub-textually he seems to condemn industrialization completely: the consequences outweigh its benefits. He does not make any reference to the similar periods of industrial growth in the western countries, when exploitation of the lower classes was just as marked as it was in Japan. Neither does he consider that such a painful stage of growth is perhaps necessary for the development of a civilization. Thus, his book has a mild romantic undertone, a form of nostalgia for traditional rural values. It can be argued that the peasants of the pre-industrial era did not in fact live more pleasant lives than those of the early industrial era. They were equally exploited by the Tokugawa ruling class, and had to lead a dreary, plodding existence consisting of heavy work under a constant threat of death from starvation and disease. Their lives were no more diverse, interesting, or certain than their modern-era counterparts. Conversely, efforts were made during the Meiji Restoration to ameliorate their social standing. While such measures as the abolition of the samurai and the redistribution of land had few immediately positive effects, they would lead to the more egalitarian social system in place by the middle of the twentieth century.
Hane’s arguments should not be rejected for the sole reason of such “rural-nostalgia” however, as they do remain powerful. The supplementary material that he provides — excerpts from diaries, interviews, and fictional works — allows the reader to more completely grasp the suffering and hardships endured by the lower classes. Indeed, many of the extracts quite explicitly demonstrate the inhumanity shown by the Japanese government and industrialists for their own countrymen; in several instances some Japanese, most notably the burakumin, were treated as badly or worse than non-citizens and prisoners of war. Hane treats such instances with an understandable bias, and perhaps even with a subtext of disgust. While the diary entries convey a powerful simplicity and immediacy of emotion, it is the more lengthy fictional extracts which truly provide a vivid description of life during such a difficult period. In this manner Hane demonstrates an awareness that the true reflection of a turbulent society is its artistic output. He therefore provides the reader with a direct association with the plight of the lower classes, and consequently one feels sympathy towards them. The extracts also provide a more human and emotional quality to an otherwise conventional sociological study.
It becomes explicitly clear that few peasants immediately benefited from modernization. Farm life did not improve drastically during the industrial era, and in many instances prosperity decreased for farmers as they had to face the increasing tax demands forced on them by the government to pay for the program of modernization. In times of severe economic stress, mostly caused by low crop yields, although a bumper crop could be equally detrimental, peasant families had to resort to extreme measures to remain alive. Many lost their property to more wealthy landlords, and thus entered into the debt-cycle of tenant farming. While the tenant farmers themselves were relieved from paying taxes, the rent charged by landlords frequently exceeded the tax levels that had been charged by the government. Hane skilfully and importantly focuses on two of the measures that were followed to relieve economic strain: infanticide and prostitution. He conveys the sense of utter hopelessness that was felt by the peasants, which had to have reached a truly great level to force families to adopt such horrible practices. While they did regret, for example, selling their daughters into brothels, many of the source documents describe the families as without any other means of survival; receiving several hundred yen for the sale of a daughter was likely a godsend to most peasants who were heavily in debt to landlords and money-lenders. Hane tactfully, yet explicitly, details the wretched lives of the girls sold into prostitution: although they were frequently abused by their clients and perhaps even more so by their employers, they were commonly in debt to the brothel owners and therefore had no legal opportunity to escape to a more “human” existence.
Consequently, many young people from the lower classes believed that a better life for them was to be found working in the newly emerging factories and mines. Alternately however, they were merely exploited as a source of inexpensive labour, and were accordingly treated as expendable and unimportant. Indeed, as had been the case throughout the early industrial period and especially in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, in order for the workers to maintain the pace of the production level of the machines they operated, they themselves had to act as machines in a Dickensian fashion. Workers frequently laboured in shifts of more than fourteen hours and in a few instances, mostly in the mines where quotas were demanded, as much as twenty or more. Additionally, the workers were kept labouring and “coordinated” by foremen who exercised their authority in a very brutal manner. Hane provides explicit accounts of workers treated almost as poorly as Korean prisoners of war (pp. 230-42). Although some workers received wages of greater than one hundred yen per month, a considerable sum compared to farm life, the majority earned a much lower pay. Indeed, as many workers were sold to the factories by their families — in a similar manner as the young girls had been sold into prostitution — they were in debt to their employers and thus could not legally leave their jobs. Perhaps the greatest strength of Hane’s text is his treatment of these industrial workers. Their cruel and inhumane predicament remains one of the most persuasive aspects of his argument, as the extracts he provides elicit great sympathy from modern readers.
Of secondary importance to Hane is the nature of the Japanese educational system during this period. It stressed moral purity and loyalty to the Emperor and the state (shūshin and chūkun aikoku respectively), and indeed it became a potent tool for indoctrinating the Japanese populace towards the support of the Emperor. Hane is convincing in his argument that the cult of the Emperor as taught in public schools was quickly and seamlessly converted to one of militant nationalism that fuelled the armed forces (pp. 59-62). Young peasant men who had been educated with the chūkun aikoku morality would certainly have seen the army as the most favourable means of escaping the poverty in their villages. Additionally, they would be elevated in status, as to the Japanese populace the army was seen as glorious and auspicious. Despite the lure to the population however, Hane reveals that the armed forces were as equally exploitative of the lower classes as the industrialists stated above. They had to endure a great amount of abuse from their superior officers, and they in turn maltreated their inferiors, which included foreign civilians, most notably the Koreans. The appeal of the armed forces continued however, and it proceeded to envelop the Japanese population and society. So too did the chūkun aikoku ideology, which reached a zenith with the Kamikaze pilots of World War II. While the educational system did ensure obedience to higher authorities, and especially a subservience to the Emperor, it was never completely successful at indoctrinating the population. There were a great many revolts and uprisings during the early industrial period, ranging from tenant disputes to factory strikes. In this instance Hane is slightly incomplete in his argument, as he does not correlate the reform movement with the dogma taught in the educational system. This inconsistency is linked with the anti-industrial subtext outlined above. It is precisely because of the educational and economic gains produced by modernization that peasants began to become aware of the exploitative relationship between them and the upper classes, and consequently act to reform the Japanese socio-economic structure. Hane’s criticism of the educational system during this period remains valid and convincing however, despite such a minor oversight.
It is perhaps far too easy in the late twentieth century to agree with Mikiso Hane’s arguments concerning the welfare of the lower classes. Contemporary readers are much too accustomed to the apparent freedoms of today’s social and economic climate to appreciate the journey that is required to achieve those liberties. Arguably, the period of poverty and despair that accompanies the early stages of industrialization are required in order to proceed to a post-industrial state. Such a harsh reality of Dickensian social costs has certainly existed in the history of every modern nation, and despite Hane’s “rural nostalgia”, Japan was not to be exempted from the consequences of modernization. Nevertheless, he has provided an important study on the lower classes during the transition from a pre- to a post-industrial society. His arguments are largely complete and, especially to a leftist reader, convincing. The text is highly readable and clearly communicated, and is therefore readily understood by both academics and the general population. Indeed, the diaries and fictional extracts lend Peasants, Rebels, & Outcastes a vivacity and emotionalism not usually associated with socio-economic academia.
One of the principal outcomes of the Meiji Restoration was the commencement of modernization in Japan. Government officials immediately embarked on a program to industrialize Japan and bring it to a more equal socio-economic and technological level with the western countries. Such a program is of obvious importance to the prosperity of a nation in the modern world, yet Hane explores the social consequences of such rapid development. His most noticeable fault is that sub-textually he seems to condemn industrialization completely: the consequences outweigh its benefits. He does not make any reference to the similar periods of industrial growth in the western countries, when exploitation of the lower classes was just as marked as it was in Japan. Neither does he consider that such a painful stage of growth is perhaps necessary for the development of a civilization. Thus, his book has a mild romantic undertone, a form of nostalgia for traditional rural values. It can be argued that the peasants of the pre-industrial era did not in fact live more pleasant lives than those of the early industrial era. They were equally exploited by the Tokugawa ruling class, and had to lead a dreary, plodding existence consisting of heavy work under a constant threat of death from starvation and disease. Their lives were no more diverse, interesting, or certain than their modern-era counterparts. Conversely, efforts were made during the Meiji Restoration to ameliorate their social standing. While such measures as the abolition of the samurai and the redistribution of land had few immediately positive effects, they would lead to the more egalitarian social system in place by the middle of the twentieth century.
Hane’s arguments should not be rejected for the sole reason of such “rural-nostalgia” however, as they do remain powerful. The supplementary material that he provides — excerpts from diaries, interviews, and fictional works — allows the reader to more completely grasp the suffering and hardships endured by the lower classes. Indeed, many of the extracts quite explicitly demonstrate the inhumanity shown by the Japanese government and industrialists for their own countrymen; in several instances some Japanese, most notably the burakumin, were treated as badly or worse than non-citizens and prisoners of war. Hane treats such instances with an understandable bias, and perhaps even with a subtext of disgust. While the diary entries convey a powerful simplicity and immediacy of emotion, it is the more lengthy fictional extracts which truly provide a vivid description of life during such a difficult period. In this manner Hane demonstrates an awareness that the true reflection of a turbulent society is its artistic output. He therefore provides the reader with a direct association with the plight of the lower classes, and consequently one feels sympathy towards them. The extracts also provide a more human and emotional quality to an otherwise conventional sociological study.
It becomes explicitly clear that few peasants immediately benefited from modernization. Farm life did not improve drastically during the industrial era, and in many instances prosperity decreased for farmers as they had to face the increasing tax demands forced on them by the government to pay for the program of modernization. In times of severe economic stress, mostly caused by low crop yields, although a bumper crop could be equally detrimental, peasant families had to resort to extreme measures to remain alive. Many lost their property to more wealthy landlords, and thus entered into the debt-cycle of tenant farming. While the tenant farmers themselves were relieved from paying taxes, the rent charged by landlords frequently exceeded the tax levels that had been charged by the government. Hane skilfully and importantly focuses on two of the measures that were followed to relieve economic strain: infanticide and prostitution. He conveys the sense of utter hopelessness that was felt by the peasants, which had to have reached a truly great level to force families to adopt such horrible practices. While they did regret, for example, selling their daughters into brothels, many of the source documents describe the families as without any other means of survival; receiving several hundred yen for the sale of a daughter was likely a godsend to most peasants who were heavily in debt to landlords and money-lenders. Hane tactfully, yet explicitly, details the wretched lives of the girls sold into prostitution: although they were frequently abused by their clients and perhaps even more so by their employers, they were commonly in debt to the brothel owners and therefore had no legal opportunity to escape to a more “human” existence.
Consequently, many young people from the lower classes believed that a better life for them was to be found working in the newly emerging factories and mines. Alternately however, they were merely exploited as a source of inexpensive labour, and were accordingly treated as expendable and unimportant. Indeed, as had been the case throughout the early industrial period and especially in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, in order for the workers to maintain the pace of the production level of the machines they operated, they themselves had to act as machines in a Dickensian fashion. Workers frequently laboured in shifts of more than fourteen hours and in a few instances, mostly in the mines where quotas were demanded, as much as twenty or more. Additionally, the workers were kept labouring and “coordinated” by foremen who exercised their authority in a very brutal manner. Hane provides explicit accounts of workers treated almost as poorly as Korean prisoners of war (pp. 230-42). Although some workers received wages of greater than one hundred yen per month, a considerable sum compared to farm life, the majority earned a much lower pay. Indeed, as many workers were sold to the factories by their families — in a similar manner as the young girls had been sold into prostitution — they were in debt to their employers and thus could not legally leave their jobs. Perhaps the greatest strength of Hane’s text is his treatment of these industrial workers. Their cruel and inhumane predicament remains one of the most persuasive aspects of his argument, as the extracts he provides elicit great sympathy from modern readers.
Of secondary importance to Hane is the nature of the Japanese educational system during this period. It stressed moral purity and loyalty to the Emperor and the state (shūshin and chūkun aikoku respectively), and indeed it became a potent tool for indoctrinating the Japanese populace towards the support of the Emperor. Hane is convincing in his argument that the cult of the Emperor as taught in public schools was quickly and seamlessly converted to one of militant nationalism that fuelled the armed forces (pp. 59-62). Young peasant men who had been educated with the chūkun aikoku morality would certainly have seen the army as the most favourable means of escaping the poverty in their villages. Additionally, they would be elevated in status, as to the Japanese populace the army was seen as glorious and auspicious. Despite the lure to the population however, Hane reveals that the armed forces were as equally exploitative of the lower classes as the industrialists stated above. They had to endure a great amount of abuse from their superior officers, and they in turn maltreated their inferiors, which included foreign civilians, most notably the Koreans. The appeal of the armed forces continued however, and it proceeded to envelop the Japanese population and society. So too did the chūkun aikoku ideology, which reached a zenith with the Kamikaze pilots of World War II. While the educational system did ensure obedience to higher authorities, and especially a subservience to the Emperor, it was never completely successful at indoctrinating the population. There were a great many revolts and uprisings during the early industrial period, ranging from tenant disputes to factory strikes. In this instance Hane is slightly incomplete in his argument, as he does not correlate the reform movement with the dogma taught in the educational system. This inconsistency is linked with the anti-industrial subtext outlined above. It is precisely because of the educational and economic gains produced by modernization that peasants began to become aware of the exploitative relationship between them and the upper classes, and consequently act to reform the Japanese socio-economic structure. Hane’s criticism of the educational system during this period remains valid and convincing however, despite such a minor oversight.
It is perhaps far too easy in the late twentieth century to agree with Mikiso Hane’s arguments concerning the welfare of the lower classes. Contemporary readers are much too accustomed to the apparent freedoms of today’s social and economic climate to appreciate the journey that is required to achieve those liberties. Arguably, the period of poverty and despair that accompanies the early stages of industrialization are required in order to proceed to a post-industrial state. Such a harsh reality of Dickensian social costs has certainly existed in the history of every modern nation, and despite Hane’s “rural nostalgia”, Japan was not to be exempted from the consequences of modernization. Nevertheless, he has provided an important study on the lower classes during the transition from a pre- to a post-industrial society. His arguments are largely complete and, especially to a leftist reader, convincing. The text is highly readable and clearly communicated, and is therefore readily understood by both academics and the general population. Indeed, the diaries and fictional extracts lend Peasants, Rebels, & Outcastes a vivacity and emotionalism not usually associated with socio-economic academia.
Wednesday, October 21, 1998
The Irony of Utopia
During the nearly five centuries since the initial publication of More’s Utopia, critics have found themselves in two rather contradictory interpretive frameworks. Indeed, More’s seemingly contradictory text serves to promote such scholarly disagreement. It seems more likely, however, that the author did not in fact intend Utopia to be viewed as an ideal community, or for the text itself to be taken completely seriously: he is able to “[discuss] serious problems, but not in a humourless or depressing way” (p. 83). Modern readers might first be misled by the work’s title, as “Utopia” means no place in its Greek etymology, and does not refer to the modern lexicon. Throughout the text, More subverts the apparent realism of this fictional country by displaying its flaws and inconsistencies. One can conclude that he was highly sceptical whether a true utopia could in fact be created by humans.
An initial reading of the text may suggest that More is advancing a perfect community in which to live. The Utopians base their society and religious beliefs on the ideology of perfect happiness. This contentment comes through good deeds and a healthy lifestyle, while all other pleasures are illusory. While this theory is indeed noble and well-intentioned, it seems unlikely to have been practised in Utopia. Through several inconsistencies, one is led to question whether the Utopians themselves were in fact happy within their society. For More, the Utopian belief that the ultimate motive for life was the pursuit of pleasure was fallacious. Hythlodaeus repeatedly stresses that citizens were to put the desires of the community above their own, yet it seems that they are not provided with a satisfactory reason for doing so, and indeed this belief is in contradiction with an individual’s pursuit of pleasure. They reasoned that human nature was naturally virtuous, “which in their definition means following one’s natural impulses” (p. 91). Yet, such individual liberties cannot exist without harming some members of the community. Hythlodaeus states that many Utopians found happiness in relieving the discomforts of others despite increasing their own, yet they do not “boast about their own” lives and accomplishments (p. 122). He then seems to belie the good intentions of the Utopians by stating that some citizens erect statues of themselves as a tribute to their good deeds. Consequently, they are forced to believe in an afterlife since the absence of money and glory precludes a reward on earth for a morally-correct life. By pressuring its citizens to act in a good manner, Utopia removes from them the spiritual happiness and fulfilment that comes through the acceptance of God through the free will of humanity. Since they lack such a ‘pure’ relationship with God, they do not gain any revelation from Its wisdom. The prayer to Mythras demonstrates such a problematic situation:
I thank thee ... for letting me live in the happiest possible society, and
practise what I hope is the truest religion. If I am wrong, and if some
other religion or social system would be better and more acceptable to
Thee, I pray in Thy goodness to let me know it (p. 128)
Hythlodaeus states that the Utopians have no capacity for relevation, however, and thus they must perpetually exist in their vacuous and static society. They accept their religious principles not through religious revelation, but alternately through reason (p. 91). Therefore, it can be concluded that the social order of Utopia is based on a rational ideology, and not in any way ordained by God. More would have found such a society intolerable.
A more careful reading of the first book of Utopia provides a parallel which contradicts the supposition of the Utopians as a content people living in a perfect society. While the Utopians live in relative peace and stability, it becomes clear that they have no freedom in any fashion. Citizens have the freedom to travel within their local communities, but if they leave without permission they are severely reprimanded; “for a second offence the punishment is slavery” (p. 84). Hythlodaeus subverts this law with a line from the Utopians’ religious philosophy: “perfect happiness implies complete freedom of movement” (p. 121). This restriction likens them to the prisoners in the nation of the Tallstorians (pp. 51-3). Additionally, citizens are moved around the island at the will of their supervisors to balance the population. Similarly, there is no freedom of thought, although this was not an overt restriction. Children were taught “the right ideas about things — the sort of ideas best calculated to preserve the structure of their society” (p. 124). However, the Utopian religion seems somewhat contradictory, as “one of the most ancient principles of their constitution is religious toleration” (p. 119), yet one ‘destructive’ ideal, atheism, is in fact completely forbidden (pp. 119-20). The Utopians’ practise of such conservatism is in fact parallel to More’s own beliefs as a conservative Catholic, and as a man who convicted several heretics. The stability of their society is stressed, however; they neither engage in many wars with foreign powers, nor do they have internal disputes. Yet, as has been stated earlier, More does not consider them truly happy. Instead, they live in a society of physical well-being without any genuine spiritual contentment. Such a life is fallacious, as Hythlodaeus states: “freedom from pain is anaesthesia” (p. 96). As they lacked any true connection with God, More would agree with his ‘dispenser of nonsense’.
Utopia was definitely constructed by More in a paradoxical and somewhat unclear manner for a specific purpose. He wanted the intellectuals of his age to contemplate the problems it addressed. Simultaneously, however, he did not wish any radical subversions to the established English court society of which he was a part. Humour and satire were therefore the principle methods by which he achieved his goal. Utopia was to be taken lightheartedly, and indeed, one can thus understand the self-referential irony in Hythlodaeus’s doubts whether “there was anything in Latin that [the Utopians] would like very much” (p. 99). Indeed, they would not have liked the portrait that More painted of them.
Bibliography
More, Thomas. Utopia. Trans. Paul Turner. Middlesex, England: Penguin Books, 1981.
New, Peter. Fiction and Purpose In Utopia, Rasselas, The Mill on the Floss, and Women In Love. Hong Kong: MacMillan Press, Ltd, 1985.
An initial reading of the text may suggest that More is advancing a perfect community in which to live. The Utopians base their society and religious beliefs on the ideology of perfect happiness. This contentment comes through good deeds and a healthy lifestyle, while all other pleasures are illusory. While this theory is indeed noble and well-intentioned, it seems unlikely to have been practised in Utopia. Through several inconsistencies, one is led to question whether the Utopians themselves were in fact happy within their society. For More, the Utopian belief that the ultimate motive for life was the pursuit of pleasure was fallacious. Hythlodaeus repeatedly stresses that citizens were to put the desires of the community above their own, yet it seems that they are not provided with a satisfactory reason for doing so, and indeed this belief is in contradiction with an individual’s pursuit of pleasure. They reasoned that human nature was naturally virtuous, “which in their definition means following one’s natural impulses” (p. 91). Yet, such individual liberties cannot exist without harming some members of the community. Hythlodaeus states that many Utopians found happiness in relieving the discomforts of others despite increasing their own, yet they do not “boast about their own” lives and accomplishments (p. 122). He then seems to belie the good intentions of the Utopians by stating that some citizens erect statues of themselves as a tribute to their good deeds. Consequently, they are forced to believe in an afterlife since the absence of money and glory precludes a reward on earth for a morally-correct life. By pressuring its citizens to act in a good manner, Utopia removes from them the spiritual happiness and fulfilment that comes through the acceptance of God through the free will of humanity. Since they lack such a ‘pure’ relationship with God, they do not gain any revelation from Its wisdom. The prayer to Mythras demonstrates such a problematic situation:
I thank thee ... for letting me live in the happiest possible society, and
practise what I hope is the truest religion. If I am wrong, and if some
other religion or social system would be better and more acceptable to
Thee, I pray in Thy goodness to let me know it (p. 128)
Hythlodaeus states that the Utopians have no capacity for relevation, however, and thus they must perpetually exist in their vacuous and static society. They accept their religious principles not through religious revelation, but alternately through reason (p. 91). Therefore, it can be concluded that the social order of Utopia is based on a rational ideology, and not in any way ordained by God. More would have found such a society intolerable.
A more careful reading of the first book of Utopia provides a parallel which contradicts the supposition of the Utopians as a content people living in a perfect society. While the Utopians live in relative peace and stability, it becomes clear that they have no freedom in any fashion. Citizens have the freedom to travel within their local communities, but if they leave without permission they are severely reprimanded; “for a second offence the punishment is slavery” (p. 84). Hythlodaeus subverts this law with a line from the Utopians’ religious philosophy: “perfect happiness implies complete freedom of movement” (p. 121). This restriction likens them to the prisoners in the nation of the Tallstorians (pp. 51-3). Additionally, citizens are moved around the island at the will of their supervisors to balance the population. Similarly, there is no freedom of thought, although this was not an overt restriction. Children were taught “the right ideas about things — the sort of ideas best calculated to preserve the structure of their society” (p. 124). However, the Utopian religion seems somewhat contradictory, as “one of the most ancient principles of their constitution is religious toleration” (p. 119), yet one ‘destructive’ ideal, atheism, is in fact completely forbidden (pp. 119-20). The Utopians’ practise of such conservatism is in fact parallel to More’s own beliefs as a conservative Catholic, and as a man who convicted several heretics. The stability of their society is stressed, however; they neither engage in many wars with foreign powers, nor do they have internal disputes. Yet, as has been stated earlier, More does not consider them truly happy. Instead, they live in a society of physical well-being without any genuine spiritual contentment. Such a life is fallacious, as Hythlodaeus states: “freedom from pain is anaesthesia” (p. 96). As they lacked any true connection with God, More would agree with his ‘dispenser of nonsense’.
Utopia was definitely constructed by More in a paradoxical and somewhat unclear manner for a specific purpose. He wanted the intellectuals of his age to contemplate the problems it addressed. Simultaneously, however, he did not wish any radical subversions to the established English court society of which he was a part. Humour and satire were therefore the principle methods by which he achieved his goal. Utopia was to be taken lightheartedly, and indeed, one can thus understand the self-referential irony in Hythlodaeus’s doubts whether “there was anything in Latin that [the Utopians] would like very much” (p. 99). Indeed, they would not have liked the portrait that More painted of them.
Bibliography
More, Thomas. Utopia. Trans. Paul Turner. Middlesex, England: Penguin Books, 1981.
New, Peter. Fiction and Purpose In Utopia, Rasselas, The Mill on the Floss, and Women In Love. Hong Kong: MacMillan Press, Ltd, 1985.
Thursday, October 15, 1998
The conversion of Europe to Christianity
While there can be no denying the importance and influence of Christianity on Europe in the early middle ages, many source documents belie the rapidity and extent of its adoption. Reading the sources from Bede and other contemporaries, one’s initial impression is that the change from paganism to Catholicism was immediate and all-encompassing. It must be noted that many of the sources were composed after the majority of Europe had already been Christianized, and thus present an obviously biassed perspective of the events they describe. This is especially true as the documents were neither firsthand accounts nor officially issued texts. Alternately, they constitute part of the historical “scholarship” of the period, a nearly fictional method of historical writing in the tradition of authors dating back to the Greek historians such as Thucydides and Xenophon. To provide a thematic context, conversations between historical figures are provided in a narrative, as though the author had been present. The excerpts from Bede’s Ecclesiastical History are notable for utilising this narrative device.
Bede provides a fictional framework not in an effort to record a verbatim account of the meeting between the missionary Paulinus and King Edwin of Northumbria, but instead to convey the important themes of such encounters between Christians and pagan leaders. Arguably, the most predominant motif advanced by the author is the rationality of adopting Christianity. Bede emphasizes that the Christian church does not rely on appeals to the senses to influence non-believers, but instead through rational discussion and argument. One can speculate that Christians of this period believed their religion to be infinitely more civilized and logically coherent than the varied and obviously primitive collection of pagan religions that they encountered throughout Europe. Consequently, Bede reflects such a belief in the pro-Christian sympathies of his council of wise men. They present their arguments in a highly reasonable manner, following a logical progression, and indeed, the King is easily persuaded by them. Similarly, in the subsequent document a similar logic is used to convince a later king to accept the central rule of Rome over the isolated traditions of Christian Ireland. Here again the customs of a rural and still somewhat pagan people, the Irish, are overtly mocked by Bede, through the speech by Wilfrid: “And if that Columba of yours...was a holy man and powerful in miracles, yet could he be preferred before the most blessed chief of the Apostles [Peter]” (p. 83). Once again the king cannot disregard the wisdom of his advisors; the sequence seems almost formulaic in its construction.
It is through the council of wisemen in the first document, however, that Bede reveals his biases against pagan religions. The wise men proclaim the uselessness of their pagan tradition, and consequently their dissatisfaction with it; this remains the subtext throughout these two sources. One of their number—Coifi—states that “the religion which we have hitherto professed has no virtue in it and no profit” (p. 81), and similarly that “This long time I have perceived that what we worshipped was naught; because the more diligently I sought after truth in that worship, the less I found it” (p. 82). It seems unlikely that any ancient religion was quite so unsatisfying as here insisted by Edwin’s priests. Similarly, another councillor states of life that “what is to follow or what went before we know nothing at all” (p. 82). For several reasons, it is quite clear from this statement that Bede was writing for a Christian readership. His ignorance of pagan theology is quite evident and shared with many Christians of the time. These pagan tribes almost assuredly had some idea of what “went before”, as all peoples have some degree of mythology surrounding creation and death. Additionally, Bede implies the notion that there is an afterlife which provides a meaning for life and that it is the truth to which all people aspire; this is an explicitly Christian ideology. In both sources the wisemen immediately display a determined enthusiasm to convert to the new religion, in complete disregard for their own ancient traditions. Their conversation implies that conversion would be immediate and painless, as though one set of morals and beliefs could easily be disregarded in favour of another. Coifi states that if Christianity is found to be “better and more efficacious, we hasten to receive them without further delay” (p. 81). To Bede’s Christian readers, such a quick and uncomplicated conversion would be only natural for the uncivilized pagans. His text seems to be a justification and a confirmation toward Christian readers for their beliefs.
Simultaneously however, Bede’s text implies that the pagan peoples of Britain had the inherent intelligence to understand the righteousness of Christianity through such logical means. He was himself of Anglo-Saxon descent, so such a connexion is elementary. A different characterization is provided by Willibald, a biographer of the Roman missionary Boniface, and likely not German himself. The Roman priest faced consistent opposition to his evangelical work in Germany as the various tribes retained their beliefs in their traditional gods. Although reason did manage to convert a number of Germans to Christianity, many others remained pagan. A miracle was required— an appeal to the senses—in order to convince the tribes of the truth in Christianity. Similar to the conversions in Bede’s text, in this instance conversion was instantaneous: “When the pagans who had cursed did see this, they left off cursing and, believing, blessed God” (p. 85). Indeed, this pattern of conversion is obviously shared with Bede’s text, and is perhaps a convention of the literature; it is merely another standard tale among a host of conversion myths. A more likely purpose for the story, however, is suggested by the final line of the selected text: “Then the most holy priest [Boniface]...built from the wood of the tree an oratory, and dedicated it to the holy apostle Peter” (p. 85). This line intimates that the story provided a mythological history for a pre-existing oratory in the region, perhaps an oral tradition in the area, or perhaps invented by Willibald himself. If the latter is in fact the case, then it is likely that the author adapted the literary tradition of the conversion to a chronicle of the German area without any real historical basis for doing so.
An initial study of the source documents selected may convey to the reader the sense of the inevitability of the conversion of Europe to Christianity. Seemingly, it provided a more logical and compassionate religion than did the old pagan traditions. Additionally, the process of conversion itself appears immediate, complete, and uncomplicated by any moral dilemmas. The reverse was more likely to have occurred. The overturning of the ancient traditions of pagan Europe must have occurred over several decades— perhaps even centuries—and not without any moral and ethical complications. It is still more probable that the conversion to Christianity was not a complete one; an amalgamation of Christian and pagan certainly took place. Indeed, one can observe the practise of both cultural traditions throughout the middle ages.
Bibliography
Bede’s Ecclesiastical History. Trans. A.M. Sellar. The Middle Ages. Gen. Ed. Brian Tierney. Vol. 1.
New York: McGraw Hill, 1992. Pp. 81-3.
Willibald’s Life of Boniface. The Middle Ages. Gen. Ed. Brian Tierney. Vol. 1. New York: McGraw Hill, 1992. Pp. 84-5.
Bede provides a fictional framework not in an effort to record a verbatim account of the meeting between the missionary Paulinus and King Edwin of Northumbria, but instead to convey the important themes of such encounters between Christians and pagan leaders. Arguably, the most predominant motif advanced by the author is the rationality of adopting Christianity. Bede emphasizes that the Christian church does not rely on appeals to the senses to influence non-believers, but instead through rational discussion and argument. One can speculate that Christians of this period believed their religion to be infinitely more civilized and logically coherent than the varied and obviously primitive collection of pagan religions that they encountered throughout Europe. Consequently, Bede reflects such a belief in the pro-Christian sympathies of his council of wise men. They present their arguments in a highly reasonable manner, following a logical progression, and indeed, the King is easily persuaded by them. Similarly, in the subsequent document a similar logic is used to convince a later king to accept the central rule of Rome over the isolated traditions of Christian Ireland. Here again the customs of a rural and still somewhat pagan people, the Irish, are overtly mocked by Bede, through the speech by Wilfrid: “And if that Columba of yours...was a holy man and powerful in miracles, yet could he be preferred before the most blessed chief of the Apostles [Peter]” (p. 83). Once again the king cannot disregard the wisdom of his advisors; the sequence seems almost formulaic in its construction.
It is through the council of wisemen in the first document, however, that Bede reveals his biases against pagan religions. The wise men proclaim the uselessness of their pagan tradition, and consequently their dissatisfaction with it; this remains the subtext throughout these two sources. One of their number—Coifi—states that “the religion which we have hitherto professed has no virtue in it and no profit” (p. 81), and similarly that “This long time I have perceived that what we worshipped was naught; because the more diligently I sought after truth in that worship, the less I found it” (p. 82). It seems unlikely that any ancient religion was quite so unsatisfying as here insisted by Edwin’s priests. Similarly, another councillor states of life that “what is to follow or what went before we know nothing at all” (p. 82). For several reasons, it is quite clear from this statement that Bede was writing for a Christian readership. His ignorance of pagan theology is quite evident and shared with many Christians of the time. These pagan tribes almost assuredly had some idea of what “went before”, as all peoples have some degree of mythology surrounding creation and death. Additionally, Bede implies the notion that there is an afterlife which provides a meaning for life and that it is the truth to which all people aspire; this is an explicitly Christian ideology. In both sources the wisemen immediately display a determined enthusiasm to convert to the new religion, in complete disregard for their own ancient traditions. Their conversation implies that conversion would be immediate and painless, as though one set of morals and beliefs could easily be disregarded in favour of another. Coifi states that if Christianity is found to be “better and more efficacious, we hasten to receive them without further delay” (p. 81). To Bede’s Christian readers, such a quick and uncomplicated conversion would be only natural for the uncivilized pagans. His text seems to be a justification and a confirmation toward Christian readers for their beliefs.
Simultaneously however, Bede’s text implies that the pagan peoples of Britain had the inherent intelligence to understand the righteousness of Christianity through such logical means. He was himself of Anglo-Saxon descent, so such a connexion is elementary. A different characterization is provided by Willibald, a biographer of the Roman missionary Boniface, and likely not German himself. The Roman priest faced consistent opposition to his evangelical work in Germany as the various tribes retained their beliefs in their traditional gods. Although reason did manage to convert a number of Germans to Christianity, many others remained pagan. A miracle was required— an appeal to the senses—in order to convince the tribes of the truth in Christianity. Similar to the conversions in Bede’s text, in this instance conversion was instantaneous: “When the pagans who had cursed did see this, they left off cursing and, believing, blessed God” (p. 85). Indeed, this pattern of conversion is obviously shared with Bede’s text, and is perhaps a convention of the literature; it is merely another standard tale among a host of conversion myths. A more likely purpose for the story, however, is suggested by the final line of the selected text: “Then the most holy priest [Boniface]...built from the wood of the tree an oratory, and dedicated it to the holy apostle Peter” (p. 85). This line intimates that the story provided a mythological history for a pre-existing oratory in the region, perhaps an oral tradition in the area, or perhaps invented by Willibald himself. If the latter is in fact the case, then it is likely that the author adapted the literary tradition of the conversion to a chronicle of the German area without any real historical basis for doing so.
An initial study of the source documents selected may convey to the reader the sense of the inevitability of the conversion of Europe to Christianity. Seemingly, it provided a more logical and compassionate religion than did the old pagan traditions. Additionally, the process of conversion itself appears immediate, complete, and uncomplicated by any moral dilemmas. The reverse was more likely to have occurred. The overturning of the ancient traditions of pagan Europe must have occurred over several decades— perhaps even centuries—and not without any moral and ethical complications. It is still more probable that the conversion to Christianity was not a complete one; an amalgamation of Christian and pagan certainly took place. Indeed, one can observe the practise of both cultural traditions throughout the middle ages.
Bibliography
Bede’s Ecclesiastical History. Trans. A.M. Sellar. The Middle Ages. Gen. Ed. Brian Tierney. Vol. 1.
New York: McGraw Hill, 1992. Pp. 81-3.
Willibald’s Life of Boniface. The Middle Ages. Gen. Ed. Brian Tierney. Vol. 1. New York: McGraw Hill, 1992. Pp. 84-5.
Friday, October 09, 1998
laughter, the tears of my mother
laughter
the tears of my mother
a smile
like a rat
caged
fucking we feel
like dogs
weeping am i born
forgetting to listen
i hear you always in passing
why must i live sideways
and smile to stay upright?
the tears of my mother
a smile
like a rat
caged
fucking we feel
like dogs
weeping am i born
forgetting to listen
i hear you always in passing
why must i live sideways
and smile to stay upright?
Thursday, July 30, 1998
Fear and Desire in Satyricon
Initially, the consideration of Petronius’s Satyricon imbues in the reader a feeling of depravity; indeed, this feeling may overwhelm all other critical faculties. Yet upon further analysis, The Satyricon reveals itself to be quite exceptional among the early literature of Western civilization. Despite its fragmentary existence, the text proves to be a skilled examination of the lives of three Roman citizens in relation to their Neronian society. It can be interpreted as modern not only in the technical sense, being the first novel extant, but also in its ideological connotations. However, a concrete philosophy does not manifest itself in Petronius’s narration; conversely, the author remains cold and distant from the depraved events he describes, neither condemning nor justifying his characters or their actions. Fellini achieves a similar effect in his screen adaptation largely through the use of dubbing and a camera which does not focus exclusively on the protagonists. The plotting in each medium is extremely episodic and disjointed, and little character development occurs. Thus, the study of any distinct themes in The Satyricon becomes difficult; there remains little in the work save a variety of miniature adventures that allow the characters to react to stimuli. Indeed, it is from their actions that a common philosophy shared by all of the characters emerges: life is to be lived to its fullest as death and suffering are arbitrary. All of the characters seem to have only one motive for their actions: the pursuit of pleasure and the avoidance of pain. Such a philosophical system has its roots in Epicurianism, yet arguably Petronius is critiquing the corrupt form of the religion as it existed in his day. At a basic level, such an ideology is reflected in a love for life and a fear of death. Both the original text and Fellini’s adaptation read as a prolonged hymn to this surprisingly modern ideology, concepts which have only recently been explored by such thinkers as Sartre and Camus. There are signals in Fellini’s work, however, that such an ideological system does not completely integrate with his own philosophy.
After absorbing the various episodes in which they engage themselves, it becomes clear that every action taken by the main characters—Encolpius and Ascyltus—is performed for self-satisfaction. As Petronius cast Encolpius as protagonist, he is usually depicted as morally superior to Ascyltus, who is frequently distinguished by his beastly appetites. Yet such characterizations are obvious consequences of first-person narration, and should therefore be viewed as the biassed observations of Encolpius. While Ascyltus is frequently attempting to abduct Giton, Encolpius himself cannot be seen as any moral zealot. His corrupt nature can really only be inferred in the text, yet Fellini’s adaptation is not constrained by a first-person narrator and therefore proves to be a more accessible study of Encolpius. Like all of the other characters in the work, he is driven by bodily desires. When he persuades Ascyltus to part company with him to end their incessant fighting, he explains to the reader that such a logical reason was not in fact his purpose, but instead he “wanted to be rid of [his] troublesome chaperone and be back on [his] old footing with dear little Giton” (Petronius, p. 42). Each shares an ultimate motive of survival by any means, and throughout the text they are either stealing or plotting to thieve to achieve some degree of financial success. It is hardly surprising, therefore, that their supposed friendship frequently disintegrates when control over money and Giton is argued between them. Giton himself remains a passive receptor of their attentions, an object or a goal to be achieved, and indeed he appears to be as elusive and transitory to them as money.
Throughout both the text and the film, the majority of the characters display an obsessive passion for the pleasures of life, and in the most immediate manner possible: as Encolpius states, “why put off our pleasures?” (Petronius, p. 42). A lust for life is perhaps best displayed by Petronius’s focal character of the Cena Trimalchionis. There is perhaps no greater display of earthly desires than that exhibited by Trimalchio, a wealthy freedman who engages in nearly every vice imaginable. His life is quite literally the pursuit of excess: as he states in Fellini’s film, “What you least expect, Is often what you get. But fortune waits above, To care for us with love. So take your fill. Drink at will!”; he quotes a similar verse in Petronius (p. 56). His monetary excesses are obvious throughout the section, and require no further illustration than to state that his rise from freed slave to affluent landowner is perhaps the foremost display of a carpe diem philosophy in The Satyricon. The most blatant example of hedonism in The Satyricon is a lust for sexual gratification in every way possible. This pursuit is of course completely understandable, as sex is arguably the most widely available pleasure and is the most immediate metaphor for life-affirmation. Both Petronius and Fellini vividly display the sexual promiscuities of Neronian society. Petronius doesn’t seem overtly critical of the sexual actions that his characters undertake, yet his mocking tone remains evident: while their escapades might not be considered evil, they are certainly worth derision. As Eumolpus describes his term as guardian over a matron’s daughter (Petronius, p. 158), the reader can sense that while Petronius appreciates the old man’s carpe diem attitude, he can only laugh at its implications. Alternately, Fellini extends the Roman period to parallel his contemporary society—the sexual revolution. Throughout many of the adventures, Fellini’s sardonic tone matches that of Petronius. Yet when the protagonists enter the Pleasure Garden, an environment almost painfully contemporary with the late 1960's, the director appears sincere in depicting sexuality in a positive manner. Fellini seems to impress upon his audience that the methods used to cure Encolpius would likely have worked, and that the lack of any positive results is the fault of the protagonist.
The two works are not solely odes to la joie de vivre however. Each provides an identical justification for the philosophy/actions of the characters: one must capitalize on the opportunities of life as death is arbitrary and continually attendant. Images of death are almost continual in Fellini, as he stresses the suffering inherent in life much more than Petronius. Indeed, the setting of the film repeatedly suggests that the protagonists are traversing the underworld. The apartment complex in which Encolpius finds himself in the beginning of the picture is remarkably Dante-esque in its construction. This is especially noticeable when Fellini slowly tilts the camera upward and the viewer is able to see the ‘concentric circles’ of the structure; similarly, through their various ‘rituals’ the inhabitants of the building bear a resemblance to the sinners of Dante’s hell. The director also makes use of the image of the skeleton, a figure found once in Petronius (p. 56; see also note 14., p. 190) and represented in numerous masks displayed in the film. Trimalchio himself plays with a skeleton puppet, an ironic device used by both Petronius and Fellini to display further the millionaire’s corrupt character. Accompanying these images, Fellini stages a variety of horrific sequences throughout his film showing the randomness of human suffering. This continual sub-theme emerges from the background of the film and becomes the primary subject in the temple of the hermaphrodite. In this sequence, the camera focuses on the numerous cripples and invalids, implying that such conditions can befall anyone; indeed, even the “Hero of Quadrafesino” is merely a torso who cannot perform the simplest of tasks unaided. It is in this respect that one can begin to doubt whether Fellini in fact supports the carpe diem philosophy of his characters. While he excludes Encolpius from enduring any true anguish, most of the other major and minor characters in the film are shown to be suffering despite, or perhaps even resulting from, the debauched society in which they live. There are several instances where ‘living-dead’ characters stare out from the scene and towards the viewer, ostensibly as ghosts warning the spectator that despair and death are the true consequences of their decadent environment: a female child staring out from the debaucheries of Trimalchio’s feast is perhaps the best example. Such a philosophy is perhaps a sub-text at best, however, as despite the many references to death in the film, life is ultimately glorified in all its aspects. Death seems merely a prelude to life, as evidenced by the tale of the widow of Ephesus and the villa of the suicides, where Encolpius and Ascyltus engage in an orgy despite the recent tragedy. Similarly, at the conclusion of the film, after having his sexual functioning return to him, Encolpius barely notices the death of Ascyltus, but merely continues with his (newly-potent) life. Metaphorically, the dead are consumed by the living so that they may continue to survive; this is made explicit in both Fellini and Petronius when the legacy hunters are forced to eat the remains of Eumolpus to gain from his will. Due to the fragmentary nature of Petronius’s original text, Fellini’s adaptation conveys more forcefully the continuous nature of life and death.
While the adventures in The Satyricon might seem too random, fragmentary, and arguably too depraved to merit any thematic dissertation, a closer examination of the text reveals a complete and surprisingly modern philosophical foundation upon which these episodes are composed. Each of the protagonists—Encolpius and Ascyltus—as well as most of the secondary characters displays an utter obsession with the pleasures of life, and seize any opportunity to gratify their pleasures. Fellini expands upon this ideology in his film adaptation, justifying it by emphasizing the human impulse of pleasure-seeking in order to avoid pain; the images of death and suffering in the film are at times almost suffocating. The director frequently shows the painful consequences that can result from such an opportunistic lifestyle. Ultimately however, Fellini agrees with Petronius in his celebration of the cycle of life and death.
Bibliography
Fellini, Federico. Fellini Satyricon. MGM/UA, 1969.
Petronius, The Satyricon. Trans. J.P. Sullivan. Suffolk, Great Britain: Penguin Books, 1987.
Supplementary
Petronius, The Satyricon. Trans. P.G. Walsh. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1996.
After absorbing the various episodes in which they engage themselves, it becomes clear that every action taken by the main characters—Encolpius and Ascyltus—is performed for self-satisfaction. As Petronius cast Encolpius as protagonist, he is usually depicted as morally superior to Ascyltus, who is frequently distinguished by his beastly appetites. Yet such characterizations are obvious consequences of first-person narration, and should therefore be viewed as the biassed observations of Encolpius. While Ascyltus is frequently attempting to abduct Giton, Encolpius himself cannot be seen as any moral zealot. His corrupt nature can really only be inferred in the text, yet Fellini’s adaptation is not constrained by a first-person narrator and therefore proves to be a more accessible study of Encolpius. Like all of the other characters in the work, he is driven by bodily desires. When he persuades Ascyltus to part company with him to end their incessant fighting, he explains to the reader that such a logical reason was not in fact his purpose, but instead he “wanted to be rid of [his] troublesome chaperone and be back on [his] old footing with dear little Giton” (Petronius, p. 42). Each shares an ultimate motive of survival by any means, and throughout the text they are either stealing or plotting to thieve to achieve some degree of financial success. It is hardly surprising, therefore, that their supposed friendship frequently disintegrates when control over money and Giton is argued between them. Giton himself remains a passive receptor of their attentions, an object or a goal to be achieved, and indeed he appears to be as elusive and transitory to them as money.
Throughout both the text and the film, the majority of the characters display an obsessive passion for the pleasures of life, and in the most immediate manner possible: as Encolpius states, “why put off our pleasures?” (Petronius, p. 42). A lust for life is perhaps best displayed by Petronius’s focal character of the Cena Trimalchionis. There is perhaps no greater display of earthly desires than that exhibited by Trimalchio, a wealthy freedman who engages in nearly every vice imaginable. His life is quite literally the pursuit of excess: as he states in Fellini’s film, “What you least expect, Is often what you get. But fortune waits above, To care for us with love. So take your fill. Drink at will!”; he quotes a similar verse in Petronius (p. 56). His monetary excesses are obvious throughout the section, and require no further illustration than to state that his rise from freed slave to affluent landowner is perhaps the foremost display of a carpe diem philosophy in The Satyricon. The most blatant example of hedonism in The Satyricon is a lust for sexual gratification in every way possible. This pursuit is of course completely understandable, as sex is arguably the most widely available pleasure and is the most immediate metaphor for life-affirmation. Both Petronius and Fellini vividly display the sexual promiscuities of Neronian society. Petronius doesn’t seem overtly critical of the sexual actions that his characters undertake, yet his mocking tone remains evident: while their escapades might not be considered evil, they are certainly worth derision. As Eumolpus describes his term as guardian over a matron’s daughter (Petronius, p. 158), the reader can sense that while Petronius appreciates the old man’s carpe diem attitude, he can only laugh at its implications. Alternately, Fellini extends the Roman period to parallel his contemporary society—the sexual revolution. Throughout many of the adventures, Fellini’s sardonic tone matches that of Petronius. Yet when the protagonists enter the Pleasure Garden, an environment almost painfully contemporary with the late 1960's, the director appears sincere in depicting sexuality in a positive manner. Fellini seems to impress upon his audience that the methods used to cure Encolpius would likely have worked, and that the lack of any positive results is the fault of the protagonist.
The two works are not solely odes to la joie de vivre however. Each provides an identical justification for the philosophy/actions of the characters: one must capitalize on the opportunities of life as death is arbitrary and continually attendant. Images of death are almost continual in Fellini, as he stresses the suffering inherent in life much more than Petronius. Indeed, the setting of the film repeatedly suggests that the protagonists are traversing the underworld. The apartment complex in which Encolpius finds himself in the beginning of the picture is remarkably Dante-esque in its construction. This is especially noticeable when Fellini slowly tilts the camera upward and the viewer is able to see the ‘concentric circles’ of the structure; similarly, through their various ‘rituals’ the inhabitants of the building bear a resemblance to the sinners of Dante’s hell. The director also makes use of the image of the skeleton, a figure found once in Petronius (p. 56; see also note 14., p. 190) and represented in numerous masks displayed in the film. Trimalchio himself plays with a skeleton puppet, an ironic device used by both Petronius and Fellini to display further the millionaire’s corrupt character. Accompanying these images, Fellini stages a variety of horrific sequences throughout his film showing the randomness of human suffering. This continual sub-theme emerges from the background of the film and becomes the primary subject in the temple of the hermaphrodite. In this sequence, the camera focuses on the numerous cripples and invalids, implying that such conditions can befall anyone; indeed, even the “Hero of Quadrafesino” is merely a torso who cannot perform the simplest of tasks unaided. It is in this respect that one can begin to doubt whether Fellini in fact supports the carpe diem philosophy of his characters. While he excludes Encolpius from enduring any true anguish, most of the other major and minor characters in the film are shown to be suffering despite, or perhaps even resulting from, the debauched society in which they live. There are several instances where ‘living-dead’ characters stare out from the scene and towards the viewer, ostensibly as ghosts warning the spectator that despair and death are the true consequences of their decadent environment: a female child staring out from the debaucheries of Trimalchio’s feast is perhaps the best example. Such a philosophy is perhaps a sub-text at best, however, as despite the many references to death in the film, life is ultimately glorified in all its aspects. Death seems merely a prelude to life, as evidenced by the tale of the widow of Ephesus and the villa of the suicides, where Encolpius and Ascyltus engage in an orgy despite the recent tragedy. Similarly, at the conclusion of the film, after having his sexual functioning return to him, Encolpius barely notices the death of Ascyltus, but merely continues with his (newly-potent) life. Metaphorically, the dead are consumed by the living so that they may continue to survive; this is made explicit in both Fellini and Petronius when the legacy hunters are forced to eat the remains of Eumolpus to gain from his will. Due to the fragmentary nature of Petronius’s original text, Fellini’s adaptation conveys more forcefully the continuous nature of life and death.
While the adventures in The Satyricon might seem too random, fragmentary, and arguably too depraved to merit any thematic dissertation, a closer examination of the text reveals a complete and surprisingly modern philosophical foundation upon which these episodes are composed. Each of the protagonists—Encolpius and Ascyltus—as well as most of the secondary characters displays an utter obsession with the pleasures of life, and seize any opportunity to gratify their pleasures. Fellini expands upon this ideology in his film adaptation, justifying it by emphasizing the human impulse of pleasure-seeking in order to avoid pain; the images of death and suffering in the film are at times almost suffocating. The director frequently shows the painful consequences that can result from such an opportunistic lifestyle. Ultimately however, Fellini agrees with Petronius in his celebration of the cycle of life and death.
Bibliography
Fellini, Federico. Fellini Satyricon. MGM/UA, 1969.
Petronius, The Satyricon. Trans. J.P. Sullivan. Suffolk, Great Britain: Penguin Books, 1987.
Supplementary
Petronius, The Satyricon. Trans. P.G. Walsh. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1996.
Thursday, March 26, 1998
An Absurd Existence: Freedom and Guilt in The Fall and The Trial
It can be said that one of the trademarks of twentieth century philosophy and literature is the abandonment of the strict ethical forms of previous centuries. Human nature has come to be seen as more broad in definition than simply good or evil, right or wrong, and true or false. A more vivid and accurate account of mortality lies in the spectrum between these extremes, and is indeed a combination of them. While such a fluid moral stance can be seen in older works— Flaubert’s Madame Bovary is an immediate example—it was not until this century that the idea of ambiguous morality became widespread. Indeed, such events as the first World War, which did not have a distinct moral centre as atrocities were exhibited by both sides, forced intellectuals to re-evaluate man’s moral stance in such a world. The primary concern was how humanity was to exist in an absurd universe. Previously in the nineteenth century, Nietzsche had proposed that man became alienated by attempting to conform to the polar morality of good or evil. His philosophy in particular was of great influence to both Albert Camus and Franz Kafka. Pressed into an absurd world the main characters of The Fall and The Trial, Clamence and Joseph K. respectively, attempt to orient their moral compasses, and consequently determine the purpose of their existence. Their feeling of estrangement is closely tied with feelings of guilt, the sense that the hardships that each of the characters endures is in a manner deserved. In both cases this guilty conscience is reflected in and created by the protagonists. Clamence faces his own culpability when he remains inanimate as a young woman kills herself and he is compelled to question the integrity he once cherished. He concludes with the belief that no such concept as innocence should be applied to the human condition; every man in inherently guilty. Similarly, through his rejection of the judiciary processes in which he is engrossed, Joseph K. is the architect of his own guilt and consequent judgement in view of the presiding authority. In this sense, both Clamence and Joseph K. can be seen to have authored their own degeneration. A second facet relates the two characters, summed up by a quote from The Fall: “the keenest of human torments is to be judged without a law” (Camus, 117). Neither character has a reference point with which he can gauge his guilt or innocence, and thus each is left, alone and alienated, to question his own existence in a world of absurdities.
An absurd world is indeed to be found in The Fall. Yet in the novel, ‘the absurd’ does not signify an implausible or even an illogical setting for the characters. Another meaning of the word is intended: the world in which Clamence exists is entirely real and understandable, yet it is fallacious. Initially, ‘the absurd’ applies to Clamence himself, as the reader is to question the authenticity of his character. Over the course of his monologue, the reader begins to understand Clamence’s moral ambiguity. He initially states that he was considered a good man, a respected lawyer, who earned praise for his compassionate deeds. By the end of the text, however, the reader has learned the subconscious purpose of his benevolence. It is merely a public display, an act to appease his vanity and endear him to the masses. Indeed, he admits himself to be an actor: his is “a double face, a charming Janus...Don’t rely on it” and “After playing my part, I would take the bow” (Camus, 47). Though he would gladly aid a blind man to cross a busy street—indeed, he yearned for the opportunity to display his altruism—he could not aid a person who in fact needed to be rescued. When he does not attempt to save the woman who threw herself from the Pont Royal, an incident which did not allow him to demonstrate his nobility to an audience, Clamence proves the duplicity inherent in his nature. All of his moral self-satisfaction is shattered by this event. Yet, while he could not jump into the river to save the woman, the excuse he provides for not doing so is natural and even universal:
I was trembling, I believe from cold and shock. I told myself that I
had to be quick and I felt an irresistible weakness steal over me. I have
forgotten what I thought then. “Too late too far...” or something
of the sort. (Camus, 70).
This incident of cowardice periodically haunts Clamence in the guise of disembodied laughter; the world is now mocking his supposed innocence. He changes from living in a state of judging others, of being a lawyer, to repenting the guilt he feels for the artifice of his character and becoming the penitent. Stifled by the guilt that weighed down on his conscience, he wanted to remove the mask that he had been wearing, to “reveal to all eyes what he was made of...[and] break open the handsome wax-figure I presented everywhere” (Camus, 94). This feeling of liability had alienated him from others, and to alleviate his estrangement he attempted to implicate and deride himself: “I wanted to put the laughers on my side, or at least to put myself on their side” (Camus, 91). Unsuccessful, he reverted to his past ways of consuming women and alcohol, although this time he recognized his faults. Indeed, he soon came to the conclusion that he had found a way out of this circle of moral duplicity: acceptance of falsehoods.
It is at this point that Camus implicitly explains the meaning of the novel’s title. Clamence becomes the confessor not to absolve his past sins, but instead in order to repeat them:
I permit myself everything again, and without the laughter this time.
I haven’t changed my way of life; I continue to love myself and make
use of others. Only, the confession of my crimes allows me to begin
again lighter in heart and to taste a double enjoyment, first of my
nature and secondly of a charming repentance. (Camus, 141-2)
As he judges himself, thus he is able to judge others and to call himself a “judge-penitent”. Thus, he remains true to his nature at night, a deceptive man who requires supremacy over others, and in his mind ‘preside’ over the patrons at the Mexico City. Indeed, it is only in these immoral experiences that he finds truth: “No man is a hypocrite in his pleasures” (Camus, 66). It is in fact through the act of confession that Clamence tries to implicate others in his own guilt and thus vindicate his own character. Thus, after his debaucheries, the fall from which the novel takes its name occurs. The fall is in effect a vindication of a guilty conscience. Clamence does so by stating that no one is in fact innocent; every person, even Christ, feels guilt. This guilt does not derive from original sin—the Fall is not the Fall from Eden—but instead has its origins in freedom. Freedom allows no innocent actions, as Clamence learned when he allowed the young woman to die—“on the bridges of Paris I, too, learned that I was afraid of freedom” (Camus, 136)—and is thus just as guilty as a murderer: “I haven’t killed anyone? Not yet, to be sure! But have I not let deserving creatures die? Maybe. And maybe I am ready to do so again” (Camus, 95). Freedom condemns the free because it allows them to be judged; Clamence can be proclaimed guilty. The only way to avoid judgement, Clamence quickly learns, is to incriminate everyone else. Man becomes the Last Judgement for himself as “every man testifies to the crime of all others” (Camus, 110).
Religion recognized the dangers of freedom: “since they don’t want freedom or its judgements, they ask to be rapped on the knuckles, they invent dreadful rules, they rush out to build piles of faggots to replace churches” (Camus, 135). Conversely, while Clamence does not have a belief in a god or higher authority, he does in fact desire one to control him. He has no reference point to which he can gauge his guilt or innocence, no higher authority telling him how to act, and therefore in his mind his reaction on the Pont Royal seems justified. Thus Clamence praises the bonds of slavery, and indeed the circular nature of his debauchery-and-repentance lifestyle has placed him in chains. At the same time, by implicating all of humanity along with himself Clamence relieves the alienation he had felt when he believed himself to be guilty as others were innocent. He feared death, which is “solitary, whereas slavery is collective. The others get their too, and at the same time as we—that’s what counts” (Camus, 136). Confession is a dialogue, an act of inclusion, and by engaging in it Clamence feels part of a whole. Yet, he places his experiences above himself; they become representative of the whole of humanity. Again deception is apparent, as Clamence states that he adjusts his story to represent the listener as well as himself:
I choose the features we have in common, the experiences we have
endured together, the failings we share...[to] construct a portrait which
is the image of all and of no one...the portrait I hold out to my
contemporaries becomes a mirror. (Camus, 139-40)
The irony of this statement may not be lost on him however; he may not view himself in fact with such high esteem. Even though he frequently proclaims his life as judge-penitent to be superior to the false masks worn by most people in their lives, and that “false judges are held up to the world’s admiration and I alone know the true ones” (Camus, 130), by the end of his confession he states that he is in fact a “false prophet” (Camus, 147). When he says “I feel at last that I am being adored” (Camus, 143), the reader has to question the sincerity of his confession; indeed, as he stated before, he may be “about to dress the corpse” (Camus, 120). This conclusion leaves the reader to contemplate the moral ambiguity and perhaps even hopelessness of the vicious circle of sin-and-absolution in which Clamence finds himself.
Joseph K. finds himself ensnared in a similar cycle. The world that he had created for himself was one of meticulous order and a strict adherence to his established routine. Such an artificial construct ostensibly granted him control over the world outside of his own; K. is terrified of losing control of his environment. Nevertheless, such occurs when the door to his apartment is forced open and he is arrested by the Court. He is promptly condemned as a guilty man, yet no evident laws or authorities govern this conviction. Thus he becomes extremely disillusioned as the anarchy and apparent lawlessness of the Court is forced into his reality and he is compelled to endure its labyrinthine operations. Yet, unlike Clamence, Joseph K. never acknowledges his guilt. In the very first line of the text K. proclaims himself innocent: “Someone must have been telling lies about [me], for without having done anything wrong [I] was arrested one fine morning” (Kafka, 1). For the remainder of the novel he fights the judgement brought against him. These efforts only prove to escalate his guilty status and intensify the proceedings in which he finds himself circumscribed. The first such escalation occurs when K. is told to attend his trial, yet never having been given directions about the location or schedule of the offices he arrives to find himself in contempt of the Examining Magistrate for tardiness. Subsequently, he attempts to determine the underlying structure and methodology of the Court and to accord it with his own rational system of thought. Yet the Court does not adhere to his logically organized world. Thus he cannot function within its framework, and to the end of the text remains impotent to act against it. This is confirmed when K. traverses the court offices only to find himself oppressed by the climate therein. Indeed, this episode is a microcosm of his intercourse with the Court: as K. became increasingly ill at the offices—”the farther he went the worse it [became] for him” (Kafka, 68)—his physical condition correspondingly worsens as the narrative continues.
In order to escape from the machinations of the Court, K. needed to recognize that he is indeed guilty. Yet, while he proclaims himself innocent, the mere fact that he has been condemned by the Court proves his guilt. Through his mere existence he has condemned himself and is guilty, as are all men. The Court eventually condemns all men who do not acknowledge the guilt inherent in their existence. This fact is confirmed in a conversation between K. and the clergyman:
“I am not guilty,” said K.; “it’s a mistake. And if it comes to that,
how can any man be called guilty? We are all simply men here,
one as much as the other.” “That is true,” said the priest, “but
that’s how all guilty men talk.” (Kafka, 210)
Indeed, as Clamence had stated, every man becomes a judge of all the others and similarly in The Trial there is a Court under every roof in the city. To understand Joseph K.’s predicament, it is necessary to apply the metaphor of the ‘little-ease’ found in The Fall. Like the operations of the Court, the confining walls of the little-ease—an oubliette of sorts—do not allow the prisoner to live comfortably or function properly. Life inside is in direct opposition of life outside: “one had to take on an awkward manner and live on the diagonal; sleep was a collapse, and waking a squatting” (Camus, 109). Similarly, the operations of the Court were contrary to K.’s ideologies and he was unable to function within its context. The analogy becomes even more explicit when Clamence states that the prisoner experiences an “unchanging restriction that stiffened his body” (Camus, 109). K. did indeed experience a stiffening of his body as has been stated, and more significantly he likewise felt his freedom curtailed. The Court repeatedly emphasized that he was free to live his life as he had before his arrest, yet when he deals with the clergyman, who is a representative of the Court, he feels compelled to remain in its presence. The conversation is abbreviated as follows:
K: “I must go.” “Well,” said the priest, “then go.” The priest had
already taken a step or two away from him, but K. cried out in
a loud voice, “Please wait a moment...Don’t you want anything
more from me?” “No,” said the priest...”But you have to leave
now”. “Well, yes,” said K., “you must see that I can’t help it.”
(Kafka, 221)
From this incident, it is possible to infer that K. had in fact recognized the authority of the Court despite his remarks otherwise. Yet, unlike the prisoner mentioned by Clamence, he never “learned that he was guilty and that innocence consists in stretching joyously” (Camus, 109-10). K. adamantly proclaims his innocence even after he had been sentenced and was being executed. His defiance can be explained by the lack of an external reference by which he can calibrate his guilt. The Court officials act apathetically to him and his questions remain unanswered. Similarly, there are no concrete references in the Law itself to measure K’s guilt: the books of the Examining Magistrate prove to be filled not with law codes and precedents but with pornographic pictures. Despite a similar lack of external reference point for guilt, however, Clamence had accepted his guilt; indeed he had revelled in it. Yet, Joseph K. could not do the same. He continued to press his innocence and thus was found ever more guilty. Indeed, like the prisoner in the little-ease, the proceedings for K. did “gradually merge into the verdict” (Kafka, 211).
The issue of a guilty existence permeates the entire texts of both The Fall and The Trial. Indeed, in each of the two novels guilt is a direct consequence of existence. “Man is seen more as continually falling than fallen.” This fall originates in freedom, mainly the freedom to judge and be judged. For both Jean-Baptiste Clamence and Joseph K., a guilty conscience becomes all consuming. Clamence accepts his liability almost passionately, and through his confessions attempts to convert others to his ‘new-found religion’. Conversely, Joseph K. refuses to acknowledge his guilty status even as he accedes to the proceedings of the Court. This renunciation proves to be his downfall. Yet, arguably the reader is in disagreement with the narrators of the two texts. By the end of The Fall, Clamence is seen to be a somewhat repulsive character whose sincerity is never entirely believed. Alternately, Joseph K. is held in high regard; to the modern reader his defiance and perseverance are commendable. Perhaps the universal guilt espoused in each of the texts remains unacceptable and even odious to the modern conscience; both Clamence and the Court would proclaim the reader guilty.
Bibliography
Camus, Albert. The Fall. Trans. Justin O’Brien. New York: Vintage International, 1991.
Kafka, Franz. The Trial. Trans. Willa and Edwin Muir. New York: Schocken Books, 1995.
Supplementary:
Amoia, Alba. Albert Camus. New York: Continuum Publishing Company, 1989.
Cruikshank, John. Albert Camus and the Literature of Revolt. New York: Oxford University
Press, 1966.
McBride, Joseph. Albert Camus: Philosopher and Littérateur. New York: St. Martin, 1992.
Rhein, Phillip A. Albert Camus. Revised edition. Boston, USA: Twayne Publishers, 1989.
An absurd world is indeed to be found in The Fall. Yet in the novel, ‘the absurd’ does not signify an implausible or even an illogical setting for the characters. Another meaning of the word is intended: the world in which Clamence exists is entirely real and understandable, yet it is fallacious. Initially, ‘the absurd’ applies to Clamence himself, as the reader is to question the authenticity of his character. Over the course of his monologue, the reader begins to understand Clamence’s moral ambiguity. He initially states that he was considered a good man, a respected lawyer, who earned praise for his compassionate deeds. By the end of the text, however, the reader has learned the subconscious purpose of his benevolence. It is merely a public display, an act to appease his vanity and endear him to the masses. Indeed, he admits himself to be an actor: his is “a double face, a charming Janus...Don’t rely on it” and “After playing my part, I would take the bow” (Camus, 47). Though he would gladly aid a blind man to cross a busy street—indeed, he yearned for the opportunity to display his altruism—he could not aid a person who in fact needed to be rescued. When he does not attempt to save the woman who threw herself from the Pont Royal, an incident which did not allow him to demonstrate his nobility to an audience, Clamence proves the duplicity inherent in his nature. All of his moral self-satisfaction is shattered by this event. Yet, while he could not jump into the river to save the woman, the excuse he provides for not doing so is natural and even universal:
I was trembling, I believe from cold and shock. I told myself that I
had to be quick and I felt an irresistible weakness steal over me. I have
forgotten what I thought then. “Too late too far...” or something
of the sort. (Camus, 70).
This incident of cowardice periodically haunts Clamence in the guise of disembodied laughter; the world is now mocking his supposed innocence. He changes from living in a state of judging others, of being a lawyer, to repenting the guilt he feels for the artifice of his character and becoming the penitent. Stifled by the guilt that weighed down on his conscience, he wanted to remove the mask that he had been wearing, to “reveal to all eyes what he was made of...[and] break open the handsome wax-figure I presented everywhere” (Camus, 94). This feeling of liability had alienated him from others, and to alleviate his estrangement he attempted to implicate and deride himself: “I wanted to put the laughers on my side, or at least to put myself on their side” (Camus, 91). Unsuccessful, he reverted to his past ways of consuming women and alcohol, although this time he recognized his faults. Indeed, he soon came to the conclusion that he had found a way out of this circle of moral duplicity: acceptance of falsehoods.
It is at this point that Camus implicitly explains the meaning of the novel’s title. Clamence becomes the confessor not to absolve his past sins, but instead in order to repeat them:
I permit myself everything again, and without the laughter this time.
I haven’t changed my way of life; I continue to love myself and make
use of others. Only, the confession of my crimes allows me to begin
again lighter in heart and to taste a double enjoyment, first of my
nature and secondly of a charming repentance. (Camus, 141-2)
As he judges himself, thus he is able to judge others and to call himself a “judge-penitent”. Thus, he remains true to his nature at night, a deceptive man who requires supremacy over others, and in his mind ‘preside’ over the patrons at the Mexico City. Indeed, it is only in these immoral experiences that he finds truth: “No man is a hypocrite in his pleasures” (Camus, 66). It is in fact through the act of confession that Clamence tries to implicate others in his own guilt and thus vindicate his own character. Thus, after his debaucheries, the fall from which the novel takes its name occurs. The fall is in effect a vindication of a guilty conscience. Clamence does so by stating that no one is in fact innocent; every person, even Christ, feels guilt. This guilt does not derive from original sin—the Fall is not the Fall from Eden—but instead has its origins in freedom. Freedom allows no innocent actions, as Clamence learned when he allowed the young woman to die—“on the bridges of Paris I, too, learned that I was afraid of freedom” (Camus, 136)—and is thus just as guilty as a murderer: “I haven’t killed anyone? Not yet, to be sure! But have I not let deserving creatures die? Maybe. And maybe I am ready to do so again” (Camus, 95). Freedom condemns the free because it allows them to be judged; Clamence can be proclaimed guilty. The only way to avoid judgement, Clamence quickly learns, is to incriminate everyone else. Man becomes the Last Judgement for himself as “every man testifies to the crime of all others” (Camus, 110).
Religion recognized the dangers of freedom: “since they don’t want freedom or its judgements, they ask to be rapped on the knuckles, they invent dreadful rules, they rush out to build piles of faggots to replace churches” (Camus, 135). Conversely, while Clamence does not have a belief in a god or higher authority, he does in fact desire one to control him. He has no reference point to which he can gauge his guilt or innocence, no higher authority telling him how to act, and therefore in his mind his reaction on the Pont Royal seems justified. Thus Clamence praises the bonds of slavery, and indeed the circular nature of his debauchery-and-repentance lifestyle has placed him in chains. At the same time, by implicating all of humanity along with himself Clamence relieves the alienation he had felt when he believed himself to be guilty as others were innocent. He feared death, which is “solitary, whereas slavery is collective. The others get their too, and at the same time as we—that’s what counts” (Camus, 136). Confession is a dialogue, an act of inclusion, and by engaging in it Clamence feels part of a whole. Yet, he places his experiences above himself; they become representative of the whole of humanity. Again deception is apparent, as Clamence states that he adjusts his story to represent the listener as well as himself:
I choose the features we have in common, the experiences we have
endured together, the failings we share...[to] construct a portrait which
is the image of all and of no one...the portrait I hold out to my
contemporaries becomes a mirror. (Camus, 139-40)
The irony of this statement may not be lost on him however; he may not view himself in fact with such high esteem. Even though he frequently proclaims his life as judge-penitent to be superior to the false masks worn by most people in their lives, and that “false judges are held up to the world’s admiration and I alone know the true ones” (Camus, 130), by the end of his confession he states that he is in fact a “false prophet” (Camus, 147). When he says “I feel at last that I am being adored” (Camus, 143), the reader has to question the sincerity of his confession; indeed, as he stated before, he may be “about to dress the corpse” (Camus, 120). This conclusion leaves the reader to contemplate the moral ambiguity and perhaps even hopelessness of the vicious circle of sin-and-absolution in which Clamence finds himself.
Joseph K. finds himself ensnared in a similar cycle. The world that he had created for himself was one of meticulous order and a strict adherence to his established routine. Such an artificial construct ostensibly granted him control over the world outside of his own; K. is terrified of losing control of his environment. Nevertheless, such occurs when the door to his apartment is forced open and he is arrested by the Court. He is promptly condemned as a guilty man, yet no evident laws or authorities govern this conviction. Thus he becomes extremely disillusioned as the anarchy and apparent lawlessness of the Court is forced into his reality and he is compelled to endure its labyrinthine operations. Yet, unlike Clamence, Joseph K. never acknowledges his guilt. In the very first line of the text K. proclaims himself innocent: “Someone must have been telling lies about [me], for without having done anything wrong [I] was arrested one fine morning” (Kafka, 1). For the remainder of the novel he fights the judgement brought against him. These efforts only prove to escalate his guilty status and intensify the proceedings in which he finds himself circumscribed. The first such escalation occurs when K. is told to attend his trial, yet never having been given directions about the location or schedule of the offices he arrives to find himself in contempt of the Examining Magistrate for tardiness. Subsequently, he attempts to determine the underlying structure and methodology of the Court and to accord it with his own rational system of thought. Yet the Court does not adhere to his logically organized world. Thus he cannot function within its framework, and to the end of the text remains impotent to act against it. This is confirmed when K. traverses the court offices only to find himself oppressed by the climate therein. Indeed, this episode is a microcosm of his intercourse with the Court: as K. became increasingly ill at the offices—”the farther he went the worse it [became] for him” (Kafka, 68)—his physical condition correspondingly worsens as the narrative continues.
In order to escape from the machinations of the Court, K. needed to recognize that he is indeed guilty. Yet, while he proclaims himself innocent, the mere fact that he has been condemned by the Court proves his guilt. Through his mere existence he has condemned himself and is guilty, as are all men. The Court eventually condemns all men who do not acknowledge the guilt inherent in their existence. This fact is confirmed in a conversation between K. and the clergyman:
“I am not guilty,” said K.; “it’s a mistake. And if it comes to that,
how can any man be called guilty? We are all simply men here,
one as much as the other.” “That is true,” said the priest, “but
that’s how all guilty men talk.” (Kafka, 210)
Indeed, as Clamence had stated, every man becomes a judge of all the others and similarly in The Trial there is a Court under every roof in the city. To understand Joseph K.’s predicament, it is necessary to apply the metaphor of the ‘little-ease’ found in The Fall. Like the operations of the Court, the confining walls of the little-ease—an oubliette of sorts—do not allow the prisoner to live comfortably or function properly. Life inside is in direct opposition of life outside: “one had to take on an awkward manner and live on the diagonal; sleep was a collapse, and waking a squatting” (Camus, 109). Similarly, the operations of the Court were contrary to K.’s ideologies and he was unable to function within its context. The analogy becomes even more explicit when Clamence states that the prisoner experiences an “unchanging restriction that stiffened his body” (Camus, 109). K. did indeed experience a stiffening of his body as has been stated, and more significantly he likewise felt his freedom curtailed. The Court repeatedly emphasized that he was free to live his life as he had before his arrest, yet when he deals with the clergyman, who is a representative of the Court, he feels compelled to remain in its presence. The conversation is abbreviated as follows:
K: “I must go.” “Well,” said the priest, “then go.” The priest had
already taken a step or two away from him, but K. cried out in
a loud voice, “Please wait a moment...Don’t you want anything
more from me?” “No,” said the priest...”But you have to leave
now”. “Well, yes,” said K., “you must see that I can’t help it.”
(Kafka, 221)
From this incident, it is possible to infer that K. had in fact recognized the authority of the Court despite his remarks otherwise. Yet, unlike the prisoner mentioned by Clamence, he never “learned that he was guilty and that innocence consists in stretching joyously” (Camus, 109-10). K. adamantly proclaims his innocence even after he had been sentenced and was being executed. His defiance can be explained by the lack of an external reference by which he can calibrate his guilt. The Court officials act apathetically to him and his questions remain unanswered. Similarly, there are no concrete references in the Law itself to measure K’s guilt: the books of the Examining Magistrate prove to be filled not with law codes and precedents but with pornographic pictures. Despite a similar lack of external reference point for guilt, however, Clamence had accepted his guilt; indeed he had revelled in it. Yet, Joseph K. could not do the same. He continued to press his innocence and thus was found ever more guilty. Indeed, like the prisoner in the little-ease, the proceedings for K. did “gradually merge into the verdict” (Kafka, 211).
The issue of a guilty existence permeates the entire texts of both The Fall and The Trial. Indeed, in each of the two novels guilt is a direct consequence of existence. “Man is seen more as continually falling than fallen.” This fall originates in freedom, mainly the freedom to judge and be judged. For both Jean-Baptiste Clamence and Joseph K., a guilty conscience becomes all consuming. Clamence accepts his liability almost passionately, and through his confessions attempts to convert others to his ‘new-found religion’. Conversely, Joseph K. refuses to acknowledge his guilty status even as he accedes to the proceedings of the Court. This renunciation proves to be his downfall. Yet, arguably the reader is in disagreement with the narrators of the two texts. By the end of The Fall, Clamence is seen to be a somewhat repulsive character whose sincerity is never entirely believed. Alternately, Joseph K. is held in high regard; to the modern reader his defiance and perseverance are commendable. Perhaps the universal guilt espoused in each of the texts remains unacceptable and even odious to the modern conscience; both Clamence and the Court would proclaim the reader guilty.
Bibliography
Camus, Albert. The Fall. Trans. Justin O’Brien. New York: Vintage International, 1991.
Kafka, Franz. The Trial. Trans. Willa and Edwin Muir. New York: Schocken Books, 1995.
Supplementary:
Amoia, Alba. Albert Camus. New York: Continuum Publishing Company, 1989.
Cruikshank, John. Albert Camus and the Literature of Revolt. New York: Oxford University
Press, 1966.
McBride, Joseph. Albert Camus: Philosopher and Littérateur. New York: St. Martin, 1992.
Rhein, Phillip A. Albert Camus. Revised edition. Boston, USA: Twayne Publishers, 1989.
Wednesday, March 18, 1998
The Gracchi and the Roman Elite
By the middle of the second century BCE, Rome had established its dominance over the majority of the Mediterranean, either through direct conquest or treaty. This period was a prosperous one, although not equally so for all roman citizens. Predictably, the majority of wealth and power in the Republic was in the possession of a select group of elites. This senatorial oligarchy controlled virtually all the economic production of the state through their vast landholdings, while simultaneously controlling its political operations. Yet, there were many, even among the elite, who were critical of the situation at Rome. Foremost among these antagonists were the Gracchi brothers. To the ruling oligarchy, the laws proposed by each of the Gracchi were seen as encroaching on or even subverting their powers. During his tribuneship in 133, Tiberius propsed and passed legislation that directly opposed the authority of the Senate. While he was hardly a democrat, Tiberius believed that the Republic could only survive and progress if power were apportioned otherwise than it was at Rome. The Senate obstructed the improvement of the Republic, and thus it had to be circumvented. Ten years later, his younger brother Gaius continued along a similar ideology, although in several respects he surpassed his older brother’s contention to senatorial authority. Yet, he did not wish to obliterate oligarchical rule through democratic revolution; he merely wished to broaden it. Ultimately, the Roman elite maintained its supremacy in the Republic, and the Gracchi and their followers were killed. Indeed, the issuance of the senatus consultum ultimum by the Senate in order to deal with Gaius forcibly demonstrated its authority.
The expansion of the empire created many opportunities for the Roman elite to amass power and wealth. Military conquest itself proved to be highly profitable: plunder from war added greatly to the coffers of the generals and other senators, while hardly being noticed by the soldiers themselves. Those who supplied the armies also benefitted greatly by war. Additionally, the land conquered by Rome within Italy was largely in the hands of the wealthy. Many peasants in Italy sold their plots of land to the rich, either because they were forced or less likely because they wanted the money to climb the social hierarchy themselves. Increasingly prevalent, however, was the appropriation and exploitation of ager publicus—the public land in Italy. While Roman law prohibited ownership of more than 500 iugera of ager publicus, the law was rarely adhered to. While large estates, or latifundia, began to become evermore conspicuous in rural areas, the majority of land held by the elite was to be found in many smaller plantations. Indeed, such monopolization of land was a virtual necessity as the wealth gained by the aristocracy during the wars had to be spent in an honourable trade such as property ownership; senators themselves were barred from trade and thus maintained their prestige through their landholdings. At the same time however, these estates were worked by the large number of slaves captured during Rome’s conquests. Increasingly, therefore, poor citizens, already having been evicted from their land, found themselves lacking employment as well. They found no recourse in the army, however, as minimum property requirements to enter the legions remained in place. Even if they met the requirements many plebeians did not wish to enter into military service as there was little opportunity to gain from the experience. Previously, veteran soldiers received plots of land upon retirement, yet by the mid-Republic, most of the land in which such colonies could be created was in the hands of the elite. Consequently, recruitment declined and the army suffered due to the lack of soldiers. It can be seen that the gap between the rich and the poor was increasing, and indeed, the failure of the latter was a direct consequence of the success of the former. By 133 the condition of the plebians seemed desperate.
It was from this dire economic climate for the plebeians that the Gracchi brothers emerged as tribunes, Tiberius in 133 and Gaius in 123-2. The laws proposed by both Tiberius and Gaius would have indeed ameliorated the situation of the poor and middle-class, and at the same time angered many in the aristocracy. The most potentially damaging to the Senate and to wealthy equites was the lex agraria, proposed by Tiberius in 133. The law was a measure to redistribute ager publicus in order to enfranchise the dispossessed urban poor and rehabilitate them “both as farmers and soldiers”. Landowners who possessed more than 500 iugera of ager publicus were to relinquish the excess land. Yet, while ager publicus was supposed to indeed be public, its possession was assumed “to be perpetual and hereditary”. A great deal of capital had been invested in these lands: households, industries, and lodgings for slaves were built. Obviously, landlords did not therefore wish to lose this land and simultaneously a portion of their wealth. The empowerment of the country poor would have affected the patron-client relationship however. In addition to slaves, many wealthy landlords employed indebted peasants, who were their clients, on their estates. Indeed, it was important that these clients remain indebted to the wealthy, as their vote was important in the tribal assembly. While many of the registered citizens of the country did not vote on a regular basis, the importance of their support for their patrons is evidenced simply in the constitution of the tribal assembly: thirty-one rural and four urban tribes. Thus, while the urban poor may have voted for legislation removing power from the elite, the numerical dominance of the rural tribes would have ensured the dominance of the aristocracy. If they were to acquire land themselves through the lex agraria, they would be freed from dependence on their patrons for survival, and consequently would vote according to the interests of their own socio-economic class.
Yet, while this law would have affected the elite, it was not the content of the law but rather the means by which it was passed with directly threatened senatorial authority. The law itself was not new; C. Laelius, consul in 140, had proposed a similar law to ameliorate recruitment in the legions but withdrew the measure, according to Plutarch, after protests by the “influential”. The means of passing the law were novel however, and greatly agitated the oligarchy. Disregarding legislative traditions, Tiberius circumvented senatorial consultation and advanced the lex agraria before the concilium plebis. This action itself was not entirely revolutionary however, and Tiberius himself viewed it as traditional. Indeed, through the potestas tribuni plebis he had the power to do so, and in a sense he was restoring the office to its traditional function as protector of the plebeians. More significantly however, he most conspicuously threatened the authority of the ruling oligarchy when he eliminated their means of legal recourse against the lex agraria. By unseating M. Octavius, the only tribune who had vetoed his motion, Tiberius explicitly demonstrated his contention with oligarchical rule; many authors stress the ‘democratic’ nature of Tiberius’s argument for the deposition of Octavius. The bill was passed into law and a council (triumviri agris dividendis adsignandis) was established to oversee the details of land distribution and settlement. Thus, the Senate was forced to exhibit its financial power by withholding funds from Tiberius’s council. Yet, when Tiberius appropriated the inheritance of Attalus III of Pergamum to fund the council, the Senate became obstinate. The legacy was bequeathed to the Roman state, and therefore Tiberius interpreted the funds as being under his jurisdiction as tribune. He wished the money to be given to the plebs along with their section of ager publicus in order for them to establish small farms and achieve a degree of economic independence. Additionally, the establishment of the new colony would be administered by the Assembly. Consequently, the Senate viewed Tiberius not only as an obstacle to its authority—he was intervening in its main realms of power—but he was also threatening to become too powerful, perhaps even a tyrant. If he were to supervise the establishment of colonies, he would gain numerous clients. Such a possibility was unthinkable to the Senate, and Tiberius and his followers were killed to maintain command by the ruling elite.
Shortly after obtaining the tribuneship in 123, Gaius proved that he was as equally opposed to oligarchical control of the state as his brother had been. He did not wish power to be maintained solely in the hands of the traditional elite, and consequently he proposed laws which pandered to the equites, the Italian non-citizens, the impoverished citizens, and the provincials. He re-proposed an agrarian law, nearly identical to Tiberius’s earlier measure; he also provided for the poor with the lex frumentaria, a measure to provide cheap grain for the destitute in Rome. Additionally, he proposed a lex de abactis which would have given further sovereignty to the Assembly and curbed the power of the Senate. The sovereignty of the people was also evidenced by the lex de capite civis romani, which held that only courts appointed by the people could inflict capitol punishment, a right which was up to then had been held by the consuls. Moreover, Gaius was passing laws which directly affected the behaviour and authority of the Senate, and thus it became increasingly hostile toward him. One of these laws controlled the assignment of provinces, a device frequently used to reward or punish magistrates. He appealed to the equites by giving them jurisdiction over the publicani, who were their peers, in extortion trials; by this law, governors lost control over taxation in their provinces. This law in particular was of great consequence to senators, as it “fundamentally altered the balance of power between [them] and knights [equites]”. Thereafter, the equites were bound to Gaius and offered him their support; indeed, perhaps Gaius wanted to elevate many of the equestrians to senatorial status in order to establish support therein. Most controversial, however, was the proposal to grant citizenship to all Italians. This measure was held in equal contempt by the Senate and nobility, who feared that Italian franchise would upset the balance of “clientage and electoral corruption”, and by the plebeians, who did not wish to extend the privileges of Roman citizenship to “outsiders”. The oligarchy also feared that the newly-franchised citizens would become clients of Gaius, and therefore support his more revolutionary measures. Consequently, he failed to be re-elected for his third tribuneship, and became once again a private citizen. Similarly to his brother Tiberius, however, throughout his tribuneship Gaius continually threatened to become overly powerful and dominate Rome. Once again the Senate and consuls could not remain inert, and in 121 the consul L. Opimius persuaded the Senate to rule Gaius and his supporters as traitors and issue the senatus consultum ultimum, which authorized their deaths.
Rome by the time of the Gracchi was ruled by a senatorial elite; in many respects the Gracchi were a threat to this hegemony. Yet, it must be noted that neither Tiberius nor Gaius wanted to revolutionize the government of Rome. They merely wanted to diversify and enlarge the oligarchy, allowing equites into the tightly controlled circle of governmental authority. That ruling class greatly feared the brothers, not so much because of the equites but instead because it seemed to them that both Tiberius and Gaius were setting themselves up for one-man rule of Rome, of tyranny in a sense. Indeed, they believed that the Gracchi were in fact doing harm to the state, and thus their countermeasures—notably the senatus consultum ultimum—seemed justified. Each of them pronounced their popular focus however, and thereafter the term populares was applied to politicians who followed the same path. There fates of the Gracchi cast a more ominous shadow on popular measures, as the bloodshed in 133 and 121 had proven the danger inherent in opposing the Senate.
Bibliography
Plutarch. Lives. Vol. 10. Trans. Bernadotte Perrin. London: William Heinemann, 1921.
Bernstein, Alvin H. Tiberius Sempronius Gracchus: Tradition and Apostasy. Ithaca, USA: Cornell
University Press, 1978.
Boren, Henry C. The Gracchi. New York: Twayne Publishers, 1968.
Crawford, Michael. The Roman Republic. Sussex, UK: Harvester University Press, 1978.
Marsh, Frank Burr. A History of the Roman World From 146 to 30 B.C. London: Methuen
& Co., 1967.
Masson, Georgina. Ancient Rome from Romulus to Augustus. New York: Viking Press, 1974.
Richardson, Keith. Daggers in the Forum. London: Cassel, 1976.
Shotter, David. The Fall of the Roman Republic. New York: Routledge, 1994.
Smith, R.E. The Failure of the Roman Republic. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press,
1955.
Stockton, David. The Gracchi. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1979.
The expansion of the empire created many opportunities for the Roman elite to amass power and wealth. Military conquest itself proved to be highly profitable: plunder from war added greatly to the coffers of the generals and other senators, while hardly being noticed by the soldiers themselves. Those who supplied the armies also benefitted greatly by war. Additionally, the land conquered by Rome within Italy was largely in the hands of the wealthy. Many peasants in Italy sold their plots of land to the rich, either because they were forced or less likely because they wanted the money to climb the social hierarchy themselves. Increasingly prevalent, however, was the appropriation and exploitation of ager publicus—the public land in Italy. While Roman law prohibited ownership of more than 500 iugera of ager publicus, the law was rarely adhered to. While large estates, or latifundia, began to become evermore conspicuous in rural areas, the majority of land held by the elite was to be found in many smaller plantations. Indeed, such monopolization of land was a virtual necessity as the wealth gained by the aristocracy during the wars had to be spent in an honourable trade such as property ownership; senators themselves were barred from trade and thus maintained their prestige through their landholdings. At the same time however, these estates were worked by the large number of slaves captured during Rome’s conquests. Increasingly, therefore, poor citizens, already having been evicted from their land, found themselves lacking employment as well. They found no recourse in the army, however, as minimum property requirements to enter the legions remained in place. Even if they met the requirements many plebeians did not wish to enter into military service as there was little opportunity to gain from the experience. Previously, veteran soldiers received plots of land upon retirement, yet by the mid-Republic, most of the land in which such colonies could be created was in the hands of the elite. Consequently, recruitment declined and the army suffered due to the lack of soldiers. It can be seen that the gap between the rich and the poor was increasing, and indeed, the failure of the latter was a direct consequence of the success of the former. By 133 the condition of the plebians seemed desperate.
It was from this dire economic climate for the plebeians that the Gracchi brothers emerged as tribunes, Tiberius in 133 and Gaius in 123-2. The laws proposed by both Tiberius and Gaius would have indeed ameliorated the situation of the poor and middle-class, and at the same time angered many in the aristocracy. The most potentially damaging to the Senate and to wealthy equites was the lex agraria, proposed by Tiberius in 133. The law was a measure to redistribute ager publicus in order to enfranchise the dispossessed urban poor and rehabilitate them “both as farmers and soldiers”. Landowners who possessed more than 500 iugera of ager publicus were to relinquish the excess land. Yet, while ager publicus was supposed to indeed be public, its possession was assumed “to be perpetual and hereditary”. A great deal of capital had been invested in these lands: households, industries, and lodgings for slaves were built. Obviously, landlords did not therefore wish to lose this land and simultaneously a portion of their wealth. The empowerment of the country poor would have affected the patron-client relationship however. In addition to slaves, many wealthy landlords employed indebted peasants, who were their clients, on their estates. Indeed, it was important that these clients remain indebted to the wealthy, as their vote was important in the tribal assembly. While many of the registered citizens of the country did not vote on a regular basis, the importance of their support for their patrons is evidenced simply in the constitution of the tribal assembly: thirty-one rural and four urban tribes. Thus, while the urban poor may have voted for legislation removing power from the elite, the numerical dominance of the rural tribes would have ensured the dominance of the aristocracy. If they were to acquire land themselves through the lex agraria, they would be freed from dependence on their patrons for survival, and consequently would vote according to the interests of their own socio-economic class.
Yet, while this law would have affected the elite, it was not the content of the law but rather the means by which it was passed with directly threatened senatorial authority. The law itself was not new; C. Laelius, consul in 140, had proposed a similar law to ameliorate recruitment in the legions but withdrew the measure, according to Plutarch, after protests by the “influential”. The means of passing the law were novel however, and greatly agitated the oligarchy. Disregarding legislative traditions, Tiberius circumvented senatorial consultation and advanced the lex agraria before the concilium plebis. This action itself was not entirely revolutionary however, and Tiberius himself viewed it as traditional. Indeed, through the potestas tribuni plebis he had the power to do so, and in a sense he was restoring the office to its traditional function as protector of the plebeians. More significantly however, he most conspicuously threatened the authority of the ruling oligarchy when he eliminated their means of legal recourse against the lex agraria. By unseating M. Octavius, the only tribune who had vetoed his motion, Tiberius explicitly demonstrated his contention with oligarchical rule; many authors stress the ‘democratic’ nature of Tiberius’s argument for the deposition of Octavius. The bill was passed into law and a council (triumviri agris dividendis adsignandis) was established to oversee the details of land distribution and settlement. Thus, the Senate was forced to exhibit its financial power by withholding funds from Tiberius’s council. Yet, when Tiberius appropriated the inheritance of Attalus III of Pergamum to fund the council, the Senate became obstinate. The legacy was bequeathed to the Roman state, and therefore Tiberius interpreted the funds as being under his jurisdiction as tribune. He wished the money to be given to the plebs along with their section of ager publicus in order for them to establish small farms and achieve a degree of economic independence. Additionally, the establishment of the new colony would be administered by the Assembly. Consequently, the Senate viewed Tiberius not only as an obstacle to its authority—he was intervening in its main realms of power—but he was also threatening to become too powerful, perhaps even a tyrant. If he were to supervise the establishment of colonies, he would gain numerous clients. Such a possibility was unthinkable to the Senate, and Tiberius and his followers were killed to maintain command by the ruling elite.
Shortly after obtaining the tribuneship in 123, Gaius proved that he was as equally opposed to oligarchical control of the state as his brother had been. He did not wish power to be maintained solely in the hands of the traditional elite, and consequently he proposed laws which pandered to the equites, the Italian non-citizens, the impoverished citizens, and the provincials. He re-proposed an agrarian law, nearly identical to Tiberius’s earlier measure; he also provided for the poor with the lex frumentaria, a measure to provide cheap grain for the destitute in Rome. Additionally, he proposed a lex de abactis which would have given further sovereignty to the Assembly and curbed the power of the Senate. The sovereignty of the people was also evidenced by the lex de capite civis romani, which held that only courts appointed by the people could inflict capitol punishment, a right which was up to then had been held by the consuls. Moreover, Gaius was passing laws which directly affected the behaviour and authority of the Senate, and thus it became increasingly hostile toward him. One of these laws controlled the assignment of provinces, a device frequently used to reward or punish magistrates. He appealed to the equites by giving them jurisdiction over the publicani, who were their peers, in extortion trials; by this law, governors lost control over taxation in their provinces. This law in particular was of great consequence to senators, as it “fundamentally altered the balance of power between [them] and knights [equites]”. Thereafter, the equites were bound to Gaius and offered him their support; indeed, perhaps Gaius wanted to elevate many of the equestrians to senatorial status in order to establish support therein. Most controversial, however, was the proposal to grant citizenship to all Italians. This measure was held in equal contempt by the Senate and nobility, who feared that Italian franchise would upset the balance of “clientage and electoral corruption”, and by the plebeians, who did not wish to extend the privileges of Roman citizenship to “outsiders”. The oligarchy also feared that the newly-franchised citizens would become clients of Gaius, and therefore support his more revolutionary measures. Consequently, he failed to be re-elected for his third tribuneship, and became once again a private citizen. Similarly to his brother Tiberius, however, throughout his tribuneship Gaius continually threatened to become overly powerful and dominate Rome. Once again the Senate and consuls could not remain inert, and in 121 the consul L. Opimius persuaded the Senate to rule Gaius and his supporters as traitors and issue the senatus consultum ultimum, which authorized their deaths.
Rome by the time of the Gracchi was ruled by a senatorial elite; in many respects the Gracchi were a threat to this hegemony. Yet, it must be noted that neither Tiberius nor Gaius wanted to revolutionize the government of Rome. They merely wanted to diversify and enlarge the oligarchy, allowing equites into the tightly controlled circle of governmental authority. That ruling class greatly feared the brothers, not so much because of the equites but instead because it seemed to them that both Tiberius and Gaius were setting themselves up for one-man rule of Rome, of tyranny in a sense. Indeed, they believed that the Gracchi were in fact doing harm to the state, and thus their countermeasures—notably the senatus consultum ultimum—seemed justified. Each of them pronounced their popular focus however, and thereafter the term populares was applied to politicians who followed the same path. There fates of the Gracchi cast a more ominous shadow on popular measures, as the bloodshed in 133 and 121 had proven the danger inherent in opposing the Senate.
Bibliography
Plutarch. Lives. Vol. 10. Trans. Bernadotte Perrin. London: William Heinemann, 1921.
Bernstein, Alvin H. Tiberius Sempronius Gracchus: Tradition and Apostasy. Ithaca, USA: Cornell
University Press, 1978.
Boren, Henry C. The Gracchi. New York: Twayne Publishers, 1968.
Crawford, Michael. The Roman Republic. Sussex, UK: Harvester University Press, 1978.
Marsh, Frank Burr. A History of the Roman World From 146 to 30 B.C. London: Methuen
& Co., 1967.
Masson, Georgina. Ancient Rome from Romulus to Augustus. New York: Viking Press, 1974.
Richardson, Keith. Daggers in the Forum. London: Cassel, 1976.
Shotter, David. The Fall of the Roman Republic. New York: Routledge, 1994.
Smith, R.E. The Failure of the Roman Republic. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press,
1955.
Stockton, David. The Gracchi. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1979.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)